The Vision of Desire
Sir Philip looked out of the window.
"I've missed that spoiling, Susan," he said. Once again that incongruous
little note of wistfulness sounded in his voice. But, an instant later,
Lady Susan wondered if her ears had deceived her, for he swung round and
snapped out in his usual hectoring manner: "Then you won't help me in
this?"
"Help you to marry off Ann to Tony? No, I won't. For one thing, I don't
want to spare her. And if ever I have to, it's going to be to some one
who'll look after _her_--and take jolly good care of her, too!"
"Obstinate woman! Well--well"--irritably. "What am I to do, then?"
"Can't you manage your own nephew?"
"No, I can't, confound it! Told me this morning he wanted to be an
architect. An architect!" He spoke as though an architect were something
that crawled. "Imagine a Brabazon of Lorne turning architect!"
"Well, why not?" placidly. "It's better than being nothing but a
gambler--like poor Dick. Tony always did love making plans. Don't you
remember, when he was about eight, he made a drawing of heaven, with
seating accommodation for the angels--cherubim and seraphim, and so
on--in tiers? The general effect was rather like a plan of the Albert
Hall"--smiling reminiscently. "Seriously, though, Philip, if the boy wants
_work_, in the name of common sense, let him have it."
"There's plenty of work for him at Lorne"--stubbornly. "Let him learn to
manage the property. That's what I want--and what I'll have. God bless my
soul! What have I brought the boy up for? To be a comfort in my old age, of
course, and a credit to the name. Architect be hanged!"
As he spoke there came the sound of footsteps in the hall outside--light,
buoyant steps--and Lady Susan's face brightened.
"That will be Ann," she said. Adding quickly, as though to conclude the
subject they had been discussing: "I warn you, Philip, you're driving the
boy on too tight a rein."
Sir Philip greeted Ann good-humouredly. In spite of the fact that she
showed no disposition to fall in with his wishes and marry Tony, he was
extremely fond of her. She was one of the few people who had never been
afraid of him. She even contradicted him flatly at times, and, like most
autocrats, he found her attitude a refreshing change from that of the
majority of people with whom he came in contact.
"Seen Tony in the town?" he demanded. It was evident the boy was hardly
ever out of his thoughts.
"Yes. We've just been having tea together."
Sir Philip nodded approvingly.
"Excellent, excellent. Keep him out of mischief, like a good girl."
Ann laughed, a shade scornfully, but vouchsafed no answer, and soon
afterwards Sir Philip took his departure.
"The twelve-thirty steamer to-morrow, then, Susan," he said as he shook
hands. "I'll call for you in the car on my way to the _débarcadère_."
When he had gone Lady Susan and Ann exchanged glances.
"I've been telling him he drives Tony on too tight a rein," said the
former, answering the unspoken question in the girl's eyes.
"It's absurd of him," declared Ann indignantly. "He tries to keep him tied
to his apron-strings as if he were a child. And he's not! He's a man. He's
been through that beastly war. Probably he knows heaps more about life--the
real things of life--than Sir Philip himself, who wants to dictate
everything he may or may not do."
"Probably he does. And that's just the trouble. When you get a terribly
experienced younger generation and a hide-bound older one there are liable
to be fireworks."
"All I can say is that if Sir Philip won't let him have a little more
freedom, he'll drive Tony just the way he doesn't want him to go."
Lady Susan's keen glance scrutinised the girl's troubled face.
"You can't help it, you know," she remarked briefly.
"That's just it," answered Ann uncertainly. "I sometimes wonder if I
could--ought to--" She broke off, leaving her sentence unfinished.
Lady Susan, apparently not noticing her embarrassment, gathered up her
belongings preparatory to leaving the room.
"Marrying to reform a rake never pays," she said in level tones. "It's like
rolling a stone uphill."
"But Tony isn't a rake!" protested Ann, flushing quickly. "There's any
amount of good in him, and he might--might steady down if he were married."
"Let him steady down before marriage, not after"--grimly. "A woman may
throw her whole life's happiness into the scales and still fail to turn the
balance. Without love--the love that can forgive seventy times seven and
then not be tired--she'll certainly fail. And you don't love Tony."
It was an assertion rather than a question, yet Ann felt that Lady Susan
was waiting for an answer.
"N-no," she acknowledged at last. "But I feel as though he belongs to me in
a way. You see, Virginia 'left' him to me."
"You're not called upon to marry a legacy," retorted Lady Susan.
Ann smiled.
"No, I suppose not." She was silent a moment. "I wish Sir Philip didn't
lead him such a life. It's more than any man could be expected to stand."
Lady Susan paused in the doorway.
"Well, my dear, don't vex your soul too much about it all. However badly
people mismanage our affairs for us, things have a wonderful way of working
out all right in the long run."
Left alone, Ann strolled out on to the balcony which overlooked the
lake, and, leaning her arms on the balustrade, yielded to the current
of her thoughts. Notwithstanding Lady Susan's cheery optimism, she was
considerably worried about Tony. She could see so exactly what it was that
fretted him--this eternal dancing attendance on Sir Philip, who insisted on
the boy's accompanying him wherever he went, and she felt a sudden angry
contempt for the selfishness of old age which could so obstinately bind
eager, straining youth to its chariot wheels. It seemed to her that the
older generation frequently fell very far short of its responsibility
towards the younger.
