The Vision of Desire
"_Pardon, m'sieu_". he murmured deprecatingly as he passed by the still
figure in the course of his tour of the room.
Eliot stared at the man with blank, incurious eyes. Then he rose slowly to
his feet and walked out of the hotel--moving with a peculiar precision like
one who walks in a trance. After that he lost count of time. He went down
into the depths and the dark waters of a grief and agony that was nigh to
madness submerged him.
When he came to himself it was to find that it was late afternoon and that
he was back again in his room at the hotel. He could not have given the
faintest account of how he had passed the hours which had intervened since
he had walked out of the hotel into the moonlit night--whether he had eaten
or drunken or where he had been. He had a vague recollection of wandering
aimlessly about the streets, and then of diverging from the town into the
country because he had twice encountered the same _gendarme_ and on the
second occasion the man had followed him for a few yards suspiciously.
Beyond that he remembered nothing. He was only conscious of a physical
fatigue so intense, so racking in every nerve and sinew and fibre of his
body that for the time being it deadened even the mental torture he had
been enduring. He flung himself down on his bed and slept till the noonday
sun was high in the heavens, flooding his room with light.
When he resumed the normal usages of life once more and reappeared
downstairs, he found that the Brabazons and Lady Doreen Neville and her
mother had all gone their several ways. They were the only people with whom
he had any acquaintance, and in an odd, indefinable way he missed their
presence. He spent almost all his time at the Casino, working out and
experimenting with different systems. He had come to no decision as to how
he should order his future life, and until he had formulated some scheme he
found that he could only stop the hideous treadmill of his thoughts by
focussing his whole attention on the crazy gyrations of the spinning ball.
And then one day, about a month later, a letter was put into his hand,
bearing the Silverquay postmark. The writing was unfamiliar, and its
unfamiliarity woke in him a sudden horrible fear and dread of what the
letter might contain. Had some one written to tell him--what Ann could no
longer write and tell him herself? He slit the envelope and his eyes raced
down the lines of the sheet it had enclosed.
"_Dear Mr. Coventry_," ran the letter, written in Lady Susan's
characteristically big, generous hand. "_Probably you'll think me
an interfering old woman. I daresay I am. But try and remember that
I was young once and that just now I'm looking at life for you and
Ann through young eyes--and thinking what a long, weary lot of it
there is still to be lived through if you each remain at opposite
ends of the pole. The time will go a deal quicker if you are
together--it's like dividing by two, you know_.
"_I hear you ran across Tony Brabazon in Mentone, and I think that
by now you probably know as much about what happened up at the
Dents de Loup as I or any one, and are probably cursing yourself.
Don't. It's a waste of time and happiness. Come to my party
instead_."
Attached to this characteristic document was a card of invitation to a
dance to be given at White Windows by Lady Susan Hallett on February the
seventh.... And to-day was the sixth! But it could be done. By travelling
all night, catching the morning boat and then the midday train to
Silverquay, Eliot realised that he could reach White Windows in time.
A bell stood on a table near by--one of those shiny metal bells with a
button on the top which you press down sharply to induce the thing to ring.
Eliot thumped it, and continued thumping till a half-demented waiter came
flying towards him in response.
"Bring me a time-table," he roared. "And bring it quick."
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE GREY SHADOW
The ball-room at White Windows was all in readiness for the forthcoming
dance. The floor, waxed and polished till it was as smooth as a sheet
of gleaming ice, caught and held the tremulous reflections of a hundred
flickering lights, whilst from above, where the orchestra was snugly tucked
away in the gallery behind a bank of flowers, came faint pizzicato sounds
of fiddles tuning up, alternating with an occasional little flourish or
tentative roulade of notes.
The dance was not timed to begin for half an hour or more, but the members
of the house-party had congregated together at the upper end of the room
and were chatting desultorily. Sir Philip Brabazon and Tony were included
amongst them, in addition to a couple of pretty girls, nieces of Lady
Susan, and three or four stray men who had been invited down to swell the
ranks.
"And how's Ann?" demanded Sir Philip of his hostess.
"Ann? Oh, you'll find her a trifle thinner, I think, that's all," responded
Lady Susan discreetly. To her own eyes Ann seemed to have altered wofully
in the course of the last few months, but she reasoned that Sir Philip was
no more observant than the majority of men and that if she prepared him
for the fact that Ann was somewhat thinner than of old he would accept
the change quite naturally and not worry the girl herself with tiresome
questions as to the cause of such a falling off.
It had been a very difficult winter, but Lady Susan had the satisfaction of
knowing that she and the rector between them had triumphantly routed Ann's
detractors, and although it was well-nigh impossible to utterly stamp out
of a country district such as Silverquay the hydra-headed monster called
scandal, they had certainly succeeded in drawing his fangs. But if Lady
Susan had been successful in her campaign against the tittle-tattle of
the neighbourhood, she had been powerless to restore that sheer joy and
happiness in living which had been so peculiarly Ann's gift until the day
when Eliot Coventry went out of her life, taking from her, as he went,
everything except the courage to endure.
