“Ann’s the best pal Tony could possibly have, so, for goodness’ sake, be content with that and don’t get addling your brains by trying to marry her off to him. Match-making isn’t a man’s job. A female child of twelve could beat the cleverest man that’s hatched at the game.”
Lady Susan Hallett fired off her remarks, as was her wont, with the vigour and precision of a machine-gun. There was always a delightful definiteness both about her ideas and the expression of them.
The man she addressed was standing with his back to the open French window of the pretty salon, angrily oblivious of the blue waters of Lac Léman which lapped placidly against the stone edges of thequaibelow. He was a tall, fierce-looking old man, with choleric blue eyes and an aristocratic beak of a nose that jutted out above a bristling grey moustache. A single eyeglass dangled from a broad, black ribbon round his neck. “One of the old school” was written all over him—one of the old, autocratic school which believed that “a man should be master in his own house, b’gad!” By which—though he would never have admitted it—Sir Philip Brabazon inferred a kind of divinely appointed dictatorship over the souls and bodies of the various members of his household which even included the right to arrange and determine their lives for them, without reference to their personal desires and tastes.
It was odd, therefore, that his chief friend and confidante—and the woman he would have married thirty years ago if she would only have had him—should be Lady Susan, as tolerant and modern in her outlook as he was archaic.
She was a tall, sturdily built woman of the out-of-door, squiress type. Her fine-shaped head was crowned by a wealth of grey hair, simply coiled in a big knot on the nape of her neck and contrasting rather attractively with her very black, arched eyebrows and humorous dark eyes. Those same eyes were now regarding Sir Philip with a quizzical expression of amusement.
“Besides,” she pursued. “Ann wouldn’t have half as much pull with him if shewerehis wife, let me tell you.”
“You think not?”
“I’m sure. A man will let himself be lectured and generally licked into shape by the woman he wants to marry—but after marriage he usually prefers to do all the lecturing that’s required himself.”
The old man shot a swift glance at her from under a pair of shaggy brows.
“How do you know?” he demanded rudely. “You’re not married.”
Lady Susan nodded.
“That’s why.”
“Do you mean—do you mean—” he began stormily, then, meeting her quiet, humorous gaze, stammered off into silence. Presently he fixed his monocle in one of his fierce old eyes and surveyed her from behind it as from behind a barricade.
“Do you mean me to understand that that’s the reason you declined to marry me?”
She laughed a little.
“I think it was. I didn’t want to be browbeaten into submission—as you browbeat poor Virginia, and as you would Tony if he hadn’t got a good dash of the Brabazon devil in him. You’re a confirmed bully, you know.”
“I shouldn’t have bullied you.” There was an odd note of wistfulness in the harsh voice, and for a moment the handsome, arrogant old face softened incredibly. “I shouldn’t have bullied you, Susan.”
“Yes, you would. You couldn’t have helped it. You’d like to bully my little Ann into marrying Tony if you dared—monster!”
The grim mouth beneath the clipped moustache relaxed into an unwilling smile.
“I believe I would,” he admitted. “Hang it all, Susan, it would settle the boy if he were married. He wants a wife to look after him.”
“To look after him?”—with a faintly ironical inflection.
“That’s what I said”—irritably. “That’s—that’s what wife’s for, dammit! Isn’t it?”
“Oh, no.” She shook her head regretfully. “That idea’s extinct as the dodo. Antiquated, Philip—very.”
He glared at her ferociously.
“Worth more than half your modern ideas put together,” he retorted. “Women, don’t know their duty nowadays. If they’d get married and have babies and keep house in the good, old-fashioned way, instead of trying to be doctors and barristers and the Lord knows what, the world would be a lot better off. A good wife makes a good man—and that’s job enough for any woman.”
“I should think it might be,” agreed Lady Susan meditatively. “But it sounds a trifle feeble, doesn’t it? I mean, on the part of the good man. It’s making a sort of lean-to greenhouse of him, isn’t it?”
“You’re outrageous, Susan! I’m not a ‘lean-to’ anything, but do you suppose I’d be the bad-tempered old ruffian I am—at least, you say I am—if you’d married me thirty years ago?”
