Anna and Her Daughters

by D. E. Stevenson

  “You’re quite comfortable — I mean you’ve got all you want?” I asked.

  “Oh yes, and everyone is very kind. I was here before — when I was a child — and I got well very quickly. You remember?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “That’s why I wanted to come back.”

  I thought she was getting tired so I rose and said I must go.

  Helen gave a little sigh. “I suppose Ronnie is still at that ghastly Adruna, but he’ll be coming home soon, won’t he?”

  “Yes, he’s going to Eastringford,” I told her. “It’s good, isn’t it? He’s very pleased about it. Dr. Orton has been appointed to the bacteriological laboratories and Ronnie is going as his chief assistant.”

  “That wouldn’t do,” said Helen. She said it quietly and calmly.

  “Wouldn’t do!”

  “No, it wouldn’t do at all. For one thing I don’t like the Ortons and for another they don’t like me. Ronnie will have to find a practice somewhere in England where nobody knows anything about us. Then we can start afresh.”

  She spoke with confidence, as if it were all settled.

  “Oh Helen!!” I exclaimed. “Surely you wouldn’t —”

  “Wouldn’t what?”

  I had been going to say, ‘Surely you wouldn’t make him give it up again’ but I remembered Andrew’s warning. Andrew had said I was not to talk about Ronnie’s future plans.

  “What is it, Jane?” asked Helen a trifle anxiously.

  “I can’t promise anything — for Ronnie,” I told her.

  “Oh, is that all?” said Helen. “There’s no need to worry about that. Ronnie knows I don’t like the Ortons.” She added, “You’ll come again to-morrow, won’t you? Oh, and don’t forget to write to Ronnie and tell him what I said.”

  *

  The letter was not difficult to write. I told Ronnie that I had been to see Helen and that she seemed quite cheerful and comfortable and hoped to be better soon. I told him what she had said and added that Andrew had warned me not to make any promises, so I had been careful not to do so … and I passed on Andrew’s advice about a lawyer’s letter. It was no use saying more. I knew Ronnie would write to Helen himself. He would do exactly as Helen wanted. He would do it, not because he loved her (she had killed his love long ago) but because of the promises he had made at his marriage.

  I wrote quite cheerfully but I did not feel cheerful. Helen had said they could start afresh in a new place … but was it possible to put aside all that had happened? Was it possible for them to settle down together and be happy? I thought of Val. It was remarkable that Helen had never mentioned Val; she had never even asked how he was! I wondered if she would allow Val to stay with me at Timble Cottage. Certainly this plan would be very much better for Val, for even if Helen and Ronnie were able to settle down together there was bound to be stress and strain. It could not be the right sort of home for a sensitive child.

  The future was dark and full of difficulties — or so it seemed to me.

  That night I lay for hours thinking about Ronnie and Helen and Val and wondering what I could do … but gradually my ideas grew clearer and I realised I could do nothing for I had no right to interfere; they must work out the problem themselves. Ronnie had forgiven Helen before, he would forgive her again — and again if necessary — but perhaps she had learnt her lesson. Perhaps after this she would appreciate Ronnie and make him happy.

  It was in this more hopeful mood that I went to see Helen again.

  My visit was much the same as yesterday except that I did most of the talking. I told her I had written to Ronnie and posted the letter by air mail.

  “That’s good,” she said.

  Then I told her I had flown out to Adruna and brought Val home.

  “Do you mean Val is at Timble Cottage?” said Helen in surprise. “How strange! I thought the Ortons would look after him.”

  “How could they?”

  “Oh well, Mrs. Orton was always going on about Val — saying I didn’t look after him properly and all that — but of course it was absolute nonsense. Val was quite happy with the servants. Did you stay in the bungalow, Jane?”

  I had expected this question and had my answer ready. “Yes, and I thought it was a delightful bungalow. Mrs. Orton was there when I arrived.”

  “She’s ghastly, isn’t she? I simply couldn’t stand the woman; she got on my nerves and made me want to scream.”

  “She means well,” I said … but as a matter of fact I sympathised with Helen over this. If I had seen too much of Mrs. Orton I should have wanted to scream.

  “She’s so marvellous in her own estimation!”

  I could not help smiling.

  “You can smile,” said Helen. “I don’t suppose you were there very long. If you had lived next door to her for years you wouldn’t have felt like smiling. She was always popping in at unexpected moments and finding fault with everything; asking why I did this and didn’t do that. She used to tell me that whatever time of night Dr. Orton came home from the hospital she was waiting for him with a hot meal.”

  “It was true —” I began.

  “Oh yes, it was true. She was so worthy, and of course I was unworthy of Ronnie. They both thought that.” Helen sighed and added, “I suppose they were right … but I really am going to be quite different in future. I’m going to settle down and be a model wife.”

  “And a model mother?”

  “Oh yes, of course,” said Helen.

  We were silent for a few minutes after that, but it was a companionable silence. Obviously Helen meant to turn over a new leaf. I felt more in sympathy with her than I had ever felt before, and I think she had the same feeling about me.

  “You needn’t rush home, need you?” said Helen when I rose to go.

