At lunch time Clodagh sent word to Lady Diana Tuffnell that the long
ride in the morning sun had given her a headache, and that she would be
glad of a few hours' rest.
On receipt of the message, her hostess was much concerned, and came
herself to Clodagh's bedroom door to inquire whether she could be of
any use to the sufferer; but there, she was met by Simonetta, who
conveyed the intelligence that her mistress was asleep.
But in reality Clodagh was not sleeping--was not even lying down; she
was sitting in a low chair in the shadow of the drawn chintz curtains,
striving to solve the question of her future conduct. Would she remain
at Tuffnell and face the difficulties of her position? Would she turn
coward--and run away?
She passed in review the incidents of the morning, until, by persistent
contemplation of them, her humiliation kindled to anger. First, anger
against herself; then, anger against the world at large; lastly, anger
against Gore.
By the time afternoon tea was brought to her, the headache she had
feigned had become a reality; and before dinner time arrived she had
fallen into a state of miserable despondency. But scarcely had this
black mood taken possession of her, than a new and more intolerable
distress assailed her. She suddenly realised the gossip to which her
abrupt retirement might give rise. What would the house party think of
her disappearance? Would not Lady Frances Hope--if no one else--presume
that she was suffering from wounded vanity? The thought was
unendurable. No sooner did it present itself, than she sprang from her
chair in a fever of apprehension, and rang hastily for Simonetta.
Ten minutes before the dinner hour, she emerged from her room and
passed downstairs. Faint daylight was still filling the house, but
everywhere the lamps had been lighted, and the mellow double
illumination gave a curious softening effect to the old raftered
ceilings and panelled walls.
In the hall she was met by Lady Frances Hope, who paused and looked at
her scrutinisingly.
"What is the matter with you?" she asked, with unusual brusqueness.
"You almost look as if you had a fever. Your eyes are glittering."
Clodagh laughed nervously, and put one hand to her cheek.
"Nothing is the matter."
Lady Frances's lip curled slightly.
"You should go to bed early."
"Yes. Early in the morning! I feel I could sit up all night."
"Playing bridge?"
Again Clodagh laughed, this time a little recklessly.
"Why not?" she asked. "Will you play to-night?"
"Not here. George is rather a stickler--where his relations are
concerned."
"And his guests?"
Clodagh's question was quick and a little anxious.
"Oh, his guests can amuse themselves as they like, of course."
"Then I shall play to-night--if I can find any one to play with."
Lady Frances looked over her shoulder, attracted by the sound of
voices.
"Well, here comes Rose!" she said. "Press her into your service! She
won't refuse, if you give her Mr. Mansfeldt as a partner. The set she
has made on that man the whole afternoon is perfectly disgraceful."
She turned with a smile to Mrs. Bathurst.
"Ah, Rose! How nice to see you! And you are just in time. We have been
taking your name in vain."
Clodagh became the centre of a noisy party until dinner was announced.
And during the meal itself, the same air of inconsequent gaiety was
maintained in her regard, for she sat between Serracauld and his uncle.
A dozen topics were touched upon during the course of the meal--the
latest sporting gossip, the latest social scandal, the latest Parisian
play, all were discussed, and all laughed over the triviality of the
world that has few prejudices, few responsibilities, fewer ideals.
From time to time, during the easy flow of this light talk, she found
herself stealing surreptitious glances down the long table to where
Gore was seated between Lady Diana Tuffnell and her sister; but not
once did she surprise a glance from him. It seemed that he had very
successfully banished her from his mind.
After dinner the whole party left the dining-room together, as was the
custom at Tuffnell, some to play billiards, some to stroll in the
gardens, others to find their way to the music-room, where Lady Diana
usually gathered a little audience to listen to her singing. On this
evening Clodagh was amongst the first to pass out of the dining-room;
and moving into the centre of the hall, she paused and looked
expectantly over her shoulder.
As she had anticipated, Deerehurst appeared almost at once, and came
directly to her side.
"What is your pleasure?" he said. "Bridge?"
She looked up swiftly.
"Yes, bridge," she said quickly. "I feel I must have excitement
to-night."
He looked at her immovably.
"As you wish," he said calmly. "I shall ask Rose Bathurst and Mansfeldt
to play."
