Chapter VII

And thus it came about that Clodagh Asshlin entered upon a new phase of that precarious condition that we call life. The impulse that had induced her to accept Milbanke's proposal was in no way complex. The knowledge had suddenly been conveyed to her that, through no act of her own, she had been placed under a deep obligation; and her primary--her inherited--instinct had been to pay her debt as speedily and as fully as lay within her power, ignoring, in her lack of worldly wisdom, the fact that such a bargain must of necessity possess obligations other than personal, which would demand subsequent settlement.

However unversed she may be in the world's ways, it is scarcely to be supposed that any young girl, under normal conditions, can look upon her own marriage as an abstract thing. But the circumstances of Clodagh's case were essentially abnormal. Milbanke's proposal--and the facts that brought her to accept it--came at a time when her mind and her emotions were numbed by her first poignant encounter with death and grief; and for the time being her outlook upon existence was clouded. The present seemed something sombre, desolate, and impalpable; the future something absolutely void.

For two days after the scene in the glen, she and Milbanke avoided all allusion to what had taken place between them. He appeared possessed by an insurmountable nervous reticence; while she, immersed in her trouble, seemed almost to have forgotten what had occurred.

On the evening of the third day, however, the subject was again broached.

Milbanke was sitting by one of the long, dining-room windows, reading by the faint twilight that filtered in from the fast-darkening sky. The light in the room was fitful; for though the table was already laid for dinner, the candles had not yet been lighted.

With his book held close to his eyes, he had been reading studiously for close upon an hour, when the quick opening of the door behind him caused him to look round. As he did so, he closed his book somewhat hastily and rose with a slight gesture of embarrassment, for the disturber of his peace was Clodagh. But it was not so much the fact of her entry that had startled him, as the fact that, for the first time since her father's death, she was arrayed in her riding-habit.

Shaken out of his calm, he turned to her at once.

"Are you--are you going for a ride?" he asked in unconcealed surprise.

Clodagh nodded. She was drawing on her thick chamois gloves, and her riding-crop was held under her arm. Had the light in the room been stronger, he would have seen that her lips were firmly set and her eyes bright with resolution. But his mind was absorbed by his surprise.

"But is it not rather--late?" he hazarded anxiously, with a glance towards the window.

She looked up astonished.

"Late?" she repeated incredulously.

Then the look of faintly contemptuous tolerance that sometimes touched her with regard to him passed over her face.

"Oh no; not at all!" she explained. "I'm used to riding in the evening. You see, Polly must be exercised; and I'd rather it was dark, the first time I rode after----"

Her voice faltered.

Milbanke heard the tremor, and, as once before, his sense of personal timidity fled before his spontaneous pity.

"Clodagh," he said suddenly, "allow me to ride with you. I was a fairly good horseman in--in my day."

There was pathos in the deprecating justification; but Clodagh's attention was caught by the words alone.

"You!" she said in blank amazement.

Then something in the crudeness of her tone struck upon her, and she made haste to amend her exclamation.

"Of course it's very, very kind of you," she added awkwardly.

At her lowered tone, Milbanke coloured, and took a step forward.

"Clodagh," he began, with a flash of courage, "I think you might allow me to be more kind to you than you do. I think I might give you more protection. And it has occurred to me that perhaps we ought to announce our--our engagement----"

He halted nervously.

As soon as he had begun to speak, Clodagh had walked away from him across the room; and now she stood by the mantelpiece looking down steadily into the fire.

"Do you agree with me?" he asked, moving nervously towards her.

There was an embarrassed silence. And in his perturbation he glanced from her bent head to the picture above the chimneypiece from which Anthony Asshlin's ardent face showed out a vague patch of colour against its black background.

"Clodagh," he said suddenly, "allow me to tell Mrs. Asshlin that you have promised to marry me."

But still Clodagh did not answer; still she stood gazing enigmatically into the burning logs, her slight figure and warm youthful face fitfully lighted by the capricious, spurting flames.

"Clodagh!" he exclaimed. And there was a note of uneasiness in his low, deprecating voice.

Then at last she turned, and their eyes met.

"Very well!" she said quietly. "You may tell Aunt Fan. But, if you don't mind, I'll ride by myself."

That night, at the conclusion of dinner, the engagement was announced. All the members of the Asshlin family were seated round the table when Milbanke, who had practically eaten nothing during the meal, summoned his wavering courage and leaned across the table towards Mrs. Asshlin, who was sitting at his right hand.

"Mrs. Asshlin," he began almost inaudibly, "I--that is, Clodagh and I"--he glanced timidly to where Clodagh sat erect and immovable, at the head of the table--"Clodagh and I have--have an announcement to make. We, that is I----" He stammered hopelessly. "Mrs. Asshlin, Clodagh has made me very--very proud and very happy. She has consented to--to be my wife."

He took a deep, agitated breath of wordless relief that the confession was made.

