Chapter XIV

The fragmentary quarrel between the sisters was very suggestive. Nance's anger, and Clodagh's irritable repudiation of her advice, had each been fraught with its own significance. For, much as the former might busy herself in the happiness of her own engagement and the preparations for her marriage, she could not blind herself to the fact that Clodagh was acting, if not with genuine folly, at least with something that might readily be mistaken for it; and much as the latter might resent a criticism of her action, she could not mentally deny that possibly the criticism was justified.

Yet, when the matter came to be sifted, it was hard to say exactly the point to which exception could reasonably be taken.

Undoubtedly Deerehurst did obtrude himself with curious--with almost intimate--frequency into the plans of each day; but then the intrusion was so natural--so simple--so subtle, if one might use so extreme a word. If London is large in one sense, it is socially as small as any other capital; and the man who wishes to seek the society of a member of his own set finds his way rendered very easy.

And in all matters of tact and subtlety Deerehurst was an adept. If, in Nance's eyes, his comings and goings were things to cavil at, he knew exactly how to arrange them for Clodagh's consideration, so that the gift of a bunch of flowers--the offer of seats at a theatre--the loan of a horse--or the retailing of an amusing bit of gossip seemed the merest courtesies from one friend to another. For in one fact lay his advantage--the fact of a really great favour, secretly given and secretly accepted, in comparison with which all trivial civilities became as nothing.

Not that he ever pressed this advantage home. He was far too wise to allude to it by look or word. But the very passivity of his attitude served to fix the consciousness of his generosity deeper in Clodagh's mind. Not that the knowledge of it galled her; she was too exultantly happy in her own life to be hampered by any debt. But the knowledge of its existence was there--unconsciously bearing upon her ideas and her actions.

On the morning following her return from Tufinell, a faint thrill of surprise and uneasiness had touched her when her eyes had fallen upon a big square envelope, bearing a black coronet, that lay amongst her letters on the breakfast table. And another remembrance of Venice had caused her fingers to tremble slightly as she tore the letter open.

But at the first line her face had cleared--her confidence in life and in herself had flowed back in full tide. There was not a word in the letter that Gore himself might not have read.

So great had been her relief, that a new wave of kindly feeling for Deerehurst had awakened in her mind; and when, on the following morning, he had joined her in her early ride, she had received him with friendly warmth.

And from that, things had drifted, until Deerehurst's presence--Deerehurst's discreet, deferential, amusing personality--had become a factor in the day's routine. The Estcoits had arrived from America, and, with their advent, she had been compelled to see less of Nance; the majority of her friends had already left town, so that even had she desired the old existence, amusements and occupations were less easy to find than they had been a month ago. There was, of course, her daily letter from Gore--the most precious thing in her existence--and there was also her daily letter to him. But even a woman in love cannot read and write--or even dream--all day; and in the intervals of idleness there invariably seemed to be--Deerehurst.

But now at last the day had arrived upon which Gore was to return to London. It was four o'clock in the afternoon; the hot summer air was beating upon the green-and-white sunblinds of the flat; and Nance was standing at a table in the window, arranging a bowl of heliotrope, when Clodagh opened the door of the drawing-room.

She was dressed in her riding habit; her riding crop was under one arm; and as she came forward into the room she was drawing off a pair of chamois gloves.

"He hasn't come?" she asked quickly. "Oh, I'm so glad! I was terrified that that last gallop might have made me late! How lovely life is!" She came quickly across the room; and, linking her arm in Nance's, buried her face in the heliotrope.

"How lovely life is! And summer! And flowers! Do you know, the sun to-day made me long for Orristown. Think of it all, Nance! Burke and Hannah, and Polly and the dogs! Oh, we must all go there together--you and I, and Pierce and Walter----" She paused suddenly and looked at her sister.

"Nance! You're cross!"

Nance refused to look up.

"Nance, you're cross!" Her voice was less sure--less confident.

Nance caught the tone of hesitancy, and turned quickly round.

"I wish Walter had driven through the park ten minutes ago," she said. "I do--I really, really do."

Clodagh's face flamed, and she drew away from her sister.

"And I wish----" she began hotly. Then she paused.

The door of the drawing-room was thrown open; and Gore was announced.

For one instant, Clodagh stood hesitating with a new and charming diffidence; the next, all thoughts of self were blotted out by the consciousness of his presence--his bright, strong presence, typified by his frank eyes, his clear, healthy skin, his close-cropped fair hair. With a little exclamation of greeting, she hurried towards him.

In quick, warm response, he took both her hands.

"Well!" he said--"well! It's good to see you! How splendid you look! And Nance, too!" He turned to the window with quiet cordiality.

"Can Nance find time to shake hands with a mere Englishman?"

