THE MAN WITH THE SCAR
The sun poured down on to the balcony, and even though the gaily striped
sun-blind had long since been lowered the heat was intense. But in the
clear, dry atmosphere of Switzerland it could never be too hot to please
Ann--she was a veritable sun-worshipper--and she lay back on a wicker
_chaise-longue_, basking contentedly in the golden warmth while she awaited
Lady Susan's return from Evian. From below came the drowsy crooning of the
lake, as the water lapped idly against the stones that edged it--a lake of
a blue so deep as to be almost sapphire.
Ann's eyes rested affectionately on the scene. She had grown to love Lac
Léman and the mountains amid which it lay. Opposite her, on the far side
of the water, the beautiful Savoy range sloped upwards from the shore,
brooding maternally above the villages which fringed the borders of the
lake, while to her left the snow-capped Dents du Midi, almost dazzling in
the brilliant sunshine, guarded the gracious valley of the Rhone.
It was very calm, and peaceful, and sunshiny. Here at Montricheux one
could easily imagine oneself shut away for ever from all that was hard
and difficult and sordid--enclosed within a charmed circle of enchanted
mountains where life slipped effortlessly on from day to day. This morning
Ann felt peculiarly aware of the peaceful atmosphere prevailing. It struck
her how smoothly and easily the last few months had passed. To-day seemed
typical of all the days which had preceded it. A little work--quite
pleasant work, for Lady Susan--a measure of play, sunshine, the keen joy of
beautiful surroundings--these things had made up six months of a strangely
tranquil existence.
And now, as she sat communing with herself, she was conscious of a queer
foreboding that this unruffled period of her life had run its course and
was drawing to an end. Almost, it seemed to her, she could hear a low
rustle amongst the winds of life--the faint, muttering stir which presages
a storm.
Only once before had she experienced a similar sensation of foreboding, a
few weeks prior to the death of her father and the subsequent discovery
that she and Robin were left practically penniless. She had felt then
as though a definite epoch in her life was approaching its close, and
something new and difficult impending. And, in that instance, her
premonition had been only too accurately fulfilled.
She tried to shake off the odd feeling of presentiment which obsessed her.
But it persisted, and it was a real relief when at last the opening of a
door and the sound of voices in the hall heralded Lady Susan's return.
Unpleasant premonitions and such-like ghostly visitants were prone to melt
away in her cheery, optimistic presence like dew before the sun, and Ann
hastened out of the room to welcome her back.
But at sight of the little group of people in the hall she paused in
dismay. Sir Philip and his chauffeur were supporting Lady Susan on either
side, while Marie, the excitable _femme de chambre_, was wringing her hands
and pouring out a voluble torrent of commiseration.
"Be quiet, Marie!" ordered Lady Susan in her brisk voice. "The end of the
world hasn't come just because I've sprained my ankle! Go and get some
bandages and hot water instead of squawking like a scared fowl."
Ann hurried forward anxiously, but Lady Susan nodded reassurance.
"Don't be alarmed, my dear. It's nothing serious. I slipped on the gangway,
coming off the steamer, and turned my ankle. That's all."
"And quite enough, too!" fumed Sir Philip, as, assisted by the chauffeur,
he lifted her with infinite care on to a couch. "Now, then, you clumsy
fool!" This to the unfortunate chauffeur, who had released his hold a
moment too soon, jarring the injured foot.
The man fled, pursued by his master's maledictions, and a few minutes
later, hot water and bandages being forthcoming, Ann busied herself in
tending the rapidly swelling ankle.
"What about a doctor? Don't you think you'd better have one?" asked Sir
Philip, fussing helplessly round and feeling as inadequate as most men in
similar circumstances. "You may have broken a small bone or something," he
added with concern.
"Doctor? Fiddlesticks!" returned Lady Susan. "Ann's all the doctor I want.
There's quite a professional touch about that bandage"--extending her foot
for him to see. "Thank goodness, most of our girls know how to give first
aid nowadays! Now, run along, Philip, and look after that harum-scarum
nephew of yours. I know you're aching to make sure he hasn't got into
mischief during your absence," she added with a touch of malice.
Sir Philip demurred a little, but finally went away, promising to look in
again in the evening. But when evening came Lady Susan had retired to bed,
feeling far too ill to receive visitors.
