Almost immediately a second cab appeared, and, finding it at her
disposal, Clodagh hailed it eagerly and gave the address of the flat.
As the horse sped away in the direction of her home, she sat almost
motionless, her only gesture being to lift her hands to her eyes from
time to time, as if to shut out some near and unpleasant vision. Life
in its crudest, its most repulsive aspect stared at her out of the
darkness. She sat crushed by the disillusionment of the last hour.
And a new furtiveness--born of the new realisation--assailed her when
at last she stepped from the cab at her own door. With an instinctive
lessening of her natural fearlessness, she hurried through the
vestibule and passed straight to the lift. Gaining her own door, she
let herself in by her latch-key, and then paused, looking fearfully and
eagerly about, in expectation of some unwished-for sound. But
everything in the flat was still; and crossing the hall, she entered
her own room. The electric light had been switched on and the place set
in order, and Simonetta sat at the dressing-table, mending a piece of
lace.
"No one has come back?" Clodagh asked.
"No one, signora." Simonetta arose and turned to her mistress.
Seeing the expression on her face, Clodagh nervously anticipated her
words.
"My head still aches," she said. "I think you may go. I should like to
be alone."
From previous knowledge of her moods, the woman made no protestations,
but folded up her work and went quietly towards the door.
As she gained it, Clodagh turned.
"Simonetta!"
"Yes, signora?"
"Tell the servants they are to say nothing to any one of my having gone
out to-night. You understand."
"I understand, signora."
"That is all--good-night!"
"Good-night, signora!"
It would be futile to relate the thoughts that passed through Clodagh's
mind in the hour that followed Simonetta's departure; but when, at
half-past eleven, Nance returned from the theatre, and, hurrying to the
bedroom, opened the door swiftly and anxiously, she was standing by one
of the open windows, her hat and veil still on, her gaze fixed
resolutely on the shadowy trees of the park.
Crossing the threshold softly, Nance tip-toed into the room.
"Clo," she whispered, "'how are you? Better?" Then she paused in
pleased surprise.
"What? You've been out? Then you _are_ better. How glad Walter will be!
He insisted on coming back to know how you were."
At Gore's name, Clodagh started and looked round.
"Walter here?" she said.
"Yes; but, Clo! what's the matter? You've been crying."
Clodagh stepped to her side and laid her hand imperatively on her arm.
"Hush!" she whispered. "Go back at once and tell Walter that I'm--that
I'm asleep. Tell him that Simonetta said I was better and fell asleep.
Tell him anything you can think of that will make him happy and get him
away. He must be got away. I can't see him. Do you understand, Nance?
He must be got away."
For one surprised moment Nance looked at her sister; then conquering
her curiosity, she turned quietly and moved to the door.
"All right, darling!" she said reassuringly; "I'll send him away
happy."
Clodagh put her hand across her eyes.
"Thank God!" she said. "If you had asked me one more question I
couldn't have borne it. Send him away, and then come back."
In silence Nance left the room. Five minutes passed--ten minutes; then
Clodagh's straining ears caught the closing of the outer door, and her
hand dropped to her side in a gesture of excessive relief.
"Thank God!" she said again.
When Nance re-entered, she was still standing in the middle of the
room, her face white and tear-stained, her figure braced.
"Nance," she said, almost before the door had closed upon her sister,
"I am going to tell you things I have never told you before. I feel I
shall go mad to-night, if I don't tell some one. Don't ask me any
questions. Just listen and--if you can--love me!"
Nance paused just inside the door. Her own face looked pale above the
shimmering blue and silver of her evening dress; her dark blue eyes
were full of a peculiarly tender light.
"I don't love you, Clo," she said below her breath. "I adore you. Tell
me whatever you like."
Clodagh threw out her hands despairingly.
"I'm not worth love like that," she cried. "You'll know it when I've
finished. Do you remember long ago, Nance, when James and I went to
Venice? Do you remember my letters from Venice?"
Nance showed no surprise at the sudden irrelevant questions.