“Twenty times worse, probably,” she replied promptly. “Because, like most wives, I should have spoiled you.”
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 afterher—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 wantswork, 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 thedébarcadère.”
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-pricedchefand 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.
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 the sudden cold and darkness and drew her furs closer round her. She had a queer dread of underground places; they gave her a feeling of captivity, and she was thankful when the train emerged once more into daylight and ran into the mountain station. Tony helped her out on to the small platform.
“Which is it to be?” he asked, glancing towards where a solitary hotel stood like a lonely outpost of civilisation. “Tea first, or a walk?”
Ann declared in favour of the walk.
“Let’s go straight up to the Roche d’Or. I always feel as if I’d reached the top of the world there. It’s certainly as near the top as I shall ever get!” she added laughing. “I don’t feel drawn towards mountaineering, so I shall probably never ascend beyond the limits of the rack-and-pinion.”
The Roche d’Or was a steep upward slope, culminating in a rocky promontory from which was visible the vast expanse of the Bernese Oberland. A railed-in platform capped the promontory, for it was a recognised viewpoint. Opposite, across a shallow valley, the Dents de Loup cut the sky-line—two menacing, fang-shaped peaks like the teeth of a wolf, and beyond them a seemingly endless range of mountains stretched away to the far horizon, pinnacle after pinnacle towering upwards with sombre, sharp-edged shadows veiling the depths between. Along immense ridged scarps lay the plains of everlasting snow, infinitely bleak and desolate till a burst of sunlight suddenly transformed them, clothing the great flanks of the mountains in cloth of silver.
Ann stood still, absorbing the sheer beauty of it all.
“It’s heavenly, isn’t it?” she said at last, a little sigh of ecstasy escaping her.
Tony looked, not at the hills, but at the young, eager face just level with his shoulder.
“It’s probably as near heaven as I shall ever get,” he answered. “Anyway, just for the moment, I don’t feel I’ve anything particular to complain of.”
“I suppose I’m to take that as a compliment,” replied Ann. “Anyway”—mimicking him—“I don’t really think you have very much to complain of at any time. You’re one of the idle rich, you know. How would you like it if you were obliged to keep your nose to the grindstone—like Robin and me?”
“I shouldn’t mind”—curtly—“if I could choose my grindstone.”
“But that’s just it! Robin can’t—choose his grindstone, I mean. He’s just got to keep slogging away at anything that turns up.”
Her face shadowed a little. They were very devoted to each other, she and Robin. From their earliest childhood their father had counted for so little in either of their lives that they had inevitably drawn closer to each other than most brothers and sisters, and the enforced separation of the last few years had been a sore trial to both of them.
“You’re very fond of Robin,” observed Tony. There was a note of envy in his voice.
“Of course I am. If we could only afford to live together, I think I should be absolutely happy.”
He glanced at her quickly.
“Aren’t you happy with Lady Susan?”
“Oh, yes, yes! No one could be kinder to me than she is. But—I miss Robin”—rather wistfully. “You see, we’ve always been everything to each other.”
“I see. And what will happen if one day you—or Robin—should get married?”
Ann skirted the topic dexterously.
“Oh, don’t let’s think about possible calamities on a day like this. Look!” She touched his arm, drawing his attention to a girl who had also climbed the Roche d’Or hill to see the view and had halted near them, a sheaf of freshly-gathered wild-flowers in her hand. “Aren’t those blue gentians lovely?”
Tony glanced at the few vividly blue flowers the girl was jealously clasping. She had walked far in search of them and valued them accordingly.
“Do you want some?” he asked eagerly.
Ann nodded.
“Isn’t it getting rather late in the year to find them, though?” she said doubtfully.
The girl with the flowers, overhearing, turned to her with a friendly smile.
“There are very few left,” she vouchsafed. “I’ve been hunting everywhere for them. But you may find one or two over there.” She pointed to a distant slope.
Tony’s eyes followed her gesture. Then he glanced down at Ann inquiringly.
“Are you game for so long a walk?” he asked.
“I’m game for anything up in this air,” she assured him with conviction.
