Call and I'll Come

by Mary Burchell

  CALL AND I’LL COME

  Mary Burchell

  Anna was sure she’d made a mistake in marrying Tony Roone. Not that she didn’t love him, but she felt she had nothing to give him.

  As a compensation, she had made a career for herself as a singer—but found success wasn’t satisfying. Only when things went wrong did they begin to really find each other!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Hamilton Roone stopped his car and cast an unusually discontented glance over the gloomy landscape. The early March twilight was already fading, and an unfriendly wind came whistling over the hill, rattling the windscreen of the car and snatching spitefully at the ends of his scarf.

  He had not thought it possible, he told himself, to be completely lost in England, even on the Yorkshire moors; but it was his own fault, of course. He should have had more sense than to leave his map at the little country hotel where he had stopped for a very late lunch.

  As it was, he had come thirty miles farther on his way before he realized the map was missing, and by then it had been too late to do anything about it. At the time, it hadn’t seemed so vastly important, for the friend at whose house he was to spend the week had given fairly explicit directions, and it should not be too difficult a matter to find Coryton Manor.

  But it had become an extraordinarily difficult matter after all, and for the last hour, he had to admit to himself, he had been hopelessly lost.

  He tossed away the end of his cigarette and pulled on his big motoring-gloves again. Sitting in a windy hollow, with darkness creeping across the grey and purple moorland, was not a cheerful occupation; and, with an anxious glance at his petrol gauge, he pressed the self-starter and the car purred into life again.

  Something would turn up sooner or later. It always did, he reflected, with a quick turn to his usual philosophical good nature. And, cold though he was, and just a little cross, Roone still wore that indefinable air of easy confidence which you see only in those who have never had any reason to dread the morrow.

  For thirty years life had treated Hamilton Roone remarkably well, and he was engagingly sure that for thirty years more it would go on doing the same thing.

  As he gazed ahead, his eyes narrowed a little against the gathering darkness and the first few snowflakes that were drifting down, there was that something about him which makes women call some men “boyish” long after their actual age warrants it.

  It was partly the smile that always lurked at the back of his clear grey eyes, partly the extremely sweet-tempered curve of his well-cut mouth. The contrast between that and his almost amusingly firm chin was oddly intriguing. There was a suggestion that, though he was probably slow to anger, he would make a very bad enemy when roused. And there was quite enough lazy strength in his big well-knit figure to support that notion.

  “Doesn’t anyone live in this godforsaken place?” he muttered annoyedly—and then drew up sharply, for set so far back from the road that he had almost passed it was a little silent house, surrounded by a tangle of neglected trees and bushes.

  He looked a little distastefully at the dilapidated gate and then, glancing up, suddenly began to laugh. For, creaking in a melancholy way, as it swung in the icy wind, there was a sign which read: “Teas and Light Refreshments.”

  “The best bit of unfounded optimism I’ve seen in years,” he said aloud, as he climbed a little stiffly out of the driving-seat. The sign must have hung there since summer, and probably many summers before, but, even in summer-time, he thought, there must be few travellers anxious to avail themselves of the dispirited offer in this remote spot.

  As he went up the ill-kept path his big, well-groomed figure looked oddly out of character in this tumble-down place.

  He knocked on the door with his knuckles, since there seemed no other way of attracting attention, and almost immediately it was opened by a thin little woman, who looked out timidly at him.

  Instinctively dropping his voice a tone or two, he said: “I wonder if you would oblige me with a meal of some sort? I’ve lost my way and I’m frightfully hungry.”

  She looked so surprised at being asked to provide a meal that Roone felt she must long ago have forgotten there had ever been a notice offering to do so.

  “Oh—yes,” she said doubtfully, in a pretty voice that was as timid as her looks. “That is, if you don’t want anything very elaborate.”

  “No. Bread and cheese, or something like that, will do quite well,” he assured her; and she stood aside silently for him to pass.