  I hesitated. The fact was I had not intended to stay in Switzerland more than a few days. I wanted to get home. I wanted to finish my book which had been hanging fire for so long.

  “You haven’t anything important to do at home, have you?” said Helen.

  “N-no,” I said doubtfully. Helen would not think my book was important.

  “Please, Jane,” said Helen. “It’s so dull lying here all day with nothing to do. I like seeing you.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, of course I’ll stay — if you want me.”

  “Come to-morrow.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  When I was coming away the nurse ran after me and said that the matron would like to see me for a few minutes. She added, “Madame Monet speaks no English but perhaps Mademoiselle Harcourt speaks French?”

  “Yes, a little,” I replied cautiously. It was always risky to say that one ‘spoke French’ — or so I had found.

  As a matter of fact I was glad to have the opportunity of seeing Madame Monet, and asking her about Helen, and the clinic was so well run that I thought she would be worth seeing on her own account. She must be a wonderful woman to take on a job like this and do it so efficiently.

  When Madame rose to greet me I was not disappointed; she looked like a woman with a vocation. In a way she looked like a nun, with her dear pallor and fine features and her sweet expression. Her dark hair was smooth and parted in the middle of her forehead. Her eyes were soft and kind.

  She motioned me to a comfortable chair and we both sat down.

  “Parlez vous français, Mademoiselle Harcourt?” she asked.

  I replied that I spoke French a little and went on to say that I had seen my sister and found her very comfortable and cheerful.

  “Elle est très malade, votre sœur” said Madame Monet sadly.

  It was not so much the words as the tone in which they were spoken that brought a chill to my heart. I was so shocked that I was dumb. I could only sit there staring at her.

  “You are surprised,” she said gently. “Yes, I can see that. I am very sorry to give you this bad news but it is necessary you should know.”

  “You
mean — seriously ill?”

  She nodded.

  “But — but I can’t believe it! She was talking to me —”

  “It is true, Mademoiselle Harcourt. Do you think I would alarm you like this if it were not true?”

  “No, of course not … but surely she could have treatment! There are all sorts of treatments — modern methods of treatment.”

  “If it is taken in time, yes, but in her case it was too late. Modern science can accomplish marvels but not miracles. Your sister was so very ill when she came to us that it was impossible to do anything. It was madness to leave it so long. There was no hope of healing.”

  “No hope!”

  Madame Monet began to explain; I heard her voice through a haze. I was too dazed to listen properly. Only a phrase here and there was comprehensible … but although I could not understand the detailed explanation there was no doubt about the meaning of it all.

  “It is incredible!” I cried. “She doesn’t look very ill.”

  “At times she looks very ill. This is one of her good days.”

  Madame Monet hesitated and then added, “I think you do not understand all I say. It is difficult in a foreign language.”

  I tried to explain that it was difficult, not so much because I had failed to understand all she told me, but because Helen had seemed so hopeful. “She was talking so cheerfully of all she will do when she is better,” I said desperately.

  “Yes, it is very sad. She has talked to me like that also.” Madame Monet rose as she spoke and took a tray from a side table. “You will have some coffee, it will do you good,” she added.

  The coffee was hot and strong and I was very thankful for it — but there was something I had to say.

  “Madame, is it right?” I began searching for words.

  “Yes, it is right,” said Madame Monet nodding. “In this case it is much better that she should talk hopefully of all she intends to do.”

  “In this case?”

  “Yes. In some cases it is right that the patient should know the truth, but your sister would be frightened and unhappy. She has her treasure in this world.”

  “She has her treasure in this world!”

  “It is true, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I said doubtfully. “Yes, but still —”

  “Believe me, it is much better that she should not know.”

  “It seems terrible!”

  “It is terrible,” said Madame Monet gently. “But the Good God is merciful. Do you think the Good God is less merciful than you?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I mean you are merciful. You understand that it is her nature to have her treasure in this world. That is so, isn’t it? She has not been good. Oh yes, she has told me about it — but still you love her in your heart and are sorry. Do you think the Good God is less loving and sorry than you?”

  “Thank you,” I said humbly.

  “You will not be too unhappy? You will remember?”

  “Yes, I will remember.”

  I thanked her again and said good-bye but she came out to the door with me to see me off.

  “Where is her husband?” asked Madame Monet. “Do you think he will come?”

  “He is in Africa, but he will come as soon as he can.”

  “It must be soon.”

  “He will fly,” I said.

  Madame Monet offered to send for a fiacre to take me to the hotel but I told her I would rather walk. When I got to the gate I looked back and saw her standing on the steps watching me.

  I still could not believe it. I still felt dazed and incredulous, as if it were all a terrible dream. Even when I had found the post office and stood at the desk trying to write the cable I could not believe it was true.

  I wrote, Helen is dying. She wants to see you. They say you must fly.

  It was horribly bare and bald, but I could think of no other words in which to break the news. I added my name and the address of the hotel where I was staying and let it go.

  Ronnie came at once by the first plane he could get but he arrived too late.

