Читать книгу The House of Dreams-Come-True - Margaret Pedler - Страница 5

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“A ND this friend of your father’s? You have not heard from her yet?”

Jean and Madame de Varigny were breakfasting together the morning after Peterson’s departure.

“No. I hoped a letter might have come for me by this morning’s post. But I’m afraid I shall be on your hands a day or two longer”—smiling.

“But it is a pleasure!” Madame de Varigny reassured her warmly. “My husband and I are here for another week yet. After that we go on to St. Moritz. He is suddenly discontented with Montavan. If, by any chance, you have not then heard from Lady—Lady—I forget the name——”

“Lady Anne Brennan,” supplied Jean.

A curiously concentrated expression seemed to flit for an instant across Madame de Varigny’s face, but she continued smoothly:

“Mais, oui—Lady Brennan. Eh bien, if you have not heard from her by the time we leave for St. Moritz, you must come with us. It would add greatly to our pleasure.”

“It’s very good of you,” replied Jean. She felt frankly grateful for the suggestion, realising that if, by any mischance, the letter should be delayed till then, Madame de Varigny’s offer would considerably smooth her path. In spite of Glyn’s decision that she must join him in Paris, should Lady Anne’s invitation fail to materialise, she was well aware that he would not greet her appearance on the scene with any enthusiasm.

“I suppose”—the Countess was speaking again—“I suppose Brennan is a very frequent—a common name in England?”

The question was put quite casually, more as though for the sake of making conversation than anything else, yet Madame de Varigny seemed to await the answer with a curious anxiety.

“Oh, no,” Jean replied readily enough, “I don’t think it is a common name. Lady Anne married into a junior branch of the family, I believe,” she added.

“That would not be considered a very good match for a peer’s daughter, surely?” hazarded the Countess. “A junior branch? I suppose there was a romantic love-affair of some kind behind it?”

“It was Lady Anne’s second marriage. Her first husband was a Tormarin—one of the oldest families in England.” Jean spoke rather stiffly. There was something jarring about the pertinacious catechism.

Madame de Varigny’s lips trembled as she put her next question, and not even the dusky fringe of lashes could quite soften the sudden tense gleam in her eyes.

“Tor—ma—rin!” She pronounced the name with a French inflection, evidently finding the unusual English word a little beyond her powers. “What a curious name! That, I am sure, must be uncommon. And this Lady Anne—she has children—sons? No?”

“Oh, yes. She has two sons.”

“Indeed?” Madame de Varigny looked interested. “And what are the sons called?”

Jean regarded her with mild surprise. Apparently the subject of nomenclature had a peculiar fascination for her.

“I really forget. My father did once tell me, but I don’t recollect what he said.”

A perceptible shade of disappointment passed over the other’s face, then, as though realising that she had exhibited a rather uncalled-for curiosity, she said deprecatingly:

“I fear I seem intrusive. But I am so interested in your future—I have taken a great fancy to you, mademoiselle. That must be my excuse.” She rose from the table, adding smilingly: “At least you will not find it dull, since Lady Anne has two sons. They will he companions for you.”

Jean rose, too, and together they passed out of the salle à manger.

“And what do you propose to do with yourself to-day?” asked the Countess, pausing in the hall. “My husband and I are going for a sleigh drive. Would you care to come with us? We should he delighted.”

Jean shook her head.

“It’s very kind of you. But I should really like to try my luck on the ice. I haven’t skated for some years, and as I feel a trifle shaky about beginning again, Monsieur Griolet, who directs the sports, has promised to coach me up a bit some time this morning.”

“Bon!” Madame de Varigny nodded pleasantly. “You will be well occupied while we are away. Au revoir, then, till our return. Perhaps we shall walk down to the rink later to witness your progress under Monsieur Groilet’s instruction.”

She smiled mischievously, the smile irradiating her face with a sudden charm. Jean felt as though, for a moment, she had glimpsed the woman the Countess might have been but for some happening in her life which had soured and embittered it, setting that strange implacability within the liquid depths of her soft, southern eyes.

She was still speculating on Madame de Varigny’s curious personality as she made her way along the beaten track that led towards the rink, and then, as a sudden turn of the way brought the sheet of ice suddenly into full view, all thoughts concerning the bunch of contradictions that goes to make up individual character were swept out of her mind.

In the glory of the morning sunlight the stretch of frozen water gleamed like a shield of burnished silver, whilst on its further side rose great pine-woods, mysteriously dark and silent, climbing the steeply rising ground towards the mountains.

There were a number of people skating, and Jean discovered Monsieur Griolet in the distance, supervising the practice of a pretty American girl who was cutting figures with an ease and exquisite balance of lithe body that hardly seemed to stand in need of the instructions he poured forth so volubly. Probably, Jean decided, the American had entered for some match and was being coached up to concert pitch accordingly.

