The Vision of Desire
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