“HAVE you been _very_ bored, Nick?”
The week in London had nearly run its course, and Lady Anne’s eyes
begged charmingly for a negative. Nick accorded it with a smile.
“I’m never bored with you, madonna; you know that,” he said. “And hotel
life is always more or less amusing. One comes across such queer types.
There’s one here this evening has been intriguing me enormously. At a
little table by herself--do you see her? A tall, rather gorgeous-looking
being--kind of cross between the Queen of Sheba and Lucretia Borgia.”
Lady Anne threw a veiled glance in the direction indicated.
“Yes, she’s a very handsome woman, obviously not English.” Her eyes
travelled onwards towards the door. “I wish Blaise and Jean would hurry
up,” she added impatiently. “They’re taking an unconscionable time to
dress.”
The two latter had come in late from a sight-seeing expedition
undertaken on Jean’s behalf, and had only returned to the hotel just as
Lady Anne and Nick were preparing to make their way in to dinner.
“For such a deliberate matchmaker, you’re a lot too impatient, madonna,”
commented Nick teasingly. “That they should have stayed out together
until the very last moment ought to have pleased you immensely.”
Lady Anne made a small grimace.
“So it does--theoretically. Only from a practical and purely material
point of view, everything else sinks into insignificance beside the fact
that I am literally starving. Oh!”--joyfully catching sight of Jean and
Tormarin making their way up the room--“Here they are at last! Collect
our waiter, Nick, and let’s begin.”
Neither of the late-comers appeared in the least embarrassed by the
tardiness of their arrival, said they responded to tentative enquiries
concerning their afternoon’s amusement with a disappointing lack of
self-consciousness.
Lady Anne experienced an inward qualm of misgiving. There seemed
too calm and tranquil a camaraderie between the two to please her
altogether. It was as though the last few days had brought about a
silent understanding between them--a wordless compact.
She picked up the menu and assumed an absorption in its contents which
she was far from feeling.
“What are we all going to eat?” she asked. “I think we must hurry
a little, or we shall be late for the play. Then I shall lose the
exquisite thrill of seeing the curtain go up.” Tormarin looked
entertained.
“Does it still thrill you, you absurdly youthful person?”
“Of course it does. I always consider that the quality of the thrill
produced by the rise of the curtain is the measure of one’s capacity for
enjoyment. When it no longer thrills me, I shall know that I am getting
old and bored, and that I only go to the theatre to kill time and
because everyone else goes.”
Dinner proceeded leisurely in spite of Lady Anne’s admonition that they
should hurry, and presently Nick, who had glanced across the room once
or twice as though secretly amused, remarked confidentially:
“My Lucretia Borgia lady is taking a quite uncommon interest in someone
of our party. I’m afraid I can’t flatter myself that she’s lost her
heart to me, as I’ve only observed this development since Jean
and Blaise joined us. Blaise, I believe it’s you who have won her
devoted--if, probably, somewhat violent--affections.”
“Your Lucretia Borgia lady? Which is she?” enquired Jean.
“You can’t see her, because you are sitting with your back to her,”
replied Nick importantly. “And it isn’t manners to screw your head round
in a public restaurant--even although the modern reincarnation of an
unpleasantly vengeful lady may be sitting just behind you. But if
you’ll look into that glass opposite you--a little to the right side of
it--you’ll see who I mean. She’s quite unmistakable.”
Jean tilted her head a little and peered slantwise into the mirror which
faced her. It was precisely at the same moment that Nick’s “Lucretia
Borgia lady” looked up for the second time from her _pêche_ Melba, and
Jean found herself gazing straight into the dense darkness of the eyes
of Madame de Varigny.
“Why--why--------” she stammered in astonishment. “It is the Comtesse de
Varigny!” She turned to Lady Anne, adding explanatorily: “You remember,
madonna, I told you about her? She chaperoned me at Montavan, after Glyn
had departed.”
