The key-note of Clodagh's character was impulse. She loved, she hated,
she was generous, she was foolish, with a wide impulsiveness.
When Nance had spoken of her engagement, her unselfish joy and relief
in the security it promised had aroused a renewed desire for
self-sacrifice, as represented by confession of her weakness; but a
moment later, when Nance had spoken of Milbanke's legacy--of her
innocent joy in its existence--of her innocent desire for its
possession--the wish had faltered. She had given her tacit agreement
that the thousand pounds should be placed in Nance's hands--the
thousand pounds, of which the greater portion had already gone to swell
the coffers of London tradesmen or fill the pockets of her friends!
That was her position on the night of Nance's confidence; and on the
following morning she woke with an oppressive sense that action must be
taken in some direction.
The whole house party, with the exception of Deerehurst, put in an
appearance at the early breakfast. And as Clodagh entered the
breakfast-room, her spirits rallied a little at the sight of the
crowded table; and she took her place between George Tuffnell and
Serracauld with a sense of respite.
Lady Diana, who was occupying her usual place at the head of the table,
had borne Nance off to sit beside her; while Lady Frances, looking a
little worn in the searching morning light, was keeping Mrs. Bathurst,
Mansfeldt, and Gore amused.
The breakfast was not a long meal; and at its conclusion Lady Diana
looked round the table.
"Now, people!" she said amiably, "what are the morning's plans? You
know, you are none of you to forget my dance to-night, and tire
yourselves!"
Mrs. Bathurst turned to her with her pretty, languid smile.
"I'm going to play croquet with Mr. Mansfeldt," she announced. "Nice,
lazy, old-fashioned croquet. We shall turn up at lunch time."
"And you, Walter?" Lady Diana asked. "Will you drive over with me to
Wynchley? We might take Frances and"--again she looked round the
party--"and Miss Asshlin."
But Nance glanced quickly down the table to where her sister sat.
Clodagh caught the questioning look, and bent her head.
"Yes. Go with Lady Diana," she said affectionately. "It's very sweet of
her to take you."
Nance smiled shyly.
"I know," she said, looking from Clodagh to her hostess.
Lady Diana returned the smile.
"It's sweet of your sister to spare you to me."
While she was speaking, Serracauld turned to Clodagh.
"Will you give _me_ the morning?" he said in an undertone.
She drew back and laughed a little.
"What a conceited suggestion! Fancy throwing my little sister over, to
spend the morning with you!"
He looked at her unabashed. And, as Tuffnell turned to address his
neighbour, he bent close to her again.
"You're very hard on me! When will you be really, properly kind?"
"Oh, sometime--perhaps!" Clodagh's tone was careless and light.
"This morning, then? Come for a ride with me."
She laughed once more, and shook her head.
"I have a letter--a terrible business letter--that must be written--a
letter to Mr. Barnard."
Serracauld raised his eyebrows a trifle satirically.
"To Barny? Ah, then I shan't press the point. But how many dances am I
to have to-night?"
"Dances? You know I shan't dance." She glanced down at her black linen
dress.
He smiled a little.
"Am I a schoolboy, that I should want to dance? How many dances are we
to sit out?"
"To sit out? Oh, I'll--I'll tell you that when we've sat out one."
Without looking at him, she pushed back her chair, as Lady Diana rose.
"Then let that be the first dance?"
She nodded inconsequently.
"Perhaps! The first dance!" She stood up, and joining the rest of the
company, moved down the room.
As she gained the door, Nance ran to her.
"Clo, darling! Can't I stay with you?"
Clodagh smiled down into the eager upturned face.
"Not this morning. I have a business letter to write."
"Then I _must_ go?" Nance's face fell.
"Must, darling."
"But, Clo, you'll think of me--and love me--all the time you're writing
the horrid thing?"
Clodagh laughed; then all at once her face looked grave.
"Dearest," she said suddenly, "you don't know how much!" And without
explaining her words, or waiting for Nance to speak again, she passed
quickly across the hall and up the stairs.
Four different times Clodagh began her letter to Barnard. Sitting by
the writing-table close to the open window of her bedroom, she watched
the various members of the house party depart on their different ways;
but the quieter and more deserted the house became, the more impossible
it seemed to her to accomplish the task she had in hand. At last, with
a gesture of despair, she tore up the half-written letters that lay
strewn about her; and, rising from the table with a sigh of vexation,
left the room, closing the door softly.
With a frown of unhappiness and perplexity still upon her forehead, she
descended the stairs, crossed the hall, and passing round the back of
the house, made her way to the rose garden.
The rose garden at Tuffnell was always a place of beauty; but in the
month of July it was a paradise of scent and colour. Down its centre
ran a long strip of close-cut lawn, flanked on either side by stone
seats and stone nymphs and satyrs, brought from an old Italian garden;
on the high wall, that preserved to the place an absolute seclusion, a
dozen peacocks sunned themselves gorgeously; while over the entire
enclosure grew--and climbed--and drooped--roses; roses of every shade
and of every size; roses that filled the air with a warm scent that
seemed at once to mingle with and to hold the summer sun.
She paused for an instant upon entering this enchanted garden, and drew
a deep breath of involuntary delight; then, walking slowly, as though
haste might desecrate such beauty, she passed down the long smooth lawn
that formed an alley of greenness amid the pink and crimson of the
flowers.
