There Will Come A Stranger (7 page)

Valerie felt comforted, and told him so. “But I can
’
t dance!” she said sadly.

“You cou
l
dn
’
t, to begin with—you were trying too hard. Quite fatal! But while you
’
ve been telling me all this, you
’
ve been dancing like a butterfly, simply because you forgot to think about it! Anxiety neurosis, that
’
s what wrong with
you
, my girl! Relax, and leave it to the music. Stop trying. Let it happen!”

Gratefully she thought how kind he was, how understanding, under his lighthearted banter. Tension once more released its grip. Effortless and pliant she responded to the pressure of his
guiding hand, moving with him at last in easy
harmony on the rhythmic tides of music.

Presently a couple caught her eye: a man whose smooth, dark head, well-set on his lean flat shoulders, was bent above the fair one of his partner, who was small and slim. The smoky chiffon of her skirts, sparkling like raindrops on a misty night, floated out about her as they danced. She thought how nice they looked, how well they danced together: thought that there was something curiously familiar about them
.
..
Only as they disappeared she realized that she was looking at their own reflection in a mirror.

“I told you so!” said Rory when the last encore had whispered to its close and they were returning to their table, “You
can
dance—and dance well, too!”

Rather a poppet, he was thinking, with her big, appealing eyes, and the dimple that kept flickering in her cheek. Something endearing, too, about her need for reassurance. Something really rather pleasant about a girl who hadn
’
t got all the answers at her fingertips!
...
But it was Hilary he asked for the next dance.

People who had had dinner in their own hotels were drifting in to dance, among them friends of Rory
’
s and the Prescotts and the Fraynes, whom they had met here last year, so the party grew as snowballs do. Valerie danced with Harry and with Gordon Frayne, whom she found supercilious and difficult to dance with; with a tall fair young man they all called Robin, who asked if she would meet him here for tea tomorrow, and a short square cheerful one who answered to the name of Buster, and told her that her frock was quite the prettiest in the room. A charming woman with white hair and a youthful face said that she was getting up a party to dine and dance here on Thursday evening, to celebrate her son
’
s twenty-first birthday; the Prescotts would be of the party—would Valerie come too?

And through it all, because the tension of her mind and body had relaxed, her diffidence and shyness disappeared; she chaffed and laughed as easily as any of them.

Later she heard the others making plans for a long expedition in the morning, but it had ceased to matter that she would still be floundering ignominiously on the nursery slopes while all the rest of them were far afield—for thanks to Rory she had found her feet in other ways: the ways that counted!

CHAPTER
FIVE

It
was John Ainslie
’
s last evening in Varlet-sur
-
Montagne. The Prescotts had gone home on the date originally arranged, several days ago, but at the last minute John had said that as the snow was in such superb condition he would stay on a little longer, cancelled his seat on the plane, and booked a later one—much to the surprise of Susan, who declared to Harry that she had never known him change plans of his own accord before, in all the years that she had been his sister! But now he could no longer put off his departure. Business was claiming him; to-morrow he and Rory must be off together.

Rory was spending the last of his currency on a farewell party to which he had invited Valerie, and John had taken Vivian for the last time to have dinner at a quiet little inn he had discovered on the outskirts of the village. The Moulin Vert was an unpretentious little place, furnished in the simplest peasant fashion, with no more than half a dozen tables, and plain wooden chairs, gay, coarse pottery, and bright checked table cloths. But the landlady had worked under a first-class chef at the Schweizerhof before her marriage to a local guide; she could turn out a superlative omelette and delicious creamy sweets that melted in the mouth, and her
specialité
de la maison,
a delectable dish of veal cooked in white wine with olives and mushrooms and chopped ham, was something to dream about! No other English visitors seemed to have discovered it; those who came here were for the most part Swiss, with a sprinkling of French people who had ferreted it out with their usual flair for tracking down good food.

John, as he looked at Vivian across their little table, thought that she grew more attractive every day. Long hours of sunshine in the exhilarating mountain air, heady as wine, had heightened her vitality and made her bright eyes brighter still. Happiness, he reflected, was a greater beautifier than all the maquillage in Bond Street, and there was no doubt that her pretty mouth was prettier than ever, now that her lips had lost their wistful curves and learnt to smile more easily. The frock she wore this evening was the colour of champagne, so flattering to a woman with a fair skin and richly-coloured hair. One of her attractions was that she was such a mixture—so intensely feminine in her good taste and love of pretty things, and yet so knowledgeable about matters that might have been more to a man
’
s taste—sailing, and big game fishing, and the like.

“I simply can
’
t believe that a whole fortnight has gone by since Valerie and I came here!” she told him pensively, as the savoury, a fragile boat of pastry filled with cream cheese beaten together with anchovies, crumbled in flakes beneath her fork.

“I can
’
t believe it either,” John agreed. “A queer thing, time—flashing by when one is happy, dragging when one is bored or miserable and longs for it to pass.”

