Little sister Page 3

  Alix never had much recollection of the journey afterwards. She only knew that it seemed an incredibly short while before she was stepping out of the train at Victoria, and making her way out of the station towards a line of waiting taxis.

  The address of Varoni's hotel — learned from the first newspaper announcement of her arrival ■— seemed almost burnt into her memory. And she told the taxi-driver: "The Gloria, please," as confidently as though it were her own address.

  Then she sat well forward in her seat, letting the breeze from the open window cool her hot cheeks, and telling herself again and again that in a quarter of an hour — in ten minutes now — she would see her mother.

  The taxi drew up outside the Gloria — until now simply a name of vague grandeur to Alix — and she got out and paid the driver. A little timidly she approached the enormous commissionaire, but it seemed that he held no converse with ordinary mortals, for he merely swung the great revolving door for her — and Alix found herself inside a palace of magnificence.

  She was standing, she discovered, in a sort of circular lounge, whose proportions would not have disgraced a cathedral, while on either side stretched a prairie of grey-green carpet which felt like soft moss beneath her feet.

  Away in the distance, radiating from the great circular hall, were what appeared to be indoor streets of brilliantly lit shops, and, even as Alix stood there gazing around, one of the inlaid panels between two of the streets noiselessly disappeared, to disclose the fact that a silent lift hid coyly behind its gorgeous exterior.

  Perhaps a little of her bewilderment was visible on her face, because, after a moment or two, an official approached her. Not, of course, that the management of the Gloria committed such an error of taste as to have officials who looked like officials. The man who addressed Alix had the appearance of a senior member of the Diplomatic Corps, and he murmured "Inquiries, madam?" in a tone that would have soothed an angry dictator.

  "Oh yes, please," Alix said, a little breathlessly, relieved to find that her errand certainly came under the heading of "inquiries".

  She was courteously wafted towards a long counter, where a young man with an impeccable air of attention and sympathy bowed slightly to her.

  "Yes, madam?"

  "Please," Alix said, taking a grip on her courage, "may I see Madame Varoni? She's staying here, isn't she?"

  It was obvious to Alix at once that she had asked the one favour out of about three million which the management of the Gloria felt reluctantly bound to refuse her.

  "Have you an appointment?" the young man asked very gravely.

  "No. But I — know her." That was only true in a very limited sense, of course. "If you would just ask if she'd see me—"

  But it seemed that impossibility was piling on impossibility. The young man brought his teeth down over his lower lip and slowly shook his head.

  "I'm afraid it's quite impossible to disturb her on the day of a performance. The rule is very strict."

  "Oh—" For a moment, sheer interest drove the anxiety from her heart, and she smiled. "Is she singing tonight?"

  "Yes." The young man seemed surprised that Alix didn't know. "Tosca, I think—" he consulted a list — "No. Turandot."

  "Oh, I wonder if I could go." . "I doubt if you'd get a seat for a Varoni performance at this hour," he told her regretfully. "I know we have none at our own office."

  Alix's disappointment was so patent that the young man's air of unnatural respect became much more genuinely sympathetic. She didn't know that he was thinking:

  "Poor little kid. She's not just a fan, and yet I don't think she's the usual kind of hanger-on either."

  "I'll do my best to get you a ticket if you like."

  ''Would you?"

  "Of course."

  He turned away and began to do a lot of dialling and telephoning, while Alix stood there, her heart beating in slow thumps.

  After a minute or two he put the phone down.

  "I'm very sorry — no can do. There just isn't a seat left." Alix swallowed her disappointment. "I tell you what,

  though," he went on. "You could go along to the Opera House and try queueing for a returned ticket — that's the only chance there is left."

  "Thank you very much." Alix smiled at him. "And about — seeing her?"

  Alix, having no idea that her identity was still hovering between that of a fan and a hanger-on, couldn't quite understand the young man's expression.

  "You say you're a friend of hers?" he asked.

