Love Is My Reason

by Mary Burchell

  Besides, although she smiled and answered when spoken to, only the surface of her mind was engaged by what was happening round her. Underneath, her thoughts and her feelings were still in the anguished chaos to which Celia had reduced them that afternoon.

  She had already decided that, as soon as she decently could do so after dinner, she would make her excuses and slip away to her own room. But, just as they rose from the dinner table, Mrs. Preston exclaimed,

  “Why don’t you ring up dear Mary and David, Celia? Tell them Martin is home and ask them if they would like to come over?”

  The very mention of David’s name brought a constriction to Anya’s heart, and she was aware that a streak of nervous color came into her cheeks.

  Celia, however, was better at hiding her feelings. Or perhaps the mention of David did not trouble her nerves or her conscience. She went immediately to the telephone,, while Mrs. Preston explained to Martin.

  “Mary Ranmere is our nearest neighbour, and a very good friend.”

  “And David is her attractive son?” suggested Martin, with a not unkindly smile at Anya.

  “Nephew,” corrected Mrs. Preston, unaware of her son’s glance. “He and Celia are—very close.” And she smiled with the air of one whose hopes are showing signs of blossoming most satisfactorily.

  “Oh, I see.” Martin’s expression became rather complicated, and there was a slight silence.

  Then Celia came back with the news that Lady Ranmere, with both David and Bertram, would be over in a quarter of an hour.

  “Was she astonished?” Mrs. Preston asked, with an almost childlike desire that everyone should share her own surprise and delight.

  “Not especially. She knew we were expecting Martin any time now,” Celia replied. At which her mother looked slightly disappointed and her brother rather quizzical.

  Anya paid little attention to anything which was said in the short time that elapsed while they waited for their guests. David’s coming always caused her a sort of delicious agitation. But now, after all that Celia had said, the agitation was acute, and no longer pleasurable.

  There was the sound of the car at last. And Anya made a tremendous effort to appear calm and normal when their visitors were shown into the room. There was a great deal of exclaiming and greeting and talking all at once, and she thought no one had specially noticed her. But, as soon as he had exchanged a few agreeable words with Martin Deane, David came over to where she was sitting—a little apart, near the french windows which led into the garden.

  “Well, Anya, how are you settling down?” He stood smiling down at her with a friendly normality that was almost incongruous after Celia’s contemptuous accusations.

  “Mrs. Preston’s is very kind, thank you.” Anya smiled rather nervously in reply, and hoped she sounded more enthusiastic than she felt. For of course one could not say that one simply hated being here and longed to be rescued.

  “You came in for a certain amount of drama on your first day.” David glanced amusedly to where the others were grouped round Martin. “Have you had an opportunity to ask him a few questions on your own account?”

  “Questions?”

  “Yes. I know you said something about not much wanting to make further enquiries about your father. But I don’t think you can stick to that when you actually have someone on the spot who must have known him.”

  “Oh—“ She smiled faintly. “No, I haven’t asked him anything yet. But—” she hesitated—“the first thing he said to me was that I was tremendously like someone he once knew.”

  “Really?” David looked interested. “Didn’t you pursue that further?”

  “I couldn’t. Mrs. Preston came into the room at that moment, and—and wanted to know where I had been.”

  “And where had you been?” The slightly breathless tone in which she had said that seemed to amuse him.

  “I—” she flushed and then paled—“I’d been out walking in the woods. I went—further than I realized.”

  The withdrawn, almost sullen tone of her voice evidently surprised him slightly, and after a moment he reverted to the first topic.

  “So you had no opportunity to ask Deane more about his statement?”

  “No.”

  “Bring down the photograph and ask him now, Anya.”

  “Now! Why?”

  He laughed.

  “Because I am curious, if you are not.”

  Anya glanced over once more to the animated family group.

  “I don’t think I want to interrupt them just now.”

  “Nonsense. They’ll all be interested. You bring down the photograph and I’ll ask him, if you prefer it that way.”

  “Very well.” It was not in Anya to refuse David something which he pressed her to do. And, half reluctantly, half eagerly, she went to fetch the photograph.

  When she returned to the room, David was sitting talking to Celia. But, the moment she came in, he saw her and smilingly held out his hand to her.

  She knew that Celia looked at her with a cold dislike that should have stopped her in her tracks. But she could not be indifferent to David’s outstretched hand, and she came and stood close beside him, so that she almost leant against his arm.

  “Did you find it?” He smiled up at her.

  “Yes.” She put the photograph into his hand.

  “What is that?” enquired Celia sharply.

  “Something I want to ask your brother about,” David replied coolly, and he leaned across to Martin Deane, who was exchanging polite small-talk with Lady Ranmere. “Do you know who that is?” David enquired casually. But, careless though the tone was, everyone except Martin immediately recognized the photograph and became breathlessly silent.

  Martin, unaware of the tense atmosphere round him, took the photograph and studied it idly for a moment. Then he grinned ruefully and said,

  “Why, it’s myself. A good twenty years ago.”

  “Yes, one of them is you, of course.” David sounded just the faintest bit on edge. “But who is the other one?”

  Martin turned it so that the light fell fully on it.

