Gambler — 09 - Part 4, Chapters 1 through 3

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.

CHAPTER II

Exactly one week later Clodagh arrived in Paris on her way to England.

Simonetta Ottolenghi--an Italian woman, who had been in her service as maid for nearly four years--was her only companion; there was no friend to meet or welcome her in the unfamiliar city, and even the dog Mick--the companion of so many solitary hours--had been left behind in Florence until she could conveniently send for him; yet, incongruous as it may sound, her feelings were happy--her mind was free from loneliness as her train steamed into the crowded railway station and she found herself free to drive to her hotel.

After all, life undeniably stretched before her, and there was no prohibition against letting her eyes dwell upon the vistas it opened up!

Knowledge of duty done--be the doing ever so tardy--is the best stimulus for the wayfarer in the world's by-ways; and Clodagh, as she stepped from her train on that February afternoon, was conscious of some such reassuring certainty.

In the last two years, life for her had been a thing of physical inaction, accompanied by a subtle process of mental development.

The night of tempestuous excitement--when, in a whirl of pain, chagrin, and passionate self-contempt, she had repudiated Venice and her newly made friends--had been the birth of a fresh phase in her existence.

With all the ardour, all the enthusiasm, whereof her vivid nature was capable, she had veered from her former point of view to another almost as extreme.

The return to Florence, the taking up of existence in the secluded villa, had been like the incidents of a dream; then, in the days that had succeeded--in the early mornings, or the late evenings--as she sat upon the marble rim of the drowsy fountain in the garden, gazed down from Fiesole upon the sleeping Roman amphitheatre, or knelt in a dim recess of the old church of San Dominico, rendered mystical by the smell of incense and the flicker of wax tapers, the dream had shaped itself.

It had become a tapestry, into the pictures of which many figures were woven, but where only two took place and prominence--her own and one other.

For in those silent hours the thought of Gore--the remembrance of Gore--had come back to her as tangible things.

In that solitude peopled by imagination, she had forgotten the hurt vanity, the bitter disappointment, that had clothed her last interview with him; and remembered only that, seeing fit to reprove her, he had dared to do so--that, seeing the brink upon which she had stood, he had put out his hand to draw her back.

And, standing in this new light, Gore became an ideal, a being apart, endowed with endless power to inspire high deeds.

An idealist born, Clodagh was created to make-believe.

The make-believes were probably the swaying of an impulsive mind from one emotional pole to the other;

but in this case, at least, benefit accrued.

She developed a sudden gentle tolerance of Milbanke--an altogether unprecedented care for his comfort and well-being.

The working of this profoundly subtle emotion was far too deep to be even guessed at by herself.

And had any student of human nature told her that the new tenderness for the timid, unassuming husband, who made so few demands upon her consideration, arose from the fact that another man had crossed her life--rousing at once her imagination, her antagonism, and her admiration, showing her new depths in the world around her, new possibilities within herself--she would have been both incredulous and indignant.

But no student of human nature visited the villa.

And she lived undisturbed in her atmosphere of dreams.

Whether the vague, subconscious thought that Gore, away in his own world, might hear of her graver attitude towards life and might secretly approve, ever lent zest to her self-imposed duties, it would have been impossible to say;

but certain it is that if the thought came, it came unbidden and stayed unrecognised.

And now Milbanke was dead.

And life--not the mythical life of memories, of dreams, even of ideals, but the life of hope and warm human possibilities--was hers, as it had been long ago, before her husband's name had ever been spoken in her presence.

Her mind was at peace, as she drove through the narrow streets of Paris, with their cheerful characteristic chorus of shouting newsvendors, and cracking whips.

The hotel she had chosen was a small one, close to the Place Vendome;

and when her fiacre stopped and she entered the vestibule, her sense of pleasure and contentment increased.

The quiet air of the place contrasted agreeably with her previous experience of hotel life.

Still conscious of this impression of security, she turned away from the bureau where she had registered her name, and crossed the vestibule to the lift.

Taking her place on the velvet-covered seat, she watched the attendant close the iron doors and turn to set the lift in motion.

But at the moment that he laid his hand upon the button, she saw the swinging doors of the hotel open, to admit a lady.

