The remaining hours of that night passed like a dream for Clodagh.
Condemn herself as she might for the weakness, there was no subduing
the tumultuous excitement kindled by the thought that she was to see
Gore again.
It was not to be denied that time, intervening incidents, and a
sub-conscious personal desire had blunted the first resentment that
Lady Frances Hope's disclosures had engendered. In the reckless pursuit
of excitement that had marked the past three months, she had imagined
him banished from her mind; but now, at the knowledge of his promised
advent, she realised that it had only been an imagination; that,
despite everything, his place in her mind had never been usurped.
When at last she fell asleep, long after midnight, her thoughts were
strange, exciting, almost happy; and when next morning the entrance of
Simonetta roused her to consciousness, it was with something like
hopefulness and anticipation that she turned her eyes to the open
window, through which the clear country sunlight was breaking between
the gay chintz curtains.
With a quick, eager wakefulness she sat up in bed and pushed back her
loosened hair. A feeling, long forgotten, was stirring in her
heart--the vague, delicious hope of future things that had been wont to
thrill her long ago, when she rode her father's horses along the strand
at Orristown in the untarnished dawn of an Irish day.
During the process of dressing, this sense of anticipation grew; and
with it came a spontaneous wish for action. She became imbued with the
same desire for light and air and freedom that had possessed her on the
day in Florence when she had gazed out upon the distant hills from the
window of the villa.
Something of her eager energy was shining in her eyes, as she descended
the stairs and entered the sunny morning-room, where breakfast was
always served when the party at Tufnell was small.
Lady Diana and her husband were already in the room, glancing through
their morning letters, the former wearing a plain linen dress, the
latter an old shooting suit that had seen much service. At the moment
that she opened the door, Lady Diana was reading aloud from the letter
in her hand, while George Tuffnell was laughing with enormous
amusement. They made a very homely, pleasant picture of contented,
successful married life.
Seeing their guest, they both came forward cordially, and George
Tuffnell smiled warm-heartedly as he took her hand.
"Well, Mrs. Milbanke, and what is Tuffnell like in daylight? Isn't it
worth a hundred Londons? Haven't you got an appetite for breakfast?"
Lady Diana laughed, as she led Clodagh to the table.
"George is a horrible egoist," she said cheerfully. "He thinks the only
things in the world worthy of consideration are Tuffnell--and the
Tuffnells."
Clodagh smiled as she took her seat.
"He is very much justified," she said softly. Then she glanced round
the table. "But where's Lady Frances?"
Her hostess smiled.
"Breakfasting in bed. I knocked at her door at seven to ask whether she
would care for a canter before breakfast, or whether she would like to
walk over to the home farm with George, but she literally drove me
away. She's out of sorts to-day. Poor Frances!"
"Oh, I am sorry!" Clodagh looked distressed. "Just to-day, when
everybody's coming!"
George Tuffnell turned to her with his habitual bluff kindliness.
"Don't trouble, Mrs. Milbanke!" he said. "She'll be all right by the
afternoon. It's the mornings that Society plays the deuce with. Look at
Di! Look what a country life has done for her!"
Clodagh looked almost shyly at her hostess's straight shoulders and
healthy, happy face.
"Don't make me more envious than I am!" she said gently. "Lady Diana
has everything."
With a sympathetic gesture, Lady Diana extended her hand, and touched
hers lightly.
"My dear," she said, "you have no reason to repine. And Tuffnell is to
bring you enjoyment, not regret. What amusement can we plan for the
morning, George?"
George Tuffnell looked up from the omelette to which he was helping
himself.
"What would Mrs. Milbanke like? You may do anything you like here, Mrs.
Milbanke--except be unhappy."
Clodagh smiled brightly.
"Anything?"
"Anything--in wisdom."
She hesitated for a moment, looking down at her plate; then, with a
quick, winning movement, she lifted her head, glancing from one of her
entertainers to the other.
"Then give me a horse," she said quickly, "and let me ride by myself
till lunch time."
Lady Diana looked distressed.
"What, alone?" she asked.
But her husband laughed cheerily.
"Why not--if she wishes? Tuffnell is Liberty Hall, Mrs. Milbanke. You
shall have the best horse in the stables."
Lady Diana smiled indulgently.
"I hope we are doing right! Four hours by oneself in the saddle is
rather a lonely thing."
"Oh, but I won't be alone!" Clodagh cried. "A good horse is the best
company in the world."
At the conclusion of breakfast, she rose to go upstairs and change into
her habit. As she passed her hostess, she paused.