But, as was not infrequently the case, Ann’s spirit outstripped her physical strength. The slope indicated was much farther away than it appeared and “the going was bad,” as Tony phrased it. Blue gentians proved tantalisingly elusive, and at length, rather disheartened by their unprofitable search, Ann came to a standstill.
“I think I’m beginning to feel a keener interest in tea than gentians, Tony,” she confessed at last, ruefully. “It’s very contemptible of me, I own. But when I contemplate the distance we’ve already got to cover before we reach the hotel again, I feel distinctly disinclined to add to it.”
“I’ve let you walk too far!” Tony was overwhelmed with compunction. “Look here, sit down in this little hollow and rest for a few minutes before we turn back, while I just go a bit further and see if I can find you a gentian.”
He stripped off his overcoat as he spoke and rolled it together to make a cushion for her.
“No, no, I don’t want your coat,” she protested. “I don’t need it—really!”
But Tony was suddenly masterful.
“You’ll do as you’re told,” he asserted. And somewhat to her own surprise she found herself meekly obeying him.
He strode away, disappearing quickly from sight over the brow of a hill, and with a small sigh of contentment she tucked her feet under her on the improvised cushion and lit a cigarette. She had had a busy morning, and was really more tired than she knew. First of all there had been the car to clean, then there were flowers to be arranged for the house, and after that various small shopping errands had cropped up, so that Ann had found herself very fully occupied until at length, accompanied by Sir Philip, Lady Susan had departed for Evian. She wondered fugitively how the pair were enjoying themselves.
It was very pleasant sitting there. The huge boulder against which she leant sheltered her from the wind and the spot was bathed in brilliant sunshine. She finished her cigarette and lapsed into a brown study provoked by Tony’s sudden question: “What will happen if one day you—or Robin—should get married?” She had never asked herself that question. It was so much an understood thing between brother and sister that, as soon as Robin found a sufficiently remunerative post, they should live together, that any alternative had not entered her head.
But now she came to think of it, of course it was quite possible that Robin might some day meet the woman whom he would want to marry. Her mouth twisted in a little wry grimace of distaste. She was sure she should detest any woman who robbed her of her brother. And if such a thing happened, she would certainly take herself off and live somewhere else. Nothing would ever induce her to remain in a married brother’s house—an unwanted third.
There would always be one avenue of escape open to her, she reflected ironically—by way of her own marriage with Tony. She wished it were possible to fall in love to order! It would simplify things so much. As Tony’s wife she felt sure she could keep him straight and so fulfil the trust Virginia had imposed on her. He had always shown himself sensitively responsive to her influence—like a penitent boy if she scolded him, radiant if he had won her approval. And he had a very special niche of his own in her heart. Next to Robin, there was no one she loved more.
... A sudden cloud across the sun roused her to the fact that she had been sitting still for some time, and that, at that altitude, the air held all the mountain keenness. She felt chilled, and scrambled up hastily to her feet. She would go to the crest of the hill and signal to Tony that she was ready to return.
But, to her utter astonishment, when she had climbed to the top, he was not in sight. The hill brow apparently commanded a view of the surrounding country for a distance of at least two miles, and as far as she could see there was no sign of any living creature in the whole expanse. Hardly believing her own senses, she brushed her hand across her eyes and looked again. But she had made no mistake. Tony was nowhere to be seen. The ground stretched bleakly away on every hand, untenanted by any human soul except herself.
She stood still, staring dazedly around. Tony would never have gone back without her. He must be hidden from view by some dip or inequality of the ground. Or—her heart stood still at the thought—had he slipped and fallen headlong into some hideous crevasse?
Curving her hands on either side her mouth, she called him, sending her voice ringing through the clear, crisp air. But there came no answer. Instead, the utter loneliness and silence seemed to surge up round her almost like a concrete thing. For a moment, sheer terror of what might have happened to him overwhelmed her.
“Tony!... Tony!” Her voice rose to a scream, then cracked on a hoarse note of sudden, desperate relief.
To her left the ground fell away abruptly in a precipitous ravine, and, rising slowly above the lip of the chasm, she could discern Tony’s head and shoulders. Instantly her mind leapt to what had happened. Failing to find a gentian in his search over safe ground, he must have caught sight of a late blossom growing in some cranny of the rock face below, and, recklessly regardless of the danger, he had climbed down to secure it.