The new-comer, seeing that the lift was about to ascend, hurried towards it; and Clodagh, idly interested by the sound of rustling silk, leaned forward in her seat.

But the light in the vestibule was dim, and she caught nothing beyond the outline of a large hat and the suggestion of a pale green dress.

Then, suddenly, the stranger spoke, and her heart gave a tremendous leap.

"Wait!"

she called in French--"wait!

I am coming!"

It needed but the five words, spoken in a clear, dictatorial voice, to assure Clodagh that the speaker was known to her; and as the attendant paused in his task, and, turning promptly, opened the grilled door, her mind was prepared for the vision of Lady Frances Hope.

But if she was prepared for the encounter, the new-comer was taken completely by surprise.

Entering the lift, she glanced casually at its other occupant; then her whole face changed.

"It is---- It can't be!

It _is_ Mrs. Milbanke!"

Her glance passed rapidly over Clodagh's deep mourning and her expression altered in accordance.

"My dear Mrs. Milbanke," she said softly, "how thoughtless of me not to realise at once!

I heard through Mr. Barnard.

How are you?

--how are you?"

She pressed the hand Clodagh had offered her, and looked sympathetically into her face.

Then, as the lift, gliding upwards, stopped at the first floor and Clodagh rose, her expression changed again.

"Are you located on this floor?

How delightful!

We are neighbours.

I am number five.

What are you?"

"Seven," Clodagh said gently, speaking for the first time.

There was something very strange to her in this meeting--something not altogether unpleasant.

In the two years since they had met--and in the light of her last evening in Venice--the image of Lady Frances Hope had become slightly distorted.

And there was a sense of surprise, of reassurance in finding her so kindly, so gracious, so unalarming.

"Seven!"

Lady Frances repeated.

"Delightful!

You must dine with me to-night.

I have a private room, and am quite alone.

It will be an act of charity.

I am on my way south.

By the way, where are you bound for?"

Clodagh smiled.

"I am going home."

"Home?"

"To England."

"England!

My dear child, not England in February?

Why, the atmosphere is a combination of fog and sleet; and the people----" She made a gesture of horror.

"Everybody who hasn't influenza is either expecting it or shaking it off."

Clodagh laughed a little.

"I have never had influenza.

It will be an experience.

But I must look after my maid.

Travelling is new to her."

She glanced down the corridor to where Simonetta was awaiting her beside a mountain of luggage.

Lady Frances made haste to echo her laugh.

"Well, well!"

she said.

"It's good to have the enthusiasm of youth.

But you will dine with me?

Dinner in an hour."

Clodagh hesitated.

Yesterday she would have ardently avoided a meeting with Lady Frances Hope.

Now that it had been thrust upon her, it seemed to possess no danger.

What was it Gore had said on that memorable night?

"I am not depreciating Lady Frances Hope or her social standing----" Very swiftly she recalled the words and construed them in the light of her present feelings.

After all, she was not the child she had been two years ago.

And it was not Lady Frances, but the set that surrounded her, to which Gore took exception.

Her companion, seeing the hesitation in her eyes, gave a quick, bright smile.

"Do come!

I will give you news of--every one."

Clodagh coloured slightly.

"Very well!"

she said.

"In an hour.

Thank you very much!"

And with an agreeable, unfamiliar sense of interest and excitement, she turned and passed down the corridor to where Simonetta stood.

Before opening her own door, Lady Frances Hope stood for a few seconds watching the retreating figure; then, apparently without reason, she frowned, drew her lips together, and pushing her door hastily open, passed out of sight.

Still imbued with the sense of contentment, Clodagh changed her heavy black travelling dress for one of lighter texture, allowed Simonetta to rearrange her hair, and, at the appointed hour, presented herself at Lady Frances Hope's door.

Lady Frances had also discarded her elaborate costume for something lighter and more comfortable, and was ensconced on a low divan, reading a French novel, when her guest was announced.

Immediately Clodagh's name reached her, she threw the book aside, and rose with great cordiality.

"How sweet you look!"

she exclaimed.

"You are the first dark woman I've ever liked in black.

