Desperate Defiance E-Book

Barbara Cartland

• Herausgeber: Barbara Cartland Ebooks Ltd
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: The Eternal Collection
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 300

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Isolated monasteries nestling in the peaks, precipices and giddying gorges of the snow-capped Himalayas… The filth-encrusted and lice-infested hovels of the native people… It's all a far cry from the genteel sophistication she's left behind in Monte Carlo. But as always, Vivian Carrow's as defiant as she's beautiful – and, nursing a broken heart, she's determined to accompany her father on a perilous mission to Tibet. Faced with a haughtily handsome and arrogant Captain whom she suspects is a murdering spy, a lecherous, drug-crazed Indian prince and gangs of murderous monks, that defiance is tested to its limits – indeed almost to the death. Will Vivian plunge to an icy death in a mountain crevasse? Or fall into love with the man she so hated.

Leseprobe

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This book, written in 1936, portrays accurately the position of Tibet at that time in relation to other countries.

Also, the difference between the Laws of the Red Hats and the Yellow Hats and the description of the country and people of Tibet is as authentic as many years of research can make it.

CHAPTER ONE ~ 1920

Vivian Carrow rested her elbows on the table and looked at the fashionable throng chattering, laughing and drinking around her.

From inside the Casino came the sounds of a good band and the murmur of many different voices as crowds sauntered in and out of the gambling rooms.

Women, beautifully dressed, diamonds flashing and glittering, protested loudly that they were ‘completely broke’.

The real spendthrifts hurried along, clutching their worn system cards in their hands, giving hardly a glance to the glamorous gaiety outside on the terrace.

Men and women, representative of Society in every country in Europe, rubbed shoulders with the cocottes of every race.

The habitués, who belonged to no nation, but lived year after year in Monte Carlo, eked out a precarious living as they gambled daily on the green baize tables.

To Vivian, it was all new, amusing and exciting.

Her life had never brought her into contact with this colourful, superficial and sophisticated life, which she found to be now surging round her like a kaleidoscope.

Among most people Vivian stood out not only as a pretty girl but with something more arresting in her face than mere looks.

There was character in the dark grey eyes, set rather wide apart under straight, firmly marked eyebrows.

There was determination in the set of her small round chin that completed the perfect oval of her face, framed by long dark hair with a glint of bronze in its curly waves.

Her mouth was firm and held a promise of deep emotions not yet awake to maturity.

Vivian’s party was quiet and unspectacular.

Her aunt, Lady Dalton, always sat at the head of the table, her hair streaked with grey, her pearls rather small but perfect, her dress obviously suitable for a woman who was nearing sixty.

She was in striking contrast to the hostess at the next door table, whose hands and neck so starkly proclaimed her age, while her face masked by cosmetics, revealed rather than concealed the ravages of years. Withered shoulders peeped naked from her dress of soft pink chiffon that might have become a young girl.

A necklace of diamonds, a huge sheaf of exotic orchids could not hide the obvious pathos of a woman striving to defeat time.

Vivian watched this woman and gradually her red mouth curled a little in contempt at all the fawning attentions of the two men who partnered the painted spectacle at supper. Suave, dark and tight-waisted, they were both old enough to be her sons or young enough to have paid their attentions to her daughter, who was at that moment returning to the table.

The daughter was as flamboyant as the mother, but besides her jewels and orchids she had the priceless possession of youth.

It was not the daughter whom Vivian watched as she returned to the table but the man who escorted her. Tall, good-looking, with that indefinable air of good breeding, he seemed rather out of place amid the vulgarity of people with whom he was supping. He held the chair back for his partner to sit down and then drew his own chair to the table and lifted a glass of champagne to his lips.

As she did so, he looked across at Vivian and smiled.

Their eyes met and she smiled back at him, her face lighting up as if with inner radiance. Just for a short moment their eyes held each other’s and then they turned to their neighbours with a conventional commonplace remark.

Vivian’s pensive mood had gone.

She then drew the retired Rear-Admiral who sat on her left into conversation and her sparkling and spontaneous interest soon set him talking about his life in the ‘good old days’. He was too engrossed in the sound of his own voice to realise that after the first moment or two she was not listening to what he was saying.

