Lord Yarde put his head on one side and inspected him.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked. “You seemed able to put your food down all right.”
It annoyed him to have his agent suddenly walking out on him like this: he couldn’t imagine what had suddenly come over the man.
“Not the stomach,” said Captain Webb briefly. “It’s the leg.”
And he rubbed his hand expressively and dishonestly over the place where his wound once had been.
Lord Yarde relented.
“Weather touching it up?” he asked.
“That. And other things,” Captain Webb answered.
II
It was a grey morning. An entirely grey morning. There didn’t seem to be any sunlight to the day at all.
Anna finished the letter she was writing and rose from the table. In front of her Mrs. Merton was standing.
“The train leaves at nine five,” she said warningly. “There’s only forty minutes.”
“I shan’t miss it,” Anna answered. “I shall be there.”
Mrs. Merton did not reply. She went over to the window and stood looking out across the parkland. It was hers alone now. She would never again see Anna walking across it. Another governess had gone out of Tilliards. She bent down and inserted her finger under one of the straps round the big travelling trunk.
“It’s very loose,” she said. “It’ll work looser on the journey.”
Anna came over towards her.
“I know,” she said. “The leather’s too stiff. I couldn’t pull it together. Perhaps one of the porters will do it for me.”
One of the porters! Mrs. Merton’s lip curled contemptuously. She drew back her mittens a little and took hold of the strap in her own fingers. They were strong fingers, surprisingly strong for so frail a woman. She pulled, and the next eyelet came into line and then the next.
“There!” she said, as the strap sprung back like a bow-string. And she resumed her position in front of the window.
Anna went over to the mirror above the fireplace and put on her hat. Her face was pale and the circles under her eyes showed up alarmingly. It was obvious that she had been crying.
“I’m ready,” she said quietly.
Mrs. Merton surveyed the pile of luggage, glanced pointedly round the room as though to see if there were anything missing, and went over to the bell-pull.
“One of the maids will help you down with these,” she said.
As she went towards the door, Anna stopped her.
“I’ve got these letters,” she said. “Will you deliver them for me?”
There were two letters in her hand, and Mrs. Merton looked at them suspiciously: it was plain that she was reluctant to have anything to do with them. But finally she reached out and took them. Without looking at either of them, she thrust them into the open pocket of her skirt.
“You can give them both to Lady Yarde—after I’m gone,” Anna told her. “One of them is for Miss Delia.”
Mrs. Merton inclined her head slightly.
“It will be for her Ladyship to decide,” she said.
Outside, the corridor had a bare deserted appearance. The invisible telegraph which connects above stairs with the servants’ hall had been working, and there was not one of them who did not know that the French governess was a discovered wanton. They longed for one last look at her. But Mrs. Merton had been adamant. She threatened to punish any one she met on the landing. And, as Anna passed along, it might have been an uninhabited house that she was leaving.
At the foot of the steps the dogcart was waiting. The groom touched his hat to Anna from long habit as though she were still respectable, and she took her place on the high seat beside him. Then the maid appeared in the doorway, carrying the smaller of the cases; and, finally, the butler and one of the houseboys, both wearing green baize aprons, emerged with the big trunk supported between them. They thrust it into the boot, dusted their hands and went back to the house again without speaking. They too, like the coachman, knew the history of Anna’s downfall. But, unlike the coachman, they did not have to compromise themselves by having anything else to do with her.
Anna glanced back at the house for the last time. As she did so, she noticed that the windows were crowded with faces that disappeared again as she looked. And on the steps Mrs. Merton was standing. She had made no effort to say good-bye, had simply remained there motionless. There was only one thing about her that showed that she was feeling any particular emotion, and that was the position of her arms. They were no longer held in front of her, her hands clasped. Her arms were crossed now; crossed victoriously above her bosom.
The dogcart had just turned in the drive and the groom was fixing his whip back into its socket when there was a cry behind them. Anna swung round in her seat. It was Delia. She had thrust Mrs. Merton to one side and was running frantically along the gravel.
“Stop!” she was crying. “Oh, please stop.”
The coachman, for a moment, was undecided. He knew perfectly well that his real duty was to whip up the horse again and drive straight off. But, on the other hand, it was Miss Delia who was stopping him and he did not feel that he could disobey. Besides, at the back of his mind it seemed only fair that the young lady should have an opportunity of saying good-bye properly: he guessed what was behind this uncomfortably early start.
Delia had reached the dogcart by now.
“Don’t go,” she said. “I don’t want you to go.”
Anna bent down and put her arms round her. She could feel the child’s shoulders rising and falling. She wanted to say something. But she couldn’t because she was crying too much.
The groom coughed politely.
“Haven’t got any too much time for the train, Miss,” he said.
He flicked the reins restlessly as he spoke and the dogcart started to move. Delia thrust her hand into her pocket and drew out something which she pushed into Anna’s lap.
“Take this,” she said. “I want you to. It’s a present. It’s all I’ve got.”
