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The Vision of Desire

by Margaret Pedler · English · Gutenberg #7855 · 618,908 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Vision of Desire

Author: Margaret Pedler


        
Release date: April 1, 2005 [eBook #7855]
                Most recently updated: December 30, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7855

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VISION OF DESIRE ***




Prepared by Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders



THE VISION OF DESIRE

BY MARGARET PEDLER

AUTHOR OF
THE HERMIT OF FAR END,
THE MOON OUT OF REACH, ETC.







  _"Heaven but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire
  And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on Fire."_

                  --THE RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM




TO BUNTY

(F. MABEL WARHURST)

WITH MY LOVE




CONTENTS


PROLOGUE

CHAPTER

     I ANN'S LEGACY

    II THE BRABAZONS OF LORNE

   III ON THE TOP OF THE WORLD

    IV RATS IN A TRAP

     V THE VISITORS' BOOK

    VI THE MAN WITH THE SCAR

   VII A QUESTION OF ILLUSIONS

  VIII A LETTER FROM ENGLAND

    IX OLDSTONE COTTAGE

     X A DISCOVERY

    XI THE LADY FROM THE PRIORY

   XII A NEW ACQUAINTANCE

  XIII "FRIENDSHIP IMPLIES TRUST"

   XIV THE ETERNAL TRIANGLE

    XV ANCIENT HISTORY

   XVI DREAM-FLOWERS

  XVII A SPRIG OF HELIOTROPE

 XVIII A BATTLE OF WILLS

   XIX ACCOUNT RENDERED

    XX REFUSAL

   XXI THE RETURN

  XXII WILD OATS

 XXIII THE TEETH OF THE WOLF

  XXIV AFTERMATH

   XXV THE HALF-TRUTH

  XXVI ENLIGHTENMENT

 XXVII THE TRUTH

XXVIII THE GREY SHADOW

  XXIX A PATCH OF SUNLIGHT

   XXX THE KEEPING OF A PROMISE

  XXXI A BARGAIN

 XXXII ON BOARD THE "SPHINX"

XXXIII THE VISION FULFILLED




DREAM-FLOWERS

 "Beyond the hill there's a garden,
    Fashioned of sweetest flowers,
  Calling to you with its voice of gold,
  Telling you all that your heart may hold.
  Beyond the hill there's a garden fair--
    My garden of happy hours.

 "Dream-flowers grow in that garden,
    Blossom of sun and showers,
  There, withered hopes may bloom anew,
  Dreams long forgotten shall come true.
  Beyond the hill there's a garden fair--
    My garden of happy hours!"

                        MARGARET PEDLER.

NOTE:--Musical setting by Margaret Pedler. Published by Edward Schuberth &
Co., 11 East 22nd Street, New York.




THE VISION OF DESIRE

PROLOGUE


_"... It's no use pretending any longer. I can't marry you, I don't suppose
you will ever understand or forgive me. No man would. But try to believe
that I haven't come to this decision hurriedly or without thinking. I seem
to have done nothing but think, lately!_

_"I want you to forget last night, Eliot. We were both a little mad, and
there was moonlight and the scent of roses.... But it's good-bye, all the
same--it must be. Please don't try to see, me again. It could do no good
and would only hurt us both."_

Very deliberately the man read this letter through a second time. At first
reading it had seemed to him incredible, a hallucination. It gave him a
queer feeling of unreality--it was all so impossible, so wildly improbable!

_"I want you to forget last night."_ Last night! When the woman who had
written those cool words of dismissal had lain in his arms, exquisite in
her passionate surrender. His mouth set itself grimly. Whatever came next,
whatever the future might hold, he knew that neither of them would be able
to forget. There are some things that cannot be forgotten, and the moment
when a man and woman first give their love utterance in words is one of
them.

He crushed the note slowly in his hand till it was nothing more than a
crumpled ball of paper, and raised his arm to fling it away. Then suddenly
his lips relaxed in a smile and a light of relief sprang into his eyes. It
was all nonsense, of course--just some foolish, woman's whim or fancy, some
ridiculous idea she had got into her head which five minutes' talk between
them would dispel. He had been a fool to take it seriously. He unclenched
his hand and smoothed out the crumpled sheet of paper. Tearing it into very
small pieces, he tossed them into the garden below the veranda where he was
sitting and watched them circle to the ground like particles of fine white
snow.

As they settled his face cleared. The tension induced by the perusal of
the letter had momentarily aged it, affording a fleeting glimpse of the
man as he might be ten years hence if things should chance to go awry with
him--hard and relentless, with more than a suggestion of cruelty. But now,
the strain lessened, his face revealed that charm of boyishness which is
always curiously attractive in a man who has actually left his boyhood
behind him. The mouth above the strong, clean-cut chin was singularly
sweet, the grey eyes, alight and ardent, meeting the world with a friendly
gaiety of expression that seemed to expect and ask for friendliness in
return.

As the last scrap of paper drifted to earth he stretched out his arms,
drawing a great breath of relief. His tea, brought to him at the same time
as the letter he had just destroyed, still stood untasted on a rustic table
beside him. He poured some out and drank it thirstily; his mouth felt dry.
Then, setting down the cup, he descended from the veranda and made his way
quickly through the hotel garden to the dusty white road beyond its gates.

It was very hot. The afternoon sun still flamed in the vividly blue Italian
sky, and against the shimmer of azure and gold the tall, dark poplars
ranked beside the road struck a sombre note of relief. But the man himself
seemed unconscious of the heat. He covered the ground with the lithe,
long-limbed stride of youth and supple muscles, and presently swung aside
into a garden where, betwixt the spread arms of chestnut and linden and
almond tree, gleamed the pink-stuccoed walls of a half-hidden villa.

Skirting the villa, he went on unhesitatingly, as one to whom the way
was very familiar, following a straight, formal path which led between
parterres of flowers, ablaze with colour. Then, through an archway dripping
jessamine, he emerged into a small, enclosed garden--an inner sanctuary
of flower-encircled greensward, fragrant with the scent of mignonette and
roses, while the headier perfume of heliotrope and oleander hung like
incense on the sun-warmed air.

A fountain plashed in the centre of the velvet lawn, an iridescent mist of
spray upflung from its marble basin, and at the farther end a stone bench
stood sheltered beneath the leafy shade of a tree.

A woman was sitting on the bench. She was quite young--not more than twenty
at the outside--and there was something in the dark, slender beauty of her
which seemed to harmonise with the southern scents and colour of the old
Italian garden. She sat very still, her round white chin cupped in her
palm. Her eyes were downcast, the lowered lids, with their lashes lying
like dusky fans against the ivory-tinted skin beneath, screening her
thoughts.

The man's footsteps made no sound as he crossed the close-cut turf, and
he paused a moment to gaze at her with ardent eyes. The loveliness of her
seemed to take him by the throat, so that a half-stifled sound escaped him.
Came an answering sound--a sharp-caught breath of fear as she realised an
intruder's presence in her solitude. Then, her eyes meeting the eager,
worshipping ones fixed on her, she uttered a cry of dismay.

"You?--You?" she stammered, rising hastily.

In a stride he was beside her.

"Yes. Didn't you expect me? You must have known I should come."

He laughed down at her triumphantly and made as though to take her in his
arms, but she shrank back, pressing him away from her with urgent hands.

"I told you not to come. I told you not to come," she reiterated. "Oh!"
turning aside with nervous desperation, "why didn't you stay away?"

He stared at her.

"Why didn't I? Do you suppose any man on earth would have stayed away after
receiving such a letter? Why did you write it?"--rapidly. "What did you
mean?"

She looked away from him towards the distant mountains rimming the horizon.

"I meant just what I said. I can't marry you," she answered mechanically.

"But that's absurd! You've known I cared--you've cared, too--all these
weeks. And last night you promised--you said--"

"Last night!" She swung round and faced him. "I tell you we've got to
_forget_ last night--count it out. It--it was just an interlude--"

She broke off, blenching at the abrupt change in his expression. Up till
now his face had been full of an incredulous, boyish bewilderment, half
tender, half chiding. Within himself he had refused to believe that there
was any serious intent behind her letter. It was fruit of some foolish
misunderstanding or shy feminine withdrawal, and he was here to straighten
it all out, to reassure her. But that word "interlude"! Had she been
deliberately playing with him after all? Women did such things--sometimes.
His features took on a sudden sternness.

"An interlude?" he repeated quietly. "I'm afraid I don't understand. Will
you explain?"

Her shoulders moved resentfully.

"Why do you want to force me into explanations?" she burst out.
"Surely--_surely_ you understand? We can't marry--we haven't money enough!"

There was a long pause before he spoke again.

"I've enough money to marry on, if it comes to that," he said at last,
slowly. "Though we should certainly be comparatively poor. What you mean
is that I'm not rich enough to satisfy you, I suppose?"

She nodded.

"Yes. I'm sick--_sick_ of being poor! I've been poor all my life--always
having to skimp and save and do things on the cheap--go without this and
make shift with that. I'm tired of it! This last two months with Aunt
Elvira--all this luxury and beauty," she gestured eloquently towards the
villa standing like a gem in its exquisite Italian setting, "the car, the
perfect service, as many frocks as I want--Oh! I've loved it all! And I
can't give it up. I can't go back to being poor again!"

She paused, breathless, and her eyes, passionately upbraiding, beseeching
understanding, sought his face.

"Don't you understand?" she added, twisting her hands together.

His eyes glinted.

"Yes, I'm beginning to," he returned briefly. "But how are you going to
compass what you want--as a permanency? Your visit to Lady Templeton can't
extend indefinitely."

She was silent, evading his glance. Her foot beat nervously on the flagged
path where they stood.

"Is there some one else?" he asked incisively. "Another man--who can give
you all these things?"

A dull, shamed red flushed her cheek. With an effort she forced herself to
answer him.

"Yes," she said very low. "There is--some one else."

"I wonder if he realises his luck!"

The palpable sneer in his voice cut like a lash. She winced under it.

"One more question--I'd like to know the answer out of sheer curiosity."
His voice was clear and hard--like ice, "You knew you were going to do this
to me--last night?"

Her lips moved but no words came. She gestured mutely--imploringly.

"Answer me, please."

His implacable insistence whipped her into a sudden flare of defiance. She
was like a cornered animal.

"Yes, then, if you must have it--I _did_ know!" she flung at him in a low
tone of furious anger.

Involuntarily he stepped back from her a pace, like a man suddenly smitten
and stunned.

"While for me last night was sacred!" he muttered under his breath.

Before the utter scorn and repugnance in the low-breathed words her
defiance crumbled to pieces.

"And for me, too! Eliot, I wasn't pretending. I _do_ love you. I
never meant you to know, but last night--I couldn't help it. I'd
promised to marry the--the other man, and then you came, and we were
alone--and--Oh!"--desperately, lifting a wrung face to his. "Why won't
you understand?"

But the beautiful, imploring face failed to move him one jot. Something
had died suddenly within him--the something that was young and eager and
blindly trusting. When she ceased speaking he was only conscious that he
wanted to take her and break her between his two hands--destroy her as
he had destroyed the letter she had written. The blood was drumming in
his temples. His hands clenched and unclenched spasmodically. She was so
slender a thing that it would be very easy ... very easy with those iron
muscles of his.... And then she would be dead. She was so beautiful and so
rotten at the core that she would be better dead....

It was only by a supreme effort that he mastered his overwhelming need
of some physical outlet for the passion of disgust and anger which swept
him bare of any gentler emotion as the incoming tide sweeps the shore
bare of sign or footprint. His body grew taut and rigid with the pressure
he was putting on himself. When at last he spoke his voice was almost
unrecognisable.

"I do understand," he said. "I understand thoroughly. You've
made--everything--perfectly clear."

And with that he turned swiftly, leaving her standing alone in a flickering
patch of shadow, and strode away across the grass. As he went, a little
breeze ran through the garden, wafting the caressing, over-sweet perfume of
heliotrope to his nostrils. It sickened him. He knew that he would loathe
the scent of heliotrope henceforth.




CHAPTER I

ANN'S LEGACY


The sunshine romped down the Grand' Rue at Montricheux, flickering against
the panes of the shop-windows and calling forth a hundred provocative
points of light from the silver and jewels, the shining silks and
embroidery, with which the shrewd Swiss shopkeeper seeks to open the purse
of the foreigner. It seemed to chase the gaily blue-painted trams as they
sped up and down the centre of the town, bestowing upon them a fictitious
gala air, and danced tremulously on the round, shiny yellow tops of the
tea-tables temptingly arranged on the pavement outside the pastrycook's.

It was still early afternoon, but already small groups of twos and threes
were gathered round the little tables. At one a merry knot of English
girl-tourists were enjoying an al fresco tea, at another staid Swiss
habitués solemnly imbibed the sweet pink or yellow _sirop_ which they
infinitely preferred to tea, while a vivid note of colour was added to the
scene by the picturesque uniforms of a couple of officers of an Algerian
regiment who were consuming unlimited cigarettes and Turkish coffee, and
commenting cynically in fluent French on the paucity of pretty women to be
observed in the streets of Montricheux that afternoon.

Typically aloof, a solitary young Englishman was sitting at a table
apart. He was evidently waiting for some one, for every now and again he
leaned forward and glanced impatiently up the street, then, apparently
disappointed, settled himself discontentedly to the perusal of the
Continental edition of the _Daily Mail_.

He was rather an arresting type. His lean young face looked older than
his five-and-twenty years would warrant. It held a certain recklessness,
together with a decided hint of temper, and he was much too good-looking
to have escaped being more or less spoiled by every other woman with whom
he came in contact. Like many another boy, Tony Brabazon had been rushed
headlong from a public school into the four years' grinding mill of the
war, thereby acquiring a man's freedom without the gradual preparation of
any transition period--a fact which, with his particular temperament, had
served to complicate life.

Physically, however, he had come through unscathed, and his white flannels
revealed a lithe, careless grace of figure. When he lifted his head to look
up the street there was a certain arrogance in the movement--a hint of
impetuous self-will that was attractively characteristic. The irritable
drumming of long, sensitive fingers on the table-top, while he scanned the
head-lines of the paper, was characteristic, too.

Suddenly a cool little hand descended on his restless one.

"You can stop beating the devil's tattoo on that table, Tony," said an
amused voice. "Here I am at last."

He sprang up, regarding the new-comer with a mixture of satisfaction and
resentment.

"You may well say 'at last'!" he grumbled. Then the satisfaction completely
swamping the resentment, he went on eagerly: "Sit down and tell me why I've
been deprived of your company for the whole of this blessed day."

Ann Lovell sat down obediently.

"You've been deprived of my society," she replied with composure, "by some
one who had a better right to it."

"Lady Susan, I suppose?"--in resigned tones.

She assented smilingly.

"Yes. A companion-chauffeuse isn't always at liberty to play about with the
scapegrace young men of her acquaintance, you know. And this morning my
employer was seized with a sudden desire to visit Aigle, so we drove over
and lunched at a quaint old inn there. We've only just returned."

As she spoke Ann stripped off her gloves, revealing a pair of slender hands
that hardly looked as though they would be competent to manipulate the
steering-wheel of a car. Yet there was more than one keen-eyed, red-tabbed
soldier whom she had driven during the war who could testify to the
complete efficiency of those same slim members.

"I'm dying for some tea, Tony," she announced, tossing her gloves on to the
table. "Let's go in and choose cakes."

Tony nodded, and they dived into the interior of the shop, and, arming
themselves with a plate and fork each, proceeded to spear up such as most
appealed to them of the delectable _pâtisseries_ arranged in tempting rows
along shining trays. Then, giving an order for their tea to be served
outside, they emerged once more into the sunlit street.

One of the Algerian officers followed Ann's movements with an appreciative
glance. Had she been listening she might have caught his murmured, "_V'la
une jolie anglaise, hein_?" But she was extremely unselfconscious, and took
it very much for granted that she had been blessed with russet hair which
gave back coppery gleams to the sunlight, and with a pair of changeful
hazel eyes that looked sometimes clearly golden and sometimes like the
brown, gold-flecked heart of a pansy. She was almost boyishly slender in
build, and there was a sense of swift vitality about all her movements that
reminded one of the free, untrammelled grace of a young panther.

Tony Brabazon watched her consideringly while she poured out tea.

"Montricheux has been like a confounded desert to-day," he remarked
gloomily. He was obviously feeling very much ill-used. "Tell Lady Susan
she'll drive me to take the downward path if she monopolises you like
this."

"Tony, you've not been getting into mischief?"

Ann spoke lightly, but a faint expression of anxiety flitted across her
face as she paused, the teapot poised above her cup, for his answer.

He hesitated a moment, his eyes sullen, then laughed shortly.

"How could I get into mischief--my particular kind of mischief--in
Montricheux, with the stakes at the tables limited to five measly francs?
If we were at Monte, now--"

If Ann noticed his hesitation she made no comment on it. She finished
pouring out her tea.

"I'm very glad we're not," she said with decision. "You'd be too big a
handful for me to manage there."

"I've told you how you can manage me--if you want to," he returned swiftly.
"I'd be like wax in your hands if you'd marry me, Ann."

"I shouldn't care for a husband who was like wax in my hands, thank you,"
she retorted promptly. "Besides, I'm not in the least in love with you."

"That's frank, anyway."

"Quite frank. And what's more, you're not really in love with me."

Tony stiffened.

"I should think I'm the best judge of that," he said, haughtily.

"Not a bit. You're too young to know"--coolly.

A look of temper flashed into his face, but it was only momentary. Then he
laughed outright. Like most people, he found it difficult to be angry with
Ann; she was so transparently honest and sincere.

"I'm three years your senior, I'd have you remember," he observed.

"Which is discounted by the fact that you're only a man. All women are born
with at least three years' more common sense in their systems than men."

Tony demurred, and she allowed herself to be led into a friendly wrangle,
inwardly congratulating herself upon having successfully side-tracked
the topic of matrimony. The subject cropped up intermittently in their
intercourse with each other and, from long experience, Ann had brought the
habit of steering him away from it almost to a fine art.

He had been more or less in love with her since he was nineteen, but she
had always refused to take him seriously, believing it to be only the
outcome of conditions which had thrown them together all their lives in a
peculiarly intimate fashion rather than anything of deeper root. But now
that the boy had merged into the man, she had begun to ask herself, a
little apprehensively, whether she were mistaken in her assumption, and she
sometimes wondered if fate had not contrived to enmesh her in a web from
which it would be difficult to escape. Tony was a very persistent lover,
and unfortunately she was not free to send him away from her as she might
have sent away any other man.

Fond as she was of him, she didn't in the least want to marry him. She
didn't want to marry any one, in fact. But circumstances had combined to
give her a very definite sense of responsibility concerning Tony Brabazon.

His father had been the younger son of Sir Percy Brabazon of Lorne, and,
like many other younger sons, had inherited all the charm and most of
the faults, and very little of the money that composed the family dower.
Philip, the heir, and much the elder of the two, pursued a correct and
uneventful existence, remained a bachelor, and in due course came into
the title and estates. Whereas Dick, lovable and hot-headed, and with the
gambling blood of generations of dicing, horse-racing ancestors running
fierily in his veins, fell in love with beautiful but penniless Virginia
Dale, and married her, spent and wagered his small patrimony right royally
while it lasted, and borrowed from all and sundry when it was squandered.
Finally, he ended a varied but diverting existence in a ditch with a broken
neck, while the horse that should have retrieved his fortunes galloped
first past the winning-post--riderless.

Sir Philip Brabazon let fly a few torrid comments on the subject of his
brother's career, and then did the only decent thing--took Virginia and her
son, now heir to the title, to live with him.

It was then that Ann Lovell, who was a godchild of Sir Philip's, had
learned to know and love Tony's mother. Motherless herself, she had soon
discovered that the frailly beautiful, sad-faced woman who had come to live
with her somewhat irascible godparent, filled a gap in her small life of
which, hitherto, she had been only dimly conscious. With the passing of the
years came a clearer understanding of how much Virginia's advent had meant
to her, and ultimately no bond between actual mother and daughter could
have been stronger than the bond which had subsisted between these two.

It was to Ann that Virginia confided her inmost fears lest Tony should
follow in his father's footsteps. From Sir Philip, choleric and tyrannical,
she concealed them completely--and many of Tony's youthful escapades as
well, paying some precocious card-losses he sustained while still in his
early teens out of her own slender dress allowance in preference to rousing
his uncle's ire by a knowledge of them. But with Ann, she had been utterly
frank.

"Tony's a born gambler," she told her. "But he has a stronger will than his
father, and if he's handled properly he may yet make the kind of man I want
him to be. Only--Philip doesn't know how to handle him."

The last two years of her life she had spent on a couch, a confirmed
invalid, and oppressed by a foreboding as to Tony's ultimate future. And
then, one day, shortly before the weak flame of her life flickered out into
the darkness, she had sent for Ann, and solemnly, appealingly, confided the
boy to her care.

"I hate leaving him, Ann," she had said between the long bouts of coughing
which shook her thin frame so that speech was at times impossible. "He's
so--alone. Philip represents nothing to him but an autocrat he is bound to
obey. And Tony resents it. Any one who loves him can steady him--but no one
will ever drive him. When I'm gone, will you do what you can for him--for
him and for me?"

And Ann, holding the sick woman's feverish hands in her own cool ones, had
promised.

"I will do all that I can," she said steadily.

"And if he _does_ get into difficulties?" persisted Virginia, her eager
eyes searching the girl's face.

Ann smiled down at her reassuringly.

"Don't worry," she had answered. "If he does, why, then I'll get him out of
them if it's in any way possible."

