The House of Dreams-Come-True. Margaret Pedler

The House of Dreams-Come-True - Margaret Pedler


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hearing it, looked up in some surprise, and the other, meeting her questioning glance, rushed hastily into speech.

      “A lock of white hair? But how chic!

      “It should not”—thoughtfully—“be difficult to discover the identity of anyone with so distinctive a characteristic.”

      “He is not staying in the hotel, at all events,” said Jean. “He told me he was at a friend’s chalet.”

      “And he did not enlighten you as to his name? Gave you no hint?”

      Madame de Varigny spoke with an assumption of indifference, but there was an undertone of suppressed eagerness in her liquid voice.

      Jean shook her head, smiling a little to herself. It had been part of the charm of that brief companionship that neither of the two comrades knew any of the everyday, commonplace details concerning the other.

      “Perhaps you will see him again at the rink to-morrow,” suggested Madame de Varigny, still with that note of restrained eagerness in her tones. “The snow is not deep except where it has drifted; they will clear the ice in the morning.”

      Jean was silent. She was not altogether sure that she wanted to see him again. As it stood, robbed of all the commonplace circumstances of convention, the incident held a certain glamour of whimsical romance which could not but appeal to the daughter of Glyn Peterson. Nicely rounded off, as, for instance, by the unknown Englishman’s prosaically calling at the hotel the next day to enquire whether she had suffered any ill effects, it would lose all the thrill of adventure. It was the suggestion of incompleteness which flavoured the entire episode so piquantly.

      No, on the whole, Jean rather hoped that she would not meet the Englishman again—at least, not yet. Some day, perhaps, it might be rather nice if chance brought them together once more. There would be a certain element of romantic fitness about it, should that happen.

      “I don’t think I am likely to see him again,” she said quietly, replying to Madame de Varigny’s suggestion. “He told me he was going away to-morrow.”

      Had it been conceivable, Jean would have said that a flash of disappointment crossed the Countess’s face. But there seemed no possible reason why the movements of an unknown Englishman should cause her any excitation of feeling whatever, pleasant or otherwise. The only feasible explanation was that odd little streak of inquisitiveness concerning other people’s affairs which appeared to be characteristic of her and which she had before evinced concerning the circumstances of Lady Anne Brennan.

      Whatever curiosity she may have felt, however, on this occasion Madame de Varigny refrained from giving expression to it. Apparently dismissing the subject of the Englishman’s identity from her mind, she switched the conversation into a fresh channel.

      “It is unfortunate that you should have met with such a contretemps to-day. You will not feel disposed to dance this evening, after so much fatigue,” she observed commiseratingly.

      But Jean scouted the notion. With the incomparable resiliency of youth, she felt quite equal to dancing all night if needs be.

      “Mais tout au contraire!” she exclaimed. “I’m practically recovered—at least, I shall be after another half-hour’s lazing by this glorious fire. I wonder what heaven-sent inspiration induced Monsieur Vautrinot to install a real English fire-place in this room? It’s delicious.”

      The Countess rose, shrugging her expressive shoulders.

      “You are wonderful—you English! If it had been I who had experienced your adventure to-day, I should be fit for nothing. As to dancing the same evening—ma foi, non! Voyons, I shall leave you to rest a little.”

      She nodded smilingly and left the room. Once in the corridor outside, however, the smile vanished as though it had been wiped off her face by an unseen hand. Her curving lips settled into a hard, inflexible line, and the soft, disarming dark eyes grew suddenly sombre and brooding.

      She passed swiftly along to her own suite. It was empty. The little Count was downstairs, agreeably occupied in comparing symptoms with a fellow health crank he had discovered.

      With a quick sigh of relief at his absence she flung herself into a chair and lit a cigarette, smoking rapidly and exhaling the smoke in quick, nervous jerks. The long, pliant fingers which held the cigarette were not quite steady.

      “Tout va bien!” she muttered restlessly. “All goes well! Assurément, his punishment will come.” She bent her head. “Que Dieu le veuille!” she whispered passionately.

      Jean took a final and not altogether displeased survey of herself in the mirror before descending to the big salle where the fancy-dress ball was to be held. She had had her dinner served to her in her room so that she might rest the longer, and now, as there came wafted to her ears the preliminary grunts and squeals and snatches of melody of the hotel orchestra in process of tuning up, she was conscious of a pleasant glow of anticipation.

      There was nothing strikingly original about the conception of her costume. It represented “Autumn,” and had been designed for a fancy-dress ball of more than a year ago—before the death of Jacqueline had suddenly shuttered down all gaiety and mirth at Beirnfels. But, simple as it was, it had been carried out by an artist in colour, and the filmy diaphanous layers of brown and orange and scarlet, one over the other, zoned with a girdle of autumn-tinted leaves, served to emphasise the russet of beech-leaf hair and the topaz-gold of hazel eyes.

      Madame de Varigny’s glance swept the girl with approval as they entered the great salle together.

      “But it is charming, your costume! Regarde, Henri”—turning to the Count, who, as a swashbuckling d’Artagnan, was getting into difficulties with his sword. “Has it not distinction—this costume d’automne?

      The Count retrieved himself and, hitching his sword once more into position, poured forth an unembarrassed stream of Gallic compliment.

      Madame de Varigny herself was looking supremely handsome as Cleopatra. Jean reflected that her eyes—slumberous and profound, with their dusky frame of lashes and that strange implacability she always sensed in them—might very well have been the eyes of the Egyptian queen herself.

      The salle was filling up rapidly. Jean, who did not anticipate dancing overmuch, as she had made but few acquaintances in the hotel, watched the colourful, shifting scene with interest. There was the usual miscellany of a masquerade—Pierrots jostling against Kings and Cossacks, Marie Antoinettes flaunting their jewels before the eyes of demure-faced nuns, with here and there an occasional costume of outstanding originality or merit of design.

      Contrary to her expectations, however, Jean soon found herself with more partners than she had dances to bestow, and, newly emancipated from the rigour of her year’s mourning, she threw herself into the enjoyment of the moment with all the long repressed enthusiasm of her youth.

      It was nearing the small hours when at last she found herself alone for a few minutes. In the exhilaration of rapid movement she had completely forgotten the earlier fatigues of the day, but now she was beginning to feel conscious of the strain which the morning’s skating, followed by that long, exhausting struggle through the blizzard, had imposed upon even young bones and muscles. Close at hand was a deserted alcove, curtained off from the remainder of the salle, and here Jean found temporary sanctuary, subsiding thankfully on to a big cushioned divan.

      The sound of the orchestra came to her ears pleasantly dulled by the heavy folds of the screening curtain. Vaguely she could feel the rhythmic pulsing, the sense of movement, in the salle beyond. It was all very soothing and reposeful, and she leaned her head against a fat, pink satin cushion and dosed, at the back of her mind the faintly disturbing thought that she was cutting a Roman senator’s dance.

      Presently she stirred a little, hazily aware of some disquiet that was pushing itself into her consciousness. The discomfort


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