The House of Dreams-Come-True. Margaret Pedler
recognised her father in that suddenly shrank, huddled figure of a man, stumbling down the path, his head thrust forward and sunken on his breast.
Her first imperative instinct was to go and meet him. Her whole being ached with the longing to let him feel the warm rush of her sympathy, to assure him that he was not utterly alone. But she checked the impulse, recognising that he had no use for any sympathy or love which she could give.
She had never really been anything other than exterior to his life, outside his happiness, and now she felt intuitively that he would wish her to remain equally outside the temple of his grief.
He was the type of man who would bitterly resent the knowledge that any eyes had seen him at a moment of such utter, pitiable self-revelation, and it was the measure of her understanding that Jean waited quietly till he should choose to come to her.
“When he came, he had more or less regained his customary poise, though he still looked strained and shaken. He addressed her abruptly.
“I’ve decided to go straight on to Marseilles and sail by the next boat, Jean. There’s one I can catch if I start at once.”
“At once?” she exclaimed, taken aback. “You don’t mean—to-day?”
He nodded.
“Yes, this very evening. I find I can get down to Montreux in time for the night mail.” Then, answering her unspoken thought: “You’ll be quite all right. You will be certain to hear from Lady Anne in a day or two, and, meanwhile, I’ll ask Madame de Varigny to play chaperon. She’ll be delighted”—with a flash of the ironical humour that was never long absent from him.
“Who was she before she married the Count?” queried Jean.
“I can’t tell you. She is very reticent about her antecedents—probably with good reason”—smiling grimly. “But she is a big and beautiful person, and our little Count is obviously quite happy in his choice.”
“She is rather a fascinating woman,” commented Jean.
“Yes—but preferable as a friend rather than an enemy. I don’t know anything about her, but I wouldn’t mind wagering that she has a dash of Corsican blood in her. Anyway, she will look after you all right till Anne Brennan writes.”
“And if no letter comes?” suggested Jean. “Or supposing Lady Anne can’t have me? We’re rather taking things for granted, you know.”
His face clouded, but cleared again almost instantly.
“She will have you. Anne would never refuse a request of mine. If not, you must come on to me, and I’ll make other arrangements,”—vaguely. “I’ll let the next boat go, and stay in Paris till I hear from you. But I can’t wait here any longer.”
He paused, then broke out hurriedly:
“I ought never to have come to this place. It’s haunted. I know you’ll understand—you always do understand, I think, you quiet child—why I must go.”
And Jean, looking with the clear eyes of unhurt youth into the handsome, grief-ravaged face, was suddenly conscious of a shrinking fear of that mysterious force called love, which can make, and so swiftly, terribly unmake the lives of men and women.
CHAPTER III—THE STRANGER ON THE ICE
“A ND this friend of your father’s? You have not heard from her yet?”
Jean and Madame de Varigny were breakfasting together the morning after Peterson’s departure.
“No. I hoped a letter might have come for me by this morning’s post. But I’m afraid I shall be on your hands a day or two longer”—smiling.
“But it is a pleasure!” Madame de Varigny reassured her warmly. “My husband and I are here for another week yet. After that we go on to St. Moritz. He is suddenly discontented with Montavan. If, by any chance, you have not then heard from Lady—Lady—I forget the name——”
“Lady Anne Brennan,” supplied Jean.
A curiously concentrated expression seemed to flit for an instant across Madame de Varigny’s face, but she continued smoothly:
“Mais, oui—Lady Brennan. Eh bien, if you have not heard from her by the time we leave for St. Moritz, you must come with us. It would add greatly to our pleasure.”
“It’s very good of you,” replied Jean. She felt frankly grateful for the suggestion, realising that if, by any mischance, the letter should be delayed till then, Madame de Varigny’s offer would considerably smooth her path. In spite of Glyn’s decision that she must join him in Paris, should Lady Anne’s invitation fail to materialise, she was well aware that he would not greet her appearance on the scene with any enthusiasm.
“I suppose”—the Countess was speaking again—“I suppose Brennan is a very frequent—a common name in England?”
The question was put quite casually, more as though for the sake of making conversation than anything else, yet Madame de Varigny seemed to await the answer with a curious anxiety.
“Oh, no,” Jean replied readily enough, “I don’t think it is a common name. Lady Anne married into a junior branch of the family, I believe,” she added.
“That would not be considered a very good match for a peer’s daughter, surely?” hazarded the Countess. “A junior branch? I suppose there was a romantic love-affair of some kind behind it?”
“It was Lady Anne’s second marriage. Her first husband was a Tormarin—one of the oldest families in England.” Jean spoke rather stiffly. There was something jarring about the pertinacious catechism.
Madame de Varigny’s lips trembled as she put her next question, and not even the dusky fringe of lashes could quite soften the sudden tense gleam in her eyes.
“Tor—ma—rin!” She pronounced the name with a French inflection, evidently finding the unusual English word a little beyond her powers. “What a curious name! That, I am sure, must be uncommon. And this Lady Anne—she has children—sons? No?”
“Oh, yes. She has two sons.”
“Indeed?” Madame de Varigny looked interested. “And what are the sons called?”
Jean regarded her with mild surprise. Apparently the subject of nomenclature had a peculiar fascination for her.
“I really forget. My father did once tell me, but I don’t recollect what he said.”
A perceptible shade of disappointment passed over the other’s face, then, as though realising that she had exhibited a rather uncalled-for curiosity, she said deprecatingly:
“I fear I seem intrusive. But I am so interested in your future—I have taken a great fancy to you, mademoiselle. That must be my excuse.” She rose from the table, adding smilingly: “At least you will not find it dull, since Lady Anne has two sons. They will he companions for you.”
Jean rose, too, and together they passed out of the salle à manger.
“And what do you propose to do with yourself to-day?” asked the Countess, pausing in the hall. “My husband and I are going for a sleigh drive. Would you care to come with us? We should he delighted.”
Jean shook her head.
“It’s very kind of you. But I should really like to try my luck on the ice. I haven’t skated for some years, and as I feel a trifle shaky about beginning again, Monsieur Griolet, who directs the sports, has promised to coach me up a bit some time this morning.”
“Bon!”