It was not until after Sir Philip's departure that she would allow herself
to admit that she was suffering acutely, and then she lay back against her
cushions, looking so white and exhausted that Ann was thoroughly alarmed
and despatched Marie in search of the doctor, who promptly prescribed rest
and quiet. By the following morning Lady Susan found herself too stiff even
to wish to move. She had tripped and fallen suddenly, without being able to
save herself at all, and she was more bruised and shaken than she or any
one else had suspected.
For the next few days, therefore, she was relegated to the role of invalid.
She was suffering a good deal of pain, and in the circumstances Ann felt
disinclined to worry her with an account of the predicament in which she
and Tony had found themselves during her absence at Evian. So that when
Lady Susan asked her how she had amused herself that day, she merely
vouchsafed that she had gone up to the Dents de Loup and stayed the night
there in order to see the sunrise. Afterwards, it seemed simpler to let it
rest at that, rather than enter into fresh explanations. The whole incident
had come to assume much smaller proportions in retrospect, and the fact
that she and Tony had not encountered any other visitors at the hotel had
served to reassure her considerably.
By the end of a week Lady Susan was sufficiently convalescent to hobble
about with the aid of a stick, and when Tony called with a huge sheaf of
flowers for the invalid, and the news that there was a particularly good
programme of music to be given at the Kursaal that evening, she insisted
that Ann should go with him to hear it. Ann protested, but Lady Susan swept
her objections aside.
"My dear, you've been dancing attendance on a fidgety old cripple long
enough. Go along with Tony and squander your francs at boule, and drink
_café mélange_ or ice-cream soda, or whatever indigestible drinks the
Kursaal management provides, and listen to this 'perfectly ripping
programme.'" She shot a quizzical glance at Tony. "And you can tell that
crabbed old uncle of yours to come to the villa and keep me amused in the
meantime."
And, since there was never any combating Lady Susan's decisions, matters
were arranged accordingly.
* * * * *
It was unusually gay at the Kursaal that evening. The announcement of a
special programme had drawn a large audience, and the terrace was crowded
with people sitting at small, painted iron tables and partaking of various
kinds of refreshment while they listened to the orchestra. Festoons of
coloured lights sparkled like jewels in the dusk, and from the twilit
shadows of the gardens below came answering gleams of red and orange, where
Chinese lanterns spangled the foliage of the trees. Beyond the gardens lay
the sleeping lake, and faint little airs wafted coolly upward from its
surface, tempering the heat of the evening.
Ann looked round her with interested eyes while Tony gave his order to
a waitress. She thoroughly enjoyed an evening at the Kursaal. Until
she had joined Lady Susan at Villa Mon Rêve, she had never been out of
England--for, though Archibald Lovell had been fond of wandering on the
Continent himself, no suggestion had ever emanated from him that his
daughter might like to wander with him--and the essentially un-English
atmosphere of the casino still held for her the attraction of novelty. It
was all so gay, so full of light and movement, and of that peculiar charm
of the open air which makes an irresistible appeal to English people,
condemned as they are by the exigencies of climate to take their pleasures
betwixt four walls throughout the greater portion of the year.
"It interests me frightfully, watching people," observed Ann. "Quite a
lot of the people here are really enjoying the music--and quite a lot are
simply marking time till the tables are open and they can go and play
boule."
Tony nodded.
"The sheep and the goats," he replied. "Count me among the latter. But
boule's a rotten poor game," discontentedly. "Give me roulette--every time.
One has the chance to win something worth while at that."
"And a chance to lose equally as much," retorted Ann.
She flushed a little. This was the first occasion on which Tony had
referred to the subject of gambling since the day they had gone up to the
Dents de Loup together. She wondered if he had spoken deliberately,
intending to remind her of the fact that, since she had refused to marry
him, he was perfectly free to gamble if he chose. Yet he had spoken so
casually, apparently quite without _arrière pensée_ that it almost appeared
as though the memory of that day upon the mountain had been wiped out of
his mind. He seemed unconscious of any _gêne_ in the situation. During Lady
Susan's brief illness he had been in and out of the villa exactly as usual,
bringing flowers, running errands, cheering them all up with his infectious
good humour--spontaneously willing to do anything and everything that might
help to tide over a difficult time.
