by Ruskin Bond
And then, suddenly, his mood began to alter. His body straightened, his head came up. Miss Blombell felt a shiver of excitement run down her spine. The soldier handed the folder silently and casually to the girl, as if it were of no more importance than an ash-tray or a dropped glove; and the girl, taking it with a faintly puzzled air, opened it listlessly The page-boy left, and the parents returned their attention to the two young people; but it was clear now that a new element had entered into the situation, for suddenly the girl began to talk, slowly at first, but with increasing assurance, and the mother and father changed their positions in their chairs, as if confounded and pained.
Miss Blombell was distracted at this moment by an elderly lady demanding a Havana cigar, and when she was able to catch up with the quartet again, the girl was on the edge of her chair, her head tilted defiantly, and her words came steadily and with authority. The soldier's attitude had changed, too. He leaned forward, and his eyes were fixed on hers with pride and admiration. Occasionally he darted a glance at her mother and father, but there was nothing down-trodden about him now. It was clear that the parents were struggling to keep their tempers in check to prevent an unseemly exhibition in a public place. The mother had become soothing, and the father's hand waved placatingly, but the tide, having turned, now swept on, and the girl rose suddenly, held out her hand to the soldier, and pulled him towards her. They walked firmly and purposefully through the foyer and out of the quilted doors into the street, and the parents, after an ineffectual flutter, rose and made their way to the lift, talking agitatedly in undertones.
Miss Blombell, elated, removed her spectacles and wiped them. Her heart felt foolishly light and free, as if it were she herself who had flaunted the parents and chosen her own way of life. For a moment she felt ridiculously young. It took a sharp cough from Miss Kittering to bring her back to earth, to attend to a Foreign Office official in need of cigarettes from the secret cache. When her mind had leisure to return to the subject, she began to speculate as to what had been in the folder...
"Miss Kittering," she said casually, "did you supply the magazines for the folders on that table over there?"
"Indeed I did not," Miss Kittering made answer, "I was unaware of the presence of magazines in the folders."
"Well, that is odd, isn't it?" said Miss Blombell, greatly intrigued, but in no way anxious to share confidences with Miss Kittering. As she spoke, she saw an elderly woman, thumbing aimlessly through the folders, suddenly pause, twitch, and slap the folder shut with a gesture of supercilious irritation.
From then on Miss Blombell never let her eye wander too far from the folders and on the table. The special one lay at the end of the table, and it was easy to keep it under survey. In rough order, it brought reactions of amusement, irritability or bored indifference; but Miss Blombell was convinced that something very odd lay within it.
About half an hour before she went off duty, Colin Mather came in. Even with the shortage of newsprint, Miss Blombell knew all about the Mather divorce, and under her counter she kept twenty cigarettes a day for Mrs. Mather, who was living at the Splendide with her two small children. They were a glamorous couple, and in the days before the war the society periodicals ran pictures of them at Ascot, first nights, the Riviera, and sitting on shooting sticks in Scotland. The marriage had gone up in smoke during the war, and they had been separated for nearly a year. They never met except in the company of a lawyer; they were obviously bitter towards-each other, and their wounded vanities wrestled for supremacy. Their friends had sided fairly evenly and clearly neither of them was entirely without blame. Mrs. Mather was now receiving attentions from a stately admirer who never proceeded further than the foyer when he called for her or brought her back to the hotel. He was rich and calm and dreary, and Miss Blombell took especial pleasure in pointing to her "No Cigarettes" sign when he paused at her counter.
Colin Mather, on the other hand, she rather admired. He had been a Commando, and even in civilian clothes cut rather a dash. He had the sort of face that advertise pipe tobacco, ana had begun to grey at the temples. Perhaps, he was a little ordinary, too; but not as much so as the new admirer, and Miss Blombell, faithful until then to Mrs. Mather's cause, felt her loyalties beginning to shift anchor. A few minutes later Mrs. Mather appeared from the lift, followed by her lawyer, and they made their way to where he was standing and exchanged cool, formal greetings. Miss Blombell had observed that Mr. Mather had opened and closed the folder casually, just before he saw his wife, and when they sat down he took the chair that the young private had used.
An air of impeccable impartiality hung over them. They were clearly finishing up some trivial agenda to a clause in the divorce suit; they both looked bored and passive, nodding faintly as the lawyer paused for confirmation, and letting their attentions wander with elaborate negligence in any direction save towards each other.
Colin Mather spoke, addressing himself deliberately to the lawyer, and the lawyer hesitated and looked at Mrs. Mather for guidance. Mrs. Mather replied in quiet and unruffled terms, addressing her husband directly, and wearing the expression of a patient governess. It was apparent that disagreement was now in the air, and though they never betrayed their feelings by expression, or lifted their voices from a casual conversational level, the breach was becoming wider as they spoke; and at last Mrs. Mather shrugged resignedly and turned away, and Colin began stubbing out his cigarette as if it had turned on him and bitten his finger. The lawyer's attitude had obviously stiffened, too, and his lips were thin and severe, though he still spoke more in sorrow than in anger.
Colin Mather then began talking in a rapid undertone, clearly pulling at the cupboard door to expose a skeleton or two; and now his wife caught some of his anger and began to reply with equal heat. The lawyer coughed, and they both stopped short, embarrassed. She half rose. The lawyer detained her, and she sat again, unwillingly. The tension refused to abate, however. Her husband, leaning back in exaggerated ease to show himself master of the situation, brushed the folder with his elbow. For a moment his anger grappled with some other emotion. Then he picked up the folder and handed it to her without a word. She took it half-suspiciously, hesitated a moment, and then opened it.
Miss Blombell's view was obscured for a few seconds by a passing group of matrons, and when she could see the trio again, to her amazement Mrs. Mather had begun to cry. She pushed the folder back into her husband's hand, and opened her bag in search of a handkerchief. The lawyer looked uncomprehendingly at them both. Colin Mather returned the folder to the table and then slowly and tentatively he held out his hand. Slowly, she put out her own towards him, and for a moment they sat like children, gazing at each other wistfully Then she rose, still holding his hand, and they walked together towards the lift, leaving the lawyer to his own devices.
Miss Blombell's curiosity was now at fever pitch; she felt she must see what was in the folder before she was another minute older, or scream. But Mrs. Platty, who took over when she went off duty, was late, and she was marooned behind her counter.
A cold, thin dowager had paused by the table now, in a fruitless search for a magazine. When she came to the end folder, her brow darkened, and after a moment's private debate she came across the foyer and handed the folder to Miss Kittering.
"You might be interested to know of this vandalism," she said acidly. "Someone has been doing some vulgar scrawling in here."
"I'm afraid I have nothing to do with these folders, madam," Miss Kittering replied aloofly. "I suggest that you register your complaint with one of the managers-"
Miss Blombell edged over from her side of the booth and, controlling her eagerness with an effort, held out her hand.
"If you'd care to leave it with me, madam, I'll see that it reaches the manager," she said politely.
"Some people might think it a matter of small consequence," said the dowager, handing over the folder, "but a thing like this can contribute harmfully to disrespect of private property. It'
s not the sort of thing one expects to find in a hotel of this standard."
She turned and moved away. Indifferent to Miss Kittering's surprised stare, Miss Blombell opened the folder. It was empty, like the others; but in deeply scored pencil, in large block letters, was written inside its cover, "I LOVE YOU, LOVE YOU, LOVE YOU SO!"
The Duenna
BY MRS. BELLOC LOWNDES
A skilful story-teller, Mrs. Lowndes often brought a touch of the supernatural to her stories. Two lovers rendezvous at a lonely retreat, but one of them is filled with a sense of foreboding...
I
aura Delacourt, after a long and gallant defence of what those who formed the old-fashioned world to which she belonged would have called her virtue, had capitulated to the entreaties of Julian Treville. They had been friends—from tomorrow they would be lovers.