There was a long pause. Then suddenly Mrs. Asshlin extended both hands towards him in an hysterical outburst of feeling.

"My dear--dear Mr. Milbanke," she said. "What a shock! What a surprise, I should say! What would my poor brother-in-law have thought! But Providence ordains everything. I'm sure I congratulate you--congratulate you both." She turned to Clodagh. "Though of course it is not the time for congratulations----" She hastily drew out her handkerchief.

As she did so, little Nance rose softly from table and slipped unobserved from the room. At Milbanke's words, the child's face had turned terribly white, and she had cast an appealing, incredulous look at Clodagh. But Clodagh, in her self-imposed stolidity, had seen nothing of the expressions round her; and now, as her sister left her place and crossed the room, the significance of the action went unnoticed.

For a moment the only sound audible in the room was the cracking of the fire and Mrs. Asshlin's muffled weeping; but at last, Milbanke, agonised into action, put out his hand and touched her arm.

"Please do not give way to your feelings, Mrs. Asshlin!" he urged. "Think--think of Clodagh!"

Thus appealed to, Mrs. Asshlin wiped away the half-dozen tears that had trickled down her cheek.

"You must forgive me," she murmured. "We Irish take things too much to heart. It--it brought my own engagement back to me--and of course my poor Laurence's death. I hope indeed that it will be a very long time before Clodagh----"

But the words were broken by a clatter from the other side of the table, as young Laurence Asshlin opportunely knocked one wine-glass against another. And in the moment of interruption, Clodagh pushed back her chair and stood up.

"If you don't mind, Aunt Fan," she said, "I think I'll go to bed. The--the ride has tired me. Good-night!" And without a glance at any one, she walked out of the room.

But she had scarcely crossed the hall, when a step behind her caused her to pause; and, looking back, she saw the figure of her cousin, a pace or two in the rear.

In the half light of the place, the two confronted each other; and Clodagh lifted her head in a movement that was common to them both.

"What do you want?" she asked.

Asshlin stepped forward.

"'Tisn't true, Clo?" he asked breathlessly.

Clodagh looked at him defiantly and nodded.

"Yes," she said. "'Tis true."

For a moment he stared at her incredulously, then his incredulity drove him to speech.

"But, Clo," he cried, "he's sixty, if he's a day! And you----"

Clodagh flushed.

"Stop, Larry!" she said unevenly. "Father was nearly sixty."

But Asshlin's sense of the fitness of things had been aroused.

"That's all very well!" he cried. "Uncle Denis was all right for a father or an uncle. But to marry! Clo, you're mad!"

Clodagh turned upon him.

"How dare you, Larry?" she cried. "You are horrible! I hate you!"

Her voice caught, and with a sudden passionate gesture she wheeled away from him and began to mount the stairs.

The action sobered him. With impetuous remorse, he thrust out his hand to detain her.

"Clo!" he said. "I say, Clo!"

But she swept his hand aside.

"No!--no!" she exclaimed. "I don't want you!--I don't want you! I never want to speak to you again. You are hateful--detestable----"

With a swift movement, she pushed past his outstretched arm and flew up the stairs.

In her bedroom Hannah was hovering about between the washstand and dressing-table, a lighted candle in one hand, a carafe of water in the other. At the sight of her mistress she laid both her burdens down with a cry of delight.

"My darlin'!" she exclaimed. "An' is it thrue? Tim heard the word of it an' he carryin' the cheese out of the dinin'-room; but sure I wouldn't belave him----"

But Clodagh checked her.

"Don't be a fool, Hannah!" she cried, almost fiercely; and turning her face from the old servant's scrutinising eyes, she walked across the room towards the bed.

For a moment Hannah stood like an ungainly statue; then she nodded to herself--a nod of profound and silent wisdom--and tip-toeing out of the room, closed the door behind her.

Instantly she was alone, Clodagh began to undress. With hysterical impetuosity she tore off each garment and threw it untidily upon the floor; then slipping into bed, she buried her hot face in the pillows and burst into a violent, unreasoning torrent of tears.

For ten minutes she cried unceasingly; then the storm of her misery was checked. The door handle was very softly turned, and little Nance stole into the room.

She entered eagerly, then paused, frightened by the scene before her; but her hesitation was very brief. With a sudden movement of resolution she sped across the space that divided her from the bed, and laid a cold, tremulous hand on Clodagh's shoulder.

"Clo," she said, "is it true? Are you going to marry him? Are you going away from here?" Her voice sounded thin and far away.

Clodagh raised herself on one elbow, and looked at her sister. Her face was flushed, her eyes were preternaturally bright.

"Why do you want to know?" she demanded angrily. "Why is everybody bothering me like this? Can't I do what I like? Can't I marry if I like?"

Her voice rose excitedly. Then suddenly she caught sight of Nance's quivering, wistful little face; and her anger melted. With a warm, quick movement, she held out her arms.

"Nance!" she cried wildly--"little Nance!--the only person in the world that I really love!"