Chapter VIII

This little incident--this small and yet significant interlude--in Clodagh's day of new-born freedom, possessed a weight and an importance all its own. It is quite possible that, taken as a mere note in the tuneful, inconsequent symphony of her social life in Venice, Barnard's expression of his sentiments might have glanced across her mind, leaving no definite impression. But the web of fate is wonderfully woven. Barnard had propounded those sentiments through the medium of a name--a name which was to be indelibly printed upon Clodagh's memory by the strangely opportune appearance of its owner.

At the moment when the gondolas passed, at the moment when Barnard laughingly explained the stranger's identity, the name of Walter Gore took on a new significance, became a personal element in touch with her own existence.

In studying the effect of this incident upon her actions, it must be borne in mind that Clodagh's moral position was strangely incongruous--a position to which not one amongst her new acquaintances possessed a key. She was a married woman with the vitality, the curiosity, the sense of adventure of a girl in her first season. She was like a plant that, having been shut for long in dark places, is suddenly exposed to the influences of warmth and light. She glowed, she blossomed, she expanded under every passing touch.

As she leant back against the cushions of the gondola and met the amused and quizzical glance that accompanied Barnard's explanation, her thoughts sprang forward under a certain stimulus of excitement; her blood--the blood of a reckless, adventurous race--leaped suddenly in response to a new idea. She looked up at her companion, her face glowing, her hands clasped lightly in her lap.

"Mr. Barnard," she said, "will Sir Walter Gore be at the Palazzo Ugochini to-night?"

Barnard met her glance. For a moment he studied her whimsically, then he responded by putting a question of his own.

"Mrs. Milbanke," he asked, "is it true that when you dare an Irishwoman to do a certain thing, that thing is as good as done?"

Clodagh's lashes fluttered, and she coloured hotly; then with the naive defiance, the intoxication of youthful assurance, she lifted her eyes again and gave another bright, clear laugh.

"Two unanswered questions should be as good as one reply!" she said, looking straight into his face.

All that day Clodagh went about her concerns with a delightful, furtive sense of things to come. In the evening she came down to dinner arrayed in a dress of lace and embroidery that had come from Vienna only three weeks before. The dress possessed sweeping lines that defined her slight figure; and above the jewelled lace of the bodice her graceful shoulders, smooth as ivory, and as warm in tone, showed bare of any ornament. The faint olive of her skin was enriched by the neutral colour of her dress, and in the bright light of the hotel rooms, the underlying gleam of gold was distinctly visible in her brown hair. Her whole appearance as she entered the dining-room was subtly attractive; and in every detail of her expression pleasure and anticipation gleamed like tangible things. From the colour that wavered in her cheeks to the dilated pupils that turned her eyes from hazel to black, she was the embodiment of eager expectation.

Neither Deerehurst, Serracauld, nor Barnard dined at the hotel that night, but from the eyes of more than one stranger she read the assurance that she had not arrayed herself in vain; and youthfully conscious of a subtle, impersonal success, her eager spirits rose high.

Regardless of Milbanke's monosyllabic answers, she kept up a stream of conversation; and at last, when she rose with the general company, she did not leave the room, but paused with her hand on the back of his chair.

"I am going for my cloak, James," she said. "Mr. Barnard is to call for me. Shall we say good-night now?" Her face, as she bent forward, leaning over his shoulder, was filled with a bright preoccupation.

The scene was no new one--nor was its lesson new. It merely expounded the eternal disparity between the present generation and the past. On the one hand, was the patient surrender of the being who has known life with its poor compensations and its tardy requitals; on the other, the impatience, the ardour, the egotism of the being who longs to understand, to tear the bandage from his blind, curious eyes, to shake the fetters from his eager, groping hands. It was a scene that is enacted every day of every year by fathers and daughters, mothers and sons. A scene in which, daily and yearly, a merciful nature mitigates the tragic truth by means of a blessed sanity--an instinctive renunciation. But this was no case for natural healing balm; this was no case of father and daughter, but of husband and wife.

"Shall we say good-night?" Clodagh asked again.

Milbanke started and looked up; and something in her warm beauty--something in her gracious youth affected him.

"Clodagh," he said timidly. "Clodagh, are you--are you very anxious? Will you enjoy this party very much?"

Clodagh looked down on him in frank surprise.

"Why, of course!" she said. "Why do you ask?"

His gaze wavered before her level glance. He looked round at the fast emptying room.

"No reason, my dear!" he murmured--"no reason, I assure you! Go to your party. Enjoy yourself!"

At his words she bent quickly and brushed his forehead with her lips, but so lightly, so unthinkingly that the act was valueless.

"Good-night!" she said--"good-night, James! And thank you!"

She straightened herself quickly; and with a mind already speeding feverishly forward towards the night's amusement, she turned and walked out of the room.

It was nine o'clock when she and Barnard arrived at the Palazzo Ugochini, and already the deep purple of the Venetian night was wrapping the waterways in mysterious shade. But to-night she was less absorbed in outward things. An engrossing idea occupied her mind. She felt at once surer--and less sure--of herself than she had felt the night before.

