Chapter VIII

That night Clodagh fell asleep with her wet cheek pressed against her sister's, and her arms clasped closely round her.

Next morning she woke calmed and soothed by her outburst of the night before; and after breakfast she was able to enter into the primary discussion concerning her marriage without any show of emotion. The conclave, at which she, her aunt, and Milbanke alone were present, took place in the drawing-room and was of a weighty and solemn character. The first suggestion was put forward by Mrs. Asshlin, who, with the native distaste for all hurried and definite action, pleaded that an engagement of six months at least would be demanded by the conventionalities before a marriage could take place; but here, to the surprise of his listeners, Milbanke displayed a fresh gleam of the determination and firmness that had inspired him during the days of sickness and death. With a reasonableness that could not be gainsaid, he refuted and disposed of Mrs. Asshlin's arguments; and, with a daring born of his new position, made the startling proposal that the wedding ceremony should be performed within the shortest possible time; and that, to obviate all difficulties, Clodagh and he should leave Ireland immediately, journeying to Italy to take up their residence in the villa that he had already rented at Florence for his own use.

Immediately the suggestion was made, Mrs. Asshlin broke forth in irresistible objection.

"Oh, but what would people say?" she cried. "Think of what people would say, with the funeral scarcely over."

Milbanke looked at her gravely. His matter-of-fact mind was as far as ever from comprehending the ramifications of the Irish character.

"But, my dear Mrs. Asshlin," he urged, "do you think we need really consider whether people talk or not? Surely we who knew and loved poor Denis----"

"Oh, it isn't that! No one knows better than I do what a friend you have been----"

Milbanke stirred uncomfortably.

"Please do not speak of it. I--I did no more than any Christian would have done. What I mean to suggest----"

But again she interrupted.

"Yes, yes; I know. But we must consider the county--we must consider the county."

But here Clodagh, who was standing by the window, turned swiftly round.

"Why must we?" she asked. "The county never remembered father till he was dead. If I'm going to be married, it's all the same to me whether it's in three weeks or three months or three years."

Milbanke coloured--not quite sure whether the declaration was propitious or the reverse.

"Certainly!--certainly!" he broke in nervously. "I think your view is a--a very sensible one."

Mrs. Asshlin shook her head in speechless disapproval.

"And what is to become of Nance?" she asked, after a moment's pause.

Again Milbanke glanced uncertainly at Clodagh.

"My idea," he began deprecatingly, "was to place the child at a good English school. But for the first year or two I think that perhaps Clodagh might be allowed to veto any arrangement I may make."

Clodagh stepped forward suddenly and impulsively.

"Do you mean that?" she asked.

He bent his head gravely.

"Then--then let us take her with us to Florence. 'Twould make me happier than anything under the sun."

The words were followed by a slightly dismayed pause. Although he strove bravely to conceal the fact, Milbanke's face fell. And Mrs. Asshlin became newly and markedly shocked.

"My dear Clodagh----" she began sternly.

But Milbanke put up his hand.

"Pray say nothing, Mrs. Asshlin!" he broke in gently. "Clodagh's wishes are mine."

The blood surged into Clodagh's face in a wake of spontaneous relief.

"You mean that?" she said again.

Once more he bent his head.

"Then I'll marry you any time you like," she said with a sudden, impulsive warmth.

And in due time the day of the marriage dawned. After careful consideration, every detail had been arranged and all difficulties smoothed away. The ceremony was to take place in the small, unpretentious Protestant church at Carrigmore, where, Sunday after Sunday, since the days of her early childhood, Clodagh had listened to the Word of God, and had sent up her own immature supplications to heaven. The marriage--which of necessity was to be of the most private nature--was fixed for the forenoon; and it had been arranged that immediately upon its conclusion, Clodagh, Nance, and Milbanke should repair to Mrs. Asshlin's cottage, from which--having partaken of lunch--they were to start upon their journey without returning to Orristown.

The wedding morning broke grey and mild, presaging a typical Irish day. After a night of broken and restless sleep, Clodagh woke at six; and slipped out of bed without disturbing Nance.

For the first moment or two she sat on the side of her bed, her hands locked behind her head, her bare feet resting upon the uncarpeted floor. Then suddenly the sight of the long cardboard box that had arrived from Dublin the day before, containing the new grey dress in which she was to be married, roused her to the significance of the hour. With a swift movement she rose, and crossed the room to the window.

The view across the bay was neutral and calm. Over the sea to the east a pale and silvery sun was emerging from a film of mist; while on the water itself a white, almost spiritual radiance lay like a mystic veil. Clodagh took one long, comprehensive glance at the familiar scene; then, as if afraid to trust herself too far, she turned away quickly and began to dress with noiseless haste.

Twenty minutes later, she crept downstairs arrayed in her old black riding-habit.

