“Isn’t she wonderful?” breathed Miss Webster.
John thought her so wonderful that the impulse to hit her over the head with the largest and heaviest of the valuable bronzes was almost more than he could control.
Chapter Twenty-Two
He did not see Anne again. Mr. Fossick-Yates went with him to the door, and after giving him three wrong hats in succession, followed him out on to the draughty stone landing, and completed at great length the thirty-year-old story of how he had missed his train.
John listened, and did not listen. How was he going to see Anne? Parlour-maids had afternoons out; he wondered when Anne would have an afternoon out.
“The road,” said Mr. Fossick-Yates earnestly, “was very steep and very dusty, and we were all beginning to feel more than a little hungry. If it had not been for the chocolate in my pocket—”
Perhaps Mrs. Fossick-Yates was so wonderful that she didn’t give her parlour-maid an afternoon out. What a woman! Oh, what a woman!
“But, of course, the worst of chocolate is that it makes one so very thirsty. And, as I said before—”
John wondered what little Fossick-Yates would say if he were to seize him by the lapel and say, “When does your parlour-maid go out?” He checked the impulse to experiment, and learned with what gratitude that long dispersed party had happened on a streamlet.
“Nectar, my dear fellow!” The little man’s eye kindled at the memory. “Delicious! Unforgettably delicious! Er—I’ll walk downstairs with you.”
John shed him at last a quarter of a mile down the street. He walked back to the hotel in a turmoil of thought. He was profoundly disturbed without knowing why.
It was Anne Belinda who disturbed him. The effect that she had upon him was one that no one else had. You liked people, or you didn’t like them. You made friends with some people, and not with others. You were fond of some; and a few you loved. None of them had this extraordinary disturbing effect. To hear a thing about Anne Belinda wasn’t like hearing the same thing about anyone else.
Anne Belinda wasn’t like anyone else. He had talked to her nine years ago for perhaps twenty minutes, and he had never forgotten it, never forgotten the least detail of how she looked and what she said. Then two days ago he had seen her again for less than a minute, and he could still feel her desperate grip upon his arm; the storm of her agony still shook him.
To-night—to-night had left him with the strangest feelings of all. It was as if Mrs. Fossick-Yates and her flat and her dinner-party, her subservient husband, and her adoring friend, were all part of an insubstantial dream into which he had strayed. He had moved in the dream and mixed with the creatures of the dream, and all the while he was aware of Anne, who was real, moving to and fro in a waking world just out of reach. Dreams go by contraries. In the dream, he and the other unreal people had sat in a lighted circle, with Anne beyond it in the twilight. Dreams go by contraries. It was Anne who was in the light; it was Anne who was real. And the most desperate need of his life was to get out of the dream and go to her.
He went back to Ossington Road next day. He had no definite plan of how to come to speech with Anne. He thought of telephoning, and was daunted at the prospect of Mrs. Fossick-Yates answering him, or listening whilst Anne answered. He thought of writing. But suppose she got his letter and just ran away. Suppose she had recognized him last night; and suppose she had run away already!
The Fossick-Yates might have spoken of him as Sir John, or they might have said Sir John Waveney—anyone might have said Sir John Waveney. Even if Anne had only been there thirty-six hours she might have heard his name a dozen times. She might have heard it once, or she might not have heard it at all. If she had heard it, she might have run away. And if she had run away, how in heaven’s name was he to find her? He had called off Messing that morning, and he simply could not stick the idea of letting him, or anyone like him, go prying and ferreting after Anne.
It was about three o’clock when he turned the corner of Malmesbury Terrace and walked slowly up Ossington Road. It was a long road, and at one end there were a few shops, whilst at the other the houses became steadily larger and more expensive. The big block in which the Fossick-Yates had their flat stood about half-way up the street, just where the ground began to rise.
John was still in the neighbourhood of the shops when he saw Mrs. Fossick-Yates, in a black corded silk coat and a crinoline hat with a large grey ostrich feather, come down the opposite pavement at a brisk yet stately pace. She carried a grey parasol, with a violet handle carved to represent a parrot’s head.
The nearest shop was a greengrocer’s. John was inside it before the lady had taken another step. He gazed at bananas, oranges, apples, French cherries, and early strawberries. What on earth could one buy in a greengrocer’s shop? There were bottled plums on a shelf, and baskets of potatoes, and bunches of spring onions, and boxes of dates. He bought a box of dates, asked for change for a pound note, and then, after a glance over his shoulder, inquired if he could have six coppers for sixpence.
By the time a damsel with bobbed red hair had obliged him with twelve halfpennies, the coast was clear; Mrs. Fossick-Yates, her feather, and her parrot were off the map. John put the dates in his pocket and went away whistling. No one would go out at three o’clock in the afternoon dressed like that unless they meant to stay out for a good long time. His fancy dwelt fondly on Mrs. Fossick-Yates staying out for a good long time. But still he had no idea of how on earth he was going to get hold of Anne.
