Gambler — 08 - Part 3, Chapters 9 through 12
CHAPTER IX
To the superficial student of Clodagh's character, this development of a phase in her mental growth may present itself as something distasteful--even unworthy; but to the serious student of human nature, with its manifold and wonderful complexities, it must perforce come clothed in a different guise.
Placed by circumstances in a singularly isolated position--springing from a race in whom love of power, love of admiration, love of love itself are inherent qualities--it is not to be wondered at that, in the first flush of her realised sovereignty over men, she should view the world from a slightly giddy altitude.
No one grudges her triumphs and her innocent intrigues to the girl in her first season.
Humanity looks on indulgently while she breaks her first lance with the candid joy, the pardonable egotism that is bred of youth.
And, incongruous as it may sound, Clodagh's was the position of the debutante.
She was comprehending for the first time--and comprehending with accumulated emotion--the fact that she possessed an individual path in life.
And with the arrogance of inexperience, she sprang to the conclusion that every foot crossing that path, should yield her a toll of homage.
And now one foot had crossed it without pause, without even a desire to linger!
Her cheeks burned under the smart of her hurt vanity, as she turned from the little group that surrounded Lady Frances Hope, and allowed Deerehurst to lead her across the salon.
Her emotions were many and confused, but one personality occupied her thoughts against the angry expostulations of her reason.
By an illogical, but very human sequence of impressions, Sir Walter Gore had, in one moment, become the most objectionable--and the most interesting--person of her acquaintance.
As she stepped out upon the balcony, Deerehurst drew forward the low chair that she had occupied the night before; and she sank into it with a little sigh.
For the first time in the glamour of her new-found excitement, she felt glad to escape from the crowd and the lights of the salon.
For a while her companion made no effort to break the silence that she seemed anxious to preserve, then at last he changed his position, stepped softly forward, and laid his hand on the back of her chair.
"Is what Barnard tells me true?"
he asked.
"Are you really leaving Venice in a week?"
She bent her head without looking up.
"But surely we can persuade you----" His voice quickened, then broke off, as Clodagh turned to him.
"Does it matter to any one whether I go or stay?"
she asked in a slightly tremulous voice.
The only surprise that Deerehurst betrayed, was shown in the narrowing of his cold eyes.
He studied her penetratingly for a moment; then he spoke again very quietly.
"Mrs. Milbanke," he said, "can you ask that question in good faith?"
A faint touch of last night's embarrassment wavered across her mind, but this time she swept it defiantly aside.
"Yes; I mean it."
She turned, and again looked up into his face.
"And am I to answer in good faith?"
She bent her head, still looking at him.
"Then judging by the one case of which I can confidently speak, yes!
--distinctly yes!"
There was a pause; and Clodagh gave a faint laugh.
"And whose is the one case?"
Her voice sounded cool, high, even slightly indifferent.
It piqued Deerehurst to a further step.
He answered her question with another.
"Mrs. Milbanke," he said, "have you ever heard of Circe?"
Again she laughed.
"My education was extensive, if very intermittent," she said.
"Yes, I have heard of Circe--and her wild beasts."
He echoed the laugh in his thin, expressive voice.
"I see the implication!
But I would willingly play even wild beast--to your Circe!"
He bent over her chair.
She drew away with a slight, sharp movement; but he did not alter his position.
"Do you know that a man would follow you--anywhere?"
"Anywhere?"
"Anywhere."
He let his hand glide softly from the back of the chair to her shoulder.
At the touch of his fingers, she slipped away from him with a noiseless movement, and rose to her feet.
"Then follow me back to the salon!"
she said in a voice that still sounded high and light.
There was a constrained pause, but it was one of short duration.
Deerehurst was not the man to be easily taken at a disadvantage.
For one instant a glimmering of chagrin showed on his composed face; the next it was gone.
He straightened his dignified figure, and felt mechanically for his eyeglass.
"'Pon my word!"
he said.
"I believe you _are_ Circe.
Use your prerogative!"
He turned, laughed a little, and indicated the salon with a courtly gesture.
Clodagh looked at him.
He puzzled and disconcerted her.
To one whose innate instinct was a yielding to impulse, his absolute impassivity in face of disconcerting situations was something incomprehensible.
And now, as he stepped aside to give her passage, she gave a quick laugh, expressive of both embarrassment and relief; and crossed the balcony with a certain instinctive haste.