He turned away, and at the same moment Lady Diana came forward from a
little group that included her husband and Gore. Coming close to
Clodagh, she laid her hand kindly on her arm.
"Well, Mrs. Milbanke," she said pleasantly, "how shall we amuse you
this evening?"
Clodagh turned swiftly. Her nerves felt so tense and strained that even
her hostess's quiet voice set them tingling.
"Oh, I have chosen my amusement," she said. "I want a game of bridge,
and Lord Deerehurst has gone to make up a four."
Lady Diana's expression changed, betraying a leaven of disappointment.
"Bridge?" she repeated. "Do you think you are quite wise? Remember your
headache!"
Clodagh gave a short, excited laugh.
"Ah, you are not a bridge-player, Lady Diana! If you were, you would
know that bridge is a cure for all the ills of humanity. Here comes
Lord Deerehurst with two accomplices! Fancy, it is the first time I
have met the rich Mr. Mansfeldt!"
Lady Diana was silent. She looked once more at Clodagh--a rapid,
penetrating look that might have belonged to her sister. Then she
compelled herself to smile.
"I hope your game will be a good one," she said graciously; and moving
quietly away, she rejoined her husband.
Almost at the same moment Deerehurst approached, followed at some
little distance by Mrs. Bathurst and Mansfeldt--a South African
millionaire, who had recently found his way into society.
"Rose is making the running," he remarked in a maliciously amused
whisper. "She asked me before dinner exactly what Mansfeldt is worth.
Ah, here you are, Mansfeldt!" he added aloud. "Allow me to present you
to Mrs. Milbanke! Mrs. Milbanke, will you show us the way to the
card-room? I hear you are the spoiled child of the house!"
Clodagh bowed to Mansfeldt; and responding at once to Deerehurst's
suggestion, led the way across the hall.
The card-room at Tuffnell was the only room in the big, rambling house
that had not preserved an air of old-world repose; here alone, the
artistic decorator had been allowed to encroach upon the handiwork of
time; and the result, although comfortable and even luxurious, was
modern and slightly bizarre. An Oriental carpet, a few divans and
coffee stools, half a dozen chairs, and three or four baize-covered
tables comprised the somewhat conventional furniture; while the walls
were covered in fabric of bright scarlet and decorated with a peculiar
and extravagant frieze representing the fifty-two cards of the pack. As
Clodagh entered, an irrepressible recollection of London--of the
clubs--the card-rooms--the smoking-rooms of London--where men and women
idle away their lives and their money, rose to her mind, banishing the
pictures of country peace that the last twelve hours had conjured.
Pausing by one of the tables, she looked back at her three companions.
"Let's cut for partners!" she cried quickly, picking up an unused pack
of cards. "See! I've cut a ten!"
Mrs. Bathurst came languidly forward and raised a portion of the pack.
"A three!" she said. "Now Mr. Mansfeldt, and Lord Deerehurst!" She
looked with graceful interest towards the men.
Deerehurst cut a four; then the millionaire followed with a two.
Her face flushed with pleasure.
"How strange!" she murmured. "Do you mind having a very stupid partner,
Mr. Mansfeldt?" Her large brown eyes rested on the rich man's face,
exactly as they had rested upon Deerehurst's in the days at Venice.
Observing and comprehending this, by the light of recent knowledge,
Clodagh gave a sharp, amused laugh.
"I think every one is satisfied, Rose," she said. "Now, about points!
Lord Deerehurst, what points?"
Deerehurst bowed complacently.
"What you like, partner! Our usual forty shillings a hundred?"
"Or twenty shillings a hundred?" suggested Mrs. Bathurst with a
deprecating smile at Mansfeldt.
Again Clodagh laughed.
"You are getting very modest, Rose! Do you remember the last time we
were opponents at bridge? But I won't tell tales out of school!"
Mrs. Bathurst looked annoyed.
"Would it be quite wise----?" she asked sharply.
But Deerehurst intervened.
"Well," he said, "shall we decide on forty-shilling points? Mr.
Mansfeldt, do you agree?"
Mansfeldt, who was an intensely reserved and silent man, looked up
unemotionally.
"I am in your hands," he said; and following the example already set by
Clodagh and Mrs. Bathurst, he seated himself at the card-table.
