by Susan Barrie
But Trudi did not even know where she was! No one knew where she was!
And Richard was leaving for England the following morning! Tonight Richard would be occupied in dining and perhaps dancing with Sylvia, and no thought of her would ever enter their heads—certainly not Sylvia’s! If Richard thought of her at all he would imagine her quietly spending her evening at the chalet, and that was what she would be doing but for her own foolishness.
But her mind kept returning to Trudi...
Trudi would become thoroughly worried when she didn’t return, and it was quite dark. Trudi would have to telephone the hotel...
And what would Richard do or say? He would probably be cross at being interrupted, and in any case he would not know where to look for her, and Sylvia would assure him that it would be hopeless even to begin to look for her at that time of night. They would have to wait till morning. She would have to sit here freezing until the morning, enduring the burning anguish in her foot, which only abated when she remained absolutely still....
In order to prevent herself from dwelling on all the frightening possibilities of her plight she began to think about the plans she had made for her own future if Noel was discharged from the clinic as one hundred per cent fit. She would certainly not remain on here at Zindenbourg, or in the employ of Richard Trenchard. She wanted to put as many miles as she could between him and herself at the earliest possible moment, and to that end she would return to London ... Great-Aunt Amelia had issued her an invitation, and she would go there, if only for one night, until she knew what to do ... Great-Aunt Amelia might advise something. ... She didn’t think she could ever bear to return to Murchester and the employ of Eve Duplessis. Contact with Eve would in time mean inevitable contact with Richard, and by that time Richard would be married, and—
It was by now quite dark on the mountain, and her teeth were chattering with cold. She became frightened by the silence and the immensity of loneliness on all sides of her, and she felt sick with a mixture of pain and loneliness and unhappiness, and weariness and uncertainty...
She started to crawl forward again down the path, bruising her knees cruelly on the sharp flinty ground, and lacerating her hands. Her ankle throbbed so that its throbbing seemed to fill the world, and her strength seemed to ebb—
She bit her lip to stop herself from fainting, and then all at once the ground seemed to give way beneath her, and she rolled so perilously near the edge of a steep ravine that another few inches or so would have meant the end of more than her worries. She lay dazedly staring up into the star-pricked sky and wondering whether it was only in her imagination that light seemed to bob around her, and a voice called her name and sounded sharp with anxiety.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
RICHARD TRENCHARD was having dinner with Sylvia Gaythorpe in the dining-room of Zindenbourg’s one little hotel when the telephone call came through for him from Trudi. His evening had already been a little spoiled by a certain petulance in the film star’s manner, for she was beginning to wonder how and by what means, short of actually proposing to him herself and insisting on an announcement of their engagement, she could induce Richard to abandon his role of friendly admirer and suggest a relationship which for quite a number of reasons appealed to her much more strongly.
But Richard, during the last few days, had seemed a little distrait ... He gave her the impression that he had something on his mind, and as he was not at the moment engaged in actual writing she did not believe it had any connection with his work. He was inclined, too, to be rather bad-tempered—not that that was anything new, for Richard had often displayed symptoms of bad temper to her before, and she had made indulgent allowance for it simply because he was Richard—and perhaps also because he was Richard Trenchard, whose income increased year by year, and whose popularity amongst his admirers was in little danger of being on the wane.
Sylvia felt she had to make all due allowance for the artist in Richard, but she did think he might show a little enthusiasm for the new gown she was wearing, and which she had donned specially with the object of dazzling his eyes. It was of white organza, the bodice scattered like stardust with sequins, and her red hair was worn low on the neck and caught up in a kind of snood of black velvet. But for all the impression it apparently made on Richard she might have been dressed in sackcloth and ashes.
She had succeeded in getting him to agree to return to London the following morning, but, so far, that was all she had succeeded in doing. However—
And then he was called away to the telephone, and when he returned he seemed to have undergone such a complete change of manner that she was a trifle confounded by it. He looked, for one thing, as if he had received something in the nature of a shock, and his face, for the first time since she had known him, was white and set. He spoke jerkily. “I’ll have to leave you, Sylvia. If I’m not back before it’s very late go to bed, and if I’m not back in time to leave with you in, the morning just get away yourself, and I’ll join you in London as soon as I can. And now I must—
“But why?” she demanded, trying to drag him back. “Richard! What is it—?”
“I have to go,” he repeated impatiently, and actually detached with some force her clinging fingers which sought to retain possession of his sleeve.
“But, Richard, I must know—”
And then he was gone, and to her horror she found that she was being gazed at with interest by all the other people in the dining-room. When she summoned a waiter to find out if she could find out where the telephone call had come from the waiter could not help her at all, and with a feeling of frustration she abandoned her dinner and retired to her room.
Really, Richard was growing impossible these days!...
Richard had not even stopped to change from his evening clothes into something more suitable, except that he had discarded his evening shoes for a pair of brogues. The only thing he had stopped to do after hearing from Trudi was telephone Dr. Muller at the clinic, and Dr. Muller had provided him with the one little bit of information which might prove valuable—the exact location of that mountain ledge from which Melanie and he had once watched the sunrise.