The mere thought of the risk he had incurred—was still incurring—sent a shiver through her. Her first impulse was to rush towards him. Then, realising that any movement of hers might distract his attention and so add illimitably to his danger, she forced herself by an almost superhuman effort to remain where she was. Motionless, with straining eyes, she watched while he slowly edged himself up. That his foothold was precarious was evident from the careful precision of his movements, so unlike Tony’s usual nimbleness.
Now his arm was above the edge ... both arms ... he seemed to be resting a moment, leaning on his chest an instant before making another effort. Should she go to him? Her arms hung stiffly at her sides, her hands opening and shutting in an agony of indecision.
Tony was moving once more, and this time he hoisted himself up so that he succeeded in getting one knee over the top. Another moment and he would be safe.... Then, without a cry, he suddenly toppled backwards and disappeared from view, and Ann could see only the jagged edge of the ravine, stark against the sky-line.
For a fraction of a second she stood paralysed, overwhelmed with the horror of what had happened. Then, choking back the scream which rose to her lips, she set off running in the direction of the spot where Tony had vanished from sight.
Breathless, her heart thudding painfully in her side, Ann reached the ravine and, throwing herself face downwards on the ground, crawled to the edge. For an instant she closed her eyes, shrinking with a sick dread from what they might show her—Tony’s young, lithe body lying broken on the rocks below, or, perhaps, only the dark blur of some awful and unmeasured depth which would never give up its dead.
It was by a sheer effort of will that she at last forced herself to open her eyes and peer downward. Immediately beneath the brink of the chasm the ground dropped vertically for a few feet, but below that again it sloped gradually outwards, culminating in a broad, projecting ledge which formed the lip of the actual precipice itself. Tony lay on the ledge, motionless, with outflung arms and white, upturned face. He had evidently lost his footing, and, after the first drop, rolled helplessly downward. Only the presence of a jagged, upstanding piece of rock had saved him from falling clean over into the depths below.
Strain as she might to see, Ann could not tell whether he were dead or merely insensible, and the agony of uncertainty seemed to drain her of all strength. For a few moments she lay where she was, unable to control the trembling of her limbs, her aching eyes staring fixedly down at the still, prone figure on the ledge below. But the paralysing terror passed, and, at length, though still rather shakily, she dragged herself to her feet. She must go to him—somehow she must get down to where he lay.
At first she could think of no way of reaching him. Although he himself had attempted, and very nearly successfully accomplished, the upward climb to the brow of the ravine, she knew she dared not attempt to make the descent at that same spot. If there were no way round, she would have to go back to the hotel in search of help. But that would take an hour or more! And meanwhile Tony was lying there untended. She couldn’t wait! She must get to him—get to him at once, and know whether he were living or dead. She flung herself down on the ground once more and cast a despairing glance at the inaccessible shelf of rock where he lay. Then it appeared to her that, although narrowing as it went, it ran upwards, forming a kind of rough track below the overhanging summit which, further along, might debouch on to the crest of the ravine.
Springing to her feet, she hurried desperately along the top in the direction which the track seemed to take, and at length, with a gasping sigh of relief, came to a wide fissure that slanted down to meet it.
She was sure-footed as a deer, her slim, supple body balancing itself almost instinctively, but even so the traversing of that narrow, rocky ledge, in parts not more than a foot wide, was a severe test of her endurance. A single false step meant death, instantaneous and inevitable, and the whole terrible ten minutes which it took her to complete the short distance was poignant with the dread of what she might discover at its end.
Moving very cautiously, her bare hands sliding across the rough face of the rock as she edged her way forward, she came at last to where the ledge widened out and the ground above sloped gently upwards. A few steps more and she could see Tony’s young, supine figure. The last three yards were accomplished at a run, and an instant later she was kneeling beside him, thrusting swift, urgent hands beneath his shirt to feel whether his heart still beat. The throb of it came softly against her palms—warm, and pulsatinglyalive!