Where she rode on that morning of her marriage; what strange and speculative thoughts burned in her brain; and what secrets--regretful or anticipatory--she whispered into Polly's sensitive ears, no one ever knew! At half-past eight she re-entered the stable-yard, slipped from the saddle unaided, and threw the mare's bridle to Burke.

For a full minute she stood with her gloved hand upon the neck of the animal that had carried her so often and so well; then, with a sudden, almost furtive movement, she bent forward and pressed her face against the cropped mane.

"Take care of her, Tim!" she said unsteadily--"take care of her! I'll come back some day, you know."

And without looking at the old man, she turned and walked out of the yard.

She met no one on her way to the house; but as she passed across the hall, she was suddenly arrested by the sight of Milbanke descending the stairs, already arrayed in a conventional frock-coat.

Unconsciously she paused. From the first she had vaguely understood that he would discard his usual serge suit on the day of the wedding; but the actual sight of these unfamiliar clothes came as a shock, bringing home to her the imminence of the great event as nothing else could possibly have done. He looked unusually old, thin, and precise in the stiff, well-cut garments--a circumstance that was unkindly enhanced by the fact that he was palpably and uncontrollably nervous.

There was a moment of embarrassed silence. Then, mastering her emotions, Clodagh advanced to the foot of the stairs, holding out her hand.

He responded to the gesture with something like gratitude.

"You have been out early," he said hurriedly. "Have you been taking a last look round?"

Clodagh nodded and turned aside. The pain of her recent farewell still burned in her eyes and throat.

He saw and interpreted the action.

"Don't take it to heart, my dear!" he said quickly. "You shall return whenever you like. And--and it will be my proud privilege to know that you will always find everything in readiness for you."

Clodagh's head drooped.

"You are very good," she said in a low, mechanical voice.

For a space Milbanke made no response; then suddenly his fingers tightened nervously over the hand he was still holding.

"Clodagh," he said anxiously, "you do not regret anything? You know it is not too late--even now."

Clodagh glanced up, and for one instant a sudden light leapt into her eyes; the next, her lashes had drooped again.

"No," she said, "I regret nothing."

Milbanke's fingers tightened spasmodically.

"God bless you!" he said tremulously. And leaning forward suddenly, he pressed his thin lips to her forehead.

The hours that followed breakfast and saw the departure from Orristown were too filled with haste and confusion to make any deep impression upon Clodagh's mind. The last frenzied packing of things that had been overlooked, the innumerable farewells, all more or less harassing, the scramble to be dressed, and the entering of the musty old barouche, that had done duty upon great occasions in the Asshlin family for close upon half a century, were all hopelessly--and mercifully--confused. Even the drive to Carrigmore with her aunt and sister filled her with a sense of dazed unreality. She sat very straight and stiff in the new grey dress, one hand clasped tenaciously round Nance's warm fingers, the other holding the cold and unfamiliar ivory prayer-book that had been one of Milbanke's gifts. It was only when at last the carriage drew up before the little church, and she passed to the open gateway between two knots of gaping and whispering villagers, that she realised with any vividness the inevitable nature of the moment. As she walked up the narrow path to the church door, she turned suddenly to her little sister.

"Nance----" she said breathlessly.

But the time for speech was passed. As Nance raised a questioning, excited face to hers, Mrs. Asshlin hurried after them across the grass; and together the three entered the church. A moment later Clodagh saw with a faint sense of perturbation that the building was not empty. In a shadowy corner close to the altar rails Milbanke was talking in nervous whispers to the rector, who was to perform the ceremony.

A few minutes later, the little party was conducted up the aisle with the usual murmur of voices and rustle of garments; and, in what seemed an incredibly--a preposterously--short space of time, the service had begun.

During the first portion of it Clodagh's eyes never left the brown, clean-shaven, benevolent face of the rector. Try as she might, she could not realise that the serious words, pouring forth in the voice that a lifetime had rendered familiar, could be meant for her who, until the day of her father's accident, had never personally understood that life held any serious responsibilities. It was only when the first solemn question was put to her; and, startled out of her dream, she responded almost inaudibly, that her eyes turned upon Milbanke standing opposite to her--earnest, agitated, precise. For one second a sense of panic seized her; the next, she had blindly extended her left hand in obedience to the rector's injunction, and felt the chill of the new gold ring as it was slipped over her third finger.

After that all-important incident, it seemed but a moment before the ceremony was over, and the whole party gathered together in the vestry. With a steady hand she signed her name in the register; then, instantly the act was accomplished, she turned instinctively towards the spot where Nance was standing.

But before she could reach her sister's side, she was intercepted by Mrs. Asshlin, who stepped forward, half tearful, half exultant, and embraced her effusively.

