Читать книгу The Black Cabinet - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 5

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The music-room at Ranbourne was full of the rather raucous strains of the latest fox-trot and the sound of dancing feet. Chloe stood on the threshold with Toto under one arm, and saw Monica Gresson detach herself from her very good-looking partner and come forward a shade reluctantly. Even before she spoke, Chloe was aware that this was not one of the days when Monica was going to be “all over her.”

“Good gracious, Chloe! A dog?” Her tone implied that Toto was an offence.

“He’s not a dog; he’s a horror,” said Chloe. “And thank goodness, he isn’t mine. An old lady who says she’s coming to stay with you pressed him into my hand by the roadside. She said that I was to save his precious life by bringing him here and seeing that he had China tea at once, with one lump of sugar in it, and a Marie biscuit. She said her name was Mrs. Merston Howard.”

“What can I do with him?” said Monica, looking helpless.

“Housekeeper’s room,” said Chloe. “And if we’re going to dance, I want to take off my coat and change my shoes.”

They disposed of Toto, and Chloe slipped out of her coat and patted her hair.

“Who is Mrs. Merston Howard?” she asked.

“My godmother. She’s frightfully rich, and hasn’t any relations. Mother thinks she’ll leave me her money; but she won’t.”

“She’ll probably leave it to Toto. Who’s here?”

“Joyce Langholm and the brother from India; and the two Renton boys—you know them; and—and Mr. Fossetter who’s staying with us.”

Monica’s manner became a trifle conscious. She had the largest blue eyes in the County; on the strength of them she considered herself a beauty. For the rest, Chloe’s description of her as bun-faced was apt enough.

“Who is Mr. Fossetter?” said Chloe, laughing.

“We met him at Danesborough.” Monica became flushed and eager. “He knows simply everyone and goes everywhere. I believe he’s one of the best dancers in London—and quite too frightfully good-looking. Chloe, you won’t flirt with him, will you?”

“I never flirt,” said Chloe. “And as long as a man can dance, I don’t care twopence how hideous he is, or how handsome.”

Martin Fossetter was dancing with Joyce Langholm when the door opened. He looked across the room and saw Chloe Dane in a thin orange jumper and a short skirt that showed very pretty feet and ankles.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

Miss Langholm froze a little.

“A girl Monica used to be at school with. She’s in a shop or something now. It’s awfully decent of Monica to have her here, of course; but I think it’s silly myself—unsettling for the girl, you know.”

Martin Fossetter had a most sympathetic voice. He smiled at Joyce and said:

“Yes, I know.” Then, after a little pause, “What’s her name?”

“Dane—Chloe Dane,” said Miss Langholm.

Mr. Fossetter began to talk of other things. He had the knack of being personal without impertinence, and his very handsome eyes assured the woman on whom they rested of a most particular and poignant interest. One of the most courted women in England once said of him: “Martin Fossetter makes you feel that you are the heroine of some thrilling romance. I’m never quite sure though whether he’s the hero or the villain.” Miss Langholm was not so acute as this; she was merely rather better pleased with herself than usual.

Presently Mr. Fossetter asked Monica to introduce him to Chloe. They danced, and Chloe found him the partner of her dreams, with a step that suited hers to a marvel.

“How beautifully you dance,” said Martin Fossetter.

Chloe nodded.

“It’s about the only thing I can do decently. I do love it.”

Martin’s dark eyes rested on her with admiration—and something else. So this was Chloe Dane, the girl that old Mitchell Dane was coming to Maxton to have a look at. One might gamble on his being satisfied.

“Do you know, I’ve just been staying at Danesborough,” he said.

“Have you?” Chloe’s tone was indifferent.

“Yes, that’s why I was so interested to meet you. They still remember you there, you know, and talk about you.”

Chloe said nothing. She did not care to speak of Danesborough to a stranger. Even to Rose she hardly ever spoke of her old home—twice, or three times perhaps in their two years together; and to a stranger—no, Chloe had nothing to say about Danesborough to this stranger. He was aware at once of her withdrawal.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you might like to hear about it—to know that Mr. Dane hasn’t spoilt the place. It’s beautiful and——”

The sympathy in his voice altered Chloe’s mood. She looked up at him suddenly, and he saw that her eyes were not really black after all, but a very, very dark brown. They could look soft too, as well as bright; they looked soft now.

“I was only nine,” she said—her voice was like a child’s voice—“I was only nine. I did love it. There was a lily pond, and there were peacocks. I remember there was a white peacock that mewed like a cat; and I called him Henry—I don’t know why, but I did.” She laughed a little, and looked away. The sympathy in Martin Fossetter’s eyes had brought a mist to her own. Chloe was not used to sympathy, and it touched something in her warm young heart.

“The lily pond is still there,” he said. “I saw it in the summer. There was a crimson lily among the white ones. You ought to go there and see it in the spring.”

“I shall never go there again,” said Chloe.

Martin smiled.

“That’s like saying to the fountain, ‘Je ne boirai jamais de ton eau,’—you know the proverb. I think you’re tempting fate when you say that you will never go back to Danesborough any more.”

Chloe laughed, suddenly, frankly. Her eyes were black again, and very bright.

“It’s a fate I don’t mind tempting,” she said, and dropped his arm.