Call and I'll Come

by Mary Burchell

  The little ivory linen suit which Mrs. Orpington had bought her emphasised the warm golden tone of her skin, and the girlish collar was turned rather far back, to reveal the slender column of her neck.

  She seemed to sense the scrutiny, because although she looked straight ahead she began to smile. And at that he drew the car to a standstill and put his arm round her.

  “I wish it could always be like this,” she said, as she leaned her head against him.

  “Why, dearest, what do you mean? It always will be like this.”

  “No,” she said. “No. I mean just us two alone.”

  He laughed and drew her close. “But what do other people matter, anyway?”

  “Other people always matter,” she said sombrely. “Even when they say nothing, they can spoil everything. Today, there was nothing but beauty inside the church—and then, when we came out, those people staring and staring, as though they hoped I’d be wretched.”

  “Anna!” He was shocked at the intensity of feeling in her voice. “But why should you think they wished you ill? It was probably just curiosity.”

  She gave him a funny little look; then said, almost pityingly: “Of course they wished me ill. They were some of the village girls, and they hate me.”

  Her mouth looked unhappy and faintly sullen, and he realised with dismay that she was trembling.

  “But why should they hate you?” he asked gently.

  “Don’t you know?” She looked straight at him.

  He smiled and shook his head. “How could I guess any reason for hating you?”

  But no smile touched her mouth as she said deliberately: “It’s because I had only to raise my hand and any of their men would have left them—and they knew it.”

  Hamilton had the confused impression that someone had hit him hard. He was wordless, and for a moment the silence was so intense that the purring of the running motor seemed shattering.

  Then he caught her by the arms and jerked her round to face him. “What are you saying?” he demanded roughly. “How dare you fling that in my face only an hour after I’ve married you?”

  It was he who was trembling now, as he looked down at her with something like terror in his heart. Then he saw that her eyes were as they had been in his dream, with that look of indescribable mournfulness.

  “Anna,” he stammered. “Anna—Anna! Don’t look like that, beloved!” And on an incredible impulse he covered her eyes with his hand, and kissed her red mouth over and over again. “Forgive me. I must have been crazy to say such a thing. Only I don’t understand you, and sometimes I think I’m almost afraid of the strangeness that is my love for you.”

  He was softly smoothing her hair with both his hands now, and suddenly she flung out her arms and clung to him.

  “It’s something that I can’t help, you know,” she said, in a little quick whisper. “Even if I am shy, and have no words, it makes no difference. They still look at me—and follow me. Do you understand?”

  Bewilderedly, as though recalling something in a dream, he remembered his own overpowering desire to know more about her, to touch her, to make her smile at him.

  “Yes,” he said slowly, “I think I do understand. I remember distinctly now that even that first evening, when you fell asleep in my arms with your hand against my heart, I thought: ‘If she called, I would come to her across the world.’ ”

  “Oh, Tony, did you?” She smiled faintly, though the corners of her mouth quivered.

  He leaned forward, suddenly very earnest.

  “Listen—I want you to remember that always, will you? Because it’s literally true. You have only to call and I will come.” She looked gravely back into his eyes.

  “I’ll remember,” she said. “And, Tony—”

  “Yes?”

  “No, it doesn’t matter.”

  “What were you going to say?”

  But she only shook her head. “Perhaps I’ll have the courage to say it to you one day—but not today.”

  “But—”

  “Please, Tony,” she put her hand nervously on his arm. “Let’s just drive on.”

  And after a half puzzled little glance at her he drove on.

  It was ten o’clock by the time they drove up to the house in Eaton Square. Hamilton knew it was not only weariness that had deepened Anna’s pallor, but he was secretly glad that she looked so calm.

  As they entered the house the housekeeper came forward to greet them. Mrs. Bentley had known Hamilton since he was a little boy, and he realised it was the first time in all the years he had known her that she had displayed a hint of nervousness.