During their absence, the crowd in the salon had increased; the press about the roulette-table had become denser; while at half a dozen card-tables, sheltered from the general gathering by large screens of old Italian leather-work, parties of four were playing bridge.
Ignoring these latter groups, Clodagh crossed the room towards the roulette-table, and paused upon the outskirts of the crowd that surrounded it.
Deerehurst, following her closely, narrowed his eyes with a touch of interest as he saw that, either by intention or accident, she had halted beside Sir Walter Gore.
"Well," he said in his thin, satirical voice, as he gained her side--"well, shall we combine forces as we did last night?
I brought you luck, remember!"
She turned upon him almost sharply.
"No!"
she said--"no!
I don't play roulette."
At the vehemence of her denial, he raised his eyebrows; and Sir Walter Gore looked round.
Seeing the speaker, an involuntary gleam of surprise crossed his face.
"Surely you are not so unfashionable as to disapprove of gambling, Mrs. Milbanke?"
he asked.
Clodagh raised her eyes; and this time her glance was free from coquetry.
"I have not been fashionably brought up," she said.
"Indeed!"
The surprise--and, with it, a reluctant interest--deepened in Gore's glance.
But his eyes wandered doubtfully over her dress.
Invariably quick to follow a train of thought, she gave a short, comprehending laugh.
"Oh, I know what you are thinking of!"
she cried.
"I don't look as if I belong to the wilds.
People never understand that dressing is a knack that comes to women, and does not really mean anything."
He smiled, amused against his will.
Again she laughed, like a child who has been praised.
"Oh, it's quite true!"
she added.
"I could tell you of dozens of cases----" But her flow of confidence was suddenly terminated.
Valentine Serracauld, catching sight of her through the throng of people, had made a hasty way towards her.
His finely cut colourless face was animated and his dark grey eyes looked excited.
"How d'you do?
--how d'you do, Mrs. Milbanke?"
he exclaimed.
"Please congratulate me!
I've had a run of luck!
Netted seventy pounds!"
Clodagh's lips parted.
"Seventy pounds!"
she said breathlessly, and instinctively she turned to Gore.
But Gore's place was empty.
At Serracauld's approach, he had moved unostentatiously away.
At the knowledge that he was gone, a sense of disappointment fell upon her.
She glanced uncertainly at Deerehurst.
The old peer, who had been a cynical observer of the little scene, gave a thin laugh.
"Our friend Gore is fearful of contamination," he said, glancing at his nephew.
Serracauld laughed.
"Gore!"
he said contemptuously.
"Oh, Gore and I never did chum up!
But where have you been hiding yourself all day?"
He turned again to Clodagh.
"We have had dark suspicions that old Barny has been buying up your society with Stock Exchange tips.
Come, now, confess!"
He paused and laughed, looking with intent admiration into her expressive face.
And Clodagh--sailing upon the tide of present things, elated by the eager interest of two men, and excited by the grudging interest of a third--forgot that, for every frail craft such as hers, there is an ultimate harbour to be gained, a future to be reckoned with.
She lifted her head, met Serracauld's searching glance, and echoed his inconsequent laugh.
CHAPTER X
The next day Clodagh made one of a party to the Lido, and the same night accompanied Lady Frances Hope, Deerehurst, and Serracauld to a theatre; but on neither occasion did she meet, or even see, Sir Walter Gore.
On the afternoon of the second day, however, he again appeared upon the scene of her interests, and in an unexpected manner.
The hour was six; and she, with Barnard and Milbanke, was seated on the hotel terrace, chatting desultorily in the warmth of the early evening.
While they talked, a gondola glided up to the hotel steps; and in the glow of the waning sun, they saw Gore step from the boat, pause to give some order to the gondolier, and then mount the stone steps.
They all three saw him simultaneously.
Clodagh, to her own annoyance, coloured; and Barnard smiled in his observant, quizzical fashion.
"I didn't tell you that Gore was coming to see me this afternoon, Mrs. Milbanke," he said in an undertone.
"I had a fancy that you might run away."
The flush on Clodagh's face deepened.
"Run away?"
she exclaimed in angry haste.
But Barnard rose without replying, and went forward to meet his visitor.
Having greeted his host, Gore turned to Clodagh.
"How d'you do, Mrs. Milbanke?"
he said, raising his hat.
