When at last he spoke again he made no further attempt to argue with her. “Why,” he asked curiously, “did you come to me? Was I the only person in London you could think of?”
“No, it wasn’t that. I hadn’t really come here intentionally.” And then she told him a little of how she had lost all her money, and gone vainly to Fanchette, and then wandered about in the rain until, in her weariness, she had felt that the only thing in the world which mattered was for her to be able to sink down somewhere.
He frowned then, and his handsome eyes were graver than she had ever seen them.
“Well, you will stay here tonight,” he said crisply. “Oh, yes, you will,” at her movement of protest. Then he smiled dryly. “It’s all right. I have friends here in the same block of flats. Conrad Schreiner and Manora, his—er—wife have one of these flats while they are staying in London. I’ll ring up now and get her to come over and stay with you. And I can go across with Schreiner.”
Anna bit her lip to stop it trembling. It seemed silly that kindness hurt almost as much as anything else just now. “But—I can’t turn you out like that,” she protested. “And what will your friends think?”
“Oh, they aren’t the kind of people to ask questions,” Frayne assured her with a smile. “And Manora will be very kind to you.”
“But—”
“It isn’t any good,” Frayne interrupted firmly. “You can’t possibly go to an hotel at this time of night with no luggage and looking as you do. Besides, you’re not fit to go anywhere alone just now.”
Anna made no further protest, but lay back in the chair with a strange sort of laziness creeping over her. She felt incapable of any further argument or struggle, and there was something infinitely soothing in letting Mario Frayne direct her troubled life for an hour or two.
“Won’t your friends be in bed at this time of night?” was all she said now, but it was a very half-hearted protest, and when he replied, “No. They keep unearthly hours,” she was quite satisfied.
She watched him idly while he was telephoning, and found a good deal of comfort in the strong, firm lines of his determined mouth. He was talking now, explaining in rapid Italian which her mind was too tired to follow, and from the other end of the wire she could hear a woman’s voice. Then Frayne laughed at something that was said, and a moment later the voice changed, and it was a man who was speaking. Anna could hear the deep, abrupt tone.
Frayne said in English, rather slowly as though to a foreigner: “Manora will explain to you. She understands and she does not mind.” Then he rang off.
“Was that Conrad Schreiner?” Anna asked, with faint interest.
Frayne nodded.
“Did he mind much?”
“Oh no. He never minds anything that Manora wants. Except, of course, where her singing is concerned. I think he is a tyrant there.”
“Is Manora a singer, then?”
“Yes.”
“Is she—is she—kind?” Anna asked timidly.
“Very,” Frayne said soothingly.
“And what is she? I mean—does she speak English?”
“Oh yes, very well indeed,” Frayne assured her. “I don’t really know what nationality she is—I don’t think anyone does. Some sort of Balkan, I should imagine. Anyway, she talks every language I’ve ever come across.”
“Oh.” Anna closed her eyes wearily.
She had no idea how much her pallor worried Frayne, but she heard the anxiety in his voice as he said gently: “Would you like me to carry you to the bedroom?”
“Oh no, thank you,” she began. But he had already picked her up, very easily; and, carrying Her into the next room, he laid her on the bed.
She murmured a word of thanks, and the next moment there was the sound of the electric door-bell.
Frayne left her, and weary though she was, Anna forced her eyes open. She felt nervous again, and wondered frightenedly what this unknown woman would be like. Frayne had said she was kind—but then she remembered, wincing a little, Tony had somehow implied that Katherine was kind. It took a woman to find out the cruelty of another woman.
Suppose this Manora were curious and critical?—a little impatient, as well she might be, at being called out at this time of night? Oh, she wouldn’t say so to Frayne, of course, because women always did what he wanted, and smiled about it too.
She could hear Manora speaking now—a low-pitched voice, very full, and with a curious impression of changing colour in it. A siren’s voice, thought Anna; and, in sudden panic, she closed her eyes and refused to open them again, even though she knew that the other two were in the room by now.
“I think perhaps she has fallen asleep,” Frayne said worriedly.
“Poor baby,” the other voice said, and Anna knew Manora was leaning over her. “But I think she is not asleep. She is just a little afraid—of me.”
Anna’s eyes flew open at that, and she stared straight up into the bluest eyes she had ever seen.
“Well, my child, are you afraid of me?” Manora smiled, but she did not attempt to touch Anna. She sat down at the end of the bed and looked at her.
At that moment Anna could not have said whether Manora was plain or beautiful. All she saw was that smile and the warm blue of her eyes.
Without a word, she began to crawl rather feebly across the wide bed towards her. It was quite instinctive, like the movement of a wounded animal making for home, and, with a little cry of pity, Manora leaned forward and gathered Anna up against her.
“I’m so glad you’ve come. I’m so glad you’ve come,” muttered Anna, and leaned her forehead against Manora, with an extraordinary feeling of having found a refuge.
“She will be all right now.” Manora’s eyes met Mario
Frayne’s over Anna’s smooth dark head. “You can go, Mario. And give Conrad my love.”
“Give Conrad your love!” mocked Frayne. “You only left him five minutes ago.”
“I know. But he will like to know I still love him, all the same,” replied Manora calmly.
“Very well. Good night, Anna,” Frayne said gently.
“Good night and—thank you!” Anna put out her hand without looking up, and she felt Frayne kiss it lightly.
“Buona notte, Manora.”
“Buona notte.”
And a moment later the front door closed behind him.
Anna looked up then. “It’s very, very kind of you to come and look after me like this,” she said earnestly.
“No. Is for me a pleasure,” was the smiling reply. Although Manora’s actual pronunciation was excellent, she often put her words in a peculiar order, and she practically never used the word “it”.
“Will you go to bed now?” she asked gently. “Shall I help you undress?”
“Oh, I—I can manage for myself, thank you,” Anna said, but in the end she was glad of Manora’s help, for she felt strangely feeble.
“Would you like that I sleep here—or in the other room?” Manora asked, when Anna was in bed.
“Would you—mind—sleeping here with me?” Anna said diffidently.
“No. I will sleep here,” agreed Manora without question.
Anna watched her idly, and thought how pretty she was. At least—pretty was hardly the word, she supposed. Something much stronger and more vital than that.
She must be somewhere between thirty-five and forty, Anna decided, and she would not have been surprised if that strong, fair hair, with its beautiful deep wave, had the faintest touch of grey in it. Not on account of her age, but because of experience. For there was a good deal of very varied experience behind Manora’s smile.
As Anna studied her, she decided that she liked the unusual shape of her face, with its wide cheekbones, sloping to a rather pointed chin, and the odd attractive way the corners of her mouth lifted when she smiled. Above all, there was the slightest hint of the adventuress about her, which Anna found intriguing and even a little amusing.
“Well?” Manora came over to the b
ed. “You feel better, eh?”
“Yes, thank you,” Anna smiled.
“You like that I leave on the light for a while ?”
“Do you mind?”
“Oh no. Conrad and I keep very late hours.”
“Conrad is your husband?” Anna asked shyly.
There was a short pause, and then Manora said: “Yes.”
Anna didn’t pursue the subject. She said instead: “Did—did Mr. Frayne explain anything about me?”
“A little. He said you were not happy about your husband and that perhaps you leave him.”
“Oh! ... Yes, that’s true. At least, there’s no ‘perhaps’. I am going to leave him,” Anna said doggedly.
“Because you do not love him, or because you do?” was the unexpected question.
“Because I do,” said Anna, in a low voice.
“You are generous. Most women hold on, without regard for the man’s happiness.” Manora’s voice had a touch of bitterness which Anna could not help guessing had been put there by personal feeling.
“Well, I want—Tony—to be happy more than anything else—in the world,” she replied slowly. “More than anything else in the world,” she repeated drowsily. And suddenly she was asleep, with her cheek against Manora’s warm, bare arm.
When she awoke she seemed to have slept dreamlessly for hours, and she felt extraordinarily refreshed. She realised that her head was still against Manora’s arm, and she started up with a little apologetic murmur.
Manora was lying there with her eyes wide open, exactly as though she had not been asleep at all.
“I’m terribly sorry. I must have cramped your arm, I’m afraid,” Anna said.
“No.” Manora shook her head. “I am used to it. Conrad nearly always sleeps like that, and he is much heavier than you.”
“Oh,” said Anna, a little nonplussed by such frankness. Then she smiled. “I think anyone would feel rested just to have your arm round them,” she said shyly, and she was surprised and touched to see that Manora flushed deeply.
“Thank you. Is a very nice compliment,” she said with a pleased little laugh. “And now—do we get up for breakfast or—?”
“Oh yes, please.” Anna sat up quickly, with all her fear and bewilderment of yesterday clutching at her heart. “You see I—I must see my husband this morning and explain that—I mean, make him believe that—” She stopped helplessly.
“I see,” said Manora calmly. “Then I telephone to Mario and tell him to come to breakfast. Conrad, he will not be up yet. Besides, you do not want to meet anyone new just now.”
It was a strange breakfast really, with both these odd but kindly people so concerned about her. Somehow, it was much easier to explain things to them than to anyone else she had ever met. Few things surprised them and nothing at all appeared to shock them. It was curiously soothing after the atmosphere of the Eaton Square house.
“I suppose what you really need more than anything else at the moment is a job,” Frayne said thoughtfully.
“I suppose it is,” Anna agreed, with her anxious eyes on him. “Well, if you have some idea of dancing—have you?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And with your exceptional voice, I can always get you into the chorus of one of the musical shows—”
“Would you?” Anna interrupted eagerly.
Frayne laughed a trifle uncomfortably. “Well, of course—if you want that. But I don’t know how the life would suit you. And I’m afraid, if you were a protégée of mine, that implies—well, something you probably wouldn’t like.”
“Do you mind? I mean on your own account?” Anna said.
“Good heavens, no, child. I haven’t so very much reputation to lose,” Frayne said dryly.
“Then I don’t care either,” said Anna defiantly.
Frayne gave her a troubled look. “There might be nothing at all said, of course, but on the other hand—well, it could be very unpleasant. Anyone like your charming sister-in-law would make a nice story of it.”
Anna’s face went quite blank and hard.
“Katherine has nothing whatever to do with my future,” she said almost coldly. At which Frayne shrugged and said no more.
When Anna was ready to go—in the linen suit, from which the invaluable Umberto had miraculously removed all the crumples and most of the stain—she found, to her surprise, that Manora was coming too.
“But—but really you mustn’t,” she stammered. “I can manage very well alone.”
“I wait for you outside,” said Manora calmly. “I have my car here.” And Anna, feeling oddly relieved, didn’t protest any more.
Just as they were going, Frayne drew her back a little and let Manora go on ahead.
“Anna,” he said, “are you quite determined to break with Tony?”
“Yes,” Anna said steadily, without looking at him; “I know it’s the only—decent thing to do.”
“Very well. Then the more finally you do it, of course, the better. I just wanted to say that, if you want to use the fact that you spent last night in my flat, you can do so—without any further explanation.”
Anna stared at him. “But—”
“There, run along with you.” He laughed, and gave her a gentle little push. “Look after her Manora!” he called, and went back into the flat.
Manora, who, rather surprisingly drove the big Mercedes-Benz herself, had the tact not to talk to Anna on the way to Hamilton’s office.
Anna knew the address, but had no idea how to get there. However, Manora appeared to know her London well, and she drove unhesitatingly, while Anna sat wordless beside her—her hands gripped desperately together in an effort to keep herself from trembling.