‘How I love Jimmy!’ Vivian was whispering to herself. ‘How glad I am that I came here. If only we were in the same party.’

Vivian was twenty-three and yet this was the first time she had ever come to the fashionable South of France in the Summer Season.

Every other year she had spent late summer and autumn either travelling in strange countries with her father, seeing new lands, or else at home.

This was in a very quiet little Worcestershire village, studying in preparation for their next exploration or filing, writing and indexing all the information that her father had acquired in the previously.

Ever since she was fourteen, when her mother had died, Vivian had been Professor Carrow’s constant companion wherever he went. He was the greatest authority on mineralogy in England, possibly in the world, and he was also what Vivian had called, ever since she was tiny, a ‘maker of maps’.

Wherever there was uncharted land, Professor Carrow would be sent and then, sooner or later, his findings would be adopted by the Geographical Society to be incorporated later in the atlas that he was working on.

It was indeed a strange life for a girl, but Vivian adored it and had asked for nothing better until just three months ago.

Then she met Jimmy Loring. They had been introduced casually but conventionally at her father’s Club in Pall Mall.

‘Such a strange place to meet an attractive young man,’ Vivian had thought afterwards.

He had been lunching with his uncle and she with her father and the old men had been talking when she arrived, a little late too and flustered because her shopping had kept her until past the appointed luncheon hour.

“I cannot apologise enough, Daddy dear,” she had said, hurrying into the lugubrious waiting room where both sexes were allowed to intermingle.

Then she found herself introduced to General Loring and to his nephew.

Even as Jimmy took her hand and she raised her eyes to meet his she felt that something unusual was happening to her.

They had all lunched together but afterwards Vivian could never remember what they had all talked about. She was only conscious of feeling absurdly happy, of being unusually amused and of finding that it was after three o’clock almost before she realised that they had started their meal.

“Three o’clock! It just cannot be true,” she said ruefully as the clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour. “I had an appointment at a quarter to three.”

“Let me drive you there,” Jimmy Loring had suggested.

“Would you really?” Vivian smiled.

Then she hesitated.

“But it may be out of your way. I want to go to Harrods.”

“I would love to take you there,” he protested.

The professor nodded his approval from the head of the table.

“Don’t wait for us, my dear,” he said. “It is not often I meet an old friend and we shall sit here over our port for at least another half-hour.”

Outside the Club, Jimmy’s tiny sports car had awaited them. He had offered to close the hood in case it should be too windy for her, but Vivian had pooh-poohed the idea.

“I am used to the wind,” she had answered him. “My father and I have just come back from the North of Canada and London seems absolutely stifling.”

Somehow they never found their way to Harrods that afternoon. They had driven round and round the Park, they had sat watching the Serpentine glimmer in the spring sunshine.

They had talked of themselves, of their life, of hopes and again of themselves, until finally the sun was sinking behind Kensington Palace.

“I will call for you at about nine o’clock,” Jimmy had said when finally he dropped her at the quiet unpretentious hotel where she and her father were staying.

Vivian had run up the stairs with burning cheeks and a thumping heart.

‘I love him,’ she had said to herself unashamedly in the privacy of her own bedroom.

“I love you!” she whispered to Jimmy two nights later, when he kissed her for the first time.

The summer had passed in a golden haze, leaving a panorama of memories long days spent drifting down the river Avon in a punt or afternoons exploring round the neighbourhood of the black and white sixteenth-century house, which, to the professor and Vivian, was the most perfect spot on earth.

‘The Manor House’ was a pretentious name for their house. The rooms were small and few so that more than two guests seemed to be a crowd, but it perfectly fulfilled all the professor’s requirements.

To Vivian, who had known and loved every inch of the estate since she was a baby, it meant home in the fullest and deepest sense of the word.

“Has anyone ever been so happy before?” she asked Jimmy, as they sat on the bank of the river listening to the soft whispering of the summer breeze through the rushes.

“I do think that someone might have made that remark before,” Jimmy teased.

“Don’t laugh at me,” Vivian said solemnly. “Answer me.”

He turned round to face her and, putting out his hand, raised her face to his.

“Never,” he replied seriously. “It is quite impossible that anyone could ever be as happy as we are.”

“Really truly?” Vivian asked.

“Really truly,” Jimmy repeated and kissed her again.