  "Well — yes. But I haven't seen her for years." It was odd to have to pretend like this, but she couldn't suddenly announce: "I'm Varoni's daughter," before Varoni herself knew that she was in the hotel. "She Would know my name, though," Alix added earnestly.

  "I — see." The young man still hesitated. Then, suddenly appearing to make up his mind, he leant his arm more confidentially on the counter between them.

  "Well, 111 tell you what I'd do, if I were you. I'd come back here right away after the performance tonight, and have a drink or something in the outer lounge. She'll be later than you because she's got to change and see people and all that sort of thing. Then, when she comes in, you'll see her go through to one of the private dining-rooms. She's having a party afterwards — she always does. You could send in a note then. She'll be feeling nice and friendly once the performance is over, and is much more likely to see you then than any other time. Why don't you try that?"

  Alix gave a slow and very lovely smile. The young man couldn't think of whom her smile reminded him, and it naturally did not occur to him that it was of Varoni herself.

  "I will," Alix said determinedly. "I'll do just that. Thank you very, very much indeed."

  And she went out of the magnificent portals of the Gloria, feeling very happy and relieved.

  By dint of inquiry she found her way to the Opera House by.bus, which saved a taxi fare, and a friendly policeman told her that the returns queue was round the corner.

  So round the corner hurried Alix — and stopped dead in amazement.

  Before her stretched what she thought was the largest and most varied crowd she had ever seen.

  Right down the street straggled the crowd of people sitting in the open street. Some of them were eating sandwiches, some knitting, some reading. Most of them were talking, none of them listening, all of them waiting.

  And then the realization came to Alix like a clap of thunder. They were all of them waiting to hear her mother!

  (She didn't know, of course, that this reflection would have caused mortal offence to the principal tenor who, in the manner of tenors, naturally believed they were all there to hear him.)

  Alix timidly attached herself to the back of the queue.

  "It's no good waiting, you know. You won't get in," remarked the man in front of her. But he spoke without any apparent expectation of being believed.

  Alix leant her back against the wall, conscious suddenly that she was very tired and that her legs ached. A few people, even more stupidly hopeful than herself, came up presently and joined the queue behind her. She was glad It made her feel less self-conscious and silly.

  Anyway, if she got in, she didn't mind anything.

  Her head ached and her back ached and her legs ached. But she was going to see her mother if she stood throughout the evening.

  One or two falterers left the queue. Twice the commissionaire emerged with a precious ticket and the lucky person at the head of the queue went triumphantly into the Opera House.

  But at last, just before seven-thirty, the commissionaire announced that there were no more seats, and the crowd melted disconsolately away.

  Alix fumbled in her handbag for her handkerchief. And after that she had much ado not to weep openly all the way back to the hotel.

  Well, there was nothing to do now but wait. And back in her quiet bedroom once more, she slipped off her suit, lay down on the bed and tried to rest. She tried, too, to reassure herself. She had had a run of bad luck,
of course, but everything would be all right once her mother knew that she was here. Every dear remembered line of that photograph went to reassure her. She could even imagine

  her mother bringing her forward towards her guests and saying, with a sort of laughing, tender pride: "This is my daughter, Afix."

  And on that Alix fell asleep.

  When she awoke it was already quite late, and, slipping off the bed, she washed hastily, brushed her hair and twisted it up in its knot, and very carefully dressed herself again.

  It didn't take long by taxi to reach the Gloria, and another commissionaire — of different appearance but similar proportions — swung the door for her once more.

  Alix felt very much as though she were stepping out upon a stage, and she supposed that the quick breathing and the dreadful, uneven thumping of her heart were symptoms of stage-fright. But she did her best to appear as though she were quite used to walking into a fashionable hotel lounge.

  On every side there appeared to be marvellously dressed women and politely casual men, and only with a tremendous effort could she force herself to walk over to a fairly secluded seat from which she could watch the door.