"Very well! Forty-shilling points." Deerehurst also seated himself, and
began to collect the scattered cards.
But with a swift gesture, Clodagh leant across the table and placed a
detaining hand over his.
"Wait!" she said. "Let's make it eighty shillings a hundred!"
Deerehurst raised his eyebrows, and the millionaire glanced at her
curiously; while Mrs. Bathurst made a little affected exclamation of
dismay.
"Clodagh, I couldn't! I'm horribly hard up!"
Once again Clodagh laughed shortly.
"Then trust to luck! You're more lucky than I am." Her voice was high,
and charged with excitement; her eyes looked hard and very bright.
Deerehurst's cold glance rested for a moment on her face.
"You really want excitement to-night?" he asked in a low voice.
She threw up her head with a reckless movement.
"Yes; I do want excitement. Rose, will you agree to eighty-shilling
points?"
Mrs. Bathurst allowed her gaze to flutter prettily from one face to
another, until it finally rested upon Mansfeldt's.
"Will you decide, partner!" she said in a confiding whisper.
Mansfeldt looked at her for an instant in slight embarrassment; then he
appeared to regain his stolidity of bearing.
"You may play," he said decisively. And a faint, indescribable smile
flitted across Mrs. Bathurst's lips, as she sank back into her chair.
It was nearly two hours before the steady progress of their play was
interrupted by any remark not directly connected with the game; then,
at the conclusion of the second rubber, Clodagh looked across at
Deerehurst, as if obeying a sudden impulse.
"I bring you bad luck, partner!" she said quickly.
Mrs. Bathurst laughed.
"Unlucky at cards, lucky in love! He won't complain, Clodagh."
Deerehurst smiled calmly.
"Is it well to aver that?" he said. "Look at your own score!"
She laughed again--a laugh of complete satisfaction.
"Ah, but I owe that to my partner's play, not to luck! Shall we lower
the points, Clodagh? You are a horrible loser."
Clodagh's hot cheeks flushed a deeper red.
"Lower the points! I would rather raise them. But aren't we losing
time? Deal, Mr. Mansfeldt, please!" Her excitement was obvious. Her
lips were obstinately set; and her fingers tapped the table in nervous
impatience.
A third rubber was begun and finished; then a fourth, and a fifth; and
very gradually, as the play continued, the sounds throughout the house
became fainter and fewer. At first, the tones of Lady Diana's voice had
floated up from the music-room, and the usual hum of applause had
succeeded, to be followed in its own turn by more music. Song after
song had been sung; then had come the sound of talk and laughter, as
the party from the music-room had adjourned to the garden. But slowly
these sounds had lessened. The laughter had ceased; and the
entertainment out-of-doors had died down to the murmuring of two men's
voices and the slow pacing of a couple of pairs of feet up and down the
terrace beneath the card-room window. At last even this had ended with
the heavy shutting of a door; and, save for the occasional distant
sound of a closing window, silence reigned in the house.
The sixth rubber was drawing to its close, when the door of the
card-room opened quietly and Lady Diana entered, looking slightly tired
and pale.
She came forward to the table and stood looking at the players.
"Don't stir!" she said. "I only came to see that you are all right. Who
has been lucky?"
Mrs. Bathurst looked up self-confidently.
"We have--enormously," she said. "Mrs. Milbanke was most daring, and
doubled our ordinary stakes. The results have been wonderful--for us."
"Indeed!" Lady Diana's voice sounded unusually cold; and Clodagh was
conscious that her observant eyes had turned upon her.
But she played on, without looking up.
At last the final trick was won, the score reckoned up, and the players
rose.
Deerehurst pushed back his chair, and looked about him speculatively.
"It feels late!" he said. "What is the time, Lady Diana? My conscience
begins to trouble me!"
Lady Diana smiled a little conventionally.
"I think it is about half-past two," she answered.
"Oh, Lady Diana, how wicked of us!" Mrs. Bathurst affected a charming
penitence.
Mansfeldt looked genuinely uncomfortable and distressed.
"We owe you an apology!" he said. "We have kept you from your rest."
But Lady Diana graciously waived all apologies aside.