  *

  I was having tea in the hotel lounge when Ronnie came in. It had been impossible to meet him at the station for I did not know what train he would be able to get. I had wondered how to tell him, but there was no need to tell him anything.

  “Too late?” he said as he took my hand.

  “Yes.”

  “I thought it would be. Everything has been too late.”

  He sat down beside me and I told him all about it. We were in a corner of the lounge and it was not crowded, so we could talk privately — nobody bothered about us. I told him that Madame Monet had explained the whole course of Helen’s illness but I had not understood the details — just that it was too late.

  “Everything has been too late,” repeated Ronnie. “I was too late in getting to Nairobi. If I had managed to get there earlier I could have stopped them before they flew to Rome. It’s all my fault.”

  “Your fault? Oh no!”

  “I failed Helen. If I could have stopped them —”

  “It goes back much further,” I told him. “All that happened to Helen had roots in the past — long before you ever saw her. It all happened because she was the sort of person she was.”

  “‘All in our stars’?” asked Ronnie. “Is that what you mean?”

  “Oh no, not that! All in our natures; all in the way we think and live our lives!”

  “If I could believe that …” said Ronnie in doubtful tones.

  “It’s true!” I said desperately, for indeed I knew it to be true, and it seemed dreadful that Ronnie should feel it was ‘all his fault’ and allow the shadow of it to darken his life.

  “All in our natures?” said Ronnie thoughtfully.

  “Yes, and it was especially true of Helen. Even when she was a child she thought it was her right to enjoy herself and have a good time. She thought that was the only thing that mattered. I remember Mother saying, ‘Helen can never be happy unless she’s enjoying herself’. It sounds a silly thing to say but there was a lot of truth in it.”

  “Your mother never says silly things.”

  “Not often,” I agreed. “And of course Helen was so pretty that it all came easily.”

  “It all came too easily. Everybody loved her. There was a sort of magic in Helen that nobody could resist.”

  “An enchantment.”

  “Yes, an enchantment. I was enchanted the first time I saw her. I shall never forget the picture she made when she came into the room. She looked like an angel straight from Heaven. Even when I found she wasn’t — an angel — I went on loving her for a long time. I went on loving her long after she stopped loving me. It’s a miserable business loving someone who doesn’t care twopence about you, Jane.”

  “Yes, I know,” I said.

  We did not talk much more. Ronnie sat staring into vacancy with the bewildered air of a child that has been punished unjustly — his pipe, unlit, was clenched between his teeth.

  Presently he rose and said he would go up to the clinic, and I did not offer to go with him as I thought he would rather go alone.

  There were various arrangements to be made, as there always are on these sad occasions. I had made some arrangements already and had chosen a quiet corner in the little cemetery near the English Church for Helen’s grave. I had spoken to Andrew on the telephone (I thought some of the family might want to come to the funeral). They decided not to come, but they told me to order flowers.

  It was very wet that day, the rain came down in a steady drizzle and the hills were veiled in mist. The English chaplain — a young delicate-looking creature — read the service. Ronnie had borrowed an umbrella and we stood there together beneath its shelter listening to the solemn words. I noticed that there was another wreath, besides those I had ordered for the family. It was a large beautiful wreath of red roses, and I wondered who had sent it, for there was no card.

  The service did not take
long and we were just turning away when Ronnie pressed my arm and said, “Wait a moment, Jane.”

  He left me with the umbrella and went and spoke to a man in a burberry coat who had been standing in the background.

  When he came back he said, “That was Lancaster. I felt I ought to speak to him. That wreath is from him. I just thanked him for it. I didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t say anything. He was too upset — he was terribly upset. Perhaps it was foolish of me to speak to him, but I didn’t want there to be any — rancour. It’s all over now.”

  It was all over. There was nothing else to do. I think those few words in the cemetery to the man who had wronged him helped Ronnie to turn the page and put the past behind him, for the shadow on his brow had lifted and when we got back to the hotel he began to talk quite cheerfully about his plans.

  I asked if he were coming back to Ryddelton with me.

  “Not now, I’m afraid,” said Ronnie. “I must fly back to Adruna to-morrow — but I shall be free quite soon. I’ve been making inquiries about Eastringford and I find I can get comfortable lodgings in the town. Fortunately there’s a very good school. Val can go there daily. Orton knows the headmaster so it’s all laid on.”

  “That sounds splendid,” I said. I tried to speak as if I were pleased about it; but it was difficult, for I had been hoping that Ronnie would let me keep Val — at least for a time. I had told myself that Ronnie would be far too busy to want Val, but I might have known better.

  “I shall come home by sea,” continued Ronnie. “Flying is too expensive except in an emergency. I shall sell most of the furniture but there’s a lot of luggage and stuff that I must bring. I ought to be home before Christmas.”

  “Val will be pleased,” I said.

  *

  Ronnie and I had dined together and were leaning on the balcony of the hotel watching the moon rising from behind the mountains. It was so beautiful that it seemed unreal — and all the more unreal because there was a dance in the hotel that evening. We could hear the talk and laughter and the music from the band playing the latest samba.

  Presently Ronnie said, “The traveller cannot bathe twice in the same stream. Do you remember saying that, Jane?”