Six weeks of delirious joy and then had come the moment of parting when Jimmy had to go off to London to take up a job in an insurance office.

“My uncle has fixed it for me,” he told Vivian. “That is why I was lunching with him that day.”

She slipped her hand into his.

“I will come down every weekend,” he promised, “but I have got to work very hard, my darling, and if you cannot guess the reason why, I shall not tell you.”

Of course she could guess the reason and, of course, she thought of little else. Marriage with Jimmy, having him all to herself, a tiny home together, was all that she dreamt of and all she thought about in the weeks that followed.

Then Jimmy announced to her that he had been invited to Monte Carlo.

“They are extraordinary people,” he had confessed. “Stubbs is their name. They are enormously rich and they might be useful, one never knows. I shall have to go, darling, but cannot you come too? You must know somebody who would put you up.”

“There is Father’s sister,” Vivian had said, “my Aunt Geraldine. She has a Villa there and she has often asked me to go and stay, but I have always refused.”

“But that is marvellous,” Jimmy said enthusiastically. “Write to her at once. It is all too perfect. You will adore it. Monte Carlo is the most enjoyable place in the world.”

“I have always hated the idea of it,” Vivian confessed. “Crowds of smart people with wonderful clothes is not my idea of fun.”

“Nonsense,” Jimmy had replied. “You will love it.”

“I shall be terrified of them,” Vivian confided.

“With me to look after you?” Jimmy asked. “What a little goose you are. Sit down and write at once.”

So Vivian had obeyed and had received from her aunt a letter of welcome and affection.

It was all just as she had imagined it would be, Vivian thought on her arrival. The blue sky and the blue sea, the practically naked bodies sunbathing on expensive mattresses, lacquered toe-nails, oiled backs, diamond cigarette-cases, luxurious cars, the calm efficiency of ‘the tables’.

Tonight, as she sat at supper, Vivian could see the spotlights being fixed ready to illuminate the floating stage on which a monster cabaret costing thousands of francs would shortly commence.

Above them in the sky there were stars while floodlights on the old Casino made it look like a white-iced cake.

The shrill discordant laugh of Mrs. Stubbs now echoed from the neighbouring table and startled Vivian from her reverie.

‘How I dislike that woman,’ she thought and in the wake of that dislike came a sudden nausea.

“Is anything the matter?” the Admiral asked her anxiously.

“I am all right,” she said, reassuring herself as much as him. “A moment’s giddiness, that is all. Surely it is very hot here tonight?”

“The place is like an oven,” the Admiral replied. “But you have no right to complain. Look at the uncomfortable clothes we poor men have to wear.”

Vivian laughingly agreed with him and was wondering just how often she had heard that remark.

“Let’s go up to the roof and dance. It may be cooler there,” her partner suggested.

“Yes, let’s go there,” Vivian said, glad of an excuse to move.

They rose to their feet, threading their way through the tables.

“Don’t be very long, darling,” Lady Dalton said to Vivian. “The cabaret will start in another ten minutes.”

“We will be back by then,” Vivian answered and turned towards the doorway.

In the crowded vestibule that led to the roof garden and to the gambling rooms, the Admiral stopped to speak to some friends of his. As she waited, Vivian felt a hand on her arm. She knew without turning her head. ,

“Darling,” she whispered beneath her breath.

“I have to see you,” Jimmy said.

“You cannot want to any more than I do,” Vivian replied to him. “Oh, Jimmy, I have seen practically nothing of you for the last three days.”

“I know,” Jimmy said. “When can I see you, Vivian? It is very important.”

“Darling,” she replied, “any time and anywhere. You know that is all I am here for.”

“I will come to the garden of the Villa in two hours’ time,” he said.

“The garden of the Villa?” Vivian echoed almost stupidly.

“Yes,” he answered. “Wait for me by the little summerhouse. I will not be later than I can help.”

Without waiting for her answer, he disappeared as quickly as he had come, elbowing his way through the crowds to the terrace again. Vivian stood looking after him and then she felt wildly happy. She had not really enjoyed this past week.

She had seen Jimmy every day, but generally for only a very few fleeting seconds or with a crowd of people round them.