Two days later, Ann had stood beside the bed where Virginia lay, straight
and still in the utter peace and tranquillity conferred by death. Her last
words had been of Tony.

"I've 'bequeathed' him to you, Ann," she had whispered. Adding, with a
faint, humorous little smile: "I'm afraid I'm leaving you rather a
troublesome legacy."

And now, nearly four years later, Ann had thoroughly realised that the
task of keeping Tony out of mischief was by no means an easy one. Here,
at Montricheux, however, she had felt that she could relax her vigilance
somewhat. There was no temptation to back "a certainty" of which some
racing friend had apprised him, and, as Tony himself discontentedly
declared, the stakes permitted at the Kursaal tables were so small that
if he gambled every night of the week he ran no risk of either making or
losing a fortune.

The chief danger, she reflected, was that he might become bored and
irritable--she could see that he was tending that way--and then trouble
would be sure to arise between him and his uncle, with whom he was staying
at the Hotel Gloria. She recalled his hesitation when she had asked him if
he had been getting into mischief. Was trouble brewing already?

"Tony," she demanded shrewdly. "Have you been quarrelling with Sir Philip
again? There's generally some disturbing cause when you feel driven into
asking me to marry you."

"Well, why won't you? He'd be satisfied then."

"He? Do you mean your uncle?"--with some astonishment.

Tony nodded.

"Yes. Didn't you know he wanted it more than anything? Just as I do," he
added with the quick, whimsical smile which was one of his charms.

Ann shook her head.

"You haven't answered my question," she persisted.

"Well," admitted Tony unwillingly, "he and I did have a bit of a dust-up
this morning. I'm sick of doing nothing. I told him I wanted to be an
architect."

"Well?"

"It was anything but well! He let me have it good and strong. No Brabazon
was going to take up planning houses as a profession if he knew it! I'd got
my duty to the old name and estate and the tenants, et cetera, et cetera.
All the usual tosh."

Ann's face clouded. She devoutly wished that Sir Philip _would_ allow
his nephew to take up some profession--never mind which, so long as it
interested him and gave him definite occupation. To keep him idling about
between Lorne and the Brabazon town house in Audley Square was the worst
thing in the world for him. Privately she determined to approach her
godfather on the subject at the very next opportunity, though she could
make a very good, guess at the reason for his refusal. It was a purely
selfish one. He liked to have the boy with him. Bully him and browbeat him
as he might, Tony was in reality the apple of the old man's eye--the one
thing in the whole world for which he cared.

There would be nothing gained, however, by letting Tony know her thoughts,
so she answered him with trenchant disapproval.

"It's not tosh. After all, your first duty is to Lorne and to the tenants.
A good landlord is quite as useful a member of society as a good
architect."

"Oh, if I were doing the actual managing, it would be a different thing,"
acknowledged Tony. "But I don't. He decides everything and gives all the
orders--without consulting me. I just have to see that what he orders is
carried out, and trot about with him, and do the noble young heir stunt for
the benefit of the tenants on my birthday. It's absolutely
sickening!"--savagely.

"Well, don't quarrel with your bread-and-butter," advised Ann. "Or with Sir
Philip. He's not a bad sort in his way."

"Oh, isn't he?"--grimly. "You try living with him! Thank the powers that
be, I shall get a 'day off' to-morrow. He's going over to Evian by the
midday boat. The St. Keliers--blessed be their name!--have asked him to
dine with them--to meet some exiled Russian princess or other."

"Lady Susan is going, too. She's staying the night there. Is Sir Philip?"

"Yes. There's no getting back the same night. This is topping, Ann." Tony's
face had brightened considerably. "Suppose you and I go up to the Dents
de Loup for the afternoon, and then have a festive little dinner at the
Gloria. Will you? Don't have an attack of common sense and say 'no'!"

His eyes entreated her gaily. They were extremely charming eyes, of some
subtly blended colour that was neither slate nor violet, but partook a
little of both, and shaded by absurdly long lashes which gave them an
almost womanish softness. A certain shrewd old duchess, who knew her world,
had once been heard to observe that Tony Brabazon's eyes would get him in
and out of trouble as long as he lived.

Ann smiled.

"That's quite a brain-wave, Tony," she replied. "I won't say no. And if
you're very good we'll go down to the Kursaal afterwards, and I'll let
you have a little innocent flutter at the tables." Ann had no belief in
the use of too severe a curb. She felt quite sure that if Tony's gambling
propensities were bottled up too tightly, they would only break out more
strongly later on--when he might chance to be in a part of the world where
he could come to bigger grief financially than was possible at Montricheux.
She glanced down at the watch on her wrist and, seeing that the time had
slipped by more quickly than she imagined, proceeded to gather up her
gloves. "I think it's time I went back to Villa Mon Rêve, now," she said
tentatively, fearing a burst of opposition.

But, having got his own way over the arrangements for the morrow, Tony
consented to be amenable for once. Together they took their way up the
pleasant street and at the gates of the villa he made his farewells.

"I shall drop into the club for a rubber, I think," he vouchsafed, "before
going home like a good little boy."

"Don't play high," cautioned Ann good-humouredly.

She could detect the underlying note of resentment in his voice,
and she entered the house meditating thoughtfully upon the amazing
short-sightedness evinced by elderly gentlemen in regard to the upbringing
of their heirs.




CHAPTER II

THE BRABAZONS OF LORNE


"Ann's the best pal Tony could possibly have, so, for goodness' sake, be
content with that and don't get addling your brains by trying to marry her
off to him. Match-making isn't a man's job. A female child of twelve could
beat the cleverest man that's hatched at the game."

Lady Susan Hallett fired off her remarks, as was her wont, with the vigour
and precision of a machine-gun. There was always a delightful definiteness
both about her ideas and the expression of them.

The man she addressed was standing with his back to the open French window
of the pretty salon, angrily oblivious of the blue waters of Lac Léman
which lapped placidly against the stone edges of the _quai_ below. He was a
tall, fierce-looking old man, with choleric blue eyes and an aristocratic
beak of a nose that jutted out above a bristling grey moustache. A single
eyeglass dangled from a broad, black ribbon round his neck. "One of the
old school" was written all over him--one of the old, autocratic school
which believed that "a man should be master in his own house, b'gad!" By
which--though he would never have admitted it--Sir Philip Brabazon inferred
a kind of divinely appointed dictatorship over the souls and bodies of the
various members of his household which even included the right to arrange
and determine their lives for them, without reference to their personal
desires and tastes.

It was odd, therefore, that his chief friend and confidante--and the
woman he would have married thirty years ago if she would only have had
him--should be Lady Susan, as tolerant and modern in her outlook as he
was archaic.

She was a tall, sturdily built woman of the out-of-door, squiress type. Her
fine-shaped head was crowned by a wealth of grey hair, simply coiled in a
big knot on the nape of her neck and contrasting rather attractively with
her very black, arched eyebrows and humorous dark eyes. Those same eyes
were now regarding Sir Philip with a quizzical expression of amusement.

"Besides," she pursued. "Ann wouldn't have half as much pull with him if
she _were_ his wife, let me tell you."

"You think not?"

"I'm sure. A man will let himself be lectured and generally licked into
shape by the woman he wants to marry--but after marriage he usually prefers
to do all the lecturing that's required himself."

The old man shot a swift glance at her from under a pair of shaggy brows.

"How do you know?" he demanded rudely. "You're not married."

Lady Susan nodded.

"That's why."

"Do you mean--do you mean--" he began stormily, then, meeting her quiet,
humorous gaze, stammered off into silence. Presently he fixed his monocle
in one of his fierce old eyes and surveyed her from behind it as from
behind a barricade.

"Do you mean me to understand that that's the reason you declined to marry
me?"

She laughed a little.

"I think it was. I didn't want to be browbeaten into submission--as you
browbeat poor Virginia, and as you would Tony if he hadn't got a good dash
of the Brabazon devil in him. You're a confirmed bully, you know."

"I shouldn't have bullied you." There was an odd note of wistfulness in
the harsh voice, and for a moment the handsome, arrogant old face softened
incredibly. "I shouldn't have bullied you, Susan."

"Yes, you would. You couldn't have helped it. You'd like to bully my little
Ann into marrying Tony if you dared--monster!"

The grim mouth beneath the clipped moustache relaxed into an unwilling
smile.

"I believe I would," he admitted. "Hang it all, Susan, it would settle the
boy if he were married. He wants a wife to look after him."

"To look after him?"--with a faintly ironical inflection.

"That's what I said"--irritably. "That's--that's what wife's for, dammit!
Isn't it?"

"Oh, no." She shook her head regretfully. "That idea's extinct as the dodo.
Antiquated, Philip--very."

He glared at her ferociously.

"Worth more than half your modern ideas put together," he retorted. "Women,
don't know their duty nowadays. If they'd get married and have babies and
keep house in the good, old-fashioned way, instead of trying to be doctors
and barristers and the Lord knows what, the world would be a lot better
off. A good wife makes a good man--and that's job enough for any woman."

"I should think it might be," agreed Lady Susan meditatively. "But it
sounds a trifle feeble, doesn't it? I mean, on the part of the good man.
It's making a sort of lean-to greenhouse of him, isn't it?"

"You're outrageous, Susan! I'm not a 'lean-to' anything, but do you suppose
I'd be the bad-tempered old ruffian I am--at least, you say I am--if you'd
married me thirty years ago?"

"Twenty times worse, probably," she replied promptly. "Because, like most
wives, I should have spoiled you."

Sir Philip looked out of the window.

"I've missed that spoiling, Susan," he said. Once again that incongruous
little note of wistfulness sounded in his voice. But, an instant later,
Lady Susan wondered if her ears had deceived her, for he swung round and
snapped out in his usual hectoring manner: "Then you won't help me in
this?"

"Help you to marry off Ann to Tony? No, I won't. For one thing, I don't
want to spare her. And if ever I have to, it's going to be to some one
who'll look after _her_--and take jolly good care of her, too!"

"Obstinate woman! Well--well"--irritably. "What am I to do, then?"

"Can't you manage your own nephew?"

"No, I can't, confound it! Told me this morning he wanted to be an
architect. An architect!" He spoke as though an architect were something
that crawled. "Imagine a Brabazon of Lorne turning architect!"

"Well, why not?" placidly. "It's better than being nothing but a
gambler--like poor Dick. Tony always did love making plans. Don't you
remember, when he was about eight, he made a drawing of heaven, with
seating accommodation for the angels--cherubim and seraphim, and so
on--in tiers? The general effect was rather like a plan of the Albert
Hall"--smiling reminiscently. "Seriously, though, Philip, if the boy wants
_work_, in the name of common sense, let him have it."

"There's plenty of work for him at Lorne"--stubbornly. "Let him learn to
manage the property. That's what I want--and what I'll have. God bless my
soul! What have I brought the boy up for? To be a comfort in my old age, of
course, and a credit to the name. Architect be hanged!"

As he spoke there came the sound of footsteps in the hall outside--light,
buoyant steps--and Lady Susan's face brightened.

"That will be Ann," she said. Adding quickly, as though to conclude the
subject they had been discussing: "I warn you, Philip, you're driving the
boy on too tight a rein."

Sir Philip greeted Ann good-humouredly. In spite of the fact that she
showed no disposition to fall in with his wishes and marry Tony, he was
extremely fond of her. She was one of the few people who had never been
afraid of him. She even contradicted him flatly at times, and, like most
autocrats, he found her attitude a refreshing change from that of the
majority of people with whom he came in contact.

"Seen Tony in the town?" he demanded. It was evident the boy was hardly
ever out of his thoughts.

"Yes. We've just been having tea together."

Sir Philip nodded approvingly.

"Excellent, excellent. Keep him out of mischief, like a good girl."

Ann laughed, a shade scornfully, but vouchsafed no answer, and soon
afterwards Sir Philip took his departure.

"The twelve-thirty steamer to-morrow, then, Susan," he said as he shook
hands. "I'll call for you in the car on my way to the _débarcadère_."

When he had gone Lady Susan and Ann exchanged glances.

"I've been telling him he drives Tony on too tight a rein," said the
former, answering the unspoken question in the girl's eyes.

"It's absurd of him," declared Ann indignantly. "He tries to keep him tied
to his apron-strings as if he were a child. And he's not! He's a man. He's
been through that beastly war. Probably he knows heaps more about life--the
real things of life--than Sir Philip himself, who wants to dictate
everything he may or may not do."

"Probably he does. And that's just the trouble. When you get a terribly
experienced younger generation and a hide-bound older one there are liable
to be fireworks."

"All I can say is that if Sir Philip won't let him have a little more
freedom, he'll drive Tony just the way he doesn't want him to go."

Lady Susan's keen glance scrutinised the girl's troubled face.

"You can't help it, you know," she remarked briefly.

"That's just it," answered Ann uncertainly. "I sometimes wonder if I
could--ought to--" She broke off, leaving her sentence unfinished.

Lady Susan, apparently not noticing her embarrassment, gathered up her
belongings preparatory to leaving the room.

"Marrying to reform a rake never pays," she said in level tones. "It's like
rolling a stone uphill."

"But Tony isn't a rake!" protested Ann, flushing quickly. "There's any
amount of good in him, and he might--might steady down if he were married."

"Let him steady down before marriage, not after"--grimly. "A woman may
throw her whole life's happiness into the scales and still fail to turn the
balance. Without love--the love that can forgive seventy times seven and
then not be tired--she'll certainly fail. And you don't love Tony."

It was an assertion rather than a question, yet Ann felt that Lady Susan
was waiting for an answer.

"N-no," she acknowledged at last. "But I feel as though he belongs to me in
a way. You see, Virginia 'left' him to me."

"You're not called upon to marry a legacy," retorted Lady Susan.

Ann smiled.

"No, I suppose not." She was silent a moment. "I wish Sir Philip didn't
lead him such a life. It's more than any man could be expected to stand."

Lady Susan paused in the doorway.

"Well, my dear, don't vex your soul too much about it all. However badly
people mismanage our affairs for us, things have a wonderful way of working
out all right in the long run."

Left alone, Ann strolled out on to the balcony which overlooked the
lake, and, leaning her arms on the balustrade, yielded to the current
of her thoughts. Notwithstanding Lady Susan's cheery optimism, she was
considerably worried about Tony. She could see so exactly what it was that
fretted him--this eternal dancing attendance on Sir Philip, who insisted on
the boy's accompanying him wherever he went, and she felt a sudden angry
contempt for the selfishness of old age which could so obstinately bind
eager, straining youth to its chariot wheels. It seemed to her that the
older generation frequently fell very far short of its responsibility
towards the younger.

With a flash of bitterness she reflected that her own father had failed
in his duty to the next generation almost as signally as old Sir Philip,
although in a totally different manner. Archibald Lovell had indeed been
curiously devoid of any sense of paternal responsibility. Connoisseur and
collector of old porcelain, he had lived a dreamy, dilettante existence,
absorbed in his collection and paying little or no heed to the comings and
goings of his two children, Ann and her brother Robin. And less heed still
to their ultimate welfare. He neglected his estate from every point of
view, except the one of raising mortgages upon it so that he might have the
wherewithal to add to his store of ceramic treasures. He lived luxuriously,
employing a high-priced _chef_ and soft-footed, well-trained servants to
see to his comfort, because anything short of perfection grated on his
artistic sensibilities. And when an intrusive influenza germ put a sudden
end to his entirely egotistical activities, his son and daughter found
themselves left with only a few hundred pounds between them. Lovell Court
was perforce sold at once to pay off the mortgages, and to meet the many
other big outstanding debts the contents of the house had to be dispersed
without reserve. The collection of old porcelain to which Archibald Lovell
had sacrificed most of the human interests of life was soon scattered
amongst the dealers in antiques, who, in many instances, bought back at
bargain prices the very pieces they had sold to him at an extravagantly
high cost. Every one went away from the Lovell sale well-pleased, except
the two whose fortunes were most intimately concerned--the son and daughter
of the dead man. They were left to face the problem of continued existence.

For the time being the circumstances of the war had acted as a solvent.
Robin, home on sick leave, had returned to the front, while Ann, who
possessed the faculty of getting the last ounce out of any car she handled,
very soon found warwork as a motor-driver. But, with the return of peace,
the question of pounds, shillings and pence had become more acute, and at
present Robin was undertaking any odd job that turned up pending the time
when he should find the ideal berth which would enable him to make a home
for Ann, while the latter, thanks to the good offices of Sir Philip
Brabazon, had for the last six months filled the post of
companion-chauffeuse to Lady Susan Hallett.

The entire six months had been passed at Mon Rêve, Lady Susan's villa at
Montricheux, and with a jerk Ann emerged from her train of retrospective
thought to the realisation that her lines had really fallen in very
pleasant places, after all.

It seemed as though there were some truth in Lady Susan's assertion that
things had a way of working out all right in the end. But for her father's
mismanagement of his affairs--and the affairs of those dependent on
him--Ann recognised that she might very well have been still pursuing the
rather dull, uneventful life which obtained at Lovell Court, without the
prospect of any vital change or happening to relieve its tedium, whereas
the catastrophe which had once seemed to threaten chaos had actually opened
the door of the world to her.




CHAPTER III

ON THE TOP OF THE WORLD


The rack-and-pinion railway from Montricheux to the Dents de Loup wound
upward like a single filament flung round the mountains by some giant
spider. The miniature train, edging its way along the track, appeared no
more than a mere speck as it crept tortuously up towards the top. At its
rear puffed a small engine, built in a curious tilted fashion, so that as
it laboured industriously behind the coaches of the train it reminded one
ridiculously of a baby elephant on its knees.

Ann was leaning against the windowless framework of the railway carriage,
watching the valleys drop away, curve by curve, as the train climbed. Far
below lay the lake, a blue rift glimmering between pine-clad heights. Then
a turn of the track and the lake was swept suddenly out of sight, while the
mountains closed round--shoulder after green-clad shoulder, with fields of
white narcissus flung across them like fairy mantles. The air was full of
the fragrance of narcissus mingling with the pungent scent of fir and pine.
Ann sniffed luxuriously and glanced round to where Tony was sitting.

"Doesn't it smell clean and delicious?" she said, drawing in great breaths
of the pine-laden air. "When I come up to the mountains I always wonder why
on earth we ever live anywhere else."

Tony smiled.

"You'd be the first to get bored if you didn't live somewhere else--now
that the winter sports are over," he returned. "After all"--mundanely--"you
can't derive more than a limited amount of enjoyment from scenery, however
fine. Besides, you must know this route by heart."

"I do. But I love it! It's different every time I come up here. I
think"--knitting her brows--"that's what is so fascinating about the
Swiss mountains; they change so much. Sometimes they look all misty and
unreal--almost like a mirage, and then, the very next day, perhaps, they'll
have turned back into hard-edged, solid rock and you can't imagine their
ever looking like dream-mountains again."

Gradually, as they mounted, they left the verdant valleys, with their
sheltered farms and châlets, behind. The pine-woods thinned, and now and
again a wedge of frozen snow, lodged under the projecting corner of a rock,
appeared beside the track. The wind grew keener, chill from the eternal
snows over which it had swept, and sheer, rocky peaks, bare of tree or
herbage, thrust upward against the sky.

Presently, with a warning shriek, the train glided into a tunnel cut clean
through the base of a mighty rock. The sides dripped moisture and the icy
air tore through the narrow passage like a blast of winter. Ann shivered in
the sudden cold and darkness and drew her furs closer round her. She had a
queer dread of underground places; they gave her a feeling of captivity,
and she was thankful when the train emerged once more into daylight and ran
into the mountain station. Tony helped her out on to the small platform.

"Which is it to be?" he asked, glancing towards where a solitary hotel
stood like a lonely outpost of civilisation. "Tea first, or a walk?"

Ann declared in favour of the walk.

"Let's go straight up to the Roche d'Or. I always feel as if I'd reached
the top of the world there. It's certainly as near the top as I shall ever
get!" she added laughing. "I don't feel drawn towards mountaineering, so I
shall probably never ascend beyond the limits of the rack-and-pinion."

The Roche d'Or was a steep upward slope, culminating in a rocky promontory
from which was visible the vast expanse of the Bernese Oberland. A
railed-in platform capped the promontory, for it was a recognised
viewpoint. Opposite, across a shallow valley, the Dents de Loup cut the
sky-line--two menacing, fang-shaped peaks like the teeth of a wolf, and
beyond them a seemingly endless range of mountains stretched away to
the far horizon, pinnacle after pinnacle towering upwards with sombre,
sharp-edged shadows veiling the depths between. Along immense ridged scarps
lay the plains of everlasting snow, infinitely bleak and desolate till a
burst of sunlight suddenly transformed them, clothing the great flanks of
the mountains in cloth of silver.

Ann stood still, absorbing the sheer beauty of it all.

"It's heavenly, isn't it?" she said at last, a little sigh of ecstasy
escaping her.

Tony looked, not at the hills, but at the young, eager face just level with
his shoulder.

"It's probably as near heaven as I shall ever get," he answered. "Anyway,
just for the moment, I don't feel I've anything particular to complain of."

"I suppose I'm to take that as a compliment," replied Ann.
"Anyway"--mimicking him--"I don't really think you have very much to
complain of at any time. You're one of the idle rich, you know. How would
you like it if you were obliged to keep your nose to the grindstone--like
Robin and me?"

"I shouldn't mind"--curtly--"if I could choose my grindstone."

"But that's just it! Robin can't--choose his grindstone, I mean. He's just
got to keep slogging away at anything that turns up."

