With an exclamation which was almost a cry she forced her eyes away from his, and with a sudden unexpected movement pushed her way past him and into the lighted Concert Room. She was so quick that the Rajah, reaching out to stop her, was too late. She was free, and before he could do anything was running as quickly as she could down the corridor and through the door which led to the Ladies’ Cloakroom.
There was another passage between the outer and inner doors of the Cloakroom, and as Mistral reached the second door, still running blindly and with a terror which lent wings to her feet, she collided with another woman who was coming out.
‘Lor – I’m sorry!’ the woman exclaimed in English.
Mistral looked up to see that it was the pretty, fair haired woman whom she had often noticed in company with the Rajah. For a moment she could only stare at Stella, her breath coming unevenly from between her parted lips, then she realised that in the collision the tulle which trimmed the bodice of her grey satin dress had become entangled in one of the jewelled butterflies with which Stella’s dress was ornamented. They were joined together, and after a second’s stupefaction from the force of the impact Mistral reached up to try to disengage the butterfly.
‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘It was my fault for entering so quickly.’
‘That’s all right,’ Stella replied. ‘You did seem to be in a bit of a hustle. Thought you must be off to catch a train or something.’
Mistral tried to smile.
‘No, it was not a train which made me run.’
Stella looked at her.
‘You’re awfully pale,’ she said sympathetically. ‘Something must have upset you. Never mind about that stupid butterfly, give it a good tug. Let me try.’
‘No, pray do not move,’ Mistral begged.
With skilful fingers she disentangled the tulle from the tiny metal claws framing each of the colourful pieces of glass of which the butterfly was constructed.
‘Thanks,’ Stella said when she was free.
‘Unfortunately the butterfly is hanging by only a thread,’ Mistral replied.
‘I expect the attendant can mend it,’ Stella remarked, but she did not move, and Mistral realised that she was waiting for her to lead the way. With a shy little smile she went into the Cloakroom and handed Aunt Emilie’s cloak to the woman in charge. Then she turned to see Stella had come in behind her and was looking down at her sleeve.
Her dress was astonishing now that Mistral could see it in the gaslight. Of bright green satin, it was covered all over with butterflies embroidered with tiny jewels. They glittered and sparkled as she walked so that while in some ways it was pretty and attractive it was also incredibly gaudy.
Her hair, too, dressed in a profusion of curls, was ornamented with a wreath of butterflies, while her cheeks were vivid with rouge and her lips as crimson as the bouquet she carried of tiny roses. But Mistral saw, too, the friendliness of her wide smile, the pleasant gentleness of the expression in her blue eyes.
Stella looked at her reflection in the mirror then put up her hand and gave the butterfly a little pull. The last thread broke and it came away in her hands.
‘There, it’s come right off,’ she exclaimed.
‘It must be sewn on again,’ Mistral said, ‘because I am afraid the satin is torn a little underneath. I do apologise most sincerely for my clumsiness.’
‘You needn’t do that,’ Stella smiled. ‘It doesn’t matter to me, I promise you. To tell the truth I don’t like this dress much, but it was so expensive that Chrissie – I mean my sister – thought I’d better have it.’
It seemed to Mistral such an extraordinary reason for buying a dress that she could think of nothing to say. After a moment Stella remarked in a low voice,
‘You ought to be going, you know, you mustn’t stay here talking to me.’
For a moment Mistral did not understand, and then slowly in sheer embarrassment the blood came into her cheeks. She had not thought of the pretty woman who was always with the Rajah as being a bad woman, but now she understood what Stella was trying to explain to her. Even as she understood, she knew, too, that this English girl could not speak French.
One of the reasons why she had not asked the woman to sew on the butterfly was because she had no idea how to give the order.
Mistral’s smile was very sweet.
‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but first of all I must repair the damage that I have done to your gown. Will you allow me to ask the cloakroom attendant to mend it?’
Stella looked relieved.
‘I’d be glad if you would,’ she said. ‘I can’t speak their jargon. I have enough trouble getting my cloak every night.’ Mistral turned to the attendant.’
‘Please bring a needle and thread,’ she said in French. ‘Mademoiselle has damaged her dress and needs it repaired.’
‘Certainement, Mademoiselle, je viens tout de suite,’ the woman replied.
‘That’s awfully kind of you,’ Stella said.
‘It is very little to do after half ruining your gown,’ Mistral replied.
The attendant crossed the floor with a needle and thread. Stella paid little attention to her. She was looking at Mistral and it seemed from the expression on her face that she was struggling in her mind whether she should say something or not. At length the words almost burst from her.
‘Look here, let me give you a tip,’ she said. If anyone wants to buy those pearls of yours, you say no.’
Mistral stared at Stella in astonishment, then it came to mind that it must be for her that the Rajah wished to purchase the pearls.
‘They are not for sale,’ she said quietly, ‘for they belonged to my mother.’
‘I thought it would be something like that when I was looking at you just now,’ Stella said, ‘but just remember what I’ve said. If anyone asks you to part with them – tell them there’s nothing doing.’
