Her first sight of Jenny’s face was to have blotted out all the bad dreams of Jenny frightened; the straining eyes, the agonized pallor were to be blotted out. Yet somehow they were not blotted out. As Jenny came up to her and put her hand on her arm, Anne had the most terrible feeling that this pretty, smiling composure was just an illusion, and that behind it there was the terrified Jenny who had haunted all her dreams. The hand on her arm was stiff.
“Come through here—this way. Anne, why did you come?”
They were in a narrow walk that wound its way into the shrubbery on the right of the drive. Tall bushes of holly, berberis and yew rose high above their heads; a little farther and the path was almost a tunnel. Jenny hurried on until it opened into a curious square clearing. A hedge of clipped holly gave it high, impenetrable walls. In one of the walls a window had been cut. It framed a brilliant, exquisite picture of blue sky, sunny water, and green meadow. The place itself was dark and cold.
As they came into it, Anne flung her free arm about Jenny.
“Oh, Jen!” she said.
Just for a moment there was a response. Then Jenny stood away, her hand dropping to her side.
“Why did you come?” she said. “Oh, Anne, why did you come?”
A sense of confusion came over Anne. The whole of her consciousness was so full of the joy of being with Jenny again that there was literally no room in it for anything else. But something else was pushing against the door of her thought, pressing to come in. The darkness of this overshadowed place added to her bewilderment. She put out her hands and said, speaking slowly and doubtfully:
“Why, Jen, where—I mean—didn’t you want me to come?”
“I told you not to come. I told you not to do anything till you’d seen Mr. Carruthers.”
“He’s been ill. He’s away.” Then after a pause, “I wired.”
“What’s the good of wiring? You didn’t wait for an answer—and I only got the wire ten minutes before you arrived. We’d been out to lunch at Greystones. It was all I could do to get away from the rest of them and catch you at the gate.”
Anne’s eyebrows drew together; her eyes dwelt on Jenny with a puzzled look.
“Have you got a party?”
“People for the week-end. But, anyhow—Anne, you must see that you can’t possibly come here like this.”
Anne went on looking. Part of her mind was thinking how well Jenny looked, and how pretty—white suited her. Part of it was not thinking at all, but trying, with an awful sense of strain, to keep out that pressing, pushing something which sought to force a way for itself.
“Why, Jen?”
Jenny came nearer.
“Why on earth didn’t you wait until you heard from me? You ought to have waited.”
“No—I don’t think so. I had to see you—I had to know what you’d been saying to people. As it was, I nearly ran into Aurora. And I thought—” She gave a little laugh.
“Aurora!” Jenny’s tone was quite horrified.
“Yes, my child, Aurora. If I hadn’t been frightfully quick, she’d have seen me. And before she sees me, I think I should just like to know how much Aurora knows.”
“She doesn’t know anything.”
“How do you mean she doesn’t know anything? I’m supposed to have been travelling with her. Doesn’t she know that?”
“No, she doesn’t. I wrote to her, and the letter came back. And I didn’t think she’d be coming home for months, because Leonard Fairlie said that Mabel told him that Aurora was just off to Kurdistan. So I made sure that she wouldn’t be back for ages. Are you certain it was Aurora?”
Anne laughed again. Jenny never believed anything she didn’t want to believe. If it suited her to feel sure that Aurora was in Kurdistan, she would continue to feel sure in the face of the most daunting evidence.
“Of course I’m certain. I saw her. She’s staying at Haydon’s Hotel—I saw her signature in the register.”
“I must see her,” said Jenny. “Or—or—you can see her for me. We really oughtn’t to lose any time, and the very earliest day I could possibly go to town would be Wednesday. Yes, you’d better see her. Look here, you’ll catch the four-forty-five if you hurry. I told the taxi to wait.”
A stab of pain pierced the confusion of Anne’s thoughts. Jenny had told the taxi to wait. She was not to stay at Waterdene; she was to go back to town, and she was to go back at once. Jenny’s hand was on her arm, pushing her a little.