  Her mouth felt terribly dry and her throat as though it would crack, but to sit down made her feel a little better because at least that meant that she didn't have to consider her shaking legs.

  By and by she timidly ordered a sherry from a passing waiter, for that was what the young man had said one ought to do. When it came, she sampled it nervously.

  She shivered occasionally, and at other times she was so hot that she could feel the colour flush into her cheeks.

  It seemed to her that hundreds of people had passed in or out of that door. Every time it swung, her heart dropped inches, only to rise again until it seemed to be beating in her throat.

  "I can't bear it much longer — I can't possibly bear it much longer!" Alix told herself.

  And then, yet again, the heavy door swung. There was a little spatter of applause from a group of people near the entrance. And across the lounge, radiant as an empress, came Varoni.

  Her great blue eyes were sparkling, her head ^as high, and she smiled a little proudly as s h e came. The armful of

  flowers, the white brocade coat, the diamonds in her fan-hair, were all just candles to the sun. The real radiance was in Varoni herself. It blazed from her like actual light, and every glance acknowledged it as she passed.

  She didn't look like Alix's mother. She didn't look like anybody's mother. She was beauty and power triumphant. And the way conversation stopped as she passed, cutting a pathway of silence through the crowded lounge, was the most extraordinary tribute that Alix had ever seen.

  It was over in a few seconds. She was gone, taking with her the group who had come in at the same time. And Alix found herself on her feet, staring with aching, dazzled eyes at the place where Varoni had been.

  After a while she sat down again, and the rest of her actions were purely mechanical — carried out simply because she had rehearsed them again and again in her imagination, and nothing could stop them now.

  She drew out the note she had written and read it again.

  "Please, please may T see you? I've waited so long. — Alix."

  Then she put it back in the envelope, stuck down the flap, and called a waiter.

  "Will you please take that to Madame Varoni." The man hesitated. "It's urgent," Alix said, and her pallor was so deep and the anxiety in her voice so sharp that he went then without question.

  She didn't know how long he was away. She didn't know what she saw or heard or thought during that time. She just felt blank and drained.

  Then he came back.

  "Will you come this way, please, madam?"

  She followed him, rather slowly because she was incapable now of walking fast. She supposed he was going to show her into a crowded, brilliantly lighted dining-room, and she rather thought she would faint on the threshold.

  But he didn't. He showed her into a thickly-carpeted room, where carelessly grouped chairs and a couple of deep settees suggested cosiness and intimate talks. Then, murmuring something indistinguishable, he left her: and Alix realized that at the end of the room hung heavy velvet ins, from behind which came the subdued sound of iy voices and the clink of glass and china.

  She stared at the curtains, half terrified, half fascinated, and as she did so, they parted, and Varoni came into the room, letting the curtains fall to again behind her. She was not smiling now and her blue eyes looked dark and, in an odd way, almost apprehensive.

  She didn't say anything for a few seconds, and then:

  "Are you really — Alix?" she asked, and her voice was low-pitched and full, with a very faint foreign intonation.

  "Yes," whispered Alix. "I had to come. Grandma's dead and I had to come." She came quite close to her mother and, as though she couldn't help it, put out her hand and touched her warm, white arm in a strangely humble little gesture of appeal.

  For a moment Varoni stared at the fingers on her arm with the most extraordinary expression on her face. Then without a word she took Alix in her arms and kissed her over and over again.

  Presently she took off the child's hat and smoothed her fair hair, saying something about how dear and pretty she was. And all the while Alix was silent. She couldn't speak. She couldn't even weep. Just once she kissed her mother's cheek in a passionate little access of gratitude for such happiness. But most of the time she was quite still, almost stifled by the rapture of such nearness to the wonderful creature who had possessed her imagination for so long.

  "She's my mother," Alix said to herself over and over again. "She's my mother. Oh, it's such a lovely word. She's my mother."

  "You're so quiet, love. Are you all right?" Varoni said softly.