He walked on past the block of flats and began to mount the hill. It was a very fine afternoon; there was a blue sky and a light breeze. The houses on the hill had gardens, in which laburnum and crimson may were coming into bloom. There were guelder roses and lilacs, and neat, flat beds full of wallflower and forget-me-not. Some of the beds were edged with white arabis and some with the big, pink double daisies, which his nurse had always called bachelors’ buttons. He remembered having a really frightful quarrel with a little girl who said that bachelors’ buttons were blue, and that the red daisies were hen-and-chickens; it had come to loud screams and the pulling out of hair, and the two nurses had never really been friendly any more. He had forgotten the little girl’s name, but he could remember putting out his tongue at her whenever they met. The little girl did not put her tongue out; she looked well brought-up and superior, and stuck her nose in the air, and she and her nurse always crossed over to the other side of the road.
John turned at the top of the hill and walked back. When he was about half-way down he saw someone come out of the block of flats and stand on the pavement. The sun dazzled on a white cap and a white apron. The girl who wore the cap and apron had a letter in her hand. She looked down towards the shops and up towards the hill. The pillar-box was on the left-hand side opposite the third house with a garden. She began to walk up the hill towards the letter-box.
It was Anne Belinda.
John felt as if someone was shouting to him. He would have liked to shout himself; he wanted to shout at the top of his voice and go pounding down the road to meet Anne Belinda. He subdued this impulse, and having arrived at the letter-box, began to absorb information as to the hours of clearance.
He leaned against the box so that Anne could not reach the slit. She had come up to the box, and he was aware of her standing there, only half a yard away, waiting for him to move.
He stood up suddenly and looked at her in an odd excitement. She was still very pale. It wasn’t only the black and white that made her look pale; she looked as if she had been crying. He must say something quickly, or she would think he was a lunatic.
He kept his hand on the pillar-box, and he said:
“Anne Belinda.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Anne had not taken any particular notice of the man at the pillar-box until he straightened himself and looked at her. Then she recognized last night’s guest, and wondered why he was behaving so oddly. He did not look in the least like the sort o
f man who speaks to you in the street.
Then suddenly she was cold with anger because he was speaking to her. She had time to be angry, to look past him as if he were not there, before she realized that he had called her Anne Belinda. The realization brought the bright colour to her face. She looked down at the letter in her hand, and said:
“Let me pass, please.”
“Anne!”
“I don’t know you.”
“I must speak to you.”
Anne turned in a whirl of anger and began to walk quickly down the hill. John came after her in a couple of great strides.
“I’m a perfect fool! Of course you don’t know who I am. Do, please, listen for a moment. I’m John Waveney—John Maurice Waveney, your cousin.”
Anne stood still. Then, without a word, she turned round and walked back to the letter-box. Her cousin, John Waveney—he had called her Anne Belinda—he was John Maurice Waveney. But she wasn’t Anne Waveney any more; she was Annie Jones, who had been in prison for stealing, and who was being given a second chance as Mrs. Fossick-Yates’ parlour-maid.
She posted her letter, and stood there for a moment looking down. She felt giddy; the sunlight was full of little bright specks.
“I really am a fool—I’ve frightened you—I’m most frightfully sorry. But I didn’t know how to get hold of you. I was afraid, if I let you go—I say, are you all right?”
“In a minute,” said Anne. The words were rather unsteady; the ground on which she stood seemed to wave up and down.
That passed. She had closed her eyes so as not to see the little dancing specks of light. She opened them now, and there was only clear, sunny air between herself and John Waveney. He was looking at her with so much concern that she smiled.
“I’m all right now. I must go back.”
“I want to talk to you most awfully.”
The smile just showed in her eyes.
“Here? I’m afraid—”
“No, not here, of course. But I must see you. Mrs. Fossick-Yates has gone out—I saw her go. Is the little man in?”
“Yes.”
“Go back and ask him if you can go out for half an hour. I’ll wait down at the bottom where the shops are.”
Anne bent her head and walked away. Her thoughts were racing. John Maurice Waveney—what an extraordinary thing! She had heard them say “Sir John” last night. How had he found her—and why? And how many people in how many houses had seen her standing by the pillar-box in her cap and apron talking to a man?
John walked down to the bottom of the road, and kept an eye on his watch. If she didn’t come in a quarter of an hour he would go to the post office and ring her up. He wasn’t going to have any more nonsense. He had found her, and he was going to talk to her whilst the coast was clear. Half an hour ago he had felt comfortably certain that Mrs. Fossick-Yates had gone out to tea; he now had a horrible conviction that she might come back at any moment.
In the end it was Anne who came—Anne in a grey coat and skirt with a little black cap, just as he had described her to Messing.
You couldn’t really describe Anne; you could only describe her clothes. There was the way the corners of her mouth lifted, and there was the way her eyelashes came down over her eyes; and there was the way she looked when she was angry, and the way she looked when she was sad. You couldn’t describe any of these things—no one could. They were like things that he had known always, and they held a secret which he wanted most frightfully to guess. They were Anne Belinda.
She came up to him with a little colour in her cheeks.
“I didn’t have to ask—he asked me. He said would I be so very good as to take a parcel to the post office; and he apologized three times, because he had only just sent me out with a letter.”