“Anne, do wake up! You must hurry if you want to catch the four-forty-five.”
A stab of anger followed the stab of pain.
“Why should I catch it?”
“Oh, you must!”
“Why, Jenny?”
Jenny slipped her hand into the crook of Anne’s elbow.
“Anne—please go—oh, please!”
But Anne stood her ground.
“Why, Jenny?” she repeated.
Jenny snatched her hand away.
“Why do you make it so hard for me? You must know that you oughtn’t to have come here. I can’t possibly have you, and you’re just making it as dreadful for me as you can.”
“I can’t possibly have you.” When Jenny said that, Anne’s guard came down. All the joy and the light and the brightness that had filled her thoughts went dead, and cold, and dark. She did not move or show any sign. But she lost count of time for a little. She did not know how long it was before her mind was clear again—cold and dark, but clear.
“Oh, you’re making it so hard for me!” said Jenny.
“I’m sorry.” Anne spoke quite simply and without sarcasm. “There are things I want to ask you. There’s plenty of time. You say that Aurora doesn’t know anything. Who does know?”
“Mr. Carruthers—”
Anne moved her hand impatiently.
“Naturally—since he wrote to me. And, from what he wrote, I—I suppose—” She stopped, then forced herself to go on: “I suppose Father knew.”
Jenny was crying a little.
“Anne, I couldn’t help it.”
“Who told him?”
“He guessed.”
“How could he?”
“He guessed there was something—he got it out of Nanna. You don’t suppose I wanted to tell him?”
“No, I suppose you didn’t. Anyone else, Jenny?” Anne’s voice was so quiet that Jenny took heart.
“Only Nicholas,” she said, and began to dry her eyes.
Anne took a quick breath.
“What does Nicholas know?”
“Anne—don’t! I couldn’t help it—I didn’t mean to tell him.”
“What did you tell him?”
“It was an accident—I didn’t mean it. Father made a most frightful scene, and Nicko heard something he said, and then I couldn’t get out of it. I had to tell him.”
Anne took a step forward.
“What did you tell him, Jenny?”
“Anne—don’t look at me like that!”
“Did you tell him—everything?”
Jenny burst into tears.
“You don’t know Nicko—you don’t—no one does. He’s so frightfully proud. You don’t know him.”
“Did you tell him what you told Mr. Carruthers—and Father?”
“I had to.”
“I see.” The two words took the last of Anne’s breath for the moment.
The tears were running down Jenny’s face, but Anne’s eyes were quite dry. When she said “I see,” she did see quite clearly. She saw where she stood, and where Jenny stood, and that there was a great gulf between them. On the far side of that impassable gulf there was not only Jenny, but all the world that Anne had known and loved. In that world there was no place for Anne any more; she was cut off from it, utterly, completely, and irrevocably. A horror of isolation, a horror of outer darkness, began to move stealthily towards her. She felt their approach, and could do no more than stand to meet it. There was no place for her. There was no refuge.
“Oh,
Anne!” said Jenny. “Why did you come? I could have come up and met you quietly and explained everything. What’s the good of looking like that? You’re making it so hard.” Her voice broke in a sob. “And it’s not my fault if Nicko simply won’t have you here. But he won’t—he won’t hear of it. He says I can give you half the money—he’s awfully generous; but he says you must promise not to come here or even to write. Look here, I’ll meet you in town and tell you all about it. But you must go now—you really must.”
“Yes, I’m going,” said Anne. She spoke in a colourless, gentle voice. She was looking in Jenny’s direction, but she did not really see her. She seemed to herself to be looking into a mist. Jenny was somewhere in the mist, but she couldn’t see her or reach her. She knew that she must go. Someone—yes, Jenny—had told her that she must go. And there was something about a train—she had to catch a train and go away into that outer darkness. She turned and began to grope her way slowly and stiffly along the wall of holly until she came to the opening through which she and Jenny had come.
