Almost at the same hour that Clodagh sat down to play cards with
Laurence Asshlin at Orristown, Nance was seated with Daisy Estcoit in
the lounge of the Carlton. After her sister's departure, Mrs. Estcoit
had borne her off to be her guest at the hotel; and now, the little
party of four having dined in the restaurant, she had gone to her room
to discuss a business letter with her son, leaving the two girls
ensconced under one of the big palm-trees.
It was very pleasant and interesting to sit there, and watch the groups
seated on the low couches beside the little coffee-tables, or to study
the throng of people that moved constantly through the large glass
doors of the vestibule, and up the flight of shallow steps to the
restaurant itself, with its shaded lights and pretty artificial garden.
The crowd was unusually large for the time of year: the band was
playing a waltz: the whole atmosphere seemed gay and happy to one who
only that morning had performed a great act of love.
"How lovely life is, Daisy!" Nance said suddenly, unconsciously echoing
Clodagh's words on the day of Gore's return to London.
Daisy Estcoit laughed.
"Of course it is--with a trousseau like yours! But look over there--by
the big palm!"
Nance had bent to rearrange some roses in her belt.
"Where? What?" she said, glancing up.
"Don't you see?"
"No. What?"
"Sir Walter Gore. He just rushed through and into the restaurant. He
seems in tremendous haste."
"Walter! Where?" Nance looked round eagerly.
"I've just told you. In the restaurant. But here he is back again! He
must have been looking for some one."
Nance rose from the quiet corner in which they were sitting, and
stepped forward to greet Gore; but, as he came towards her down the
flight of shallow steps, her smile of welcome died, and a look of
surprise and concern crossed her eyes.
"Walter," she said softly.
He looked round at sound of his name.
"Oh! Nance!" he said. His manner was as quiet as usual, but he looked
like a man who has undergone some great fatigue and has not yet found
time to rest.
They shook hands in silence, Nance's dark blue eyes scanning his face.
"Have you heard from Clo?" she said, at last. "I have. Such a dear
letter--written in the train."
He flushed.
"Yes," he said laconically, "I have heard. But I can't wait to talk
about the letter now. I only came here hoping to find a man I know;
they told me at his rooms that he was dining here, but 'twas evidently
a mistake. I must say good-night!"
He held out his hand, and Nance took it mechanically; but as their
fingers fell apart, she stepped forward and walked with him resolutely
across the lounge.
In the vestibule she paused, and compelled him to meet her eyes.
"Walter," she said, "something is wrong!"
Gore's face hardened.
"Nothing is wrong."
She tightened her fingers round the fan she was carrying.
"That is untrue, Walter."
Something in the entire candour of the words touched him. He looked at
her with new eyes.
"You are right," he said quietly. "It was untrue."
"Then something has happened? Something about Clo?"
"Yes. Something--something that will break our engagement."
Nance turned very pale.
"Walter!" she said faintly, after a moment's pause. Then, before he
could speak again, she looked up at him. "Wait for a minute!" she said
sharply--"wait for a minute!" And turning, she hurried back to where
Daisy Estcoit was still sitting.
"Daisy," she said, "tell Pierce that I have gone out with Walter, and
that I'll be back in half an hour. Tell him that it's something
most--most important." She spoke hastily; and, without waiting to see
the effect of her words, turned again, and threaded her way between the
groups of people back to where Gore was standing.
"Call a cab, Waiter!" she said. "We _must_ talk."
"But, Nance----"
"A hansom, please!"
She turned without embarrassment to one of the attendants.
"But Nance----"
"You cannot refuse me, Walter. Clo is everything in the world to me."
The jingle of harness sounded, as the hansom drew up; and, walking
deliberately forward, she got into the vehicle.
"Tell him to drive anywhere that will take half an hour," she said to
Gore, as he reluctantly followed.
"Out Holland Park way!" he said, pausing on the step. "I'll tell you
when to stop."
He took his seat and closed the doors of the cab.
"Won't you be cold without a wrap?"
Nance ignored the question.
"Now," she said, "what is it? Is it about Deerehurst?"
At the sudden onslaught, Gore started, and turning round, looked at
her.
"I don't intend to discuss this matter," he said in his coldest voice.
"But I mean to discuss it." She met his glance with a resolution that
was not to be denied. "Is it about Deerehurst?"
"If you wish to know, it is about Deerehurst."
In his voice there was all the reserve, all the coldness of the
Englishman who has been very sorely wounded.
"And what about him?"
Quite suddenly Gore's reserve flamed to anger.
"Do you think I am going to talk of such things with a child like you?"
Nance clasped her hands on the closed doors of the cab, formulating a
sudden prayer that help might be vouchsafed her; then she spoke, with
eyes fixed steadily in front of her.
"I am not a child, Walter," she said in a very low voice. "And you
_must_ speak to me--for Clo's sake. And if you won't, then I must tell
you that I know all about her staying away from the theatre the other
night--about her having no headache, but wanting to see Deerehurst--about
her going to Carlton House Terrace at nine o'clock--I know it all,
because she told me----"
Gore drew a quick, amazed breath.
"She told you?"
She nodded. Her throat felt very dry.
"Clodagh told you that?"
"Yes. Who told _you_?"
He made no answer.
"Walter, was it Lady Frances Hope?"
"What does that matter?"
"It was Lady Frances?"
He put his hand wearily over his eyes.
"If you wish to know, it was."
