Read Online The Silver Dragon by Jean S. Macleod - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jean S. Macleod
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remember like this is no use. It will only retard a cure.”
“A cure?” she questioned bleakly. “ Is there a cure?” Her eyes searched his and he could not lie to her.
“Time,” he was forced to admit, “is the only cure. A year, perhaps ... ”
“A year?” She felt shattered. “And probably not even then?”
He bent to throw a log on the fire. It was typical of Cabot, he thought, insisting on the luxury of an open hearth in the English tradition, even here in the south of France.
“I think, if you don’t mind,” Adele said, “I’ll go to bed. I feel as if this has been the longest day of my life.” It was nine o’clock and, if she went now, she would avoid another meeting with Dixon Cabot. It was a cowardly action, no doubt, but her distress was very real. His dominating personality was something that had to be met with assurance, and she was far from being assured.
In spite of John’s comforting presence, she sensed issues lying just beneath the surface that she would have to face alone.
“I think it might be a wise idea,” John agreed, following her to the door. “I’ll take a quick turn around the garden, I think, before I turn in for the night.” He looked at her directly for the first time. “Try to sleep, Adele,” he said. “There’s nothing we can do about this but wait.”
Swiftly she ran from him up the staircase, and when she had reached her room she heard the crunch of his footsteps on the gravel beneath her window. As the sound faded an overwhelming sense of panic took possession of her. Her tiredness seemed to weigh her down, dragging beneath her eyes, and the doctor’s retreating footsteps left her poised on the edge of a void. When he finally left Les Rochers Blanches she would be completely and utterly alone.
With a desperate sort of determination goading her forward, she opened her door and went back down the broad marble stairs. There was a light burning in the study and she knocked and went in.
Dixon Cabot was seated at his desk, writing, and he finished a sentence and blotted it before he stood up.
“I ... think I ought to go back to Switzerland,” Adele said breathlessly.
He came around the end of the desk, watching her closely.
“With Dr. Ordley?” he asked.
“No, alone. John would go on to Italy.”
“I see,” he said thinly. “To Brindisi, perhaps?”
She looked back at him, puzzled by a reference she could not hope to understand.
He took out a cigarette and lit it. As he slid the silver snuffer over the dragon’s jaws he said with mock admiration, “You’re an admirable actress. One might almost be tempted to trust you if it were not for the facts.”
Upset by his relentless antagonism and the coldness of his contempt, she rushed back to her room without even bidding him good-night and without knowing whether he would agree to her return to the clinic or not.
Desperately tired as she was, she knew that she would not sleep, but instead of switching on her light she walked to the window and drew the curtains back. The night was dark. There was no moon and very few stars. She could only see as far as the terrace and the headlands rising vaguely beyond it. The Mediterranean looked cold and forbidding now, in contrast with the warm friendly blue sea she had watched that morning, with the sun breaking its surface into a dazzle of joyous golden waves.
How long she stood looking out before she became aware of the light she did not know. It came in two short flashes—in, out; in, out—and she watched it curiously for a moment before she realized that it might be some sort of signal.
There was a short period of darkness before it started again, and this time the message was longer. The flashes were unevenly spaced, some short, some long, and they were punctuated by definite pauses.
The Morse code, she thought, but could make nothing of it. The short signal was repeated. The light must be somewhere near the base of the headland cliffs, she decided,
“A cure?” she questioned bleakly. “ Is there a cure?” Her eyes searched his and he could not lie to her.
“Time,” he was forced to admit, “is the only cure. A year, perhaps ... ”
“A year?” She felt shattered. “And probably not even then?”
He bent to throw a log on the fire. It was typical of Cabot, he thought, insisting on the luxury of an open hearth in the English tradition, even here in the south of France.
“I think, if you don’t mind,” Adele said, “I’ll go to bed. I feel as if this has been the longest day of my life.” It was nine o’clock and, if she went now, she would avoid another meeting with Dixon Cabot. It was a cowardly action, no doubt, but her distress was very real. His dominating personality was something that had to be met with assurance, and she was far from being assured.
In spite of John’s comforting presence, she sensed issues lying just beneath the surface that she would have to face alone.
“I think it might be a wise idea,” John agreed, following her to the door. “I’ll take a quick turn around the garden, I think, before I turn in for the night.” He looked at her directly for the first time. “Try to sleep, Adele,” he said. “There’s nothing we can do about this but wait.”
Swiftly she ran from him up the staircase, and when she had reached her room she heard the crunch of his footsteps on the gravel beneath her window. As the sound faded an overwhelming sense of panic took possession of her. Her tiredness seemed to weigh her down, dragging beneath her eyes, and the doctor’s retreating footsteps left her poised on the edge of a void. When he finally left Les Rochers Blanches she would be completely and utterly alone.
With a desperate sort of determination goading her forward, she opened her door and went back down the broad marble stairs. There was a light burning in the study and she knocked and went in.
Dixon Cabot was seated at his desk, writing, and he finished a sentence and blotted it before he stood up.
“I ... think I ought to go back to Switzerland,” Adele said breathlessly.
He came around the end of the desk, watching her closely.
“With Dr. Ordley?” he asked.
“No, alone. John would go on to Italy.”
“I see,” he said thinly. “To Brindisi, perhaps?”
She looked back at him, puzzled by a reference she could not hope to understand.
He took out a cigarette and lit it. As he slid the silver snuffer over the dragon’s jaws he said with mock admiration, “You’re an admirable actress. One might almost be tempted to trust you if it were not for the facts.”
Upset by his relentless antagonism and the coldness of his contempt, she rushed back to her room without even bidding him good-night and without knowing whether he would agree to her return to the clinic or not.
Desperately tired as she was, she knew that she would not sleep, but instead of switching on her light she walked to the window and drew the curtains back. The night was dark. There was no moon and very few stars. She could only see as far as the terrace and the headlands rising vaguely beyond it. The Mediterranean looked cold and forbidding now, in contrast with the warm friendly blue sea she had watched that morning, with the sun breaking its surface into a dazzle of joyous golden waves.
How long she stood looking out before she became aware of the light she did not know. It came in two short flashes—in, out; in, out—and she watched it curiously for a moment before she realized that it might be some sort of signal.
There was a short period of darkness before it started again, and this time the message was longer. The flashes were unevenly spaced, some short, some long, and they were punctuated by definite pauses.
The Morse code, she thought, but could make nothing of it. The short signal was repeated. The light must be somewhere near the base of the headland cliffs, she decided,
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