The Vision of Desire Part 13

"'They' will be disappointed," he finished for her, a veiled irony in his voice. "What time do your friends expect you?"

"At ten."

"And it is now only nine. If you care to watch the fete a little longer, I can land you wherever you wish and you would still be in good time. I will guarantee your safety," he added with a smile.

Ann hesitated. On the one hand she was thoroughly enjoying the water-fete as viewed from the security of the Englishman's motor-boat, and the unconventionality of the circ.u.mstances added a spice of adventure to the situation. On the other, like every properly brought up young woman, she was quite aware of what would be Mrs. Grundy's p.r.o.nouncement on such a matter.

"You'll stay?" said the Englishman.

It savoured more of a command than a question. Metaphorically Ann threw Mrs. Grundy overboard into the lake.

"Yes, I'll stay," she answered.

He accepted her decision without any outward sign of satisfaction, and she experienced a slight chill of disappointment. Perhaps, after all, he had only asked her to remain a little longer, not because he really desired the pleasure of her company, but merely in order that he might not be inconvenienced by the necessity of taking her back to Montricheux before he himself was ready to go. She had all the sensitiveness of youth and, once this idea had presented itself to her, she felt self-conscious and ill at ease, only anxious for the moment to arrive when she need no longer trespa.s.s on his hospitality.

And then, just as though some secret wireless had acquainted him of her discomfort, he held out his hand with a sudden smile that softened the harsh lines of his face extraordinarily.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "When you go to bed to-night you'll be able to feel you've done your 'kind deed' for to-day."

Half reluctantly, yet unable to do otherwise, Ann laid her hand in the one he held out to her. His strong fingers closed round it possessively and she was aware of a queer, breathless feeling of captivity. She drew her hand sharply away.

"Is it a 'kind deed'?" she asked lightly, for the sake of saying something--anything--which should break the tension of the silence which had followed.

"Is it not? To bestow a charming half-hour of your companions.h.i.+p on the loneliest person in Montricheux? Oh, I think so."

"You didn't look at all lonely this afternoon," flashed back Ann, remembering the pretty woman with whom she had seen him driving.

"At the Battle of Flowers, you mean? No." He turned the conversation adroitly. "But I only won third prize, so I'm still in need of sympathy.

Taking the third prize is rather my _metier_ in life."

"Perhaps it's all you deserve," she suggested unkindly. "Anyway, you've nothing to grumble at. _We_ didn't win anything. We weren't elaborately enough decorated to compete."

"Yet you looked as if you were enjoying it all," he hazarded. "Did you?"

"Yes, of course I did. Didn't you?"

"Not particularly--till some one threw me a rose."

Ann decided to ignore the latter part of this speech.

"You're such a confirmed cynic that I wonder you condescended to take part in anything go frivolous as the fete," she observed.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"When in Rome--Besides, it reminded me of my young days."

"You talk as if you were a close relation of Methuselah. You're not so very old."

"Am I not?" He paused a moment. "Old enough, at any rate, to have lost all my illusions."

There was an undercurrent so bitter in the curtly uttered speech that Ann's warm young sympathies responded involuntarily.

"I wish I could bring them back for you," she said impulsively.

Through the flickering luminance of the lights r.i.m.m.i.n.g the boat's gunwale he looked at her with an odd intensity.

"That's just what I'm afraid of," he said. "That you might bring them back.

Fortunately, I'm leaving Montricheux to-morrow."

Ann was silent. She was vibrantly conscious of the man's strange, forceful personality. His brusque, hard speeches fell on her like so many blows, and yet behind them she felt as though there were something that appealed--something hurt and seeking to hide its hurt behind an armour of savage irony.

His voice, coolly indifferent once more, broke across her thoughts.

"Would you like to go back now?"

He spoke as though he were suddenly anxious to be rid of her as quickly as possible, and she a.s.sented hastily. His abrupt changes of mood disconcerted her. There seemed no accounting for what he might say next. He tossed a curt order to a man whom she could discern crouching forward near the engine.

"_Bien, m'sieu_," came the answer, and presently the motor-boat was dexterously edging her way through the throng till she emerged into a clear s.p.a.ce and purred briskly towards the sh.o.r.e.

Once more the Englishman's hand closed firmly round Ann's as he helped her out on to the little landing-stage.

"Good-bye," she said, a trifle nervously. "And thank you so much for coming to my rescue."

Still retaining her hand in his, he stared down at her with those queerly compelling eyes of his. She felt her breath coming and going unevenly. For a moment he hesitated, as though deliberating some point within himself.

Then:

"Good-bye," he said. And his voice was utterly expressionless. It held not even cordiality.

CHAPTER VIII

A LETTER FROM ENGLAND

The postman, entering through the garden gate which opened on to the street, found Ann busily engaged in cutting flowers. He greeted her with a smile, pleased to be saved the remainder of the distance to the house.

"_Bonjour, mademoiselle_. Only one letter for the villa this morning." He handed her the solitary missive which the mail had brought and departed, whistling cheerfully, on his way down the street.

Ann fingered the bulky envelope with satisfaction. It was addressed in Robin's handwriting, and she carried it off to a sunny corner of the garden to enjoy its contents at leisure.

"Dear Little Ann"--ran the letter. _"Here, at last is the good news we have both been waiting for! I have been offered exactly the kind of billet I wanted--that of estate-agent to a big land-owner. The salary is a really generous one, and there's a jolly little cottage goes with it, so that you'll be able to chuck free-lancing and come and keep house for me as we've always planned. Needless to say, I've accepted the job!_

_"And now to give you all details. My future employer is one, Eliot Coventry. We've had several interviews and I liked him very much, although he struck me as rather a queer sort of chap. I should put him down as dead straight and thoroughly dissatisfied with life!

Heronsmere, the Coventry place, is a fine old house--one of those old Elizabethan houses you're so cracked on. It reminds me a bit of Lovell Court. There'll be a lot to see to on the estate, as the bailiff in charge has just let things rip, and Coventry himself has been out of England for some years. In fact, he has never lived at Heronsmere. He's a distant cousin of the late owner and only inherited owing to a succession of deaths. He was abroad at the time and never even troubled to come home and have a look at his inheritance._

_"One thing I know will please you, and that is that we shall be near the sea. Silverquay is the name of the village, which is really a part of the Heronsmere property. It's comparatively small, not much more than a little fis.h.i.+ng village, but the town of Ferribridge is only about ten miles distant, so you'll be able to obtain the necessities of civilised existence, I expect._