“Of course, she may not have gone there,” Dr. Muller added, “but it does seem likely, if she went off for the day. And she knew the way quite well. I’d join you myself at this moment if I hadn’t a patient requiring my attention, but if you’d like to go ahead I’ll follow after you as soon as I can. Take some brandy with you and an extra wrap. I—I expect she’s all right—”
But his heart failed him, and he thought, “It would happen like this!—That I can’t get away immediately to go to her. And that fellow, who means so much to her, and has everything else to make life worth living—he gets the first chance!...”
And bitterly he replaced the receiver.
But Richard was not feeling in the least as if any favor had been accorded him as he got his car out of the garage and tore off to where he was to begin climbing on foot. His fears were so great that they seemed to weigh him down like lead, and somehow he could not even hope that he was on the right track. And if Melanie was on the mountain—something—some accident must have happened to her...
He seemed to see her lying white and still under those cold, unfriendly stars in some inaccessible spot where neither he nor any other man could get to her, and the anguish that this thought brought to its train was almost more than he could bear. He remembered how slight and fragile she was, despite her coating of summer tan and her love of exercise, and the appeal of her big brown eyes when she looked at him sometimes ... Why had he never realized before that that wistful appeal was nothing she was able to simulate, but a reflection of her heart and mind—all she was capable of offering!...
What a blind fool he had been!
Unaccustomed though he was to climbing, and in the dark that was pierced only by his torch, he went up that jagged ascent as if borne on wings, and when he judged that he must be within reasonable distance of the ledge h
e started to call her name. Harshly, frantically it echoed over the mountain, and came back to him like an empty piece of mockery.
And then as his torch bobbled this way and that, and he went on calling, he heard a faint thread of sound answering him back, and something moved ahead of him. Something—someone—was lying a little way off the path...
“Melanie!” he exclaimed, and shone the light of the torch full upon her. Her white, agonized face looked up at him. She seemed to whisper something, but whatever it was he did not catch the words. “Melanie!” and he went down on his knees and drew her very gently into his arms and cradled her up against him. “Oh, my darling!” he said, and his voice broke.
Melanie was quite sure that this was a stage at which she had become light-headed, for the feel of Richard Trenchard’s coat beneath her cheek could not have any connection with reality, any more than the close, sustaining pressure of his arms was something that was actually happening to her. She was ice-cold, and he massaged her small hands that had come into such harsh contact with the mountain road, and he took off his dinner-jacket and wrapped it round her, because he had neglected to bring that extra wrap which Dr. Muller had warned him might be necessary.
“Is that better?” he asked, when the chattering of her teeth became a little less noticeable, and as she nodded her head he produced a flask of brandy from his pocket and insisted upon her taking a few sips. She did so obediently, and felt a little of the faintness and numbness passing from her, while a tiny warm glow replaced the chill hollow inside her. His quick eye caught sight of the ugly swelling about her ankle, and the bandage she had sought to improvise with her handkerchief. He touched the injury gently; she was unable to conceal a sharp wince, and suddenly fastened her hands about his arm.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “I—I sprained it. It must have been hours ago,” huskily.
“You poor sweet!” he murmured, and drew her to him once more, so that the warmth of his body was an additional sense of comfort, and his hand tenderly stroked her cold cheek.
For long minutes they sat there beside the rough road. His heart was too full of thankfulness because he had found her to permit him to say much to her just yet, and she was too grateful for his nearness and the sudden sense of security to have any desire to do anything but just lie there in his arms. She could feel his heart thudding under her cheek, and his mouth was resting against her hair, and his breath seemed to be coming a little unevenly.
“Thank Heaven,” he muttered suddenly, “that I found you!”
Melanie stirred a little in his arms, and he bent his head to look down at her.
“It is only your ankle that is hurting you, isn’t it?” he asked anxiously. “You’re not hurt anywhere else?”
“Oh, no,” she assured him, “I’m not hurt anywhere else. And I’m feeling much better now,” truthfully, and wondering whether she ought to make an effort to draw away from him. “It was really the loneliness and the darkness that upset me most, and the cold,” she added.
“But you’re warmer now? Melanie—beloved! You’ve stopped shivering.”
“And I’ve got your coat!” She tried determinedly to sit up and look at him, believing that that endearment had escaped him by accident. “You ought not to have given me your coat,” she protested.
“Oughtn’t I?” But he was not interested in his coat, and he was interested in the look in her eyes as she gazed up at him—large, sombre eyes with a gleam like starshine that lit them from within. Her mouth looked pinched, and drooped a little as a result of her experiences. He bent his head still closer and touched it with his own mouth, gently at first, and then more passionately until he could feel her respond because she simply had not the strength of will to do anything else, and a sensation of utter bliss swept through her as he crushed her back into his arms and his heart once more hammered against her.