Chapter Twelve
John Waveney had spent a very pleasant morning. He found himself liking his cousin Jenny a good deal. She certainly had a most charming gift for making each of her guests feel that he or she was an integral part of a delightful whole.
John was sorry that the pleasant week-end was over and that the evening would see him back in town. But both Jenny and Nicholas had bidden him come again and come often. “You mustn’t forget you’re a cousin, John—and I haven’t a lot of cousins like some people have.” This was Jenny. And Nicholas Marr had nodded and said, “No, we’re rather poor in relations, both of us—pretty nearly destitute, in fact.” And there he stopped suddenly, and as suddenly frowned.
John did not accompany the Marrs to Greystones. He went for a tramp after lunch and walked round Tenstone Hill. He came back very cheerful, and turned in at the lodge gate whistling. A taxi was waiting in the road outside, the driver immersed in a newspaper. He was just past the turn of the drive when he heard footsteps on his right. Someone was coming through the bushes at a sort of stumbling run. He turned, went back a yard or two, and looked up the path that left the drive to wander amongst dark yews and hollies. It was down this path that someone was running; and in a moment he saw that it was a woman. She came down the path with hurrying, halting feet, her hands stretched out before her as if she were pushing something away.
John stood where he was and waited for her to come to him. And as she came, he recognized her. It was Anne Belinda. The likeness to the child of nine years ago was dead; only the ghost of it lived in Anne Belinda’s wide, blind eyes. The likeness to Jenny was gone as if it had never been. And yet John recognized her beyond any doubt. It was Anne.
She stumbled against him and stopped dead, her groping hands clenched on his arm, her face quite close to his, her eyes drowned in anguish, not in tears. The sight of her moved John to the depths. It was as if she were walking in her sleep, separated from him by some horrible dream; for though she was touching him, holding him with desperate fingers, it was plain that she neither recognized him nor knew what she was doing. For the moment she was deaf and blind to outward things. What image was before her eyes, or what voice in her ears, he could not tell. It was not his image, or his voice.
She held his arm with the force of agony, and he laid a warm, steady hand on her shoulder and let it rest there, waiting. A long, full moment passed, and then, as they stood there on the edge of the drive, there came to them from the direction of the lodge the sound of voices—Pamela Austin’s high ringing laugh.
Anne gave a quick gasp, and he felt her quiver. The shoulder upon which his hand weighed had been rigid; now it shook. She gasped again, and this time there were words in the sobbing breath: “Don’t I—let—” She pushed him from her and gave back a pace.
The voices were very near, just round the turn of the drive. John went to meet them, and found Derek and Pamela in their usual high spirits. Pamela greeted him with a scream of joy:
“Come and do the Charleston up the avenue! Derek’s rotten on gravel. I say it gives it snap. Come along and show him.” As she spoke, she burst into song at the top of a piercing soprano.
Derek instantly began an imitation of fighting cats, and the three of them danced past the danger-point and up the drive until John professed himself out of breath.
“You must be in rotten training! I don’t get blown like that.” Pamela’s voice was full of scorn. “Hi, Jenny, where are you off to? Come and dance!”
Jenny’s white figure had appeared with almost startling suddenness. She came out between two pyramids of yew and stood there looking back over her shoulder.
Pamela and Derek began to run, but John turned and went down the drive again. He heard a chatter of voices receding. As soon as he was out of sight, he quickened his steps. But when he came to where the path turned off, it was empty. He walked up it, following its windings until he came to the dark clearing with the holly walls and the window which looked to the river.
There was no one there. The place oppressed him. The shadow of Anne’s grief lay upon it. It was here that she had been hurt—how deeply, grievously hurt—and by whom?
A second winding path led from the clearing on the farther side. John thought of Jenny coming out between the pyramids of yew. If Jenny and Anne had met and parted in this place, what had happened between them to send Anne stumbling down that nearer path blind with misery?
John walked down the path that Anne had followed, and hurried to the gate. The taxi was gone. A furious anger because Anne had been so near and he had let her go blazed up in him. Why hadn’t he gone back along the path with her? Why had he let her go out of his sight?
