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Grief Before Night
by Samuel Shellabarger
writing as Peter Loring
Chapter 1
A woman of the world, even as sophisticated as Patricia Morier, is sometimes startled by an elemental vibration. When a certain couple passed her in the foyer of the Hotel Royal, she felt a momentary tingle along her veins. But it was typical of her that she analyzed it.
"There's a queer thing," she thought. "That stunning man had a woman with him, but I didn't notice her, only him. Wonder who he is."
Instinctively she turned toward the mirror behind her. It gave a reflection of black chiffon, bare, perfect shoulders, an aquiline, handsome face with hardly a touch of make-up, and a coif of pale blond hair. Languidly satisfied, she continued to watch the come-and-go of evening gowns, vagrant glitter and color, accompanied by faint perfume.
"I like Stockholm," she thought. "Much more brilliant than Paris. Aristocratic city. Why not buy a summer place in Sweden? I'll talk it over with the Minister tonight. As long as he's giving the party for me, I'll probably be next to him."
She stopped thinking, alert again, though nothing showed beneath the laziness of her eyes. The couple she had noticed a moment ago had reappeared, and were now strolling back and forth in the foyer.
The phrase of Edwin Arlington Robinson crossed her mind: "He glittered as he walked." Yes, the man glittered in spite of conventional evening dress. He was tall and dark and slender and lance-straight. His face showed planes rather than curves — angular planes from temple to cheekbone, from cheekbone to chin, lean, sucked in. He had a high-bridged, straight nose, dark eyes, charming smile. Young, she fancied, but not too young; passionate, masterful.
This time, but only afterwards and in reference to him, Patricia inspected his companion. She walked beside him with a long, easy stride, which suggested the out-of-doors and horseback. A simple white evening gown set off her tanned skin, short, wavy hair, and brown eyes. Though a head shorter than her escort, she was still tall, with a slender, athletic figure. In contrast to the simplicity of her dress and appearance, was the magnificence of the old-fashioned diamond pendent, hung from a jeweled chain around her neck, and the diamond coronet-brooch on one shoulder. With an arm through his, she leaned forward looking up at him, entirely absorbed. She was probably twenty-five. Deep below Patricia Morier's surface, so deep that she hardly felt it, a shadow passed; she was thirty herself. "Strange," she thought. "I've met that girl somewhere."
The couple strolled further off.
"My dear!" came a hurried voice from behind. "I hope you haven't been waiting long. So sorry!"
It was her hostess of the evening, the American Minister's wife. Mrs. Tarleton was visibly impressed with her guest and slightly flurried, for Patricia Morier's name and wealth were impressive everywhere.
She set her hostess at ease.
"Not more than a minute really. So good of you to invite me, Mrs. Tarleton. — Good evening, Mr. Minister," she added, as the latter came up. Mrs. Tarleton waved cordially toward the far end of the foyer. It was at the couple which had already interested Patricia, and were now approaching.
"Two of our other guests, Miss Morier." And rapidly under her breath, "Count and Countess Falke of Falkenborg. One of the oldest titles. Such a romance! She's an American — but poor. Noblemen don't usually marry poor Americans, do they? Daughter of an artist. Been married two years and still devoted. He was in the Guards, and was Military Attach• in London for a while. Has a wonderful estate in the south of Sweden, but no money, I'm afraid. It was luck getting them, because they're seldom in Stockholm." And as the two came up, "Good evening, Countess Falke, Count Falke. May I present you to our guest of honor, Miss Patricia Morier."
Yes, Patricia had met this girl somewhere. But recognition would not come.
Count Falke's heels clicked in a military bow; then in a second, more courtly bow, he bent over Patricia's hand. As his face rose, she noted the careless, dancing lights in his eyes.
"At last!" he said in perfect, but British, English. "The famous Miss Morier!"
"Famous?"
"Yes. Three years ago, I just missed meeting you at Lord Dacre's in Sussex. Then later I just missed meeting you at the Rohans' in Brittany. But now I'm in luck."
As if it were a touch, she felt his gaze pass over her, electric, disturbing.
She was used to admiration, and, without undue vanity, expected it. But the admiration of men for Patricia Morier was apt to be tempered by her own conventional aloofness, her flawless manner, and by the thought of her immense wealth. Falke's gaze angered and thrilled her at the same time. The admiration it expressed was of a different sort, masculine, possessive, but impersonal. It sized her up simply as a handsome woman, theoretically desirable. It was not offensive, but carelessly arrogant.
She froze a little, and murmured, "Very good of you," then changed the subject — "Countess Falke is most attractive." She saw the pleased glow in his eyes, which shifted to his wife now in talk with the Minister. They absorbed her a moment before turning back.
"I like Greta myself," he smiled. "Parbleu, you American women! It's a dangerous topic, Miss Morier."
"I've been wondering if I haven't met her," she said.
"Perhaps. Her name was No•l, Margaret Noeuml;l."
An illusive echo stirred somewhere in her mind, but she could not seize it.
"New York?"
"No, Philadelphia."
"I went to school at Foxcroft," she prompted, "then Bryn Mawr."
"Oh?" He was obviously uninterested. "You must be frightfully learned. Fancy! Foxcroft and Bryn What-you-call-it!"
She bit her lip. "I meant that perhaps I had seen Countess Falke at one place or the other. She's much younger of course . . ."
He laughed. "Likely not at school. Greta reads and writes, I believe; plays the piano, dances like a breeze, rides like a trooper, shoots well — which is the proper education for Nils Falke's wife. But as for books . . ."
He broke off, and drew aside.