"All of them," she answered--"I have them all."
"Then you remember how I met Frances Hope and Val Serracauld--and Lord
Deerehurst?"
"I remember."
"I was very much alone at that time, Nance. James was only a shadow in
my life; and they--they seemed like sunshine, and I wanted the
sunshine. I have always been like a child, turning to bright tawdry
things."
"Clo! you're upset to-night!--you're ill!"
"No, I'm not. I've been seeing myself and seeing my life to-night. I
liked these people--I liked these men who talked to me and flattered
me, and ignored the fact that I had a husband--I liked them and
encouraged them. And one night, on the balcony of the Palazza
Ugochini----" She stopped, then made a sudden gesture, as if to sweep
unnecessary things aside. "But I won't talk of that!" she cried. "It is
the later time I want to come to--the time after James's death, when I
met Frances Hope again." She paused to regain her breath; but the look
of determination did not leave her face. Her dark eyes seemed; almost
to challenge Nance's. "When I went to Monte Carlo with Frances," she
went on, "I did not go to forget poor James's death, as you believed; I
went to forget something else that had made me much more unhappy; and
the way I set about forgetting was to gamble. Yes, I know what you
feel!--I know what you think! But it cannot alter anything. I gambled.
I lost large sums of money that Frances advanced me. I _had_ to borrow,
because there were formalities to be gone through about James's will,
before I could draw my income. Then I came back to London; I met Val
Serracauld and Lord Deerehurst again; I took an expensive flat; I lived
like people six times as well off as myself; I gambled again----"
"Clodagh!"
Clodagh put up her hand.
"Wait! It's all leading up to something. I was utterly foolish, utterly
mad. I borrowed again to pay my debts at bridge. Then one day Frances
asked me for her money. It seemed like the end of the world; but it was
a debt of honour--it couldn't be shirked. I wrote her out a cheque that
left me beggared of the half-year's income I had been counting on to
put me straight."
"Oh, Clo, Clo! Why wasn't I here?"
"Yes, why wasn't somebody here? But the worst is to come. I did not
know where to look, I did not know where to turn, when suddenly--quite
suddenly--I thought of your thousand pounds----"
Nance gave a little gasp.
"I remembered that. And, Nance--Nance, can you guess what happened?"
Nance did not attempt to answer.
"I took that thousand pounds. I stole it. Don't say anything! Don't try
to excuse me! I want to face things. I told myself I would write and
tell you; then I told myself I would say it when you came back. But
when you did come"--she halted for a second--"when you did come, Nance,
you loved me, you admired me, you _respected_ me, and--and I couldn't.
When you asked me for the money that night at Tuffnell, I knew I would
have to find it and pay it back without making any confession to you."
A sound that was almost a moan escaped Nance's lips.
"Yes!" Clodagh cried--"yes! I know exactly how great a fool I was. But
what is done is done. The day you drove to Wynchley with Lady Diana and
Walter, I stayed behind to write to Mr. Barnard and ask him to advance
me the money. But somehow I couldn't do that, either; and then--hate
me, Nance! hate me, if you like!--Lord Deerehurst came to me when I was
most disheartened, most depressed, and offered to lend me the money."
"And you took it?" Nance said almost quietly.
"I took it--yes, I took it. I have always been like
that--always--always; grasping at the easy things, letting the hard
ones slip by. And now!--now!"
"Now?"
"Nance, listen!" She took a swift step forward. "It was because of that
loan that I couldn't slight him since we came back to town. You were
right--you were quite right in all you advised; but I couldn't do it.
He had lent me the money. He had seemed my best friend. I felt I
couldn't do it--until yesterday.
"But yesterday, when he left, and Walter spoke of him, I knew there was
no choice. It was my own happiness or his friendship. And I--I decided
for my own happiness."
She stopped, and drew a quick, deep breath.
Nance clasped her hands, fearfully conscious that more was still to
come.