As she lay enfolded in his arms, her head resting on his breast, while now and again their lips met in a trembling, clinging kiss, the strangest and, in some ways, the most incongruous thoughts flitted shadow-wise through her mind, mingled with terror at the possible though not the probably, consequence of her surrender.
Her husband, Roger Delacourt, was thirty years older than herself. Though still a vigorous man, he had come to a time of life when even a vigorous man longs instinctively for warmth; so he had left London the day after Christmas Day to join a friend's yacht for a month's cruise in the Mediterranean. And now, just a week later, the wife whom he considered a negligible quantity in his self-indulgent, still agreeable existence, had consented to embark on what she knew must be a perilous adventure in a one-storeyed stone house, well named The Folly, built by Julian Treville's great-grandfather.
Long, low, fantastic—it stood at the narrow end of a wide lake on the confines of his property; and a French dancer, known in the Paris of her day as La Belle Julie, had spent there a lifetime in exile.
Though Laura in her lover's arms felt strangely at peace, her homing joy was threaded with terror. Constantly her thoughts reverted to her child, David, who, till the man who now held her so closely to him had come into her life, had been the only thing that made that then mournful life worth living.
The boy was spending the New Year with his mother's one close woman friend and her houseful of happy children, so Laura hoped her little son did not miss her. At any other time the thought that this might be so would have stabbed her with unreasonable pain, but what now filled her heart with shrinking fear was the dread thought of David's father, and of the punishment he would exact if he found her out.
Like so many men of his type and generation Roger Delacourt had a poor opinion of women. He believed that the woman tempted always falls. But, again true to type, he made, in this one matter, an exception as to his own wife. That Laura might be tempted was a possibility which never entered his shrewd and cynical mind; and had he been compelled to admit the temptation, he would have felt confident as to her power of resistance. So it was that she faced the awful certainty that were she ever "found out," immediate separation from her son, followed by a divorce, would be her punishment.
She had been a child of seventeen when her mother had elected to sell her into the slavery of marriage with the voluptuary to whom she had now been married ten years. For three years she had been her husband's plaything, and then, suddenly, when their boy was about two years old, he had tired of her. Even so, they lived, both in London and in the country, under the same roof, and many of the people about them thought the Delacourts got on better than do most modern couples. They were, however, often apart for weeks at a time, for Roger Delacourt still hunted, still shot, still fished, with unabated zest, and his wife did none of these things.
As time went on, Laura's joyless life was at once illumined and shadowed by her passionate love for her child, for all great love brings with it fear. A year ago, by his father's decree, David had been sent to a noted preparatory school, leaving his young mother forlornly lonely. It was then that she had met Julian Treville. woman he had ever loved; and even now, in this hour of unexpected, craved-for joy, he was asking himself if even his great love gave him the right to make her run what seemed an exceedingly slight risk of detection and consequent disgrace.
Each felt a sense of foreboding, though Laura's reason told her that her terrors were vain, and that it was conscience alone that made her feel afraid. Every possible danger had been countered by her companion. Her pride, her delicacy, her sense of shame—was it false shame?—had been studied by him with a selfless devotion which had deeply moved her. Thus he was leaving her to spend a lonely evening, tended by the old Frenchwoman, who, together with her husband, waited on The Folly's infrequent occupants.
The now aged couple in their hot youth had been on the losing side in the Paris Commune of 1871. They had been saved from imprisonment, possibly worse, by Julian Treville's grandmother, a lawless, high-minded Scotchwoman who called herself a Liberal. She had brought them to England, and for fifty odd years they had lived in a cottage a quarter of a mile from The Folly. There was small reason, as Treville could have argued with perfect truth, to be afraid of this old pair. But Laura did feel afraid, and so it had been arranged between the lovers that only tomorrow, after she had spent at The Folly a solitary night and day, would he, at the close of a day's hunting, share "Mrs. Darcy's" simple dinner....
The motor stopped, and the man and woman, who had been clasped in each other's arms, drew quickly apart.