She opened her eyes and looked up at him at last, and his face looked pale and his eyes almost black in the last faint light of the stars—for dawn was not so very far away now.
“My darling!” he murmured. “So it was true after all! You’re not really in love with Muller.”
“In love with—?” Her fingers were clinging, and she sounded amazed. “Did you think I was in love with Dr. Muller?”
“I did until yesterday afternoon, when I went to see Noel at the clinic,” he confessed. “But she told me something I found it difficult to believe. She told me you were unhappy... She told me you were unhappy, Melanie my beloved, because you were in love with me! And I couldn’t believe it...”
“Oh,” she sighed, leaning against him, and not caring now that he knew, “it’s perfectly true. I think I’ve loved you from the beginning...”
He took her chin in his hands and tilted it so that he could look into her eyes. “And I,” he said, “seem to have loved you from the beginning of time...”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“BUT Sylvia?” she asked suddenly, about half an hour later.
The stars had faded altogether now, and a rosy brightness was spreading in all directions above the peaks across the valley. Melanie leaned against her lover’s shoulder and blinked her eyes in the sudden, dazzling radiance after a night of moonless darkness, and excitement stirred in her as she realized that although she had never even hoped that such a thing could happen he and she were there together near the summit of the mountain to witness the miracle of the sunrise, just as she had witnessed it with Dr. Muller. The gates of dawn were already opening wide, and the light was on their faces, transforming them, and the mellow warmth was seeping into their tired, chilled bones and creating new life.
Richard had told her that Dr. Muller had promised to follow him as soon as he could, and that they might expect him at any moment to come climbing up from the valley. Melanie, it was plain, would have to be carried off the mountain, and although Richard would have liked nothing better than to carry her down himself, he realized that the attempt would involve risks which, for her sake, he must not think of taking. And now that she was warm and in his arms and no longer alone up there above the world, she did not greatly care when—if ever—Dr. Muller arrived. She knew that she would never be quite so happy again as in that breathtaking period of revelation and discovery after weeks of repressed unhappiness, and she knew that Richard was inclined to share her view.
Away from all contact with the earth they knew they were supremely happy and content, and there was no one to witness their happiness. They had it all to themselves.
But the thought of Sylvia was one of the first things that brought Melanie back to earth.
“But Sylvia?” she repeated. “Miss Gaythorpe?”
“Well, what about her?” Richard inquired, obviously puzzled.
“I thought that you were going to marry her,” she told him.
He drew his dark brows together and looked down at her.
“You did?”
She nodded, feeling a return of the acute unhappiness that had welled over her when she had been more or less certain that it was only a matter of time before they announced their engagement.
“I was quite certain you were going to marry her.”
He smiled with a touch of his old whimsicalness and smoothed the soft hair back from her brow.
“Then you shouldn’t have been certain of anything of the kind! Surely you never seriously believed that I would link my life with anyone as glamorous and as restless as Sylvia? She’s like a butterfly hovering from flower to flower, and I was merely one of the flowers. But she’s a good actress—”
“And she was perfectly serious about you, I know—she probably still is!” Melanie said, looking gravely up into his face. And then she remembered something. “Oh, Richard, what about the necklace?—the pearl necklace! Didn’t you mean to give it to her for Christmas?”
He put his fingers under her chin and lifted it, looking deep into her eyes.
“So that was why you were interested in the necklace? As a matter of fact, my swee
t, it was intended for you, but I thought if I gave it to you so soon after the beginning of our acquaintance you might be inclined to take offence, and so I gave you a cheque instead. Satisfied?”
She nodded, putting up a hand to gently touch his face. He caught it and kissed it lingeringly, and then kissed her soft cheek and her chin and throat and brow.
“It’s safely locked up and waiting for you in London,” he told her, “and will be yours as soon as we return to England.”
The thought of returning to England with him, and eventually to the Wold House, was enough to fill her cup of happiness to the brim.
“Forget all about Sylvia,” he advised her. “It’s you I’m going to marry, and I’m going to marry you immediately. No waiting for you to change your mind! You’ll find me a demanding lover, my darling adored one, and I’m going to fly you back to London just as soon as your ankle is well enough and marry you there. You can stay with Great-Aunt Amelia for a day or so—she’ll love to have you—and then we’ll go north to the Wold House. Just think of Mrs. Abbie’s expression when I present you to her as her mistress! She’ll probably fall on my neck and kiss me, she’ll be so pleased.”
Melanie’s expression was almost dreamy with happiness, and her eyes shone.
“But Noel?” she said suddenly, remembering her. “We can’t just abandon Noel.”
“Certainly we can’t, and we won’t—especially after what she has done for us!” regarding her meaningly. “But Noel will be all right with Dr. Muller for a week or so, and then we’ll fly back and see her settled in a good school— the kind that will make serious inroads on my bank-balance unless I’m mistaken about Dr. Muller’s ideas for her—and she can come to us for the holidays. And we’ll spend a few weeks at the chalet. Would you like that—a honeymoon at the chalet?”