“Where can we go?”
“Well, I’ve got to go to the post office.”
He frowned.
“I can post the thing afterwards. Let’s find a tea-shop or something, where we can talk.”
“No,” said Anne. “I’ve only got half an hour, and I must post the parcel myself.”
“Nonsense!”
“I said I would. Why do you want to speak to me?”
“I’ve been looking for you ever since I got home.” He hated the pain that clouded her eyes.
“Why?”
“Well, first of all I wanted to find you; and then—well, I suppose I’m obstinate. Everyone seemed so dead set on my not finding you—” He broke off, a little flushed. This was not in the least what he had meant to say.
Anne’s clear regard dwelt on him for a moment. Then she said, sadly and clearly:
“They were quite right. I didn’t want to be found. I want you to promise me not to tell anyone that you have found me. I want you to leave me alone.”
They walked for a moment in silence. This end of Malmesbury Terrace was very quiet—a row of mid-Victorian houses with veiled windows and an air of decorum. Just beyond was the busy High Street, where the trams slid to and fro with a metallic screech, and cars and vans and a very hardy race of bicyclists competed for the remaining road space.
“I can’t leave you alone,” said John in a gruff, angry voice.
“Please,” said Anne more sadly still.
“No—I can’t.”
“Why?” The word broke rather a long pause.
John didn’t answer; he didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. This is the most exasperating thing that a man can do. Any woman would rather have anything said to her than have to watch her own words sink deeper and deeper into a bog of silence.
Anne coloured sharply and broke in.
“How did you find me? No one knew—and I’ve only been here two days.”
“I’ve been looking for you ever since I came home. I—I’ve been anxious about you; I wanted to be sure you were all right.”
“How did you find out where I was?” Her tone accused him.
To her surprise he grinned suddenly.
“I didn’t find you. I’d been straining every nerve trying to, and making a nuisance of myself to everyone. And then, when I didn’t know what to do next—there you were. Little Fossick-Yates had bothered me into saying I’d come and see his specimens, and I was most frightfully fed-up with the whole show. And then all of a sudden I found you there.”
“But—how? I—don’t understand. How did you, how could you, know it was me?”
“It was your hand.”
“My hand?”
“When it came over my shoulder and you said ‘Barley-water.’”
“But how could you recognize my hand? You’ve never seen it—you’ve never seen me.”
“Oh yes, I have.”
They had come to the end of Malmesbury Terrace. The traffic of the full High Street went by them like a river in flood. Anne stopped by the wall of the last grey house.
“When?” she said. “When did you see me? Tell me.”
John felt a curious reluctance to tell her. His colour rose; then a sparkle came into his eyes.
“You promised to cry for me if I was killed.”
“I did?”
“Nine years ago—at Waveney.”
“But I never saw you before to-day.”
“You’re forgetting yesterday,” said John, “—and another time—and nine years ago at Waveney, when you promised faithfully that you would cry.”
“I—promised? Oh!” A very faint and far off memory stirred. “Were—you—wounded?”
He nodded.
“I had a crocked leg. It was in ’17. I was due to go back in a week, and I thought I’d like to have a look at Waveney—I’d never seen it. And we talked. You asked me if I had any relations, and when I said ‘No,’ you seemed awfully bucked and said that was splendid, because then it wouldn’t matter about my being killed.”
“Oh, I didn’t!”
“Yes, you did. You were frightfully serious about it. And then you were afraid you’d hurt my feelings, and you promised you’d be
sorry.”
Rather a charming remembering look came over Anne’s face. She looked younger—a little shy, confused; but her eyes were arch.
“Was it you? How dreadful of me! But—” The archness died. “Courtney and Tom had gone. We’d been all smashed up. My father never really got over it. I suppose I was thinking how horrible it was for the people who didn’t get killed.”
“I suppose you were, poor kid.”
“But still I don’t see how you knew me.”
“It was the little mole on your hand. I noticed it the first time I saw you; and somehow I remembered it. And when I saw you again—”
“Last night?”
“No, not last night.”
“When?” She looked a little startled. A few minutes ago he had been just a name—an unknown kinsman who had stepped into her brothers’ inheritance through the tragic fortune of war; yet suddenly there was a nine years’ memory between them. She was talking to him on a deep, intimate note, and to both of them the intimacy was as natural as if they had shared the same nursery; it was the sense of kinship that was so strong.
“When did you see me again?”
“I don’t think I can tell you that. You didn’t see me.”
Anne turned so pale that he was shocked. What did she think? What had he made her think? He said quickly:
“Don’t! I saw you at Waterdene. You’d had a bit of a shock—you didn’t see me.”
Very dimly, Anne remembered that there had been someone. She had held on to someone. She had been faint, and giddy, and blind; and she had held on to someone and said: “Don’t let them come!”
“Was that you?”
The roaring traffic went by as they stood on the edge of it. When everyone is busy and hurried, two people can be very much alone.
“Yes. There’s nothing for you to worry about. You didn’t see me. And I didn’t mean to tell you, but you looked as if you thought—as if you thought—”
Anne Belinda: A Golden Age Mystery Page 14