"It is nothing!--nothing!" she assured them. "We are not so rustic as
all that. Lord Deerehurst, you and Mr. Mansfeldt will find George in
the smoking-room." She gave the suggestion with her usual hospitable
warmth; but the smile that accompanied the words was not the smile she
had given to Clodagh the evening before--or that morning at breakfast.
And Clodagh, keenly sensitive to this altered bearing, stood silent,
offering no apology. At last, as though the tension of the position
compelled her to action, she held out her hand in a half-diffident,
half-defiant gesture.
"Good-night, Lady Diana! Good-night, Rose! Good-night, Mr. Mansfeldt.
Good-night!" Last of all, her fingers touched Deerehurst's, and as his
cold hand closed over hers, he bent his head deferentially.
"Good-night, partner! Sleep well! We will be more fortunate in the
future."
But Clodagh gave no sign that she had even heard. Almost ungraciously,
she freed her hand; and, without glancing at any of the occupants of
the room, moved quickly to the door, and passed out into the corridor.
Her brain seemed to burn, as she mounted the long flight of shallow
stairs that led to the bedrooms; her head ached; her senses felt
confused. She had lost money to a far greater extent than she could
possibly afford; she had alienated the friend she had so ardently
desired to make; she had acted wilfully--absurdly--wrongly.
She opened the door of her bedroom with hasty, unsteady fingers. The
lamp on the writing-table was lighted, but the rest of the room was
dim; through the open windows came a slight breeze that stirred the
chintz curtains; in a chair by the dressing-table sat Simonetta in an
attitude of weariness.
The sight of the woman's tired figure jarred on Clodagh's over-strained
nerves.
"You can go, Simonetta!" she said sharply. "I'll put myself to bed."
Simonetta started up remorsefully.
"Pardon, signora----" she exclaimed.
But Clodagh cut her short.
"You can go!" she said. "Good-night!"
The woman looked at her for a moment in doubt and reluctance; then,
instinctively realising that argument was useless, moved softly to the
door.
"Good-night, signora!" she ventured; but as Clodagh made no response,
she departed, silently closing the door.
Left alone, Clodagh moved aimlessly to the centre of the room, and
stood there as if seeking some object which might distract her mind.
Her glance passed vaguely over the dressing-table, laden with familiar
personal objects; then strayed to a couch, on which lay an open book
that she had made a fruitless attempt to read during the hot hours of
the afternoon; at last, attracted by the light of the lamp, it turned
to the writing-table, on which was placed the heavy leather
writing-case that had belonged to her mother, and that had remained
with her through all her wanderings since the time of her marriage. It
lay unlocked, as she had left it the evening before, the contents
protruding untidily from under the thick leather flap. Something
intimate and friendly in the shabby object appealed to and attracted
her. Without considering the action, she went slowly forward and laid
her fingers hesitatingly upon it. All the small records that
constituted memory lay side by side in this worn leather case: her
cheque-books--her letters--the few souvenirs her life had provided.
She raised the flap lingeringly and lifted out the topmost papers.
First to her hand, came a bundle of Laurence Asshlin's monthly reports
from Orristown--boyish, spirited records of trivial doings,
ill-constructed from a literary point of view, shrewdly humorous in
their own peculiar way. These she tossed aside, as things of small
account, and turned almost hurriedly to the papers that lay immediately
beneath. They proved to be her sister's letters, dating from the time
of their parting in London, when Nance had been sent to school. For a
space she held them in her hand, while a curious expression, half
antagonistic, half tender, touched her face; then, with a little sigh,
she laid them down again, without having turned a page.
The next object that she drew forth was the faded telegram that, years
ago, at the time of Denis Asshlin's accident, had brought the
longed-for news that Milbanke was on his way to Orristown. She opened
it, read it, then folded it and replaced it with something of uneasy
haste; and again burying her hand in the recesses of the case, brought
to light another link with the past--a large envelope into which were
crushed a number of things, amongst them the first invitation from Lady
Frances Hope in Venice; a ribbon that had tied a bouquet of flowers on
the dinner-table at the "Abbati" Restaurant; a Venetian theatre
programme; a couple of dry roses that she had worn on the night when
Gore had taken her home from the Palazzo Ugochini. Very slowly she drew
these trophies forth. Each breathed the romance of things gone by; yet
each possessed the poison of present regret. As she lifted up the
roses, her expression became suddenly pained and resentful, and with a
fierce impulse she crushed the dry, brown leaves between her fingers,
flung them from her across the room, and hurriedly lifted the next
object from the writing-case. This last was a large bundle of papers,
tied together with a black ribbon.