Nance laid down the bunch of heliotrope she was still holding.

And at the same moment, Clodagh looked round impulsively.

"Nance and I were quarrelling," she said.

"Quarrelling! What on earth about?" Gore looked amusedly from one to the other.

"Oh, about----"

But Nance interrupted by stepping quickly forward.

"About nothing!" she said hastily. "How are you, Walter? I'm so glad to see you! But I must wash my hands before I even try to talk. Heliotrope is much stickier than you'd think." She looked down at her fingers, then laughed and moved across the room. But as Gore hurried forward to open the door for her, she glanced up into his face with an almost serious look.

"I'm so glad you have come back!" she whispered. "Make up to her for the time you've been away!"

Gore's feelings were very pleasant, very protective, as he closed the door and turned back into the room. He was too essentially an Englishman to be very demonstrative; but the leaven of sentiment that so often lies in the English character had always held a place in his nature. In confessing his love to Clodagh--in acknowledging that love to himself--he had indisputably swept aside some difficulties--difficulties born of inherent prejudice, of a certain stiff-necked distrust of what he had begun by criticising. But they had been thrust aside. He had acknowledged himself stirred to the depths of nature by something brilliant and vivid in her personality. He had made his choice.

His whole expression, his whole bearing, was attractive as he came towards her; he seemed to carry about him a breath of the country--the clean, open spaces of the country. And her heart gave a throb of pride and satisfaction, of complete, ungrudging admiration, as he took her hands again and drew her to him.

"Well!" he said fondly--"well! Have you really missed me as much as your letters said?"

For a moment she remained silent, drinking in the joy of his presence.

"Won't you tell me?"

"In a moment--in one moment. Oh, Walter, the heavenly rest of knowing that you care!"

Then suddenly shaking off her seriousness, she drew away from him, looking up into his face with eyes that shone strangely.

"I'm not crying, Walter!" she exclaimed. "I'm only--frantically happy!" She gave a little gasp, followed by a little laugh.

And Gore, carried away by her charm, by the unconscious flattery of her words, caught her suddenly in his arms, and, bending his face to hers, kissed her passionately.

At last they drew apart, laughing; and Clodagh moved across the room to the open window, and sat down upon the low sill.

A second or two later, he followed her.

"Well! And so the fiance is perfection?" he said smilingly. "Little Nance looks very happy." He seated himself on the edge of the table, strewn with the _debris_ of the heliotrope.

Clodagh glanced up, pleased and interested.

"Yes, Pierce is charming," she said eagerly. "And so are his mother and sister. I told you, didn't I?"

"Yes."

"We dined with them at the Carlton last night. And they're coming here to tea this afternoon. I know you'll love them. Mrs. Estcoit has the most fascinating----"

But Gore made a rueful face.

"To-day!" he said. "Oh, you might have given me the first day!"

Clodagh laughed happily.

"How greedy of you! This is to be a family party."

Gore smiled.

"And Nance was decorating the room for the sacrifice?" He idly gathered the stalks and leaves of the heliotrope into a little heap.

The action was purely mechanical, purely inadvertent. But as he drew the broken stems together, a small object, hitherto hidden under the scattered leaves, was suddenly brought to light.

It was very trivial, very uninteresting--merely a man's visiting-card. Without consideration he picked it up and looked at it. Then, with an extremely quiet gesture, he laid it down again.

It bore the name of the Earl of Deerehurst; and across it Clodagh's name and address had been scribbled in pencil.

"So you owe the decorations to Deerehurst?" he said in a low voice.

There was a short silence. Then suddenly he rose and stepped to Clodagh's side.

"Dear, forgive me!" he said.

At the unexpected words, Clodagh's heart swelled. With a sudden impulse she caught the hand he had laid upon her shoulder and pressed it against her face.

"No, Walter!" she said. "Say all that was in your mind! Be angry, if you like!"

For answer, Gore seated himself beside her on the window-sill.

"I don't think I should ever be angry with you," he said gently. "Anger seems to belong to lesser things than--love. I should either believe in you or disbelieve in you."

He said the somewhat curious words gravely.

Clodagh turned to him swiftly.

"Walter, there was no doubt of me in your mind then?"

He met her searching eyes quietly.

"Not one doubt. Do you think I have forgotten that night at Tuffnell?"

He spoke almost gently; but at his words, the remembrance of the night at Tuffnell rushed back upon Clodagh with an almost exaggerated vividness. On that night love had shone upon her--love, with its coveted accompaniments of trust and protection. She remembered the dimly-lit music-room, the dark garden with its old-fashioned scents; she remembered Gore's quiet, distinct question. "Not one of these people is anything to you--in any way?"

