There Will Come A Stranger Read online

  To unsophisticated Valerie, as she followed Susan to the cloakroom, it all seemed alarmingly imposing. Suddenly panic seized her.

  I’m as out of place here as a chicken in a duck-pond! she thought frantically. They’ll talk of things I’ve never done, and people I don’t know, and places I’ve never been to, and make, jokes I don’t understand. And I’ll be such a bore of a wet-blanket that Rory’ll wish he’d never asked me. Oh, dear—!

  Then as she emerged out of her wrappings like a moth from its cocoon, her reflection in the mirror somewhat reassured her; so did Susan’s exclamation: “What a lovely frock!” And finally the look in Rory’s eyes when the two girls joined him where he waited in the lounge with Harry banished most of her remaining nervousness. To most pretty girls of twenty-two there would have been little novelty in putting on a glamorous frock, going to a luxury hotel, and reading in a man’s eyes that she was enchanting and desirable. But it was the first time any of these pleasant happenings had befallen Valerie: to her it was a great adventure. And as she saw that look in Rory’s eyes, confidence flowed through her in a reassuring tide.

  Rory had been disinclined to dance this evening. Putting on his dinner jacket he had wondered irritably why on earth he’d fallen in with Susan’s suggestion that he should get a partner and join herself and Harry at the Schweizerhof. He had made excuses, told her that he hadn’t been here long enough to find a girl.

  Susan had been persuasive. “Why not ask Valerie Stevenson? She’s a nice little thing!”

  Rory had replied that “nice little things” were not at all his line of country. Made one think of being offered sugar buns when one was hankering for a savoury. And then a moment later Valerie herself had come upon the scene, and on the spur of the moment he had asked her after all.

  Soaking in his steaming bath an hour ago, he’d cursed himself for an impulsive fool. Not yet back in training, after a long day’s ski-ing he would have far preferred to spend the evening sprawled deep in a comfortable chair, talking with other men of a man’s interests. Glumly he told himself that, anyway, at the Schweizerhof he would be sure to come across some of the gang he’d run around with last year, and pick up old threads with the least possible delay.

  Now, as Rory looked at Valerie coming towards him, the sight of her fair head gleaming above her misty frock disarmed him of his lingering irritation and he thought that after all the evening mightn’t be too bad.

  “You look like moonshine when the sun hasn’t quite set!” he told her.

  “Or a street lamp in a London fog?” she retorted, dimpling, inwardly thankful that she had not been reduced to a shy silence by the compliment.

  “How clever of you to snaffle the best table, Rory!” Susan exclaimed when the head waiter had escorted them to a table at the far side from the door, against the wall, and on the edge of the dance floor. “How did you wangle it?”

  “Told him one of my party had just emerged from an asylum after treatment for claustrophobia, and that I couldn’t answer for the consequences if she were hemmed in.”

  “She!” exclaimed the girls with one indignant voice.

  “Well, he would never have believed that there was anything abnormal about Harry. But enough of frivolling when one might be enjoying some improving conversation.” He turned to Valerie. .“Do tell me your reactions in regard to this new rule in tiddly-winks they’re playing in so many of the London clubs? Even the Athenaeum has taken it up, I understand!”

  Wishing she weren’t so out of practice in talking nonsense, she looked at him with wide, reproving eyes. “I don’t react to it at all. I think all games of skill are wicked!”

  “Really? A most interesting hypothesis! Tell me more.

  Wildly she improvised. “The winner at tiddlywinks, for instance, is simply taking an unfair advantage of an unusual strength of thumb with which a kindly providence has endowed him!” (I never realized it was so easy to be silly—except unintentionally!)

  “A strength intended to be used in matters such as opening refractory beer bottles, for example, rather than against one’s fellow creatures. A fascinating theory. Would you object if I were to embody it in the paper I shall be reading on my return to England to the Society of Froth Blowers?”

  Gaily the meal began. Valerie, joining in the fun like any other happy girl of twenty-two, enjoyed herself the more light-heartedly because of her long years of seclusion, and found, relieved, that after all she was not being a wet-blanket as she had feared. Oh, lovely evening—lovely world! she thought, warmed by the feeling that the other three were liking her as much as she was liking them.

  While Rory carried on some absurd altercation with Susan, Valerie saw a couple threading their way towards them through the other tables: a girl in gleaming ivory satin, her cool dark elegance like a drawing in Vogue, and a man whose tall good looks and air of self-possessed assurance so resembled hers that evidently they were brother and sister. Lightly the girl laid crimsoned fingertips on Rory’s shoulder in a gesture that to Valerie seemed proprietorial. He swung around, then sprang up.

  “Hilary!—Gordon!—I say, this is splendid! I’ve been wondering whether you’d turn up this year!”

  The Prescotts evidently also knew the new arrivals, for they too joined in the chorus of greeting. They were alone, it seemed, having; arrived in Varlet-sur-Montagne only this afternoon.

  “We’ve only just begun,” said Rory. “You must join up with us. Yes, do! Waiter, lay two more places, will you?”

  Somehow two more places were squeezed on to the table meant for four, and two more chairs crowded among the others. When they had all settled down, Susan introduced Valerie and the newcomers, whose names were Hilary and Gordon Frayne. She gathered that the previous year they had stayed here at the same time as Rory and the Prescotts, and with other friends had formed a party to ski and dance and generally amuse themselves together.

  She listened while the others talked of people they had met here the year before.

  “Did you see that Judy Hambling and the fair man she was always going about with got engaged soon after they went home?”