Her face shadowed a little. They were very devoted to each other, she and
Robin. From their earliest childhood their father had counted for so little
in either of their lives that they had inevitably drawn closer to each
other than most brothers and sisters, and the enforced separation of the
last few years had been a sore trial to both of them.

"You're very fond of Robin," observed Tony. There was a note of envy in his
voice.

"Of course I am. If we could only afford to live together, I think I should
be absolutely happy."

He glanced at her quickly.

"Aren't you happy with Lady Susan?"

"Oh, yes, yes! No one could be kinder to me than she is. But--I miss
Robin"--rather wistfully. "You see, we've always been everything to each
other."

"I see. And what will happen if one day you--or Robin--should get married?"

Ann skirted the topic dexterously.

"Oh, don't let's think about possible calamities on a day like this. Look!"
She touched his arm, drawing his attention to a girl who had also climbed
the Roche d'Or hill to see the view and had halted near them, a sheaf of
freshly-gathered wild-flowers in her hand. "Aren't those blue gentians
lovely?"

Tony glanced at the few vividly blue flowers the girl was jealously
clasping. She had walked far in search of them and valued them accordingly.

"Do you want some?" he asked eagerly.

Ann nodded.

"Isn't it getting rather late in the year to find them, though?" she said
doubtfully.

The girl with the flowers, overhearing, turned to her with a friendly
smile.

"There are very few left," she vouchsafed. "I've been hunting everywhere
for them. But you may find one or two over there." She pointed to a distant
slope.

Tony's eyes followed her gesture. Then he glanced down at Ann inquiringly.

"Are you game for so long a walk?" he asked.

"I'm game for anything up in this air," she assured him with conviction.

But, as was not infrequently the case, Ann's spirit outstripped her
physical strength. The slope indicated was much farther away than it
appeared and "the going was bad," as Tony phrased it. Blue gentians proved
tantalisingly elusive, and at length, rather disheartened by their
unprofitable search, Ann came to a standstill.

"I think I'm beginning to feel a keener interest in tea than gentians,
Tony," she confessed at last, ruefully. "It's very contemptible of me, I
own. But when I contemplate the distance we've already got to cover before
we reach the hotel again, I feel distinctly disinclined to add to it."

"I've let you walk too far!" Tony was overwhelmed with compunction. "Look
here, sit down in this little hollow and rest for a few minutes before we
turn back, while I just go a bit further and see if I can find you a
gentian."

He stripped off his overcoat as he spoke and rolled it together to make a
cushion for her.

"No, no, I don't want your coat," she protested. "I don't need it--really!"

But Tony was suddenly masterful.

"You'll do as you're told," he asserted. And somewhat to her own surprise
she found herself meekly obeying him.

He strode away, disappearing quickly from sight over the brow of a hill,
and with a small sigh of contentment she tucked her feet under her on the
improvised cushion and lit a cigarette. She had had a busy morning, and was
really more tired than she knew. First of all there had been the car to
clean, then there were flowers to be arranged for the house, and after
that various small shopping errands had cropped up, so that Ann had found
herself very fully occupied until at length, accompanied by Sir Philip,
Lady Susan had departed for Evian. She wondered fugitively how the pair
were enjoying themselves.

It was very pleasant sitting there. The huge boulder against which she
leant sheltered her from the wind and the spot was bathed in brilliant
sunshine. She finished her cigarette and lapsed into a brown study
provoked by Tony's sudden question: "What will happen if one day you--or
Robin--should get married?" She had never asked herself that question. It
was so much an understood thing between brother and sister that, as soon as
Robin found a sufficiently remunerative post, they should live together,
that any alternative had not entered her head.

But now she came to think of it, of course it was quite possible that
Robin might some day meet the woman whom he would want to marry. Her mouth
twisted in a little wry grimace of distaste. She was sure she should detest
any woman who robbed her of her brother. And if such a thing happened, she
would certainly take herself off and live somewhere else. Nothing would
ever induce her to remain in a married brother's house--an unwanted third.

There would always be one avenue of escape open to her, she reflected
ironically--by way of her own marriage with Tony. She wished it were
possible to fall in love to order! It would simplify things so much. As
Tony's wife she felt sure she could keep him straight and so fulfil the
trust Virginia had imposed on her. He had always shown himself sensitively
responsive to her influence--like a penitent boy if she scolded him,
radiant if he had won her approval. And he had a very special niche of his
own in her heart. Next to Robin, there was no one she loved more.

... A sudden cloud across the sun roused her to the fact that she had been
sitting still for some time, and that, at that altitude, the air held all
the mountain keenness. She felt chilled, and scrambled up hastily to her
feet. She would go to the crest of the hill and signal to Tony that she was
ready to return.

But, to her utter astonishment, when she had climbed to the top, he was
not in sight. The hill brow apparently commanded a view of the surrounding
country for a distance of at least two miles, and as far as she could see
there was no sign of any living creature in the whole expanse. Hardly
believing her own senses, she brushed her hand across her eyes and looked
again. But she had made no mistake. Tony was nowhere to be seen. The ground
stretched bleakly away on every hand, untenanted by any human soul except
herself.

She stood still, staring dazedly around. Tony would never have gone back
without her. He must be hidden from view by some dip or inequality of the
ground. Or--her heart stood still at the thought--had he slipped and fallen
headlong into some hideous crevasse?

Curving her hands on either side her mouth, she called him, sending her
voice ringing through the clear, crisp air. But there came no answer.
Instead, the utter loneliness and silence seemed to surge up round her
almost like a concrete thing. For a moment, sheer terror of what might have
happened to him overwhelmed her.

"Tony!... Tony!" Her voice rose to a scream, then cracked on a hoarse note
of sudden, desperate relief.

To her left the ground fell away abruptly in a precipitous ravine, and,
rising slowly above the lip of the chasm, she could discern Tony's head and
shoulders. Instantly her mind leapt to what had happened. Failing to find a
gentian in his search over safe ground, he must have caught sight of a late
blossom growing in some cranny of the rock face below, and, recklessly
regardless of the danger, he had climbed down to secure it.

The mere thought of the risk he had incurred--was still incurring--sent
a shiver through her. Her first impulse was to rush towards him. Then,
realising that any movement of hers might distract his attention and so
add illimitably to his danger, she forced herself by an almost superhuman
effort to remain where she was. Motionless, with straining eyes, she
watched while he slowly edged himself up. That his foothold was precarious
was evident from the careful precision of his movements, so unlike Tony's
usual nimbleness.

Now his arm was above the edge ... both arms ... he seemed to be resting
a moment, leaning on his chest an instant before making another effort.
Should she go to him? Her arms hung stiffly at her sides, her hands opening
and shutting in an agony of indecision.

Tony was moving once more, and this time he hoisted himself up so that he
succeeded in getting one knee over the top. Another moment and he would be
safe.... Then, without a cry, he suddenly toppled backwards and disappeared
from view, and Ann could see only the jagged edge of the ravine, stark
against the sky-line.

For a fraction of a second she stood paralysed, overwhelmed with the horror
of what had happened. Then, choking back the scream which rose to her lips,
she set off running in the direction of the spot where Tony had vanished
from sight.




CHAPTER IV

RATS IN A TRAP


Breathless, her heart thudding painfully in her side, Ann reached the
ravine and, throwing herself face downwards on the ground, crawled to the
edge. For an instant she closed her eyes, shrinking with a sick dread from
what they might show her--Tony's young, lithe body lying broken on the
rocks below, or, perhaps, only the dark blur of some awful and unmeasured
depth which would never give up its dead.

It was by a sheer effort of will that she at last forced herself to open
her eyes and peer downward. Immediately beneath the brink of the chasm the
ground dropped vertically for a few feet, but below that again it sloped
gradually outwards, culminating in a broad, projecting ledge which formed
the lip of the actual precipice itself. Tony lay on the ledge, motionless,
with outflung arms and white, upturned face. He had evidently lost his
footing, and, after the first drop, rolled helplessly downward. Only the
presence of a jagged, upstanding piece of rock had saved him from falling
clean over into the depths below.

Strain as she might to see, Ann could not tell whether he were dead or
merely insensible, and the agony of uncertainty seemed to drain her of all
strength. For a few moments she lay where she was, unable to control the
trembling of her limbs, her aching eyes staring fixedly down at the still,
prone figure on the ledge below. But the paralysing terror passed, and, at
length, though still rather shakily, she dragged herself to her feet. She
must go to him--somehow she must get down to where he lay.

At first she could think of no way of reaching him. Although he himself had
attempted, and very nearly successfully accomplished, the upward climb to
the brow of the ravine, she knew she dared not attempt to make the descent
at that same spot. If there were no way round, she would have to go back
to the hotel in search of help. But that would take an hour or more! And
meanwhile Tony was lying there untended. She couldn't wait! She must get to
him--get to him at once, and know whether he were living or dead. She flung
herself down on the ground once more and cast a despairing glance at the
inaccessible shelf of rock where he lay. Then it appeared to her that,
although narrowing as it went, it ran upwards, forming a kind of rough
track below the overhanging summit which, further along, might debouch on
to the crest of the ravine.

Springing to her feet, she hurried desperately along the top in the
direction which the track seemed to take, and at length, with a gasping
sigh of relief, came to a wide fissure that slanted down to meet it.

She was sure-footed as a deer, her slim, supple body balancing itself
almost instinctively, but even so the traversing of that narrow, rocky
ledge, in parts not more than a foot wide, was a severe test of her
endurance. A single false step meant death, instantaneous and inevitable,
and the whole terrible ten minutes which it took her to complete the short
distance was poignant with the dread of what she might discover at its end.

Moving very cautiously, her bare hands sliding across the rough face of
the rock as she edged her way forward, she came at last to where the ledge
widened out and the ground above sloped gently upwards. A few steps more
and she could see Tony's young, supine figure. The last three yards were
accomplished at a run, and an instant later she was kneeling beside him,
thrusting swift, urgent hands beneath his shirt to feel whether his heart
still beat. The throb of it came softly against her palms--warm, and
pulsatingly _alive_!

Ann rocked a little on her knees. She felt sick and giddy with reaction
from the almost intolerable strain of the last few minutes. Then she caught
sight of a vivid glint of blue--a single gentian bloom still tightly
clasped in the boy's hand, and quite suddenly she began to cry, the tears
running unchecked down her face. And it was just then that Tony came back
to consciousness--to the vague consciousness of something wet splashing
down on to his face. He stirred and opened his eyes.

"Tony!" Ann's voice was hoarse with relief.

His eyes blinked at her uncertainly.

"Hello!" he said rather feebly. "What's happened?"

"I thought you were killed!" she cried unsteadily. "Oh, Tony, I thought you
were killed!"

He regarded her consideringly.

"No," he replied seriously. "I'm not at all killed. Why should I be
killed?" Then, clearer consciousness returning: "Am I talking rot? What's
happened?"

Ann slipped her arm beneath his shoulders and raised him a little so that
his head rested on her lap.

"You fell," she said, trying to speak calmly. "You were climbing up and you
fell. Where are you hurt, Tony?"

"Oh, I remember.... Yes, I fell--just as I was getting to the top. A rotten
old stump gave way under my foot."

"But where are you hurt?" persisted Ann anxiously.

"I don't think I _am_ hurt." He stretched his limbs tentatively. "No,
there's nothing broken. I feel a bit buzzy in the head, that's all."

He tried to lift himself up, but Ann pressed him back against her knees.

"Don't move! Don't move!" she cried hastily. "Lie still for a few minutes.
Are you sure--_sure_ you're not hurt?"

"Bet you a tenner I'm not," he replied, with the ghost of a grin. "My
head's clearing, too. I was only knocked out of time for a minute. Don't
worry." He put up his hand and touched her cheek. "Why, you're quite pale,
Ann."

"I _felt_ pale--when I saw you fall," she answered grimly. Her spirits were
returning now that she was assured he was uninjured. "I was certain you
must be killed."

"It would have been one way out of it all, wouldn't it?" he replied with a
touch of bitterness.

"Oh, hush! Don't speak like that."

"I won't--if it annoys you. But, anyway, you needn't worry. I shan't die
young. The gods don't love me enough."

Ann ignored this.

"Do you think you could stand now?" she asked practically.

Tony's eyes gleamed mirthfully.

"I'm very comfortable as I am," he remarked, rubbing his cheek against her
skirt.

She resisted the temptation to smile.

"I'm not--particularly," she returned briefly. "I've got cramp."

He sat up at once.

"Oh, by Jove! Why didn't you say so before?"

"Because I hadn't got it before. I was much too concerned about you to have
time for it. How do you feel? Shall I help you up?"

But Tony disclaimed the necessity for any assistance. As he said, he had
only been knocked out of time for a few minutes. He might have been made of
indiarubber for all the actual harm his fall had done him. He rose to his
feet without difficulty and proceeded to help Ann to hers.

"How do we get back?" he asked. Then, glancing upwards: "I'm hanged if I'm
going to try and climb up there a second time. How on earth did you get
here? You didn't drop from the skies, I suppose, like an angel?"

"There's a ledge--it's rather narrow, but one can just squeeze round, and
it brings you out somewhere on the top. Are you sure you can manage it,
though? You won't turn faint or anything?"--anxiously.

"No"--with impish gravity. "I shan't 'turn faint or anything.' In fact, I
could dance a hornpipe here if you liked. Still, I'll hold your hand--just
in case of accidents"--audaciously. "Shall I go first? Oh, by the way"--he
paused. "Here's your blue gentian. Won't you have it?"

Ann felt her throat contract as she recalled what the little blue flower
had so nearly cost. Her eyes filled in spite of herself.

"Good heavens! Don't cry over it!" Tony laughed carelessly. He had
recovered his usual bantering manner of speech which yet always seemed to
hold an undercurrent of bitterness. "It's not worth that. See, I'll chuck
it away, so that it can't remind you of the unpleasant shock I gave you
this afternoon."

He tossed the flower over the edge of the ravine. For an instant it seemed
to hover in the air like a blue butterfly. Then it sank slowly out of
sight.

"Here endeth the first lesson," commented Tony.

"Lesson on what?"

"On trying to get things which an all-wise Providence has considerately
placed out of your reach." Without giving her time to reply, he continued:
"Give me your hand--no, you must"--as she hung back. "I'm not going to have
you risking this ledge again alone."

He extended one hand behind him, and, recognising the uselessness of
argument, Ann yielded and laid hers in it. Somehow she was not altogether
sorry to feel that friendly, human grip. In single file they made the
perilous return journey along the narrow track, emerging at length on to
safe ground. Ann withdrew her hand with a sigh of relief. It was good to
feel that they were out of danger at last.

"I think we shall have to hurry if we are to catch our train," she said,
keeping determinedly to the practical side of affairs. She felt she did not
want to discuss their adventure. It was too vividly impressed upon her mind
and had all too nearly ended in disaster. It seemed as though, the wings of
Death had brushed her as he passed by.

Tony pulled out his watch.

"Eight, as usual," he replied. "We shall have to sprint. And I've done you
out of your tea, too," he added remorsefully.

"Oh, that!" Ann dismissed the matter with a rather uncertain little laugh.
"You don't suppose I'm worrying about my tea, do you?"

He looked at her curiously.

"No, I don't suppose you are," he answered.

They set off at a good pace, but they had wandered much further afield
than they realised, and when at last the hotel, and the station which
practically adjoined it, came into sight, the train was already drawn up
at the platform, waiting to start. A shrill whistle cut the air warningly,
and instinctively Ann and Tony broke into a run. Tony was the first to
recognise the futility of the proceeding. He pulled up.

"We may as well save our breath," he observed laconically. And even as he
spoke the train, with a final shriek, moved out of the station.

Ann stood still, her eyes following it with an expression of blank dismay.

"Tony!" Her voice sounded a trifle breathless. "Do you know--have you
realised--that that's the last train?"

He nodded.

"And we've missed it."

He appeared completely unconcerned, and she turned on him with a flash of
impatience. His inconsequence annoyed her.

"Yes, we've missed it," she repeated. "How do you suppose we're going to
get back without a train to take us?"

Tony's soft, slate-coloured eyes surveyed her placidly beneath their long
lashes.

"I haven't the faintest idea," he acknowledged.

"Tony!" In spite of her indignation a quiver underlay Ann's voice. Her
nerves had been wrought up to a high pitch by the afternoon's events, and
she felt unequal to parrying Tony's customary banter.

Immediately his manner changed. When he spoke again it was with a quiet
confidence that reassured her completely.

"It's quite true," he said soberly. "I haven't an idea at the moment. But
I'll get you safely back to Montricheux this evening somehow. I promise
you, Ann. So don't worry."

The sun was hanging low in the sky by the time they reached the hotel,
and when he had established Ann in an easy chair and provided her with a
cigarette, together with a six-weeks'-old copy of a London magazine which
he unearthed from amongst a dusty pile of luridly illustrated handbooks on
Switzerland, Tony departed to make inquiries regarding their journey back
to Montricheux. He returned within a very short time, his face wearing an
unusual look of gravity, and for a moment he stood staring down at her
without speaking.

"I've got some bad news for you," he said at last, with obvious reluctance.
"I'm not able to keep my promise, Ann. We can't get back to Montricheux
to-night."

She glanced up incredulously.

"Can't get back?" she repeated. "Oh, but we must."

Tony shook his head.

"Can't be done," he answered. "It seems that infernal train is the only
means of getting up and down from here. You can't motor or drive. There's
no road."

The out-of-date magazine slid suddenly off Ann's knee and fell with a plop
on the floor.

"Are you serious?" she asked, still hardly able to believe him. "Do you
really mean we--we've got to stay the night here?"

She could read the answer to her question in the unmistakable concern which
was written on his face.

"Oh, but it's impossible!" she exclaimed in deep dismay. "We can't--we
can't stay here!" She sprang up, clasping and unclasping her hands
agitatedly. "Don't you _see_, Tony, that it's impossible?"

"We've no choice," he replied bluntly. "If there were any possible way of
getting you back to Villa Mon Rêve to-night, I'd move heaven and earth to
do it. But there _isn't_. We've no more chance of getting away from here
than rats in a trap."




CHAPTER V

THE VISITORS' BOOK


It was quite true. They were caught like rats in a trap, and Ann's heart
sank. She had lived long enough to know that there are always a certain
number of censorious people sufficiently ungenerous and narrow-minded to
make mischief out of any awkward happening, no matter how innocently it may
have occurred.

"Can't you think of any way out, Tony?" she said at last. "I--I don't seem
to know what to do." She looked round her vaguely, feeling confused and
unnerved by the awkwardness of their predicament.

"There's not a châlet within reach, or I'd go off there for the night,"
answered Tony, adding with a twinkle in his eyes: "And although I might, of
course, sleep outside, if you preferred--on the top of the Roche d'Or, for
instance!--I'm afraid it wouldn't help matters much, as my frozen corpse
would require about as much explaining away as the fact that we've stayed
the night here."

He had never felt less like joking, but he was rewarded by seeing a faint
smile relax the strained expression on her face.

"Don't worry, Ann," he pursued, tucking a friendly arm into hers. "No one
need ever know. But I could kick myself for landing you into this mess.
It's all my fault. If I hadn't gone fooling about at the top of that ravine
and come to grief we should be buzzing comfortably homeward in the train."

"You did it for me," cried Ann quickly. Now that the first shock of
realisation was over she was recovering her usual cheery outlook on things.
"You mustn't blame yourself. It's no one's fault. It's just--"

"The cussedness of things," vouchsafed Tony, as she paused.

"Yes, Just that. Well"--she gave her shoulders a slight shrug as though she
were shaking off a burden--"we may as well make the best of things. At
least we shall see the sunset up here. It's supposed to be rather
wonderful, isn't it?"

"I believe the sun_rise_ is the special thing to see. You'll have to get
up early to-morrow, ma'am." He paused a moment, then went on with frank
admiration: "Ann, you're a real little sport! There isn't one girl in
twenty would have taken this business as well as you have. They'd have
been demanding my head on a charger."

"It wouldn't be any use making a fuss about a pure accident," she returned
philosophically. "Let's just enjoy it--the sunset and the moonrise and
everything else. Oh! I do hope they'll give us a decent dinner! You did us
out of our tea by tumbling over the precipice--don't make a habit of it,
please, Tony!--and I'm simply starving."

He nodded.

"I'll go and order some grub--and book rooms." He paused uncertainly. "By
the way, I'll have to enter our names in the hotel register, I suppose?"

"Our names?" Ann flushed nervously. "Oh, you can't--I mean--"

"Don't worry," he said soothingly. "I shan't enter us under our own names,
of course. What do you say to Smith--nice, inoffensive sort of name, don't
you think? 'G. Smith and sister'--I think that'll meet the necessities of
the case."

Ann giggled suddenly.

"It's all rather funny if it wasn't so--so--"

"Improper," supplied Tony obligingly.

"Call it unconventional," she supplemented. "It sounds better. And now do
go and order some food for 'G. Smith and sister.' Sister is literally
starving."

Half an hour later they were light-heartedly demolishing an excellent
dinner, and the manager of the Hotel de Loup was congratulating himself
upon the acquisition of two unexpected guests during the slack season.
Afterwards they made another pilgrimage up to the Roche d'Or to watch the
sunset.

When they had reached the top, Ann stood quietly at Tony's side, not
speaking. The wonderful beauty of the scene enthralled her, and words
would have seemed almost a profanation, breaking across the deep, stirless
silence which wrapped them round. Away to their right the golden disc of
the sun was sinking royally westward, bathing the mountains in a flood of
lambent light, and piercing the darkening blue of the sky with quivering
shafts of scarlet and orange and saffron. Across the snow-fields shimmered
a translucent rosy glow, so that they seemed no longer bleak and desolate,
but lay spread like an unfurled banner of glory betwixt the great peaks
which sentinelled them round. Presently the sun dipped below the rim of
the horizon, and the splendour faded swiftly. It was as if some one had
suddenly closed the doors of an opened heaven, shutting away the brief
vision of its radiance.