But then, of course, you are not exactly dark.

Sit down!

Dinner will be served in a moment.

How did you know of this place?

Have you stayed here before?"

Clodagh had come forward and seated herself beside her hostess.

Now, as she looked about her, she noticed with a feeling of restfulness that the room was pretty and homelike, and that there were flowers on the tables and soft yellow shades on the electric lamps.

"No; I have never been here before.

Mr. Barnard gave the address to my--my husband, when we were in Venice; and I came across it among his papers after--after----" She hesitated.

Lady Frances leaned forward sympathetically.

"Poor child!"

she murmured.

"Don't talk of it!

You have had a most trying time.

Barny told me all about it only a week ago.

But this place is really quite good," she added, in a cheerful voice; "better now than ever.

They have just secured the chef from the 'Abbati' Restaurant in Venice.

But, of course, you knew 'Abbati's.' " Her quick glance passed over Clodagh's face.

Then she rose and moved to the table, as two waiters entered, and dinner was announced.

Clodagh coloured, and crossed the room in her hostess's wake.

"Yes," she said, taking her seat at the table--"yes; I once dined there.

It was a wonderfully fascinating place.

Has it been a failure?"

Lady Frances shrugged her shoulders.

"Vanished!

But tell me about yourself!"

She turned to her guest with a change of manner.

"You are not seriously contemplating England at this time of year?"

Clodagh smiled calmly.

"Quite seriously."

"But, my dear child, why, if one may be inquisitive?"

"Because I want to know England--to know the English."

Lady Frances's eyes narrowed very slightly; then she gave one of her bright laughs.

"Then come back with me to the Riviera!

Any English people worth studying will be found there.

Change your plans!

Come back with me!"

Clodagh looked up.

She was uncertain whether the suggestion had been made in jest or earnest, and the smiling, searching glance of her hostess did not enlighten her.

With a slight feeling of embarrassment, she broke off abruptly into another channel of talk.

"And how is Mr. Barnard?"

she asked.

"Barny!

Oh, optimistic as ever!"

"Then there is one amusing person left in England!"

Lady Frances laughed.

"Only temporarily.

He takes his holiday next month.

Last March he joined the Luards and me in Naples, and we all went on to Sicily.

It was tremendous fun."

She laughed again over some recollection; and entered upon a history of her Sicilian adventures that occupied the rest of dinner.

At the termination of the meal, however, when the waiters had brought in coffee and silently retired, she dropped her reminiscent tone, and, rising from table, moved back to the divan, which was drawn pleasantly near to a bright wood fire.

"Come here, and let's be comfortable!"

she said.

"I always have a cigarette after dinner.

I forget whether you smoke."

Clodagh smiled, as she came slowly forward.

"Not since my cousin and I used to smoke in the top branches of an apple tree in Ireland.

I should be afraid to try the experiment again;

I might lose an illusion.

No other cigarettes could taste like those stolen ones!"

She gave a little sigh, then a little laugh, and seated herself.

Lady Frances looked up from the cigarette she was drawing from her case.

"Illusions!"

she said.

"Why, life is all illusions at your age!"

She paused; then, after a moment's silence, went on again, but in a slower, more considered voice: "You thought I was jesting at dinner, when I asked you to come south with me.

But I wasn't. I meant it."

She struck a match and lighted her cigarette.

"You don't know how you would enjoy Nice.

You lost yourself in the delights of roulette at Venice.

Think what Monte Carlo would be!"

With a sudden tumultuous confusion, Clodagh flushed.

"I--I have ceased to care about things like that," she said in a hurried voice.

Lady Frances's expression changed to one of deep interest, sharpened by surprise.

"Ceased to care?"

she repeated softly.

"Since when?

And why?"

"Since"--Clodagh hesitated--"oh, since that time in Venice."

Her hostess flicked the ash from her cigarette.

"Some new influence?"

Clodagh was taken unawares.

"I--I have got to know myself better since that time in Venice," she said below her breath.

"Some one--something--has made me see that it was not my true self that showed then.

I was foolish in those days.

I

was carried away----" A very faint smile flitted across Lady Frances's lips.

"That idea belongs to the some one else?"