The lodge-keeper’s bicycle leaned against the wall beside the gate. John helped himself to it without scruple. He had no idea of when the next train left Dene Vale, but he meant to catch Anne if it was humanly possible to do so. He made record time over the five miles of roughish road, only to hear the engine whistle when he was still a hundred yards from the gate of the station yard. When he dropped the lodge-keeper’s bicycle and pushed past the porter, who demanded a platform ticket, the train was well under way. It afforded him a very good view of the back of the guard’s van.
He rode slowly back to Waterdene. Anne had come and gone. He had seen her, touched her, and lost her within so small a space of time that it seemed like one of those flashing dreams that break the monotony of sleep. He was left with no reasoned thought, but with two or three very vivid impressions—Anne’s grip on his arm, her cold rigid grip; the pain that blinded her eyes; the little heart-shaped mole between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand. He remembered that little mole; he remembered seeing it on the brown childish hand nine years ago. He was aware of having been very deeply moved. He was also aware of a steadily rising anger.
His determination to find Anne Waveney had from the first been whetted by the opposition which he encountered. Why could no one give him a straight answer? Why could no one tell him the truth? Fear, tact, evasion, lies—he was sick to death of them and in a mood to speak his mind roughly. Last night, now—Jenny must have been lying to him then. He tried to remember exactly what she had said, and discovered how little it amounted to. She had tried, as they had all tried, to put him off. She had hinted—oh, more than hinted—that Anne was out of her mind. And she had cried. Strangely enough, it never for one moment occurred to John that what Jenny had hinted might be true. He was quite sure that Jenny had lied to him, though he didn’t know why. As he walked up the drive, he hummed tonelessly:
“Cassidy was a gentleman,
Cassidy did me brown.
Cassidy’s wife wears a diamond hat
And pearls all over her gown.”
He came up to the house with his mind very strongly made up. He would be fenced with no longer. When he told Jenny, as he meant to tell her, that he had actually seen Anne, she could hardly refuse to give him Anne’s address.
He walked into the middle of the group that was having tea on the lawn under the biggest cedar and took a cup from Jenny without speaking. Derek and Pamela were throwing buns at each other with the maximum amount of noise and laughter. The sun shone warm and soft on the bright green of the grass. Pamela’s scarlet frock dazzled in it. John looked at Jenny as he took his cup from her steady hand. She had very pretty hands, smaller than Anne’s and whiter, much whiter. Her brown eyes smiled up at him.
“You’ve walked too far—you look quite fagged, she said.
“Oh, I didn’t walk very far.”
He took the vacant chair beside her and began to drink his tea in an abstracted silence. That Anne and Jenny had met he felt sure. If he had had any doubt before, it was gone now. Jenny had been crying; there were faint marks under her eyes, and the dark lashes through which she had looked up at him were not quite dry. Jenny cried rather easily. She had cried last night when he talked to her about Anne. Anything might have made her cry. But all the same he was sure, quite sure, that she and Anne had met. He drained his cup and set it down.
“Can you let me have Miss Fairlie’s address?” he said quite casually as he turned.
“But she’s in Spain!” Jenny flushed a little as she answered him, and her eyes widened.
“Yes—her address in Spain.”
“I don’t know—she’s always travelling about. You don’t take sugar, do you?”
“Yes, please. But when you write to your sister, how do you address the letters?”
“Poste restante, Madrid,” said Jenny, and gave him his cup so full that the tea slopped over into the saucer.
John emptied the saucer upon the grass. As the last drop fell, he said:
“Anne’s still with her—with Miss Fairlie, I mean?”
Jenny said, “Of course,” and said it a shade too quickly; the words were no sooner across her lips than she felt cold with fright. If by any chance John had seen Anne. He couldn’t have seen her. He might have passed her in the drive; he couldn’t possibly have recognized her.
Anne Belinda: A Golden Age Mystery Page 8