Pausing at the farther end, she stood, soothed by the sights and scents
about her, until suddenly a harsh, disturbed cry from one of the
peacocks broke the spell. She turned sharply, and saw Deerehurst
standing close behind her.
"I saw you from my dressing-room window," he said, in answer to her
look of surprise. "Was it very presumptuous of me to follow you?"
The cold, familiar voice banished the thought of the roses. Her
vexations and perplexities came back upon her abruptly, causing her
face to cloud over.
"No!" she said hastily--"no! I--I think I am glad to see you. I am in a
hopeless mood to-day. Things won't go right!"
He took her hand and bent over it, with even more than his usual
deference, although his cold eyes shot a swift glance at her distressed
face.
"But you must not say that," he said softly. "Things can always be
compelled to go right."
She shook her head despondently.
"Not for me."
He freed her hand gently, and pointed to one of the stone seats that
stood under the shadow of the rose bushes.
"Shall we sit down?" he said. "There is a great deal of repose to be
found in this garden of Lady Diana's. She had it copied many years ago
from my rose garden at Ambleigh."
Clodagh looked up at him, as they moved together across the grass.
"Indeed!" she said--"from your rose garden?"
"Yes; she and Tuffnell stayed with me at Ambleigh shortly after they
were married--when my sister was alive. And Lady Diana fell in love
with my rose garden. I remember I sent a couple of my gardeners down
here to plant this one for her. It is an exact reproduction, on a
smaller scale."
There was silence while they seated themselves; then Clodagh, looking
meditatively in front of her at the evil face of one of the stone
satyrs, spoke suddenly and impulsively.
"I envy you!" she said.
"You envy me?" There was a curious, almost an eager tone in
Deerehurst's voice; but she was too preoccupied to hear it.
"All people are to be envied who have power--and freedom. I get so
tired of myself sometimes--so rebellious against myself! I am always
doing the things I should not do, and failing to do the things I
should. I am hopeless!"
For a space he made no attempt to break in upon her mood; then, very
quietly, he bent forward and looked up into her face.
"What is worrying you?" he asked in a whisper. "Confession really
_is_ very good for the soul!"
For a moment she answered nothing; then, yielding to an impulse, she
met his scrutinising eyes.
"Oh, it's only a letter that won't let itself be written--one of those
abominable letters that one has to write. Talking of it does no good!"
"No good? I am not so sure of that. I believe in talking. Tell me about
it!"
Clodagh laid her hand nervously on the arm of the seat.
"I have been stupid!" she said almost defiantly. "I have overstepped my
allowance, and must ask Mr. Barnard to advance me some money. And--and
I, somehow, hate to do it. Am I not a fool?" She laughed unsteadily,
and turned to look at her companion; but he had drawn back into the
shadow of the seat. "Oh, it's childish! Ridiculous! I am disgusted with
myself!" Her glance again crossed the strip of green lawn to where the
stone satyr stood.
Quite silently Deerehurst bent forward again.
"What is the amount?" he asked softly.
"A thousand pounds."
"And is Barnard such a very great friend?"
Clodagh started.
"No! Oh no! Why?" She turned quickly and looked at him.
"Because I wish to know why it should be Barnard."
There was a long silence, in which she felt her heart beat
uncomfortably fast. A sudden surprise--a sudden confusion--filled her.
Then, through the confusion, she was conscious that Deerehurst was
speaking again.
"Why should you think of Barnard?" he murmured. "Barnard is not a rich
man. To advance you a thousand pounds may possibly inconvenience him;
whereas a man who need not consider ways and means----"
Clodagh sat very still.
"Yes. But I think----"
"And why think?" he spoke calmly, considerately, without a tinge of
disturbing emotion. "Why think? Why write that troublesome letter? Why
ask a favour when, by granting one----"
"Granting one----?"
"Yes. When, by granting a favour, you can make everything smooth. Think
what it would be to me, for instance, if some of the money I am saddled
with were used to bring you happiness--or peace! Think of the favour
_you_ would be doing _me_!"
She half rose, then sank back again.
"Oh, but I couldn't! How could I?"
"And why not? Look! I have only to open my cheque-book"--he very quietly
drew a cheque-book from his breast-pocket--"find the all-powerful
pen"--he searched for, and produced, a gold pen--"and--look!"
He wrote rapidly for a moment; then held a fluttering white paper in
front of Clodagh's eyes.
"Look!"
With a little start, a little cry of deprecation, she rose from her
seat. In a flash of memory she recalled the night on the balcony at
Venice, when he had kissed her hand; she recalled the letter she had
found awaiting her in her room at the hotel. In sudden fear, she
glanced at him. Then her fear faltered. To her searching eyes, he
presented the same aspect that he had assumed since their first meeting
in London--the aspect of a tried, deferential friend.
"How could I?" she asked again; but unconsciously her tone had
weakened.
For answer, Deerehurst folded up the cheque and held it out to her with
a respectful--almost a formal bow.
"By extending to me the merest act of friendship."
She sat very still, not attempting to take the cheque.
"I--I could not repay it before January--perhaps not entirely even
then."
"January, or any time. I understand the art of patience."
For one moment longer her uncertain glance wandered from the slip of
paper to the glowing rose bushes; from the roses to the cold malignant
face of the satyr that confronted her across the strip of grass.
"You--you are very kind. In--in January, then."
Deerehurst bowed again. And in complete silence the cheque passed from
his hand to hers.