She stood for a little time watching with interest the varied performances of the skaters. Bands of light-hearted young folk, indulging in the sport just for the sheer enjoyment of it, sped gaily by, broken snatches of their talk and laughter drifting back to her as they passed, whilst groups of more accomplished skaters performed intricate evolutions with an earnestness and intensity of purpose almost worthy of a better cause.

Jean felt herself a little stranded and forlorn. She would have liked someone to share her enthusiasm for the marvels achieved by the figure-skaters—and to laugh with her a little at their deadly seriousness and at the scraps of heated argument anent the various schools of technique which came to her, borne on the still, clear air.

Presently her attention was attracted by the solitary figure of a man who swept past her in the course of making a complete circle of the rink. He skimmed the ice with the free assurance of an expert, and as he passed, Jean caught a fleeting glimpse of a supple, sinewy figure, and of a lean, dark face, down-bent, with a cap crammed low on to the somewhat scowling brows.

There was something curiously distinctive about the man. Brief as was her vision of him, it possessed an odd definiteness—a vividness of impression that was rather startling.

He flashed by, his arms folded across his chest, moving with long, rhythmic strokes which soon carried him to the further side of the rink. Jean’s eyes followed him interestedly. He was unmistakably an Englishman, and he seemed to be as solitary as herself, but, unlike her, he appeared indifferent to the fact, absorbed in his own thoughts which, to judge by the sullen, brooding expression of his face, were not particularly pleasant ones.

Soon she lost sight of him amid the scattered groups of smoothly gliding figures. The scene reminded her of a cinema show. People darted suddenly into the picture, materialising in full detail in the space of a moment, then rushed out of it again, dwindling into insignificant black dots which merged themselves into the continuously shifting throng beyond.

At last she bent her steps towards the lower end of the rink, by common consent reserved for beginners in the art of skating. She had not skated for several years, owing to a severe strain which had left her with a weak ankle, and she felt somewhat nervous about starting again.

Rather slowly she fastened on her skates and ventured tentatively on to the ice. For a few minutes she suffered from a devastating feeling that her legs didn’t belong to her, and wished heartily that she had never quitted the safe security of the bank, but before long her confidence returned, and with it that flexible ease of balance which, once acquired, is never really lost.

In a short time she was thoroughly enjoying the rapid, effortless motion, and felt herself equal to steering a safe course beyond the narrow limits of the “Mugs’ Corner”—as that portion of the ice allotted to novices was unkindly dubbed.

She struck out for the middle of the rink, gradually increasing her speed and revelling in the sting of the keen, cold air against her face. Then, all at once, it seemed as though the solid surface gave way beneath her foot. She lurched forward, flung violently off her balance, and in the same moment the sharp clink of metal upon ice betrayed the cause. One of her skates, insecurely fastened, had come off.

She staggered wildly, and in another instant would have fallen had not someone, swift as a shadow, glided suddenly abreast of her and, slipping a supporting arm round her waist, skated smoothly beside her, little by little slackening their mutual pace until Jean, on one blade all this time, could stop without danger of falling.

As they glided to a standstill, she turned to offer her thanks and found herself looking straight into the lean, dark face of the Englishman who had passed her when she had been watching the skaters.

He lifted his cap, and as he stood for a moment bare-headed beside her, she noticed with a curious little shock—half surprised, half appreciative—that on the left temple his dark brown hair was streaked with a single pure white lock, as though a finger had been laid upon the hair and bleached it where it lay. It conferred a certain air of distinction—an added value of contrast—just as the sharp black shadow in a neutral-tinted picture gives sudden significance to the whole conception.

The stranger was regarding Jean with a flicker of amusement in his grey eyes.

“That was a near thing!” he observed.

Evidently he judged her to be a Frenchwoman, for he spoke in French—very fluently, but with an unmistakable English accent. Instinctively Jean, who all her life had been as frequently called upon to converse in French as English, responded in the same language.

She was breathing rather quickly, a little shaken by the suddenness of the incident, and his face took on a shade of concern.

“You’re not hurt, I hope? Did you twist your ankle?”

“No—oh, no,” she smiled up at him. “I can’t have fastened my skate on properly, and when it shot off like that I’m afraid I rather lost my head. You see,” she added explanatorily, “I haven’t skated for some years. And I was never very proficient.”

“I see,” he said gravely. “It was a little rash of you to start again quite alone, wasn’t it?”

“I suppose it was. However, as you luckily happened to be there to save me from the consequences, no harm is done. Thank you so much.”

There was a note of dismissal in her voice, but apparently he failed to notice it, for he held out his hands to her crosswise, saying:

“Let me help you to the bank, and then I’ll retrieve your errant skate for you.”

He so evidently expected her to comply with his suggestion that, almost without her own volition, she found herself moving with him towards the edge of the rink, her hands grasped in a close, steady clasp, and a moment later she was scrambling up the bank. Once more on level ground, she made a movement to withdraw her hands.