Lifting it into the light, she looked at it for a long time, without
attempting to untie the string. It was the collection of her father's
scanty correspondence and ill-assorted business letters, which she had
bound together the night before her marriage--and had never since
opened.
A curious feeling assailed her now, as she looked at these yellowing
papers, eloquent of dead days; and at the mourning ribbon, significant
of emotions keen and bitter in the living, but buried now under the
weight of newer things. How strange, how distant and impersonal, the
pages seemed! And yet the time had been when every written line had
played its part in some human, personal endeavour! Each document had
represented loss or gain to some individual; each letter had conveyed
its fragment of earthly sentiment. Moved suddenly by the suggestions of
the moment, she untied the string.
A faint, dry odour rose from the loosened papers--the intangible scent
that indicates the past. It seemed that some world, distant and
forgotten, had suddenly put forth a shadowy hand, pointing she knew not
whither. Over her brain, fevered from the night's excitement, fell a
stillness--an arresting calm; across her thoughts, distorted by
mistaken struggles, glided a memory--a picture. She saw herself as she
had been before her marriage, in the far-off isolated days when life
had been a simple thing, when the world outside Orristown had been a
golden realm lying beyond the sunset.
How young she had been then! How extraordinarily, indescribably young!
How untrammelled in her actions and sweeping in her judgments! As the
old existence pressed about her in a cloud of images, she opened the
first letter. But so unsteadily, so agitatedly, that, in the opening,
five or six of the pages slipped from the packet and fluttered to the
writing-table, bringing with them a small unframed ivory miniature that
had been wrapped within the sheets.
The thin, fragile picture dropped with a faint tinkling sound; Clodagh
bent forward to recover it; then paused, leaning over the table in an
attitude of attention. The miniature lay face upwards; and, in the
strong light of the lamp, its outline and colours shone forth
distinctly. It represented the head and shoulders of a man in a scarlet
coat and hunting-stock--a man of thirty, with a handsome, defiant face,
fine eyes, and an obstinate, unreliable mouth.
It lay, looking up into her face, while she stared back at it, as
though a ghost had risen from the faded letters. On the night before
her marriage she had come upon this miniature of Denis Asshlin; and in
a frenzy of renewed grief had thrust it out of sight amongst the papers
she had collected. Then, the picture had seemed pitifully sad in its
presentment of the dead man in the days of his strength; now, as she
looked upon it in the light of subsequent knowledge, it seemed a thing
instinct with portent and dread.
Sharply and cruelly, the glamour cast by death receded from her memory.
She saw Asshlin as she had seen him in life--selfish, obstinate, and
yet weak. And, quick as the vision came, another followed. The vision
of her-self--of her own attitude towards her existence and her
responsibilities.
In silent, intent concentration she gazed upon the picture, until at
last, seized by an ungovernable impulse, half-instinctive realisation,
half-superstitious dread, she caught up the lamp and walked to the
dressing-table. There, removing the coloured shade, she laid it upon
the table; and, lifting the mirror, looked fixedly at her own
reflection, intensified by the crude, strong light.
For several minutes she stood quite motionless, her questioning eyes
searching the eyes in the glass, her pale face confronting its own
reflection. And as she looked, expressions of doubt, of fear, of
conviction chased each other across her features.
The image that confronted her was her father's image, softened by
differences of age and sex, but fundamentally the same. The image of
one who had wasted his life--ignored his duties--squandered the
substance of those who were dependent upon him! One whom even his
children had learned to despise!
With a sudden sensation of physical faintness she turned from the
table. For every folly of Denis Asshlin's, there sprang to her mind
some corresponding folly in her own more brilliant life. How
inefficiently she had worked out her own destiny--she who long ago had
been so rigid in her condemnation of him!
In sudden terror she moved unsteadily across the room, and stood
leaning against the foot of the oak bedstead; then, all at once, she
made a swift, passionate gesture, and dropped to her knees.
"O God!" she whispered wildly--"God, who made me!--I am afraid!"