"Can you ask?" Mr. Satterthwaite made his funny old-fashioned bow.
She smiled, but shook her head. "That isn't the reason," she said
thoughtfully. "It's odd. But you can't come with me--not today."
"Another day, perhaps," suggested Mr. Satterthwaite politely.
"Oh! Another day!" She laughed suddenly, a very queer laugh, Mr.
Satterthwaite thought. "Another day! Well, we'll see."
They started. They drove through the town, and then round the long
curve of the bay, winding inland to cross a river and then back to the
coast with its hundreds of little sandy coves. And then they began to
climb. In and out, round nerve-shattering curves, upward, ever upward
on the tortuous winding road. The blue bay was far below them and, on
the other side of it, Ajaccio sparkled in the sun, white like a fairy
city.
In and out, in and out, with a precipice first one side of them, then
the other. Mr. Satterthwaite felt slightly giddy, he also felt slightly
sick. The road was not very wide. And still they climbed.
It was cold now. The wind came to them straight off the snow peaks. Mr.
Satterthwaite turned up his coat collar and buttoned it tightly under
his chin.
It was very cold. Across the water Ajaccio was still bathed in
sunlight, but up here thick gray clouds came drifting across the face
of the sun. Mr. Satterthwaite ceased to admire the view. He yearned for
a steam-heated hotel and a comfortable armchair.
Ahead of them Naomi's little two-seater drove steadily forward. Up,
still up. They were on top of the world now. On either side of them
were lower hills, hills sloping down to valleys. They looked straight
across to the snow peaks. And the wind came tearing over them, sharp,
like a knife.
Suddenly Naomi's car stopped, and she looked back.
"We've arrived," she said. "At the world's end. And I don't think it's
an awfully good day for it."
They all got out. They had arrived in a tiny village, half a dozen
stone cottages. An imposing name was printed in letters a foot high:
_Coti Chiaveeri_.
Naomi shrugged her shoulders. "That's its official name, but I prefer
to call it the world's end."
She walked on a few steps, and Mr. Satterthwaite joined her. They were
beyond the houses now. The road stopped. As Naomi had said, this was
the end, the back of beyond, the beginning of nowhere. Behind them the
white ribbon of the road, in front of them--nothing. Only far, far
below, the sea.
Mr. Satterthwaite drew a deep breath. "It's an extraordinary place. One
feels that anything might happen here, that one might meet--anyone--"
He stopped, for just in front of them a man was sitting on a boulder,
his face turned to the sea. They had not seen him till this moment, and
his appearance had the suddenness of a conjuring trick. He might have
sprung from the surrounding landscape.
"I wonder--" began Mr. Satterthwaite.
But at that minute the stranger turned, and Mr. Satterthwaite saw his
face.
"Why, Mr. Quin! How extraordinary. Miss Carlton-Smith, I want to
introduce my friend Mr. Quin to you. He's the most amazing fellow. You
are, you know. You always turn up in the nick of time--"
He stopped, with the feeling that he had said something awkwardly
significant, and yet for the life of him he could not think what it was.
Naomi had shaken hands with Mr. Quin in her usual abrupt style. "We're
here for a picnic," she said. "And it seems to me we shall be pretty
well frozen to the bone."
Mr. Satterthwaite shivered. "Perhaps," he said uncertainly. "We shall
find a sheltered spot?"
"Which this isn't," agreed Naomi. "Still, it's worth seeing, isn't it?"
"Yes, indeed." Mr. Satterthwaite turned to Mr. Quin. "Miss
Carlton-Smith calls this place the world's end. Rather a good name, eh?"
Mr. Quin nodded his head slowly several times. "Yes--a very suggestive
name. I suppose one only comes once in one's life to a place like
that--a place where one can't go on any longer."
"What do you mean?" asked Naomi sharply.
He turned to her. "Well, usually there's a choice, isn't there? To the
right or to the left. Forward or back. Here--there's the road behind
you, and in front of you--nothing."
Naomi stared at him. Suddenly she shivered and began to retrace her
steps toward the others. The two men fell in beside her. Mr. Quin
continued to talk, but his tone was now easily conversational.
"Is the small car yours, Miss Carlton-Smith?"
"Yes."
"You drive yourself? One needs, I think, a good deal of nerve
to do that round here. The turns are rather appalling. A moment
of inattention, a brake that failed to hold, and--over the
edge--down--down--down. It would be--very easily done."
They had joined the others. Mr. Satterthwaite introduced his friend. He
felt a tug at his arm. It was Naomi. She drew him apart from the others.
"Who is he?" she demanded fiercely.
Mr. Satterthwaite gazed at her in astonishment. "Well, I hardly know.
I mean, I have known him for some years now--we have run across each
other from time to time, but in the sense of knowing actually--"
He stopped. These were futilities that he was uttering, and the girl by
his side was not listening. She was standing with her head bent down,
her hands clenched by her sides.
"He knows things," she said. "He knows things. How does he know?"
Mr. Satterthwaite had no answer. He could only look at her dumbly,
unable to comprehend the storm that shook her.
"I'm afraid," she muttered.
"Afraid of Mr. Quin?"
"I'm afraid of his eyes. He sees things."
Something cold and wet fell on Mr. Satterthwaite's cheek. He looked up.
"Why, it's snowing," he exclaimed in great surprise.
"A nice day to have chosen for a picnic," said Naomi.
She had regained control of herself with an effort.
What was to be done? A babel of suggestions broke out. The snow came
down fast and thick. Mr. Quin made a suggestion and everyone welcomed
it. There was a little stone Cassecroute at the end of the row of
houses. There was a stampede toward it.
"You have your provisions," said Mr. Quin, "and they will probably be
able to make you some coffee."
It was a tiny place, rather dark, for the one little window did little
toward lighting it, but from one end came a grateful glow of warmth. An
old Corsican woman was just throwing a handful of branches on the fire.
It blazed up and by its light the newcomers realized that others were
before them.
Three people were sitting at the end of a bare wooden table. There was
something unreal about the scene to Mr. Satterthwaite's eye; there was
something even more unreal about the people.
The woman who sat at the end of the table looked like a duchess--that
is, she looked like the popular conception of a duchess. She was the
ideal stage _grande dame_. Her aristocratic head was held high, her
exquisitely dressed hair was of a snowy white. She was dressed in
gray--soft draperies that fell about her in artistic folds. One long
white hand supported her chin, the other was holding a roll spread with
_pâté de foie gras_. On her right was a man with a very white face,
very black hair, and horn-rimmed spectacles. He was marvelously and
beautifully dressed. At the moment his head was thrown back, and his
left arm was thrown out, as though he were about to declaim something.
On the left of the white-haired lady was a jolly-looking little man
with a bald head. After the first glance, nobody looked at him.
There was just a moment of uncertainty, and then the Duchess (the
authentic Duchess) took charge.
"Isn't this storm too dreadful," she said pleasantly, coming forward,
and smiling a purposeful and efficient smile that she had found very
useful when serving on welfare and other committees. "I suppose you've
been caught in it just like we have? But Corsica is a marvelous place.
I only arrived this morning."
The man with the black hair got up, and the Duchess with a gracious
smile slipped into his seat.
The white-haired lady spoke. "We have been here a week," she said.
Mr. Satterthwaite started. Could anyone who had once heard that
voice ever forget it? It echoed round the stone room, charged with
emotion--with exquisite melancholy. It seemed to him that she had said
something wonderful, memorable, full of meaning. She had spoken from
her heart.
He spoke in a hurried aside to Mr. Tomlinson. "The man in spectacles is
Mr. Vyse--the producer, you know."
The retired Indian judge was looking at Mr. Vyse with a good deal of
dislike.
"What does he produce?" he asked. "Children?"
"Oh! dear me, no," said Mr. Satterthwaite, shocked by the mere mention
of anything so crude in connection with Mr. Vyse. "Plays."
"I think," said Naomi, "I'll go out again. It's too hot in here."
Her voice, strong and harsh, made Mr. Satterthwaite jump. She made,
almost blindly, as it seemed, for the door, brushing Mr. Tomlinson
aside. But in the doorway itself she came face to face with Mr. Quin,
and he barred her way.
"Go back and sit down," he said.
His voice was authoritative. To Mr. Satterthwaite's surprise, the girl
hesitated a minute and then obeyed. She sat down at the foot of the
table as far from the others as possible.
Mr. Satterthwaite bustled forward and buttonholed the producer. "You
may not remember me," he began. "My name is Satterthwaite."
"Of course!" A long bony hand shot out and enveloped the other's in a
painful grip. "My dear man. Fancy meeting you here. You know Miss Nunn,
of course?"
Mr. Satterthwaite jumped. No wonder that voice had been familiar.
Thousands, all over England, had thrilled to those wonderful,
emotion-laden tones. Rosina Nunn! England's greatest emotional actress.
Mr. Satterthwaite too had lain under her spell. No one like her for
interpreting a part--for bringing out the finer shades of meaning.
He had thought of her always as an intellectual actress, one who
comprehended and got inside the soul of her part.
He might be excused for not recognizing her. Rosina Nunn was volatile
in her tastes. For twenty-five years of her life she had been a blonde.
After a tour in the States, she had returned with the locks of the
raven, and she had taken up tragedy in earnest. This "French Marquise"
effect was her latest whim.
"Oh! by the way, Mr. Judd--Miss Nunn's husband," said Vyse, carelessly
introducing the man with the bald head.
Rosina Nunn had had several husbands, Mr. Satterthwaite knew. Mr. Judd
was evidently the latest.
Mr. Judd was busily unwrapping packages from a hamper at his side. He
addressed his wife. "Some more _pâté_, dearest. That last wasn't as
thick as you like it."
