Anne Belinda

by Patricia Wentworth

  “I thought he was a doctor,” said Anne.

  Mrs. Brownling sighed heavily.

  “He was, and he wasn’t. I’m sure he might have been anything, he was so much thought of. But there, we all have our troubles, and least said’s soonest mended—isn’t it, dear?”

  On Wednesday John wrote, apparently for the purpose of reminding Anne that the following day would be Thursday. He added that he was quite sure she could get out by a quarter to two at least, and that he would be waiting just round the corner at half-past one.

  He had been waiting for an hour and a quarter when Anne came into view. He took her hand and said reproachfully:

  “You didn’t hurry.”

  “Why should I?” said Anne. And then she smiled at him. “I always told you it would be nearly three before I should get out. You didn’t really come at half-past one, did you?”

  “Of course I did. Look here, it’s a topping afternoon, and I’ve got the car. I thought we could run right out into the country.”

  Anne had meant to be aloof and repressive, but she could not keep the blood from her cheeks or the sparkle from her eyes. To be carried smoothly and swiftly through miles and miles and miles of scented summer air; to see the sun on endless fields—after the flat and Mrs. Brownling’s kitchen it was heaven.

  John touched her sleeve as she got in.

  “You haven’t got a coat.”

  “I don’t want one on a day like this.”

  “Sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  The car began to move; the grey streets along which she had walked wearily began to slip away like old, grey dreams. John sat by her side frowning.

  She ought to have a coat. She ought to have her own clothes. They must be somewhere. She must have had clothes. He made a note to go and see Mrs. Jones again and find out about Anne’s clothes. She ought to have a coat. It was all very well to-day, but he was going to take her for a lot more drives, and it wouldn’t always be warm.

  Anne’s voice broke in upon his thoughts.

  “Tell me about Jenny’s baby,” she said.

  “Jenny’s baby?”

  “You said you were at Waterdene. You must have seen the baby. Didn’t you?”

  “Of course I saw it. Jenny’s frightfully proud of it. She shows it to everyone.”

  “What is he like? Who is he like?” said Anne eagerly.

  “Like? Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Is he like Jenny?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Is he like Nicholas? Can’t you tell me? I—I haven’t seen him.”

  The little quiver in her voice filled John with rage against Jenny and Nicholas Marr. Some of it got into his voice as he said:

  “It’s just a baby.”

  Anne thought, “I’ve made him cross.” She wanted so dreadfully badly to hear all about the baby and all about Jenny; and now she had made him cross. And suddenly she felt tired and weak, and she was sorry that she had come. She shut her eyes on two hot tears.

  John looked sideways at her and cursed the Marrs again. What did she look like that for? She hadn’t any colour at all, and there was a little line of pain on either side of her mouth. He did not know that he loved Anne, but he wanted to kiss those lines away. He said, very angrily indeed:

  “Does she give you enough to eat?”

  Anne’s eyes opened very wide. He saw that her lashes were wet. She said:

  “Who?”

  “That beastly Fossick-Yates woman.”

  “Oh—why?”

  “You don’t look as if you were eating anything.”

  “I am really.”

  “What did you have for lunch?” And, as she hesitated: “I don’t believe you had anything.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “What did you have?”

  Anne began to laugh because she suddenly remembered Mrs. Brownling’s uncle with the military manners. She said: “Bread and butter.” And John fairly snorted with rage.

  “I bet it was margarine! Was it—or wasn’t it?”

  “It was.”

  “All right,” said John. “We can’t talk about it here, because I’ve got to steer, and if I really let myself go we shall probably run into a tram. When we do get out into the country there are quite a lot of things I’m going to say.”

  “You are like Mrs. Brownling’s uncle!” said Anne.

  They left the tram-lines behind, and presently there were no buses and fewer and fewer cars. The road was edged with trees instead of houses, and the blue sky looked down on a green world. They turned off on to a narrow road that climbed through a pine wood to an open moor.