  "Yes," Alix whispered. "It's just happiness—"

  And then the curtains at the end of the room were swung aside.

  "Nina!" The tall dark man who was holding back the curtain spoke in a tone of good-humoured command. "The party cannot go/on without you—" He stopped and then said sharply: "Who is this?"

  Beyond the curtain Alix saw interested faces. All those smiling people were waiting to hear what Varoni would say. In that moment, the tenderest love and pride in her mother filled Alix's heart, and with it the humblest joy that she was really her daughter.

  She glanced at Varoni shyly. Those great blue eyes were wide and dark again, and, for a second, she wore a curious, waiting expression, almost as though she were listening to some inner voice. It was gone almost as soon as it was there. Then she smiled and, taking Alix by the hand, almost as Alix had dreamed, she led her forward into the room.

  "This," said Varoni in her calm, beautiful voice, "is Alix — my little sister."

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE SHOCK was so complete and so utterly unexpected that Alix stumbled a little, and the tall, dark man put his hand under her elbow to steady her.

  She murmured a word of thanks, stared up for a moment into very puzzled brown eyes, and then passed on to the head of the table where, it seemed, Varoni would sit, with her new-found "sister" on one side of her.

  "You shall sit there, darling, so that I can look at you and enjoy you," Varoni said, adding to the people round her: "It is so long since I have seen her. So difficult for me, you know—" She made a graceful and comprehensive gesture with her hands, and everyone murmured sympathy for the great star whose public life inevitably interfered with her private affections.

  Alix said nothing. Her tongue seemed too heavy to move, and her heart, which had been thumping so madly, fluttered now in a feeble, frightened little movement that seemed to make breathing difficult.

  "I didn't know you had a sister, Nina," someone said, and Alix found the big, dark man watching her once more. He sat at Varoni's right hand, facing Alix at the long narrow table, and for a moment she found the scrutiny of those dark eyes very disturbing.

  Varoni, however, was unmoved.

  "No? I
always kept her away from this life. She is so young, and always seemed to me the baby sister. Why, there must be a dozen years between us," she added, with a smiling candour which everyone felt was rare in a singer. "Eh, darling?" Varoni just touched the curve of Alix's cheek. The fingers were slim and warm and caressing, but there was unmistakable authority in their touch.

  For a moment Alix looked at her mother with something not unlike horror, then the compelling, slightly hard brilliance of those blue eyes recalled her to her senses.

  "Yes," she said, a little unsteadily. "Yes, almost a dozen years." And then she couldn't manage any more.

  It seemed to her the most terrible, terrible betrayal, this refusal to allow her her own identity. And it followed with

  such stunning suddenness on what had been to her an almost unbearably moving scene.

  It had not been only the sense of physical nearness which had been so sweet — the feel of her mother's arms, the soft touch of her smiling mouth. It had been even more the miraculous sensation that their very spirits met, after a separation of years, in a union so strong that even words were needless.

  In that moment when her lips had touched the warm whiteness of her mother's cheek, Alix had known that they were one. She would have known it if she had been blind and deaf.

  And Varoni had felt that too. Surely, surely she had known something almost sacred in that long, tender embrace which had seemed to isolate them from all the rest of the world.

  While Alix had been thinking: "She is my mother! She is my mother!" surely Varoni had thought in her turn: "This is my daughter — my little daughter, Alix." The very touch of her hands had said as much.

  Yet three minutes afterwards, she had calmly announced to the people round her that Alix was her sister — her little sister. The indulgence in her tone was sisterly. The deception was perfect.

  With very great difficulty Alix swallowed the lump in her throat, disregarded the humming in her ears, and forced herself to realize that the man on her left was speaking to her. She glanced at him, and was faintly reassured to find that he was a tall, fair, rather lazy-looking Englishman. But she could not entirely shake off her bewildered apprehension, and perhaps a little of her scared misery showed in her eyes, because he said gravely: