JEAN, surprisingly revived by a hot bath and a hot drink, and
comfortably tucked up beside the fire in her room, was recounting the
day’s adventure to Madame de Varigny.
It was a somewhat expurgated version of the affair that she
outlined--thoughtfully calculated to allay the natural apprehensions
of a temporary chaperon--in which the unknown Englishman figured
innocuously as merely having come to her assistance when, in the course
of her afternoon’s tramp, she had been overtaken by the blizzard. Of
the stolen day, snatched from under Mrs. Grundy’s enquiring nose, Jean
preserved a discreet silence.
“I don’t know who he could be,” she pursued. “I’ve never seen him on the
ice before; I should certainly have recognised him if I had. He was a
lean, brown man, very English-looking--that sort of cold-tub-every-morning
effect, you know. Oh! And he had one perfectly white lock of
hair that was distinctly attractive. It looked”--descriptively--“as
though someone had dabbed a powdered finger on his hair--just in the
right place.”
Madame de Varigny’s eyes narrowed, and a quick ejaculation escaped her.
It was something more than a mere exclamation connoting interest; it
held a definitely individual note, as though it sprang from some sudden
access of personal feeling.
Jean, 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 grew,
crystallising at last into the feeling that she was no longer alone. Eor
a moment, physically unwilling to be disturbed, she tried to disregard
it, but it persisted, and, as though to strengthen it, the recollection
of the defrauded senator came back to her with increased insistence.
Broad awake at last, she opened her eyes. Someone--the senator
presumably--was standing at the entrance to the little alcove, and she
rushed into conscience-stricken speech.
“Oh, have I cut your dance? I’m so sorry----”
She broke off abruptly, realising as she spoke that the intruder was
not, after all, the senator come to claim his dance, but a stranger
wearing a black mask and domino. She was sure she had not seen him
before amongst the dancers in the _salle_, and for a moment she stared
at him bewildered and even a little frightened. Vague stories she had
heard of a “hold-up” by masked men at some fancy-dress ball recalled
themselves disagreeably to her memory, and her pulse quickened its beat
perceptibly.
Then, quite suddenly, she knew who it was. It did not need even the
evidence of that lock of _poudré_ hair above the mask he wore, just
visible in the dim light of the recess, to tell her. She knew. And with
the knowledge came a sudden, disturbing sense of shy tumult.
She half-rose from the divan.
“You?” she stammered nervously. “Is it you?”
He whipped off his mask.
“Who else? Did this deceive you?”--dangling the strip of velvet from his
finger, and regarding her with quizzical grey eyes. “I’ve been hunting
for you everywhere. I’d almost made up my mind that you had gone to bed
like a good little girl. And then my patron saint--or was it the special
devil told off to look after me, I wonder?--prompted me to look in here.
_Et vous voilà, mademoiselle!_ How are you feeling after your exploits
in the snow?”
He spoke very rapidly, in a light half-mocking tone that seemed to Joan
to make the happenings of the afternoon unreal and remote. His eyes were
very bright, almost defiant in their expression--holding a suggestion
of recklessness, as though he were embarked upon something of which his
inmost self refused to approve but which he was nevertheless determined
to carry through.
“So you _did_ ‘call to enquire,’ after all!”
As she spoke, Jean’s mouth curled up at the corners in an involuntary
little smile of amused recollection.
“So I did call after all?” He looked puzzled--not unnaturally, since
he had no clue to her thoughts. “What do you mean? I came”--he went on
lightly--“because I wanted the rest of the day which you promised to
share with me. The proceedings were cut short rather abruptly this
afternoon.”
“But how did you get here?” she asked. “And--and why did you disappear
so suddenly after we got back to the hotel this afternoon?”
“I got here by the aid of a pair of excellent skis and the light of
the moon; the snow ceased some hours ago and the surface is hardening
nicely. I disappeared because, as I told you, if you gave me this one
day, it should bind you to nothing--not even to introducing me to your
friends.”
“I should have had to present you as _Monsieur l’Inconnu,_” remarked
Jean without thinking.
“Yes.” He met her glance with smiling eyes, but he did not volunteer his
name.
He had made no comment, uttered no word beyond the bald affirmative, yet
somehow Jean felt as though she had committed an indiscretion and he
had snubbed her for it. The blood rushed into her cheeks, staining them
scarlet.
“I beg your pardon,” she said stiffly.
Again that glint of ironical amusement in his eyes.
“For what, mademoiselle?”
She was conscious of a rising indignation at his attitude. She could not
understand it; he seemed to have completely changed from the man of a
few hours ago. Then he had proved himself so good a comrade, been so
entirely delightful in his thought and care of her, whereas now he
appeared bent on wilfully misunderstanding her, putting her in a false
position just for his own amusement.
