Gates of Dawn

by Susan Barrie

  “No.” he agreed, speaking very slowly, and warning her at the same time to be careful of the crumbling brickwork of the steps. “And I suppose that makes a difference. Possession is something which sends a kind of comforting glow to the heart.”

  “My possessions at the moment are not great,” she told him simply. “The whole lot could be crammed into a suitcase with the utmost ease.”

  “Is that so?” he murmured, after a moment of silence. “Well, that, at least, is something to be thankful for, for you are never likely to find yourself encumbered, and you can move about from place to place with the maximum of convenience. At one time I used to think that to be free and unencumbered was all that I demanded of life, but nowadays I’m not so sure!”

  Melanie’s heart gave a kind of queer jolt inside her. She, apparently, was to welcome the thought of her mobility—perhaps she was going to be called on to move on from here very soon!—but he was beginning to take pleasure in the thought of sending out roots!

  “I’m not so sure,” he repeated, watching a tiny merlin falcon hovering in the air above them, its yellowish underparts and barred black wings noticeable against the soft blue of the sky. “I think it’s rather a better idea to know exactly what one wants out of life, and to go after it and secure it—like that hawk above us, who’s just about to pounce on some unoffending fieldmouse or baby rabbit and transfer it to its own inside, or possibly the inside of one of its youngsters!”

  Melanie looked upwards automatically, and blinked in the warm sun’s rays.

  “Poor fieldmouse;” she murmured suddenly, with feeling. “It’s simply fulfilling a function so far as the hawk is concerned, and when it’s no longer in existence the hawk will pounce on another which happens to catch his eye, and that, too, will be abruptly exterminated.”

  She was thinking of herself as the first unfortunate creature, but there was no question of Sylvia Gaythorpe being passed over for another! And to do him justice he had never treated her as anything but an employee—save when he looked at her occasionally in a way which caused her heart to miss a beat, and she wondered whether he could read aright the confusion in her eyes. But possibly she was more clever at masking her feelings than she realized.

  They were out on the white moorland road now, and he continued to propel her gently forward, with his hand underneath her elbow. They deserted the road for the crisp brown of the dead heather, and he paused to watch the light dancing in the trickling stream, and to study their reflections in an open pool. There were some boulders near at hand and he sank down on one, inviting her to do the same. He passed her his cigarette-case, and when both their cigarettes were alight he said, with a change of tone, “I want to discuss Noel.”

  Melanie became all at once acutely interested, and vaguely apprehensive.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “The doctors have decided that she must be sent away. They suggest Switzerland.”

  “Oh!” said Melanie, and felt the color begin to ebb from her cheeks.

  He glanced at her rather keenly.

  “Oh, it’s nothing precisely to worry about. That is to say she can be cured. She had a spot on one lung which must be dealt with, and this bleak northern air, which I imagined might have helped to set her up, is apparently no place in which to begin to deal with it. The London fellow suggested a sanatorium, and then he changed his mind and said that that might not be necessary so long as she was in the right atmosphere. And Crofts agreed with him. They both think Noel is a rather hyper-sensitive type who might not do too well in a sanatorium.”

  “I see,” Melanie murmured slowly. “Then what do they suggest?”

  “That she be sent away with someone who can keep an eye on her—someone she knows. I suggested you, of course. Would you be willing?”

  Melanie did not answer him immediately. Oddly enough, although she had been greatly relieved to hear that the specialist’s opinion of Noel’s health was not as grave as she had sometimes feared it might be—although, certainly, it was grave enough—it was not with Noel that her thoughts stayed in those moments while her employer’s eyes were on her, watching her contemplatively above the glowing end of his cigarette. It was purely her own reactions to the idea of being sent away yet again from a spot to which she had temporarily attached herself, and which, in the case of the Wold House, was more than a temporary attachment, which occupied her mind to the exclusion of everything else. So this was it, she thought! This was the explanation of that strange, rather wistful feeling she had had while she waited for him on the terrace, and her thoughts went winging ahead to the warmer days just round the corner when the bluebells would carpet the floor of the woods, and the apple blossom foam in the orchard! She was not to see it all, after all! She was to be sent away!