"My dear child!--my dear, dear child!" she murmured disjointedly. "May your future be very happy!"

Clodagh submitted silently to the embrace; then, as her aunt reluctantly withdrew into the background, she became conscious of the old rector's kindly presence. Looking closely into her face, he took her hand in both his own.

"God bless you, my child!" he said simply. "I did not preach you a sermon just now, because I do not think you require one. You are a dutiful child; and I believe that you have found a very worthy husband."

At the word husband, Clodagh looked up quickly; then her eyes dropped to her wedding ring.

"Thank you!" she said almost inaudibly. And an instant later Milbanke stepped forward deferentially and offered her his arm.

In silence they passed down the aisle of the church, in the centre of which stood the old stone font at which Clodagh had been christened, and on which she had been wont to fix her eyes during the Sunday service while the rector preached. All at once this inanimate friendly object seemed to take a new and unfamiliar air--seemed to whisper that Clodagh Asshlin existed no more, and that the stranger who filled her place was an alien. Her fingers tightened nervously on her husband's arm and her steps involuntarily quickened.

Outside, in the calm, grey, misty atmosphere, they lingered for a moment by the church door, in order to give Nance and Mrs. Asshlin the opportunity of gaining the cottage before them; but both were ill at ease, self-conscious, and acutely anxious to curtail the enforced solitude. And it was with a sigh of relief, that Clodagh saw Milbanke draw out his watch as an indication that they might start.

About the gate, the little group of curious idlers had been augmented. And as Clodagh stepped to the carriage an irrepressible murmur of admiration passed from lip to lip, succeeded by a cold and critical silence as the bridegroom--well bred, well dressed, but obviously and incongruously old--followed in her wake.

Clodagh comprehended and construed this chilling silence by the light of her own warm appreciation of things young, strong, and beautiful. And as she stepped hastily into the waiting carriage a flush of something like shame rose hotly to her face.

The drive to the cottage scarcely occupied five minutes; and even had they desired it, there was no time for conversation. Milbanke sat upright and embarrassed; Clodagh lay back in her corner of the roomy barouche, her eyes fixed resolutely upon the window, her fingers tightly clasping the ivory prayer-book. One fact was occupying her mind with a sense of anger and loneliness--the fact that her cousin Larry had not been present in the church. Since the night on which her engagement had been announced, the feud between the cousins had continued. During the weeks of preparation for the wedding Larry had avoided Orristown; but though no overtures had been made, Clodagh had never doubted that he would be present at the ceremony itself. And now that the excitement was passed, she realised with a shock of surprise that she had been openly and unmistakably deserted.

The thought was uppermost in her mind as the carriage stopped; and when her aunt came forward to greet them, her first question concerned the absent member of the family.

"Where's Larry, Aunt Fan?" she asked.

"My dear child, that's just what I have been asking myself. But come in!--come into the house!"

Mrs. Asshlin was fluttered by the responsibilities of the moment.

"Why wasn't he in church?" Clodagh asked, as she followed her into the narrow hall.

Mrs. Asshlin threw out her hands in a gesture of perplexity.

"How can I tell?" she said. "Boys are incomprehensible things. I'm sure--er--James is not old enough to have forgotten that?"

She glanced archly over her shoulder.

Milbanke looked intensely embarrassed, and Clodagh coloured.

"Well, we'd better not wait for Larry," she interposed hastily. "You know what a time it takes to get round to Muskeere with that big barouche."

Mrs. Asshlin became all assiduity.

"Certainly!--certainly, my dear child! Mr. Curry and his brother are already waiting. Won't you come in?"

With hospitable excitement she marshalled them into the dining-room.

The room into which they were ushered, though small, was bright and cheerful; and, notwithstanding the season, there were flowers upon the table and mantelpiece. But even under these favourable conditions, the lunch was scarcely a success. Mrs. Asshlin was genuine enough in her efforts at entertainment; but the guests were not in a condition to be entertained. Milbanke was intensely nervous; Clodagh sat straight and rigid in her chair, uncomfortably conscious of insubordinate emotions that crowded up at every added suggestion of departure. Even the rector's brother--a bluff and hearty personage, who, out of old friendship for the Asshlin family, had consented to act as best man at the hurriedly arranged wedding--felt his spirits damped; while little Nance, who sat close to her sister, made no pretence whatever at hiding the tears that kept welling into her eyes.

It was with universal relief that at length they rose from the table and filed out into the hall. There, however, a new interruption awaited them. In the shadow of a doorway they caught sight of Hannah, arrayed in her Sunday bonnet and shawl, and still breathless from the walk from Orristown.

At sight of the little party she came forward with a certain ungainly shyness; but catching a glimpse of Clodagh, love conquered every lesser feeling.

"Let me have wan last look at her!" she exclaimed softly. "That's all I'm wantin'."