  John stopped the car, and they got out.

  “First you’re going to eat; and then we’re going to talk. I brought a picnic basket because I thought it would be jollier to get right away like this.”

  They sat down on the young green heather, with the sun-filled, pine-scented air all round them. The moor rose up behind to the bluest sky in the world. In front of them it fell away to woods and fields. On the far horizon a line of blue hills merged into a blue haze.

  Anne did not know that she was hungry until the basket stood open and displayed its extravagant contents—a sort of combined lunch and tea. She did not eat enough to satisfy John, but she certainly ate more than she would have believed possible. After a year of prison fare and ten days of Mrs. Brownling’s cooking, to eat civilized food again created the illusion of having stepped back into the old life.

  She stopped being Annie Jones, and was Anne Waveney, with the clock put back a year. The scent of the pines, the warmth of the sun, the sound of the light fresh breeze that went softly by—all these things were outside the life of Annie Jones. Anne Waveney let herself savour them to the full, just for half an hour.

  When they had finished their meal, John packed everything away with the neatness of a man who has lived much in camp and can put his hand to any domestic job as well as a woman, or better. John himself would certainly have said better. He shut the lid of the basket down, came over to Anne, and sat down on the green heather beside her.

  “Now let’s talk.”

  They had been talking all the time lightly and pleasantly, but the moment he said “Now let’s talk,” there was a constraint between them.

  “The bother is I don’t a bit know how to begin.”

  “Don’t begin.”

  Anne’s eyes were on the blue horizon mists. Anne Waveney’s life was as far away from her as those far hills. She could not go back into the past and live it again. She had been dreaming of it for half an hour, and now she must come back. She would have liked to dream a little longer.

  She looked into her dream and said:

  “Don’t begin.”

  “I must.”

  She turned with a sigh to meet his frowningly intent look.

  “I haven’t an idea how to begin, so I shall probably make a mess of it. You see, you’ve really only seen me once. I can’t count the times you’ve forgotten, because, if you’ve forgotten them, as far as you’re concerned they don’t exist. Oh, Lord! I’m getting tied up! But this is what I mean: I expect I feel like a stranger to you. But I’m not a stranger; I can’t feel like one, and I can’t behave like one. And I can’t give you time to get used to me, because something’s got to be done at once.”

  “I don’t see that.”

  “You would if you were me. Good Lord, Anne, just put yourself in my place for a moment. I come home; I step into your brothers’ shoes; I take everything—I take the house you were brought up in, the place that was your home; and I can’t even find anyone who’ll tell me where you are, or what you’re doing, or whether you’ve got anything to live on. And when I do find you, you’re working your fingers to the bone for that perfectly awful Fossick-Yates woman. For Heaven’s sake put yourself in my place and think what I feel like!”

  Anne looked down into the heather. It was a deep forest. Far away down in it there were tiny busy creatures going to
and fro upon their business, or upon each other’s business.

  She said, “I see,” in a low gentle voice.

  “You see, I’m not a stranger—I can’t be. If I’ve got your brothers’ place, I’ve got to do what they would do for you. You must see that.”

  “How do you know that they would do anything?” Anne’s voice died away. Courtney and Tom had nothing to do with Annie Jones who had been in prison.

  “You’re talking nonsense! Now, look here, this is what I want to do. Your father altered his will.” He did not look at her as he spoke. “He left eight hundred a year to Jenny, instead of four hundred to each of you. People do odd things when they’re ill, and I don’t want to say anything about what he did. But you ought to have that four hundred a year out of the estate; and I’m going to see that you do have it.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Of course I can. It’s absolutely simple.”

  Anne looked at him for the first time, straight and steady.

  “You mean that you would give it to me?”

  “I mean that it would come from the estate.”

  “From you.”

  There was a pause.

  “That’s just the way you put it.”

  “It’s the way it is.”

  “Look here, Anne, are you so beastly proud that you won’t take a provision out of your own father’s estate?”

  All the colour went out of her face.