In the faint, chill light of the risen moon, Ann turned to go, still in
silence. She felt awed by the beauty of it all. For the time being she had
forgotten the untoward circumstances which had brought her here, forgotten
even Tony, except that she was vaguely conscious he was beside her, another
human being, sharing with her the deep, eternal quiet of the mountains and
the flaming glory of the setting sun. Then his arm slipped through hers, as
they began the steep descent, and at the boyish, friendly touch of it, she
came back to earth.

"Oh, Tony, I'm almost glad we missed the last train," she said softly,
"It's been so wonderful."

"Yes, it's been wonderful," he assented, and there was a queer, excited
note in his voice. "It's been wonderful to be up here with you--right away
from the rest of the world."

Instinctively she drew a little away from him.

"I wish you wouldn't," she said hastily.

"Wouldn't what?" He linked his arm in hers more firmly. "Help you down this
hill? You might trip if I didn't. It's a very rough track"--blandly.

Inwardly Ann admitted to a feeling of helplessness. Tony eluded reproof
with a skill that was altogether baffling. Now, as usual, having said what
he wanted to say, he retreated behind a fence of raillery.

"You know quite well I didn't mean that," she said indignantly.

"What did you mean, then? That I'm not to make love to you?"

"It isn't fair of you," she urged. "Not now--here."

"No, I suppose it isn't," he acknowledged equably. "But I'm going to do it,
all the same. Probably I'll never get you to myself again--alone on the
top of the world. But I'll promise you one thing"--his voice deepened to a
sudden gravity. "This is going to be the last time I make love to you. If
you say 'no' to me now, I shall accept it, and it will be 'no' for always."

Ann's heart beat a little more quickly.

"Tony--" she began protestingly.

"No. Hear me out. I know what's the matter. You don't trust me. You're
afraid, if you marry me, that I'll let you down--as my father let my mother
down. But I won't! I swear it." He stood still and, slipping his arm from
under hers, took both her hands in his and held them tightly. "If you'll
marry me, Ann, I promise you that I'll give up gambling--every form of
it--from this day forth."

"You couldn't!" she broke in hastily.

"I could do anything--for you," he answered simply. "Because I love you."

There was something very touching in the boyish declaration. Ann looked
up and saw his face in the moonlight, white and rather stern. It made her
think of the face of some young knight of bygone days taking a sacred vow
before he set forth to seek and find the Holy Grail.

He bent down to her.

"Ann, darling," he said gently. "I love you so much. Won't you marry me?"

She felt her heart contract. He had asked her many times before--sometimes
half jestingly, sometimes with a sudden imperious passion that would fain
have swept everything before it. But this was different. There was a
gravity, an earnestness in his speech which she could not lightly brush
aside. Alone here, under the wide sky, with only God's open spaces round
them, it seemed to her as though his question and her answer to it must
partake of the same solemnness as vows exchanged within the hallowed walls
of a sanctuary.

She wished intensely that she could give him the answer he desired. And,
beyond that, she felt the urge of Virginia's trust in her. Here was her
chance. At a word from her he was willing to renounce the one thing for
which he craved--the thing that had wrecked his father's life, and which
might some day wreck his own. Ought she to say that word--promise to marry
him, even though she had no love to give him? Her mind seemed to be going
round and round in a maze of uncertainty and doubt.

And then suddenly the remembrance of what Lady Susan had said rushed over
her: _"A woman may throw her whole life's happiness into the scales, and
still fail to turn the balance. Without love--the love that can forgive
seventy times seven, and then not be tired--she'll certainly fail_."

The words steadied her. "_Without love_--" and she had no love to give
Tony. Not the love that a woman should bring to the man she will call
husband. Out of the turmoil of her mind this one thought emerged clear and
irrefutable. And in that moment, for good or ill, her decision was taken.

"Tony." She spoke very gently, sore at heart for the pain she knew she must
inflict. "I must say no, dear. If I loved you, I'd say yes very gladly. But
I don't love you--not like that."

"And you won't marry me?"

"No, I can't marry you."

"Then that's finished." He spoke brusquely. "I shan't ask you again, so you
needn't worry. Come along, we'll get back to the hotel. If we're going to
watch the sunrise to-morrow, we'd better turn in early. And this air makes
one confoundedly sleepy. I believe I could sleep the clock round."

His abrupt return to the commonplace left her feeling confused and
disconcerted. It almost seemed as though she must have dreamed the brief
conversation which had just taken place. It was incredible that a man could
ask you to marry him, promise to forswear a deadly vice that was born
in his blood, and then--almost in the same breath, as it were--casually
vouchsafe the information that he "could sleep the clock round"!

He had linked his arm in hers again, and was piloting her skilfully down
the uneven pathway. She stole a glance at his face. But she could learn
nothing whatever from his expression. Apparently he was solely concerned
with the matter of conducting her back to the hotel in safety.

They parted in the hall at the foot of the stairs.

"I hope you'll sleep all right," said Tony, smiling down at her. "I'm
afraid you'll find it a bit of a picnic, though, without any of the
'comforts of home'!"

He had hardly finished speaking when the hotel door swung open, and a man
came striding in from outside. As he paused on the threshold to pull off
the heavy coat he was wearing, he shot a casual glance in the direction
of the two people standing together by the staircase. Then, his gaze
concentrating suddenly, he stared at Tony with an odd intentness.

"Good-night, Tony." Ann's voice travelled softly to his ears, and at the
sound of it the man transferred his gaze from Tony's face to hers. He
himself remained standing unobserved in the curtained shadow of the entry,
and, when Ann had gone upstairs, Tony passed him on the way to his own room
on the ground floor without noticing his presence.

The man's glance followed him speculatively. Strolling across to the
bureau, he opened the visitors' book, flicking over the leaves till he came
to the current page. He ran his fingers down the list of names, pausing
abruptly at the last inscription: "_G. Smith and sister_." Followed the
illuminating word, "_London_."

With a brief, ironical smile he closed the book. Then he, too, took his
way to bed, and presently the Hotel de Loup was wrapped in the profound
stillness of night.




CHAPTER VI

THE MAN WITH THE SCAR


The sun poured down on to the balcony, and even though the gaily striped
sun-blind had long since been lowered the heat was intense. But in the
clear, dry atmosphere of Switzerland it could never be too hot to please
Ann--she was a veritable sun-worshipper--and she lay back on a wicker
_chaise-longue_, basking contentedly in the golden warmth while she awaited
Lady Susan's return from Evian. From below came the drowsy crooning of the
lake, as the water lapped idly against the stones that edged it--a lake of
a blue so deep as to be almost sapphire.

Ann's eyes rested affectionately on the scene. She had grown to love Lac
Léman and the mountains amid which it lay. Opposite her, on the far side
of the water, the beautiful Savoy range sloped upwards from the shore,
brooding maternally above the villages which fringed the borders of the
lake, while to her left the snow-capped Dents du Midi, almost dazzling in
the brilliant sunshine, guarded the gracious valley of the Rhone.

It was very calm, and peaceful, and sunshiny. Here at Montricheux one
could easily imagine oneself shut away for ever from all that was hard
and difficult and sordid--enclosed within a charmed circle of enchanted
mountains where life slipped effortlessly on from day to day. This morning
Ann felt peculiarly aware of the peaceful atmosphere prevailing. It struck
her how smoothly and easily the last few months had passed. To-day seemed
typical of all the days which had preceded it. A little work--quite
pleasant work, for Lady Susan--a measure of play, sunshine, the keen joy of
beautiful surroundings--these things had made up six months of a strangely
tranquil existence.

And now, as she sat communing with herself, she was conscious of a queer
foreboding that this unruffled period of her life had run its course and
was drawing to an end. Almost, it seemed to her, she could hear a low
rustle amongst the winds of life--the faint, muttering stir which presages
a storm.

Only once before had she experienced a similar sensation of foreboding, a
few weeks prior to the death of her father and the subsequent discovery
that she and Robin were left practically penniless. She had felt then
as though a definite epoch in her life was approaching its close, and
something new and difficult impending. And, in that instance, her
premonition had been only too accurately fulfilled.

She tried to shake off the odd feeling of presentiment which obsessed her.
But it persisted, and it was a real relief when at last the opening of a
door and the sound of voices in the hall heralded Lady Susan's return.
Unpleasant premonitions and such-like ghostly visitants were prone to melt
away in her cheery, optimistic presence like dew before the sun, and Ann
hastened out of the room to welcome her back.

But at sight of the little group of people in the hall she paused in
dismay. Sir Philip and his chauffeur were supporting Lady Susan on either
side, while Marie, the excitable _femme de chambre_, was wringing her hands
and pouring out a voluble torrent of commiseration.

"Be quiet, Marie!" ordered Lady Susan in her brisk voice. "The end of the
world hasn't come just because I've sprained my ankle! Go and get some
bandages and hot water instead of squawking like a scared fowl."

Ann hurried forward anxiously, but Lady Susan nodded reassurance.

"Don't be alarmed, my dear. It's nothing serious. I slipped on the gangway,
coming off the steamer, and turned my ankle. That's all."

"And quite enough, too!" fumed Sir Philip, as, assisted by the chauffeur,
he lifted her with infinite care on to a couch. "Now, then, you clumsy
fool!" This to the unfortunate chauffeur, who had released his hold a
moment too soon, jarring the injured foot.

The man fled, pursued by his master's maledictions, and a few minutes
later, hot water and bandages being forthcoming, Ann busied herself in
tending the rapidly swelling ankle.

"What about a doctor? Don't you think you'd better have one?" asked Sir
Philip, fussing helplessly round and feeling as inadequate as most men in
similar circumstances. "You may have broken a small bone or something," he
added with concern.

"Doctor? Fiddlesticks!" returned Lady Susan. "Ann's all the doctor I want.
There's quite a professional touch about that bandage"--extending her foot
for him to see. "Thank goodness, most of our girls know how to give first
aid nowadays! Now, run along, Philip, and look after that harum-scarum
nephew of yours. I know you're aching to make sure he hasn't got into
mischief during your absence," she added with a touch of malice.

Sir Philip demurred a little, but finally went away, promising to look in
again in the evening. But when evening came Lady Susan had retired to bed,
feeling far too ill to receive visitors.

It was not until after Sir Philip's departure that she would allow herself
to admit that she was suffering acutely, and then she lay back against her
cushions, looking so white and exhausted that Ann was thoroughly alarmed
and despatched Marie in search of the doctor, who promptly prescribed rest
and quiet. By the following morning Lady Susan found herself too stiff even
to wish to move. She had tripped and fallen suddenly, without being able to
save herself at all, and she was more bruised and shaken than she or any
one else had suspected.

For the next few days, therefore, she was relegated to the role of invalid.
She was suffering a good deal of pain, and in the circumstances Ann felt
disinclined to worry her with an account of the predicament in which she
and Tony had found themselves during her absence at Evian. So that when
Lady Susan asked her how she had amused herself that day, she merely
vouchsafed that she had gone up to the Dents de Loup and stayed the night
there in order to see the sunrise. Afterwards, it seemed simpler to let it
rest at that, rather than enter into fresh explanations. The whole incident
had come to assume much smaller proportions in retrospect, and the fact
that she and Tony had not encountered any other visitors at the hotel had
served to reassure her considerably.

By the end of a week Lady Susan was sufficiently convalescent to hobble
about with the aid of a stick, and when Tony called with a huge sheaf of
flowers for the invalid, and the news that there was a particularly good
programme of music to be given at the Kursaal that evening, she insisted
that Ann should go with him to hear it. Ann protested, but Lady Susan swept
her objections aside.

"My dear, you've been dancing attendance on a fidgety old cripple long
enough. Go along with Tony and squander your francs at boule, and drink
_café mélange_ or ice-cream soda, or whatever indigestible drinks the
Kursaal management provides, and listen to this 'perfectly ripping
programme.'" She shot a quizzical glance at Tony. "And you can tell that
crabbed old uncle of yours to come to the villa and keep me amused in the
meantime."

And, since there was never any combating Lady Susan's decisions, matters
were arranged accordingly.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was unusually gay at the Kursaal that evening. The announcement of a
special programme had drawn a large audience, and the terrace was crowded
with people sitting at small, painted iron tables and partaking of various
kinds of refreshment while they listened to the orchestra. Festoons of
coloured lights sparkled like jewels in the dusk, and from the twilit
shadows of the gardens below came answering gleams of red and orange, where
Chinese lanterns spangled the foliage of the trees. Beyond the gardens lay
the sleeping lake, and faint little airs wafted coolly upward from its
surface, tempering the heat of the evening.

Ann looked round her with interested eyes while Tony gave his order to
a waitress. She thoroughly enjoyed an evening at the Kursaal. Until
she had joined Lady Susan at Villa Mon Rêve, she had never been out of
England--for, though Archibald Lovell had been fond of wandering on the
Continent himself, no suggestion had ever emanated from him that his
daughter might like to wander with him--and the essentially un-English
atmosphere of the casino still held for her the attraction of novelty. It
was all so gay, so full of light and movement, and of that peculiar charm
of the open air which makes an irresistible appeal to English people,
condemned as they are by the exigencies of climate to take their pleasures
betwixt four walls throughout the greater portion of the year.

"It interests me frightfully, watching people," observed Ann. "Quite a
lot of the people here are really enjoying the music--and quite a lot are
simply marking time till the tables are open and they can go and play
boule."

Tony nodded.

"The sheep and the goats," he replied. "Count me among the latter. But
boule's a rotten poor game," discontentedly. "Give me roulette--every time.
One has the chance to win something worth while at that."

"And a chance to lose equally as much," retorted Ann.

She flushed a little. This was the first occasion on which Tony had
referred to the subject of gambling since the day they had gone up to the
Dents de Loup together. She wondered if he had spoken deliberately,
intending to remind her of the fact that, since she had refused to marry
him, he was perfectly free to gamble if he chose. Yet he had spoken so
casually, apparently quite without _arrière pensée_ that it almost appeared
as though the memory of that day upon the mountain had been wiped out of
his mind. He seemed unconscious of any _gêne_ in the situation. During Lady
Susan's brief illness he had been in and out of the villa exactly as usual,
bringing flowers, running errands, cheering them all up with his infectious
good humour--spontaneously willing to do anything and everything that might
help to tide over a difficult time.

Now and again there flashed into Ann's mind the recollection of those few
moments on the moonlit hill-side, when Tony's gravely steadfast face and
proffered vow had made her think of him as some young knight of old, and
she would ask herself whether she had done right or wrong in refusing him.
But, for the most part, the episode seemed to her to be invested with a
curious sense of unreality, an impression which was fostered by the
apparently unforced naturalness of Tony's demeanour. And now she felt
rather as though he were asserting his independence, his freedom to gamble.

"Lose?" He picked up her words. "You've got to be _prepared_ to lose--at
everything. The whole of life's a bit of a gamble, don't you think?"

"No," she answered steadily. "I don't. Life's what you make it."

The soft, slate-coloured eyes regarded her oddly.

"Yours will be, I dare say. Mine will be regulated by Uncle Philip,
presumably." His mouth twitched in a brief sneer. "It rather strikes me we
make each other's lives." Then, as though trying to turn the conversation
into a more impersonal channel: "Rum crowd here to-night, isn't it? See
that woman sitting on your left? She looks as though she hadn't two sous to
rub together, yet she's been losing at least five hundred francs each night
this week. She covers the table with five-franc notes and loses
consistently."

So Tony himself must have been playing at the tables every night! Ann made
no comment, but glanced in the direction of the woman indicated. She was
rather a striking-looking woman, no longer young, with a clever, mobile
mouth, and a pair of dark, tragic-looking eyes that appeared all the darker
by contrast with her powder-white hair. She was of foreign
nationality--Russian, probably, Ann reflected, with those high cheek-bones
of hers and that subtle grace of movement. But she was atrociously dressed.
Crammed down on to her beautiful white hair was a mannish-looking soft felt
hat that had seen its best days long ago, and the coat and skirt she was
wearing, though unmistakably of good cut, were old and shabby. In her hand
she held an open note-case, eagerly counting over the Swiss notes it
contained, while every now and again she lifted her sombre, tragic eyes and
cast a hungry glance towards the room where boule was played, the doors of
which were not yet open.

"She might be an exiled Russian princess," commented Ann, observing a
certain regal turn of the head which wore the battered mannish hat.

Tony nodded.

"That's just what she is. She used to play a lot at Monte before the war.
Now she can't afford to go there. So she lives here and plays every
night--on the proceeds of any odd jewellery she can still sell."

Ann regarded her commiseratingly. The woman seemed to her a pathetically
tragic figure--a sidelight on the many tragedies hidden among that
cosmopolitan crowd on the terrace. Then her straying glance shifted to a
man seated alone at the next table to the Russian's, apparently absorbed in
a newspaper. Tony followed the direction of her eyes.

"That chap plays bridge at the club sometimes," he vouchsafed. "I don't
know who he is--never spoken to him. Foreigner, too, I should imagine. He's
so swarthy."

Ann bestowed a second glance on the man in question. He was wearing evening
kit, and at first sight the brown-skinned face above the white of his
collar, taken in conjunction with dark hair and very strongly-marked brows,
seemed to premise the correctness of Tony's surmise. Suddenly the man
lifted his bent head, and over the top of the newspaper Arm found herself
looking into a pair of unmistakably grey eyes--grey as steel. They were
very direct eyes, with a certain brooding discontent in their depths which
looked as though it might flame out into sudden scorn with very little
provocation.

She dropped her glance in some confusion. She felt rather as though she had
been caught looking over her neighbour's garden wall. There had been an
ironical glint in the regard which the grey eyes had levelled at her that
suggested their owner might have overheard Tony's frank comment. Under
cover of a fortissimo finale on the part of the orchestra she leant forward
and spoke in a low voice:

"He's as English as you are, Tony. No one but an Englishman ever had grey
eyes like that."

But Tony's interest had evaporated. The band's final burst of enthusiasm
heralded the finish of the first part of the programme and the consequent
opening of the tables for boule. With a hurried "Come along, quick," he
jumped up and, with Ann beside him, was first in the van of the throng
which was hastening into the rooms to play. In a few moments the gaily-lit
terrace was practically deserted, and an eager-faced crowd pressed up
against the green-clothed tables, each individual eager to secure a good
place.

For a little while Ann contented herself with watching.

_"Faites vos jeux, messieurs. Messieurs, faites vos jeux."_

The ball spun round, and the croupier's monotone sounded warningly above
the whispering of notes and the clink of coin.

_"Le jeu est fait."_ It reminded Ann of the vicar intoning at the little
church she had attended in the old Lovell Court days. Only there were no
responses! Everybody was engrossed in watching the ball as it dodged in and
out amongst the numbers, hesitating maddeningly, then starting gaily off on
a fresh tack as though guided by some invisible spirit of malice.

_"Rien ne va plus!"_

Like the crack of doom came the last gabbled utterance, and the croupier's
rake descended sharply on a claw-like hand which was attempting to
insinuate a coin on to the cloth "after hours," so to speak.

_"Cinq!"_ An announcement which, five being the equivalent of the zero in
roulette, was followed by the hungry rake's sweeping everything into the
coffers of the bank except the five-franc note which Tony had staked on the
number _cinq_.

He gathered up his winnings, and, turning excitedly to Ann, demanded why
she wasn't playing.

"Follow me," he told her. "I'm going to win to-night. I feel it in my
bones."

His eyes were brilliant under their absurd long lashes, and the smile he
gave her was the confident smile of a conqueror. Ann caught the infection
and began to play, staking where he staked, as he had suggested. Now and
then she ventured a little flutter of her own and tried some other number,
but usually her modest franc lay side by side with Tony's lordly five-franc
note.

Evidently Tony's bones had the right prophetic instinct, for after every
_coup_ the croupier pushed across to him a small pile of notes and silver.
Ann's own eyes were sparkling now. It was not that she really cared much
about her actual winnings. She was staking too lightly for that to matter.
But it entertained her enormously to win--to beat the bank as embodied in
the person of the croupier, who reminded her of nothing so much as of an
extremely active spider waiting in a corner of his web to pounce on an
adventurous fly. Each time the ball dropped into the number she had backed,
a little thrill of sheer, gleeful enjoyment ran through her.

Now and again, in spite of her absorption in her own and Tony's play, she
was conscious of a muscular brown hand on her right that reached out to
place a fresh stake on the table--never to gather up any winnings. Its
owner must be losing heavily. He was betting, not only on single numbers,
but putting the maximum on certain combinations and groups of numbers. And
every time the long-handled rake whisked his stakes away from him.

Ann glanced sideways to see who was the unlucky player, and once more she
met the same ironical grey eyes which she had last encountered over the top
of a newspaper. The man who was losing so persistently was her Englishman.

He did not seek to hold her gaze, but bent his own immediately upon the
table again. She stole another glance at him. He was very brown, but she
could see now that he was naturally fair-skinned, although tanned by the
sun. A small scar, high up on the left cheek-bone, showed like a white line
against the tan. Probably he had lived abroad in a hot climate, she
reflected; that deep bronze was never the achievement of an elusive
northern sun. It emphasised the penetrating quality of his eyes, giving
them a curious brilliance. Ann had been conscious of a little shock each
time she had encountered them. She was inclined to set his actual age at
thirty-six or seven, though his face might have been that of a man of
forty. But there was a suggestion of something still boyish about it,
notwithstanding the rather stern-set features and bitter-looking mouth. She
felt as though the bitterness revealed in his expression did not rightly
belong to the man's nature. It was in essence alien--something that life
had added to him.