  “I haven’t the least idea,” he said, after a moment.

  “You don’t know?” That was his mother—incredulous and almost reproachful.

  “No. Should I?” Martin glanced from one to another, in puzzled amusement.

  “But of course you should, darling! After all, you were photographed with him.”

  “Can’t you recall the circumstances of the photograph?” Lady Ranmere urged.

  “I can’t say I do. It’s just one of those cheapish snaps one might have taken anywhere.” Martin turned it over and looked at the back. “It hasn’t even a photographer’s name on it. Probably it was taken in the street somewhere. Does it matter?”

  “Well, it—does rather,” Lady Ranmere began.

  Then Anya said quickly, “It doesn’t really matter at all. And please—” she looked round on the others—“don’t prompt Mr. Deane in any way. If he thinks of something—or someone—of his own accord, that’s one thing. But there wouldn’t be any satisfaction in his saying something that was half suggested to him.”

  “I’m not particularly suggestible,” Martin told her drily, and he held the photograph at arm’s length and studied it again. “Funny thing is—I feel I ought to know that fellow. He strikes a chord that was twanged quite recently.”

  “Recently?” everyone echoed, more or less breathlessly.

  Martin shrugged “It escapes me, though I can’t say why.”

  “Never mind.” Anya spoke again, almost urgently. “You—you may think of something later.”

  “And suppose he doesn’t remember—ever?” That was Celia, who was watching Anya very closely.

  “Then I must accept the fact that I am—anonymous.” Anya did not return the glance.

  “But there are a lot of disadvantages to that,” remarked Lady Ranmere, in a dissatisfied tone.

  “I realize that. It was very clearly explai
ned to me this afternoon.” This time Anya did raise her eyes and look thoughtfully at Celia. “But sometimes one has to accept these things. And the penalties that go with them.”

  “I don’t think I quite follow,” remarked Teresa Preston plaintively.

  “I do,” said Celia, and her tone was profoundly satisfied.

  “I wish someone would tell me what this is all about,” grumbled Martin good-humouredly. “You really are a mystery girl, aren’t you?” And he looked at Anya with unmistakable interest.

  “Not really. At least, we don’t want to emphasize that element,” said Lady Ranmere sharply.

  “Certainly not.” Mrs. Preston seemed to think she was rushing to Anya’s defence in some way. “Anya is just a dear, ordinary, lovable young friend of ours, who happens to be staying here.”

  No one seemed able to second this description of Anya with conviction. Indeed, Bertram challenged it.

  “Whatever Anya may be, she is not ordinary, my dear Teresa,” he declared firmly. “In fact, I am inclined to think that none of you knows just how out of the ordinary Anya is. When I tell you that I am going to make a real stake personality of her, the most you do is to shake your heads sceptically. I think you should do something for us this evening, Anya.” He turned to the pale quiet girl, who still stood close beside David. “Just to celebrate Martin’s return.”

  “Now?” Anya was aghast. “And—in front of everyone?”

  “Dear child, if all my plans work out, you are going to live out a large part of your life ‘in front of everyone’,” Bertram quoted with a smile. “The sooner you get used to it, the better. Run up and put on something rather less eye-catching than that pretty dress. That neutral-colored thing you wore the other day will do.”

  He spoke with the easy authority of someone who usually gave the orders, and, reluctantly, Anya moved towards the door.

  “She doesn’t have to do it if she doesn’t want to,” exclaimed David, annoyed.

  “Yes, she does, replied Bertram equably. “She knows I am a better judge of the timing of these things than she is.”

  And he gave Anya a little nod, which sent her out of the room with an air of speedy obedience, even though it was obvious that David would have supported any rebellion on her part.

  She was not quite sure of herself why she was acceding so meekly to Bertram’s demand. Except that—it was true—he did know everything about the timing of these things, and perhaps he was right in thinking this was the moment to impress their own circle.

  “Perhaps I shan’t be able to do it so well this time,” she thought anxiously, as she changed back into the soft grey-blue jersey dress which Bertram had approved. “Perhaps they won’t think it clever at all. And perhaps David won’t like it.”

  But all the time she was really rehearsing the words and actions with another part of her mind. The part of her which responded unerringly to the challenge of an audience, however small and intimate.

  The Anya whom they all knew was terrified at the prospect of demanding the attention of her benefactors. But the Anya she hardly knew herself—the Anya who had fascinated the dead theatre director and now fascinated Bertram—was already coolly preparing to empty herself of her own personality and take on that of the character she would portray.

  She belted her dress tightly round her slim waist and looked at herself in the glass. For a scared moment she thought,

  “What does Bertram see in me? He must be mistaken. I am not impressive or beautiful. Most people wouldn’t look at me twice.”

  But then she remembered the confidence with which he had spoken to her. And for a curious moment it seemed to her that the Polish theatre director stood at her elbow, reaffirming his belief in her.

  It was not for her to let them be proved wrong. She must justify their opinion of her. And with a proud lift of her chin she stared back defiantly at her own reflection, before she turned and ran out of the room and down the stairs.

  Two steps from the bottom of the flight, she stopped abruptly. For David was standing there, apparently waiting for her.