When one is happy
...
Like a gong his words rang through her consciousness. She had believed all happiness on her own account was left behind for ever, that the only happiness remaining to her lay in giving it to others. Until this revealing moment she had taken it for granted that the joy she had found here in this little mountain village was a reflection of the happiness that she had been the means of giving Valerie, who had been living in a blissful whirl, ski-ing by day with more and more enjoyment as her skill grew and her tumbles became few and far between, and of an evening amusing herself with the group of gay young people in which she had become caught up.

But she knew now, quite suddenly, that for the first time since Pete
’
s death she had been happy for herself
.
And knowing it, she was ashamed, feeling that her happiness implied disloyalty to Pete. Not that she had forgotten him. Constantly she thought of him and longed for him. She could not see a lovely view, could not experience some new happening, without wishing he were there to share it. Yet the fact of being happy gave her a guilty feeling as though she had gone ahead without him, leaving him behind, alone, deserted.

Perhaps John read her thoughts in her expressive eyes. Possibly he knew them by intuition: friendship takes small account of time, and during the last fortnight they had seen more of one another than many friends do in a year, talking together of an evening in a quiet
corner
of the lounge while Valerie and the Prescotts were in the games room, dining together at his table or hers when the others had gone off elsewhere of an evening. After she and Valerie had graduated from the nursery slopes to more adventurous activities, he had several times foregone the longer runs that he habitually made to spend the time with them instead. During that time he and Vivian had learned more of one another than perhaps either realized. And so John knew, now, what lay in Vivian
’
s mind, and knew he could not leave her to do battle with it by herself.

He did not speak of it until they were alone. Luck was on his side; as the landlady brought their coffee the only other people dining here to-night, a Swiss couple, asked for their bill, paid it, and left. The landlady brought the two Benedictines John had ordered, then left them to themselves, beamed sy
m
pathetically; she believed the handsome couple who always seemed so pleased with one another
’
s company were honeymooning, since the lady wore a wedding ring.

John waited for a moment. Then he said deliberately, “To look at you, one never would imagine that you were so full of complexes!” Startled, she met his eyes, steady and kind.

“
Complexes
!”

“
Yes! First of all, you got some queer kind of notion that you must put up a prickly barrier between us, or otherwise I might feel you thought
I
ought to be responsible for helping you to find your feet here, as it was through me you came. We soon scotched that one—but it seems another complex has attached you now; Far more dangerous, this time. One that will wreck your life, if it
’
s not nipped in the bud.”

Vivian said in a low voice, not looking at him now, “My life was wrecked two years ago.”

“My dear, forgive me if I
’
m crashing in where any angel of good sense would fear to tiptoe—but I like you far too well to go away to-morrow without first doing what I can to drive away this foolish bee that
’
s buzzing in your bonnet!
...
Nobody
’
s life is wrecked at twenty-seven. In fact, I very much doubt whether a life is wreckable at any age. Maimed, yes, and cruelly injured. But injuries do heal in time, although the scars remain.”

The fingers of her right hand turned her wedding ring upon its finger in a way they had, as she said huskily, “Thank you for putting it so well.
Only, you know, one feels—disloyal
—
”

“I can understand that, yes. But it
’
s a feeling that can do no good. Only harm. You are far too sensible to believe that Pete would want you to go through the years ahead perpetually grieving! Because he loved you, he would want you to be happy.”

Vivian said nothing, staring into her coffee cup. After a minute or two John went on, “You
’
re young. Too young not to take your share of happiness when it comes your way. Too young to stand aside from life, believing you should have no pleasure on your own account—only in that of other people!”

She said, “I know you
’
re right. Only it
’
s difficult
—
”

“I know. But you have common-sense and courage on your side. You
’
ll win through, maybe sooner than you think. You would have seen the truth of what I
’
ve said for yourself, in time. But sometimes a short cut saves one a long, hard bit of road.”

He changed the subject, talking of a plan he had of going one day to film big game, until Vivian was herself again.

So their last hour together ticked away, until the cuckoo clock proclaimed the time to be eleven, and the landlady came to tell them that the sleigh had come to take them back to their hotel.

The lounge was empty when they reached the Casque d
’
Or; no one was there to see their parting as John took, Vivian
’
s hand and held it for a moment.

“Good night,” he said. “Good-bye, too—I shall be gone to-morrow while you
’
re still asleep.”

“Good-bye. We
’
ll miss you, Valerie and I! You
’
ve been so kind. I hope we
’
ll meet again, some day!”

“I hope so, too.”

But if he had really meant it, Vivian reflected on her way upstairs, he would have asked for her address: and since he hadn
’
t, it was most improbable that they would ever meet again.

She went to bed, oppressed by a flat sense of anti-climax.

Nearly twelve already! thought Valerie, her eyes on the clock high on the wall above the band. Only one more dance, and it will be over. And
I
’
ve scarcely danced with Rory all the evening
...