_"Faites vos jeux, messieurs; messieurs, faites vos jeux."_

The croupier's droning voice recalled her sharply from her thoughts.

"Which is it to be this time, Tony?" she asked, smiling.

"Seven and _impair_," he replied tersely. And in due course the seven
turned up.

Their run of luck was continuing without a break, and plenty of amused and
interested glances were cast at the young couple of successful players.
They were taking it all so easily, with a careless, light-hearted enjoyment
that was rather refreshing to turn to after a glimpse of some of the
furtive, vulture-like faces gathered round the tables. Meanwhile, the
grey-eyed Englishman continued to lose with the same persistency as his
young compatriots were winning. Apparently he was playing on a system, for,
in spite of his want of success, he continued steadily backing certain
definite combinations. He showed neither impatience or annoyance when he
lost. His face remained perfectly impassive, and Ann had a feeling that he
would play precisely as steadily, remain as grimly unmoved, if the stakes
were a hundred times as high as those permitted at the Kursaal. She could
imagine him staking his whole fortune, losing it, and then walking out of
the rooms as coolly composed as he had entered them.

Once more the ball slithered into the number she had backed, and she opened
a small silken bag, that already bulged with her evening's gains, and added
the winnings of the last coup. At the same moment, some one pressing from
behind jolted her arm, and the bag fell with a little thud, its contents
spilling out on the floor. Tony, engrossed in the play, failed to notice
the mishap and went on staking, but the Englishman, apparently quite
unconcerned as to the chances he might be missing, stooped at once and
collected the bag and its scattered contents.

"I think I've rescued everything," he said, as he handed it to her. "But
you'd better count it over and make certain."

"Oh, no, I won't count it. It's sure to be all right. Thank you so much."
Ann spoke rather breathlessly. For some reason or other she felt
unaccountably nervous.

The man smiled.

"You've become such a Croesus to-night that I suppose an odd franc or two
doesn't matter?" he suggested.

"I _have_ been lucky, haven't I?" she acknowledged frankly. "It's been such
fun." Then, with friendly sympathy: "I'm afraid you've lost, though?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm used to losing," he replied indifferently.

Somehow, Ann felt as though he were not thinking only of his losses at the
tables. That note of bitterness in his voice sprang from some deeper
undercurrent.

"I'm so sorry," she said simply.

"I never expect to win," he returned curtly. "If you expect nothing, you're
never disappointed. Pray don't waste your sympathy."

The rudeness of the speech took her aback. Yet, sensing in its very
churlishness the sting of some old hurt, she answered him quietly, though
with heightened colour:

"If you expect nothing, you'll get nothing. That's one of the rules of the
road."

He checked himself in the act of turning away, and regarded her with a
mixture of contempt and amusement, much as one might smile at the
utterances of a child.

"Don't you think we get mostly what we're looking for?" she went on
courageously. "If you expect good things, they'll come to you, and if
you're expecting bad things, they'll come, too."

He gave a short laugh.

"The doctrine of faith! I'm afraid I've outgrown it--many years ago."

"_Faites vos jeux, messieurs_," intoned the croupier.

The Englishman tossed a coin on to number nine. Ann followed the circlings
of the ball with a curious tense anxiety. She wished desperately that the
nine would turn up.

_"Numéro un!"_

With a feeling akin to revolt she watched those who had staked on number
one grab up their winnings, while the croupier raked in the Englishman's
solitary bid for fortune.

"You see?" The bitter grey eyes mocked her. "Quite symbolical, wasn't it?"

With a slight bow he moved away from the table and passed quickly out of
the room.

Ann felt disinclined to play any further. She watched Tony win, then lose
once, then win again several times in succession. He was flushed and there
was a look of triumph on his face.

"Haven't you finished yet, Tony?" she asked at last "I'm ready to go home
when you are."

"Go home? When I'm winning?" he expostulated. "Rather not!" Then, catching
sight of her face, "Hello! You look tired. Are you, Ann?"

She nodded.

"Yes, I think I am a little."

Tony held a five-franc note in his hand, ready for staking. Without the
least sign of disappointment he stuffed it back into his pocket.

"Then we'll go home," he said. And somewhat to the amazement of the people
nearest him, who had been watching his phenomenal run of luck, he made a
way for Ann through the crowd and followed her out of the room.

"That was nice of you, Tony," she said gratefully, as they started to walk
home through the deserted streets.

He threw her a quick, enigmatic smile.

"I've an obliging disposition. Haven't you found that out yet?"

Ann laughed.

"It's becoming quite noticeable," she retorted. "Tony, you nearly broke the
bank to-night, I should think."

"Broke the bank! At five francs a time!" He kicked a pebble viciously into
the roadway. "It was confounded bad luck to get a run like that with such a
rotten limit. With an equal run at Monte I'd have made a fortune. Oh,
damn!"

They walked on in silence for a while. There was no moon. The lake lay dark
and mysterious, pricked here and there with the swaying orange light of a
fishing-boat. High up, like a ring of planets brooding above the town, the
great arc of the Caux Palace lights blazed through the starlit dusk.

Tony reverted to the evening's play.

"You didn't do badly, either," he said, challengingly. "You weren't bored
to-night, were you?"

An odd little smile crossed her face.

"No, I wasn't bored," she answered quietly.




CHAPTER VII

A QUESTION OF ILLUSIONS


An air of suppressed excitement prevailed over Montricheux. It was the day
when the pretty lakeside town celebrated the Fête des Narcisses, and from
the smallest street urchin, grabbing a bunch of narcissi in his grubby
little hand and trying to induce the good-natured foreigner to purchase his
wares, to the usually stolid _hôteliers_, vying with each other as to which
of their caravanserais should blaze out into the most arresting scheme of
decoration on the great occasion, the whole population was aquiver with an
almost child-like sense of anticipation and delight. There was to be a
procession of decorated cars and carriages, a battle of flowers, and
attractions innumerable during the course of the day, followed in the
evening by a Venetian fête on the waters of the bay.

Tony looked in at Villa Mon Rêve shortly after breakfast.

"Taking any part in the proceedings?" he inquired conversationally.

Ann shook her head.

"We've had the car decorated in honour of the occasion," she replied. "But
we're not competing for any prize. I expect we shall just drive about the
town."

"Same here. Tour round, chucking flowers at unsuspecting people. It's a
bore that you and I can't play about together," moodily. "But we've got a
female relative of Uncle Philip's on our hands--a wealthy old cousin, name
of 'Great Expectations,'" with a cheerful grin. "So I've got to trot her
round and do the devoted nephew stunt all day."

"I hope you'll do it nicely"--smiling.

"I shall hear of it from Uncle Philip if I don't!"--grimly. "But you
needn't worry. I got all my best manners down from the top shelf this
morning and gave 'em a brush up."

"Good boy." Ann nodded approval.

"And by way of reward," insinuated Tony, "you'll come to the dance at the
Gloria this evening, won't you? I could come over and fetch you about ten
o'clock, after this precious Venetian fête is over. I'd have liked to go on
the lake, but Uncle Philip has ordained that we are to watch the
proceedings from our balcony at the Gloria. After that, I should think
'cousin' will be sufficiently exhausted to contemplate the idea of retiring
to bed like a Christian woman. She's seventy-nine."

"People fox-trot at seventy-nine nowadays," suggested Ann mischievously.
"Perhaps your duties won't end at ten." Then, seeing his face fall: "But
I'll come to the dance, if Lady Susan doesn't happen to want me this
evening."

At that moment Lady Susan herself came into the room. She still limped a
little, leaning on an ebony stick with a gold knob.

"Who's taking my name in vain?" she asked, as she shook hands with Tony.
"I'm sure to want you," addressing Ann, "but I suppose I shall have to go
without you if Tony wants you too."

Ann explained about the dance, adding: "But of course I shan't think of it
if you'd rather I stayed at home."

"Of course you _will_ think of it," contradicted Lady Susan with vigour.
"I'd go myself if it wasn't for this wretched ankle of mine, and
then"--bubbling over--"Philip and I could tread a stately measure together.
I can just see him doing it!" she added wickedly.

"That's fixed, then," said Tony. "So long. I'll call for you about ten
o'clock, Ann."

After lunch Lady Susan and Ann drove off in the two-seater, Ann at the
wheel and a great basket of flowers for ammunition purposes on the floor of
the car. The streets were thronged with people, and from almost every
window depended flags and coloured streamers, flapping gaily in the breeze.
Cars hastened hither and thither; some, elaborately decorated, were
evidently intended to compete for the prizes offered, whilst others, like
that of Lady Susan, were only sufficiently embellished to permit of their
taking part in the Battle of Flowers, in accordance with the official
regulations issued for the occasion.

The judging of the cars took place in the wide Place du Marché, and
immediately afterwards the firing-off of a small self-important cannon
signalised the commencement of the battle. Carriages and cars passed and
repassed, flowers were tossed from one to the other, whilst showers of
confetti and coloured paper _serpentins_ flew through the air.

Lady Susan apparently enjoyed the fun as much as any one, and was perfectly
charmed when, as the two-seater glided past Sir Philip's Rolls-Royce, he
flung an exquisite spray of crimson roses into her lap, with a sprig of
rosemary nestling amongst them.

"Romantic old dear!" she commented, laughing, as she retaliated with a tiny
nosegay which Sir Philip caught neatly as it went sailing over his head.
But her eyes were very soft as she turned to Ann. "The beauty of not being
married is that you never lose your illusions. Always remember that, Ann,
when you feel like commiserating the old maids of your acquaintance."

"And are you bound to lose them if you marry?" queried Ann, steering her
way deftly through the traffic and bringing the two-seater to a standstill
as the stream of cars temporarily checked.

"No. But you run an excellent chance of it. Do you suppose if I'd married
Sir Philip thirty years ago he'd be pelting me with roses now?"--enjoyably.
"Of course not. It'd be the tradesmen's books, most likely!"

"You wicked cynic!"

Lady Susan laid her hand impulsively on the girl's arm.

"Not really, Ann," she said hastily. "I know that if only a man remembers
the roses, marriage may mean heaven on earth. But they so often forget"--a
little wistfully. "And a woman does so _hate_ to be taken for
granted--regarded as a kind of standing dish!"

Came a regular barrage of flowers from a car to their right, and Ann,
recognising a party of friends, returned them measure for measure.
Meanwhile, unnoticed by her, the third-prize car had drawn alongside,
intervening between herself and the car-load of friends. She had already
raised her arm to speed a final rosebud on its way, and then, with a sudden
shock of surprise, she recognised in one of the occupants of the prize car
the Englishman with the grey eyes. He was sitting beside an extremely
pretty woman and looking somewhat haughty and ill-tempered, as though the
whole business of the fête bored him excessively.

She tried to check her action, but it was too late. The rosebud flew from
her fingers, and the Englishman's head being directly in her line of fire,
the bud, sped with hearty goodwill, hit him straight on the nose. Ann
smiled--she couldn't help it. But there came no response, his expression
remaining unaltered. He regarded her unsmilingly, without a hint of
recognition in his eyes.

A hot flush stained her cheeks.

"Boor!" was her mental comment, and she let in the clutch viciously as the
car in front of her moved forward.

Lady Susan laughed outright.

"I wonder who that handsome, sulky-looking individual is?" she said gaily.
"He fairly froze you, Ann. I imagine he thinks you did it on purpose."

Ann's face burned more hotly. That was precisely the conclusion she had
arrived at herself, and the idea filled her with helpless rage.

"He struck me as quite an unusual combination of good looks and bad
temper," pursued Lady Susan. "Evidently he doesn't appreciate being pelted
with roses."

A sudden gurgle of laughter broke from Ann.

"It was rather a hard little bud," she said vindictively. "I hope it hurt
him."

Lady Susan threw a swift glance at her.

"Do you know him? Have you met him before?" she asked.

"He was down at the Kursaal the other night--the night Tony and I had such
good luck. I dropped my bag and he picked it up for me. That's all."

Ann spoke rather shortly, and for some time afterwards appeared to be
completely absorbed in manoeuvring the two-seater through the streets. They
did not encounter the Englishman's car again, and eventually, after making
a final circuit of the town, they returned to Mon Rêve.

In the evening Lady Susan complained of fatigue.

"I've not quite got over that fall of mine yet," she acknowledged ruefully,
when Ann suggested that perhaps she had been out driving too long in the
hot sun. "Elderly ladies should refrain from tumbling about; it shakes them
up too much. I should immensely like to go to bed, if you don't mind
watching the Venetian fête in solitary splendour. Do you?"

She emitted a sigh of satisfaction when Ann assured her that she did not.

"Then I shall just disappear to bed with a novel. It will entertain me far
more than gazing at a lot of illuminated boats paddling about the lake."

"I think I shall take our boat out, then," said Ann. "I'd rather like to
see it all at close quarters. It's all new to me, you know."

Lady Susan nodded. At different times they had spent a good many enjoyable
hours together, pulling about on the lake, and she had complete confidence
in Ann's ability to manage a rowing-boat.

"Very well. Only don't forget Tony is coming to take you to the dance at
ten and tire yourself out."

Ann laughed and shook her head, and when Lady Susan had departed to bed she
threw a knitted coat over her evening frock and made her way out into the
garden. It was a long, rambling garden, sheltered from the road by a high
wall and, at its farthest end, skirting the lake itself. Here a small
wooden landing-stage had been erected, and moored against it lay a light
rowing-boat--the _Rêve_. With practised hands Ann untied the painter,
affixed a light to the bows of the boat, dropped the sculls into the
rowlocks, and rowed quietly out across the placid water.

One by one illuminated boats came creeping round the arm of the bay, each
adding a fresh cluster of twinkling lights to the bobbing multitude already
gathered there. Like a cloud of fireflies they seemed to dart and circle
and hover above the dusky surface of the lake. Motor-launches flashed here
and there, in and out amongst the slower craft, while from one of the lake
steamers, decks and rigging outlined in quivering points of light, came the
inspiriting strains of a band. Snatches of song drifted across the water,
and now and again the melancholy long-drawn hoot of a syren pierced the
air.

Gradually Ann drew abreast of the assembled craft, and leisurely pulled her
way in and out amongst them. The decorated boats delighted her, some agleam
with Chinese lanterns--giant glow-worms floating on the water, others with
phantom sails of frail asparagus fern lit by swaying lights like dancing
will-o'-the-wisps--dream-boats gliding slowly over a dreaming lake.

Presently she rested on her oars, watching the scene with the eager, vivid
interest which was characteristic of her. So absorbed was she that she
failed to notice that her own small skiff was getting rather dangerously
hemmed in. To her right lay a biggish sailing vessel, blocking the view on
that side, behind her a small fry of miscellaneous craft, packed together
like a flotilla of Thames boats on a summer's day awaiting the opening of
the lock gates. Half unconsciously she heard the approaching chug-chug of
an engine mingling with the sound of voices singing lustily--the hilarious
chorus of a crew of roysterers who had been celebrating not wisely but too
well.

... It all happened with appalling suddenness. One moment she was watching
the fairy fleet that glittered on the lake, the next a hubbub of hoarse,
warning shouts filled the air, the throb of an engine pulsed violently in
her ears, and a motor-boat, overloaded by half-tipsy revellers and
travelling too fast for safety, drove past the bows of the sailing vessel
and veered drunkenly towards her. Instinctively she clutched at her oars.
But they were useless, pinned to the sides of her boat by the press of
others round it. Then, from almost immediately above her, it seemed, a
terse voice--curiously familiar--rapped out a command.

_"Stand up!"_

Hardly knowing what she did, she obeyed, yielding blindly to the peremptory
order. She felt her frail barque rock beneath her feet, then strong arms
grasped her--strong as tempered steel--and lifted her clean up out of the
lurching boat and over its side into another.

Almost before she had time to realise that she was safe, the motor-boat
crashed, head on, into the empty _Rêve_, staving in her side so that in an
instant she had filled with water, her gunwale level with the lake. Then,
as though some ghoulish hand had clutched at her from the depths below, she
sank suddenly out of sight.

Staring with horrified eyes at the swift and utter destruction of the
_Rêve_, Ann shuddered uncontrollably. But for the unknown deliverer who had
snatched her bodily from the doomed boat she herself would be struggling in
that almost fathomless depth of water or, stunned by the savage drive of
the motor-boat's prow, sinking helplessly down to the bottom like a stone.

"Don't be afraid. You're all right." Again that strangely familiar note in
the reassuring voice.

Ann twisted round within the circle of the arms which held her and peered
up at the face of their owner. A flickering gleam of light revealed a small
white scar high up on the left cheek-bone.

"You!" she exclaimed under her breath. "Is it you?"

"Yes." She could detect a note of amusement in the voice that came to her
through the dusk. "Your creed has proved false, you see. I expected
nothing--and here I am with an altogether charming adventure."

"I shouldn't describe it quite like that," she answered ruefully.

"No? But then you've lost a boat, whereas I've gained a passenger. Our
points of view are different."

The arms which held her had not relaxed their hold, and she stirred
restlessly, suddenly acutely conscious of their embrace. Instantly she felt
herself released.

"Will you be all right?" came in a cool voice.

"Oh, yes--yes." Ann stammered a little. "This is a very steady boat, isn't
it?"--wonderingly.

"It's a motor-boat, that's why."

Now that the uproar occasioned by the accident had died away, she could
hear the soft purring of an engine forward.

"Still, you'd better sit down," resumed the Englishman. "The Bacchanalian
gentlemen in the boat which ran you down are still blundering about, and
may quite probably cannon into us. And you don't want to take a second
chance of being shot out into the lake."

"Indeed I don't." She sat down hastily. "I--I don't really know how to
thank you," she began haltingly, after a moment. Somehow she felt curiously
shy and tongue-tied with this man.

"Then don't try," he replied ungraciously.

This was hardly encouraging, but Ann returned to the charge with
determination.

"I must," she said. "If it hadn't been for you I should certainly have been
drowned."

"Rather improbable," he answered--as indifferently as though it really
mattered very little whether she were or not. "With so many people close at
hand, some one would have been sure to fish you out. You'd have got a
wetting--and so would your unfortunate rescuer. That's all. Still, I'm just
as glad I saw what was going to happen. I prefer to keep a dry skin
myself."

"Oh! Then you would have jumped in after me?" asked Ann, with interest.

He sat down in the stern of the boat, his arm on the tiller, and regarded
her contemplatively.

"I suppose so. A man has no choice when a woman chooses to go monkeying
about in a boat and gets herself into difficulties."

"'Monkeying about in a boat!'" repeated Ann indignantly. "I suppose you'll
say next that I rammed my own boat and sank it!"

"You certainly put yourself in the way of danger," he retorted. "Who in the
name of Heaven allowed you to go out on the lake alone on a fête night like
this? Isn't there any one to look after you?"

"I look after myself," she replied shortly. "I'm not a child."

He laughed.

"Not much more, surely. How old are you? Seventeen? Eighteen?"

"Add four," said Ann, "and you'll be nearer it."

"So much?" He fell silent. There had been genuine surprise in his voice.
Perhaps he was recalling her as he had seen her at the Kursaal--boyishly
slender, her eager, pointed face alight with gay enthusiasm and amusement.

_One, two, three_--nine strokes. The sound of a clock striking came wafted
faintly across from the shore. Ann started up.

"I must get back!" she exclaimed. "I'd forgotten all about the time."

A brief smile crossed the man's dark face.

"So had I," he said. And there was something in the quality of his voice
which sent the colour flying up into her face.

"Why must you go back in such a hurry?" he resumed composedly. "One can
watch the fête very well here."

"I'm going to a dance--at the Gloria," said Ann. "Some one--they are coming
to fetch me, and if I'm not there--"

"'They' will be disappointed," he finished for her, a veiled irony in his
voice. "What time do your friends expect you?"

"At ten."

"And it is now only nine. If you care to watch the fête a little longer, I
can land you wherever you wish and you would still be in good time. I will
guarantee your safety," he added with a smile.

Ann hesitated. On the one hand she was thoroughly enjoying the water-fête
as viewed from the security of the Englishman's motor-boat, and the
unconventionality of the circumstances added a spice of adventure to the
situation. On the other, like every properly brought up young woman, she
was quite aware of what would be Mrs. Grundy's pronouncement on such a
matter.

"You'll stay?" said the Englishman.

It savoured more of a command than a question. Metaphorically Ann threw
Mrs. Grundy overboard into the lake.

"Yes, I'll stay," she answered.

He accepted her decision without any outward sign of satisfaction, and she
experienced a slight chill of disappointment. Perhaps, after all, he had
only asked her to remain a little longer, not because he really desired the
pleasure of her company, but merely in order that he might not be
inconvenienced by the necessity of taking her back to Montricheux before he
himself was ready to go. She had all the sensitiveness of youth and, once
this idea had presented itself to her, she felt self-conscious and ill at
ease, only anxious for the moment to arrive when she need no longer
trespass on his hospitality.

And then, just as though some secret wireless had acquainted him of her
discomfort, he held out his hand with a sudden smile that softened the
harsh lines of his face extraordinarily.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "When you go to bed to-night you'll be able
to feel you've done your 'kind deed' for to-day."

Half reluctantly, yet unable to do otherwise, Ann laid her hand in the one
he held out to her. His strong fingers closed round it possessively and she
was aware of a queer, breathless feeling of captivity. She drew her hand
sharply away.