Mr. Tarleton interrupted. "Miss Morier, let me present Sir Simon Grayville, the British Ambassador."
There were more introductions. Mrs. Tarleton skillfully shepherded her guests — a small party before the dance she was giving later in the Crystal Salon upstairs. They drifted out to the central inclosed court of the hotel, arranged like a formal garden with gravel paths between flowerbeds. A fountain played in the center. Under the arcades which surrounded the court, tables were arranged behind balustrades to give the effect of balconies overlooking the garden. The endless dusk of a Swedish summer night mingled with the glow of table lamps, the glitter of silver and glass, the sparkle of jewels. Color everywhere, rich, subdued, changing. Color and the fragrance of flowers. An orchestra was playing the Strauss waltzes.
"Perfect!" thought Patricia in response to the yearning of the music. It was the old world, the receding world of elegance and rank and grace, a last flowering of it.
"Yes," she thought, "I'll buy a place here. I love this sort of thing."
According to custom, the party lingered a few minutes around the sm•rg•sbord, a long table covered with hors d'oeuvres — a bewildering array of hors d'oeuvres — and chatted plate in hand. Patricia found herself for a moment next to Margaret Falke.
"Your face is very familiar," she said.
"Really?"
"Yes, I was talking to your husband about it, but we didn't get very far."
With a polite murmur, the Countess turned to select a caviar canapé from the table. She evidently did not share Patricia's efforts at recollection.
"Have you been in Stockholm before, Miss Morier?"
"Yes, some years ago. I'm very much attracted to Sweden. I may even get a summer place here."
Margaret Falke's eyes were on her plate. "Indeed?" But there was no enthusiasm in the word. She did not even add the conventional "How nice!"
"What section of the country would you advise?" asked Patricia.
"Oh, near Lake Vänern, perhaps, or in Värmland or Dalarna."
"But you live in the south yourself."
Margaret nodded. "In Smâland."
It struck Patricia that she made a point of looking past her at a group on the other side of the room. Unaccustomed to indifference like this, the other retaliated by turning away to talk with the American First Secretary.
What was the matter with the girl? Had her title gone to her head? Did she imagine that any little countess could high-hat Patricia Morier? The latter's somewhat scornful lips curled a trifle. But Margaret Falke didn't look conceited — just simple and vital and straightforward. Was it shyness or lack of social training? No, her voice had an entirely different tone now that she was talking with Lady Grayville. Patricia overheard her say, "You promised to visit us at Falkenborg." There had been no such cordiality toward her. Was it personal dislike then? She cared so little that with great ease she put the Countess out of mind.
It was different with Nils Falke. Finding herself at dinner between him and the Minister, she gave what she felt to be his arrogance a lesson by talking longer than necessary with Mr. Tarleton. But she remained conscious of him, as of a glow behind her shoulder, conscious of his silence or of his voice. It vexed her that she could not quite keep her mind on what Tarleton was saying, but found herself listening with half an ear to Falke's remarks on the other side. Once she almost flushed at the thought that she might not have exerted herself to show such knowledge of European politics, if she had not imagined he was listening, and had wanted to impress him. Childish. What did this young guardsman matter? She halfdreaded the moment when Tarleton would have to occupy himself with Lady Grayville.
It came inevitably. The Minister's eyes and smile shifted in the other direction. She was aware that Falke had raised his glass, and, according to Swedish etiquette, waited to drink her health. With an absurd flutter, such as she had not felt for years, she turned, gave the correct smile, and took a sip of wine in acknowledgment. After Mr. Tarleton and the state of Europe, this other side to her right seemed a different world. The banter in his eyes and the champagne in her glass were of the same order of things.
"It's about time," he said.
"For what?"
"Me. I could tell you a lot more interesting things than His Excellency did."
"About what?"
"You."
Once again she resented, but at the same time thrilled at his assurance.
"Such as?"
"How becoming black is to a blond complexion, and what marvelous hair you have. Isn't that more interesting than Hitler?"
It angered her that this was true, although she would not have admitted it, that it was especially true because he had said it, and that she was weakly flattered.
"Rather banal, isn't it?"
"Don't be stiff."
"Why not?"
"Because it's no fun. Because it isn't becoming." His smile melted her. Skâl he said, raising his glass again. "Please!" He looked like a mischievous, handsome boy. "Please! That's it! Skâl!"â Something yielded behind Patricia's blue eyes.
"Skâl!" she answered.
The orchestra was playing one of Mozart's minuets. The preposterous fancy crossed her mind as to how it would feel if . . . No! But for a moment she could not take her eyes from his strong, finely modeled, brown hand.
They continued their conversation, light as the accompanying minuet, but the tension was gone. She luxuriated in the novel role of forgetting herself, of feeling impulses, which she had seldom recognized, tingle through her like soft fire, of being for once not the heiress or the intellectual, but only feminine.
When she mentioned buying an estate in Sweden, Falke caught her up. "I know the very place for you. Only a few miles from Falkenborg. One of Count Ronda's holdings. Fine lake, beautiful woods. Look here now" — he took possession of her — "you are going to spend Midsummer next week with us at Falkenborg. I'll drive you over and show you the place. It's called Arvestad. Agreed?"
He extended his hand. She felt as if she were caught in a rapid.
"Perhaps you ought to consult Countess Falke."
"Greta? She'll be overjoyed. She loves showing off our young son to people, and so do I, not to speak of the house. Greta!" he called across the table, "Miss Morier's coming down to us next week. She's going to look at Arvestad. Isn't that capital?"
Margaret's face was hidden by the rose centerpiece, but a voice came back. "Delightful!"
"There you are. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