“You know perfectly well what I meant,” she answered, a tremor born
of anger and wounded feeling in her voice. “You thought I was
inquisitive--trying to find out your name----”
“Well”--humorously--“you were, weren’t you?” Then, as her lip
quivered sensitively, “Ah! Forgive me for teasing you! And”--more
earnestly--“forgive me for not telling you my name. It is better--much
better--that you should not know. Remember, we can only have this one
day together; we’re just ‘ships that pass.’” He paused, then added:
“Mine’s only a battered old hulk--a derelict vessel--and derelicts are
best forgotten.”
There was an undercurrent of deep sadness in his voice, the steadfast,
submissive sadness of a man who has long ago substituted endurance for
revolt.
“Remember, we can only have this one day together.” The quiet utterance
of the words stung Jean into a realisation of their significance,
and suddenly she was conscious that the knowledge that this unknown
Englishman was going away--going out of her life as abruptly as he had
come into it--filled her with a quite disproportionate sense of regret.
She found herself unexpectedly up against the recognition of the fact
that she would miss him--that she would like to see him again.
“Then--you want me to forget?” she asked rather wistfully.
Her eyes fell away from him as she spoke.
“Yes,” he returned gravely. “Just that. I want you to forget.”
“And--and you?” The words seemed dragged from her without her own
volition.
“I? Oh”--he laughed a little--“I’m afraid I’m inconsistent. I’m going to
ask you to give me something I can remember. That’ll even matters up, if
you forget and I--remember.”
“What do you want me to give you?”
He made a sudden step towards her.
“I want you to dance with me--just once. Will you?”--intently.
He waited for her reply, his keen, compelling glance fixed on her face.
Then, as though he read his answer there, he stepped to her side and
held out his arm.
“Come,” he said.
Almost as if she were in a dream, Jean laid her hand lightly on his
sleeve and he pulled aside the portière for her to pass through. Then,
putting his arm about her, he swung her out on to the smooth floor of
the _salle_.
They danced almost in silence. Somehow the customary small-change of
ballroom conversation would have seemed irrelevant and apart. This
dance--the Englishman had implied as much--was in the nature of a
farewell. It was the end of their stolen day.
The band was playing _Valse Triste_, that unearthly, infinitely sad
vision of Sibelius’, and the music seemed to hold all the strange,
breathless ecstacy, the regret and foreboding of approaching end of
which this first, and last, dance was compact.
It was over at last. The three final chords of the _Valse_--inexorable
Death knocking at the door--dropped into silence, and with the end
of the dance uprose the eager hum of gay young voices, as the couples
drifted out from the _salle_ in search of the buffet or of secluded
corners in which to “sit out” the interval, according as the spirit
moved them.
Jean and her partner, making their way through the throng, encountered
Madame de Varigny on the arm of a handsome Bedouin Arab. For the
fraction of a second her eyes rested curiously on Jean’s partner, and a
gleam of something that seemed like triumph flickered across her face.
But it was gone in an instant, and, murmuring some commonplace to Jean,
she passed on.
“Who was that?”
The Englishman rapped out the question harshly, and Jean was struck by
an unaccustomed note in his voice. It held apprehension, distaste; she
could not quite analyse the quality.
“The Cleopatra, do you mean?” she said. “That was my chaperon, the
Comtesse de Varigny. Why do you ask?” He gave a short, relieved laugh.
“No particular reason,” he returned with some constraint “She reminded
me--extraordinarily--of someone I used to know, that’s all. Even the
timbre of her voice was similar. It startled me for a moment.”
He dismissed the matter with apparent indifference, and led Jean again
into the same little alcove in which he had found her. They stood
together silently in the dim, rose-hued twilight diffused by the shaded
lamp above.
“Well,” he said at last, slowly, reluctantly. “So this is really the end
of our stolen day.”
Jean’s hands, hanging loosely clasped in front of her, suddenly
tightened their grip of each other. She felt herself struggling in
the press of new and incomprehensible emotions. A voice within her was
crying out rebelliously: “Why? Why must it be the end? Why not--other
days?” Pride alone kept her silent. It was his choice, his decision,
that they were not to meet again, and if he could so composedly define
the limits of their acquaintance, she was far too sensitively proud to
utter a word of protest. After all, he was only the comrade of a day.
How--why should it matter to her whether he stayed or went?
“I always believe”--the Englishman was speaking again, his eyes bent on
hers--“I always believe that, no matter how sad or tragic people’s lives
may be, God invariably gives them one magic moment--so that they may
believe in heaven.... I have had mine to-day.”
“Don’t you--believe in heaven?”
He laid his hands lightly on her shoulders.
“I do now. I believe... in a heaven that is out of my reach.”
His hands slipped upward from her shoulders, cupping her face, and for a
moment he held her so, staring down at her with grave, inscrutable eyes.
Then, stooping his head, he kissed her lips.
“Good-bye, little comrade,” he said unevenly. “Thank you for my magic
moment.”
He turned away sharply. She heard his step, followed by the quick,
jarring rattle of brass rings jerked violently along the curtain-pole,
and a moment later he was gone. With a dull sense of finality she
watched the heavy folds of the portière swing sullenly back into their
place.