  “Talking of engagements, did you ever hear what happened to Tony Lampson and that girl of his? I wonder if they ever stopped their nattering for long enough to say ‘I will’!”

  “I ran across the Drury girl in Harridge’s not long ago—”

  “We heard from Peter Harrison at Christmas—he’s got himself a job in Buenos Aires, so he won’t be here this year—”

  Presently Susan glanced at Valerie, who was listening to it all with a polite smile frozen to her face, trying to look as though she were enjoying herself, and realized how out of it she must be feeling. Susan wished the Fraynes hadn’t turned up again this year—it had been such fun, this evening, before they came upon the scene, but already Hilary had as usual made herself the centre of attention just as she had invariably done last year, thanks to her poise and beauty and the magnetism of her vitality. But it wasn’t good enough, Susan decided, to have her pushing Valerie, who was such a darling, out of the fun, simply because she wanted all the limelight for herself! Already Valerie’s gaiety and sparkle had been quenched and she was like a flower with petals closed against the dew. Susan tried to turn the talk on to a topic of more general interest.

  “That strike in France seems to be rather bad. I hope it won’t spread—Harry and I were thinking we might spend a night or two in Paris on the way back.”

  Once again Hilary held the floor. She and Gordon had stayed in Paris with French friends on their way here, so she gave them all an animated and amusing exposition of affairs in France, and then went on to give them a great deal of very inside information regarding the internal situation in Italy, where she had recently been visiting a diplomatic family. Witty, amusing, and intelligent, she talked with such vivacity and calculated charm that Valerie by contrast felt every moment more dim and dull and nondescript. Ruefully she wondered whether the Fraynes were going to stay with them all
evening.

  Then came the last straw on the burden of her disappointment. As they were finishing their coffee, the band began to play a tune whose rhythm was haunting and provocative.

  Many a time Valerie had heard it on the wireless. Many a time its teasing, taunting lilt had set her feet a-tapping as she stood beside the kitchen sink, and pirouetting on her way from dining-room to larder.

  But it filled her now with horror. For it was a cha-cha! Oh, calamity! She hadn’t the remotest notion how to dance it!

  Last year Hilary and Rory had paired off together a good deal. And since Rory was good-looking and amusing, a crack skier and a good dancer, Gordon Frayne had little doubt that Hilary intended things to shape that way again. That being so, she would be determined to have Rory for her cavalier this evening, regardless of previous arrangements, with the indifference that was typical of her. Brother and sister always played into each other’s hands; his part, therefore, must be to take on the little fair girl with the outsize eyes, who had obviously been brought by Rory as his partner for the evening.

  Gordon viewed the prospect with mixed feelings. Certainly she was extremely pretty, but she hadn’t uttered a word all through dinner. Looked to him as though he might be in for a dull evening. On the other hand, those silent girls were sometimes quite surprising when you got ’em to yourself. Still waters run deep!

  He turned to Valerie. “Will you dance this with me?”

  Rory heard him, and impatient though he was to dance with Hilary, whom he knew of old to be the perfect partner, he was none the less annoyed that Gordon should have had the nerve to try to snaffle his partner at this early stage of the proceedings. So he exclaimed, “Hey, there! What’s all this? I brought Valerie here, and I’m going to have the first dance with her, whatever happens later!”

  And without more ado he caught her up into his arms and swept her away.

  She gasped, “But Rory—I can’t dance the cha-cha!”

  “We’ll shuffle around to it instead, then.” He grinned down reassuringly at her troubled face. “Don’t look so worried! Quite a lot of people can’t, you know!”

  She hadn’t danced since she left school, and then her dancing had been mostly in the school gymnasium, punctuated by the admonitions of the dancing mistress: “One-and-two-and-three-and-one-and-two-and-three-and-Don’t bend the knees, girls-smoothly, remember—”

  How should she manage now? Supposing—frightful thought!—she had forgotten how to follow? Tense with anxiety, she started off on the wrong foot, and began to panic. Then the pressure of Rory’s hand, light and firm against her back, told her what she must do. Recovering, she found with passionate relief that she was managing to follow after all. Yet something wasn’t quite right. Something was lacking. She was moving like a robot, lifelessly, woodenly.

  Oh, Lord! thought Rory ruefully—one might as well be dancing with a clothes-peg. Stiff as a bit of wood. And yet to look at her you’d think she should be good—when she walks she’s like a feather drifting on the wind.

  I’m hopeless! Valerie thought despairingly. I can’t even dance. It isn’t in me. Oh, if only this were over! How he must be loathing every minute of it—wishing he hadn’t asked me!

  Rory had noticed that the hand upon his arm was trembling. Above her head Valerie heard his puzzled voice say in concern, “You’re shivering! What’s up? Surely you can’t be cold?”

  She hadn’t wanted him, or anyone, to know what she was feeling, but now the unexpected question and the kindness in his voice, made her say impulsively “I’m terrified—that’s why!”

  “Terrified? What—of me?” He sounded horrified.

  “No—oh, no! Of course not! Just of—oh, everything! It’s all so new to me, you see—”

  “I don’t see. Tell me!”

  So her story tumbled out: the tale of the secluded life that she had led since she left school, her inexperience, the feeling of inadequacy that overwhelmed her. “I’m a provincial nitwit—I can’t talk, except about silly, unimportant things—”

  “Who wants you to? The people who can talk about ‘important’ things would far rather have you listening while they do the holding forth. You listen very nicely, if I may say so! And anyway, what are the really important things in life? I expect you know as much about them as anybody else.”

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

  “You couldn’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 ta
bles, 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.”