  “Hello, Mrs. Bentley.” He smiled at her. “Are you going to be the first to welcome my wife?”

  Mrs. Bentley murmured something not very distinguishable and shook hands with Anna.

  “Where is my father? In his study?” Hamilton inquired a shade abruptly.

  “No, Mr. Hamilton,” she said, using a form of address that was unusual with her nowadays. “He is in the drawing-room. And so are Miss Katherine and Miss Roone.”

  Hamilton laughed a little crossly at the way she spoke. But Mrs. Bentley didn’t laugh. She put her hand on his arm for a moment and looked at him in a way that reminded him of the few times he had been in disgrace as a boy.

  “It’s all very sudden, you know, Mr. Hamilton,” she said almost appealingly. “You must remember it’s natural for people to be upset when things happen a little too suddenly.”

  Hamilton’s eyebrows shot up, half in vexation and half in amusement.

  “All right, I’ll remember,” he said.

  Then, with an instinctively defensive little movement, he put his arm round Anna and together they went towards the room where his family were waiting.

  As they crossed the threshold of the long, beautiful drawingroom Hamilton felt he could not guess at all the thoughts which lay behind Anna’s impassive young face.

  For a moment the three figures in the room seemed indistinguishable to her frightened eyes.

  Then Hamilton was saying “Father, this is Anna,” and her hand was taken by a tall, elderly man and a deep, slightly pompous voice said some formal words of welcome.

  She looked up into his face and had an odd impulse to say: “Why, you’re a little bit like Tony. I could love you—if you wouldn’t look so stern and—blank.”

  But of course one couldn't say that, and so she said nothing—only smiled timidly and was immediately aware that her silence had disconcerted the others—even Tony. For no doubt, it was for her to make some charmingly worded reply that would have eased the unacknowledged tension.

  Too late now, however; for Tony was presenting her to his aunt—to another blank face, another closed door. To be sure the elder Miss Roone said quite pleasantly: “How do you do? We are naturally very much interested to meet Tony’s wife.”

  But Anna guessed what she really meant was: “We thought the poor boy must have made a frightful mistake. Now we know.”

  With rising terror she turned almost blindly to Katherine.

  Tony’s sister ... He had said that he loved Katherine, that there was a strong bond between them, that she always liked what he liked in the end.

  “Kate,” Hamilton’s voice held a hint of boyish appeal, “I’ve promised Anna that you’ll love her.”

  “How exactly like a man, isn’t it?” Katherine’s smile of indulgence was perfect. “To promise something he can’t possibly control.”

  Smiling mouth, quiet voice, but eyes that were cold, cold, cold ... Chilly as the grey mist that rose from the moor—and as baffling.

  Then she recovered herself sufficiently to smile and say: “Tony says you always like the same things as he does in the end. I expect he was just hoping I wouldn’t be an exception.”

  “Oh, Tony dear, how horribly docile you make me sound.” Katherine’s carefully modulated voice was quite blank of either amusement or annoyance.

  It was unspeakably bewildering. Every person in the room mu
st be seething with one emotion or another. Then why this almost menacing calm which nothing was allowed to ruffle?

  Anna had the confused impression that if she suddenly stood up in the middle of the room and screamed “Why don’t you say so?” they would all remain perfectly calm. They would pretend they just thought she had been clearing her throat or something equally preposterous.

  But Tony’s aunt was speaking now, and she must keep her mind on the conversation, because it was difficult enough to do and say what they wanted even if she kept her wits about her.

  “You must have had a very long drive today. I expect you’re tired now?”

  “Yes—a little.” Was she supposed to say she was tired, and go to bed so that they could discuss her, or was she expected to go on keeping up appearances?

  Now Tony’s father was asking if they would have something to eat. But they had had dinner on the way there, and in any case Anna felt food would have choked her.

  “Well, at least have something to drink,” begged Katherine, with polite indifference. And Anna, suddenly knowing what it was she really wanted desperately, said with a little smile of relief: “I should simply love a cup of tea.”

