Chapter I

The penetrating Florentine sunshine was enveloping the villa that stood upon the hill above San Domenico; but it was not the full, warm sunshine of late April that had opened the roses in the garden and deepened the shadows of the cypress trees nearly two years earlier, when Clodagh had dreamed of her visit to Venice. It was the cool sunlight of February, and it fell across the polished floors, and threw into prominence the many antique and curious objects that filled the rooms, with a searching clearness that almost seemed like a human scrutiny.

In a small salon that opened upon the terrace Clodagh sat at a bureau. In front of her was a formidable array of letters and business papers, neatly bound into packets by elastic bands, and under her hand was spread a sheaf of unused, black-bordered note-paper.

Whether it was the multitude of her own thoughts that retarded the task she had in hand, or a certain air of absolute stillness that seemed to brood over the villa, one could not say; but certain it is that for nearly half an hour she sat in an attitude of abstraction, her fingers poised above the note-paper, the tip of her pen held against her lips.

At last, however, a new idea seemed born in her mind, for she laid down her pen, rose suddenly to her feet, and moving across the room, paused beside the window.

For a long, silent space she stood at this closed window, her gaze wandering over the scene that custom had rendered so familiar,--the hillside, cut into characteristic tiers of earth, until it sloped downwards almost like a flight of steps, from which the grey olive trees and the black cypresses rose sharply defined in the brilliant atmosphere; at its foot, Florence, with its suggestion of dark-roofed houses and clustering spires; and beyond all, encircling all, the low chain of mountains, blue and purple in the sun. Quite suddenly, with a swift, impulsive movement, she unfastened the latch and threw the window open.

In the added radiance that poured into the room, she stood more distinctly revealed, and the slight changes that even two years can make became visible in her face and figure. The pose of her body and the carriage of her head were precisely as they had been, but her cheeks were a little thinner, and some of her brilliant colouring was gone; but the fact that would most speedily have appealed to one who had not seen her for the two years was the circumstance that she wore deep mourning--a mourning that lent an unfamiliar, almost a fragile air to her whole appearance.

That would have been the first impression; and then, as one studied her more closely, it would have been borne in upon one that these were mere outward signs--that the true, the real alteration lay not in dress, not in the thinness of her face nor in the unwonted pallor of her skin, but in the very curious expression with which she gazed out over the distant hills; the look of kinship--of comprehension--of that illusive, subtle sentiment that we call anticipation, with which her eyes met the far-off sky line.

For many moments she stood as if fascinated by the sense of promise that breathed and vibrated in the spring air; then, at last, with a quickly taken breath, she turned away from the open window, and, recrossing the room, seated herself again at the bureau, picked up her pen, and with new inspiration began to write.

"LARRY--DEAR COUSIN,--

"I, the worst correspondent in all the world, am going to write you
a long letter--because my heart is so full of thoughts that I must
unburden it to some one who will listen. Who better than my
friend--my brother--of the old dear, dear days?

"It was good of you and Aunt Fan to write me those two long
affectionate letters; and I needed them. For though there was no
horror in James's death, death itself is--and always must
be--terrible to me. Terrible--but also very, very wonderful!
Wonderful beyond words, when one realises that somebody one has
known as good and kind and unselfish--but ordinary, Larry, ordinary
as oneself--is suddenly transformed into something infinitely wise
and mysterious, with a mystery one can only think about and fear.

"One month ago, James was in his usual health, going about his
little daily tasks, losing himself in his little daily interests.
And now he understands the million things that puzzle you and me
and the rest of the world of living people!

"His death--as I told you in my first short note--was painless and
quiet, and unselfish like his life. He held my hand and knew me to
the very end, and spoke to me quite lucidly of his affairs half an
hour before he died. And, Larry--I think he was happy! You cannot
imagine what it is to be able to say that! Death brings so many
regrets. It frightens me when I look back now over the years, and
think of our marriage. It was so terribly, cruelly unwise. A man of
his age, a girl of mine! And, knowing what I know now, the first
years must have been very bitter for him. Since then, things have
been better--and worse. Two years ago we were perilously near
disaster--he and I--when something--it does not matter what--saved
us both.