Lady Susan had never forgiven Brett for his share in the work of destroying
Ann's happiness, and she chafed bitterly against her own inability to help
matters. It was only through the merest accident that she had at last seen
the possibility of being of service. She had been up in town a few days
prior to the date fixed for the dance and had encountered Tony shopping in
the Army and Navy Stores. He happened to mention that he had run across
Coventry at Mentone, and a chance remark elicited the fact that he had
regaled him with the history of the Dents de Loup adventure.
Perhaps Lady Susan's face had expressed more than she knew, for Tony,
perceiving that she attached some special importance to the matter, looked
suddenly anxious.
"I say, I've not been giving Ann away, have I?" he demanded in honest
consternation. "I made sure she'd told you all about it by this time. I
never thought--"
"Don't worry," Lady Susan reassured him hastily. "You're not giving her
away. She did tell me--all about it."
When she returned home she had taken her courage in both hands and written
to Eliot asking him to come back. And to-night, doubtful whether her letter
had reached him in time to allow of his returning for the dance, totally
ignorant of the reception it would receive, and uncertain even as to how
Ann would welcome him if he actually did return, she was on tenterhooks of
nervousness and anxiety.
"You do grow thinner in the winter, you know," she continued airily to Sir
Philip, unwisely elaborating her comment upon Ann's appearance.
"You don't," contradicted the old man with his usual acerbity. "You grow
fatter if you've any sense--to keep the cold out." He glared at her, then
demanded abruptly: "How do you think Tony's looking?"
Lady Susan's dark eyes rested thoughtfully a moment on Tony's face before
she answered.
"Not too well," she admitted. "He looks a little strained and keyed up.
Have you been bullying him, Philip?"
"Not more than usual"--grimly. "I've told him I'll pay no more debts for
him. And a good thing, too! I fancy he's been keeping within his allowance
since I put my foot down. Anyhow, he hasn't come to me again, begging for
money." He paused and shot a swift glance of inquiry at her, obviously
seeking her approval, but Lady Susan preserved a strictly non-committal
silence. She thought Tony exhibited decided symptoms of nervous strain. His
eyes were restless, and his mouth wore a dissatisfied, thwarted expression.
"It's love," pursued Sir Philip, as she made no response. "That's what's
the matter with the boy. He doesn't know; whether he's on his head or his
heels."
"Love?"
"Yes. He's in love with that slip of a Doreen Neville. And because I
brought him back to Audley Square instead of careering all over Europe
after her and her mother he's as sulky as a young bear."
"Doreen Neville?" Lady Susan felt that her replies were hopelessly
inadequate, but she was too genuinely taken aback by the news to think of
anything to say.
"I said so, didn't I?"--crustily. "I suppose I shall have to let him marry
her in the end. She's all right, of course, as regards family. But a bit of
a swear-stick--melt in a storm, probably. Confound the boy!"--irritably.
"Why couldn't he have remained in love with Ann?"
"I'm very glad he didn't," returned Lady Susan quietly. "It was only
calf-love. Besides, he would have _leant_ on Ann--she's such a stalwart
little soldier, you know"--with a smile.
Sir Philip nodded.
"Yes. She'd have kept him straight," he said gloomily. "Whereas Doreen
Neville's the hot-house plant type--just the opposite. No good to Tony at
all."
"I'm not so sure, Philip. Sometimes the need to care for and protect some
one weaker than himself helps to steady a man down more than anything else.
Ah!" Lady Susan broke off, her face brightening. "Here is Ann--with Robin.
I told them to come early."
Sir Philip put up his monocle and glared in the direction of the
new-comers. Yes, Ann was certainly thinner--too thin, perhaps--though, as
far as appearances were concerned, he thought the change had only served to
accentuate the charming angles of her face and give an additional grace to
the boyishly slender lines of her figure.
Any one less like a love-lorn maiden than Ann looked at that moment could
hardly be imagined. She was wearing a charming frock the colour of a pool
of deep green sea-water, with a handful of orange-golden poppies clustered
at the waist, and as the lights flickered over her, from the swathed
gold-brown of her hair to the tips of her small gold shoes, she was as
detail-perfect as a woman who hadn't a single care in life. The simple,
appealing black frock generally adopted by the heroine in fiction who
has been crossed in love did not allure Ann in the very least. Whatever
happened to her, she would always confront the world with a brave face. And
even if her small, individual barque of life were hopelessly foundered she
would at least go down with colours flying.
Nevertheless, to the discerning eye the alteration in her was very
palpable. In repose her mouth fell into lines of quiet endurance, and her
eyes held a look of deep sadness. But, fortunately for most of us, the
discerning eye is a rarity, and in public Ann rarely allowed herself to
lapse into one of those moments of abstracted thought when the unguarded
expression of the face gives away the secrets of the heart.
She greeted Sir Philip with all her old gaiety, and, when he told her she
was much too thin, laughed at him gently.
"Don't be a fuss-pot, dear godparent," she adjured him. "I was never one of
the fat kine, and really I'm very glad of it. You can dress ever so much