Gambler — 10 - Part 4, Chapters 4 through 6
Lady Frances Hope's house was situated in Curzon Street; and thither Clodagh departed shortly after eight o'clock.
Again she chose a hansom as a means of conveyance, for as yet there had been no question of her procuring a carriage of her own; and again she became conscious of the peculiar stimulus, the peculiar power that the great tide of London life exercises upon its observers.
The last glimmering of daylight was lingering in the sky as the cab passed up Knightsbridge, but already the houses and hotels were brilliantly lighted, and the stream of diners and theatre-goers was forming into its nightly procession.
During that short drive, she encountered many glances--glances of interest, criticism or curiosity from women well-dressed as herself and bound upon some such mission as her own--glances of sharp speculation or sudden admiration from men driving, west or southward.
And something of London's immensity, something of London's secrecy, came to her in those brief moments; she was stirred by the fact that has moved many another dweller in the vast city--the fact that every day, every night, some thousands of lives brush our own in a passing glance, in a stray word, in a chance touch, and then drift on into mystery, never to reappear.
Her thoughts were confused and excited as she descended from the cab and entered the Curzon Street house; but on the moment that she stepped into the hall, her dreams were banished.
A door on her right opened, and her hostess hurried forward and kissed her effusively.
"You dear thing!"
she cried.
"Wasn't it abominable of me?
Was the arrival desperately weary?
Come up to my bedroom.
The men haven't come yet.
What ages it seems since we said good-bye at Nice!
How are you?"
She talked in her masterful voice, without waiting for a reply, until they entered the bedroom.
There her maid, who was busying herself at the dressing-table, came forward to assist Clodagh; but Lady Frances checked her at once.
"Mrs. Milbanke won't need you, Rees.
I'll take off her cloak."
Rees moved obediently towards the door; but there she ventured to pause for a moment.
"I hope you had a comfortable journey, madam," she said.
Clodagh, invariably gracious to her inferiors, turned to her warmly.
"Thank you, Rees!
An excellent journey!
But I'm glad to see everybody look so well."
She added the last with a little smile, to which the maid responded as she closed the door.
Lady Frances laughed.
"You have bewitched Rees!"
she said.
"But you do that as you eat or sleep--by instinct.
Let me look at you!"
She laid her hands on Clodagh's shoulders and turned her towards the light.
"You've been playing every night since I left you," she said with decision.
Clodagh laughed with some constraint.
"And losing?"
Clodagh flushed.
"I have no luck," she said shortly.
Then, almost at once, she turned away, freeing herself from her companion's detaining hands.
"Lady Frances," she said in a different tone, "please don't think I forget about--about----" she hesitated.
"I get my first allowance at the beginning of July, you know----" She paused; and Lady Frances gave a seemingly careless laugh.
"My good child, don't speak of it!
Any time!
--any time!"
"You are very kind.
I had hoped to settle up on my return, but the last week was shocking.
But everything will be right at the beginning of July.
She walked over to the dressing-table and looked at herself in the long glass.
"What a sweet house you have!"
she said suddenly in an entirely different voice.
Lady Frances had been watching her with a close scrutiny; but now, with a good deal of ready dissimulation, she threw off her attentive manner and answered in Clodagh's own light tone.
"Yes; it is a nice little place.
But what about the flat?
Isn't that perfect?"
"Yes."
"You are not enthusiastic?
Oh, I _am_ disappointed!"
Clodagh turned from the mirror.
"Forgive me!"
she said impulsively.
"Of course the flat is perfectly sweet--and exactly what I want.
It was just the arriving alone that made it seem a little--a little----" "Of course!
--of course!
Poor dear child!
But wait!
--wait till you begin to know people!"
Clodagh's expressive face brightened.
"Yes.
And when Nance--when my sister comes back!
Oh!
I _must_ enjoy myself!
I _must_ be happy!"
"Why should you be anything else?
When have you heard from your sister?"
"The day I left Nice--a most dear letter.
She is having a heavenly time in America.
The Estcoits are such delightful companions; the girl is seven months younger than she is--and the boy is seven years older.
Curious difference, isn't it?"
"Very.
But I didn't know there was a boy.
I thought it was only the school friend and the mother."
"Oh no!
There's the brother--Pierce.
Nance's letters are full of him."
Lady Frances gave a little half-sarcastic laugh.