"Is it a 'kind deed'?" she asked lightly, for the sake of saying
something--anything--which should break the tension of the silence which
had followed.

"Is it not? To bestow a charming half-hour of your companionship on the
loneliest person in Montricheux? Oh, I think so."

"You didn't look at all lonely this afternoon," flashed back Ann,
remembering the pretty woman with whom she had seen him driving.

"At the Battle of Flowers, you mean? No." He turned the conversation
adroitly. "But I only won third prize, so I'm still in need of sympathy.
Taking the third prize is rather my _métier_ in life."

"Perhaps it's all you deserve," she suggested unkindly. "Anyway, you've
nothing to grumble at. _We_ didn't win anything. We weren't elaborately
enough decorated to compete."

"Yet you looked as if you were enjoying it all," he hazarded. "Did you?"

"Yes, of course I did. Didn't you?"

"Not particularly--till some one threw me a rose."

Ann decided to ignore the latter part of this speech.

"You're such a confirmed cynic that I wonder you condescended to take part
in anything go frivolous as the fête," she observed.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"When in Rome--Besides, it reminded me of my young days."

"You talk as if you were a close relation of Methuselah. You're not so very
old."

"Am I not?" He paused a moment. "Old enough, at any rate, to have lost all
my illusions."

There was an undercurrent so bitter in the curtly uttered speech that Ann's
warm young sympathies responded involuntarily.

"I wish I could bring them back for you," she said impulsively.

Through the flickering luminance of the lights rimming the boat's gunwale
he looked at her with an odd intensity.

"That's just what I'm afraid of," he said. "That you might bring them back.
Fortunately, I'm leaving Montricheux to-morrow."

Ann was silent. She was vibrantly conscious of the man's strange, forceful
personality. His brusque, hard speeches fell on her like so many blows, and
yet behind them she felt as though there were something that
appealed--something hurt and seeking to hide its hurt behind an armour of
savage irony.

His voice, coolly indifferent once more, broke across her thoughts.

"Would you like to go back now?"

He spoke as though he were suddenly anxious to be rid of her as quickly as
possible, and she assented hastily. His abrupt changes of mood disconcerted
her. There seemed no accounting for what he might say next. He tossed a
curt order to a man whom she could discern crouching forward near the
engine.

"_Bien, m'sieu_," came the answer, and presently the motor-boat was
dexterously edging her way through the throng till she emerged into a clear
space and purred briskly towards the shore.

Once more the Englishman's hand closed firmly round Ann's as he helped her
out on to the little landing-stage.

"Good-bye," she said, a trifle nervously. "And thank you so much for coming
to my rescue."

Still retaining her hand in his, he stared down at her with those queerly
compelling eyes of his. She felt her breath coming and going unevenly. For
a moment he hesitated, as though deliberating some point within himself.
Then:

"Good-bye," he said. And his voice was utterly expressionless. It held not
even cordiality.




CHAPTER VIII

A LETTER FROM ENGLAND


The postman, entering through the garden gate which opened on to the
street, found Ann busily engaged in cutting flowers. He greeted her with a
smile, pleased to be saved the remainder of the distance to the house.

"_Bonjour, mademoiselle_. Only one letter for the villa this morning." He
handed her the solitary missive which the mail had brought and departed,
whistling cheerfully, on his way down the street.

Ann fingered the bulky envelope with satisfaction. It was addressed in
Robin's handwriting, and she carried it off to a sunny corner of the garden
to enjoy its contents at leisure.

    "Dear Little Ann"--ran the letter. _"Here, at last is the good news
    we have both been waiting for! I have been offered exactly the kind
    of billet I wanted--that of estate-agent to a big land-owner. The
    salary is a really generous one, and there's a jolly little cottage
    goes with it, so that you'll be able to chuck free-lancing and come
    and keep house for me as we've always planned. Needless to say,
    I've accepted the job!_

    _"And now to give you all details. My future employer is one, Eliot
    Coventry. We've had several interviews and I liked him very much,
    although he struck me as rather a queer sort of chap. I should put
    him down as dead straight and thoroughly dissatisfied with life!
    Heronsmere, the Coventry place, is a fine old house--one of those
    old Elizabethan houses you're so cracked on. It reminds me a bit of
    Lovell Court. There'll be a lot to see to on the estate, as the
    bailiff in charge has just let things rip, and Coventry himself has
    been out of England for some years. In fact, he has never lived at
    Heronsmere. He's a distant cousin of the late owner and only
    inherited owing to a succession of deaths. He was abroad at the
    time and never even troubled to come home and have a look at his
    inheritance._

    _"One thing I know will please you, and that is that we shall be
    near the sea. Silverquay is the name of the village, which is
    really a part of the Heronsmere property. It's comparatively small,
    not much more than a little fishing village, but the town of
    Ferribridge is only about ten miles distant, so you'll be able to
    obtain the necessities of civilised existence, I expect._

    _"Coventry wants me to take up the work straight away, so I should
    like to move into Oldstone Cottage--our future place of abode--as
    soon as possible. How soon do you think Lady Susan would spare you?
    By the way, you won't need to exercise your mind over the servant
    question. Knowing you were fixed out in Switzerland, I wrote off at
    once to Maria Coombe to ask her if she knew of any one suitable,
    and she promptly suggested herself! So she goes to Oldstone Cottage
    to-morrow to get things in order for us._

    _"I think I've told you everything. I've tried to imagine all the
    questions you would want to ask--and to supply the answers!_

    _"Ever your affectionate brother,_
    _"ROBIN._"

Ann laid the letter down on her knee and sat looking out across the lake
with eyes which held a curious mixture of pleasure and regret. The idea of
sharing life once more with Robin filled her with undiluted joy, but she
was conscious that the thought of leaving Lady Susan and dear, gunny
Switzerland created an actual little ache in her heart. She could quite
imagine feeling rather homesick for Lady Susan's kindly presence, and for
the Swiss mountains and the blue lake which lay smiling and dimpling at her
now in the brilliant sunlight.

Her glance lingered on the lake. She had not been on the water since the
Venetian fête, nearly three weeks ago, owing primarily to the destruction
of the _Rêve_, and secondly to Lady Susan's incurable aversion to a hired
boat. "They roll, my dear," she asserted, when Ann vainly tried to tempt
her into giving the hireling a chance. "And the cushions have villainous
lumps in sundry places. No, I'll stay on shore till we have a new boat of
our own."

So they had stayed on shore, but in spite of herself, Ann's thoughts often
travelled back to the occasion of that last journey she had made on the
lake--with the purr of the motor-boat's engine in her ears and the odd,
unnerving consciousness of the Englishman's close proximity. She would have
liked to forget him, but there was something about the man which made this
impossible. Ann admitted it to herself with an annoyed sense of the
unreasonableness of it. He was nothing to her--not even an acquaintance,
according to the canons of social convention--and in all human probability
they would never meet again.

Yet, try as she might, she had been unable to dismiss him altogether from
her thoughts, and since his departure she had several times caught herself
wondering, with a fugitive emotion of odd trepidation, whether he would
ever return. Once she had even thought she descried him coming towards her
along the Grand' Rue, and when the figure which she had supposed was his
resolved itself, upon closer inspection, into that of a total stranger,
bearing only the most superficial resemblance to the man for whom she had
mistaken him, she experienced a totally disproportionate sense of
disappointment.

The news contained in Robin's letter promised, at any rate, to end all
likelihood of any further meeting. Even if, later on, the unknown
Englishman should return to Montricheux, it would only be to find her gone.
She derived a certain feeling of relief from this thought. There was
something disquieting about the man. He made you like and dislike him
almost in the same breath. On the whole, Ann felt she would be glad to be
in England, freed from the rather disturbing uncertainty as to whether they
might or might not meet again. People so often came back to Montricheux.

She folded up Robin's letter, and, slinging her basket of flowers over her
arm, returned to the house, somewhat troubled in mind as to how she should
break the news of her impending departure to Lady Susan. The difficulty
solved itself, however, more easily than she had anticipated.

"At Silverquay!" exclaimed Lady Susan, when Ann had explained matters.
"Now, how charming! I do think Fate is a good-natured old thing sometimes.
I shall lose you and yet still keep you, Ann. You'll be living quite near
me."

Ann looked up in surprise.

"But you don't live at Silverquay!" she said.

"Almost next door, though. My home, White Windows, is in the neighbouring
parish--Heronsfoot--about five miles away, three if you cut across the
fields."

"Then of course you know this Mr. Coventry?"

"No, I've never met him. I knew Rackham Coventry, from whom your man
inherited, and I've heard him speak of his cousin Eliot. They were on very
bad terms with each other, so that Eliot never came near the place in poor
old Rack's time, and, as your brother tells you, he was abroad when the
property fell in to him. Heronsmere is a lovely old house, by the way."

"I wonder Mr. Coventry never came back until now," said Ann. "He must take
very little interest in the place."

"He's lived abroad for years, I believe. I remember Rack's telling me he
had been crossed in love, and he cut himself adrift from England
afterwards. I think the girl threw him over because in those days he wasn't
rich enough. She must feel rather a fool now, if she knows how things have
fallen out. The Heronsmere rent-roll is enormous."

"It rather serves her right, doesn't it?" commented Ann, with a feeling
that for once poetic justice had been meted out.

Lady Susan smiled.

"Yes. Though I always feel a bit sorry for people who get their deserts.
You never realise how heavy the bill is going to be when you're running it
up." She fell silent a moment, then went on: "The pity of it is that I
suppose Eliot Coventry will never marry now, and so Heronsmere will
ultimately go to a very distant branch of the family. He tried to get
himself killed out of the way during the war, I heard. I knew a man in the
same regiment, and he told me Eliot didn't seem to know what the word fear
meant--'Mad Coventry,' they called him. He took the most amazing risks, and
came through without a scratch."

"While poor Robin got badly wounded and gassed into the bargain," said Ann.
"That's why I'm so glad he's got this post. The doctors told him that an
out-door job was his one chance of getting really strong again."

"Yes, I'm very glad--for you," answered Lady Susan ruefully. "But I shall
miss you badly, child. However, if Robin wants you he must have you, and as
he wants you to go as soon as possible I should think the best plan is for
you to travel back to England with Philip and Tony next week."

It was typical of Lady Susan that she wasted no time in repining, but
promptly proceeded to sketch out a definite plan of action.

"But what about you?" asked Ann with some concern.

"I'll come with you all as far as Paris, and there you can drop me to do
some shopping. I shall stay two or three weeks, I expect."

Ann's face still remained clouded. She felt that it was hardly fair to
desert Lady Susan so suddenly, much as she longed to join Robin as speedily
as possible.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather I stayed with you a little longer?" she
suggested earnestly. "I'm sure Robin could manage for a few
weeks--especially as he will have Maria Coombe."

Lady Susan's quick dark eyes flashed over her.

"Who is Maria Coombe?" she demanded.

Ann laughed.

"Maria Coombe is a host in herself," she answered. "She's an old Devonshire
servant who was with my mother originally. I believe she came to Lovell
when she was about eighteen as kitchen-maid. Then, when Robin and I were
kiddies she was our nurse, and after we grew too old to need one she stayed
on in a sort of general capacity. I never remember life without Maria until
she got married. Her husband was killed in the war, and now she's coming to
Oldstone Cottage to look after us. I'm so delighted about it," she added.
"It will be like old times having Maria around again."

"That's really nice for you," agreed Lady Susan heartily. "Still, I
think"--smiling--"Robin will be glad to have his sister, too. And you
needn't worry about me in the least. I've heaps of friends in Paris.
Besides, Brett Forrester--my scapegrace nephew--is there now, and he and I
always amuse each other."

"Tony knows him, doesn't he? He mentioned having met him in London, I
remember."

"Yes. I believe they both belong to the same gambling set in town--more's
the pity!" replied Lady Susan, with grim disapproval. "The only difference
between them being that Brett gambles and can afford to do it, while Tony
gambles--and can't. I haven't seen Brett for a long time now," she went on
musingly. "Not since last August, when he was yachting and put in at
Silverquay Bay for a few days. He's always tearing about the world, though
he rarely troubles to keep me informed of his whereabouts. I wish to
goodness he'd marry and settle down!"

A sudden puff of wind blew in through the open window, disarranging the
grouping of a vaseful of flowers, and Ann crossed the room to rectify the
damage. Lady Susan's eyes followed her meditatively. She liked the girl's
supple ease of movement, the clean-cut lines of her small, pointed face.
There was something very distinctive about her, she reflected, and she had
to the full that odd charm of elusive, latent femininity which is so
essentially the attribute of the modern girl with her boyish lines and
angles.

"I shall miss you dreadfully, Ann!" she exclaimed impulsively. "I wish you
belonged to me."

She was hardly conscious of the line of thought which had prompted the
spontaneous speech. Ann turned round smilingly.

"It's dear of you to say so," she replied. "I shall insist on Robin's
letting me come over to White Windows as often as I like--and as you will
have me!"

Lady Susan laughed and kissed her.

"You'd better not promise too much--or I shall want to abduct you
altogether!" she declared. "I think Robin's a very lucky young man."

Once the date of her departure for England was actually fixed, it seemed to
Ann as though the days positively flew by. There were a hundred and one
things requiring attention. Sleeping-berths must be booked on board the
train, last visits paid to various friends and acquaintances, and final
arrangements made with regard to the shutting up of Mon Rêve. Last, but not
least, there was the packing up of Ann's own personal belongings, which, in
the course of the last six months, seemed to have strayed away into various
odd corners of the villa, as is the way of things.

But it was all accomplished at last, and close on midnight the little party
of four travellers stood on the deserted platform at Montricheux, watching
the great Orient Express thunder up alongside. Followed a hurried gathering
together of hand-baggage, a scramble up the steep steps of the railway
coach, a piercing whistle, and the train pulled out of the station and went
rocking on its way through the starry darkness of the night.




CHAPTER IX

OLDSTONE COTTAGE


The journey from Montricheux to London accomplished, Ann was speeding
through the familiar English country-side once more and finding it doubly
attractive after her six months' sojourn abroad. The train slowed down to
manipulate a rather sharp curve in the line as it approached Silverquay
station, and she peered eagerly out of the window to see the place which
was henceforth to mean home to her. She caught a fleeting glimpse of white
cliffs, crowned with the waving green of woods, of the dazzling blue of a
bay far below, and of a straggling, picturesque village which climbed the
side of a steep hill sloping upward from the shore. Over all lay the warm
haze of early July sunshine. Then the train ran into the station and she
had eyes only for Robin's tall, straight figure as he came striding along
the platform to meet her.

Brother and sister resembled each other but slightly. In place of Ann's
tempestuous coppery hair Robin was endowed with sober brown, and for her
golden-hazel eyes, with their changeful lights, nature had substituted in
him a pair of serious greenish-brown ones. But they were attractive eyes,
for all that, with a steady, "trustable" expression in them that reminded
one of the eyes of a nice fox terrier.

"Robin!" Ann sprang out of the railway-carriage and precipitated herself
upon him with unconcealed delight. "Oh, my dear, how are you? Let me have a
good look at you!"

She pushed him a little away from her and her eyes flashed over his face
and figure searchingly. Then she nodded as though satisfied with her
inspection. Whereas when she had last seen him he had limped a bit as a
consequence of his wound, to-day he had crossed the platform with the old,
easy, swinging stride of the pre-war Robin, and although his face was still
rather on the thin side, it had lost the look of delicacy which, a year
ago, had worried her considerably.

"Isn't this all simply splendid, Robin?" she said gaily, as, after giving
her luggage in charge of a porter, they made their way out of the station.
"Never tell me dreams don't come true after this--if you dream them hard
enough!"

He smiled down at her. Her spontaneous enthusiasm was infectious.

"It certainly looks as if they do," he agreed. "Here's our trap. Jump in!"

She regarded the smart ralli-cart and bright bay cob with interest. The
latter, held with difficulty by a lad Robin had left in charge, was dancing
gently between the shafts, impatient to be off.

"_Our_ trap?" queried Ann.

"Yes. It goes with the cottage," explained Robin. "Coventry's been awfully
decent over everything. Of course, he provides me with a gee to get about
on, but as soon as he heard I had a sister coming to live with me he sent
down this pony and cart from his own stables. Naturally, I told him that
that kind of thing wasn't included in the bond, but he shut me up with the
remark that no woman could be expected to settle down at the back of beyond
unless she had something to drive."

"He must be an extremely nice young man," commented Ann, as she settled
herself in the trap.

Robin gathered up the reins and they set off, the sleek little cob at once
breaking into a sharp trot which carried them swiftly along the leafy
country road.

"Coventry's not very young," observed Robin, as they sped along. "Must be
six or seven and thirty, at least. And I don't think _you_ would describe
him as 'nice' if you'd met him. He's very brusque in his manner at times,
and I don't fancy women figure much in his scheme of existence."

"Oh, well, he's of no importance beyond being the source of a perfectly
topping billet for you." Ann brushed the owner of Heronsmere off the map
with an airy wave of her hand. "He's quite at liberty to enjoy his
womanless Eden as far as I'm concerned. Men--other than extremely nice
brothers, of course!--are really far more bother than they're worth.
They're--they're so _unexpected_"--with a swift recollection of the
upsetting vagaries of mood exhibited by a certain member of the sex.

Robin threw her a brief glance, then, drawing his whip lightly across the
cob's glossy flanks, he asked casually:

"And how did you leave the Brabazons?"

"They're both looking very fit after three months in Switzerland, of
course, but I think Tony found it a bit boring compared with Monte Carlo.
They came straight on to Montricheux from Mentone, you know."

"Tony still gambles as much as ever, then?"

Ann's face clouded.

"I'm afraid he does," she acknowledged. "At least, whenever he gets the
chance."

"Well, he won't get much chance down at Lorne," remarked Robin
philosophically.

"They're not going down to Lorne yet. They go back to Audley Square till
the end of this month. That's quite long enough for Tony to get into
trouble"--ruefully. "Lady Susan says he plays a lot in her nephew's
set--that's the Brett Forrester Tony sometimes speaks of as such a fine
bridge player."

"I've heard of Forrester from other people," observed Robin. "He's got the
reputation of being one of the most dare-devil gamblers in London--in every
shape and form. Cards, horses, roulette--anything you like as long as it's
got the element of chance in it."

Ann's brows drew together.

"That may be all right for Mr. Forrester. As Lady Susan says, he can afford
to throw money away if he chooses. Tony can't, you know. Sir Philip's
pretty strict over his allowance."

"I'm rather anxious to meet your Lady Susan," said Robin. "It was very
decent of her to let you leave her almost at once like that."

"Lady Susan always _would_ do the decent thing, I think," returned Ann,
smiling. "The other thing doesn't seem to occur to her. You'll meet her
before long, as she comes straight home from Paris. Isn't it strange that
you should get this berth and that we should come to live quite close to
her?"

"Rather a coincidence." Robin, occupied in restraining a sudden
tendency on the part of the pony to frolic a little as they neared home,
replied somewhat abstractedly. He was a good whip, and under his quiet
handling the cob soon steadied down to a more reasonable gait and finally
pulled up decorously at a green-painted gateway. A diminutive and hugely
self-important young urchin, whom Ann learned later to know as Billy
Brewster, the odd-job boy, appeared simultaneously and flew to the pony's
head, grasping his bridle with as much promptitude as if there were
imminent danger of his bolting at sight. Billy's ultimate ambition in life
was to be a groom--he adored horses--and although, at present, the
exigencies of fate ordained that boots, coals, and knives should be added
to his lot, he proposed to lose no opportunity of acquiring the right touch
of smartness requisite for his future profession.

Ann laughed as she passed through the gate which Robin held open for her,
while Billy touched his hat rapturously for the third time.

"Who is that fascinating imp?" she asked. "Is he one of our retainers,
Robin?"

He nodded, smiling.

"That's Billy. He does everything Maria doesn't choose to do, in addition
to grooming the horses. You will observe he is the complete groom--minus
livery!"

Ann's eager glance swept the low, two-storied cottage which faced her. It
was a cosy, home-like looking little house, approached by a wide flagged
path bordered with sweet, old-fashioned country flowers. One of its walls
was half concealed beneath a purple mist of wistaria, while on the other
side of the porch roses nodded their heads right up to the very eaves of
the roof. From the green-clothed porch itself clustered trumpets of
honeysuckle bloom poured forth their meltingly sweet perfume on the air.
And framed in the green and gold of the honeysuckle, her face wreathed in
smiles, stood the comfortable figure of Maria Coombe.

Ann was conscious of a sudden tightening about her throat. The sight of
Maria, with her shrewd, kindly eyes smiling above her plump pink cheeks,
and her hands thrust deep into the big, capacious pockets of her snowy
apron, just as she remembered her in the long-ago nursery days at Lovell,
brought back a flood of tender memories--of the old home in Devon which she
had loved so intensely, of Virginia, frail and sweet, filling the place of
that dead mother whom she had never known, of all that had gone to make up
the happy, care-free days of childhood.

"Maria!" With a cry Ann fled up the flagged path, and the next moment
Maria's arms had enveloped her and she was coaxing and patting and hugging
her just as she had done through a hundred childish tragedies in years gone
by, with the soft, slurred Devon brogue making familiar music in Ann's
ears.

"There now, there now, miss dear, don't 'ee take on like that. 'Tis a cup
of tea you be wanting, sure's I'm here. An' I've a nice drop of water
nearing the boil to make it for you."

She drew Ann into the living-room--a pleasant sunshiny room with a huge
open hearth that promised roaring fires when winter came--and whisked away
into the back regions to brew the tea.

