Lady Frances Hope's house was situated in Curzon Street; and thither
Clodagh departed shortly after eight o'clock.
Again she chose a hansom as a means of conveyance, for as yet there had
been no question of her procuring a carriage of her own; and again she
became conscious of the peculiar stimulus, the peculiar power that the
great tide of London life exercises upon its observers. The last
glimmering of daylight was lingering in the sky as the cab passed up
Knightsbridge, but already the houses and hotels were brilliantly
lighted, and the stream of diners and theatre-goers was forming into
its nightly procession.
During that short drive, she encountered many glances--glances of
interest, criticism or curiosity from women well-dressed as herself and
bound upon some such mission as her own--glances of sharp speculation
or sudden admiration from men driving, west or southward. And something
of London's immensity, something of London's secrecy, came to her in
those brief moments; she was stirred by the fact that has moved many
another dweller in the vast city--the fact that every day, every night,
some thousands of lives brush our own in a passing glance, in a stray
word, in a chance touch, and then drift on into mystery, never to
reappear.
Her thoughts were confused and excited as she descended from the cab
and entered the Curzon Street house; but on the moment that she stepped
into the hall, her dreams were banished. A door on her right opened,
and her hostess hurried forward and kissed her effusively.
"You dear thing!" she cried. "Wasn't it abominable of me? Was the
arrival desperately weary? Come up to my bedroom. The men haven't come
yet. What ages it seems since we said good-bye at Nice! How are you?"
She talked in her masterful voice, without waiting for a reply, until
they entered the bedroom. There her maid, who was busying herself at
the dressing-table, came forward to assist Clodagh; but Lady Frances
checked her at once.
"Mrs. Milbanke won't need you, Rees. I'll take off her cloak."
Rees moved obediently towards the door; but there she ventured to pause
for a moment.
"I hope you had a comfortable journey, madam," she said.
Clodagh, invariably gracious to her inferiors, turned to her warmly.
"Thank you, Rees! An excellent journey! But I'm glad to see everybody
look so well." She added the last with a little smile, to which the
maid responded as she closed the door.
Lady Frances laughed.
"You have bewitched Rees!" she said. "But you do that as you eat or
sleep--by instinct. Let me look at you!" She laid her hands on
Clodagh's shoulders and turned her towards the light.
"You've been playing every night since I left you," she said with
decision.
Clodagh laughed with some constraint.
"And losing?"
Clodagh flushed.
"I have no luck," she said shortly. Then, almost at once, she turned
away, freeing herself from her companion's detaining hands.
"Lady Frances," she said in a different tone, "please don't think I
forget about--about----" she hesitated. "I get my first allowance at
the beginning of July, you know----"
She paused; and Lady Frances gave a seemingly careless laugh. "My good
child, don't speak of it! Any time!--any time!"
"You are very kind. I had hoped to settle up on my return, but the last
week was shocking. But everything will be right at the beginning of
July. She walked over to the dressing-table and looked at herself in
the long glass.
"What a sweet house you have!" she said suddenly in an entirely
different voice.
Lady Frances had been watching her with a close scrutiny; but now, with
a good deal of ready dissimulation, she threw off her attentive manner
and answered in Clodagh's own light tone.
"Yes; it is a nice little place. But what about the flat? Isn't that
perfect?"
"Yes."
"You are not enthusiastic? Oh, I _am_ disappointed!"
Clodagh turned from the mirror.
"Forgive me!" she said impulsively. "Of course the flat is perfectly
sweet--and exactly what I want. It was just the arriving alone that
made it seem a little--a little----"
"Of course!--of course! Poor dear child! But wait!--wait till you begin
to know people!"
Clodagh's expressive face brightened.
"Yes. And when Nance--when my sister comes back! Oh! I _must_ enjoy
myself! I _must_ be happy!"
"Why should you be anything else? When have you heard from your
sister?"
"The day I left Nice--a most dear letter. She is having a heavenly time
in America. The Estcoits are such delightful companions; the girl is
seven months younger than she is--and the boy is seven years older.
Curious difference, isn't it?"
"Very. But I didn't know there was a boy. I thought it was only the
school friend and the mother."
"Oh no! There's the brother--Pierce. Nance's letters are full of him."
Lady Frances gave a little half-sarcastic laugh.
"Then Nance is presumably still learning--though she has left school?"
Something in the utterance of the words made Clodagh flush.
"Don't!" she said involuntarily--"don't! Nance is--is different from
me."
Then, as her hostess remained silent, she turned and looked at her.
"Don't be offended!" she added. "It is only that I can't have anything
cynical said of Nance. I know you don't understand. It seems that
because I sent her to America, I don't really care----" She halted
again.