She remembered this; and she remembered also the infinitesimal pause that had divided his question from her answer, when the images of Lady Frances Hope, of Serracauld, of Deerehurst, had flitted across her imagination. Then, last of all, she recalled her own answer--

"Not one of them is anything to me--in any way."

The moment that had brought forth that answer had been crucial--had been, psychologically, intensely interesting. It had been the triumph of love--the triumph of the egotism that is, and ever must be, a component part of love.

And now, as she reviewed the incident in the colder light of day--as she turned involuntarily and looked at Gore--she was suddenly mastered by the certain knowledge that, were the circumstance to be repeated, her action would be the same.

With a swift movement, she held out her hand.

"Walter," she said impulsively, "you are the only person in the world! No one else exists!"

It was an hour later, and the outward aspect of Clodagh's drawing-room had been changed. The sunblinds had been drawn up, and a full flood of light allowed to pour in across the table in the window; the _debris_ of leaves and stalks upon the table--and with them Deerehurst's card--had been removed to give place to a tea-tray; while through the room itself rang the gay talk and laughter of people who have enjoyed a genuinely pleasant meal.

The tea had been disposed of some little time ago; but Nance still lingered beside the tea-table; and at her side stood Gore and a young man of five-and-twenty, with a tall, slight figure, a pale face, and intensely shrewd and penetrating eyes.

Clodagh, still wearing her riding habit, sat in the centre of the room in radiantly high spirits, talking animatedly to a distinguished-looking woman with beautiful white hair, and to a slim, graceful girl of about Nance's age, who sat one on either side of her.

"Isn't it unkind of Mrs. Estcoit, Pierce?" she said, suddenly turning towards the tea-table. "She says you must go!"

Estcoit laughed--and when he laughed a very agreeable gleam of humour showed in his shrewd eyes.

"But it takes my mother ten minutes to go from anywhere," he said. "Ask Nance if it doesn't!"

Clodagh laughed gaily.

"Good! Then I can ask ten more questions about Boston. Mrs. Estcoit, please tell me----"

But she paused before her sentence was finished. For the handle of the door had turned; and, looking up quickly, she saw the tall figure of Deerehurst.

Had any member of the party looked at her in that moment, he or she would have seen a wave of colour sweep across her face, then die out, leaving her almost white. But beyond this, she betrayed no emotion; and, a moment later, when Deerehurst came towards her across the room with his habitual slow, silent step, she raised her head, smiling a conventional welcome, and held out her hand.

He took it silently, and with a slightly ostentatious impressiveness.

"A thousand apologies if I intrude on a social gathering," he murmured. "But on returning home, I chanced upon the book we were discussing to-day, and remembering how interested you were----" With a very quiet movement he laid a small and costly little book of verses on the arm of Clodagh's chair, and turned with his usual dignity to where Nance was standing.

"How d'you do, Miss Asshlin! Is it too late to beg for a cup of tea?"

Nance held out her hand.

"I'm afraid 'twill be rather cold," she said a little ungraciously. "But if you don't mind that, will you please ring the bell? We shall want another cup."

Estcoit glanced at her, a humorous look hovering about his thin lips; and at the same instant Gore was conscious of a sudden wave of brotherly affection.

But Deerehurst showed no embarrassment. He turned to the fireplace, pressed the bell, then looked round again upon the little group.

"Hallo, Gore!" he said carelessly. "I thought you were killing salmon at the home of the ancestors. How d'you do, Mr. Estcoit?"

He nodded to the young American; then moved away again to where Clodagh sat.

"What a dreadful afternoon!" he said. "Why haven't you changed into something lighter?" He glanced at her riding habit.

She blushed and looked up hastily.

"We have just been saying what a glorious afternoon! But I don't think you have met Mrs. and Miss Estcoit. Let me introduce you! Lord Deerehurst, Mrs. Estcoit!"

Both ladies bowed, and Mrs. Estcoit broke at once into an unaffected flow of talk, to which Deerehurst listened with polite interest, smiling now and then, and occasionally raising his eyeglass.

At last, as she paused, he looked at her in faint curiosity.

"And you really find an interest in England?" he asked.

She gave a bright, cordial laugh--a laugh that seemed to testify to the perennial youth of her countrywomen.

"This is the twenty-first visit I've paid to England," she said, "and I love it more every time. When my son turns me out of my home in Boston, I shall buy one of your country places--as a dower-house!" Again she laughed, casting an affectionate glance towards Nance and Estcoit! "But, Clodagh, we really must fly. Good-bye, Lord Deerehurst! Delighted to have met you!" She rose gracefully, shook hands with the old peer, and turning to Clodagh, took both her hands and kissed her warmly.

"Good-bye!" she said--"good-bye! It has been perfectly charming!"

