Gambler — 05 - Part 2, Chapters 7 and 8; Part 3 - Chapter 1

CHAPTER VII

And thus it came about that Clodagh Asshlin entered upon a new phase of that precarious condition that we call life.

The impulse that had induced her to accept Milbanke's proposal was in no way complex.

The knowledge had suddenly been conveyed to her that, through no act of her own, she had been placed under a deep obligation; and her primary--her inherited--instinct had been to pay her debt as speedily and as fully as lay within her power, ignoring, in her lack of worldly wisdom, the fact that such a bargain must of necessity possess obligations other than personal, which would demand subsequent settlement.

However unversed she may be in the world's ways, it is scarcely to be supposed that any young girl, under normal conditions, can look upon her own marriage as an abstract thing.

But the circumstances of Clodagh's case were essentially abnormal.

Milbanke's proposal--and the facts that brought her to accept it--came at a time when her mind and her emotions were numbed by her first poignant encounter with death and grief; and for the time being her outlook upon existence was clouded.

The present seemed something sombre, desolate, and impalpable; the future something absolutely void.

For two days after the scene in the glen, she and Milbanke avoided all allusion to what had taken place between them.

He appeared possessed by an insurmountable nervous reticence; while she, immersed in her trouble, seemed almost to have forgotten what had occurred.

On the evening of the third day, however, the subject was again broached.

Milbanke was sitting by one of the long, dining-room windows, reading by the faint twilight that filtered in from the fast-darkening sky.

The light in the room was fitful; for though the table was already laid for dinner, the candles had not yet been lighted.

With his book held close to his eyes, he had been reading studiously for close upon an hour, when the quick opening of the door behind him caused him to look round.

As he did so, he closed his book somewhat hastily and rose with a slight gesture of embarrassment, for the disturber of his peace was Clodagh.

But it was not so much the fact of her entry that had startled him, as the fact that, for the first time since her father's death, she was arrayed in her riding-habit.

Shaken out of his calm, he turned to her at once.

"Are you--are you going for a ride?"

he asked in unconcealed surprise.

Clodagh nodded.

She was drawing on her thick chamois gloves, and her riding-crop was held under her arm.

Had the light in the room been stronger, he would have seen that her lips were firmly set and her eyes bright with resolution.

But his mind was absorbed by his surprise.

"But is it not rather--late?"

he hazarded anxiously, with a glance towards the window.

She looked up astonished.

"Late?"

she repeated incredulously.

Then the look of faintly contemptuous tolerance that sometimes touched her with regard to him passed over her face.

"Oh no; not at all!"

she explained.

"I'm used to riding in the evening.

You see, Polly must be exercised; and I'd rather it was dark, the first time I rode after----" Her voice faltered.

Milbanke heard the tremor, and, as once before, his sense of personal timidity fled before his spontaneous pity.

"Clodagh," he said suddenly, "allow me to ride with you.

I was a fairly good horseman in--in my day."

There was pathos in the deprecating justification; but Clodagh's attention was caught by the words alone.

"You!"

she said in blank amazement.

Then something in the crudeness of her tone struck upon her, and she made haste to amend her exclamation.

"Of course it's very, very kind of you," she added awkwardly.

At her lowered tone, Milbanke coloured, and took a step forward.

"Clodagh," he began, with a flash of courage, "I think you might allow me to be more kind to you than you do.

I think I might give you more protection.

And it has occurred to me that perhaps we ought to announce our--our engagement----" He halted nervously.

As soon as he had begun to speak, Clodagh had walked away from him across the room; and now she stood by the mantelpiece looking down steadily into the fire.

"Do you agree with me?"

he asked, moving nervously towards her.

There was an embarrassed silence.

And in his perturbation he glanced from her bent head to the picture above the chimneypiece from which Anthony Asshlin's ardent face showed out a vague patch of colour against its black background.

"Clodagh," he said suddenly, "allow me to tell Mrs. Asshlin that you have promised to marry me."

But still Clodagh did not answer; still she stood gazing enigmatically into the burning logs, her slight figure and warm youthful face fitfully lighted by the capricious, spurting flames.

"Clodagh!"

he exclaimed.

And there was a note of uneasiness in his low, deprecating voice.

Then at last she turned, and their eyes met.

"Very well!"

she said quietly.

"You may tell Aunt Fan.

But, if you don't mind, I'll ride by myself."

That night, at the conclusion of dinner, the engagement was announced.

All the members of the Asshlin family were seated round the table when Milbanke, who had practically eaten nothing during the meal, summoned his wavering courage and leaned across the table towards Mrs. Asshlin, who was sitting at his right hand.

"Mrs. Asshlin," he began almost inaudibly, "I--that is, Clodagh and I"--he glanced timidly to where Clodagh sat erect and immovable, at the head of the table--"Clodagh and I have--have an announcement to make.

We, that is I----" He stammered hopelessly.

"Mrs. Asshlin, Clodagh has made me very--very proud and very happy.

She has consented to--to be my wife."

He took a deep, agitated breath of wordless relief that the confession was made.

There was a long pause.

Then suddenly Mrs. Asshlin extended both hands towards him in an hysterical outburst of feeling.

"My dear--dear Mr. Milbanke," she said.

"What a shock!

What a surprise, I should say!

What would my poor brother-in-law have thought!

But Providence ordains everything.

I'm sure I congratulate you--congratulate you both."

She turned to Clodagh.

"Though of course it is not the time for congratulations----" She hastily drew out her handkerchief.

As she did so, little Nance rose softly from table and slipped unobserved from the room.

At Milbanke's words, the child's face had turned terribly white, and she had cast an appealing, incredulous look at Clodagh.

But Clodagh, in her self-imposed stolidity, had seen nothing of the expressions round her; and now, as her sister left her place and crossed the room, the significance of the action went unnoticed.

For a moment the only sound audible in the room was the cracking of the fire and Mrs. Asshlin's muffled weeping; but at last, Milbanke, agonised into action, put out his hand and touched her arm.

"Please do not give way to your feelings, Mrs. Asshlin!"

he urged.

"Think--think of Clodagh!"

Thus appealed to, Mrs. Asshlin wiped away the half-dozen tears that had trickled down her cheek.

"You must forgive me," she murmured.

"We Irish take things too much to heart.

It--it brought my own engagement back to me--and of course my poor Laurence's death.

I hope indeed that it will be a very long time before Clodagh----" But the words were broken by a clatter from the other side of the table, as young Laurence Asshlin opportunely knocked one wine-glass against another.

And in the moment of interruption, Clodagh pushed back her chair and stood up.

"If you don't mind, Aunt Fan," she said, "I think I'll go to bed.

The--the ride has tired me.

Good-night!"

And without a glance at any one, she walked out of the room.

But she had scarcely crossed the hall, when a step behind her caused her to pause; and, looking back, she saw the figure of her cousin, a pace or two in the rear.

In the half light of the place, the two confronted each other; and Clodagh lifted her head in a movement that was common to them both.

"What do you want?"

she asked.

Asshlin stepped forward.

"'Tisn't true, Clo?"

he asked breathlessly.

Clodagh looked at him defiantly and nodded.

"Yes," she said.

"'Tis true."

For a moment he stared at her incredulously, then his incredulity drove him to speech.

"But, Clo," he cried, "he's sixty, if he's a day!

And you----" Clodagh flushed.

"Stop, Larry!"

she said unevenly.

"Father was nearly sixty."

But Asshlin's sense of the fitness of things had been aroused.

"That's all very well!"

he cried.

"Uncle Denis was all right for a father or an uncle.

But to marry!

Clo, you're mad!"

Clodagh turned upon him.

"How dare you, Larry?"

she cried.

"You are horrible!

I hate you!"

Her voice caught, and with a sudden passionate gesture she wheeled away from him and began to mount the stairs.

The action sobered him.

With impetuous remorse, he thrust out his hand to detain her.

"Clo!"

he said.

"I say, Clo!"

But she swept his hand aside.

"No!

--no!"

she exclaimed.

"I don't want you!

--I don't want you!

I never want to speak to you again.

You are hateful--detestable----" With a swift movement, she pushed past his outstretched arm and flew up the stairs.

In her bedroom Hannah was hovering about between the washstand and dressing-table, a lighted candle in one hand, a carafe of water in the other.

At the sight of her mistress she laid both her burdens down with a cry of delight.

"My darlin'!"

she exclaimed.

"An' is it thrue?

Tim heard the word of it an' he carryin' the cheese out of the dinin'-room; but sure I wouldn't belave him----" But Clodagh checked her.

"Don't be a fool, Hannah!"

she cried, almost fiercely; and turning her face from the old servant's scrutinising eyes, she walked across the room towards the bed.

For a moment Hannah stood like an ungainly statue; then she nodded to herself--a nod of profound and silent wisdom--and tip-toeing out of the room, closed the door behind her.

Instantly she was alone, Clodagh began to undress.

With hysterical impetuosity she tore off each garment and threw it untidily upon the floor; then slipping into bed, she buried her hot face in the pillows and burst into a violent, unreasoning torrent of tears.

For ten minutes she cried unceasingly; then the storm of her misery was checked.

The door handle was very softly turned, and little Nance stole into the room.

She entered eagerly, then paused, frightened by the scene before her;

but her hesitation was very brief.

With a sudden movement of resolution she sped across the space that divided her from the bed, and laid a cold, tremulous hand on Clodagh's shoulder.

"Clo," she said, "is it true?

Are you going to marry him?

Are you going away from here?"

Her voice sounded thin and far away.

Clodagh raised herself on one elbow, and looked at her sister.

Her face was flushed, her eyes were preternaturally bright.

"Why do you want to know?"

she demanded angrily.

"Why is everybody bothering me like this?

Can't I do what I like?

Can't I marry if I like?"

Her voice rose excitedly.

Then suddenly she caught sight of Nance's quivering, wistful little face; and her anger melted.

With a warm, quick movement, she held out her arms.

"Nance!"

she cried wildly--"little Nance!

--the only person in the world that I really love!"

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.