  “Well?” he inquired, as he watched her, and the smoke from his cigarette crept upwards and acted as a screen between her and his thickly lashed eyes.

  She said slowly, at last, “Of course—if you think I can be depended upon to take adequate care of her? That is to say, the right kind of care of her?”

  He knew by that what she was thinking, and a tiny smile curved his lips.

  “And not coddle her, you mean? It was rather a stupid thing to accuse you of, wasn’t it, and I apologize to you here and now. You have so much more sense in that grave little head of yours than most people would give you credit for that I ought to have known you were following the right course.”

  “It’s the only course with anyone as delicate as Noel,” Melanie said. “Later on, when she’s stronger, will be the time to toughen her.”

  “Quite,” he agreed. “And having admitted as much, will you now agree quite definitely to go with Noel to Austria? Because we ought not to waste any time—”

  “Austria?” she said quickly, interrupting him. “But I thought you said Switzerland?”

  “So I did, but I happen to have a chalet in a part of Austria where the air and the benefits will be just as great as Switzerland. In fact, it’s very close to a winter sports centre, and one of the most beautiful spots in the world. I’ve spent many months there in the spring—and right on through the summer sometimes—working as I’ve never worked anywhere in this country. Possibly it’s the altitude, and the flowers—and once you’ve seen them, spreading like a wave through the valleys as soon as the snows go, you’ll forget all about these poor little anaemic blossoms over here!—or the sense of remoteness and exquisite peace, I don’t know, but whatever it is it’s entirely unique, that’s why I keep on the chalet.”

  “It sounds nice,” she said, because she felt that that was what was expected of her.

  “It’s more than nice,” he assured her “Not that the chalet is luxurious, but you’ll find it sufficiently comfortable. And there’s an excellent woman called Trudi who acts as caretaker there, and her brother lives down in the valley and goes up and helps her in the daytime. You won’t have much company, but you’ll be well looked after, and I envy you the chance to get away there now.”

  “Then why don’t you come with us?” her heart cried, but she realized that although he had left Sylvia for a few weeks to remain up here in the north he could never go as far away from her as Austria, even if it was as wonderful as he described it.

  An elegant car came along the road, driven sedately by a sedate woman driver, and Mrs. Duplessis pulled up and looked at them smilingly.

  “Hello!” she called. “You two look quite matey sitting there in the sunshine!”

  Richard stood up. He thought that his sister’s eyes had a new, meaning look which he disliked, and he said coldly, “Miss Brooks and I were just discussing Noel.”

  “Oh, yes?” she inquired. “How is she?”

  “I’m sending her abroad on the advice of the doctor.”

  “Which doctor? Crofts? And where do you mean by ‘abroad’?”

  “Zindenbourg, to the chalet. And Miss Brooks is going with her.”

  Mrs. Duplessis elevated her finely plucked eyebr
ows and looked somewhat quizzically at Melanie.

  “Poor Melanie! On the move again! But it’ll be slightly more cheerful than the Wold House. You’ll be able to learn to ski, and there’s quite a jolly little hotel near the chalet where they have frequent dances.”

  Richard’s voice sounded colder than ever as he disposed of these possible advantages.

  “You’re talking about the season, my dear—Noel and Melanie are going out of season, and for Noel’s health.”

  “Oh, of course.” But his sister regarded him still with that somewhat annoying smile and a look which conveyed the impression that she felt she was in possession of a secret, and for some reason it amused her. “However, don’t forget Melanie is not yet in her dotage, and a little relaxation now and then is good for us all. Don’t let him turn you into a kind of nurse-companion, Melanie, my dear—have a little fun whenever the opportunity comes your way! Remember your youth and what is due to it!” She started up her car. “Au revoir, my children—I must be on my way!”

