Call and I'll Come

by Mary Burchell

  He set his mouth in an obstinate line, and Anna wondered suddenly if it were her imagination that he looked much older, and that there was a strained expression round his eyes.

  “I can’t tell you how glad I am that you did come,” she said slowly. “But tell me, why did it seem so important to you?” She held her breath as she waited for his answer, and her heart seemed to stop beating.

  “I know it sounds silly now, after you’ve been such a glorious success, but”—he looked down in sudden, boyish confusion—“I—I was afraid you might not be a success, and then these people might have been hateful to you.”

  “Oh, Tony,” her voice was unsteady, and as she looked at his bent head she felt an overwhelming sense of tenderness towards him, an odd sort of protectiveness. She leaned forward and very softly kissed his cheek, just where the faint flush of embarrassment showed. “You dear, funny boy,” she said.

  He dropped her hands abruptly at that, and said: “No, don’t do that. It—isn’t any good.”

  Anna flickered her lashes quickly as though he had slapped her.

  “What—do you mean?” she said slowly.

  He made a little movement of impatience. “You know what I mean,” he said roughly. “It’s no good our letting ourselves get—sentimental for a moment. You said it yourself very clearly—that last time in England. I didn’t want to believe you then, but you were right, of course. Our paths don’t lie anywhere near each other. I’d forgotten for a moment, but I won’t forget again. Why, even when I came in, it was Frayne you were expecting, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. But, Tony, Tony”—she was powerless to stop the words now—“only because I dared not even hope for you.”

  He took a step forward, catching her hands in his again, but not gently this time, hurting them with the strength of his grip. “Anna, what are you saying?”

  And at that moment the door was flung open by an impatient hand, and Schreiner’s deep voice sounded imperiously: “Anna, my child, must we starve all night, waiting for you ?”

  “Oh, I’m coming.” Anna turned desperately, to see not only Schreiner and Manora, but several other people waiting for her. “Only a minute, one minute.”

  Schreiner came forward, toweringly impressive in his heavy overcoat, and looked inquiringly from her to Tony.

  “This is—this is—my husband,” Anna said helplessly.

  Tony and Schreiner looked blankly at each other with completely unconcealed dislike. Then Schreiner bowed, just a trifle too deeply, and said: “Then perhaps Mr. Roone too will join our supper-party.”

  “Oh, Tony, do.” Anna snatched eagerly at this chance.

  “I’m extremely sorry.” Tony’s voice was coldly formal. “I have to catch the night plane back in an hour.”

  “But, Tony,” Anna didn’t know that she clung feverishly to his arm, “surely you could wait a few hours?”

  “You could take the first plane in the morning, Mr. Roone,” Schreiner pointed out. “The time would be much the same.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tony said again. “It’s quite impossible.”

  “Tony,” it was a desperate whisper. She had forgotten now about waiting until she had made so great a name that she could be worthy of him. “Tony, I want you to stay.” Her teeth caught at her trembling lower lip.

  “I can’t.”

  “Do you mean you won’t?”

  “Very well, then—I won’t.”

  Her hands fell to her sides, and her long lashes came down in a sullen curtain.

  “I see. I didn’t understand.”

  He didn’t say anything to that, and after a moment she said, in a toneless little voice: “Well then—good-bye.”

  He kissed her hand again in that ridiculously formal manner: “Good-bye, Anna. I wish you every possible success.” Then with the faintest inclination of his head to Schreiner he went out of the room.

  Anna stood where she was, aimlessly fiddling with some things on the dressing-table. Her mouth was trembling a little and she seemed quite unaware now that anyone was waiting for her.

  “Come,” Schreiner said, and his voice was unexpectedly gentle.

  “I can’t,” whispered Anna, looking up despairingly at the big director as he stood between her and the laughing, chattering group beyond the doorway.

  “Yes,” said Schreiner firmly, “you can, and you must. Remember, it is not only on the stage that one must sometimes play a part.”

  There was a second’s pause. Then Anna drew her borrowed sables round her, and tilted up her chin with a desperate little flicker of pride. “I’m ready,” she said, and, taking Schreiner’s arm, she went out into the corridor with him.

  She tried to remember that, as he had said, she was playing a part. So long as she kept that in mind it should not be so difficult. She was able to smile and talk to the people on the way downstairs, to smile again at the crowd round the stage-door, to smile as Schreiner handed her into the big car. She wondered if the smile were painted permanently on her face.

  Somebody pressed forward to the door of the car and begged her for an autograph. She looked staggered for a moment. It wasn’t possible that her name—just her name written down on a piece of paper—should have some importance now.

  She looked inquiringly at Schreiner.

  He shrugged and smiled. “As you wish,” he said. “It is as well to be gracious. It is by our audience that we live.”

  She slowly wrote her name—the name she had had before that meaningless, almost non-existent marriage to Tony: Anna Lemwell.

  She gave back the book and was oddly touched by the thanks.

  Several people called out good wishes to her as the car drove away. It was all quite fantastic and very like a dream.

  As they entered the crowded restaurant people turned their heads to look at her, because, miraculously, the word had already gone round that she was “news.” That made the unreal atmosphere of a play seem more believable, and she smiled again dutifully, just to show how happy she was.

  And then, with a rush of indescribable relief, she saw coming towards her the familiar figure of Mario Frayne.

  “Oh, Mario!” She caught his hands. “I’m so glad—” And then she couldn’t say any more.

  But he seemed to understand, for he held her hands tightly and said: “Darling Anna, I’m so glad, too. A million congratulations. I arrived as the curtain went up on your act, and I shall never be sufficiently thankful that I was just in time to see this new star rise.”