"Then Nance is presumably still learning--though she has left school?"
Something in the utterance of the words made Clodagh flush.
"Don't!"
she said involuntarily--"don't!
Nance is--is different from me."
Then, as her hostess remained silent, she turned and looked at her.
"Don't be offended!"
she added.
"It is only that I can't have anything cynical said of Nance.
I know you don't understand.
It seems that because I sent her to America, I don't really care----" She halted again.
"But I don't make you understand!
--I don't seem to make any one understand."
Her voice dropped slightly; and Lady Frances, as though fearing some emotional outburst, broke in hastily.
"My dear child!
--my dear Clodagh!"
Then she paused, for the door opened and her maid Rees reappeared.
"Excuse me, my lady!
But Lord Deerehurst and Mr. Serracauld are in the drawing-room.
Franks thought your ladyship would wish to know."
"Quite right.
Thank you, Rees!
Clodagh, are you ready?"
Clodagh's face was slightly flushed from her momentary outbreak, as she left the bedroom.
Descending the stairs, Lady Frances moved to her side and passed her hand through her arm: and at the touch, a sharp repulsion to this friendship--this fair weather, effusive, superficial friendship--surged through her.
And yet where was she to find a firmer sentiment?
Where, in all the world, was there a being who had any real need of her?
Her aunt?
Her cousin?
She knew instinctively that their world and her own were inevitably sundered.
Nance?
Had not even Nance--the little Nance of childish days--already begun to gather interests of her own--to form her own friendships?
No; there was no niche that especially claimed, that especially needed her!
At this point in her hasty and confused speculations, the door of the drawing-room was thrown open: and, after an interval of two years, she saw Lord Deerehurst and Serracauld.
More than once she had pictured the meeting with the old peer; but, as is invariably the case, the reality was much more vivid than the imagination had been.
Deerehurst came forward with the stiff, courtly manner that brought back with almost painful clearness the balcony of the Venetian palace--the Venetian salon with its polished floor and glittering chandeliers--the Venetian night-music borne across the waters.
It all surged back in a wave of memory--first a pang of pain, then a pang of reckless self-contempt.
After all, who cared?
What did her action--her manner of living--even her existence--matter to any living soul?
She held out her hand and allowed him to bow over it.
He bowed over it for a long time; then he raised his head and looked at her.
His pale, inscrutable face was as waxlike as ever; his eyes were as cold, as penetrating, as old in their look of supreme wisdom.
"So we meet again," he said.
"My hope has been fulfilled!"
For a moment Clodagh stood, permitting him to clasp her fingers and look into her face, while she herself made no effort to speak; then, as if suddenly conscious of something strange in the position, she freed her hand with a little, nervous laugh, and turned to where Serracauld was waiting to greet her.
With a smile and a gesture of easy familiarity the younger man came forward.
"Welcome to England!"
he said.
"Only yesterday a man at my club was telling me of the prettiest woman on the Riviera this year.
I won't be personal, but the lady was at Monte Carlo only a week ago--turning other people's heads and emptying her own pockets with the most delightful impartiality."
Clodagh laughed, but this time without embarrassment.
"Be as personal as you like!"
she said carelessly.
"It wasn't my fault if luck was dead against me."
Deerehurst came forward slowly.
"But the turned heads?"
he asked.
She smiled.
"Was it my business to put them straight again?
I'm not a surgeon."
They all laughed; and at that moment dinner was announced.
Lady Frances Hope touched Clodagh's arm.
"Lord Deerehurst will play host, Clodagh!
Val, I consign myself to you!"
Serracauld moved to her side with his usual indolent ease; and Deerehurst offered Clodagh his arm.
They had to traverse the length of a large double drawing-room before the dining-room was reached.
And during that passage he found opportunity for a whispered word or two.
As they moved forward he avoided looking at Clodagh; but his arm slightly and unmistakably pressed hers.
"Am I not forgiving--to be so glad to see you?"
he murmured in his thin, cold voice.
"I waited on the terrace until twelve o'clock, that night in Venice."
Involuntarily her face flushed.
His voice was as potent as ever to express infinitely more than the words it uttered.
"I--I wish to forget Venice," she said.
He stole a swift glance at her.
"Then shall we make a compact?
Shall we forget it jointly?"
She said nothing.
Again, almost imperceptibly, his arm pressed hers.
"Why try to ignore me?