Ann rocked a little on her knees. She felt sick and giddy with reaction from the almost intolerable strain of the last few minutes. Then she caught sight of a vivid glint of blue—a single gentian bloom still tightly clasped in the boy’s hand, and quite suddenly she began to cry, the tears running unchecked down her face. And it was just then that Tony came back to consciousness—to the vague consciousness of something wet splashing down on to his face. He stirred and opened his eyes.
“Tony!” Ann’s voice was hoarse with relief.
His eyes blinked at her uncertainly.
“Hello!” he said rather feebly. “What’s happened?”
“I thought you were killed!” she cried unsteadily. “Oh, Tony, I thought you were killed!”
He regarded her consideringly.
“No,” he replied seriously. “I’m not at all killed. Why should I be killed?” Then, clearer consciousness returning: “Am I talking rot? What’s happened?”
Ann slipped her arm beneath his shoulders and raised him a little so that his head rested on her lap.
“You fell,” she said, trying to speak calmly. “You were climbing up and you fell. Where are you hurt, Tony?”
“Oh, I remember.... Yes, I fell—just as I was getting to the top. A rotten old stump gave way under my foot.”
“But where are you hurt?” persisted Ann anxiously.
“I don’t think Iamhurt.” He stretched his limbs tentatively. “No, there’s nothing broken. I feel a bit buzzy in the head, that’s all.”
He tried to lift himself up, but Ann pressed him back against her knees.
“Don’t move! Don’t move!” she cried hastily. “Lie still for a few minutes. Are you sure—sureyou’re not hurt?”
“Bet you a tenner I’m not,” he replied, with the ghost of a grin. “My head’s clearing, too. I was only knocked out of time for a minute. Don’t worry.” He put up his hand and touched her cheek. “Why, you’re quite pale, Ann.”
“Ifeltpale—when I saw you fall,” she answered grimly. Her spirits were returning now that she was assured he was uninjured. “I was certain you must be killed.”
“It would have been one way out of it all, wouldn’t it?” he replied with a touch of bitterness.
“Oh, hush! Don’t speak like that.”
“I won’t—if it annoys you. But, anyway, you needn’t worry. I shan’t die young. The gods don’t love me enough.”
Ann ignored this.
“Do you think you could stand now?” she asked practically.
Tony’s eyes gleamed mirthfully.
“I’m very comfortable as I am,” he remarked, rubbing his cheek against her skirt.
She resisted the temptation to smile.
“I’m not—particularly,” she returned briefly. “I’ve got cramp.”
He sat up at once.
“Oh, by Jove! Why didn’t you say so before?”
“Because I hadn’t got it before. I was much too concerned about you to have time for it. How do you feel? Shall I help you up?”
But Tony disclaimed the necessity for any assistance. As he said, he had only been knocked out of time for a few minutes. He might have been made of indiarubber for all the actual harm his fall had done him. He rose to his feet without difficulty and proceeded to help Ann to hers.
“How do we get back?” he asked. Then, glancing upwards: “I’m hanged if I’m going to try and climb up there a second time. How on earth did you get here? You didn’t drop from the skies, I suppose, like an angel?”
“There’s a ledge—it’s rather narrow, but one can just squeeze round, and it brings you out somewhere on the top. Are you sure you can manage it, though? You won’t turn faint or anything?”—anxiously.
“No”—with impish gravity. “I shan’t ‘turn faint or anything.’ In fact, I could dance a hornpipe here if you liked. Still, I’ll hold your hand—just in case of accidents”—audaciously. “Shall I go first? Oh, by the way”—he paused. “Here’s your blue gentian. Won’t you have it?”
Ann felt her throat contract as she recalled what the little blue flower had so nearly cost. Her eyes filled in spite of herself.
“Good heavens! Don’t cry over it!” Tony laughed carelessly. He had recovered his usual bantering manner of speech which yet always seemed to hold an undercurrent of bitterness. “It’s not worth that. See, I’ll chuck it away, so that it can’t remind you of the unpleasant shock I gave you this afternoon.”
He tossed the flower over the edge of the ravine. For an instant it seemed to hover in the air like a blue butterfly. Then it sank slowly out of sight.
“Here endeth the first lesson,” commented Tony.
“Lesson on what?”