The recognition had been mutual. Madame de Varigny had half-risen
from her seat and was poised in an attitude of expectancy, smiling and
gesturing with expressive hands an invitation to Jean to join her.
“I’ll go across and speak to her,” said Jean. “I can’t imagine what she
is doing in London.”
“I suppose you, too, met this rather splendid-looking personage at
Montavan?” enquired Nick of his brother, as Jean quitted the table.
Tormarin shook his head.
“I never spoke to her. I saw her once, on the night of a fancy-dress
ball at the hotel, arrayed as Cleopatra.”
“She’d look the part all right,” commented Nick. “She gives me
the impression of being one of those angel-and-devil-mixed kind of
women--the latter flavour preponderating. I should rather feel the
desirability of emulating Agag in any dealings I had with her. Good
Lord!”--with a lively accession of interest--“Jean’s bringing her over
here. By Jove! She really is a beautiful person, isn’t she. Like a sort
of Eastern empress.”
“Madame de Varigny wishes to be presented to you, Lady Anne,” said Jean,
and proceeded to effect introductions all round.
“I remember seeing you with Mees Peterson at Montavan,” remarked the
Countess, as she shook hands with Blaise, her dark eyes resting on him
curiously.
“Join us and finish your dinner at our table,” suggested Lady Anne
hospitably.
But Madame de Varigny protested volubly that she had already finished
her meal, though she would sit and talk with them a little if it was
agreeable? It was--quite agreeable. She herself saw to that. No one
could be more charming than she when she chose, and on this occasion she
elected to make herself about as altogether charming as it is possible
for a woman to be, entirely conquering the hearts of Lady Anne and Nick.
Her simple, childlike warm-heartedness of manner was in such almost
ludicrous contrast to her majestic, dark-browed type of beauty that it
took them completely by storm.
“This is only just a flying visit that I pay to England,” she explained
artlessly. “It is a great good fortune that I should have chanced to
encounter _ma chère Mees Peterson_.”
“It’s certainly an odd chance brought you to the same hotel,” agreed
Nick.
“Is it not?”--delightedly.
And, from the frank wonder and satisfaction she evinced at the
coincidence, no one could possibly have surmised that the sole cause
and origin of her “flying visit” was a short paragraph contained in
the _Morning Post_, a copy of which, by her express order, had been
delivered daily at Chateau Varigny ever since her return thither
from the Swiss Alps. The paragraph referred simply to the arrival at
Claridge’s of Lady Anne Brennan, accompanied by her two sons and Miss
Jean Peterson.
“And are you making a long stay in London?” enquired Madame de Varigny.
Lady Anne shook her head.
“No. We go back to Staple to-morrow.”
The other’s face fell.
“But how unfortunate! I shall then see nothing of my dear Mees
Peterson.”
She seemed so distressed that Lady Anne’s kind heart melted within her,
albeit it accorded ill with her plans to increase the number of her
party.
“We are going on to the theatre,” she said impulsively. “If you have no
other engagement, why not come with us? There will be plenty of room in
our box.”
Madame de Varigny professed herself enchanted. Curiously enough, she
seemed to have no particular wish to draw Jean into anything in the
nature of a private talk, but appeared quite content just to take part
in the general conversation, while her eyes rested speculatively now
upon Jean, now upon Tormarin, as though they afforded her an abstract
interest of some kind.
Even at the theatre, where from her corner seat she was able to envisage
the other occupants of the box, she seemed almost as much interested
in them as in the play that was being performed on the stage. Once, as
Tormarin leaned forward and made some comment to Jean, their two pairs
of eyes meeting in a look of mutual understanding of some small joke or
other, the quiet watcher smiled contentedly, as though the little byplay
satisfied some inner questioning.
With the fall of the curtain at the end of the first act, she turned to
Lady Anne, politely enthusiastic.
“But it is a charming play,” she said. “It is no wonder the house is so
full.”