The horse was moving off quite quickly now. Delia had given up attempting to follow it. She simply stood there, her hands to her sides, her eyes streaming. Anna turned in her seat and forced herself to wave. She went on waving until the dogcart had completed the long half circle of the drive, and Delia and Tilliards, and all the life that went on there, were out of sight.
Then she opened the little package that Delia had given her. In it was a child’s lace handkerchief. And in the middle were two half-crowns.
“Good-bye, Miss,” the coachman was saying. “Hope it’s a good journey.”
To his own surprise—for he was a man of strict principles and no defender of wantons—he felt sorry for her: she looked so lost and forlorn standing there beside the pile of luggage. But he had got his orders and, turning his horse’s head, he drove smartly off again. Anna Karlin and the family of the Yardes no longer had any connection with each other.
Anna went through into the booking hall. Behind her, a porter was loading her luggage into a trolley. She bought a ticket—a single ticket—for London, taking the money out of her purse mechanically. There seemed for the moment to be a lot of money in it: Mrs. Merton had given her a month’s wages and the sovereigns shone brightly. But she was too much dazed to notice anything. She passed on to the empty platform and stood there, numbed and shivering.
A wave of faintness, a sudden draining away of all her energy, came over her, and she moved towards one of the seats against the wall. As she did so, she saw that she was alone no longer. Hurrying over the bridge towards her was a man. He was not a particularly impressive man, and he walked with a slight limp. The pipe between his teeth had gone out and his tweeds seemed shabbier than ever. He raised his cap as he approached.
“Afraid I was too late,” he said. “Didn’t know you were catching this train.”
For a moment Anna wished that he hadn’t come. She was afraid that she would start crying again. But she tried to smile at h
im.
“Did … did you come simply to say good-bye?” she asked.
Captain Webb nodded.
“Mostly that,” he replied. “That, and something else.”
“So you heard about me,” Anna said quietly. “You heard that it all happened just as you said it would.”
Captain Webb nodded his head again.
“I know,” he answered. “Bad business. Very bad business.”
The signal down the line sagged suddenly and Captain Webb started.
“Not any too much time to talk about things,” he said. “Got anywhere to go to? Know any one in London, I mean?”
Anna avoided looking at him.
“I shall be all right,” she said. “Please don’t worry about me. I shall find somewhere when I get there.”
“Unfriendly sort of place,” Captain Webb told her. “Give you an address if you’d like to have it.”
But her mind wasn’t working properly. She couldn’t think of things like addresses now.
A small cotton-woolly point of white grew larger and resolved itself into the train: it whistled. Captain Webb’s agitation grew greater. He was searching feverishly through his pockets to find a pencil with which to write the address down for her. Before he had found it, the train was already drawing into the station.
Anna held out her hand.
“Good-bye,” she said. “It was … it was very kind of you to come.”
She was trying to keep her voice level and natural sounding.
“It doesn’t matter how much I cry in the train,” she told herself.
The train was actually pulling up at the platform now. Captain Webb was saying something. She could see his lips moving, but she couldn’t hear what the words were. The porter came up to her and asked whether she liked travelling with her back to the engine or facing it. She wanted to laugh at such a question at this moment. But the man was already putting the small luggage on the rack, and she got in obediently. Captain Webb stood watching Anna take her seat in the carriage. She noticed that he had suddenly gone very pale.
He stepped forward. “Didn’t just come to say good-bye,” he said. “Something else I wanted to ask you.”
He was looking into her eyes as he said it and Anna saw that the familiar sleepy look had gone from them. Captain Webb cleared his throat.
“I.. I wanted to ask you to …”
The guard blew his whistle and gave a wave to his green flag.
“I wanted to ask you to …” Captain began again.
But the train was already moving. Captain Webb had to start walking along the platform to keep up with her. Then, just as the station master called sharply to him to stand away, he twisted the door handle and swung himself in the compartment beside her.
“Reckon I’d better come along too,” he said. “Take a bit of time to explain.”
Chapter XL VII
I
It was May. The sky over the convent was so blue and the sun so fierce that the grey walls had taken on some of its colour and seemed to shine back at it. On either side of the long walk that led down to the big gates, the cypresses stretched like a double row of dark green spears and on the shimmering hills beyond, the tender bloom of the olive was glowing. Sister Veronica thought that she had never seen it all look more beautiful.
Not that she was sad at leaving: she had taught herself that it was wrong to become too much attached to any place. It interfered with any spiritual life that one might be trying to live. Besides, her present duty seemed more important to her than any of her recent ones inside the convent. Her mind, she admitted, had not really been on her work of late.
Even so, she did not particularly look forward to the journey. A child of seven is a somewhat exacting companion, and she had been hoping for a little quietness and freedom. She had even played with the idea of buying a newspaper to read in the train. It would be the first newspaper she had seen for nearly three years.