Ann smiled up at Robin rather dewily.

"Oh, Robin, we ought to be awfully happy here!" she exclaimed. As she
spoke, like a shadow passing betwixt her and the sun, came the memory of
the morning at Montricheux, when she had been waiting for Lady Susan's
coming and some vague foreboding of the future had knocked warningly at the
door of her consciousness. For a moment the walls of the little room seemed
to melt away, dissolving into thick folds of fog which rolled towards her
in ever darker and darker waves, threatening to engulf her. Instinctively
she stretched out her hand to ward them off, but they only drew nearer,
closing round her relentlessly. And then, just as she felt that there was
no escape, and that they must submerge her utterly, there came the rattle
of crockery, followed by Maria's heavy tread as she marched into the room
carrying the tea-tray, and the illusion vanished.

"There's your tea, Miss Ann and Master Robin, an' some nice hot cakes as
I've baked for you." Maria surveyed her handiwork with obvious
satisfaction. "And I'm sure I wish you both luck and may a dark woman be
the first to cross your threshold."

"You superstitious old thing, Maria!" laughed Robin. "As if it could make
twopenny-worth of difference whether a blonde or brunette called upon us
first!"

"I don't know nothing about blondes and brunettes, sir," replied Maria,
with truth. "But they do say 'twill bring you luck if so be a dark woman's
the first to cross your threshold after the New Year's in, and it seems
only reasonable that 'twould be the same when you go into a new house."

Unfortunately Maria's hopes were not destined to be fulfilled, as the first
person to cross the threshold of Oldstone Cottage after Ann's arrival was
Caroline Tempest, the rector's sister. "Miss Caroline," as she was
invariably called by the villagers, was a flat-chested, colourless
individual with one of those thin noses which seem to have grown
permanently elongated at the point in the process of prying into other
people's business. Her hair, once flaxen, was now turning the ugly
yellowish grey which is the fair woman's curse, and her eyes were like pale
blue china beads.

She appeared, accompanied by the rector, about half an hour after Maria had
brought in tea, and seemed overwhelmed to discover that Ann herself had
only just arrived.

"I really must apologise," she declared, in the voice of a superior person
making a very generous concession. "I quite thought you were expecting your
sister yesterday, Mr. Lovell. I told you so, didn't I, Brian?" She appealed
to her brother, who nodded rather unhappily. "And we thought we'd like to
call as soon as possible and welcome you to the parish."

Ann didn't believe a word of it.

"She knew perfectly well you were expecting me to-day," she declared when,
later on, she and Robin found themselves alone again. "Though I haven't the
slightest doubt she told that nice brother of hers just what she wished him
to believe. She simply wanted to have first look at me so as to be able to
give the village to-morrow a full, true, and particular account of what I'm
like."

However, she replied to Miss Caroline's apologies with the necessary
cordiality demanded by the occasion and, ringing for Maria, ordered fresh
tea. The rector protested.

"No, no," he said hastily. "You must be far too tired to want visitors when
you've only just come off a long journey. We'll pay our call another day."

Brian Tempest was the very antithesis of his sister--tall and somewhat
ascetic-looking, with a face to which one was almost tempted to apply the
word beautiful, it was so well-proportioned and cut with the sure fineness
of a cameo. His dark hair was sprinkled with grey at the temples, and
beneath a broad, tranquil brow looked out a pair of kindly, luminous eyes
that were neither all brown nor all grey. Later, when she knew him better,
Ann was wont to inform him that his eyes were a "heather mixture--like
tweed." Small, fine lines puckered humorously at their corners, and there
was humour, too, in the long, thin-lipped mouth.

Robin and Ann brushed aside his protest with a hearty sincerity there was
no mistaking. Whatever each of them might feel concerning Miss Caroline,
they were in complete accord in the welcome they extended to her brother.
He was no stranger to Robin. The latter had put up at the village inn
during the time occupied by Maria Coombe in "cleaning down" the Cottage and
making it habitable, and the rector had dropped in to see him in a
characteristically informal, friendly fashion on more than one occasion.

The two chatted together while Miss Caroline put Ann through a searching
catechism as to her past, present, and future mode of life, including the
age at which her parents had died, the particular kind of work she had
undertaken during the war--appearing somewhat taken aback when Ann
explained that she had driven a car, the making of shirts and mufflers
coming more within the scope of Caroline's own idea as to what was
"suitable" work for a young girl--and the length of time she had lived with
Lady Susan. The coincidence of Robin's obtaining a post in the
neighbourhood of Lady Susan's home impressed her enormously, as fate's
unexpected shufflings of the cards invariably do impress those whose
existence is passed in a very narrow groove.

"It's really most extraordinary!" she declared, scrutinising Ann much as
though she suspected her of having somehow juggled matters in order to
produce such a phenomenon. "Did you hear that, Brian? Miss Lovell has been
living with our dear Lady Susan." She spoke as if she held proprietary
rights in Lady Susan. "Isn't it extraordinary that now she and her brother
should have come to live so near White Windows?"

"I think it's a very charming happening," replied the rector, "since
Oldstone Cottage is even nearer to the rectory!"

He smiled across at Ann--a quick, sympathetic smile that seemed to
establish them on a footing of friendly intimacy at once.

"Really," went on Miss Caroline, doggedly pursuing the line of thought to
the bitter end of her commonplace mind, "it's as though it were _meant_ in
some way--that you should come to Silverquay."

"Probably it was," returned the rector simply, and Ann observed a quiet,
dreaming expression come into his eyes--a look of inner vision, tranquilly
content and confident.

"Fancy if it turns out like that!" exclaimed Miss Caroline. "It would be a
most singular thing, wouldn't it, if it was really _intended_?"

"Not at all," answered Brian composedly. "You're speaking as though you
regarded the Almighty as a thoughtless kind of person who would let things
happen, just anyhow."

"Brian!" Miss Caroline's tones shuddered with shocked reproach. Her brother
often shocked her; he seemed to think of God as simply and naturally as he
might of any other friend. She herself, in the course of her parochial work
in the village, habitually represented Him as a somewhat prying and easily
offended individual who kept a particularly sharp eye on the inhabitants of
Silverquay.

She hastily turned the conversation on to less debatable ground.

"We shall have quite a lot of fresh people in the neighbourhood," she
remarked sociably. "Mr. Coventry himself is a stranger to us all, and then
there will be a new-comer at the Priory, too."

"Mrs. Hilyard, you mean?" said Robin.

"Yes." Miss Caroline looked full of importance. "I hear she arrives to-day.
The carrier told our cook that he was ordered to meet the four-thirty train
this afternoon--to fetch a quantity of luggage."

"Is there a _Mr._ Hilyard?" asked Ann casually. She could see that Miss
Caroline was bursting with gossipy news which she was aching to impart.

"No, she's a widow, I hear, and very wealthy. The furniture that's been
coming down by rail is of most excellent quality--most excellent!"

"How do you know, Caroline?" inquired the rector, his eyes twinkling with
amusement.

"Well, _entirely_ by accident, I happened to be taking a basin of chicken
broth to old Mrs. Skinner--you know, she lives in one of the Priory
cottages--on the very day the pantechnicons were delivering at the house,
and I saw quite a number of the chairs and tables as they were being
carried in."

The twinkle in Brian's eyes grew more pronounced.

"I'm afraid you must have stood and watched the unloading process, then."

"Well, I suppose I did--just for a minute," she acknowledged, adding with
some asperity: "It would be quite fitting if you took a little keener
interest in future parishioners, Brian."

"My interest in my future parishioners is quite keen, I assure you--though
I don't know that it extends to their furniture," replied the rector,
laughing.

"Oh, well, it's nice to know that some one has taken the Priory who is in a
position to keep it up properly," persisted his sister. "Don't you agree,
Miss Lovell?"

"Of course," said Ann. "Besides"--smiling across at the rector--"as we're
as poor as church mice, it's just as well the new arrival at the Priory
should he rich--to even things up."

"I think it's all very interesting," pursued Miss Caroline, still intent on
her own train of thought. "Here's Mr. Coventry come home at last to live at
Heronsmere--a very eligible bachelor--and with this Mrs. Hilyard, a wealthy
widow, living so near by it wouldn't be at all surprising if something came
of it."

The rector jumped up, laughing good-humouredly.

"Caroline! Caroline! I must really take you home after that, or Miss Lovell
will think Silverquay is a veritable hot-bed of gossip. Coventry hasn't
been in the neighbourhood a month, poor man, and here you are trying to tie
him up with a lady who doesn't even arrive until this afternoon!"

"Besides," suggested Robin, smiling broadly, "she may be a really
disconsolate widow, you know."

Miss Caroline shook her head.

"I don't think so," she answered obstinately. "The furniture didn't look
like it. One of the packages was a little torn, and I caught sight of the
curtains inside. They were rose colour."

"That was really quite bright of Miss Caroline," observed Ann with some
amusement, when the rector and his sister had started for home. "Only she
didn't know it!"




CHAPTER X

A DISCOVERY


The morning breeze darted in and out of Ann's bedroom like a child
tentatively trying to inveigle a grown-up person into playing
hide-and-seek. With every puff a big cluster of roses, which had climbed to
the sill, swayed forward and peeped inside, sending a whiff of delicate
perfume across to where Ann was kneeling, surrounded by trunks and
suitcases, unpacking her belongings. Pleasant little sounds of life floated
up from outdoors--the clucking of a hen, the stamping of the bay cob as
Billy Brewster groomed him, whistling softly through his teeth while he
brushed and curry-combed, the occasional honk of a motor-horn as a car sped
by in the distance. Then came the beat of a horse's hoofs, stopping
abruptly outside the cottage gate.

Ann did not pause in her occupation of emptying a hatbox of its
tissue-shrouded contents. Robin had ridden away almost immediately after
breakfast, so she merely supposed that, having started early, he had
returned early. But a minute later Maria was standing in the doorway of the
room, her broad face red with the exertion of hurrying upstairs, her eyes
blinking excitedly.

"'Tis Mr. Coventry himself, miss," she announced. "He didn't inquire if any
one was at home, but just followed me in and asked me to tell Master Robin
he was here."

Ann rose reluctantly from her knees, dusting her hands together.

"All right, Maria, I'll go down and see him. Perhaps he can leave a message
with me for Robin. I hope, though," she added with a faint sense of
irritation, "that he isn't going to make a habit of dropping in here in the
mornings."

Only pausing to push back a stray lock of hair, she ran quickly downstairs
and into the living-room.

"I'm so sorry"--she began speaking almost as she crossed the
threshold--"but my brother is out."

With a stifled ejaculation the man standing in the shadow of the tall,
old-fashioned chimneypiece wheeled round, and Ann found herself looking
straight into the grey eyes of the Englishman from Montricheux. For a
moment there was a silence--the silence of utter mutual astonishment, while
Ann was wretchedly conscious of the flush that mounted slowly to her very
temples. The man was the first to recover himself.

"So," he said, "_you_ are Miss Lovell!"

Something in his tone stung Ann into composure.

"Yes," she replied coolly. "You don't sound altogether pleased at the
discovery."

"Pleased?" His eyes rested on her with a species of repressed annoyance.
"It doesn't make much difference whether we're--either of us--pleased or
not, does it?"

His meaning appeared perfectly plain to Ann. For some reason which she
could not fathom he found her appearance on the scene the very reverse of
pleasing.

"I don't see that it matters in any case," she replied frostily. "The fact
that I happen to be your agent's sister doesn't compel you to see any more
of me than you wish to."

"True. And if I'd known you were here I wouldn't have come blundering in
this morning."

"I arrived yesterday," vouchsafed Ann. "Won't you sit down?" she added with
perfunctory politeness. She seated herself, and in obedience to her gesture
he mechanically followed suit.

"Yes, you were expected to-day, weren't you? I'd forgotten," he said
abstractedly.

No one particularly enjoys being assured that they have been forgotten, and
Ann's eyes sparkled with suppressed indignation.

"Can I give my brother any message for you?" she asked stiffly.

All at once he smiled--that sudden, singularly sweet smile of his which
transformed the harsh lines of his face and which seemed to have so little
in common with his habitual brusqueness.

"I've been behaving like a boor, haven't I?" he admitted. "Forgive me. And
can't we be friends? After all, I've some sort of claim. I pulled you out
of Lac Léman--or rather, prevented your tumbling into it, you know."

He spoke with a curious persuasive charm. There was something almost
boyishly disarming about his manner. It was as though for a moment a
prickly, ungracious husk had dropped away, revealing the real man within.
He held out his hand, and as Ann laid hers within it she felt her spirits
rising unaccountably.

"I hope you'll like it here," he pursued. He glanced round with a
discontented expression. "Does the cottage furniture satisfy you? Is it
what you like?"

"It's perfectly charming," she replied whole-heartedly. "I love
old-fashioned things."

"Well, if there's anything you'd like altered or want sending down, you
must let me know. There are stacks of stuff up at Heronsmere."

"You've already sent down the one thing to complete my happiness," she
answered, smiling. "That jolly little pony."

"Oh, Dick Turpin. Do you like him?"

"Is that his name? Yes, I like him immensely. Thank you so much for sending
him." She paused, then added rather shyly: "I always seem to be thanking
you for something, don't I? First for rescuing my bag at the Kursaal, then
for rescuing me, and now for Dick Turpin!"

"You can't do without a cob"--briefly. "Do you ride?"

She nodded.

"Yes. I thought of riding him sometimes. Does he ride all right?"

"Oh, he's quiet enough. But if you want to hunt next winter, you must let
me mount you." His glance rested on her slim, boyish contours. "I've a
little thoroughbred mare up at Heronsmere--Redwing, she's called--who would
carry you perfectly."

"Oh, I couldn't--you mustn't--" she began with some embarrassment.

"Nonsense!" He interrupted her brusquely. "What are you going to do down
here if you don't ride and drive? Lovell will have his work. But you
won't."

"I'm proposing to keep chickens," announced Ann. "I'm not in the least an
idle person. You lose the habit if you've earned your own living for
several years," she added, with a touch of amusement.

"Have you done that?"

She assented.

"Of course I have. You can't live on air, you know, and as my father didn't
leave us much else, Robin and I both had to work."

He regarded her with brooding eyes. She was so gay and cheery about it all
that, against his will, his thoughts were driven back amongst old memories,
recalling another woman he had known who had chosen to escape from poverty
by a different road from the clean, straight one of hard work. She had
funked the sharp corners of life, that other, in a way in which this girl
with the clear, brown-gold eyes that met the World so squarely would never
funk them.

Before he could formulate any answer there came the sound of the house-door
opening and closing. He rose hastily from his chair.

"Ah! That must be your brother!" he exclaimed, a note of what sounded
almost like relief in his voice. He seemed glad of the distraction, and
shook hands cordially with Robin when he came in.

"I'm sorry I was out," began the latter. But Coventry cut short his
apologies.

"Don't apologise," he said. "It has given Miss Lovell and myself the
opportunity of renewing our acquaintance."

Robin looked from one to the other in surprise.

"Have you met before, then?" he asked.

Ann explained.

"At Montricheux," she replied. "Mr. Coventry saved me from a watery grave
on the night of the Venetian Fête there."

"From nothing more dangerous than a wetting, actually," interpolated
Coventry in his abrupt way.

"Well, even that's something to be thankful for," returned Robin, smiling.
"Will you smoke?"

He offered his cigarette-case, and the two men lit up.

"I've just been over to see Farmer Sparkes," he continued. "He's put in a
list as long as your arm of repairs he wants doing."

Coventry laughed good-humouredly.

"I suppose they'll all be sticking me for alterations and repairs now I've
come back," he said. "What's the use of a landlord unless you can squeeze
something out of him?"

"I'm afraid there is a bit of that attitude about most tenants," admitted
Robin. "I expect the new owner of the Priory will get let in for the same
thing. One or two of the Priory cottages want doing up, it's true."

"Have you seen her yet, Robin?" inquired Ann quickly, with feminine
curiosity.

"Mrs. Hilyard, do you mean? No, I didn't come across her this morning."

"_Who_ did you say?" asked Coventry.

Something in the quality of his voice brought Ann's eyes swiftly to his
face. All the geniality had gone out of it. It was set and stern, and there
was an odd watchfulness in the glance he levelled at Robin as he spoke.

"Mrs. Hilyard--the new owner of the Priory," explained Robin. "She arrived
yesterday."

"Hilyard?" repeated Coventry. "Some one told me the name was Hilton. You
don't know what Hilyard she is, I suppose?"

"No, I don't know anything about her. But Hilyard's a fairly common name."

"Yes, I suppose it's fairly common," agreed Coventry slowly.

As though to dismiss the topic, he returned to the matter of the repairs
required on Sparkes' farm, and for a few minutes the two men were engrossed
in details connected with the management of the estate. But Ann noticed
that Coventry seemed curiously abstracted. He allowed his cigarette to
smoulder between his fingers till it went out beneath their pressure, and
presently, bringing the discussion with Robin to a sudden close, he got up
to go. He tendered his farewell somewhat abruptly, mounted his horse, which
had been standing tethered to the gateway by its bridle, and rode away at a
hand-gallop.

Ann made no comment at the time, as Robin seemed rather preoccupied with
estate matters, but over dinner in the evening she broached the subject
upon which she had been exercising her mind at intervals throughout the
day.

"Robin, did you notice Mr. Coventry's expression when you mentioned Mrs.
Hilyard?"

Robin looked up doubtfully from one of Maria's beautifully grilled cutlets.

"His expression? No, I don't think I was looking at him particularly. He
thought she was called Hilton, or something, didn't he?"

Ann went off into a small gale of laughter.

"Does a man ever notice anything unless it's right under his nose?" she
demanded dramatically of the universe at large. "My dear," she went on,
"his face altered the instant you mentioned Mrs. Hilyard's name."

"Well, but why should it?" demanded Robin, still at sea.

"I think," she pronounced oracularly, "that _a_ Mrs. Hilyard must have
played a rather important part in Mr. Coventry's life at one time or
another."

"Well, it's no business of ours if she did," responded Robin
unsympathetically.

"No. But it would be queer if the Mrs. Hilyard who's bought the Priory
happened to be the other Mrs. Hilyard--the one Mr. Coventry knew before."

"We've no grounds for assuming that he ever knew a Mrs. Hilyard at all, and
if he did--as I said before, it's no business of ours."

There never was a real woman yet who failed to be intrigued by the
suggestion of a romance lying dormant in the past life of a man of her
acquaintance, and Ann was far too essentially feminine to pretend that her
interest was not piqued.

"No, of course it's no business of ours," she agreed. "But still, one may
take an intelligent interest in one's fellow beings, I suppose."

"It depends upon circumstances," replied Robin. "I'm here as Coventry's
agent, and my employer's private affairs are no concern of mine."

There was just a suspicion of the "elder brother" in his manner--only a
suspicion, but it was quite sufficient to arouse all the latent contrariety
of woman which Ann possessed.

"Well, Mrs. Hilyard isn't your employer," she retorted. "So I've a perfect
right to feel interested in her."

"But not in her relation to Mr. Coventry," maintained Robin seriously.

The corners of Ann's mouth curled up in a mutinous smile, and her eyes
danced.

"My dear Robin, you can't insulate a woman as you can an electric wire--at
least, not if she has any pretensions to good looks."

"No, I suppose you can't," he admitted, smiling back unwillingly. "More's
the pity, sometimes!"

There, for the moment, the subject dropped, but the imp of mischief still
flickered defiantly in the golden-brown eyes, and when, after dinner was
over, Maria brought in the coffee, Ann threw out a tentative remark which
instantly achieved its nefarious purpose of loosening the springs of
Maria's garrulity.

"They be telling up a tale in the village about the new lady as has taken
the Priory," began Maria conversationally.

Ann sugared her coffee with an air of detachment, and watched Robin
fidgeting out of the tail of her eye.

"You shouldn't listen to gossip, Maria," she reprimanded primly.

"Well, miss, 'tis true folks say you shouldn't believe all you hear, and
'tis early days to speak, seeing she's scarcely into her house yet, as you
may say."

"You give me an uncomfortable feeling that she spent the night on the
doorstep," observed Ann.

"Oh, no, miss," replied Maria, matter-of-factly. "She slept in her bed all
right last night. But maybe, for all that, it's true what folks are
saying," she added darkly. "I'd run out of sugar, so I just stepped round
to the grocer this evening after tea, and he told me 'twas all the tale in
the village that this Mrs. Hilyard isn't a widow at all, and some of them
think she's no better than she should be."

An ejaculation of annoyance broke from Robin.

"The tittle-tattle in these twopenny-halfpenny villages is almost past
believing!" he exclaimed angrily. "Here's an absolute new-comer arrives in
the district, and they've begun taking away the poor woman's character
already."

"Well, sir, of course I'm only speaking what I hear," replied Maria, who,
with all her good points--and they were many--had the true West Country
relish for any titbit of gossip, whether with or without foundation. "Let's
hope 'tisn't true. But they say her clothes do be good enough for the
highest lady in the land. Mrs. Thorowgood--her that's been helping up to
the Priory all day--called in on her way home just to pass the time of day
with me. It seems Mrs. Hilyard has arranged she shall wash for her, and she
was taking a few of her things home with her for to wash to-morrow. And she
told me her own self, did Mrs. Thorowgood, that the lace on them be so fine
as spider's web."

Ann endeavoured to conceal her mirth and reply with becoming gravity.

"Maria, dear, if a disreputable character is considered inseparable from
pretty undies in Silverquay, I'm afraid I shall get as bad a reputation as
Mrs. Hilyard," she suggested meekly.