And as Clodagh turned impulsively towards her, she held out her arms.

"Sure, I knew her before any wan of ye ever sat eyes on her!" she explained, the tears running down her cheeks. "Go on now, miss--ma'am," she added brokenly, pushing Clodagh forward towards the door, and turning to Milbanke with an outstretched hand. "Good-bye, sir! And God bless you!" Her sing-song voice fell, and her hard hand tightened over his. "Take care of her!" she added. "An' don't be forgettin' that she's nothin' but a child still, for all her fine height and her good looks."

She spoke with crude, rough earnestness; but at the last words her feelings overcame her. With another spasmodic pressure, she released his fingers and, turning incontinently, disappeared into the back regions of the cottage.

For a moment Milbanke remained where she had left him, moved and perplexed by her hurried words; then, suddenly remembering his duties, he crossed the hall and punctiliously offered his arm to Clodagh. "The carriage is waiting," he said gently. But Clodagh shook her head.

"Please take Nance first," she murmured in a low, constrained voice.

He acquiesced silently, and as he moved away from her, she turned to Mrs. Asshlin.

"Good-bye, Aunt Fan!" she said. "And tell Larry that I'm--that I'm sorry. He'll know what it means."

Her carefully controlled voice shook suddenly, as pride struggled with affection and association. Suddenly putting her arms round Mrs. Asshlin's neck she kissed her thin cheek; and, turning quickly, walked forward to the waiting carriage.

There was a moment of excitement; a spasmodic waving of handkerchiefs, the sound of a stifled sob and the tardy throwing of a slipper; then, with a swish of the long driving whip, the horses bounded forward, and the great lumbering carriage swung down the hill that led to the Muskeere road.

As they bowled through the village street, Clodagh shrank back into her corner, refusing to look her last on the scene that for nearly eighteen years had formed a portion of her life's horizon. The instinctive clinging to familiar things that forms so integral a part of the Celtic nature, was swelling in her throat and tightening about her heart. She resolutely refused to be conquered by her emotion; but the emotion--stronger for her obstinate suppression of it--threatened to dominate her. For the moment she was unconscious of Milbanke, sitting opposite to her, anxious and deprecating; and she dared not permit herself to press the small, warm fingers that Nance had insinuated into her own.

With a lurch, the carriage swept round the curve of the street, and emerged upon the Muskeere road. But scarcely had Burke gathered the reins securely into his hands, scarcely had the horses settled into a swinging trot, than the little party became suddenly aware that a check had been placed upon their progress. There was an exclamation--from Burke; a clatter of hoofs, as the horses were hastily pulled up; and the barouche came to a halt.

With a movement of surprise, Clodagh turned to the open window. But on the instant there was a scuffle of paws, the sharp, eager yap of a dog, and something rough and warm thrust itself against her face.

"Mick!" she cried in breathless, incredulous rapture. Then she glanced quickly over the dog's red head to the hands that had lifted him to the carriage window.

"Larry!" she said below her breath.

Young Asshlin was standing in the middle of the road--red, shy, and excited.

"I want you to take him, Clo," he said awkwardly, "for a--for a wedding present."

For one instant Clodagh sat overwhelmed by the suggestion; and next her eyes unconsciously sought Milbanke's.

"May I?" she said hesitatingly. It was her first faltering acknowledgment that her actions were no longer quite her own.

Milbanke started.

"Oh, assuredly!" he said--"assuredly!"

And Clodagh opened the carriage door, and took Mick into her arms.

For one moment the joy of reunion submerged every other feeling; then she raised a glowing, grateful face to her cousin.

"Larry----" she began softly.

But old Burke leant down from his seat.

"We'll be late for the thrain," he announced imperturbably.

Again Milbanke started nervously.

"Perhaps, Clodagh----" he began.

Clodagh bent her head.

"Shut the door, Larry," she said. "And--and you were a darling to think of it."

Asshlin closed the door.

"Good-bye, Nance! Good-bye, sir! Good-bye, Clo!"

He looked bravely into the carriage; but his face was still preternaturally red.

Clodagh turned to him impulsively.

"Larry----" she began again.

But the horses started forward; and the boy, lifting his cap, stepped back into the roadway.

Clodagh stooped forward, waved her hand unevenly, then dropped back into her seat.

While the horses covered a quarter of a mile, she sat without movement or speech. But at last, lifting his adoring eyes to her face, Mick ventured to touch her hand with a warm, reminding tongue.

The gentle appeal of the action--the hundred memories it evoked--was instantaneous and supreme. In a sudden irrepressible tide, her grief, her uncertainty of the future, her home-sickness inundated her soul. With a quick gesture she flung away both pride and restraint; and, hiding her face against the dog's rough coat, cried as if she had been a child.