Her glance strayed carelessly over the body of the auditorium, then was
suddenly caught and held. A minute later she touched Jean’s arm.
“I think there is someone in the stalls trying to attract your
attention,” she observed quietly.
Even as she spoke, Nick, too, became aware of the same fact.
“Hullo!” he exclaimed. “There’s Geoffrey Burke down below. I didn’t know
he was in town.”
Madame de Varigny found the effect upon her companions of this
apparently innocent announcement distinctly interesting. It was as
though a thrill of disconcerting consciousness ran through the other
occupants of the box. Jean flushed suddenly and uncomfortably, and
the dark, keen eyes that were watching from behind the fringe of dusky
lashes noted an almost imperceptible change of expression flit across
the faces of both Lady Anne and Tormarin. In neither case was the change
altogether indicative of pleasure. Then, following quickly upon a bow of
mutual recognition, the music of the orchestra suddenly ceased and the
curtain went up for the second act.
*****
Once more the curtain had fallen, and, to the hum of conversation
suddenly released, the lights flashed up into being again over the
auditorium. Simultaneously the door of Lady Anne’s box was opened from
the corridor outside.
“May I come in?” said a voice--a pleasant voice with a gay inflection of
laughter running through it as though its owner were quite sure of his
welcome--and Burke, big and striking-looking in his immaculate evening
kit, his ruddy hair flaming wickedly under the electric lights, strolled
into the box.
He shook hands all round, his glance slightly quizzical as it met
Jean’s, and then Lady Anne presented him to the Comtesse de Varigny.
It almost seemed as though something, some mutual recognition of a
kindred spirit, flashed from the warm southern-dark eyes to the fiery
red-brown ones, and when, a minute or two later, Burke established
himself in the seat next Jean, vacated by Nick, he murmured in a low
tone:
“Where did you find that Eastern-looking charmer? I feel convinced I
could lose my heart to her without any effort.”
Jean could hardly refrain from smiling. This was her first meeting with
Burke since the occasion of the scene which had occurred between them in
the little parlour at the “honeymooners’ inn,” and now he met her with
as much composure and arrogant assurance as though nothing in the world,
other than of a mutually pleasing and amicable nature, had taken place.
It was so exactly like Burke, she reflected helplessly.
“Then you had better go and make love to her,” she suggested. “There
happens to be a husband in the background--a little hypochondriac with
quite charming manners--but I don’t suppose you would consider that any
obstacle.”
“None,” retorted Burke placidly. “I’m quite certain she can’t be in love
with him. Her taste would be more--robust, I should say. Where is she
stopping?”
“At Claridge’s. We met her there this evening. I knew her in
Switzerland.”
“Well, you shall all come out to supper with me to-morrow:---the
Countess included.”
Jean shook her head demurely.
“We shall all be back at Staple to-morrow--the Countess excepted. You
can take her.”
“Then the supper must be to-night,” replied Burke serenely.
“What are you doing in town, anyway?” asked Jean. “Is Judith with you?”
“No. Came up to see my tailor”--laconically.
He crossed the box to arrange matters with Lady Anne, and before the
curtain rose on the last act it was settled that they should all have
supper together after the play.
Later, when Burke had once more resumed his seat next to Jean, Madame de
Varigny, whose hearing, like her other senses, was preternaturally
acute, caught a whispered plaint breathed into Nick’s ear by Lady Anne.
“Now _isn’t_ that provoking, Nick, darling? Why on earth need Geoffrey
Burke have turned up in town on our last evening? I was hoping, later
on--if you and I were very discreet and effaced ourselves--that Blaise
and Jean might settle things.”
Madame de Varigny’s eyes remained fixed upon the stage. There was no
change in their expression to indicate that Lady Anne’s plaintive murmur
had at that moment supplied her with the key of the whole situation as
it lay between Jean and the two men who were sitting one each side of
her.