I am in your life."
The words were few and very simple: so simple and so few that they conveyed a peculiar impression of power--of weight.
A faint, half-comprehended chill fell upon Clodagh; such a chill as had fallen upon her once before in the "Abbati" Restaurant, when Deerehurst had drunk to their next meeting as host and guest.
She laughed suddenly, with a quick, nervous lifting of the head.
"But it is life itself that I wish to ignore."
Again he glanced at her--very swiftly, very searchingly.
"So be it!"
he said.
"I take that as a challenge--to life and to me."
At the conclusion of dinner that night, the little party of four sat down to bridge.
And an hour after midnight Clodagh rose from the card-table, a loser to the extent of over forty pounds.
CHAPTER V
On a certain morning in the last week in June, Lady Frances Hope rode into the courtyard of the Knightsbridge flats.
Throwing her bridle to the man-servant who was attending her, she dismounted from her horse, gathered up her habit, and entered the doorway of the building.
Seating herself in the lift, she was borne upwards, and a few seconds later stepped out upon the second floor, and, going briskly forward, pressed the bell of Clodagh's hall door.
The summons was answered by the same maid who had admitted Clodagh on the day of her arrival; and seeing the visitor, she drew back instantly, throwing the door wide.
"Is Mrs. Milbanke up, Barkes?"
Lady Frances asked.
"I did not see her in the park this morning."
"Mrs. Milbanke didn't ride this morning, my lady.
She is having breakfast in her own room.
Shall I say your ladyship is here?"
Lady Frances replied by walking into the hall.
"No, thanks!
I'll announce myself."
Stepping forward without ceremony she passed down the hall and opened the door of Clodagh's bedroom.
But on the threshold she paused, interested by what she saw.
The two windows that looked upon the park were wide open, and through them the beautiful warm sunshine was pouring across the room, touching the old French furniture into a renewal of its glories.
Drawn into the full radiance of this light, stood a small round table set with silver, china, and a bowl of flowers; and at the table sat Clodagh.
She was wearing a simple dress of black muslin, and her hair--which gleamed almost bronze in the clear, strong sunshine--was twisted into one thick coil.
But it was neither her dress nor appearance that attracted her visitor; it was something vaguely disturbing--something subtly suggestive--in her attitude, as she sat close to the table, an array of letters and papers spread before her, a gold pencil held thoughtfully against her lips.
Thinking it was a servant who had entered the room, she did not change her position with the opening of the door; and Lady Frances Hope had a full minute in which to observe her; then, having made her deductions, she allowed her presence to be known.
"Can you tolerate such an early visitor?"
she asked.
Clodagh started almost guiltily, and drew the array of papers into a confused heap; then she rose hastily, laughing to cover her momentary confusion.
"How you frightened me!"
she said.
"I must be developing nerves.
But come in!
I am delighted!"
She went forward with apparent cordiality, and, taking her visitor's hand, kissed her.
"How nice and energetic you look!
You make me feel very lazy.
I wasn't in the mood for a ride this morning.
Come in!
Sit down!"
Lady Frances responded to the suggestion by moving across the room.
Pausing by the breakfast-table, she bent forward and buried her face for a moment in the flowers, at the same time stealing a swift glance at the scattered letters beside Clodagh's plate.
Then, straightening herself again with apparent nonchalance, she moved to the open window and stood looking down upon the park.
"Clodagh!"
she said suddenly.
"Are you busy?
Can we talk?"
Clodagh turned sharply, and almost with a gesture of surprise.
The whole round of her intercourse with Lady Frances Hope had been of so easy, of so superficial a nature--the whole tone of their friendship had been pitched in so unemotional a key--since the one night in the Paris hotel, when they had touched upon things vital to them both--that the suggestion of reality, or even gravity, brought a sudden uneasiness to her mind.
"Oh, of course!"
she said uncertainly--"of course!
Let us sit down."
She returned to her own seat and indicated another to her visitor with a slightly hurried movement.
But Lady Frances did not respond to the invitation.
Instead, she wandered back to the table, and again bent over the bowl of flowers.
"Why are we always climbing--only to slip back again?"
she asked irrelevantly.
Again a faint uneasiness touched Clodagh's face.
"I thought you enjoyed climbing."
"Not to-day.
Clodagh, you'll think me a horrid nuisance, but it's about that money----" She paused as she said the word, and involuntarily her quick glance passed once more over the papers on the table.