"But I don't make you understand!--I don't seem to make any one
understand." Her voice dropped slightly; and Lady Frances, as though
fearing some emotional outburst, broke in hastily.
"My dear child!--my dear Clodagh!" Then she paused, for the door opened
and her maid Rees reappeared.
"Excuse me, my lady! But Lord Deerehurst and Mr. Serracauld are in the
drawing-room. Franks thought your ladyship would wish to know."
"Quite right. Thank you, Rees! Clodagh, are you ready?"
Clodagh's face was slightly flushed from her momentary outbreak, as she
left the bedroom. Descending the stairs, Lady Frances moved to her side
and passed her hand through her arm: and at the touch, a sharp
repulsion to this friendship--this fair weather, effusive, superficial
friendship--surged through her. And yet where was she to find a firmer
sentiment? Where, in all the world, was there a being who had any real
need of her? Her aunt? Her cousin? She knew instinctively that their
world and her own were inevitably sundered. Nance? Had not even
Nance--the little Nance of childish days--already begun to gather
interests of her own--to form her own friendships? No; there was no
niche that especially claimed, that especially needed her!
At this point in her hasty and confused speculations, the door of the
drawing-room was thrown open: and, after an interval of two years, she
saw Lord Deerehurst and Serracauld.
More than once she had pictured the meeting with the old peer; but, as
is invariably the case, the reality was much more vivid than the
imagination had been. Deerehurst came forward with the stiff, courtly
manner that brought back with almost painful clearness the balcony of
the Venetian palace--the Venetian salon with its polished floor and
glittering chandeliers--the Venetian night-music borne across the
waters. It all surged back in a wave of memory--first a pang of pain,
then a pang of reckless self-contempt. After all, who cared? What did
her action--her manner of living--even her existence--matter to any
living soul? She held out her hand and allowed him to bow over it.
He bowed over it for a long time; then he raised his head and looked at
her. His pale, inscrutable face was as waxlike as ever; his eyes were
as cold, as penetrating, as old in their look of supreme wisdom.
"So we meet again," he said. "My hope has been fulfilled!"
For a moment Clodagh stood, permitting him to clasp her fingers and
look into her face, while she herself made no effort to speak; then, as
if suddenly conscious of something strange in the position, she freed
her hand with a little, nervous laugh, and turned to where Serracauld
was waiting to greet her.
With a smile and a gesture of easy familiarity the younger man came
forward.
"Welcome to England!" he said. "Only yesterday a man at my club was
telling me of the prettiest woman on the Riviera this year. I won't be
personal, but the lady was at Monte Carlo only a week ago--turning
other people's heads and emptying her own pockets with the most
delightful impartiality."
Clodagh laughed, but this time without embarrassment.
"Be as personal as you like!" she said carelessly. "It wasn't my fault
if luck was dead against me."
Deerehurst came forward slowly.
"But the turned heads?" he asked.
She smiled.
"Was it my business to put them straight again? I'm not a surgeon."
They all laughed; and at that moment dinner was announced.
Lady Frances Hope touched Clodagh's arm.
"Lord Deerehurst will play host, Clodagh! Val, I consign myself to
you!"
Serracauld moved to her side with his usual indolent ease; and
Deerehurst offered Clodagh his arm.
They had to traverse the length of a large double drawing-room before
the dining-room was reached. And during that passage he found
opportunity for a whispered word or two. As they moved forward he
avoided looking at Clodagh; but his arm slightly and unmistakably
pressed hers.
"Am I not forgiving--to be so glad to see you?" he murmured in his
thin, cold voice. "I waited on the terrace until twelve o'clock, that
night in Venice."
Involuntarily her face flushed. His voice was as potent as ever to
express infinitely more than the words it uttered.
"I--I wish to forget Venice," she said.
He stole a swift glance at her.
"Then shall we make a compact? Shall we forget it jointly?"
She said nothing.
Again, almost imperceptibly, his arm pressed hers.
"Why try to ignore me? I am in your life."
The words were few and very simple: so simple and so few that they
conveyed a peculiar impression of power--of weight.
A faint, half-comprehended chill fell upon Clodagh; such a chill as had
fallen upon her once before in the "Abbati" Restaurant, when Deerehurst
had drunk to their next meeting as host and guest.
She laughed suddenly, with a quick, nervous lifting of the head.
"But it is life itself that I wish to ignore."
Again he glanced at her--very swiftly, very searchingly.
"So be it!" he said. "I take that as a challenge--to life and to me."
At the conclusion of dinner that night, the little party of four sat
down to bridge. And an hour after midnight Clodagh rose from the
card-table, a loser to the extent of over forty pounds.