"I guessed so. I always hated her. The other day, as we drove from
Paddington after seeing Clodagh off, we passed her in the Park with
Valentine Serracauld. He must have seen or guessed, or heard from
Deerehurst--and told her. He is an enemy of Clo's, too, since the time
at Tuffnell.
"Oh, Walter!" She turned suddenly, and looked at him--"Walter, have you
ever really known Clodagh?"
The pain and question in her voice broke through his wounded
self-esteem.
"Clodagh has made a fool of me, Nance," he said harshly. "She has never
been straight with me--never from the very first."
"And do you know why?"
"No; I can't pretend that I know why."
His tone was very bitter.
"Because she cares too much. She idealises too much."
Gore made a sound that might have been meant for a laugh.
"I think it is I who have idealised."
Nance straightened her small figure.
"Then you have always treated her wrongly. What Clo needs is not to be
idealised, but to be taken care of; not to be praised or blamed, but to
be taken care of." Her brown fingers were tightly clasped, as they
rested on the cab doors. "All her life she has wanted to be taken care
of--and all her life she has been thrown back upon herself. When I was
little, I had her; but when she was little, she had no one. Our mother
died when I was born."
Something in the simple pathos of this statement stirred Gore's
ever-present sense of the sacredness of home ties.
"I never knew that," he said very quietly.
"Yes, our mother died when I was born; and Clo grew up in our father's
care. Did she ever tell you about our father?"
"No. At least----"
"Then I shall. I've told Pierce. People ought to know. It helps them to
understand.
"Our father was a spendthrift--a gambler--a man without any principles.
If somebody stronger than himself had taken him in hand when he was
young, things might have been different. But he began by ruling
everybody who came in contact with him, until at last nobody dared to
rule him.
"Can you imagine how a man like that would bring up a daughter--you who
had a mother to help you in every year of your life?"
Her blue eyes darkened with intensity.
"Our home in Ireland is a big lonely house on the sea-coast. Imagine
growing up in a house like that, without care or money or friends--for
father drove all his friends away. Imagine Clo's life! Her only
learning was what she got with our cousin from the schoolmaster of the
nearest village; her only amusements were sailing and riding and
fishing. She never had the love or friendship of a woman of her own
class; she never knew what it was to be without the dread of debt or
disgrace; and then, at eighteen, she married the first man who came
into her life--not because she liked him--not because she wanted to
marry, or knew what marrying was--but because he had saved our father's
honour by paying his debt!"
She paused to take breath; but before Gore could speak, she went on
again:
"Do you know what I always wonder, Walter, when I think of Clodagh?"
Gore made a low murmur.
"I wonder, considering everything, that she hasn't done really wrong
things, instead of just terribly foolish ones! It doesn't seem strange
to me that she should have behaved like a child, when she first felt
what it was to be free and flattered and admired. Listen, Walter! There
have been too many clouds between you and Clodagh. Neither of you has
understood. You have been too proud; and she has been too much afraid.
But I am not afraid!"
And in the prosaic London cab, with her eyes fixed resolutely on the
heavy copper-coloured sky that hung above the housetops, Nance
performed her second act of love. While Gore sat silent, she poured
forth the whole mistaken tale of Clodagh's life, from the days in
Venice to the hour of her departure for Ireland. She omitted nothing;
she extenuated nothing. With a strange instinct towards choice of the
right weapons, she fought for her sister's future. Everything was
told--Lady Frances Hope's poisoning of Clodagh's mind against Gore
himself--the scene with Serracauld in the card-room--all the
temptations, all the follies, confessed in the darkness of the nights
at Tuffnell, and in Clodagh's own bedroom on the night she visited
Deerehurst. It was the moment for speech; and she spoke. Her own
shyness, her own natural reticence, were swept aside by the great need
of one who was infinitely dear. The scene at Carlton House Terrace she
described without flinching; for candour and innocence move boldly
where lesser virtues fail and falter. She told the story with a simple
truth that was more dignified than any hesitancy.
When at last she had finished, Gore sat for a space, very silent and
with bent head; then abruptly, as if inspired by a sudden resolution,
he put up his hand to the trap in the roof.
"The nearest telegraph office!" he called, as the cabman looked down.
The man whipped up his horse. But Nance turned sharply.
"What are you going to do?"
"To wire to Clodagh."
"To Clodagh?"
"Yes."
"But Clodagh doesn't know? Walter, you haven't told Clodagh! Walter!"
Gore bent his head. "I wrote to her the night I saw Frances Hope," he
said. "She had my letter this morning."
"This morning?" It was impossible to fathom the pain and alarm in
Nance's voice. "What did you write?"
"Very little. Just that I knew about Deerehurst--that I thought it
better we should not marry."
"And she got that letter this morning? She has been hours and hours
alone, believing that you don't love her--that she is left utterly by
herself? Oh!"
"Nance, don't! I'm sufficiently ashamed."
Nance put her hands over her eyes.
"I'm not thinking of you!" she said cruelly.
"I know. But remember, there's the wire. We can still wire. I shall
tell her that you and I are coming for her to Ireland--that she will
never be alone again."
Nance's hand dropped.
"But you don't understand!" she cried. "No telegram can reach her
to-night. It will only get to Carrigmore to-morrow morning--and from
there to Orristown. If we were to give everything we have in the
world--if we were to die for it--we could not save her from the
blackness, the loneliness and horror of to-night!"