Now and again there flashed into Ann's mind the recollection of those few
moments on the moonlit hill-side, when Tony's gravely steadfast face and
proffered vow had made her think of him as some young knight of old, and
she would ask herself whether she had done right or wrong in refusing him.
But, for the most part, the episode seemed to her to be invested with a
curious sense of unreality, an impression which was fostered by the
apparently unforced naturalness of Tony's demeanour. And now she felt
rather as though he were asserting his independence, his freedom to gamble.
"Lose?" He picked up her words. "You've got to be _prepared_ to lose--at
everything. The whole of life's a bit of a gamble, don't you think?"
"No," she answered steadily. "I don't. Life's what you make it."
The soft, slate-coloured eyes regarded her oddly.
"Yours will be, I dare say. Mine will be regulated by Uncle Philip,
presumably." His mouth twitched in a brief sneer. "It rather strikes me we
make each other's lives." Then, as though trying to turn the conversation
into a more impersonal channel: "Rum crowd here to-night, isn't it? See
that woman sitting on your left? She looks as though she hadn't two sous to
rub together, yet she's been losing at least five hundred francs each night
this week. She covers the table with five-franc notes and loses
consistently."
So Tony himself must have been playing at the tables every night! Ann made
no comment, but glanced in the direction of the woman indicated. She was
rather a striking-looking woman, no longer young, with a clever, mobile
mouth, and a pair of dark, tragic-looking eyes that appeared all the darker
by contrast with her powder-white hair. She was of foreign
nationality--Russian, probably, Ann reflected, with those high cheek-bones
of hers and that subtle grace of movement. But she was atrociously dressed.
Crammed down on to her beautiful white hair was a mannish-looking soft felt
hat that had seen its best days long ago, and the coat and skirt she was
wearing, though unmistakably of good cut, were old and shabby. In her hand
she held an open note-case, eagerly counting over the Swiss notes it
contained, while every now and again she lifted her sombre, tragic eyes and
cast a hungry glance towards the room where boule was played, the doors of
which were not yet open.
"She might be an exiled Russian princess," commented Ann, observing a
certain regal turn of the head which wore the battered mannish hat.
Tony nodded.
"That's just what she is. She used to play a lot at Monte before the war.
Now she can't afford to go there. So she lives here and plays every
night--on the proceeds of any odd jewellery she can still sell."
Ann regarded her commiseratingly. The woman seemed to her a pathetically
tragic figure--a sidelight on the many tragedies hidden among that
cosmopolitan crowd on the terrace. Then her straying glance shifted to a
man seated alone at the next table to the Russian's, apparently absorbed in
a newspaper. Tony followed the direction of her eyes.
"That chap plays bridge at the club sometimes," he vouchsafed. "I don't
know who he is--never spoken to him. Foreigner, too, I should imagine. He's
so swarthy."
Ann bestowed a second glance on the man in question. He was wearing evening
kit, and at first sight the brown-skinned face above the white of his
collar, taken in conjunction with dark hair and very strongly-marked brows,
seemed to premise the correctness of Tony's surmise. Suddenly the man
lifted his bent head, and over the top of the newspaper Arm found herself
looking into a pair of unmistakably grey eyes--grey as steel. They were
very direct eyes, with a certain brooding discontent in their depths which
looked as though it might flame out into sudden scorn with very little
provocation.
She dropped her glance in some confusion. She felt rather as though she had
been caught looking over her neighbour's garden wall. There had been an
ironical glint in the regard which the grey eyes had levelled at her that
suggested their owner might have overheard Tony's frank comment. Under
cover of a fortissimo finale on the part of the orchestra she leant forward
and spoke in a low voice:
"He's as English as you are, Tony. No one but an Englishman ever had grey
eyes like that."
But Tony's interest had evaporated. The band's final burst of enthusiasm
heralded the finish of the first part of the programme and the consequent
opening of the tables for boule. With a hurried "Come along, quick," he
jumped up and, with Ann beside him, was first in the van of the throng
which was hastening into the rooms to play. In a few moments the gaily-lit
terrace was practically deserted, and an eager-faced crowd pressed up
against the green-clothed tables, each individual eager to secure a good
place.
For a little while Ann contented herself with watching.
_"Faites vos jeux, messieurs. Messieurs, faites vos jeux."_
The ball spun round, and the croupier's monotone sounded warningly above
the whispering of notes and the clink of coin.