The time occupied in reaching the palace and mounting the marble steps seemed to her very brief; and almost before she realised that the moment had come, she heard her own and Barnard's names announced by Lady Frances Hope's English servant.

Her first sensation upon entering the salon, was an almost childish satisfaction in the thought that she had dressed so carefully; for it needed but a glance to show her that the evening's gathering was of a very much more important nature than that of the previous night. Quite fifty people were grouped about the lofty room, whose centre and pivot was again the gaudy, modern roulette-table; and towards this table, with its surrounding group of gay and noisy votaries, she and Barnard turned as if by instinct.

Nearing the circle of players, she saw that Luard--her acquaintance of last evening--was officiating at the game to the delight and amusement of his clients; while at a little distance from the table, she caught sight of her hostess in conversation with a tall man whose remarkably fair and close-cropped hair gave her a sudden thrill of recognition.

As in duty bound, she walked straight forward to where Lady Frances was standing. And as she murmured her greeting, her hostess turned quickly, appraising in a single rapid glance her dress, her hair, her complexion, while she extended her hand with a cordial gesture. It may be possible that the cordiality cost Lady Frances an effort--that the smile with which she greeted her radiant guest covered a suggestion of feminine chagrin; but if so, no one detected it. Her welcome sounded genuine and even warm.

"My dear Mrs. Milbanke!" she exclaimed. "How charming of you to remember! And how charming you look!" she added in a whisper meant for Clodagh's ear alone.

Then with a movement of seemingly spontaneous hospitality, she turned to the fair-haired stranger, who had fallen into conversation with Barnard.

"Walter!" she said, "I should like you to know Mrs. Milbanke! Mrs. Milbanke, allow me to introduce Sir Walter Gore!"

It was the affair of a moment. The stranger made a gesture of excuse to Barnard; turned quickly, and bowed with well-bred deference. Then he raised his head, and for the first time Clodagh met his glance--the clear, fearless glance, slightly reserved, slightly aloof, that carried with it the suggestion of the sea. His look was quiet, steady, and absolutely impersonal.

And Clodagh, instantly conscious of this polite reserve, felt her face redden. She was aware of a distinct sensation of being smaller--less important to the scheme of things--than she had been five minutes earlier. Her vanity was inexplicably--yet palpably--hurt. Her first feeling was a distressed humility, her second an angry pride. Then a new expression leaped into her eyes. Smartingly conscious of Barnard's interested, quizzical glance fixed expectantly upon her, she challenged the stranger's regard.

"How d'you do?" she said. "I think I have seen you before."

He smiled politely.

"Indeed!" he said. "In England?" His tone was courteous and attentive, but neither curious nor interested.

Her colour deepened.

"No. Here in Venice--this morning. I was in Mr. Barnard's gondola when you were coming from the station to your hotel."

He looked at her, then at Barnard--a perfectly honest, unaffected glance.

"Indeed!" he said again. "I certainly remember seeing that Barnard was not alone, but I was remiss enough not to notice who the lady was."

For one second a feeling of resentment--almost of dislike--stung Clodagh. The next, her old daring mood of years ago sprang up within her.

"Where I come from," she said, "no man would have the courage to say that."

Barnard laughed.

"Assume a virtue, if you have it not! Is that the Irish code?"

Gore smiled.

"If that _is_ the Irish code," he said gravely. "I'm afraid Ireland only echoes the rest of Europe. Assumption is the art of the twentieth century. The man who can assume most, climbs highest! Isn't that so, Lady Frances?"

He turned to their hostess.

Clodagh stood silent. She was filled with a humiliating, childish sensation of having been rebuked--rebuked by some one whose natural superiority placed him beyond reach of childish temper or childish violence. The sensation that many a time in old and distant days had sent her flying to the shelter of Hannah's arms, rose intolerably keen. With a defiant sense of futility and loneliness, she turned away from the little group--only to encounter the pallid face and stiff, distinguished figure of Lord Deerehurst, as he came slowly towards her across the room.

Extending his hand, he took her fingers and bowed over them.

"Mrs. Milbanke," he said, "I have just been mentally accusing Lady Frances of surrounding me by so many acquaintances that I could not find one friend. Now I desire to retract!"

In the sudden relief--the sudden touch of unexpected flattery--Clodagh's mobile face underwent a change.

"Then you have found a friend?" she said.

At sound of the words, Sir Walter Gore involuntarily turned; and, seeing the old peer, made a slight movement of surprise and extended his hand.

"Lord Deerehurst!" he said. "I did not know you were in Venice!"

They shook hands without cordiality; and having murmured some conventional remark, the older man turned again to Clodagh.

"Yes," he said, "I have found a friend!"

His cold eyes gave point to the words.

She laughed and coloured. Again she was conscious of Barnard's amused, speculative gaze; but also she was conscious of the quiet, slightly critical eyes of her new acquaintance. Goaded by the double spur, she glanced up into Deerehurst's face.

"Well?" she said. "And now?"

"Now I am in my friend's hands."

He made a profound and eloquent bow.

Again she coloured, but again vanity and mortification stirred her blood. With a winning movement, she took a step forward.

"Your friend would like to listen to philosophy on the balcony," she said in a recklessly low voice.