Her flagging spirits must have made her feet flag too, for Robin
’
s arm tightened about her and he asked “Tired?”

She pulled herself together. “Not a bit! I can
’
t think how it is that one never does seem to be tired here, taking all the exercise we do!”

“Enjoying oneself is never tiring,” Robin told her sagely. “Look—d
’
you mind if I leave you just for a moment? Ronnie Barsham looks as though he
’
s going off, and I must have a word with him about to-morrow.”

“Of course—do go!”

Robin left her at their table and hurried
after the departing Ronnie. Valerie thought how nice it was, just for a moment, to sit peacefully looking on, without the need to talk to anyone, or listen. There were eight of them in Rory
’
s farewell party: Hilary and Gordon Frayne, Robin and the man they all called Buster, whose real name she had never discovered, a girl with red hair and green eyes and a sharp, amusing tongue who came from Kerry and was in consequence nicknamed Blarney, a pretty brown-haired girl whose name was Pamela, Rory himself, and Valerie.

For the last fortnight they had all been seeing a good deal of one another, since by mutual consent they had drifted into an elastic group. By day they split up into twos and threes, but of an evening they would foregather at one or other of the hotels or pensions where they were scattered, to play rummy or canasta, or dance to the wireless or a gramophone. When Vivian and Valerie had graduated from the nursery slopes to venture farther afield, taking a sandwich lunch from the hotel to save their precious currency and eating it in the hot sunshine high in the silence of the dazzling snows, Blarney and Pamela, and sometimes Robin and Buster, had joined up with them. Only Hilary, an expert skier despite her glamorously feminine appearance, disdained the company of the other girls and went off with the men on longer expeditions.

Unenviously Valerie thought how marvellous it must be to do everything so well, and look so lovely into the bargain. According to her brother, Hilary
’
s tennis was up to Wimbledon standard, and her handicap at golf was four. She had travelled, it appeared, all over Europe and America as well, and judging by her conversation her circle of acquaintances was composed chiefly of people who were internationally famous in the worlds of politics and literature, music and art and sport. Her vivid personality made her the centre of every gathering. In Hilary
’
s company, Valerie felt as though she were a candle whose light had been pleasant enough until the switching on of a hundred watt electric light bulb had made it all but invisible.

Hilary was dancing now with Rory. They were the most striking couple in the room, well matched for height and dark good looks, superbly poised, pivoting, gliding, eddying, whirling as though they were a single entity borne on the current of the music. Hilary was talking with her usual animation. From time to time Rory joined in. With Valerie he seemed to prefer to dance for the most part in silence. Probably, she thought, that
’
s because I don
’
t dance as well as Hilary: with me he has to concentrate on what he
’
s doing.

Robin was taking longer than she had expected over making his arrangements for to-morrow. He had not reappeared when the dance came to an end. Hilary was talking still as she and Rory came back to the table. “Well, all I know is, that
’
s what the Shah told me himself a month ago, in Rome!” she concluded.

“M
’
m. Very interesting!” said Rory. Giving her a cigarette, he waited until she had fitted it into her long ivory holder, lit it, then turned to Valerie.

“All alone
?
Robin deserted you
?
”

“Alas, yes! He said I danced like a Dutch doll and bored him so much that he couldn
’
t bear it for another minute, so he
’
s taken refuge from me in the bar.”

Hilary raised her eyebrows, then as the others laughed she realized belatedly that Valerie was not being serious, and smiled reluctantly, as though she thought the harmless nonsense was in poor taste. Valerie felt small.

Hilary changed the subject. “I
’
ve been torn in two all day!” she told them. “Two invitations came this morning. Both for March. One from Lady Helson—you know, they
’
ve just gone to the Embassy at Washington—and the other from the Ravenswoods, to stay at Government House at Gib—that
’
s very hush-hush, though—it
’
s not announced yet that he
’
s going there, so not a word!
—
So what? If only one could be in two places at the same time! Do make my mind up for me, someone!”

But the band was tired, and anxious to stop dead on time, so before they could embark on a discussion of Hilary
’
s problem, the last dance began.

Rory got up. Valerie sat with head averted, anxious not to look as though she hoped that he would ask if she would dance with him, pretending to be listening to something Hilary was saying about Washington. Longing to know whether it was at herself that he was looking, or at Hilary, or Pamela, or Blarney, still she refused to turn her eyes in his direction, until beside her ear his voice said, “May I have this one, Valerie? As
your host, I can
’
t let you be a wallflower
all
the evening!”

Laughing, she made a face at him and they began to dance.

“It was to this tune that I danced with you that first time of all, when I was petrified with fright!” Valerie exclaimed. “An odd coincidence that we should finish up with it as well!”

“Not a coincidence. I asked for it. Told them I would be dancing it with a Very Special Person.”

If only—oh, if only she could believe it! But one never knew, with Rory, if he meant what he was saying, or was teasing one.

The man who had sung the words that first night began singing them again.