For a second Clodagh remained silent; then she spoke, a little slowly--a little haltingly.
"Oh yes--the money," she said.
Lady Frances looked at her shrewdly.
"Yes, you remember on Tuesday--when you borrowed that sixty pounds to pay old Lady Shrawle--I said I could wait for everything till August."
"Yes--oh yes!"
"Well, I've had a horrid drop since then--yesterday, in fact."
For a moment longer, Clodagh sat staring aimlessly at the papers in front of her; then she raised her head and looked at her companion.
Her face was a little pale, but her eyes and lips looked almost scornfully unconcerned.
"Poor you!"
she said easily.
"What a bore!
You must let me settle up our differences at once--to-day."
She rose and pushed back her chair.
A look of surprise crossed the older woman's face--this time it was surprise tempered with bewilderment.
"To-day!
But can you?
I know how many little expenses----" She waved her hand expressively towards the breakfast-table, with its many costly adjuncts.
Clodagh made a lofty gesture of denial; and, walking across the room, paused beside her bureau.
For a minute there was no sound in the room save the abrupt opening and shutting of one or two small drawers; then Clodagh turned round again, a cheque-book in her hand.
"Now tell me what I owe you," she said.
"I'll write you a cheque and post-date it to July the first.
Will that do?
I draw my money then, you know."
"Perfectly.
But, my dear Clodagh----" But again Clodagh made a gesture that seemed to relegate the matter to a region of obscure--if not of absolutely contemptible--things.
"Don't trouble!"
she said.
"Money is never worth an argument.
What do I owe?"
During her words, her companion had sat silent--speculative and suspicious.
To her worldly mind, Clodagh's grand manner--Clodagh's extraordinary behaviour--indicated but one possibility.
She had found means of augmenting her income!
Any knowledge of the false pride, the empty magnificence that will, metaphorically speaking, fling its last coin to a beggar, while passing on to penury, had never come within her experience.
It needs the environments of such places as Orristown to bring them to maturity.
She looked now at her companion, and her eyes narrowed in a sudden, triumphant satisfaction.
Something that she had anticipated had come to pass!
At the imagined discovery, she gave a quick laugh.
"If you insist on being so scrupulous----" Clodagh looked round from the bureau at which she had seated herself.
"How much?"
she said laconically.
Lady Frances pretended to knit her brows.
"Well, there was the eight hundred pounds at Nice--and the forty pounds the night of your return to town--the night we played bridge with Val and Deerehurst----" She looked very quickly at Clodagh.
But Clodagh gave no sign.
"And the fifty pounds a fortnight ago--besides the sixty for Lady Shrawle," she interrupted.
"Yes--oh yes!
Let me see, that makes----" "Nine hundred and fifty pounds," Clodagh interjected in a very quiet voice; and picking up a pen, she wrote out the cheque, signing it with her usual bold signature.
A moment later she rose, blotted it, and held it out.
As the flimsy slip of paper passed from one to the other, the elder woman permitted a gleam of curiosity to show in her eyes.
"A thousand thanks!"
she exclaimed.
"And don't think me a wretch if I run away now that I've got it.
You know how fidgety my bay mare is.
Well, good-bye!
I shall see you at Ranelagh?"
But Clodagh was absently studying her cheque-book.
"I don't think so," she said.
"Lord Deerehurst offered to take me down, but I shan't go.
I--I have some business to attend to."
Lady Frances laughed; picked up her riding whip, which she had laid aside, and, coming forward, kissed Clodagh.
"Then I expect I shall see you.
Deerehurst is much more insistent than any business."
Once again her shrewd glance travelled over Clodagh's face.
"Good-bye!
In any case, you'll be at the Ord's for bridge to-night?
We can arrange then about going down to Tuffnell."
"Yes"--Clodagh returned the pressure of her hand--"yes; I suppose I shall go to the Ord's. Yes; I shall--good-bye!"
She walked with her visitor to the door of the bedroom, and stood waiting on the threshold until the hall door had closed.
Then, almost mechanically, she turned, walked back to the table, and with a sharp, nervous movement gathered up the heap of papers still lying beside her plate.
As she stood there, in the flood of June sunshine, beside the attractive disarray of the pretty breakfast-table, she was aware of a horrible sense of helplessness, of alarm and impotence.