  “I won’t take what my father didn’t leave me.”

  John felt the stab of her pain as he had never felt wound of his own.

  “Anne—don’t!”

  “It’s true.”

  He could see that she was fighting for composure, and he got up and walked away a few paces to give her time to recover. If he stayed, he would touch her; and if he touched her, he did not know what might happen. So he walked away.

  When he came back, Anne was standing. As soon as he came up, she spoke:

  “I can’t do it. You mustn’t mind, but I really can’t.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “I really can’t. You—you mustn’t think I’m ungrateful. And I don’t want you to think things—things—about Jenny.” His face hardened, and she put a hand on his sleeve. “You mustn’t—really. You don’t understand—and I can’t explain. Jenny—Jenny has offered me half.”

  She said the words with such a painful effort that his heart cried out in him. Jenny, to make her suffer like that! Jenny! Some day Jenny Marr should pay her utmost farthing.

  He put his hand down roughly on hers.

  “So Jenny has offered you half? Are you taking it?”

  The hand under his throbbed. She tried to pull it away, but he held it close.

  “No. I can’t take it. Please let me go.”

  He let her go then, and stood wondering what to say. Everything that he said hurt her. How was he to help hurting her? She was like a bird in a net, fluttering and bruising itself against the hands that are trying to set it free. What did one do? Leave the bird in the net for fear of hurting it? Or just go blundering on?

  “I’ve made a hash of it!” he said aloud.

  “You haven’t.”

  “I’ve made a beastly hash of it. I knew I should. Look here, Anne, for the Lord’s sake, let’s start fresh. We’re cousins. I want to be friends. Oh, hang it all! Don’t you see that you can’t possibly go on with that Fossick-Yates woman?”

  Anne did not know what she had expected—not Mrs. Fossick-Yates’ name. She hastened to shelter behind her.

  “Why do you hate the poor thing so?”

  “She isn’t a poor thing—she’s an arrogant, bullying, rostrating henpecker. I wouldn’t be poor little Fossick-Yates for a million.”

  “Nor would I. But then he can’t give notice—I can. I shall stay six months to get a character and then I shall be able to take a really decent place.” Anne’s voice died suddenly on the last word. What had she said? What had she told him? How much did he know? He had accused her of looking upon him as a stranger. But the trouble was that she couldn’t look upon him as a stranger. She found herself talking to him easily, intimately, and without taking any heed of what she said. What had she said now?

  With a look of distress that went to his heart she faltered out another lame sentence or two. John broke in on them:

  “You can’t possibly go on for six months.”

  Anne was silent. One could manage a day at a time; but a month has thirty days, and July and August would have thirty-one. Six times thirty, and some odd days added in, was a hundred and eighty-three. She saw herself struggling through a hundred and eighty-three stuffy nights in a little stuffy room, with Mrs. Brownling breathing heavily beside her, and Mrs. Brownling’s bed creaking every time Mrs. Brownling turned over in it; a hundred and eighty-three breakfasts with Mrs. Brownling, and a hundred and eighty-three dinners in the littered, dirty kitchen; a hundred and eighty-three suppers of bread and margarine, with an occasional piece of stale cheese thrown in; a hundred and eighty-three days of saying “Yes, madam,” respectfully to Mrs. Fossick-Yates.

  “I can do it—I can!” she said to herself.

  She faced John with her head up and a little smile on her lips.

  “It’s no good,” she said. “You see, you don’t understand. You said just now that we were cousins. Well, we’re not. Anne Waveney’s dead. She was your cousin. I’m Annie Jones, and I haven’t any claim on you at all. I’ve got nothing to do with the Waveneys; and none of the Waveneys have anything to do with me—they haven’t any responsibility. I’m Annie Jones. I’m earning my living, and I mean to go on earning it; and I can’t have friends outside my own class. You said you wanted to be friends. But we can’t be friends. You can’t be friends with Annie Jones.” She stopped, breathing rather quickly.