"We have to get out here," muttered Treville, "for there is no carriage-way down to The Folly. I'll carry your bag." woman he had ever loved; and even now, in this hour of unexpected, craved-for joy, he was asking himself if even his great love gave him the right to make her run what seemed an exceedingly slight risk of detection and consequent disgrace.
Each felt a sense of foreboding, though Laura's reason told her that her terrors were vain, and that it was conscience alone that made her feel afraid. Every possible danger had been countered by her companion. Her pride, her delicacy, her sense of shame—was it false shame?—had been studied by him with a selfless devotion which had deeply moved her. Thus he was leaving her to spend a lonely evening, tended by the old Frenchwoman, who, together with her husband, waited on The Folly's infrequent occupants.
The now aged couple in their hot youth had been on the losing side in the Paris Commune of 1871. They had been saved from imprisonment, possibly worse, by Julian Treville's grandmother, a lawless, high-minded Scotchwoman who called herself a Liberal. She had brought them to England, and for fifty odd years they had lived in a cottage a quarter of a mile from The Folly. There was small reason, as Treville could have argued with perfect truth, to be afraid of this old pair. But Laura did feel afraid, and so it had been arranged between the lovers that only tomorrow, after she had spent at The Folly a solitary night and day, would he, at the close of a day's hunting, share "Mrs. Darcy's" simple dinner....
The motor stopped, and the man and woman, who had been clasped in each other's arms, drew quickly apart.
"We have to get out here," muttered Treville, "for there is no carriage-way down to The Folly. I'll carry your bag."
Keeping up the sorry comedy she paid off and dismissed the chauffeur.
In the now fading daylight Laura saw that to her left the ground sloped steeply down to the shores of a lake whose now grey waters narrowed to a point beyond which there stood a low, pillared building. It was more like an eighteenth-century orangery than a house meant for human habitation. Eerily beautiful, and yet exceedingly desolate, to Laura The Folly appeared unreal— a fairy dwelling in that Kingdom of Romance whither her feet had never strayed, rather than a place where men and women had joyed and sorrowed, lived and died.
"If only I could feel that you will never regret that you came here," Treville whispered.
She answered quickly, "I shall always be glad, not sorry, Julian."
He took her hand and raised it to his lips. Then he said: "Old Celestine will have it that The Folly is haunted by
La Belle Julie. You're not afraid of ghosts, my dearest?"
Laura smiled a little wanly in the twilight. "Far more afraid of flesh and blood than ghosts," she murmured. "Where do Celestine and her husband live, Julian?"
"We can't see their cottage from here; but it's quite close by." His voice sank: "I've told them that you're not afraid of being in the house alone at night."
They went down a winding footpath, she clinging to him for very joy in his nearness, till they reached the stone-paved space which lay between the shore of the lake and the low grey building. And then, suddenly, while they were walking towards the high front door, Laura gave a stifled cry, for a gnome-like figure had sprung, as if from nowhere, across their path.
"Here's old Jacques," exclaimed Treville vexedly. "He always shows an excess of zeal!"
The little Frenchman was gesticulating and talking eagerly, explaining that fires had been burning all day in the three rooms which were to be occupied by the visitor. He further told, at unnerving length, that Celestine would be at The Folly herself very shortly to instal "Madame."
When the old chap had shuffled off, Julian Treville put a key in the lock of the heavy old door; taking Laura's slight figure up into his strong arms, he lifted her over the threshold straight into an enchanting living-room where nothing had been altered for over a hundred years.
She gave a cry of delight. "What a delicious place, Julian! I never thought it would be like this-"
A long fire threw up high flames in the deep fireplace, and a lighted lamp stood on a round, gilt-rimmed, marble table close to a low and roomy, if rather stiff, square arm-chair. The few pieces of fine Empire furniture were covered with faded yellow satin which had been brought from Paris when Napoleon was ironing out the frontiers of Europe, for the Treville of that day had furnished The Folly to please the Frenchwoman he loved. The walls of the room were hung with turquoise silk. There was a carved-wood gilt mirror over the mantelpiece, and on the right-hand wall there hung an oval pastel of La Belle Julie.