But the following evening, when, the Staple party having left town, she
and Burke were dining alone together at a little restaurant in Soho, the
knowledge she had gleaned bore fruit.
Burke never quite knew what impulse it was that had prompted him, as
he made his farewells after the supper-party, to murmur in Madame de
Varigny’s ear, “Dine with me to-morrow night.” It was as though the
dark, mysterious eyes had spoken to him, compelling him to some sort
of friendly overture which the shortness of his acquaintance with their
owner would not normally have inspired.
It was not until the coffee and cigarette stage of the little dinner had
been reached that Madame de Varigny suddenly shot her dart.
“So you come all the way up from this place, Coombe--Coombe Eavie?--to
see Mees Peterson, and hey, presto! She vanish the next morning!”
Burke stared at her almost rudely. The woman’s perspicacity annoyed him.
“I came up to see my tailor,” he replied curtly.
“_Mais parfaitement!_” she laughed--low, melodious laughter, tinged with
a frank friendliness of amusement which somehow smoothed away Burke’s
annoyance at her shrewd summing up of the situation. “To see your
tailor. _Naturellement!_ But you were not sorry to encounter Mees
Peterson also, _hein?_ You enjoyed that?”
Burke’s eyes gleamed at her.
“Do you think a dog enjoys looking at the bone that’s out of reach?” he
said bluntly.
“And is Mees Peterson, then, out of your reach? Me, I do not think so.”
Burke was moved to sudden candour.
“She might not be, if it were not that there is another man----”
“_Ce Monsieur Tor-ma-rin?_”
“Yes, confound him!”
“We-ell”--with a long-drawn inflection compact of gentle irony.
“You should be able to win against this Monsieur Tor-ma-rin. I
think”--regarding him intently--“I think you _will_ win.”
Burke shook his head gloomily.
“He had first innings. He met her abroad somewhere--rescued her in the
snow or something. That rescuing stunt always pays with a woman. All _I_
did”--with a short, harsh laugh--“was nearly to break her neck for her
out driving one day recently!”
“Is she engaged to Monsieur Tormarin?” asked Madame do Varigny quickly.
“No. Luckily, there’s some old affair in the past holds him back.”
She nodded.
“You shall marry her,” she declared with conviction. “See, Monsieur
Bewrke--_aïe, aïe, quel nom!_ I am _clairvoyante, prophétesse_, and I
tell you that you weel marry zis leetle brown Jean.”
Her foreign accent strengthened with her increasing emphasis.
Burke looked dubious.
“I’m afraid your clairvoyance will fail this journey madame. She’ll
probably marry Tormarin--unless”--his eyes glinting--“I carry her off by
force.”
Madame de Varigny shook her head emphatically.
“But _no!_ I do not see it like that. _Eh bien!_ If she become
_fiancée_--engaged to him--you shall come to me, and I will tell you how
to make sure that she shall not marry him.”
“Tell me now!”
“_Non, non!_ Win her your own way. Only, if you do not succeed, if
Monsieur Tormarin wins her--why, then, come to visit me at Château
Varigny.”
That night a letter written in the Comtesse de Varigny’s flowing foreign
handwriting sped on its way to France.
“Matters work towards completion,” it ran. “My visit here has chanced
_bien à propos_. There is another would-be-lover besides Blaise
Tormarin. I have urged him on to win her if he can, for if I have not
wrongly estimated Monsieur Tormarin--and I do not think I have--he is
of the type to become more deeply in love and less able to master his
feelings if he realises that he has a rival. At present he refrains from
declaring himself. The opposition of a rival will probably drive him
into a declaration very speedily. When the dog sees the bone about to be
taken from him--he snaps! So I encourage this red-headed lion of a man,
Monsieur Burke, to pursue his _affaire du cour_ with vigour. For if
Blaise Tormarin becomes actually betrothed to Mademoiselle Peterson, it
will make his punishment the more complete. I pray the God of Justice
that it may not now be long delayed!”