They had met at the bathing pool, on the tennis courts or aboard one of the many small yachts that steamed out of the Harbour for an afternoon’s amusement.

It had all been very gay and amusing and what Jimmy’s friends would call ‘fun’, but it was not Vivian’s idea of real enjoyment and happiness.

Jimmy to herself, Jimmy in the garden beside the River Avon, was what she wanted. From the moment that she had stepped on to Monte Carlo Station a week ago, she had been fêted, entertained and amused, but denied the only thing that could make her really happy.

Now he wanted her and he was coming to see her alone tonight in the quietness and peace of the Villa garden.

Vivian gave a little shiver of excitement.

“I have to see you,” Jimmy had said several times.

CHAPTER TWO

“There is the most dangerous man in Europe,” said the Admiral as they moved slowly round to a dreamy tune crooned by a blonde.

“Where?” Vivian asked, her dreams of Jimmy interrupted. “You see that Indian standing alone by the pillar, talking to a fat American woman covered in emeralds?”

“Oh, yes, I see him,” Vivian replied. “Who is he?”

“That is Dhilangi,” the Admiral answered.

“But then, of course, I have heard of him,” Vivian said. “He is another revolutionary or something like that, isn’t he?”

“Far worse,” he said. “And what is much more, my dear, you are seeing history in the making.”

“Why?” Vivian asked.

“Well, the woman in emeralds,” the Admiral answered, “is Mrs. Michael Mackie, widow of the oil King from America.”

“But why history?” Vivian asked. “Is she going to finance him or something?”

“That is just the question, my dear young lady,” he said, “that at least a quarter of the world is asking at this precise moment.”

“Why, what would happen if she does?” Vivian questioned.

“God knows what will not happen!” he answered her ruefully. “Dhilangi is one of the most dangerous people we have ever had to deal with in India. He is unscrupulous, completely self-seeking and at the same time carried away by his fanaticism and fire.

“Wherever he goes there is insurrection and rebellion. He has already cost us many lives and a great deal of worry, but up till now he has been handicapped by lack of money.

“If he can persuade Mrs. Mackie to finance or even marry him, I believe he is prepared to go to such lengths, the situation will be very serious indeed.”

“Is she so tremendously rich?” Vivian asked.

“Fabulously,” the Admiral answered. “And what is more to the point is that she thinks this man is a kind of new Messiah and fancies herself as his inspiration.”

“It all sounds to me like a sensational story in the newspapers,” Vivian commented. “Are you really being serious?”

“There is no joke about it, I do assure you,” the Admiral replied. “The Powers that be have done everything they can to prevent such an alliance from taking place, but what can they do in this so-called civilised world when we all insist on the freedom of the individual.”

“And is she to decide now – I mean here at Monte Carlo – is that why they are together?” Vivian asked.

“So we understand,” answered the Admiral. “There is no doubt that Dhilangi travelled here especially to meet the lady in question.”

As they moved slowly past on the crowded dance floor, Vivian looked at the Indian with interest.

“He is like a tiger waiting to spring,” Vivian said after watching him for just a few moments and then laughed apologetically. “That sounds very banal and yet I cannot help it. That is what he reminds me of.”

“It is a very apt simile,” he said shortly.

As they neared the door, he steered her skilfully towards it and they made their way downstairs.

‘Will the time never pass?’ Vivian wondered to herself.

It seemed to her that a century must tick by before she could get home and wait for Jimmy to come to her.

The cabaret with its huge chorus of semi-naked women wearing half a million francs’ worth of ostrich feathers failed to amuse her. The glittering finale of naked legs and top hats made of looking-glass passed unnoticed by her as she tried to catch a glimpse of Jimmy, who had moved to the end of the terrace with his noisy and raffish party.

‘How awful for him to have to stay with such people,’ Vivian thought

Tales of how Mrs. Stubbs had taken a whole floor at the Beach Hotel for herself and for her guests, of her three Hispano-Suiza cars decorated in chocolate brown and driven by black chauffeurs, were the talk of everyone in Monte Carlo.

“But who are the Stubbs then?” a newcomer would ask – to be answered by a chorus of, ‘You can’t tub without Stubbs.’

Everybody had seen the advertisements in England of the new washing powder which was, as Jimmy had said, guaranteed to do everything in the world except drive a motor car. Out of his patent mixture, with the help of tremendous advertising, Mr. Stubbs had accumulated a fortune in a short number of years.