"Shall I run in and see Lady Frances?" she asked.
Lady Diana looked up at her.
"I think not. Frances called through the door this morning that no one
was to go near her before twelve o'clock. I'd wait till then, if I were
you."
And Clodagh nodded comprehendingly and left the room.
Half an hour later, she rode down a long avenue of chestnuts, mounted
on a splendid bay horse of Lady Diana's, and emerged upon the road that
skirted the park wall.
Tuffnell Place was situated in one of the richest corners of
Buckinghamshire; and as she drew rein for a moment outside the large
gates and surveyed the surrounding country, it seemed to her that, as
far as the eye could reach, the land stretched away in one great tract
of prosperous, well-tilled fields and sweeping meadow-land, broken by
high hedges and low wooded hills.
The day was one to revel in; the scene one to bring complete repose.
And as she gathered up her reins and allowed the bay horse to sweep
down the gently sloping road into this land of plenty, she permitted
the atmosphere to take full possession of her. For the moment, the
thought of London, of her fellow-beings, even of herself, fell away
from her conscious consideration; and she dreamed--as an Irishwoman can
always dream--with her eyes open and her senses alert to her horse's
slightest movement; yet wrapped in a world of her own, created from the
warm blue haze of summer that lay over the rich country--from the
summer sun that warmed her blood--from the close, instinctive
comprehension of nature, that no artificiality has power to eradicate.
It was more than three hours later when she rode back to the gates of
Tuffnell, having covered many miles of country, and revelled for a long
delicious stretch of time in her own musings. The air and the hot sun
had warmed her face to a splendid healthy colour, her lips were parted
eagerly, and across her saddle she was carrying a spray of honeysuckle,
plucked from the tall hedgerows. Her mood was generous, pliable,
brimming with high impulses; if, in that moment, one loving hand had
been stretched forth to hers--one honest soul come out of the sunlight
to meet her own, many things might have been different. But the moment
came--and the moment passed.
Riding quickly up the avenue, she drew rein at the hall door; and at
the same instant Lady Frances Hope crossed the wide sunny hall.
Clodagh saw her at once, and a shade of disappointment touched her
face. Lady Frances was so intensely suggestive of the world she had
been trying to forget. Her impulses of a minute ago shrank
instinctively; the habit of indifference came back to her by
suggestion. She suddenly felt ashamed of her sunburned face and of the
spray of honeysuckle.
But Lady Frances came forward to the hall door, and at the same moment
a groom hurried round from the stables.
Clodagh slipped easily from her horse; took her flowers from the
saddle; and then turned to greet her friend.
"How are you?" she said. "I was so sorry not to have seen you this
morning. I have had a glorious ride."
Lady Frances did not respond to the words with her habitual smile. And,
on closer scrutiny, Clodagh observed that, despite a very careful
toilet, she looked tired and annoyed.
"You've been away an age," she said irritably. "It's after twelve."
"Then perhaps I'd better change. The coach is to be back from the
station at half-past twelve."
"No. Never mind! Diana isn't conventional. You can meet the people--and
lunch too--in your habit. I want to talk to you."
Clodagh's eyes opened. It was new to find Lady Frances's manner either
hasty or perturbed.
"To me? What about?"
The other hesitated for a moment, then looked straight at her
companion.
"About Walter Gore."
The onslaught was so sudden that Clodagh had no time to guard her
feelings. She flushed--a deep, painful flush, that spread over her
cheeks, her ears, her forehead.
Lady Frances looked at her mercilessly.
"I have been worrying so about his coming--worrying so about you."
"About me?"
Clodagh said the words consciously and uncomfortably.
"Yes. I feel so much for you--you, who are so sensitive. Clodagh!"--she
laid her fingers lightly on Clodagh's arm--"Clodagh! I am your best
friend. You believe that?"
"You--you have always been very good to me."
"And always _shall_ be good to you. Look here!" Her voice suddenly took
on the tone of seeming frankness that is the clever woman's best
weapon. "I'm enormously fond of you--enormously fond of you. I should
hate to see you hurt or--or----"
She paused judiciously.
"But who would hurt me? Why should I be hurt?"
"You _shouldn't_ be, of course. But sometimes circumstances--chances
--people--hurt one. Oh, my dear girl, I'm unhappy at this unlucky
coming of Walter's. It's hard--it's really hard--on you."
As the words were uttered, it seemed to Clodagh that a faint cold wind
blew from some unseen quarter, chilling the summer warmth--chilling her
own happiness.