  “Is that all?” said John.

  “Yes.”

  “Then do you mind being Anne Belinda, just till we get back? I mean it would prevent you feeling how improper it is for me to be out with Annie Jones.”

  Anne looked hard at him. He wore a grave and submissive air. His eyes met hers with a simple and earnest expression.

  “You see, we’re about forty miles from London, and we might just as well enjoy the drive back. We had quite a jolly time coming, didn’t we?”

  “You’ve been frightfully kind,” said Anne.

  “I’ve got a kind disposition. I expect it runs in the family. I expect you could be kind if you really gave your mind to it.”

  There was a slight pause. Then for a fleeting instant he smiled, a wide friendly smile.

  “Come along, Anne Belinda!” he said.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  They took the road again, with John in a new mood. He seemed, for some reason, to be in very high spirits; and he talked so much that Anne hardly had to talk at all. Her vehement protest had left her rather shaken. She experienced a reaction. Why had she said all that? Perhaps he was laughing at her. Perhaps he thought—

  Suddenly she felt that she did not care what he thought of her. She pushed the whole thing away and shut the door upon it. It was such a lovely day; the trees and the green slopes slid past. Why should she bother about anything? Why not just enjoy herself?

  John told her about Rudolphus Peterson, and about crawling through swamps to photograph a foot or two of deadly snake. He was very friendly and cheerful. Once he told her an instructive anecdote about a gentleman called Red Pete, who was so proud that when an uncle left him fifty dollars, he tied it up in an old bandanna handkerchief and slung it over Niagara. And once he sang, cheerfully and unmelodiously, a ditty referring to a different aspect of the same vice, as exemplified by an incident in the life of a certain Mr. Page:

  “Where the tram-lines run on Kingston Hill,

  And fares are penny-a-ride,

  Mr. Caractacus Emery Page

  Drives forth in a car of pride.

  “He drives in a Rolls or Daimler,

  Or some other expensive bus;

&
nbsp; And oh, how Caractacus Emery Page

  Looks down on the likes of us!”

  “I met a toad called Caractacus once,” he added. “I saved his life. Perhaps he’ll leave me fifty dollars, and I can throw them into the Thames off Waterloo Bridge, if it hasn’t fallen down by then. Toads live to be frightfully old.”

  They came home in the dusk, and stopped at the corner of Malmesbury Terrace. As they drew up, John said in brisk, businesslike tones.

  “If you’ll send me a list of what clothes you want, I’ll see Mrs. Jones gets them for you.”

  “Oh!” said Anne, a good deal taken aback. “Please don’t.”

  “I never met anyone who said ‘don’t’ so often. It’s the sort of thing that gets into being a habit; and then you can’t stop.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “You don’t need to think. You want a coat, because it won’t always be so warm as it was to-day. I suppose your clothes are somewhere. If they’re at Waterdene, Mrs. Jones can just go down and dig them out. If they’re at Waveney”—a brilliant idea struck him—“if they’re at Waveney, we can run down there and you can get what you want yourself.”

  “I couldn’t do that.”

  He had hurt her again. One couldn’t move without hurting her.

  “All right, Mrs. Jones can go.”

  “No, I don’t want—”

  “There you go again! Of course you want your things. Make a list and send it to me. Mrs. Jones shan’t know where you are, if that’s what you’re afraid of. She’ll simply pack a box and send it to me; then I’ll send it on to you by Carter Paterson. It’s as easy as mud.”

  He was dreadfully, perseveringly obstinate. It would be nice to have her things. These two ideas entered Anne’s mind together.

  “You won’t tell anyone where I am?”

  “Same terms as last week,” said John firmly. “If you murder the Fossick-Yates woman and run away, you’ll let me know where you’ve gone to.”

  Anne laughed just a little tremulously. Her lovely, lovely day was over. There were lights in all the houses; the sun that had shone upon the pine-scented moor was gone. She put her hand into John’s and said, as lightly as she could: