Part 91 (1/2)

Hannah's hand dropped from her shoulder in sudden excitement.

”Miss Clodagh!” she said breathlessly--”Miss Clodagh, is it a husband you'll be thinkin' to take?”

Again Clodagh's gaze wandered across the sky, melting now from gold to orange.

”There is a man who wants to take me for his wife, Hannah,” she corrected, very gently.

”An' you do be puttin' him before everythin' in the world?”

Clodagh turned swiftly and met the small, anxious eyes.

”So much before everything, that if I were to lose him now I should lose”--she paused for an instant, then added--”myself.”

Hannah's eyes narrowed in the intensity of her concern.

”An' he do be carin' for you, Miss Clodagh?”

Clodagh learnt forward; and the warm light from the sunset touched and transfigured her face.

”Yes--he cares,” she said very slowly.

CHAPTER XVIII

Late on the afternoon that followed her arrival, Clodagh--with Larry in attendance--climbed up the uneven path that led from the Orristown boat-cove to the house. A considerable change had taken place in the weather since the previous evening. The sky no longer hung low and motionless above the horizon line; the sea no longer shone white and polished as a mirror. A gale had sprung up, breaking the clouds and whipping the sea into small green waves; and more than once, as the cousins clambered up the rugged track, a.s.shlin paused to look back at his small boat, lying with furled sail and s.h.i.+pped oars on the s.h.i.+ngle.

”I hope I've beached her high enough,” he said. ”There will be a big sea to-night.”

Clodagh laughed. The prospect of a storm stirred her. She felt boundlessly happy, boundlessly confident in this free, open life.

The night before, after Larry had left her, and the first tinge of twilight had fallen across the old house, there had been a moment in which the ghosts of memory had threatened to a.s.sail her--to come trooping up the gaunt staircase, and through the great, bare rooms. But her will had conquered; she had dispelled the phantoms, and had slept dreamlessly in the big four-post bed.

In the morning she had awakened, as James Milbanke had awakened long ago, to a world of light and joy. But with this difference, that to him the world had been a thing to speculate upon and study, while to her it was a thing familiar--understood--possessed. While she partook of breakfast and while she visited the stables, she kept Hannah by her side, learning from her the vicissitudes of the many humble lives around Orristown that had been known to her since childhood; then, before the tales had been half recounted, Larry had arrived in his boat; and the two cousins, like children playing at a long-loved game, had gone down together to the boat-cove to where the little craft flashed its white sail like a seagull in the sun, and danced with impatience to be off across the crisp green waves.

Clodagh's first act on landing, at Carrigmore, had been to visit the little ivy-covered post-office, in the hope that the Orristown letters might possibly be intercepted. But the postman had already left the village, and she had no choice but to wait patiently for Gore's first letter until her return in the evening. But the postponement had not been sufficient to damp her spirits; and she had started on her various expeditions with a very light heart. Last of all, had come the visit to Mrs. a.s.shlin, who now rarely left her room, but lay all day in the semi-light made by drawn blinds, drinking numerous cups of strong tea and keeping up a fitful murmur of complaint.

With senses that rebelled against the depressing atmosphere, Clodagh had entered the bedroom and had sat for nearly an hour beside her aunt's couch, listening with all the patience she could muster to the oft-repeated tale of discontent and ill-health. Then at last, feeling that duty could demand no more, she had risen and kissed Mrs. a.s.shlin's worn cheek.

”We must have you over in London, Aunt Fan,” she said cheerfully. ”We must take you to a really good doctor, and have you made quite well.”

But Mrs. a.s.shlin had shaken her head dubiously.

”I never had faith in really good doctors since Molyneaux came down to see your poor father.”

To this, there seemed no possible response; so Clodagh had kissed her aunt once more, and, with a promise that she would return the next day, had slipped silently out of the gloomy room followed by Larry. Outside, in the vivid daylight, the cousins had looked at each other involuntarily.

”Sometimes life seems awful, Clo!” a.s.shlin had said, in a despondent voice. And with a momentary shock, Clodagh had caught a gleam of the restlessness, the brooding gloom, that used long ago to settle on the face of her father.

”Why don't you leave Carrigmore, Larry?” she had said quickly. ”It's a wonderful place to rest in, but it's not the place for the whole of a man's life.”