"Why--why hard on me?" she asked.
"Dear child!" Lady Frances's tone was deep and kind. "Do you remember
the night in town when you asked me to take you to the Tamperleigh's
party?"
"Yes. I remember."
"You remember why I refused?"
"Yes, I remember."
"But you did not know my full reason for refusing. I had met Walter a
day or two before. We had discussed you."
"And what had Sir Walter Gore to say of me?"
"He said--oh, dear child, don't ask me to be too literal."
"But I do."
Clodagh freed her arm.
"Is it worth while? I tried to keep you two apart while I could. Now
that it has become impossible----"
"But why should we be kept apart? What have I done?"
"Dear Clodagh! you know Walter--you know how entirely he
disapproves----"
"Disapproves!--disapproves! What right has Sir Walter Gore to
disapprove of me?--to criticise--to speak of me?"
Her voice shook, not--as she herself imagined--with outraged pride, but
with uncontrollable disappointment and pain.
"Oh, I resent it!" she cried--"I resent it!"
Then suddenly she paused, turning to her companion with an almost
frightened gesture. Up the long avenue came the sound of wheels and the
rapid clatter of many hoofs.
Lady Frances put out her hand again, and touched Clodagh's wrist.
"Here they are!" she said. "I am glad to see your courage. I admire
it."
As she had intended, the sharp concise words braced her companion. She
stood for an instant longer in an attitude of nervous panic; then
suddenly she threw up her head with a touch of the boyish spirit that
had marked her long ago.
"I--I am not a coward, Lady Frances!" she said.
Side by side they waited, while the big yellow coach, piloted by George
Tuffnell, swung round the bend of the drive. And as Clodagh stood
there, watching the great vehicle sweep round to the hall door, her
face became pale and her fingers closed tightly round the handle of her
riding crop. It was her world--her world in miniature--that swayed
towards her, while she impotently waited its approach!
On the box, beside George Tuffnell, sat Mrs. Bathurst, radiant in
summer garments; behind were Deerehurst, Serracauld, Gore, and a
middle-aged man who was unknown to her. As her eyes passed from one
face to another, Tuffnell drew the horses up with great dexterity; the
servants sprang to the ground; and Lady Diana came hospitably forward
from the recesses of the hall.
The first guest to descend from the coach was Serracauld. Reaching the
ground, he paused for a second to brush some dust from his light
flannel suit; then he came forward to his hostess.
"How d'you do, Lady Diana!--and Lady Frances!"
He shook hands with both; then he turned to Clodagh with rather more
impressiveness.
"How tremendously fit you look!" he said.
Before she could answer, Deerehurst joined them, calmly taking her hand
as though it were his right.
"Well,--Circe!" he said below his breath. "We have followed!"
Clodagh turned her eyes hastily, almost nervously, from Serracauld's
attentive face to the cold features of the older man.
"I--I should feel very flattered," she said lightly.
Her eyes were on Deerehurst's, her hand was in his, but her mind was
poignantly conscious of Gore's figure standing close behind her--of
Gore's voice exchanging grettings with Lady Diana Tuffnell.
A moment later, she knew that he had turned and had seen the tableau
made by the old peer, Serracauld, and herself.
"How d'you do, Mrs. Milbanke? It is a long time since we have met."
It was not until he had directly addressed her, not until she had
turned and met his glance, that Clodagh realised how deeply, how
peculiarly he had influenced her. She drew her fingers sharply from
Deerehurst's.
"It is a long time," she said very softly.
Gore took her hand.
At the same moment Deerehurst laughed--his laugh of unfathomable
cynical wisdom.
"Mrs. Milbanke was the chrysalis in those old days, Gore!" he said
lightly. "Now you see the butterfly!"
At the laugh and the tone, Gore's expression became cold, and he
released Clodagh's hand.
"So I have been told," he said a little stiffly. "I must congratulate
Mrs. Milbanke on her development." He gave a slightly constrained laugh
and moved back to Lady Diana's side.
Deerehurst looked after him--a malicious, humorous look.
"Isn't it too lenient of the prettiest lady in London to allow a young
puritan to take her to task in public?" he asked in his satirical
voice.
Clodagh flushed; and turning, as if to answer, let the spray of
honeysuckle slip inadvertently from between her fingers.
Instantly both Deerehurst and Serracauld stooped to recover it. The
younger man was successful; and, straightening himself quickly, wheeled
round to return it. Then his face fell; and again Deerehurst laughed.
Without a word, Clodagh had left the little group and disappeared into
the house.