“Is the place, I think,” Manora said at last, and drew the car up at the kerb. Anna felt her heart give a sickening lurch, and, for a moment she thought: “It’s quite impossible. I cannot—cannot go on with this awful thing.”
Then she remembered Tony’s aunt weeping because his life was rained, and she remembered Tony’s disgust and bewilderment over that scene with Katherine, and she remembered Katherine saying how awful it was when a man was saddled with a common baby as well as a common wife.
She got slowly out of the car, wishing her legs wouldn’t feel so dreadfully hollow.
“I wait here half an hour,” Manora said, as though it were an appointment with a dressmaker.
“She’s rather insensitive really. She doesn’t understand, after all,” thought Anna, and felt dreadfully alone. Then, because she immediately felt remorseful, she gave a faint smile at Manora and said: “Thank you very much. But perhaps I shall be longer.”
Manora leaned forward at that, and put her hand on Anna’s. “These scenes hurt less if you shorten them,” was all she said.
And Anna went into the big building wondering at the back of her aching mind where and how Manora had had all her experience.
The moment Anna told the polite junior clerk that she was Mrs. Roone he showed her at once into Tony’s private office.
“Anna!” Tony sprang to his feet and came forward eagerly. And then: “Don’t let anyone in, Bentham, until I ring. I shall be busy.”
“Yes, sir.” Bentham withdrew.
“My dear, what on earth has happened?” Tony looked white and anxious as he led her to a chair. “They’ve just telephoned up to say you didn’t come home all night.”
“No, that’s right—I went away.” Anna thought how stupid that sounded as she said it.
“You went away? I don’t understand. Why did you go away?”
Now was the moment.
Anna drew a deep breath and stared straight in front of her. “I went away because I couldn’t possibly stand it any more. It’s all a dreadful mistake. I ought never to have married you. I can’t possibly live your life. It’s all—wrong for me to try.”
“But, my darling!” She didn’t know how to bear the tenderness in his voice. “You’ve just got this idea because of that beastly business with yo
ur stepfather—and then Kate being horrid afterwards—haven’t you?”
“No—oh no.” It was extraordinary, she thought, how far that had faded into the background. It had seemed so hideously important twenty-four hours ago. Now it was only one ugly fact among many.
“But, Anna dearest,” he put his arm round her in spite of her slight resistance, “we haven't given things much of a trial, have we? It will be all so different when we’re in our own home away from Eaton Square.”
She hadn’t thought of that, and for a moment she was silent. Then she was frightened to realise how her resolution bent and crumpled before the gentleness in his voice.
“No,” she said almost violently. “Won’t you understand I just can’t go on? I want to do something else instead.”
“You—what?” He looked thunderstruck. “What do you want to do instead?”
“I want to go on the stage.” She wished her voice wouldn’t go so ridiculously faint. “It’s—it’s dull just being your wife and—having to do and say all the things I dislike.”
“Dull!” His hands gripped her nervously. “What do you mean—dull? Was it dull when you lay in my arms the other night? Is it dull when I hold you and kiss you like this?” He kissed her fiercely so that he almost hurt her.
“Don’t!” Anna gasped, struggling frantically, because every vestige of her strength and resolution seemed to be slipping from her.
“Look at me.”
“No.”
“Look at me!”
In sullen despair she raised her eyes to his. She felt as though a heavy hand were closing round her heart and crushing it.
“I only want to ask you a question,” he said slowly, unaware that he was hurting her arms. “Do you love me—or don’t you? It’s all that matters. Nothing else matters at all.” If she gave way now, she could lie in Tony’s arms while he kissed her and soothed her and made her forget all the horror that had passed.
But what would that do to Tony ? They would be just where they had been before. No use denying it. It would be Tony who would have to pay for their mistaken marriage. Pay with deepening misery and disillusionment. Both of them had made that mistake, but only one need pay for it.
Only one need pay.
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