Then he looked interrogatively at Milbanke.
Barnard made a sweeping gesture.
"My old friend Mr. James Milbanke!"
he said.
"James, Sir Walter Gore!"
Milbanke looked up quickly; and the younger man held out his hand with a pleasant touch of cordiality.
"How d'you do, sir?"
he said.
"Are you making a long stay in Venice?"
With a friendly movement, he pulled forward one of the wicker chairs and seated himself beside Milbanke.
Clodagh, leaning far back in her own long, low seat, looked at him curiously.
Unconsciously the remembrance of Serracauld's careless manner upon a similar occasion of first introduction recurred to her mind, coupled with the knowledge of Barnard's contemptuous idea of her husband--his fads and his peculiarities.
What could this man see to attract him in a dry archaeologist of twice his age?
She found herself waiting intently for his next remark--his next action.
"Are you making a long stay?"
he repeated, settling himself in his chair.
Milbanke, surprised and pleased at the unexpected attention, sat up stiffly in his seat.
"Oh no!"
he said--"no!
We are leaving in three or four days.
I--I am interested in antiquity, and should, properly speaking, be in Sicily at the present moment.
Perhaps you have heard of the very remarkable researches that are being carried on there?"
Gore smiled.
"No, I'm afraid I must confess ignorance.
I know disgracefully little about the past."
Barnard, fearing a dissertation from Milbanke, interrupted with a laugh.
"I'm afraid most of us find the present more alluring!"
He cast a swift glance at Clodagh.
But Clodagh, still annoyed with him, and with herself--still puzzled by Gore's attitude--lifted her head sharply.
"At least," she said, "we can be sure that the present is genuine."
Gore turned and looked at her.
"Are you quite sure of that, Mrs. Milbanke?"
he asked quietly.
"Don't you think there is trickery and deception in the manufacture of many things besides the antique?"
Her glance faltered.
"I have seen a lot of unauthentic relics," she said with a touch of obstinacy.
"And I, a lot of unauthentic life."
He looked at her with a slight smile.
The smile stung her unreasonably.
"Some people can never become connoisseurs," she retorted quickly.
Gore laughed, but without offence.
"Not of treasures, perhaps, but with experience and observation, surely any one can become a judge of men--and women."
Clodagh forced herself to smile.
"You disapprove of women?"
"Disapprove!
Indeed, no!"
But here Barnard interposed with one of his suave gestures.
"He only disapproves of the modern woman, Mrs. Milbanke!"
Gore turned to him good-humouredly.
"Wrong, Barnard!"
he said.
"I admire the modern woman--the truly modern woman.
It is the society woman--of any period--that I lose patience with."
Barnard smiled.
"The present-day woman is very proud of her complex life," he said smoothly, "her big card debts and her little intrigues."
Gore's healthy face turned a shade redder.
"I know!"
he said tersely.
"But to me, a woman with no higher ambition than the playing of cards winter and summer, afternoon after afternoon, is--is pitiable."
Clodagh leant forward.
"Perhaps they play cards because they have no real interests."
He looked at her quickly.
"And why have they no real interests, Mrs. Milbanke?
Isn't it because they reject all simple, natural, wholesome things?
Such women do not know the meaning of the word home.
They do not want a home--or home life, as the women of the last generation understood it."
"Ah, there you touch bottom, my dear Gore!
There you are in your depth!"
Again Barnard gave one of his smooth, tactful laughs.
"This young man has a great pull over us, Mrs. Milbanke, when he compares the present generation with the past."
At the suave words, Gore made a slightly embarrassed gesture, and looked instinctively towards Milbanke.
"Forgive my tirade, sir!"
he said a little confusedly.
"Mr. Barnard is right.
I have rather a high ideal of womanhood.
I am possessed of a--a very remarkable mother."
"A mother!"
Clodagh looked round impulsively.
"Oh, tell me what she is like!"
With a certain spontaneity, Gore turned to respond to her question; but before his eyes met hers, their glance was intercepted by a shrewd, amused, inquiring look from Barnard.
The effect of the look was strange.
His emotion so suddenly aroused, died suddenly.
His face became passive, even a little cold.
He straightened his shoulders, and gave the restrained, self-conscious laugh that the Englishman resorts to when he feels that his sentiments have entrapped him.