“On trying to get things which an all-wise Providence has considerately placed out of your reach.” Without giving her time to reply, he continued: “Give me your hand—no, you must”—as she hung back. “I’m not going to have you risking this ledge again alone.”
He extended one hand behind him, and, recognising the uselessness of argument, Ann yielded and laid hers in it. Somehow she was not altogether sorry to feel that friendly, human grip. In single file they made the perilous return journey along the narrow track, emerging at length on to safe ground. Ann withdrew her hand with a sigh of relief. It was good to feel that they were out of danger at last.
“I think we shall have to hurry if we are to catch our train,” she said, keeping determinedly to the practical side of affairs. She felt she did not want to discuss their adventure. It was too vividly impressed upon her mind and had all too nearly ended in disaster. It seemed as though, the wings of Death had brushed her as he passed by.
Tony pulled out his watch.
“Eight, as usual,” he replied. “We shall have to sprint. And I’ve done you out of your tea, too,” he added remorsefully.
“Oh, that!” Ann dismissed the matter with a rather uncertain little laugh. “You don’t suppose I’m worrying about my tea, do you?”
He looked at her curiously.
“No, I don’t suppose you are,” he answered.
They set off at a good pace, but they had wandered much further afield than they realised, and when at last the hotel, and the station which practically adjoined it, came into sight, the train was already drawn up at the platform, waiting to start. A shrill whistle cut the air warningly, and instinctively Ann and Tony broke into a run. Tony was the first to recognise the futility of the proceeding. He pulled up.
“We may as well save our breath,” he observed laconically. And even as he spoke the train, with a final shriek, moved out of the station.
Ann stood still, her eyes following it with an expression of blank dismay.
“Tony!” Her voice sounded a trifle breathless. “Do you know—have you realised—that that’s the last train?”
He nodded.
“And we’ve missed it.”
He appeared completely unconcerned, and she turned on him with a flash of impatience. His inconsequence annoyed her.
“Yes, we’ve missed it,” she repeated. “How do you suppose we’re going to get back without a train to take us?”
Tony’s soft, slate-coloured eyes surveyed her placidly beneath their long lashes.
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he acknowledged.
“Tony!” In spite of her indignation a quiver underlay Ann’s voice. Her nerves had been wrought up to a high pitch by the afternoon’s events, and she felt unequal to parrying Tony’s customary banter.
Immediately his manner changed. When he spoke again it was with a quiet confidence that reassured her completely.
“It’s quite true,” he said soberly. “I haven’t an idea at the moment. But I’ll get you safely back to Montricheux this evening somehow. I promise you, Ann. So don’t worry.”
The sun was hanging low in the sky by the time they reached the hotel, and when he had established Ann in an easy chair and provided her with a cigarette, together with a six-weeks’-old copy of a London magazine which he unearthed from amongst a dusty pile of luridly illustrated handbooks on Switzerland, Tony departed to make inquiries regarding their journey back to Montricheux. He returned within a very short time, his face wearing an unusual look of gravity, and for a moment he stood staring down at her without speaking.
“I’ve got some bad news for you,” he said at last, with obvious reluctance. “I’m not able to keep my promise, Ann. We can’t get back to Montricheux to-night.”
She glanced up incredulously.
“Can’t get back?” she repeated. “Oh, but we must.”
Tony shook his head.
“Can’t be done,” he answered. “It seems that infernal train is the only means of getting up and down from here. You can’t motor or drive. There’s no road.”
The out-of-date magazine slid suddenly off Ann’s knee and fell with a plop on the floor.
“Are you serious?” she asked, still hardly able to believe him. “Do you really mean we—we’ve got to stay the night here?”
She could read the answer to her question in the unmistakable concern which was written on his face.
“Oh, but it’s impossible!” she exclaimed in deep dismay. “We can’t—we can’t stay here!” She sprang up, clasping and unclasping her hands agitatedly. “Don’t yousee, Tony, that it’s impossible?”
“We’ve no choice,” he replied bluntly. “If there were any possible way of getting you back to Villa Mon Rêve to-night, I’d move heaven and earth to do it. But thereisn’t. We’ve no more chance of getting away from here than rats in a trap.”