Part 31 (1/2)
He folded the letter carefully and returned it to its envelope.
”Because Barnard is coming to Venice in two days, and suggests that I should meet him there.”
”Venice!” Clodagh said the word softly.
”Yes. Most tiresome!--most annoying! But he thinks it an opportunity that should not be lost. I have not had an interview with him since we left Nance at school. He came then to our hotel in London; I do not think you met him.”
”No. But I remember his coming to see you. I remember Nance and I thought he had such a jolly laugh; we heard it from her bedroom--the one that opened off our sitting-room.”
With the mention of this new subject, trivial though it was, Clodagh's manner had changed.
”But what about Venice?” she asked, after a moment's pause. ”Will you go?”
Milbanke looked thoughtful.
”Well, I--I scarcely know what to say. Of course I could refuse on the ground of this business in Sicily. But it is a question of expediency.
A few days with Barnard now may save me a journey to London next year.
Still it is very provoking!”
”But Venice!” Clodagh suggested, and again her tone was soft. More than any other in Italy, the beautiful city of the Adriatic had appealed to her curiosity and her imagination. With a quick glance her eyes travelled over the sheltered, drowsy garden, sloping downward, terrace below terrace.
”I should love to see Venice,” she said suddenly. ”I always picture it so wide and silent and mysterious.”
Milbanke looked up from the opening of his third letter.
”Venice is unhealthy,” he said prosaically.
For one moment her lip curled.
”Perhaps that is why it appeals to me,” she said with a flash of the old, insubordinate spirit. Then suddenly her eyes met her husband's quiet, puzzled gaze and the pa.s.sing light died out of her face. With a hasty gesture she lifted her coffee cup to her lips and set it down empty.
”Come along, Mick!” she said, pus.h.i.+ng back her chair and speaking with unconscious sarcasm. ”Come and let us see whether we can find any roses in the garden!”
CHAPTER II
Clodagh's manner was careless and her gait nonchalant as she rose from table and crossed the terrace followed by her dog; but inwardly she burned with a newly kindled sense of antic.i.p.ation. There was no particular reason why the idea of a journey to Venice, for the purpose of seeing a stock-broker--even though that stock-broker was a personal friend of Milbanke's--should be instinct with any promise; yet the idea excited her. With the exception of the journey to England with Nance, it was the first time in four years that her husband had seriously contemplated any move not ostensibly connected with his hobby. And the thought of Venice; the suggestion of encountering any one whose interests lay outside antiquities, had power to elate her. As she left the breakfast table, her steps unconsciously quickened; and Mick, attentively sensitive to her altered gait, wagged his short tail, gave one sharp, incisive bark of question, and looked up at her with ears inquisitively p.r.i.c.ked.
She paused and looked down at him.
”Mick, darling,” she whispered, ”imagine Venice at night--the music and the water and the romance! And just think--” her voice dropped still lower--”just think what it would be to meet some one--any one at all--who might happen to notice that one's clothes were new, and that one's hair was properly done up!”
She bent down in a sudden impulse of excitement and kissed his upraised head; then with a quick laugh at her own impetuosity, she turned and ran down the first flight of time-worn marble steps.
That was her private and personal reception of the news. Later, returning with her arms full of the roses that ran riot in the garden, she was able to meet Milbanke with a demeanour of dignified calm; and to answer his questions as to whether her boxes could be packed in two days, in a voice that was dutifully submissive and unmoved.
But the two days of preparation were imbued with a secret joy. There was a new and unending delight in selecting the most beautiful of the dresses in her elaborate wardrobe, and in feeling that at last they were to be seen by eyes that would understand their value. For Milbanke, while never restraining her craving for costly clothes, had, since the day of their marriage, been totally un.o.bservant and indifferent as to whether she wore silk or home-spun; and on the occasions when outside opinions might have been brought to bear upon the matter--namely, the moments when the archaeological excursions were undertaken--necessities of season or expediency had invariably limited her supply of garments to the clothes that would not show the dust or the clothes that would keep out the rain. But now the prospect was different. It was still the season in Venice; she would be justified in bringing the best and most attractive clothes she possessed. The thought was exhilarating; life became a thing of bustle and interest.
Two and three times a day she drove into Florence to make totally unnecessary purchases; she wrote more than one long letter to Nance; and indulged in many a protracted and confidential talk with Mick as they sat together on the edge of the old marble fountain that dripped and dozed in the sun.