“I can manage quite well now,” she said rather nervously. There was something in that strong, firm grip of his which sent a curious tremor of consciousness through her.

He made no answer, but released her instantly, and in her anxiety to show him how well she could manage she hurried on, struck the tip of the skate she was still wearing against a little hummock of frozen snow, and all but fell. He caught her as she stumbled.

“I think.” he remarked drily, “you would do well to sacrifice your independence till your feet are on more equal terms with one another.”

Jean laughed ruefully.

“I think I should,” she agreed meekly.

He led her to where the prone trunk of a tree offered a seat of sorts, then went in search of the missing skate. Returning in a few moments, he knelt beside her and fastened it on—securely this time—to the slender foot she extended towards him.

“You’re much too incompetent to be out on the ice alone,” he remarked as he buckled the last strap.

A faint flush of annoyance rose in Jean’s cheeks at the uncompromising frankness of the observation.

“What are your friends thinking of to let you do such a thing?” he pursued, blandly ignoring her mute indignation.

“I have no friends here. I am—my own mistress,” she replied rather tartly.

He was still kneeling in the snow in front of her. Now he sat back on his heels and subjected her face to a sharp, swift scrutiny. Almost, she thought, she detected a sudden veiled suspicion in the keen glance.

“You’re not the sort of girl to be knocking about—alone—at a hotel,” he said at last, as though satisfied.

“How do you know what I’m like?” she retorted quickly, “You are hardly qualified to judge.”

“Pardon, mademoiselle, I do not know what you are—but I do know very certainly what you are not. And”—smiling a little—“I think we have just had ocular demonstration of the fact that you’re not accustomed to fending for yourself.”

There was something singularly attractive about his smile. It lightened his whole face, contradicting the settled gravity that seemed habitual to it, and Jean found herself smiling back in response.

“Well, as a matter of fact, I’m not,” she admitted. “I came here with my father, and he was—was suddenly called away. I am going on to stay with friends.”

“This is my last day here,” he remarked with sudden irrelevance. “I am off first thing to-morrow morning.”

“You’re not stopping at the hotel, are you?”

He shook his head.

“No. I’m staying at a friend’s chalet a little way beyond it. Mais, voyons, mademoiselle, you will catch cold sitting there. Are you too frightened to try the ice again?”

He seemed to assume that her next essay would be made in his company. Jean spoke a little hurriedly.

“Oh, no, I was supposed to have a lesson with Monsieur Griolet this morning. He is an instructor,” she explained. “But he was engaged coaching someone else when I came out.”

“And which is this Monsieur Griolet? Can you see him?”

Jean’s glance ranged over the scattered figures on the rink.

“Yes. There he is.”

His eyes followed the direction indicated.

“He seems to be well occupied at the moment,” he commented. “Suppose—would you allow me to act as coach instead?”

She hesitated. This stranger appeared to be uncompromisingly progressive in his tendencies.

“I’m perfectly capable,” he added curtly.

“I’m sure of that. But——”

His eyes twinkled. “But it would not be quite comme il faut? Is that it?”

“Well, it wouldn’t, would it?” she retaliated.

His face grew suddenly grave, and she noticed that when in repose there were deep, straight lines on either side of his mouth—lines that are usually only furrowed by severe suffering, either mental or physical.

“Mademoiselle,” he said quietly. “To-day, it seems, we are two very lonely people. Couldn’t we forget what is comme il faut for once? We shall probably never meet again. We know nothing of each other—just ‘ships that pass in the night.’ Let us keep one another company—take this one day together.”

He drew a step nearer to her.

“Will you?” he said. “Will you?”

He was looking down at her with eyes that were curiously bright and compelling. There was a tense note in his voice which once again sent that disconcerting tremor of consciousness tingling through her blood.

She knew that his proposal was impertinent, unconventional, even regarded from the standpoint of the modern broad interpretation of the word convention, and that by every law of Mrs. Grundy she ought to snub him soundly for his presumption and retrace her steps to the hotel with all the dignity at her command.

But she did none of these things. Instead, she stood hesitating, alternately flushing and paling beneath the oddly concentrated gaze he bent on her.

“I swear it shall bind you to nothing,” he pursued urgently. “Not even to recognising me in the street should our ways ever chance to cross again. Though that is hardly likely to occur”—with a shrug—“seeing that mademoiselle is French and that I am rarely out of England. It will be just one day that we shall have shared together out of the whole of life, and after that the ‘darkness again and a silence.’. … I can promise you the ‘silence’!” he added with a sudden harsh inflection.

It was that bitter note which won the day. In some subtle, subconscious way Jean sensed the pain which lay at the back of it. She answered impulsively:

“Very well. It shall be as you wish.”

A rarely sweet smile curved the man’s grave lips.

“Thank you,” he said simply.