  “Y-you’re not going, are you?” Indescribable disappointment flooded her. “Aren’t you going to see me act?”

  “Of course I am! If you really want me to do it.” He came and leaned his arm on the banister-end and smiled up at her. “I just wanted to have a word with you first and make quite sure you didn’t mind doing it.”

  “I don’t mind.” She smiled down into his eyes, fascinated by his nearness. “I really rather like doing it.”

  “Do you?” He was amused. “You looked quite scared when Bertram first suggested it.”

  “Oh—yes. That was with another part of me,” she explained. “That part’s still scared. But the other part of me—the acting part—enjoys it.”

  He laughed.

  “I didn’t know you had a dual personality.”

  “Perhaps that’s to make up for having no real identity,” she replied lightly. But she caught her breath on a sigh. And it was the sigh he answered.

  “You don’t have to describe yourself like that,” he said quickly. “It isn’t true. And that’s another thing I wanted to ask you when I got you to myself. What did you mean when you said something about accepting the fact that you were anonymous—and the penalties of the position? There aren’t any penalties. It’s absurd. You’re none the less you—and dear and important—because one can’t actually give a name to your father.”

  He looked up at her still, his expression grave enough now, and his handsome eyes slightly narrowed with the earnestness of what he was saying. And she thought she had never loved him more than in this moment when he strove to reassure her.

  If Celia had not said all those bitter, contemptuous things about her, she would have obeyed her sudden instinct to lean towards him, and would probably, she thought have found herself in his arms.

  But she was a mystery girl, with an unsatisfactory background. A girl who could do David no good—and who might do him harm. That was what Celia had said, and who could prove her wrong? Not Anya, with her lack of worldly knowledge, her complete ignorance of how these things ranked for value in a world that was unknown to her.

  Instead, she drew back, with a sensation of nervous guilt. And the movement of withdrawal chilled the moment of friendly intimacy.

  “It—it’s something one can’t explain,” she said quickly.

  “Not even to me?” he pressed her.

  “No. Not even to you,” she said. But because she loved him, and yet felt that in some way she had rejected him, she put out her hand and very lightly touched his cheek, in a sad little caress.

  “Anya—” he caught her hand and held it tightly—“I sometimes think I don’t understand you at all. We talk to each other, and I imagine we come near to each other—and then, suddenly, you say or do something quite inexplicable, and you are once more the elusive ghost of a girl who slipped away from me in the twilight, that very first evening. Do I know anything about you?” And, half serious, half laughing, he held her hand against his cheek again for a moment.

  She slightly shook her head and smiled at him.

  “Perhaps there isn’t very much to know. That’s one of the penalties of being anonymous.”

  And then, before he could challenge that afresh, Bertram came out into the hall and said,

  “Oh, there you are! Come along. We’re ready, if you are.”

  So they went into the drawing-room together, and Anya saw that a space had been cleared at one end of the room, and that all of them, even Celia, had turned their chairs so that they could have a good view of what happened.

  “What do you want me to do?” She looked enquiringly at Bertram, and she was aware in that moment that her nervousness had gone.

  “The act with the bonnet,” Bertram said without hesitation. And, looking straight at David—and seeing only him—Any a gave her few words of explanation first.

  As she did so, she knew suddenly that the little tragicomedy of the
girl who made herself pretty in order to meet the man she loved, only to find that he thought someone else prettier, was as old and true and basic as love and jealousy themselves.

  In a sense she was the girl, hoping to charm the man she loved. And she was terribly afraid that he would walk away with someone else, after all.

  It was as simple as that. And, with the simplicity of absolute knowledge, she played out the scene as she had for Bertram—pathetic, amusing, heart-breaking by turns.

  At the end there was a moment of stunned silence. Then David clapped, and all of them joined in, while Mrs. Preston was heard to say, “Why, that’s marvellous! Even in a foreign language, one understands just what is happening.”

  “Do something else,” urged Martin, in a curious tone. “It’s not like anything else I’ve ever seen. At least—“ He stopped, frowned and did not finish the sentence.

  “Sing something, Anya,” Bertram suggested. And although his tone was almost casual, she knew he was delighted with the impression she had created. “Something gay—if that is your mood.”

  She flashed Bertram an almost mischievous smile. “I’ll sing you a Russian folk song. It’s about a girl who goes reaping. First for her father, because he tells her to. And then for the farmer, because she must earn money. And then for the man she loves, because she wants him to see that she is better at this than anyone else, and then he will want to marry her.”

  They all laughed rather at this simple scheme of life. But, the moment she began to act and sing, the laughter died away in rapt attention.

  The tune Anya sang was a gay tripping one, but as she reaped because her father had ordered her to do so, she invested the melody with indescribable boredom, and from time to time the rhythm slackened and almost stopped, while her thoughts evidently went elsewhere. Then, sulkily, she picked it up again, only to drop into leisurely inattention once more.

  Mrs. Preston smothered a slight, irrepressible yawn, without even knowing she had done so.

  Then back came the tune again. But this time Anya was going about her reaping with a resentful purpose. Doggedly, efficiently, with never varying rhythm—but also without a spark of life or joy.