As it was, she was tired already. She had risen early and made a special devotion before the statue of Our Lady. She had gone round to the other nuns to say good-bye. And finally she had been closeted for upwards of an hour with the Reverend Mother. That good lady had given her much advice, a little encouragement, and a warning against becoming too much concerned in the affairs of others.
“We must not seek to judge our poor Sister,” she had said, “as we do not know the facts. But at least we can be sure that she has been no good advertisement for our convent.”
Then the Reverend Mother had sent for Annette and given her a small sacred medal by which to remember those who had cared for her. She had kissed the child chastely on her forehead and told her that the nuns and her little companions would pray for her. She asked Annette to remember to do as much for them.
Everything was ready now. Sister Veronica had her charge by the hand. She was grimly determined not to leave go of it, except when the child was sleeping, until she had deposited her in her mother’s keeping. In front of them the market cart was standing, their luggage piled neatly on the floor.
Sister Veronica climbed in, her long skirts impeding her. She helped Annette up on to the seat. The seat was high and the child’s legs dangled.
“Why are you taking me away from here?” she asked. “Shall I like it where I’m going?”
II
The packet boat was due to arrive at midday. Newhaven was ready for it, and the usual crowd of idlers and sightseers was standing about waiting for it to come in.
There were two people in particular, a man and a woman, who hadn’t taken their eyes off it since the first smudge of smoke had appeared above the horizon. They had arrived early, very early, and the man had put his arm around her shoulders as they stood there.
“Can’t be more than a few minutes now,” he said. “They’re getting out the gangways.”
She turned and smiled back at him.
“You’ve been so patient with me,” she said.
“Told you we’d get her here all right,” Captain Webb answered.
The ship was standing by, its paddles idle. Anna felt that she could almost jump across to it. She was straining her eyes anxiously, desperately, trying to make out the two faces that she longed to see. And suddenly they were there—the woman in grey with the white headdress that the wind was blowing, and the little girl. But the little girl was too small to be seen properly. The rail that ran round the deck obscured her.
The gangway had now been slid into place and the passengers were beginning to come off. Anna was waiting at the barrier, her heart pounding. For a space she lost sight of the grey nun and the little girl. They were hidden somewhere behind the huddle of-other figures. Then the child, in the manner of children, pushed herself somehow to the front. Anna saw her test the gangway with her small foot and begin the steep descent. It was Annette who was leading Sister Veronica.
A moment later Anna was holding Annette in her arms. She was kissing her and crying over her; hugging her; holding her at arm’s length and then re-embracing her. And it seemed to Anna in that instant as she gazed into the child’s large serious eyes again that the pattern of her life was at last complete. Anything else that happened anything else that might occur to her, would be within the full round circle of it.
Epilogue In Three Scenes
I
Anna and Captain Webb had been married for nearly six months now. They had been happy months. Autumn had come round again, and the fire in the prim grate of the Cheltenham drawingroom had been kindled. It was their fire. But it was Annette, too, who sat beside it. There was a small chair in the centre that was reserved for her.
Indeed, if it had not been for Annette they would never have moved to Cheltenham at all. It had been Captain Webb’s idea.
“Seems a good school,” he had said. “Sounds as though they like children.”
And when Anna had thanked him, had said that it meant that she would be able to see Annette quite often now, Captain Webb had explained himself—even after mar
riage he was really no better at explaining himself than he had been before.
“Have her to live with us. Day scholar, I mean,” he had said. “Like the idea of your daughter about the place.”
So she was installed. And every morning at nine-fifteen Anna and Annette set off down the quiet terrace of still sleeping houses as far as the high gates of the convent of Our Lady. At four o’clock Anna called for her again. She was so proud of her that she hoped that other people would notice Annette as they went along together. In the straight blue coat and stiff straw hat of the convent she looked more like a little French doll than ever. Her eyes seemed much larger somehow than English children’s.
Anna was letting her hair grow, and she now wore a six-inch flaxen pigtail behind. She was a lively child and gave little hops as she walked—but that was because of the dancing lessons that she was taking.
And every day she was becoming more and more English. Her accent was now like the others’. They no longer made fun of her when she spoke. And she seemed to have forgotten the previous life entirely. She never spoke of it. One day, to see if she remembered, Anna asked her if she missed the friends she had been brought up with. Annette nodded. Yes, she missed them, she said. She would like to see them again. There were some of them that she would like to have to stay with her. Two of the Sisters she missed very much indeed. But it was obviously a small personal sorrow of her own, and she was able to contain it. If Anna had not asked her she would never have troubled to refer to it.
And the world before she had gone to the convent, M. Moritz’s world, was apparently entirely shut off from her. She could recall nothing at all of that ivory nursery set against the sea. It might never have existed. The only link with that life was the gilt and enamel rosary above her bed. It was the same rosary that Father Ignatius had given to Anna on that first evening when she had gone to him. Annette was delighted to have it: she had only had a black rosary before.
“And were you good at school to-day?” Anna asked as they walked along together.
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