  “Of course,” said Hamilton at once, but they didn’t cover the astonished silence from Katherine and his aunt.

  “How brave of you,” drawled Katherine, “to drink tea at this time of night. Aren’t you afraid of being kept awake?”

  “N-no,” Anna said timidly, realising that Katherine meant something like: “I suppose you’re one of those dreadful people who drink tea at all hours of the day and night.”

  But the tea was brought, and Tony was an angel and said smilingly: “That’s a good scheme of yours, Anna. I think I’ll have some too.”

  Anna didn’t miss the astonishment on Mr. Roone’s face, however, as he helped himself to a solitary whisky-and-soda.

  It was Tony, too, who dared to fling the first word about their marriage into the conversation. He said, with a frankness which Anna guessed must sorely try his family:

  “I suppose we owe you people an apology for having married in such a hurry. It was too bad that you couldn’t be at the wedding, Kate, because I know you rather revel in that sort of thing.”

  “I don’t imagine I should have revelled, as you put it, in your wedding, Hamilton,” retorted Katherine dryly.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Hamilton grinned at her teasingly. “It was rather a nice wedding, wasn’t it, Anna?”

  “It was beautiful,” Anna said gently, and she felt suddenly soothed by the memory of the quiet scene that morning.

  “A register office wedding, I suppose?” That was the older Miss Roone, trying, at least, to appear politely interested.

  “Oh no, Mr. Orpington married us in his church,” Anna explained. Perhaps that would mollify them.

  “Oh you poor things!” exclaimed Katherine. “I always think hurried weddings in an empty church must be too depressing.”

  Anna felt herself flush, and she knew her eyes had gone sullen, the way they always did when she didn’t know whether she was more hurt or furious. “It wasn’t in the least depressing for us,” she said coldly and rudely.

  “No?” Katherine was invincibly polite. “Well, I suppose it’s just prejudice on my part. Somehow I always associate that sort of wedding with an undignified scuttle to put things right after.”

  “Kate!” Her brother’s angry voice interrupted her. “How dare you say such a thing?”

  “I’m sorry, Tony.” Katherine looked extremely surprised. “I was only speaking quite generally, of course.”

  And then something snapped in Anna’s aching brain, and everything went quite red for a moment and, to her horror, she heard herself say in a rapid, choking voice:

  “You weren’t doing anything of the sort. You were trying to insinuate that Tony couldn’t possibly marry someone who wasn’t chosen by his smug family unless he’s had to marry her!”

  “Anna!” She felt Tony’s arm go round her. “Be quiet, child. You’re exciting yourself terribly for nothing.”

  For a moment, in her anger, she resisted the pressure of Tony’s arm, and then suddenly she hid her face against him in a rush of horrified despair.

  The curtain had rung down on the first and disastrous appearance of Tony’s wife before the select audience of Tony’s family.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  In the end, it was the elder Miss Roone who picked up the shattered pieces of the first encounter with the family, and gallantly put them together again.

  “I think Anna is very tired, and just a little hysterical,” she said very firmly indeed. “I am sure the child is longing to go to bed, and I am going to take her there at once.”

  She obviously meant, “Before any more damage is done,” but Anna immediately detached herself gently from Tony’s clasp. She wanted nothing but to be alone at this moment, and afterwards Tony would come, and she would be happy with him again, and perhaps this nightmare of terror and bewilderment would be over.

  She said good night to her father-in-law, who added nothing to his “Good night, Anna” but a look of puzzlement slightly tinged with distaste. To Katherine she could manage only the barest civility. She knew that the hate which had blazed up between them would not be put out by a sentence.

  Hamilton came with her to the door, and put his arm round her again. “All right? Or shall I come up with you?”

  “No, I’m all right, thanks,” she said, wishing her sudden emotion would not make that sound so curt.