  “I sometimes take a dim view of my sister’s intelligence,” Richard remarked, a strange, black, almost angry look on his face when she had gone. “She doesn’t seem to realize that Noel is really ill.”

  Melanie did not answer. Even to her his sudden intense concern for his niece seemed a little unlike him.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  AFTER that it seemed to Melanie that no time at all elapsed before she had said what she felt might well be a final farewell to the Wold House, and they were on their way to Zindenbourg. They passed a couple of nights at Great-Aunt Amelia’s house in London before being seen off at the airport and Great-Aunt Amelia gave Melanie a belated Christmas present in the shape of a box of exquisite handkerchiefs of finest lawn and lace, and said something rather curious to her before they parted.

  “If ever you feel that you are not wanted, don’t hesitate to come to me, child! There will always be a room for you here.”

  Melanie thanked her but looked at her in a faintly puzzled way.

  Aunt Amelia gently touched her cheek. “You and I,” she said, “are cast in very much the same sort of mould, only years and experience have rendered me more capable of dealing with the rougher side of life. I have become hardened, whereas you are still vulnerable. Therefore remember what I say and don’t hesitate to come here.”

  Melanie thanked her again, and assured her she would not but she could not visualize a situation which would cause her to seek sanctuary with Richard’s great-aunt, despite the admiration she had for the old lady. Which proved her to be a little short-sighted at that stage of her existence.

  She and Noel were seen off at the airport by Richard, accompanied by Sylvia Gaythorpe, who wore a dove-grey suit and a sable stole, with a little cap of white feathers on the back of her flaming locks. Sylvia was obviously in one of her gayest and most carefree moods, and she actually waved in quite a friendly fashion to Melanie as the plane started to taxi across the tarmac; then she slipped her hand confidingly inside Richard’s arm and clung to him possessively. He waved, too, although his face was rather grave, and he did not seem to be either particularly aware of, or appreciative of, his close contact with such a charming and popular young actress.

  Melanie’s last glimpse of them was accompanied by the thought that they looked well together, both slightly above average height, and both well-dressed and poised and elegant. It was really only the most natural thing in the world that they should find themselves irresistibly drawn to one another.

  Noel, despite her fragile looks, stood the journey well, and after one night in an hotel they went on to Zindenbourg by car. It was evening when they arrived at the chalet, and such a lovely evening that Melanie thought that of all the things that had ever happened to her this was the most unsullied and perfect. It was even a little unreal, like something happening to her in a peculiarly pleasant dream, glowing and golden and as fragile as the fabric of which dreams are made.

  The sky against which the snow-capped mountains rose in solemn grandeur, rose-flushed and lemon-lighted, had a quality of beauty which was breathtaking, and the deep green of woods which had only just shaken off their winter covering of white looked almost black by contrast with that palpitating riot of color. And down in the valleys where the snows had disappeared even earlier the floor was carpeted with wildflowers which would creep higher up the mountains as the spring days grew steadily warmer and more balmy, and the music of cow-bells was borne upwards on the evening breeze.

  The car in which they travelled zig-zagged in and out of pine woods and up stretches of precipitous road which took them higher, and yet higher, and presently wound through a village with a fairy-tale charm. Finally they came to rest before the open door of a house wherein the pleasing glow of firelight and lamplight was a welcome in itself, and when added to the almost overpowering welcome of an enormous and very stout woman with the most amiable, round, beaming face in the world, wearing a snowy apron and a kind of starched cap, who came hastening clown the steps to greet them, it was heartening in the extreme after their somewhat tiring day.

  The woman was undoubtedly Trudi, and she took one look at the fragile Noel, lying back limply in her corner of the car, and decided that the best way to get her into the house was to carry her. And in her powerful yet gentle arms Noel was borne upwards to the room which had been prepared for her, while Melanie followed, taking in a few interesting features on the way, such as the kind of wooden gallery along which they travelled to reach the bedrooms, the antlered stags’ heads on the walls, and the shining pitch of perfection which the polished floors had reached.