‘Thank you for the advice,’ Mistral said slowly. ‘It was very kind of you to give it to me.’
‘Kind?’ Stella made the word a question, then she laughed. ‘It is kind of you to be talking here to the likes of me. If anyone sees us, you’ll get into trouble, you know.’
‘People often have very silly ideas,’ Mistral said, ‘I can see nothing wrong in my talking to you.’
The way she spoke was gentle and friendly and so was the smile on her lips. Stella gave a little sigh.
‘Lots of people would be only too ready to tell you how wrong it is,’ she said. ‘That’s the trouble with this world, you’re never certain if what you’re doing is right or wrong – at least I’m not.’
‘You sound as if you were troubled about something,’ Mistral replied, instinctively sympathetic.
‘It’s funny you should say that,’ Stella exclaimed, ‘and it’s just about the truth, for I am. Funnily enough, what’s troubling me is a real mixture of right and wrong.’
‘Perhaps someone could help you,’ Mistral said. ‘When I have been in doubt over things that really matter, I have always found it comforting to go to someone who knows the answers.’
She did not like to suggest outright that a Priest would solve the problem. She was on the verge of doing so when she remembered that the majority of people in England were not Catholics.
Stella seemed to be cogitating over her words. The woman had finished sewing on the glittering butterfly and with a muttered word of thanks Stella gave her a franc.
‘Merci, Mademoiselle, merci,’ the woman said, returning to her chair by the cloaks.
Mistral knew she should go back to Aunt Emilie. It would be difficult to explain why she should have taken so long to do a simple errand, yet something made her stay. She felt instinctively that Stella wanted to confide in her.
Her expression was worried, her eyes with their heavily mascara-ed eyelashes were almost piteous in their appeal for help. Mistral knew that she must stay a little longer whatever the personal consequences. At last it seemed that Stella had made up her mind to speak.
‘Look here,’ she said, ‘there’s something about you which makes me feel that you could solve my problem for me. It’s this. Supposing you had the chance of giving up something that was wrong and doing something that was right, but in doing it you would hurt someone very much. Really hurt them, I mean – someone you were fond of and who was fond of you. Would you think that right or wrong?’
Mistral drew a deep breath. Somehow she knew that events of the greatest importance hung on her reply.
‘That is not really a difficult question,’ she said in her clear, sweet voice. ‘To give up something that is wrong is always the right thing to do, however hard it may seem, however many difficulties there may be in the way. One must always try not to hurt other people. One must always give them the greatest possible consideration and kindness, but there is something more important than their feelings, however dear they are to us. In doing what is right we are doing the will of God, and that comes first. We must do what is right, however great the cost to ourselves or – to other people.’
Stella threw back her head and it seemed to Mistral as if she threw a great burden from off her shoulders, then she said quietly,
‘Thank you! I knew you could help me – you are good!’
9
Violet Featherstone moved restlessly about her sitting room. It was a very attractive room with windows opening out onto a balcony from which there was a magnificent view of the sea.
Wisteria hung over the balustrade in long purple tendrils, and from two ancient stone urns, which Violet had discovered broken and forgotten in some peasant’s garden, pink geraniums cascaded in luxuriant profusion.
The Villa was furnished with period pieces brought from England and there was none of the gaudy, ornate pomp which so many residents in the South of France thought desirable. Violet had always loved beautiful things. She had an inborn instinct for what was good, and Eric’s considerable fortune had enabled her to indulge her taste.
But today Violet had no eyes for her own possessions. She moved from the Sheraton bureau to the Knole settee, from an Adam console table to the window and back again without seeing any of them. She was thinking of one person and one person only – Robert Stanford! It was the middle of the afternoon and still he had not called on her. She guessed that in all likelihood he was out riding and alone, nevertheless it was a departure from their usual routine and with a sudden fear she began to recollect the times recently when Robert had seemed less eager for her company and to add them up to a formidable total.
When he had first come to Monte Carlo but a few days after her own arrival, it had seemed that he could never see too much of her and that the days were too short for all the things they had to say to each other. But slowly, so that she had not realised it until now, he had changed. She could not explain even to herself how it had happened. It had been so gradual, and intent on hiding the depth of her own feelings from him, she had not noticed the change in his.
Now, twisting her hands together as she walked up and down on the valuable Persian rugs with which the room was carpeted, Violet knew there was a barrier between them, a barrier of reserve and unspoken secrets.
What was it and how had it come to be erected? She could not answer the question even to herself. She only knew that Robert was different, Robert, whose tempestuous, exciting love making had swept her off her feet, was now quieter, his impetuosity gone.
Why had she been so blind?
She should have been alert, perceptive enough to notice the very first severance in the links which bound them together. She should have been on her guard, knowing that her power over him was never as strong as she would have herself believe.
She caught a sudden glimpse of her own reflection in an ancient gold-framed mirror which hung on one wall. She looked old, with a frown between her eyes, her lips drooping. She threw back her head defiantly – this was no way to captivate a man or to keep him enraptured. But her eyes were still frightened and uneasy.