  “I hope she’s not as sparing with the food as she is with her words,” he thought, half, amused and half put out, as she silently directed him into a room at the back of the house.

  When she had stirred up the fire, and lit a big, round, yellow lamp, he tried the effect of his most friendly smile on her. The response was remarkable. She was quite close to him, and he was irresistibly reminded of a small brown bird that had decided to accept some crumbs after all.

  “If you’ll sit down by the fire and make yourself comfortable,” she said, in a little eager rush of words, “I’ll get you a meal at once. You’d like something hot, I expect. Some ham and eggs and coffee—and there’s some new bread I made this morning.”

  “That sounds very good to me,” Roone told her kindly. “Yes, I should like something hot. It was very cold driving.”

  “Cold?” she repeated, in an odd little voice that seemed to come from a long distance across frozen wastes. “Yes, it’s very cold. There’ll be terribly heavy snow tonight.” And she went out of the room, leaving Roone with the uncomfortable impression that she had inside information about the weather.

  Indescribable silence settled down on the place, so that the crackling of the fire sounded aggressively loud in the stillness.

  “I should go crazy if I had to live in this dead-and-alive hole,” he muttered. “No wonder that timid little thing looks frightened of everything.” She couldn’t live here all alone, of course, but there was no sound of any other living soul.

  He tossed off his coat and went to the window, but it was too dark to see much, and the flakes of snow drifting across the panes dazzled him and confused the outlines of anything which lay beyond. A mournful gust of wind rattled the window-frame and sent him thankfully back to the fire, which was blazing cheerfully by now.

  He sat down in a shabby but comfortable chair, and reaching for a newspaper was not specially surprised to find that it was three weeks old. It all seemed in character with the rest of the place, somehow.

  Presently the woman came back, bringing with her an excellently cooked meal. She drew up a small table, so that he need not move from the fire, and seemed pathetically gratified when he said: “Why, that is nice. Thanks very much.”

  He supposed she seldom saw people, and was probably quite glad of an opportunity to talk. Anyway, rather to his amusement, she stayed and poured out his coffee for him.

  “Do you know if I’m anywhere near Coryton Manor?” he asked as he watched her. “I’m supposed to be there some time tonight.”

  She shook her head. “Oh no, you’re quite the wrong side of the moor, I’m afraid. I think it’s miles away.”

  Roone gave a vexed exclamation. To his astonishment and slight dismay, the woman started nervously, and said in a placatory voice: “I’ll go and ask my daughter. She’ll probably know.”

  She hurried away out of the room; he heard her call “Anna” in a soft voice; then a door closed and everything was silent again.

  “Confound it!” he said heartily aloud, because he was growing sick of the silence. “Did she think I was blaming her for the distance to Coryton? I never saw such an odd place or such an odd woman.”

  Still, the food at least was excellent and, afte
r a moment he continued his meal.

  He couldn’t possibly have said why, but suddenly he became acutely aware of the fact that he was being watched, and turning sharply, he saw that there was a girl standing in the doorway. Or rather she was leaning one thin shoulder negligently against the side of the door, as though she had been there quite a while studying him.

  Roone gave a slight gasp, half annoyance at being watched and half admiration at the strange attraction of her.

  “Good evening,” he said, faintly uncomfortable under her unwavering scrutiny.

  “Good evening.” Her voice was low-pitched and slightly husky. She didn’t move and Roone thought he had never seen anything so graceful and boneless as her thin figure in its cheap dress of indeterminate colour.

  This must be Anna, he decided.

  “Er—won’t you come in?” he said, after a second.

  She came forward at once, and he realised with a sense of quite extraordinary shock that her feet were bare. It seemed somehow the final peculiarity in an already fantastic situation. Certainly they were the prettiest feet he had ever seen, but that didn’t seem to make much difference.

  “Please do sit down,” he said rather helplessly, indicating a chair.