"Oh, you must not ask me what my mother is like, Mrs. Milbanke," he said.
"I could not give you an unbiassed opinion.
As it is, I have been wasting your time unpardonably.
Barnard, do you think Mrs. Milbanke will excuse you for ten minutes?"
Barnard rose slowly.
"Do not put me to the pain of saying 'yes,'" he exclaimed.
"Let me imagine that I am tearing myself away against Mrs. Milbanke's express desire.
Au revoir, Mrs. Milbanke!
Au revoir, James!"
He nodded, and sauntered off in the direction of the hotel door.
A moment later Gore shook hands silently with Clodagh and her husband, and moved away in the same direction.
As he disappeared into the hotel, Milbanke folded his newspaper with interested haste.
"What a well-mannered young man!"
he said.
"Who is he?
What is his name?"
Clodagh was sitting very still, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes fixed upon some distant object.
"Gore," she said shortly--"Gore.
Sir Walter Gore."
"Gore!"
Milbanke repeated the name as though it pleased him.
"A fine young fellow!
Very unlike the majority of young men of the present day."
Clodagh said nothing.
"Don't you agree with me, my dear?"
As if by an effort, she recalled her wandering gaze, turned her head slowly, and looked at her husband.
"He--he certainly seems unlike other people," she admitted in a low voice.
After this rejoinder there was silence.
Clodagh, her brows drawn together in a perplexed frown, relapsed into her former absorbed contemplation; while Milbanke, having changed his position once or twice, shook out the sheets of his newspaper and buried himself in the lengthy report of a scientific meeting.
But scarcely had he reached the end of his first paragraph, than a large shadow fell across the page, and, looking up quickly, he saw the ponderous figure of Mr. Angelo Tomes.
At the sight of his hero he started, coloured with pleasure, and rose hastily.
"Mr. Tomes!"
he exclaimed.
"Clodagh, my dear, here is Mr. Tomes!"
Clodagh turned without enthusiasm, and looked at the loose figure and unkempt hair of the scientist.
"I do not think you and my--my wife have met, Mr. Tomes!"
Milbanke broke in with a nervous attempt at geniality.
Mr. Tomes bowed.
"No; but I have many times seen Mrs. Milbanke," he said ponderously.
Clodagh bent her head, noting with the fastidious intolerance of youth that his clothes were baggy and his hands unclean.
Milbanke gave a nervous, conciliatory laugh.
"I--I have noticed that great men are always observant," he said jocularly.
Mr. Tomes smiled.
"That is scarcely a compliment to Mrs. Milbanke," he interposed consciously.
Clodagh looked up and met his eyes.
"I don't wish to be paid compliments, Mr. Tomes," she said.
"Please don't try to think of any.
Did you come to take my husband out?"
Mr. Tomes stammered, visibly crestfallen.
"Well," he began, "there is a certain archway in one of the smaller churches, which I think Mr. Milbanke ought to see.
But as an archway is not too weighty for a lady's consideration, it struck me--it occurred to me----" But Clodagh cut him short.
"Oh, Mr. Tomes, I'm much too frivolous even for archways.
Don't take me into your calculations; I should only spoil them.
Of course it's very kind of you," she added with tardy remorse, "but the experiment would be a failure.
Ask my husband----" Milbanke looked distressed.
"Oh, my dear----" he began.
But Clodagh's nerves were jarred.
"I know!"
she broke in--"I know it's awfully kind of Mr. Tomes!
But I couldn't go to see an archway to-day.
I couldn't. I really--really couldn't." Mr. Tomes relapsed into a state of pompous offence.
Milbanke looked from one to the other in nervous misery.
"Certainly not--certainly not, my dear!"
he agreed.
"You are tired; you have been doing too much."
He peered at her through the softly falling twilight with a look of helpless concern.
She felt, rather than saw the look; and that sensitive dread of being rendered conspicuous that attacks us all in early life, caused her to shrink into herself.
"Nonsense!"
she said a little coldly.
"I am perfectly well.
Please go and see Mr. Tomes's archway.
I don't mind being left alone.
I would like to be left alone."
Milbanke stirred uneasily.
"Of course, my dear, if you wish it!"
he murmured.
"Mr. Tomes, shall we---- Are you ready----" He waved his hand towards the canal.
Mr. Tomes drew his loose limbs together, and bowed formally to Clodagh.
