“But, of course.”
“Then you don’t … you don’t care anything about me?”
Anna stared at him for a moment and then placed her two hands upon his shoulders. She was certainly smiling at him this time.
“You mustn’t be so foolish,” she said. “I like you very much. You’ve made me like you. I hope we shall always be friends now.”
“Friends!” Gervase answered, and stood there without moving. Then pushing her hands aside he took her in his arms and kissed her again.
For a moment she remained in his arms, not moving.
“You must go now,” she said. “Or I shall start crying again.”
But Gervase did not move.
“And you think that I can go just like that?” he asked. “I tell you that I’ve been thinking about you day and night ever since I saw you at the dance. That’s why I came here—just to see you.”
He swallowed again as he said the last words and Anna saw that his lips were trembling.
“Poor Gervase,” she said. “You’re so much in love and I know how it hurts. But it’s no use. You’ve got to get over it. Remember, I shall be unhappy, too; I shall know it’s because of me that you’re miserable. But there’s no other way, Gervase. You’ll be Lord Yarde one day, and I shall be a governess in somebody else’s house by then. But I shall never forget you: I shall always remember that once when I was very sad Gervase Yarde was kind to me, and I shall love you for it.”
There was a knock at the door and Mrs. Merton stood there. Her hands were kept folded in front of her, and she did not raise her eyes: it was as though she were both seeing and ignoring them.
“Her Ladyship is asking for you, Mr. Gervase,” she said. “May I tell her Ladyship that you will be coming?”
When Gervase had gone away Anna sat there motionless, staring into the small grate in which the fire was failing. There were no tongues of flame now, only the faint glow of the tired coals. It was chilly, but she didn’t move.
“I did not realise until this moment,” she thought, “how old I really am. But I see it clearly now. I’m young no longer.”
Chapter XLIII
I
The Scene of forgiveness was over now: and the relief that Lady Yarde felt was enormous. In particular, she felt relieved that Lord Yarde had not raised any objections. She had been careful to conceal from him that the whole fantastic scheme—for the scheme was rather fantastic, she supposed, when you came to think about it—was Gervase’s. And Lord Yarde’s only comment had been: “If the girl’s satisfactory, keep her. If she isn’t, let her go.” It seemed that he was perfectly prepared that the whole of this storm should blow itself out above his head without troubling him.
And Lady Yarde found every moment fascinating. Anna’s gratitude was so evident and so touching that whenever she looked at her a great lump came into her throat.
“They could never send a child all that way alone,” she said suddenly. “They must send someone with her. I shall tell them so.”
She seated herself at her desk and began to write. The words came copiously. She filled the first page and turned over. It was only when she had reached the bottom of the second page that she stopped for a moment and then started writing furiously again. Anna could hear the rough point of her quill racing across the paper. When she had finished Lady Yarde was really exhausted: her hand was shaking as she raised the stick of sealing wax to the candle and pressed her crest into the red blob of the envelope.
“I have a great surprise for you, my dear,” she said. “A very great surprise. I’ve asked Caroline to come herself. They must let her have a holiday sometime. I’m sure she won’t mind travelling with a child: she’s always been very peculiar.”
Lady Yarde sat back and began adjusting the big comb in her hair. She leant over and patted Anna’s cheek.
“To-day is a day,” she said with a sigh. “When I have made everybody happy.”
She beckoned to Anna to come over to her.
“And another time,” she added, “don’t try to run away from us. You hurt my feelings more than you’ll ever realise.”
II
Nobody noticed that Anna wasn’t living at Tilliards any longer. She still taught Delia the dates of the French kings and the names of the rivers of Europe; still helped Lady Yarde with her correspondence; still took those long solitary walks in the park. But she was living in the convent really. She was back inside those grey walls once more. Only, this time she was watching the nuns all crowded round one fair-haired little girl. They were telling her that she was going on a long journey, in a train and on a boat, and that at the other end she would find her mother waiting for her.
Often, as Anna walked alone, she said Annette’s name aloud and pretended that she could hear her answering.
“It can’t be long now,” she kept telling herself. “And then I shall really be able to hear her. I shall know what her voice sounds like.”
And at the thought that ever for a moment she should have forgotten, tears would come into her eyes.
But to-day as she went out in the park she found Captain Webb waiting for her. He was standing solidly planted across the path, his legs wide apart and his pipe reeking into the air above his head as if he were prepared to remain there all day for her if necessary. And, when he saw her, he came at once in her direction.
“Mind if we go along together?” he asked.
It was obvious from his tone that there was something troubling him. He did not say very much and even when his pipe went out he did not trouble to re-light it.
“Got something for you,” he said at last. “Came this morning.”
He began searching about in his pocket and produced, somewhat crumpled, a blue envelope with a regimental coat of arms upon the back.
“Asked me particularly to give it into your own hands,” he added, without explaining who in fact it was who had asked him.
She knew at once who it was from, saw Gervase himself in those clumsy, flourishing capitals that had been pressed down so hard upon the paper that the points of the nib had splayed open. It was an impetuous, immature-looking sort of hand.