‘If Jimmy gets his insurance job, perhaps we shall be able to get married,’ Vivian thought.

At last, as the clock struck one, Lady Dalton rose. Only Vivian and her aunt descended to the Villa very high on the Corniche road overlooking the sea.

“I have enjoyed myself. Thank you so much, Aunt Geraldine,” Vivian said.

“I am afraid that we were rather an old party for you,” her aunt replied. “But though I live here I seldom go to the galas at the Casino and all my friends are rather ancient and staid.”

“Nonsense,” Vivian replied to her laughing. “The Admiral was as chirpy as a two-year-old and I think he enjoyed dancing.”

“I am sure he did with you,” her aunt replied. “But whether you enjoyed yourself is another matter.”

“Well, I promise you I did,” Vivian answered, kissing her again and going into her bedroom.

She waited for a moment until her aunt’s door was very firmly closed and then, turning out the lights, she tip-toed softly down the carpeted stairs.

She cautiously opened the French window into the garden and walked out.

The garden was not very wide and marched beside that of the Villa next door, but it wended its way downhill by a series of little paths until it came to a lower road, beyond which was the sea.

Here there was a small summerhouse with roses climbing over it and the sweet perfume of night-scented stock. All was very quiet and still. Out to sea a lighthouse flashed intermittently. There were the little lights of Cap Ferrat and the twinkle of the stars overhead.

Vivian felt that she was part of the mystery and beauty of it all.

The noise of an approaching car made her start and she looked anxiously over the wall into the road, but it had stopped at a gate further down and her heart started beating again.

It was not Jimmy.

There was a sound of voices and laughter and she realised that the people of the next door Villa had come home.

Curiosity made her move away from the summerhouse and peep through the dividing hedge into the garden of the Villa Sebastian.

She could now see several people descending from a very large Rolls-Royce.

Watching them, Vivian saw a vivacious American – who was talking at the top of her voice – gesticulating so that her diamond bracelets glittered and flashed in the light of the car’s headlamps.

 With her were several men, all more or less the worse for drink, and two others – Mrs. Mackie and Dhilangi.

‘So they are staying next door,’ Vivian thought. ‘How amusing. Perhaps he will propose to her in the Villa garden and I shall know the answer to the problem that is worrying Europe so much.’

She heard Mrs. Mackie saying to the chauffeur,

“Wait here for Mr. Dhilangi.”

Then, talking and laughing loudly, the whole party moved up the garden towards the Villa. Slowly, Vivian retraced her steps to the summerhouse. She was waiting more impatiently for Jimmy now. Somehow the calm beauty of the night had been broken by the noise and chatter of the party next door.

She could no longer feel the beauty of sea and sky enveloping her. She could only wait, every nerve alert for the sound of another motor car.

At last she heard one coming. She held her breath and prayed it might be Jimmy and that the headlights would not sweep by.

Then, just when she thought she was to be disappointed again there was the sound of brakes and only a few seconds later she heard Jimmy’s footsteps coming towards her.

She sat still, savouring the moment, almost afraid to break the silence that seemed to hold her, bound and palpitating, in the shadow of the little summerhouse.

The next moment he was beside her.

“Jimmy,” she cried and put out her arms.

He held her stiffly and did not kiss her.

“Darling,” she said. “I thought you were never coming.”

Then his attitude and his silence struck her as strange.

“What is it?” she asked apprehensively. “What is the matter?”

He then moved a few paces away from her and stood looking out towards the sea, his figure silhouetted against the sky.

She could now see the outline of his head, the strong square-cut shoulders and his height, which always made her feel small and yet so comfortingly protected in his arms.

“Jimmy,” she said again sharply. “What is it?”

He turned towards her and took both her hands in his. She could not see his features although she tried hard, she only knew that he was looking anxious and worried.

“Listen to me, Vivian,” he started. “I have come here to tell you something and now I don’t know how to do it.”

His voice was stiff and unlike him. Vivian felt a sudden chill of fear sweep over her.

“Tell me,” she said. “You must tell me, Jimmy, what is it that you are afraid to tell me?”