_"Le jeu est fait."_ It reminded Ann of the vicar intoning at the little
church she had attended in the old Lovell Court days. Only there were no
responses! Everybody was engrossed in watching the ball as it dodged in and
out amongst the numbers, hesitating maddeningly, then starting gaily off on
a fresh tack as though guided by some invisible spirit of malice.
_"Rien ne va plus!"_
Like the crack of doom came the last gabbled utterance, and the croupier's
rake descended sharply on a claw-like hand which was attempting to
insinuate a coin on to the cloth "after hours," so to speak.
_"Cinq!"_ An announcement which, five being the equivalent of the zero in
roulette, was followed by the hungry rake's sweeping everything into the
coffers of the bank except the five-franc note which Tony had staked on the
number _cinq_.
He gathered up his winnings, and, turning excitedly to Ann, demanded why
she wasn't playing.
"Follow me," he told her. "I'm going to win to-night. I feel it in my
bones."
His eyes were brilliant under their absurd long lashes, and the smile he
gave her was the confident smile of a conqueror. Ann caught the infection
and began to play, staking where he staked, as he had suggested. Now and
then she ventured a little flutter of her own and tried some other number,
but usually her modest franc lay side by side with Tony's lordly five-franc
note.
Evidently Tony's bones had the right prophetic instinct, for after every
_coup_ the croupier pushed across to him a small pile of notes and silver.
Ann's own eyes were sparkling now. It was not that she really cared much
about her actual winnings. She was staking too lightly for that to matter.
But it entertained her enormously to win--to beat the bank as embodied in
the person of the croupier, who reminded her of nothing so much as of an
extremely active spider waiting in a corner of his web to pounce on an
adventurous fly. Each time the ball dropped into the number she had backed,
a little thrill of sheer, gleeful enjoyment ran through her.
Now and again, in spite of her absorption in her own and Tony's play, she
was conscious of a muscular brown hand on her right that reached out to
place a fresh stake on the table--never to gather up any winnings. Its
owner must be losing heavily. He was betting, not only on single numbers,
but putting the maximum on certain combinations and groups of numbers. And
every time the long-handled rake whisked his stakes away from him.
Ann glanced sideways to see who was the unlucky player, and once more she
met the same ironical grey eyes which she had last encountered over the top
of a newspaper. The man who was losing so persistently was her Englishman.
He did not seek to hold her gaze, but bent his own immediately upon the
table again. She stole another glance at him. He was very brown, but she
could see now that he was naturally fair-skinned, although tanned by the
sun. A small scar, high up on the left cheek-bone, showed like a white line
against the tan. Probably he had lived abroad in a hot climate, she
reflected; that deep bronze was never the achievement of an elusive
northern sun. It emphasised the penetrating quality of his eyes, giving
them a curious brilliance. Ann had been conscious of a little shock each
time she had encountered them. She was inclined to set his actual age at
thirty-six or seven, though his face might have been that of a man of
forty. But there was a suggestion of something still boyish about it,
notwithstanding the rather stern-set features and bitter-looking mouth. She
felt as though the bitterness revealed in his expression did not rightly
belong to the man's nature. It was in essence alien--something that life
had added to him.
_"Faites vos jeux, messieurs; messieurs, faites vos jeux."_
The croupier's droning voice recalled her sharply from her thoughts.
"Which is it to be this time, Tony?" she asked, smiling.
"Seven and _impair_," he replied tersely. And in due course the seven
turned up.
Their run of luck was continuing without a break, and plenty of amused and
interested glances were cast at the young couple of successful players.
They were taking it all so easily, with a careless, light-hearted enjoyment
that was rather refreshing to turn to after a glimpse of some of the
furtive, vulture-like faces gathered round the tables. Meanwhile, the
grey-eyed Englishman continued to lose with the same persistency as his
young compatriots were winning. Apparently he was playing on a system, for,
in spite of his want of success, he continued steadily backing certain
definite combinations. He showed neither impatience or annoyance when he
lost. His face remained perfectly impassive, and Ann had a feeling that he
would play precisely as steadily, remain as grimly unmoved, if the stakes
were a hundred times as high as those permitted at the Kursaal. She could
imagine him staking his whole fortune, losing it, and then walking out of
the rooms as coolly composed as he had entered them.
Once more the ball slithered into the number she had backed, and she opened
a small silken bag, that already bulged with her evening's gains, and added
the winnings of the last coup. At the same moment, some one pressing from
behind jolted her arm, and the bag fell with a little thud, its contents
spilling out on the floor. Tony, engrossed in the play, failed to notice
the mishap and went on staking, but the Englishman, apparently quite
unconcerned as to the chances he might be missing, stooped at once and
collected the bag and its scattered contents.
"I think I've rescued everything," he said, as he handed it to her. "But
you'd better count it over and make certain."
"Oh, no, I won't count it. It's sure to be all right. Thank you so much."
Ann spoke rather breathlessly. For some reason or other she felt
unaccountably nervous.
The man smiled.
"You've become such a Croesus to-night that I suppose an odd franc or two
doesn't matter?" he suggested.
"I _have_ been lucky, haven't I?" she acknowledged frankly. "It's been such
fun." Then, with friendly sympathy: "I'm afraid you've lost, though?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"I'm used to losing," he replied indifferently.
Somehow, Ann felt as though he were not thinking only of his losses at the
tables. That note of bitterness in his voice sprang from some deeper
undercurrent.
"I'm so sorry," she said simply.
"I never expect to win," he returned curtly. "If you expect nothing, you're
never disappointed. Pray don't waste your sympathy."
The rudeness of the speech took her aback. Yet, sensing in its very
churlishness the sting of some old hurt, she answered him quietly, though
with heightened colour:
"If you expect nothing, you'll get nothing. That's one of the rules of the
road."
He checked himself in the act of turning away, and regarded her with a
mixture of contempt and amusement, much as one might smile at the
utterances of a child.
"Don't you think we get mostly what we're looking for?" she went on
courageously. "If you expect good things, they'll come to you, and if
you're expecting bad things, they'll come, too."
He gave a short laugh.
"The doctrine of faith! I'm afraid I've outgrown it--many years ago."
"_Faites vos jeux, messieurs_," intoned the croupier.
The Englishman tossed a coin on to number nine. Ann followed the circlings
of the ball with a curious tense anxiety. She wished desperately that the
nine would turn up.
_"Numéro un!"_
With a feeling akin to revolt she watched those who had staked on number
one grab up their winnings, while the croupier raked in the Englishman's
solitary bid for fortune.
"You see?" The bitter grey eyes mocked her. "Quite symbolical, wasn't it?"
With a slight bow he moved away from the table and passed quickly out of
the room.
Ann felt disinclined to play any further. She watched Tony win, then lose
once, then win again several times in succession. He was flushed and there
was a look of triumph on his face.
"Haven't you finished yet, Tony?" she asked at last "I'm ready to go home
when you are."
"Go home? When I'm winning?" he expostulated. "Rather not!" Then, catching
sight of her face, "Hello! You look tired. Are you, Ann?"
She nodded.
"Yes, I think I am a little."
Tony held a five-franc note in his hand, ready for staking. Without the
least sign of disappointment he stuffed it back into his pocket.
"Then we'll go home," he said. And somewhat to the amazement of the people
nearest him, who had been watching his phenomenal run of luck, he made a
way for Ann through the crowd and followed her out of the room.
"That was nice of you, Tony," she said gratefully, as they started to walk
home through the deserted streets.
He threw her a quick, enigmatic smile.
"I've an obliging disposition. Haven't you found that out yet?"
Ann laughed.
"It's becoming quite noticeable," she retorted. "Tony, you nearly broke the
bank to-night, I should think."
"Broke the bank! At five francs a time!" He kicked a pebble viciously into
the roadway. "It was confounded bad luck to get a run like that with such a
rotten limit. With an equal run at Monte I'd have made a fortune. Oh,
damn!"
They walked on in silence for a while. There was no moon. The lake lay dark
and mysterious, pricked here and there with the swaying orange light of a
fishing-boat. High up, like a ring of planets brooding above the town, the
great arc of the Caux Palace lights blazed through the starlit dusk.
Tony reverted to the evening's play.
"You didn't do badly, either," he said, challengingly. "You weren't bored
to-night, were you?"
An odd little smile crossed her face.
"No, I wasn't bored," she answered quietly.