“But this is impossible,” she thought angrily. “He had no right to send a letter. I warned him not to be foolish.”
She turned to Captain Webb and saw—or was it only that she imagined it?—that he was eyeing her closely.
“Have you … have you seen him?” she asked.
Captain Webb shook his head.
“Came by post,” he said briefly. “Inside a letter for me.”
From the way he spoke it was apparent that he would have liked to be able to wash his hands of the whole affair.
They walked on for a moment in silence, Anna holding the letter in her hand still unopened.
“Why did he have to do this?” she asked at last. “It is so silly of him.”
Captain Webb considered the remark for a moment and, not knowing what the answer was, he made none. He began fiddling with his pipe instead. Finally, taking his pipe out of his mouth altogether, he turned towards her.
“Have to forgive me for what I’m going to say now,” he began. “Simply trying to keep you out of trouble. Better keep clear of that young man. No use to you. Even thought of tearing up his letter and not giving it to you.”
Anna smiled.
“What a lot of trouble I’ve given you,” she said.
But Captain Webb was not to be put off so easily.
“Playing with fire, you know,” he went on, searching awkwardly for his words. “If her Ladyship came to hear of it, there’d be the Devil to pay.”
It was obvious that Captain Webb was by now very much embarrassed. He had put his pipe away in his pocket and, now that he had nothing to do with his hands, he began pulling at his tie, rearranging it.
“Poor dear,” Anna thought, “he means so well. He is so straightforward. Even his embarrassment embarrasses him.”
Captain Webb, however, had taken the bit squarely
between his teeth.
“Good fellow and all that,” he said. “Don’t want to say anything against him. Just not your sort. Got himself into a very fast set.”
“You mean I’m not good enough for him?” she asked.
The question amused her as she put it. There was something strangely endearing about seeing this earnest, ex-soldier trying so hard to warn her against a step that she did not propose to take.
But she was not prepared for the effect that her question had on him. Captain Webb drew in his breath sharply.
“Not good enough?” he repeated. “A damn’ sight too good! He’s not fit to tie up your shoe-lace.”
Having made this remark, Captain Webb checked himself immediately. He took out his handkerchief and began blowing his nose quite unnecessarily.
“Shouldn’t have said that,” he added. “No right to run a fellow down when he isn’t here to defend himself.”
Anna looked at him, and saw that he was actually blushing.
“How extraordinary Englishmen are,” she reflected. “At first he pays me a compliment, and then he withdraws it. And all the time he is uncomfortable simply because he is trying to be nice to me.”
She wanted to be angry with him, very angry, for imagining that she would be carrying on an affair behind Lady Yarde’s back. But instead of being angry she forgave him: he was so serious and solemn that she hadn’t the heart to be cross with him.
“But it is all so silly,” she said. “He means nothing to me. Not a thing.”
And to prove it she took hold of Gervase’s letter and tore it into pieces.
“There,” she said. “And I have not even read it. Should I have done that if I had been in love with him?”
Captain Webb blew his nose again and thrust his handkerchief back into the breast pocket of his coat.
“Suppose not,” he said, and added rather huskily. “Have to accept my apologies. My fault for intruding.”
It was clear that he was feeling the whole position very keenly. His eyes seemed to have grown misty, and he turned away from her.
“But you meant it kindly,” she said. “I know that you meant it kindly. You were only being my friend.”
“Very decent of you to say so,” Captain Webb answered, still in the same husky voice.
And, now there was no concealing how he felt, he took hold of her hand and squeezed it.
III
But still there was no reply from the convent. It was now six days since Lady Yarde had written. And already Anna was telling herself that something had happened—that the letter had not been delivered, that the Reverend Mother had kept it from Sister Veronica, that Annette was ill and they had not told her.
Then, on the eighth day, it came and Lady Yarde sent for her.
“You see,” she said triumphantly. “It’s all arranged. There’s nothing that can go wrong now.”
She was holding the letter in her hand and waving it vaguely in the air in front of her face as she spoke.
“You can read it, if you like,” she said. “It wasn’t meant for you. But it can’t do any harm seeing it.”
As Anna took the letter she found that her hands were trembling. She tried to conceal the fact. But Lady Yarde had noticed it.
“You’re all on edge,” she said. “I hate nervy people. I’ve told you that nothing can go wrong now.”
But Anna was not listening to her. She was smoothing out the thin sheet of flimsy paper that still rustled between her fingers. Sister Veronica’s big upright handwriting stared calmly up at her.
“Dear Hetty,” she read. “Your letter has given me much joy. It was the kindest of kind thoughts to suggest placing our little Annette somewhere nearer to her mother: I know how Anna suffered on leaving her. The Reverend Mother has given her consent, providing certain safeguards are observed: she is anxious to do nothing that might unsettle the child. There is a convent of the Order at Cheltenham that she might go to. I spent my novitiate there and I know how well the children are looked after …” Anna turned over the page. “I was touched to find you suggesting that I should come myself,” Sister Veronica went on. “But there would be too many distractions, too many memories—not all happy ones—if I were to come back. They would press down upon me and I do not know if I could throw them off. Besides, I am not a young woman, remember: I am fifty-two. And I should be a very dull companion for Annette on such a long journey. One of the younger nuns who would still enjoy travelling would be better for her. But we must wait to see what the Reverend Mother arranges. She can be relied on to think of everything …”
“But she doesn’t say when it will be,” Anna said suddenly.