Always, all through her grown up life since she had discovered her power over men, Violet had been the one to tire first. Men had found her irresistible. It was she who exhausted their talents and their charm to the point where each became just another familiar face and one which inevitably began to bore her. Never had she had to fight and scheme to keep a man in love when once his heart had been laid at her feet. It had all been so easy. She had merely to smile and he was enraptured, she had merely to beckon and he followed her eagerly – too eagerly at times to make the effort worthwhile.
But Robert Stanford was different. She had known that from the first moment when they were introduced at a ball. He asked her for a dance, then said quietly,
‘Why have we not met before?’
She looked up into his face and knew only too well what he was feeling, with a tumult of excitement the quiet, conventional question covered. She, too, was wondering how life had continued for so long without him, how anything could have seemed amusing or gay when he was not there. She had known then, as the music started and he held out his arms, that she was surrendering herself to far more than an invitation to a waltz.
And she had determined that night, when they had danced tirelessly until the dawn, that she would marry him.
She had not thought of anything save her own desire for Robert and of his for her. She had not known at first how rich and important he was. She had known nothing of his family, of the famous house that he owned or of his vast circle of friends.
She had heard of Cheveron, of course, for it was as much a part of England as Windsor Castle, but she had not realised or else had forgotten to whom it belonged, and she had not for a moment visualised what an important part it was to play in her life.
Often when she and Robert were together and she was striving to bewitch him and make him utterly and completely her captive, she had thought it was only Cheveron which stood between her and her goal. Robert talked of his home so often that she knew full well that it was not only the background of his life but a very part of it. It was Cheveron which fought her, Cheveron which stood for all the things she could never give him – respectability, local prestige, the respect of his own class, the admiration of his employees, and more than that, much more than that – children.
She had known almost from the first that the task she had set herself would not be an easy one, but Violet had always had courage, the type of moral courage which laughs at chattering tongues and the narrow, confining codes of social convention. But it was only as she grew to know Robert better that she realised how deeply rooted he stood in his traditional environment. She had rebelled against the smug pomposity that was an inescapable part of her father’s ducal home in Lincolnshire. But Robert had no wish to rebel or to escape from anything that was Cheveron.
It all came back to her so vividly, for she had been born and bred in just that very same atmosphere which she knew existed at Cheveron. There were the tenants who had served the Great House generation after generation, the employees who for centuries had relied on the same family for their livelihood, their jobs passing from father to son as part of their natural heritage. There was the Church built in the Park, its Living in the gift of the Lord of the Manor, its huge carved pew set apart for him.
There was the Home Farm from which employees in the Estate obtained free milk, the gardens which meant free vegetables to the same number of families, the laundry where many of the girls first started their domestic service, the stables, the carpenters’ shops, the Estate Office – all creating a world within a world, a state within a state, with one interest, one ambition – service to the Great House.
Little things, trivial things, but all meaning so much when they were added together. The Great House was an institution, too, for many others. For the neighbours who would drive over for dinner parties, come to tea on Sundays and attend the big annual garden party when all the County would be invited. They had almost a language of their own, too, in their knowledge of local gossip and local cust
oms. The conversation was invariably the same, Violet used to think.
There would be trouble between the M.F.H. and a farmer who was incensed because the foxes had eaten some of his hens, there would be arguments about the shooting prospects and the right way to rear pheasants, gloomy predictions about the crops, optimistic hopes of a new hunter or a litter of puppies, and a general agreement that the country as a whole was ‘going to the dogs’.
How well Violet knew it all! How much she had hated that life, and how glad she had been to escape from it! Yet Robert loved it. She knew he did from the warmth of his tone when he spoke of his home. She could hear the added depth in his voice, see the affection in his eyes.
Yes, Cheveron was her rival and it was perhaps a more dangerous one than any woman could have been. Cheveron demanded of Robert his whole future. Could she be strong enough to hold him? Until this moment Violet had never doubted her power or her ultimate triumph. Now she was not sure.
Three o’clock and still Robert had not come! What could have kept him? She thought of the mornings when he had called her from the garden before she was properly awake. She found it difficult to get up early. She was usually tired after their late nights and she liked to sleep until nearly luncheon time. Robert had teased her for being a ‘lazy bones.’ and in her complete confidence in herself she had not been afraid that he would think that her sloth was due to her years.
That was the truth, of course, for as she grew older she did find things more tiring. At Robert’s age she had been able to dance all night and be riding in the Row at ten o’clock, but now she could hardly bear the sunlight on her face before midday. Why should he know that? She had made every effort to do exactly what he wished, always remembering to tease him a little by her unexpectedness, by an elusiveness which would promise a thing one moment and refuse it the next.
Invariably they had lunched together, although it had never been spoken of as a definite rule, for Violet was too clever to allow anything between them to degenerate into a monotonous custom. As luncheon time approached Robert would say,
An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition Page 70