"How sincerely I thank God, now, that it was so. At the time I
suffered horribly; but it was good for me. It made me see that duty
is not merely a negative thing. And now it is all over--all over,
like a dream that is past. I am as I was. I am free!

"I seem heartless to say that. I could not say it to any one except
you--or Nance. And I even wonder if Nance could quite understand. I
feel that she must be so very much younger than myself. But you
will not misunderstand, Larry, will you? You will see that it isn't
want of heart, but just the knowledge that there is a future--a
future for me, who had ceased to believe in one!

"Just before I began this letter I stood for a long time at an open
window, looking out over Florence, lying below me in the wonderful
sunshine that comes to Italy in the spring; and quite suddenly,
Larry, I thought of England in May. England in May! It seems to
suggest a hundred, thousand things. Don't say I am disloyal! For,
of course, I want to go home to Orristown; but not just yet--not
just yet. I feel--I cannot quite explain it to you--just a little
afraid of going back to Ireland. Just at the moment it is too full
of memories. But I want to see England. I want to live in England.

"Yes; I _shall_ live in England--for the present at least. And you
and Aunt Fan must come and stay with me; and then you will report
on your stewardship! For, of course, you are still to manage
Orristown--as well and capably as you have managed it during the
last three years. I always think it was one of James's kindest
actions to me to give that management to you, though I shall always
regret that you and Aunt Fan will not make use of that big empty
house. But what is the good of talking! The Asshlins are all
disgustingly proud.

"I can see you smile as you read this, and perhaps I can hear you
say: 'How like Clo!' I hope--oh, Larry, I hope I can!

"Give them all my love--Hannah, Burke, the dogs, and Polly. Dear,
pretty Polly! How I crave sometimes for just one long, wild gallop.
She must be eight years old by now; and yet she looks as fit as
ever--you said so in your letter of a month ago. Dear, pretty
Polly!

"I can do very much as I like now, Larry, in every way. James has
been more than generous. I am to have the interest on sixty
thousand pounds, although I may not touch the capital. A wise
precaution. Was there ever an Asshlin who could keep money? But, as
it is, I shall be rich. Two thousand pounds a year! Why, it is
wealth. And then again there is another thing in which James has
been good to us. He has placed a thousand pounds to my credit,
apart from my own money, which I am to give to Nance on her
twenty-first birthday, or on her engagement, should she marry with
my consent before she comes of age. Was it not a kindly, thoughtful
act? But does it not seem incredible to talk about Nance--little
Nance--being of an age when she might think of marrying? I often
long to see her--and sometimes I feel ridiculously shy and a little
bit afraid; it is so strange that we have never in all these years
visited England, and that some plan of poor James's should always
have prevented her spending her holidays with us--though, so far as
that goes, Carrigmore was a more homelike place than Italy to spend
them in.

"What is she really like? You say she has grown very pretty, but
you never say more than that. Men don't realise how women crave for
details. But I shall see her for myself in a few weeks. She leaves
school next month, you know, and will join me at once. Before
James's death she had been asked on a visit to America by the
mother of a school friend of hers--a girl named Estcoit, who is
leaving school on the same day as Nance. But now that is all
changed. She writes begging me to let her come to me directly; and
her letter has made me know that, beneath all the silly feelings of
shyness and uncertainty, I too want her.

"So now I have said all. Now you see me as I am, Larry--more the
old Clodagh than I have been for years. The Clodagh who remembers
and loves you always, as her dear cousin--her dear, dear brother."

The letter ended unconventionally, without a signature; but the writing of the last lines was strong and bold, with a vigorous upward curve.

With a touch of impetuosity, Clodagh picked up an envelope and addressed it to Laurence Asshlin at Orristown; then, rising from the bureau, she rang a bell.

An Italian man-servant responded to the summons--the same man-servant who had waited at breakfast on the morning that Milbanke had received Barnard's summons to Venice. Entering the room with sympathetic deference, he paused just inside the door.

"Signora!" he murmured.

Clodagh turned to him, the black-edged envelope in her hand.

"Tell Simonetta to bring me my hat and cloak," she said. "I'm going down into Florence--to post a letter." And without waiting to see what expression her declaration brought to the man's face, she crossed the room and stood once more in the flood of clear, cool sunlight that poured through the open window.