Lady Yarde looked up: There was just a trace of irritation in her expression.
“We mustn’t be impatient,” she said. “It may not be for months. But that doesn’t matter. The important thing is that she’s coming.”
She saw that Anna’s face had fallen and she relented for a moment.
“Not that it should be very long,” she said. “Nuns are always travelling. The Continental trains are full of them. I keep on telling you there’s nothing that can go wrong.”
“Nothing that can go wrong.” The words were repeating themselves in Anna’s mind. For some reason they frightened her. She had to keep reminding herself that it was someone else, someone who had nothing to lose, who had uttered them. But the uneasiness, the premonition, remained; and the words were repeated more mockingly than ever. The old fears began again and she imagined disasters which might overtake the child once she actually had started—train accidents, chills developing into pneumonia, shipwreck even. And she blamed herself for trying to uproot Annette from that other life in which somehow she appeared to be so happy.
Instead of longing to hear again from Sister Veronica, she now dreaded it: she even prayed that the Reverend Mother might change her mind and so spare Annette the perils of the journey. Particularly at night, the infinite folly of her plan was unfolded to her.
“Perhaps,” she began thinking, “I have done wrong in asking for her. Perhaps my place is with her there. Perhaps it is I who should go back.”
IV
In the big gravel square with the cropped trees and the old cannon captured from Napoleon, there was one man who was walking backwards and forwards like a sentry. His head was thrust forward and his hands were clasped behind his back. It was Gervase. And he had already crossed and re-crossed the square a dozen times.
“I’ve got to see her,” he kept saying to himself. “I shall go mad if I don’t.”
But this time he knew that he couldn’t go to Tilliards again. One visit in six months was all right: it was understandable. But two within a fortnight! The very idea was unthinkable. His father, he realised, could scarcely be expected to overlook the occurrence.
“She’ll have to meet me somewhere,” he decided. “If only I could see her for a moment I could make her understand. She doesn’t know how much I love her. She can’t have any inkling of it or she’d have answered my letter.”
At the thought of seeing her a strange weakness came over him. He was aware of a cold sick patch in the pit of his stomach, and his knees trembled.
“I’ve never felt like this before,” he admitted.
The sound of a bugle vigorously blown in the corner of the square broke in upon him. It was an abrupt and unpleasant reminder of a discordant world. He turned and began to walk over towards the double rank of men that was forming. It was only when he had got half-way across the bare expanse of gravel that he discovered that he was without his gloves and cane; was, in Her Majesty’s eyes, undressed, in fact.
That night the brass reading lamp in his room remained burning after the rest of the barracks was in darkness. By the time he had finished, the oil in the fluted glass container was reduced to a thin layer, and there was ink all down his index and second finger. But the letter was finished. There was only one page of it but it had taken most of the evening to write. He had pondered over a dozen
different ways of saying everything that was in it, and the waste-paper basket beside him was full of attempts that he had discarded. Even now, when he came to read it over, he was still dissatisfied with the result: it seemed somehow to express so much less than he was feeling. But he thrust it into an envelope and sealed it down. Then he closed his eyes and put his inky hand across his face.
“Oh, God,” he said. “Make her understand. She’s got to see me. I can’t live without.”
V
They had heard from the convent by now. Efficient as ever, the Reverend Mother—she was a woman who would have made her fortune in the world of business—had written off at once to the House of Our Lady of Mercy at Cheltenham. And here was the reply. Anna held the sombre ecclesiastical notepaper in her hand.
The letter itself was kind, very kind. It was written by someone who understood the feelings of a mother, and cared for them. “We will try to make the little girl very happy” it ran. “The nuns who will be looking after her mostly speak French and she need not feel strange even for a day. Some of the girls speak French too, and she can write to her mother as often as she pleases. We hope that she will come to see her. There is a guest house in the Convent where parents can stay …”
Anna wanted to cry.
“I know she will be happy there,” she told herself. “She doesn’t know what is in store for her. She does not realise how much goodness there is in the world.”
Her heart seemed suddenly to be filled with an infinite contentment and the whole prospect of the future was golden. Then her eye caught again the sentence in which the writer first spoke of Annette. “There is a place in the lowest form,” it said, “that can be reserved for Annette Josephine …”
As Anna looked at the words, it was as though a tiny peephole in the past had been opened. M. Moritz had chosen the name “Josephine” himself. And through the surrounding darkness she saw him again for an instant. It gave her a strange isolated feeling —almost as though she had died and come back again—to think that somewhere at this very moment he was still living. She remembered his compliments, his mysterious appointments, his unfaithfulness, his important telegrams, his rages. And then, as suddenly, the image grew faint, and faded. Soon nothing of it remained, and she was surprised to find how utterly she had forgotten him. It was as though of all that life at the villa only Annette herself was still real.
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