With a flash of bitterness she reflected that her own father had failed
in his duty to the next generation almost as signally as old Sir Philip,
although in a totally different manner. Archibald Lovell had indeed been
curiously devoid of any sense of paternal responsibility. Connoisseur and
collector of old porcelain, he had lived a dreamy, dilettante existence,
absorbed in his collection and paying little or no heed to the comings and
goings of his two children, Ann and her brother Robin. And less heed still
to their ultimate welfare. He neglected his estate from every point of
view, except the one of raising mortgages upon it so that he might have the
wherewithal to add to his store of ceramic treasures. He lived luxuriously,
employing a high-priced _chef_ and soft-footed, well-trained servants to
see to his comfort, because anything short of perfection grated on his
artistic sensibilities. And when an intrusive influenza germ put a sudden
end to his entirely egotistical activities, his son and daughter found
themselves left with only a few hundred pounds between them. Lovell Court
was perforce sold at once to pay off the mortgages, and to meet the many
other big outstanding debts the contents of the house had to be dispersed
without reserve. The collection of old porcelain to which Archibald Lovell
had sacrificed most of the human interests of life was soon scattered
amongst the dealers in antiques, who, in many instances, bought back at
bargain prices the very pieces they had sold to him at an extravagantly
high cost. Every one went away from the Lovell sale well-pleased, except
the two whose fortunes were most intimately concerned--the son and daughter
of the dead man. They were left to face the problem of continued existence.
For the time being the circumstances of the war had acted as a solvent.
Robin, home on sick leave, had returned to the front, while Ann, who
possessed the faculty of getting the last ounce out of any car she handled,
very soon found warwork as a motor-driver. But, with the return of peace,
the question of pounds, shillings and pence had become more acute, and at
present Robin was undertaking any odd job that turned up pending the time
when he should find the ideal berth which would enable him to make a home
for Ann, while the latter, thanks to the good offices of Sir Philip
Brabazon, had for the last six months filled the post of
companion-chauffeuse to Lady Susan Hallett.
The entire six months had been passed at Mon Rêve, Lady Susan's villa at
Montricheux, and with a jerk Ann emerged from her train of retrospective
thought to the realisation that her lines had really fallen in very
pleasant places, after all.
It seemed as though there were some truth in Lady Susan's assertion that
things had a way of working out all right in the end. But for her father's
mismanagement of his affairs--and the affairs of those dependent on
him--Ann recognised that she might very well have been still pursuing the
rather dull, uneventful life which obtained at Lovell Court, without the
prospect of any vital change or happening to relieve its tedium, whereas
the catastrophe which had once seemed to threaten chaos had actually opened
the door of the world to her.
CHAPTER III
ON THE TOP OF THE WORLD
The rack-and-pinion railway from Montricheux to the Dents de Loup wound
upward like a single filament flung round the mountains by some giant
spider. The miniature train, edging its way along the track, appeared no
more than a mere speck as it crept tortuously up towards the top. At its
rear puffed a small engine, built in a curious tilted fashion, so that as
it laboured industriously behind the coaches of the train it reminded one
ridiculously of a baby elephant on its knees.
Ann was leaning against the windowless framework of the railway carriage,
watching the valleys drop away, curve by curve, as the train climbed. Far
below lay the lake, a blue rift glimmering between pine-clad heights. Then
a turn of the track and the lake was swept suddenly out of sight, while the
mountains closed round--shoulder after green-clad shoulder, with fields of
white narcissus flung across them like fairy mantles. The air was full of
the fragrance of narcissus mingling with the pungent scent of fir and pine.
Ann sniffed luxuriously and glanced round to where Tony was sitting.
"Doesn't it smell clean and delicious?" she said, drawing in great breaths
of the pine-laden air. "When I come up to the mountains I always wonder why
on earth we ever live anywhere else."
Tony smiled.
"You'd be the first to get bored if you didn't live somewhere else--now
that the winter sports are over," he returned. "After all"--mundanely--"you
can't derive more than a limited amount of enjoyment from scenery, however
fine. Besides, you must know this route by heart."
"I do. But I love it! It's different every time I come up here. I
think"--knitting her brows--"that's what is so fascinating about the
Swiss mountains; they change so much. Sometimes they look all misty and
unreal--almost like a mirage, and then, the very next day, perhaps, they'll
have turned back into hard-edged, solid rock and you can't imagine their
ever looking like dream-mountains again."
Gradually, as they mounted, they left the verdant valleys, with their
sheltered farms and châlets, behind. The pine-woods thinned, and now and
again a wedge of frozen snow, lodged under the projecting corner of a rock,
appeared beside the track. The wind grew keener, chill from the eternal
snows over which it had swept, and sheer, rocky peaks, bare of tree or
herbage, thrust upward against the sky.
Presently, with a warning shriek, the train glided into a tunnel cut clean
through the base of a mighty rock. The sides dripped moisture and the icy
air tore through the narrow passage like a blast of winter. Ann shivered in