  Noel’s bedroom looked simply furnished but comfortable, and there was an enormous eiderdown on the bed and great fat feather pillows. Noel, undressed and whipped into bed in scarcely any time at all, sank back with obvious thankfulness against the sensuous softness of those feather pillows as soon as Trudi had smoothed the sheet over her, and managed a smile for the first time that day.

  “The little one looks better already!” Trudi observed, with satisfaction, stepping back to look at her. “And now she will have a bowl of the good broth I have prepared for her, and then she will sleep until the morning! Ach! Gut! Is it not so?”

  With the happy, comfortable smile on her face she led Melanie into her room, which adjoined Noel’s—the two girls sharing a very pleasant balcony—and then went downstairs to get on with the supper. But not before she had inquired after the “Herr Trenchard” and seemed a little disappointed that he was not likely to follow his niece and her companion out to enjoy the beauties of the Austrian spring.

  “The Herr Trenchard he love Austria, and the spring he love more than any other season. But always he is so busy”—she went through the motions of tapping a typewriter—“and of his books there are so many, and always yet another!”

  Her fat shoulders and hands were lifted as if it was a matter for utter wonder.

  Melanie had her evening meal served to her in a room that would have charmed her had she been even more tired than she was, and she was tired enough to have no desire to eat. But Trudi tempted her with her truly exquisite broth, and a feathery light omelette followed by coffee served with whipped cream which had some connection with ambrosia, and Melanie had to congratulate her on her culinary genius. Yet again Trudi shrugged her shoulders, spread her hands and looked pleased, and then piled more logs on the great glowing fire already burning on the wide hearth, and drew forward one of the room’s most comfortable chairs for the girl. She set a lamp at her elbow and the tray of coffee on a little table conveniently near to her hand, cigarettes also, which she produced from a small corner cupboard, and which were the Turkish and Virginian favored by Richard Trenchard. As she slowly lighted one and inhaled the fragrant aroma of it Melanie was transported, temporarily, back to the Wold House—and she could almost have imagined that Richard Trenchard himself was sitting opposite to her in the deep chair with the velvet-covered cushions.

  But Richard was many,
many miles away, in London, with Sylvia Gaythorpe! He was probably dining with her tonight, and they would do a show afterwards!

  Melanie lay back in her chair. She felt relaxed yet lonely. Richard’s own choice selection of pictures hung on the walls surrounding her, his luxurious skin rug was before the fire, his cocktail cabinet in a corner—for the room was a mixture of dining-room and lounge—the one or two rare ornaments he obviously had chosen, and which he no doubt prized, were there to be admired. His books were on the shelves—including one or two of his own plays—and yet she and Richard; the man who was her employer, were actually aeons apart.

  The reflection caused her face to look grave, even faintly wistful, as she sat there in the fireglow. And when a man appeared suddenly in the doorway, and stood quietly looking towards her, she looked up and the shadowy wistfulness was plainly to be seen in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry if I startled you,” he said. He spoke in perfect English, but with the faintest trace of an accent. He was tall, and almost as dark as Richard—save that in daylight his hair was probably brown, and inclined to curl a little—and his face was brown and strong, with a good jaw and level expressionless eyes as deep and dark as her own. “I ought really to have knocked, or allowed the good Trudi to announce me.”

  She seemed about to start up from her chair, but he moved forward at once and half held out a hand to prevent her.

  “Do not disturb yourself, Fraulein! It is quite obvious you are tired, and I am here only to assure myself of your safe arrival. My name is Muller—Kurt Muller. I am in charge of the Clinic at Zindenbourg, and your Dr. Crofts, in England, with whom I am well acquainted, has contacted me to keep an eye on your young charge.”

  “Oh—oh, yes, of course!” Melanie offered him her hand, and he took it and bowed over it gravely. “How nice of you to take the trouble to seek us out so soon, Dr. Muller. But Noel is in bed—”