Clodagh smiled a quick response.

"Indeed it has--for me. Don't forget to-morrow night!"

"Forget! Why, I'm existing to see that play! Come, Daisy!" She turned to her daughter, who had joined the group at the tea-table. "Pierce, are you ready? Good-bye, Nance! Come with us to the elevator?"

Nance crossed the room readily, while Estcoit shook hands with Clodagh.

"Good-bye!" he said. "I shall see you to-morrow night--if not sooner."

She pressed his hand warmly. "Make it sooner!" she said. And they both laughed, after the manner of people who understand and like each other.

The momentary departure of Nance, left Clodagh, Gore, and Deerehurst the sole occupants of the room. After Estcoit had closed the door there was a faint pause; and in that pause Clodagh was a prey to conflicting feelings--passionate hope that Deerehurst might see fit to go, passionate fear that Gore might leave before they could have a word in private.

And while her mind swayed between hope and fear, Deerehurst drew forward a chair, and seated himself beside her.

"I shall be interested to know what you think of this!" he said, leaning forward and lifting the book from the arm of her chair, where she had allowed it to lie untouched.

She smiled mechanically, though her senses were strained to observe Gore's attitude.

"It is very good of you! I am sure--I am sure I shall like it."

For an instant his cold glance rested curiously on her face; the next, it fell again to the book.

"I shall expect you to like it," he said enigmatically.

"What is the book?" Gore came quietly forward and stood looking down at them.

Deerehurst raised his eyes with an expression in which amusement and a faint contempt were to be read by a close observer.

"The book?" he said. "Oh, something, I am afraid, that wouldn't interest you! I don't believe the writer knew anything of far countries--or even of fishing." He paused, and deliberately turned half a dozen pages. "He only understood one thing, but that he understood perfectly."

Gore laughed.

"And may a philistine ask what it was?"

"Oh, certainly! It was love."

The door opened as he said the word in his high, expressive voice, and to Clodagh's indescribable relief, Nance entered.

In the second that she stepped across the threshold her bright eyes passed from one face to the other, and a rapid process of deduction took place in her mind.

"Walter," she said pleasantly, "Pierce says there's one question he forgot to ask you about Japan. Do you mind if I ask it now?" She walked to the open window.

Gore followed her; and Clodagh drew a breath of deep relief.

Ten minutes passed--ten interminable minutes, in which she strove to attend to Deerehurst's words, while her ears were strained to follow the conversation in the window. Then at last relief came. He rose to go.

"I must say good-bye!" he said, taking her hand. "I shall await your verdict on the verses. There is one I want you specially to read--the last one. Good-bye!"

She smiled, scarcely hearing what he said; and a moment later he had bowed to the two in the window, and passed out of the room.

As the outer door closed, Nance came across to her sister.

"Do you mind if I run down to Sloane Street, Clo?" she asked. "I never remembered those lozenges for Aunt Fan, and I can just catch the Irish mail."

Without waiting for an answer, she stooped and kissed Clodagh's forehead; and, turning, passed out of the room.

After she had left, there was a silence, in which neither Clodagh nor Gore made any attempt to speak.

Filled with a nervous sense of something inevitably impending, Clodagh sat very still. She dreaded to look at Gore, lest she might precipitate what he was going to say; yet, to her strained mind, suspense appeared intolerable. She clasped her hands suddenly, with a little catching of the breath.

At the faint, yet significant sound, he turned from the window; and coming quietly across the room, paused behind her chair.

"Clodagh!" He bent over her, laying his hands gently on her shoulders. "Clodagh, we talked to-day of the night at Tuffnell--of what you said that night."

"Yes."

Clodagh's throat felt dry.

"And it was all true--perfectly true?"

"Yes. Oh, Walter, yes!"

Gore stood upright, still keeping his hands upon her shoulders.

"Then I am going to ask a great favour of you. I am going to ask you to break your friendship--to break your acquaintance--with Deerehurst. I want you never to have him in your house after to-day. Dearest, believe me, I know what I am saying!"

As Clodagh remained silent, he bent over her again.

"It isn't jealousy, Clodagh. It isn't pique. It is just that I cannot bear to see the man in your presence, knowing what I know of him."

"What do you know of him?" Clodagh asked faintly.

"Nothing that I care to tell you! Be satisfied that I know what I ask and that I do ask. Give him up! Cease to know him! Cease to have him here!" In the intensity of his feelings, his fingers pressed her shoulders.

"Clodagh, am I asking too much?"

Quite suddenly, almost hysterically, Clodagh rose; and, turning to him, caught his hand.

"No, Walter!" she cried--"no! no! Nothing you could ask would be too great to grant. I will do what you wish. I will give him up--_utterly_--entirely--from to-day!"