  She obeyed him immediately, but she chose the rug at his feet.

  He looked down at her as she sat there gravely in the firelight, and his slight sense of irritation softened suddenly into something much more indulgent and appreciative. She was so curiously lovely, he thought. Like someone—suddenly he got the word—like someone enchanted. She looked as though she might be under a spell, or perhaps, even more, as though she could weave spells...

  Roone caught himself up with a vexed little laugh, and at that she looked up, fixing her eyes on him in faintly sulky interest.

  They were slightly long eyes, genuinely hazel in colour, and with beautiful thick dark lashes, Her face was thin, but the bone structure perfect, and her hair, like heavy strands of smoky brown silk, was perfectly straight and drawn back from a centre parting to twist in a knot on her neck.

  But what attracted and held Roone’s attention irresistibly was the pale, warm gold of her skin, as though the tan of long-past summer months still lingered. As for her soft red mouth, he couldn’t decide whether it was wise enough to look innocent or innocent enough to look wise.

  “Well, why do you look at me like that?”

  He hadn’t really spent more than a few seconds in his scrutiny but she looked a little suspicious and resentful, like some wild, shy creature that already regretted the confidence it had given.

  “I was trying to decide what it is you remind me of,” he was rather surprised to hear himself say.

  “Oh!” her eyes widened a little with interest. “And what do I remind you of?”

  He smiled suddenly. “King Cophetua’s beggarmaid, I think,” he said slowly.

  She looked startled, and then sulkily dropped her eyes. “I’m not a beggar,” she muttered resentfully, and quickly drew her bare feet under the hem of her poor shabby dress.

  “I didn’t mean that.” He saw at once that he had offended her and was very anxious to undo the hurt. “I mean you’re like Burne-Jones’s picture, you know.”

  “I don’t know,” was all she said, which made Roone very uncomfortable.

  “It’s the way you do your hair,” he explained earnestly, “and your honey-gold skin, and your little thin wrists, and—Really, I beg your pardon!” He broke off, shocked to find he had said so much and had been going to say more.

  “It’s all right,” the girl said, as though this were the usual way to talk after five minutes’ acquaintance.

  Roone cleared his throat and began to pour himself some more coffee. “I think your mother said you would be able to tell me how far I am from Coryton Manor.” He made that sound as matter-of-fact as he could.

  “It’s a long way. You’re the wrong side of the moor,” she told him, as her mother had.

  “Well, can’t I cross the moor by some road or other?” he asked a little impatiently.

  “You’d get lost,” was all the girl said, in what seemed to him an unnecessarily solemn tone.

  “What do you suggest I do, then?” he inquired, pushing away his empty plate and regarding her with a good deal of pleasure.

  “I?” She looked startled. “I wasn’t going to suggest anything.”

  “Weren’t you? Well, I wish you would,” Roone said cheerfully. “Do you mind if I smoke ?”

  “No; I don’t mind,” she answered gravely. She watched him take a cigarette from his case; then she leaned forward and lit a twist of paper from the fire and knelt up beside him to light the cigarette for him.

  Something in the kneeling attitude and the gravity of her thin young face profoundly touched Roone and he felt a growing curiosity about this half-shy, half-sulky girl with her elfin charm. No. Elfin implied something gay, he told himself, and he was piqued to realise that he hadn’t seen her smile even once yet. He came back to the word “enchanted” and smiled a little to himself.

  “Is that real gold?” He saw she was touching his cigarette-case with an awed forefinger. He felt amused and again, a little touched.

  “Um-hm. Do you like it?”

  “It’s beautiful,” she said gravely. “That coat is beautiful too, isn’t it?” She leaned forward and stroked her hand over his big driving-coat as it lay tossed over a chair.

  Roone looked extremely astonished, and then he grinned engagingly. “Well, as a matter of fact,” he admitted, “I do rather fancy myself in that.”