"When I have a difficult thing to do," Clodagh went on, "I must do it
quickly. I can't wait, I can't prepare and plan, I can't brood over
things. After Walter left yesterday I decided that what must be done
must be done at once. I made up my mind that I would see Lord
Deerehurst to-night; that I would be quite candid with him, explain my
position--and appeal to his generosity to let our friendship end."
"Then to-night----?"
"To-night was all a deception. I had no headache--I wasn't ill. I
shammed it all, that I might be alone."
"And while we were at the theatre you sent for him----?"
"No! I went to Carlton House Terrace to see him."
"Went to see him! Clo!"
"I said you could hate me! Do hate me! Despise me! Think anything
you like! I went to see him; I went to his house--at night,
alone--thinking, believing---- Oh!" She made a gesture of acute
self-disgust. "Nance, need I say it all? Need I?--need I? Can't you
understand without my saying? All that I had imagined about his
friendship was untrue. Such people don't understand friendship. All
along he had been waiting, quietly and silently, like one of those
horrible hawks we used to watch at Orristown--waiting to swoop down
when the right moment came." With an almost hysterical gesture she put
her hand to her throat.
Nance's face had become very white; but in the intensity of her pity
and love, she did not dare to approach her sister.
"Clo," she whispered, "you must tell Walter."
Clodagh's face suddenly flamed.
"Tell Walter! Tell Walter that I owe Deerehurst a thousand pounds--that
I lied to him and to you all to-night, that I might go alone to
Deerehurst's house! You don't know Walter! There is only one thing in
the world that I can do--that I must do, and that is to go to Ireland
and arrange about raising money on my share of Orristown. It can be
done somehow. Father did it. I shall not eat or sleep or think until
that thousand pounds is paid."
Prompted by a swift and eager impulse, Nance's face flushed, and she
ran forward. Then almost as she reached her sister's side, her
expression changed. She suddenly curbed her impetuosity.
"Perhaps it _would_ be a good idea," she said slowly. "When would you
like to go?"
"To-night if I could! I feel--oh, I feel----!" Clodagh put her hands
over her face.
Nance stood watching her for a moment longer. Then she slipped softly
to her side, and put one arm about her neck.
"Don't be sad, darling," she murmured--"don't be sad! You shall go to
Ireland to-morrow, if you like; and all the planning--all the
explaining to Walter and to everybody--will be done by me."
And so it came to pass, in the extraordinary way with which events
sometimes precipitate themselves, that at four o'clock on the following
afternoon Clodagh was borne swiftly out of Paddington Station on the
first stage of her journey to Ireland.
The chain of incidents that had been forged by Nance to make this
departure feasible, as well as possible, had been too minute and
complex to make any impression upon Clodagh's mind. Her confession the
night before had been more a confession to herself than a conscious
unburdening of her soul to other ears; and having made it, she was
satisfied to resign herself into any hands that were willing and
capable of guiding her actions.
The first incident of the morning had been a visit from Gore. But it
had been Nance who had interviewed him first; and a quarter of an hour
later, when Clodagh had come into the drawing-room, nervous and guilty,
she had found him full of sympathy and solicitude for what he believed
to be her sudden recall to Ireland. Then had come the Estcoits; and
with their advent, more solicitude and more sympathy. Lunch time had
crept upon them almost unawares; and--again on Nance's initiative--the
whole party had adjourned to the Hyde Park Hotel, and had partaken of a
meal in company.
More than once during the crowded hours of the morning, Clodagh had
striven to draw her sister aside; but Nance, animated by an unusual
excitement, had evaded every possibility of a _tete-a-tete_.
It was only at the door of the railway carriage, when Gore and Estcoit
were superintending the labelling of her luggage, and Mrs. Estcoit and
Daisy were buying books and papers for her amusement, that at last they
had a word in private. Clodagh was standing in the open doorway of the
carriage, and Nance was on the step, when quite suddenly the latter put
up her hand and pressed a letter between her sister's fingers.
"My proper good-bye is in this letter, darling," she said. "I couldn't
say it before everybody. Kiss me, will you?"
Impulsively Clodagh bent forward, and the sisters exchanged a long
kiss.
"You have been an angel, Nance! I will thank you when--when----"
"No!--no! There can never be thanks between you and me. We are one.
Remember that always! Always, Clo--always!"
She drew back quickly, as the rest of the party came hurrying to the
carriage.
And so the good-byes had all been said, and the train had steamed out
of the station; she had watched the platform melt into obscurity, and
then had dropped into her seat with that sense of quiet--of
flatness--that follows the moments of parting.
The long railway journey and the night crossing to Ireland still lay
between her and action. She looked impatiently at her travelling
companions, an uninteresting brother and sister who had already buried
themselves behind newspapers in their respective corners of the
carriage, and almost angrily she turned to the heap of magazines lying
beside her; but as she did so, her glance brightened. Nance's letter
was still to be read!
In the midst of her perplexities, a tender thought flashed over her
mind as she opened the envelope, and her face softened instinctively as
she began to read. But gradually, as her glance passed from one line to
another, her expression changed, she sat upright in her seat, her
bearing altered in a sudden, inexplicable manner.
"DARLING, DARLING CLO!" the letter began,
"I must have seemed a wretch last night and to-day! I mean I must
have seemed very strange, showing hardly any surprise or sympathy
at anything you told me, and taking your going to Ireland as though
it were a thing that happened every day. But, Clo, it wasn't
because I didn't love and worship you, and feel for you in every
tiny thing, but because I was afraid you would guess what was
really in my mind--what I was plotting and planning all the time.
"Clo, I wanted you to go to Ireland because--oh, do forgive me for
even writing it!--I wanted to get you away.
"Dearest, you are to do no more silly things. At the risk of
hurting you, I am saying this. You used to say long ago that I saw
more than you, because I looked on instead of doing things myself.
Clo, you are _not_ to raise money on Orristown, because you have no
need to do it. Lord Deerehurst has been paid his thousand pounds
and you are free--quite free.
"My little sister, imagine that my arms are round your neck so
tight that you can't be vexed! When you told me last night that my
thousand pounds really belonged to him, my first thought was to
say--'Well, let's give him back as much of it as we have left!' But
I stopped in time. You were not in the mood last night to take the
most loving favour in the world. You wanted to sacrifice yourself;
so instead of saying what was in my heart, I locked it up closely
and thought about it all night; and before you were awake this
morning, I sent for Pierce and asked him to lend me three hundred
pounds--the three hundred we had spent out of the thousand.
"Don't say anything, darling! Don't be angry! Don't even think!
Pierce was perfectly sweet; he never asked one question, and at
three o'clock to-day, just after we came back from lunch, I sent
the thousand pounds in notes to Carlton House Terrace, with a card
of yours enclosed.
"Darling, _don't_ be vexed! Don't question it! It is right, I know.
It was a debt of honour, in the fullest sense.
"And now, Clo, it's all finished, all done with, all passed, and
you can repay me the money slowly in years and years. Be happy! Oh,
darling, be happy! Go back to Orristown, as I would have you to go
back, with your heart full of all the great, good, true love that
Walter and I have for you.
"Ride and walk and swim, and be without one care; and in a week or
two, when the hateful thought of last night has been swept away by
the splendid strong sea winds, come back to us, a newer, wiser,
happier Clodagh.
"Darling, I am, now and always,
"Your true sister,
"NANCE."
Clodagh closed the letter; then suddenly she rose from her seat and
stepped from the carriage into the narrow corridor.
The engine was swinging forward at great speed; the train itself was
swaying to the swift motion; outside, the pleasant English country
seemed to fly past the long line of windows. For a second, she stood by
the carriage door; then she stepped forward to the open window and,
leaning out, let the strong current of air play upon her face, blowing
back the hair from her temples.
How good God was! How good the world was! The great machinery of the
train--the great wheels of life--ground out the same sudden song. She
was free! By the unlimited power of love, she had been made free!