"You, miss?" Maria's loyalty rose in wrathful protest. "And who _should_
have good things if 'tisn't you, I'd like to know? 'Twouldn't be fitting
for any Miss Lovell of Lovell Court to have things that wasn't of the very
best. And as to telling up little old tales--there'll be no tales told
about you, nor Mr. Robin neither, so long as I'm in Silverquay. I'll see to
that!"

Thoroughly devoted, illogical, and belligerent, Maria picked up the coffee
tray and stalked out of the room, leaving Ann and Robin convulsed with
laughter.




CHAPTER XI

THE LADY FROM THE PRIORY


Bang! The noise of the explosion reverberated through the clear summer air,
and Ann, returning home from the village by way of a short cut through the
woods, smiled to herself as she heard it. She knew that sound--the staccato
percussion of a burst tyre--only too well.

The main road ran parallel with the woods, and, impelled by a friendly
curiosity to know if she could be of any help, she branched off at right
angles and turned her steps in its direction. As she approached she could
discern between the tree-trunks a car, slewed round half across the road,
and the figure of a woman standing beside it and bending over one of the
wheels. Her very attitude betokened a certain helplessness and
inexperience, and, seeing that she was alone, Ann quickened her pace.

"Can I help you at all?" she volunteered, as she reached the roadside.

The woman straightened herself.

"Oh, if you would!" she exclaimed, with obvious relief. "My tyre's burst,
and I'm ashamed to confess I haven't the faintest idea what to do."

Ann regarded her with interest. She was past her first girlhood, a woman of
about thirty, and unusually beautiful. Even more beautiful now, perhaps,
than she had been in earlier days, since, in taking the first freshness and
bloom of youth, the years had given in exchange an arresting quality which
is only born of suffering and experience--adding a deeper depth to her
eyes, a certain strength of endurance to the exquisitely moulded mouth.
Silky dark hair curved back beneath her close-fitting hat like a raven's
wing, sheathing her small, fine head. There was the same silky darkness,
too, of brow and lashes, and when she lifted her long-fringed lids they
revealed a pair of sad and very lovely eyes, the colour of a purple pansy.

"It was foolish of me to come out alone," she pursued, as Ann proceeded in
a business-like fashion to investigate the damage. "I've learned how to
drive, but I know nothing at all about repairs, or how to put on a new tyre
or stepney or anything."

"Well, the first thing to do is to pull the car out of the middle of the
road," returned Ann practically. "Then we'll have to jack her up."

A couple of labourers, passing at the moment, lent a hand in pulling the
car to one side, and when this was accomplished Ann made a raid on the tool
box.

"No, no," the owner of the car protested quickly. "I can't think of letting
you do anything more. Even if you put things right," she added, smiling, "I
shouldn't have the nerve to drive back. The car spun half round when the
tyre burst, and nearly frightened me to death."

"In any case, I'm afraid there's nothing that I can do," replied Ann,
emerging from her investigations. "You've come out without a jack on
board!"

The other, detecting the amused gleam in her eyes, laughed rather ruefully.

"I dare say I've come out without _anything_ I ought to have!" she
admitted. "My chauffeur was sent for hurriedly to the death-bed of his
wife's aunt or some one, and I just thought I'd come out for a spin this
afternoon and explore the neighbourhood. I never prepared for accidents! I
shall have to walk home, that's all."

"Have you far to go?"

"I live at the Priory. I've only recently arrived there--hence my thirst
for exploration"--smiling.

"Then you must be Mrs. Hilyard." Ann felt she had known it all the time.

"Yes"--pleasantly. "I'm Mrs. Hilyard. Are you one of my new neighbours?"

"A very new one," confessed Ann. "I believe I arrived the same day that you
did. I'm Ann Lovell."

Apparently the name Lovell conveyed nothing to Mrs. Hilyard. Probably she
possessed no equivalent of Maria, who was almost as full of current news as
the local daily paper.

"Well, I'm very grateful to you for coming to my help. My chauffeur gets
back this evening, and I'll send him down for the car. It will be all right
here till then."

She bowed very graciously, and was turning away when Ann impulsively
detained her.

"Don't walk back," she said. "Let me drive you home in my cart. Our cottage
is close by, and if you'd let us give you some tea first--"

"Now, that's what I call being really neighbourly!" declared Mrs. Hilyard.
"I'd love the cup of tea. But I can't put you to the trouble of driving me
back afterwards. There must be a limit to Good Samaritanism, you know!"

"It won't be the least trouble," Ann assured her. "Rather the reverse, in
fact. My cob wasn't out yesterday, and it'll do him good to go out to-day.
So, you see, you're providing an excellent reason for exercising
him"--laughingly.

Mrs. Hilyard threw her a mischievous smile.

"Pure casuistry!" she affirmed. "But it's convinced me. I'll love to have
tea with you, and afterwards you shall drive me home, and by the time I've
given you as much trouble as possible, I hope we shall be really friends!"

It was only a matter of five minutes' walk from where they were standing to
the Cottage, and Mrs. Hilyard exclaimed with delight at its pretty,
old-fashioned aspect.

"What a delicious place!" she commented, as Ann established her in an easy
chair. "I think I like it better than my Priory. You've some lovely bits of
pewter up there"--nodding towards the tall old chimney-piece, where the
tender moon-grey of ancient pewter mugs and dishes gleamed fitfully against
the panelled wall.

"I'm afraid it isn't ours," acknowledged Ann regretfully. "Though I love
every bit of it. My brother is agent for the Heronsmere estate, and we have
this cottage furnished. Oh, here he is," she added, as Robin entered the
room.

She introduced him to Mrs. Hilyard, who smilingly accounted for her
impromptu visit.

"I feel that I'm imposing on Miss Lovell's good-nature in the most
barefaced fashion," she said apologetically. "But I honestly couldn't
resist the suggestion of a cup of tea."

"I'm very glad you couldn't," replied Robin simply. And something in the
tone of his voice, taken in conjunction with the serious directness of his
regard, made of the short sentence more than a mere empty expression of
politeness.

"I met Brian Tempest and his sister just now," he went on, turning to Ann,
"and asked them to come in to tea, so I expect they'll be here directly."

"Tempest? That's the rector here, isn't it?" asked Mrs. Hilyard, as Ann
slipped out of the room to prepare Maria for the expected "company."

Robin nodded.

"You've not met him yet?"

"I've met no one. So far, I've done nothing but wrestle with packing-cases
and the distribution of furniture"--smiling.

"It sounds pretty ghastly," averred Robin. "I say"--impulsively. "Couldn't
I--couldn't we help you at all?"

Mrs. Hilyard laughed softly. Robin thought it was one of the most
delightful sounds he had ever heard, fluent and sweet as the pipe of a
blackbird.

"Apparently you and your sister go about doing kindnesses," she said, in a
quick, touched way. "The very first thing she said to me was 'Can I help?'
And now, almost your first utterance is another offer of help! Is every one
in the neighbourhood like that? Because, if so, I think I must have come to
an enchanted village--and"--firmly--"I shall decide to remain here for the
rest of my life!"

"Well"--Robin looked embarrassed--"shifting furniture about isn't exactly a
woman's job."

"I'm not actually shifting furniture myself--except a table or chair now
and again, when no one else moves quickly enough to please me! But if you
and Miss Lovell would come over one day soon and help me to decide about
the disposition of my _lares_ and _penates_, it would be the greatest help.
One does so want some one to talk things over with, you know," she added.

To Robin's ears there was a forlorn note in that frank little
acknowledgment, and he was conscious of a sudden, overpowering rush of
sympathy. She was lonely--he was sure of it. In spite of all her charm and
quick laughter, she was not a happy woman. Some shadow from the past lay in
her eyes, and when she laughed the sparkle in them was like the momentary
sunlit ripple which breaks the surface of a pool for a brief instant and
then is lost again in its shadowed stillness.

Ann's return to the room, synchronising with the arrival of the rector and
his sister, served to detach his thoughts from the subject of Mrs.
Hilyard's eyes, and when the necessary introductions had been performed,
and the new owner of the Priory was joining in the general conversation
with apparent light-heartedness, Robin was tempted to wonder whether he had
been correct in his surmise, after all.

But later on, during tea, the clouded expression reappeared on her face, as
though something had all at once turned her thoughts inward. It was when
Miss Caroline, thirsting for information as usual, suddenly pounced on her
with a question.

"I suppose you haven't met Mr. Coventry yet?" she demanded.

For an instant Mrs. Hilyard looked startled. Then she shook her head.

"Mr. Coventry? No. Is he an important person in the neighbourhood?"

"He's my chief," volunteered Robin. "Heronsmere Belongs to him."

"I'm afraid I don't even know where Heronsmere is," submitted Mrs. Hilyard
deprecatingly. "I'm quite ignorant about my neighbours, so far."

"Silverquay is part of the Heronsmere property," responded Miss Caroline.
"But the house itself is not far from the Priory. The Coventrys have lived
there for generations," she added proudly. "They're immensely wealthy."

With the last words an expression of something that looked like relief
flitted across Mrs. Hilyard's face.

"How interesting!" she said, infusing just the right amount of cordiality
into her voice. "And are there any children? I'm fond of kiddies."

"Children? Oh, no. Mr. Coventry isn't married. Nor was the last owner."
Miss Caroline warmed to her subject. "It's funny there should be two
bachelor owners in succession, isn't it? Rackham Coventry died unmarried,
and both his younger brothers were killed--one at sea and the other in a
railway accident. That's how it was the property came to Eliot Coventry,
who's only a cousin."

Mrs. Hilyard suddenly went very white. Fortunately, Miss Caroline's
attention happened to be concentrated at the moment upon stirring the sugar
into her second cup of tea, and by the time this was satisfactorily
accomplished, the pretty colour was stealing back into the cheeks that had
paled so swiftly.

"I'd really no idea there were any other houses at all near mine," murmured
Mrs. Hilyard, after the briefest of pauses. "I came across an advertisement
of the Priory, dashed down to see it one day, and fell in love with it on
the spot--partly because it seemed so far from everywhere."

"We value our privacy in Silverquay," said the rector, smiling. "Almost all
the large houses are tucked snugly away out of sight--hidden by trees or
rising ground."

"Did you come here to be quiet, then?" asked Miss Caroline, thrusting in
her oar the instant her brother had finished speaking.

"Yes," answered Mrs. Hilyard simply.

Miss Caroline fixed her with a gimlet eye.

"How very surprising!" she remarked. "You don't look in the least like the
sort of person who would choose to live in a quiet country village like
Silverquay."

"Don't I?" Mrs. Hilyard smiled. But she did not volunteer any explanation
of her choice.

Here Ann, recognising Miss Caroline's now familiar methods of
cross-examination, came to the rescue and diverted the conversation into a
less personal channel, and shortly afterwards the Tempests left in order to
pay some parochial visits in the village, Ann shepherding them as far as
the gateway.

Mrs. Hilyard exchanged a sympathetic smile with Robin. "The Miss Carolines
of the world are rather trying, aren't they?" she observed mirthfully. "I
think she has gone away fully convinced that there is something 'queer'
about me--that I'm not quite respectable, probably!"


"Ridiculous!" growled Robin in tones of wrath. "She has only to look at
you!"

"Thank you"--meekly. "I'm glad you think I look--respectable."

"You know I didn't mean that! I think you look--I think you look--" He
floundered and broke off abruptly.

"Yes?" There was the tiniest rising inflection in her voice, demanding an
answer.

Across the little room Robin's eyes laughed into hers.

"Perhaps I'll tell you some other time--when I know you better," he said.

At that moment Ann returned from speeding the Tempests on their way. Mrs.
Hilyard rose.

"I must be going, too, I think," she said. "But I don't want you to trouble
about driving me back, Miss Lovell. I'll walk."

"It's no trouble at all," Ann assured her. "Tell Billy to bring the cart
round, will you, Robin?"

He nodded, and held out his hand to Mrs. Hilyard.

"Good-bye," he said. "I'd ask you to let me drive you back, but that I've
made an appointment to see one of Mr. Coventry's tenants."

A few minutes later Dick Turpin, somewhat annoyed at being taken out of his
stall just as feeding-time approached, was bearing Ann and her new
acquaintance swiftly along the road towards the Priory.

Mrs. Hilyard was very silent during the first part of the drive. She
appeared absorbed in her own thoughts, and from the expression of her face
one might have hazarded a guess that she was inwardly debating some moot
point. All at once she seemed to come to a decision.

"I think," she said in a quiet, clear voice, "that I must have met this Mr.
Coventry who lives at Heronsmere. I knew an Eliot Coventry--once."

She did not look at Ann as she spoke, but gazed straight ahead as though
the strip of bare, lonely road which stretched in front of them were of
peculiarly vital interest.

"What--is he like?" she went on. Any one observing her at the moment would
have gathered the impression that she was forcing herself to speak with
composure--that it was not easy for her. But Ann, preoccupied with Dick
Turpin's vagaries, was not looking at her.

"Oh, he's tall," she made answer. "And has grey eyes. There's a little
white scar just under one of them."

The woman beside her drew a quick breath.

"Ah"--the sweet, _trâinante_ voice was a fraction uneven. "Then it _is_ the
man I've met."

The ralli-cart swung round a corner into a narrow lane, and a quick
exclamation broke from Ann as she recognised in the tall, striding figure
approaching from the opposite direction the man of whom they had just been
speaking. A beautiful thoroughbred collie bounded along beside him, looking
up at his master every now and again with adoring eyes.

"Why, here _is_ Mr. Coventry!" she exclaimed. "Shall I pull up?"

Without waiting for an answer she brought the cob to a standstill exactly
as Eliot, catching sight of them, halted instinctively.

"Good afternoon," she called out gaily, as he lifted his hat. "We were just
speaking of you. Here is an old acquaintance of yours."

Eliot's glance travelled swiftly from her face to that of her companion.
His expression was quite impenetrable--mask-like in its impassivity. Mrs.
Hilyard bent forward, holding out her hand.

"Have you forgotten me, Mr. Coventry?"

For an instant the man and woman looked deep into each other's eyes, as
though to bridge the time which had passed since last they met--questioning
what the intervening years had brought to each of them. But Eliot made no
attempt to take the outheld hand. He did not appear to see it, and Mrs.
Hilyard let it drop slowly down again on to her lap.

"Forgotten Cara Daintree?" he said lightly. "Is it likely I should?"

"Cara Hilyard, now." She corrected him a shade nervously.

"Oh, yes. Hilyard, isn't it? Of course."

His glance flashed over her face, searching and cold as a hawk's. She
winced under it, but faced him gallantly, though a flush crept up under her
clear skin.

"I hear we are near neighbours. I hope"--she forced herself to meet those
hard, unflinching eyes--"I hope you will come and see me, Mr. Coventry."

He bowed stiffly.

"Thanks," was all he said. Then, laying his hand on the cob's shining
flank, he deliberately addressed himself to Ann: "Is Dick Turpin still
behaving himself properly?"

She nodded.

"He's a perfect cherub," she assured him warmly. "Any one could manage
him--even when he has an attack of high spirits. He's got a mouth like
velvet."

"There's something to be said for the driver's hands, possibly," suggested
Coventry, with a smile. "Light hands make a light mouth. Still, I'm glad to
know he suits you."

He whistled up his dog, who came racing to heel, then, with a grave bow
which briefly included Mrs. Hilyard, lifted his hat and resumed his way
along the lane.

Ann drove on, and ten minutes later pulled her horse up at the Priory
doors. Mrs. Hilyard stepped lightly out of the trap. She moved beautifully,
with a deer-like ease and grace.

"Now when will you and your brother come over to lunch?" she asked, as she
shook hands. "He promised--for you both--to come and help me with advice
about arranging my rooms. You must go on as you've begun--being
neighbourly, you know," she added quaintly.

"But we shall be cut out now by an older friend," said Ann, when they had
fixed a day for the lunch appointment.

"Oh, no"--quickly. "No man can take the place of a woman friend--and I hope
you're going to be that?"

Ann smiled down into the lovely upraised face with frank comradeship.

"I hope so, too," she returned heartily. "Still, it's jolly for you finding
an old friend like Mr. Coventry living next door, so to speak, isn't it?"

For a moment Mrs. Hilyard hesitated. Then:

"Very jolly," she replied, with a brief, enigmatic smile.




CHAPTER XII

A NEW ACQUAINTANCE


August had come in on a wave of such breathless heat that each day the
weather-wise foretold a thunderstorm. But, although the heavy, sultry air
and lowering skies seemed pregnant with impending tempest, with every
evening would come a clearer atmosphere and all signs of thunder disappear
until the following day, when the stifling heat closed down once more like
an invisible pall.

The pleasantest spot in the vicinity of Oldstone Cottage was undoubtedly a
certain corner of the garden where stood a venerable oak whose interlacing
branches spread themselves into a cool green canopy, and here, in a hammock
slung from one great limb of the tree to another, Ann had taken refuge. A
book lay open on her knee, but, yielding to the languor induced by the
oppressive heat, she had ceased to make even a pretence at reading and
leaned back in the hammock, hands clasped behind her head, idly reviewing
the happenings of the last few weeks.

The realisation that actually no more than a month had elapsed since her
arrival at Silverquay amazed her. It seemed almost incredible, so swiftly
and surely had the new life built itself up round her, with quick, deft
touches--a friend here, an adopted custom there, new interests and
occupations that had already become an accepted part of the day's routine.

Ann was the last person in the world to recognise how much of this was due
to her own individual personality. That eager vitality of hers went
half-way to meet life. She did not wait supinely for things to happen, but
instinctively looked round to see what she could herself accomplish. As she
had laughingly told Eliot Coventry, she was not in the least an idle
person--and the newly-wired chicken-run and hen-coops already established
in a corner of a field adjoining the Cottage garden testified to the
veracity of the statement. It was a small thing, perhaps, but its prompt
achievement was characteristic.

Equally characteristic were the new friendships she was forming. Where some
people would find only neighbours, Ann's spontaneous, warm-hearted nature
discovered friends. Brian Tempest already counted as one, and her
acquaintance with Cara Hilyard, begun so unconventionally, was rapidly
deepening into a pleasant intimacy.

She had discarded her original theory that some long-ago romance linked
Eliot Coventry and Mrs. Hilyard together. Neither of them appeared to her
to be in the least thrilled by the fact of the other's proximity in the
neighbourhood, nor did either make any obvious effort to avoid or cultivate
the other's society. If they chanced to meet they exchanged civilities as
the merest acquaintances might do, and gradually Ann came to believe that
their knowledge of each other was based on nothing more profound than a
slight friendship of many years ago, which had more or less petered out
with the passage of time.

Cara, for all her quick sympathy and eager friendship, was reticent as
regards the past, and Ann's attitude towards her held an element of that
loyal, enthusiastic devotion which an older woman not infrequently inspires
in one considerably younger than herself--a devotion which accepts things
as they are and has no wish to pry into the secrets of the past.

One circumstance of Cara's former life had come to Ann's knowledge
unavoidably--the fact that her husband, Dene Hilyard, had ill-treated her.
A most trifling accident had served to reveal it. She and Ann had been
gathering roses together in the Priory garden, and, in straining up to
reach a particularly lovely bloom that hung from the roof of the pergola,
Cara's thin muslin sleeve had caught on a projecting nail which had ripped
it apart from shoulder to elbow. As the torn sleeve fell hack it revealed a
trickle of blood where the nail's sharp point had scored the skin, and
above that, marring the whiteness of the upper arm, an ugly, discoloured
scar. Cara made a hasty movement to conceal it, catching the gaping edges
of the sleeve together with her hand. Then, realising that it was too late,
she let them fall apart again and met Ann's horrified eyes with a long,
inscrutable gaze.

"Yes, it's ugly, isn't it?" she said bitterly. "All my married life
was--ugly."

"What do you mean?" Ann's voice shook. She felt as though she knew what was
coming--the story of how Cara came by that dreadful scar--and fought
against the knowledge with incredulous horror.

"Dene... my husband... he'd been reading a book which described how they
branded a woman... and he tried..." She broke off, shivering violently.

"No--_no_!" Urgently the denial sprang from Ann's stricken lips, as though
she sought by the sheer imperative violence of her disclaimer to make this
horrible thing untrue.

Cara nodded her head slowly.

"It's quite true... he used to drink... he was half mad at times. That was
one of them."

She had never again referred to the matter, nor to any other episode of her
unhappy married life, but since that day Ann had always the consciousness
of something unspeakably hideous which had lain in the background of Cara
Hilyard's life, marring it utterly, and the intense sympathy it aroused
within her had quickened the growth of the friendship between them.

One circumstance which had assisted greatly in the "settling down" process,
as far as Ann was concerned, had been Lady Susan's unexpectedly early
return from Paris. The end of the first fortnight of July had found her
back at White Windows.

"The heat was intolerable, my dear!" she told Ann. "And the dust. Not even
for the sake of a new rig-out could I endure it. I thought of cool little
Silverquay with the nice clean sea washing its doorstep every morning--and
I bolted. Madame Antoinette has probably been, wringing her hands over my
half-completed garments ever since!"

She was immensely entertained when Ann acquainted her with the identity of
the man who had come to her assistance on the night of the Venetian fête,
and chuckled enjoyably.

"Poor man! He must be frightfully bored at finding you here--established on
his very threshold, so to speak! Confirmed misogynists should never indulge
in the rescuing stunt--it's so liable to involve them in unexpected
consequences. How does he bear up under the discovery?"

"Not at all well," acknowledged Ann ruefully. "Sometimes I think he almost
regrets he didn't let me drown comfort

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