  She seemed for a moment to find that amusing too, because he saw a fleeting smile quiver on her red mouth. But she quickly turned her head away as though she must not let him see her laugh.

  He was suddenly intensely intrigued by that hint of amusement and leaning forward to look at her he said:

  “Don’t you find it extraordinarily quiet living away on the moor like this?”

  “Yes, it’s quiet.”

  “Do you just help your mother to keep house?” He hoped he didn’t sound inquisitive, but he very badly wanted to know more.

  “Yes.”

  “And I suppose your father farms or something?”

  She shook her head. “My father is dead,” she said.

  “And so you just live here with your mother?” Roone’s voice was quite grave now and rather kindly.

  “There’s my stepfather too,” she volunteered in her abrupt way.

  “Oh, your mother married again?”

  The girl nodded.

  “And what does your stepfather do?”

  “He drinks.”

  The uncompromising tone of her reply stirred Roone’s sense of humour more than he felt was proper.

  He stroked his chin thoughtfully in order to put up a hand to hide his smile. “Well, that’s scarcely a whole-time job, is it?”

  She didn’t answer that, but looked straight at him and said: “You find most things funny, don’t you?”

  Roone flushed up quickly. “I’m sorry. Do I seem rather inane to you?”

  “Oh no.”

  He was piqued that she didn’t elaborate that, and wondered quite what to say next. Then she said thoughtfully: “It must be nice to be so sure of things that you can find most of them funny.”

  He wondered uneasily if she were reproving him and said awkwardly: “I suppose it was rather an idiotic sight—my sitting there laughing.”

  “No,” she said. “It was like watching the sun rise.”

  He was silent from utter astonishment and the next moment her mother came into the room.

  “It’s snowing very hard,” she said worriedly as though someone might blame her for it.

  “Is it?” Roone got up quickly. “Then I must be going. If I follow this road straight ahead where does it bring me out? I’d better find somewhere to put up for the night and go on to Coryton tomorrow.

  “It’s about three miles to the village,” began the girl, when Roone’s excla
mation as he looked out of the storm cut her short:

  “Lord, what a night! It will be dazzling driving in this. I suppose,” he turned suddenly to the little woman, and said with a boyish diffidence that was singularly attractive, “I suppose you couldn’t put me up here for the night?”

  The girl said “No” just a split second before the woman said, “Yes, I think so.”

  “Mother, you know it’s impossible,” the girl muttered.

  “Oh, Anna,” her mother began troubledly.

  Feeling embarrassed but amused, Roone turned away a little, while a whispered discussion went on between the two.

  Apparently the mother’s arguments prevailed because presently she said: “I can let you have a room if you like, and there’s a shed where you can put your car.”

  “Thank you very much. That is”—he gave a little smile in the girl’s direction—“if Anna doesn’t object.”

  Anna gave him what Roone described to himself as “a smoky look” and went out of the room without a word.

  Her mother looked worried, but Roone gave her a reassuring little grin and, flinging on his coat, went out into the whirling snow. It was already sufficiently thick and bewildering to make him glad he had not to drive farther that night. Besides, he reflected, half vexed, half intrigued, he wanted to know a bit more about that girl.

  She wasn’t like anything he had ever seen before, either among his own or his sister’s many friends. In fact he laughed a little as he thought of Katherine in connection with that girl. She would undoubtedly have looked down her exceedingly well shaped nose, murmured, “Sulky, ill-mannered peasant” and dismissed her as completely uninteresting.

  Well, the girl was not uninteresting, whatever else she might be.

  He drove his car slowly down the narrow path until the doors of the shed loomed ahead. She was there already, struggling with the stiff, snow-covered bolts and he realised in a seconds glance that she still had no shoes on. Her slim bare feet were braced on the snowy pathway as she pushed her weight against the door.

  “Here!”—he was out of the car in a moment, moved by a quite unusual spurt of anger—“what do you think you’re doing?”