There was a long silence and then, as if he made a tremendous effort, Jimmy spoke,

“I am going to marry Marjorie Stubbs.”

Vivian stood absolutely still as they faced each other in the dim shadows.

‘It isn’t true,’ Vivian thought in a flash. ‘I am not hearing this. I ought to be screaming, crying, fainting with pain or dying at his feet, but I am not I am standing still and hearing it.’

Nearly a minute must have passed and then, surprisingly clear and firm, her voice quizzed him,

“Why?”

Only then did Jimmy release her hands.

Again he turned his back on her and stared out to sea.

“Why do you think?” he answered harshly and, as Vivian did not reply, he went on, “Because she has money, because I have got to have it. Don’t you understand – don’t you see, Vivian? I cannot live without it.

“I loathe the office, I loathe the humdrum existence I have been living in London, pinching and saving, beastly lodgings, second-rate food. And the eternal struggle to keep myself alive and decent – I cannot stand it I tell you, and this is the only way out.”

Vivian felt as if she was acting in some play. It was not she who stood there – it was not she, with dry eyes, who was listening to the man to whom she had given not only her heart but her soul.

‘He does not want me,’ she thought ‘This is the end.’

It seemed so incredible and unreal, that she almost laughed out loud and yet she knew that he was gone.

Already the Jimmy she had known had left her. Again there was a long silence and then Jimmy spoke.

“I am sorry, Vivian. Speak to me,” he said a moment later. “Say something. Reproach me, curse me, but don’t keep silent. If only you knew how much I do hate myself for doing this to you. How I loathe and despise myself for the way I am behaving and yet I cannot help it, Vivian.”

As if her very silence had exasperated him beyond endurance, he put his arms round her, drew her close to him and he kissed her cheek and then her mouth.

He might have been kissing a dead woman. She made neither response nor repulsion and she felt nothing. It was unlike any kiss she had ever had from Jimmy because nothing within her responded. She was still acting, still outside this amazing scene, watching it – a stranger watching a stranger’s emotions.

Roughly Jimmy took his arms away from her. He was becoming embarrassed by her silence. It was not what he had expected and he did not understand it. He stood for a moment staring at her in the darkness as if striving to read her expression. Then, unable to bear it any longer, the whole thing too much for him, he turned and left her, finding his way down the cliff gravel path and down the stone steps.

There was the sharp bang of a car door, the noise of the engine starting up and Vivian was alone.

She stared with wide eyes straight in front of her. Her lips tried to form Jimmy’s name and then bitter tears started to course down her cheeks.

Suddenly there was the sound of a car coming up the road, and the noise of it galvanised her into sudden concentration.

Vivian jumped up and stood quivering and listening. Nearer and nearer came the hum of the engine until with a flicker of lights it had passed.

Only when the last sound of it had died away into the distance did Vivian fling out her arms in a despairing gesture and then call out Jimmy’s name.

 “It isn’t true, it isn’t true! Jimmy, my own Jimmy!” she repeated again and again.

Her voice choked and the only sound was her sobbing breath.

The garden was very quiet. There was no wind and the trees and flowers, dimly lit under the stars, seemed to stand sentinel before the death of a love that could never blossom again.

Suddenly the silence was broken by a sharp report, the noise of a motor backfiring or of a gunshot.

Vaguely Vivian heard it and the mere effort of listening checked the wildness of her tears.

In an effort for breath, she then threw back her head and, as she did so, she stiffened.

A man had come swiftly towards the summerhouse and he was standing outside. He was not very tall and she could see that he was wearing evening clothes, his white shirt and cuffs visible in the dusk.

She tried to say,

“What do you want?”

But her voice was too choked and the only result of her effort was an inarticulate sound that was almost a groan.

Swiftly he stepped in toward her and she felt a thrill of fear, then his voice, low, cultured and speaking in English, somehow reassured her.

“Who is there?” he asked.

For several moments she was incapable of answering him. Then he drew something from his pocket, struck a match and a tiny yellow flame flickered in his cupped hands.

“Don’t look at me,” Vivian said sharply and instinctively.

She dropped her swollen eyes before the flickering illumination and then they were in the darkness again.

“Listen, Miss Carrow,” the stranger said, speaking very quietly. “I want you to help me.”

“You know my name,” Vivian said in surprise. “Who are you?”

“Never mind,” came the answer. “Listen to me. It is a question of moments. I know who you are and I know that you are used to standing by your father in difficult situations. Do what I tell you now and you will be doing a great service to your country.”

“But ‒ what?” Vivian tried to say.

The stranger however, took no notice of her interruptions.

“In a few seconds,” he went on, speaking so low that she could hardly hear his voice, “a man or perhaps men will come here. Let them think that we have been together for some time. You need not speak and I will do the talking. That is all I want you to do. Do you understand?”

“But why?” Vivian asked in a whisper.

“There is no time for questions,” he replied stiffly.

A moment later she heard footsteps and instantly with the sound the stranger put his hand on hers, holding it tightly with firm strong fingers. She had no time to think and no time to consider her action, before two men stood by the summerhouse and a torch was flashed on her face.

She gave an involuntary exclamation, the light was so confusing and she put her free hand to her eyes to shield them.

“What is it?” her unknown companion asked. “What are you doing here?”

“Pardon, monsieur,” came the answer, “have you seen anyone pass through this garden?”

“Pass through the garden?” repeated Vivian’s companion.

He stood up and the light was directed on his face, but he had stepped forward a pace or so and, as she had not moved, she could see nothing but his back. He had relinquished her hand as he moved but not before the torch, like a sharp eye, had noted the movement.

“No one has gone through here so far as I know. What right have you to ask?”

“We are the Police, monsieur,” came the reply.

“I am sorry,” the Englishman said, “I am afraid I cannot help you. Is anything the matter?”

“It is nothing,” the Gendarme answered. “A little trouble at the Villa next door,”

“You yourself, monsieur,” said the other man. “You have been here some time?”

“Only twenty minutes. That is all, mademoiselle and I were –”

He hesitated for a second and then added, “ – just talking.”

Again the torch flashed towards Vivian – played for a moment on her ravaged tear-stained face, on her trembling hands holding a soaked white handkerchief. Then two hands went up to salute.

“Mille pardons, monsieur. Bonsoir. Bonsoir, mademoiselle.”

“Good night,” said the Englishman and faintly Vivian answered, speaking for the first time.

“Goodnight.”

Silently the two policemen then disappeared in the direction from which they had come, through the fuchsia hedge and into the garden next door.

Vivian and her companion listened in silence and then he turned towards her and said,

“Thank you, Miss Carrow. That was magnificent.”

“What does it ‒ all mean?” she asked.

Instead of answering her he put out his hand and drew her to her feet

“I am going to take you back to the house,” he said. “It is time you went to bed.”

“Please tell me,” she expostulated, “who you are. Why did you do this and why are you here?”

“Will you trust me?” he asked. “And believe that it was for a very good reason and will you do one more thing for me – even if it is, maybe, the most difficult of all?”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Will you forget all about this tomorrow morning and not repeat to anyone what has happened?”

She did not answer and he added,

“Promise me on your word of honour.”

His voice was stern, almost commanding, and yet another time Vivian might have resented the authoritative note.

But she suddenly felt just too exhausted and weary to argue. What did it matter – what did anything matter now?

“I promise,” she answered.

Slowly and in silence they walked up the garden. At the foot of the steps that led up to the Villa itself he paused.

“Goodnight, Miss Carrow,” he said, holding out his right hand. “Thank you again for what you have done and for your promise to say nothing.”

Vivian put her hand in his.

“Goodnight,” she said dully.

She felt warmth and vitality glowing through his fingers.

“Don’t be unhappy,” he advised. “Life is always an adventure, remember that.”

And before she could answer him, he had turned around and was striding away down the garden.

He walked on the grass rather than the path so that his departure was as silent as had been his arrival.

CHAPTER THREE

Vivian was going home by the Blue Train.

 Only a week ago she had journeyed in it Southwards, travelling joyfully towards her destination, knowing that every mile and every minute brought her nearer to the man she loved.

Was she the same person, she now asked herself, who had found it impossible to sleep because tomorrow had held such happiness that she could not bear to relinquish her thoughts of it?

Was she really the same person to welcome the first sight of the blue sea and warm sun, not because they were just so beautiful but because they meant that in another hour she would be in Jimmy’s arms?