Rosina Nunn surrendered her roll to him, as she murmured simply, "Henry
thinks of the most enchanting meals. I always leave the commissariat to
him."
"Feed the brute," said Mr. Judd, and laughed. He patted his wife on the
shoulder.
"Treats her just as though she were a dog," murmured the melancholy
voice of Mr. Vyse in Mr. Satterthwaite's ear. "Cuts up her food for
her. Odd creatures, women."
Mr. Satterthwaite and Mr. Quin between them unpacked lunch. Hard-boiled
eggs, cold ham, and Gruyère cheese were distributed round the table.
The Duchess and Miss Nunn appeared to be deep in murmured confidences.
Fragments came along in the actress's deep contralto.
"The bread must be very lightly toasted, you understand? Then just a
_very_ thin layer of marmalade. Rolled up and put in the oven for one
minute--not more. Simply delicious."
"That woman lives for food," murmured Mr. Vyse. "Simply lives for
it. She can't think of anything else. I remember in _Riders to the
Sea_--you know 'and it's the fine, quiet time I'll be having.' I
could _not_ get the effect I wanted. At last I told her to think of
peppermint creams--she's very fond of peppermint creams. I got the
effect at once--a sort of far-away look that went to your very soul."
Mr. Satterthwaite was silent. He was remembering.
Mr. Tomlinson opposite cleared his throat preparatory to entering into
conversation.
"You produce plays, I hear, eh? I'm fond of a good play myself. _Jim
the Penman_, now; that was a play."
"My God," said Mr. Vyse, and shivered down all the long length of him.
"A tiny clove of garlic," said Miss Nunn to the Duchess. "You tell your
cook. It's wonderful."
She sighed happily and turned to her husband. "Henry," she said
plaintively, "I've never even _seen_ the caviar."
"You're as near as nothing to sitting on it," returned Mr. Judd
cheerfully. "You put it behind you on the chair."
Rosina Nunn retrieved it hurriedly, and beamed round the table.
"Henry is too wonderful. I'm so terribly absent-minded. I never know
where I've put anything."
"Like the day you packed your pearls in your sponge bag," said Henry
jocosely. "And then left it behind at the hotel. My word, I did a bit
of wiring and phoning that day."
"They were insured," said Miss Nunn dreamily. "Not like my opal." A
spasm of exquisite heart-rending grief flitted across her face.
Several times, when in the company of Mr. Quin, Mr. Satterthwaite had
had the feeling of taking part in a play. This illusion was with him
very strongly now. This was a dream. Everyone had his part. The words
"my opal" were his own cue. He leaned forward.
"Your opal, Miss Nunn?"
"Have you got the butter, Henry? Thank you. Yes, my opal. It was
stolen, you know. And I never got it back."
"Do tell us," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Well--I was born in October--so it's lucky for me to wear opals,
and because of that I wanted a real beauty. I waited a long time for
it. They said it was one of the most perfect ones known. Not very
large--about the size of a two-shilling piece--but oh! the color and
the fire."
She sighed. Mr. Satterthwaite observed that the Duchess was fidgeting
and seemed uncomfortable, but nothing could stop Miss Nunn now. She
went on, and the exquisite inflections of her voice made the story
sound like some mournful saga of old.
"It was stolen by a young man called Alec Gerard. He wrote plays."
"Very good plays," put in Mr. Vyse professionally. "Why, I once kept
one of his plays six months."
"Did you produce it?" asked Mr. Tomlinson.
"Oh! _no_," said Mr. Vyse, shocked at the idea. "But do you know, at
one time I actually thought of doing so?"
"It had a wonderful part in it for me," said Miss Nunn. "_Rachel's
Children_, it was called--though there wasn't anyone called Rachel in
the play. He came to talk to me about it--at the theater. I liked him.
He was nice-looking--and very shy, poor boy. I remember"--a beautiful
far-away look stole over her face--"he brought me some peppermint
creams. The opal was lying on the dressing-table. He'd been out in
Australia, and he knew something about opals. He took it over to the
light to look at it. I suppose he must have slipped it into his pocket
then. I missed it as soon as he'd gone. There _was_ a to-do. You
remember?"
She turned to Mr. Vyse.
"Oh! I remember," said Mr. Vyse with a groan.
"They found the empty case in his rooms," continued the actress. "He'd
been terribly hard up, but the very next day he was able to pay a large
sum into his bank. He pretended to account for it by saying that a
friend of his had put some money on a horse for him, but he couldn't
produce the friend. He said he must have put the case in his pocket by
mistake. I think that was a terribly weak thing to say, don't you? He
might have thought of something better than that. I had to go and give
evidence. There were pictures of me in all the papers. My press agent
said it was very good publicity--but I'd much rather have had my opal
back."
She shook her head sadly.
"Have some preserved pineapple?" said Mr. Judd.