  On the way up the wide, shallow stairs she scarcely heard Miss Roone’s pleasant platitudes. The house was furnished with a richness that seemed to her very frightening, though she realised it was everywhere disciplined by good taste.

  Then, through an open doorway, she saw Tony’s rather worn suitcase, and there was something so dearly familiar about it in all this alarming strangeness that she went towards it quite instinctively.

  “This is Tony’s room,” Miss Roone explained. “It has always been his room since he was a child.”

  “Oh!” A smile touched Anna’s soft, quivering mouth. “Did Tony really sleep here when he was a little boy?”

  The quick tenderness in her voice slightly touched Miss Roone: “Yes.”

  “And it looked just like this?”

  “Very much the same, I think. I don’t remember any drastic changes—except, of course, that it is a little tidier these days.”

  “Oh, I’m—so—glad,” Anna said slowly, and she thought with a great rush of relief: “I shan’t be frightened here. This room has known Tony as a little boy. It must know I love him and will try to be what he wants.”

  “We have put you in what we call the rose room, at the end here,” went on Miss Roone’s voice smoothly.

  Sudden indescribable panic assailed Anna. It was as though a new-found refuge had been snatched away, and she was being pushed back to drown in an icy flood.

  She didn’t stop to choose her words. She stammered like a frightened child: “Oh, but can’t I be here? I don’t want to sleep alone. I mean—” The expression on Miss Roone’s face suddenly pierced the mist of her distress.

  “My dear Anna,” she said, “I am merely going to show you the room we have allotted to you, and will you please not indulge in these coarse observations? I am afraid it is going to be very difficult for us all if you are in the habit of dragging such topics into ordinary conversation.”

  In the bitterest humiliation Anna allowed herself to be taken along the panelled passage to a beautiful softly lighted bedroom. She didn’t attempt to answer Miss Roone’s perfunctory remarks about the room. Only when she said, “Good night. I hope you have everything you want,” Anna felt herself start into life again.

  “Miss Roone,” she flung out her hands in a gesture of appeal, “I didn’t mean—”

  “Please, Anna,” Miss Roone was very firm. “I think quite enough has been said. I suggest you go to bed and have a good night’s rest.”


  And she closed the door with a firmness that told Anna that her verdict had been passed.

  Anna sat down slowly on the side of the beautiful bed. She felt sick and cold and deadly afraid.

  “Oh, Tony!” she whispered desperately, “Surely my love for you isn’t coarse!”

  She caught back a sob quickly. If once she let herself weep she would never stop, and then Tony would have to know—for surely at least he would come and say good night to her?”

  Even that didn’t seem quite certain in this hateful new world of uncertainty and bewilderment.

  She undressed slowly and crawled into bed, feeling more bruised and hurt than when her stepfather had beaten her. But then it had been Tony who had comforted her and looked after her . She remembered now the clumsy tenderness of his fingers on her bruised shoulders. Perhaps this time he would not know how to soothe the pain of her bruises. Perhaps he wouldn’t even want to.

  And then she heard his step.

  She put her hand round her throat to ease the terrible ache there. She must not cry. She must not.

  “May I come in, Anna?”

  “Yes.”

  She rolled over so that her face was away from the light.

  “Dearest!” He was bending over her now. “You’re terribly tired, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Poor little girl. You mustn’t worry about things. You’ll feel quite different in the morning.”

  “Yes.”

  Her unsteady lips seemed unable to frame another word.

  He put his arm round her, but she stiffened. She couldn’t help it if he thought she was sulky and resentful. If she gave way an inch now she would be clinging round his neck and sobbing to him to take her with him to the one room in the house where she was not afraid. And it was coarse to say things like that. Coarse—coarse—coarse! The hateful word repeated itself in her mind like something striking a bruise.

  “Good night, my darling.”

  “Goodnight.”

  “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

  She kissed him obediently at once. He held her for a moment so that her cheek was against his. But she made no response, and presently, with a slight sigh, he laid her down.