  Everyone laughed, then and murmured agreement, while Manora said anxiously:

  “Is a nice surprise, Anna? You did not expect that Mario was here? We sent him on, to see that all was ready for the supper, and so that he could welcome you.”

  “It was a lovely idea,” said Anna gently. “I’m very happy.”

  Everyone declared afterwards that the party was an immense success. The new soprano was so charming and unspoilt, with an engaging touch of shyness about her, although she was almost brilliantly gay.

  Schreiner was obviously more than satisfied, and the handsome actor who had come all the way from England was obviously more than admiring. As for the young star herself—well, it was amusingly significant that it was in Mario Frayne’s taxi that she finally departed for her hotel.

  The distance to the hotel was very short, but Anna heard Mario order the taxi-driver to go round a longer way.

  “Why did you do that, Mario?” she asked gently, as he sat back beside her.

  “Because there’s something I want to say to you, Anna dear, and it will take longer than the two minutes we should have had.”

  “Something to say to me?” Anna looked up quickly, and saw that his usually laughing eyes were deadly serious.

  He nodded abruptly.

  “Do you remember I once told you a story about myself—that afternoon in my flat?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “You asked me then why I told you. I gave you one reason, Anna, and I promised I would
give you the other one on the night you made your first great triumph.”

  And then Anna saw perfectly well what was coming. She saw, too, that he had generously waited until success could give her an absolute freedom of choice. He wouldn’t tell her before how he felt, because he knew that in her bewilderment and gratitude for his immediate help she might have said things she would bitterly regret.

  It was just like Mario to do that, she thought.

  But she couldn’t let the words be said, now or any other time—she couldn’t. It would be a betrayal of everything she felt. Even if Tony let her go—wanted to let her go, and had no more use for her—it still made no difference.

  She turned and put her hands up gently on Mario’s shoulders.

  “Mario, please don’t put it into words. You see, it isn’t any good, and it’s better to leave it unsaid.”

  He covered her hands lightly with his and smiled into her eyes.

  “Are you so sure? You know I told you that story because I wanted to show you that I could love—really love faithfully, I mean?”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Anna, is it that you feel I’m offering you only second-best—because there was once someone else?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “That wouldn’t matter, because, you see, I could never offer you anything but second-best in return. It’s because—”

  “Yes?” He looked at her bent head very tenderly.

  “Mario,” she tightened her hands suddenly, “Tony came to see me tonight.”

  “Tony!”

  She nodded.

  “Do you mean he—made overtures to you?”

  Anna gave a dreary little laugh. “No, Mario, he didn’t make overtures. He just told me as plainly as any man can tell a woman—that he didn’t want me.”

  Mario frowned and muttered something.

  “I know, I know,” she said wearily. “I can’t have any pride to feel as I do—and I don’t think I could put it into words to anyone but you. But I’ve learned a lot of things tonight, Mario, that I shall never forget—and one of them is that I would rather wait years for one kind word from Tony than be adored by anyone else in the world.”

  “I see. Poor little Anna.” Mario’s voice was very gentle, and he didn’t attempt to argue the point.

  There was a long pause, and then she said timidly:

  “There’s really nothing else to say, is there?”

  “No, my dear,” Mario said. “There’s really nothing else to say.” He turned his head and looked out of the window. Then: “And our driver seems to have judged his distance admirably, for here we are.”

  As he handed her out she gripped his hand anxiously: “Mario, I’m terribly sorry.”

  “Darling, I’m not. I can’t be sorry about anything which still leaves me your sweet friendship. Don’t lose any sleep about this—for you want to be very wide-awake to read the papers in the morning. Good night, bless you.” And he kissed her affectionately and quite unembarrassingly.

  With the first sensation of comfort since Tony had left her that evening, Anna earnestly returned the kiss. Then she turned and went into the hotel.

  She knew he stood looking after her, but she didn’t look back. What was the good of looking back—ever?

  And yet, perversely enough, even as the door swung to behind her, she felt the first stirring of doubt in her heart.

  She went straight to her room, and, just as she had got into bed, Manora tapped on the door and came in.

  She smiled at Anna, as she leaned her arms on the end of the bed, but her eyes were anxious.

  “You wish that I do not disturb you so late?” she said. “Or shall I come and talk?”

  “Come and talk, Manora,” Anna said, a faint smile just touching her own serious mouth. “I shall not sleep for some while yet.”

  “With excitement, you mean?” But Manora’s glance suggested that she knew it was something else.

  Anna shook her head slowly.

  “No, not excitement, Manora. It’s odd how almost unimportant all that success seems now.”

  “You must not let Schreiner hear you say that,” Manora said, with a little laugh. But she came and sat on the side of the bed and put her arm round Anna.

  Anna leaned her head against Manora, and for a little while neither of them spoke. Then Manora said calmly:

  “So you decide not to take Mario?”

  Anna started up.

  “How did you know? Did he tell you he was going to—going to—”

  Manora shook her head.

  “No, no. Some things one does not need to be told. When I saw him this evening I knew that he would ask you. Now I see you I know you have said ‘no’.”

  Anna moved slightly and gave an impatient little sigh.

  “I suppose you think I’m a fool?” she said, almost resentfully.

  “I, my dear?” Manora’s eyes widened. “I cannot tell you whether you have been foolish or not.” She stroked Anna’s hair gently. “Your heart can tell you much better than I.”

  “Oh, Manora!” Anna clung to her suddenly, weeping. “My heart’s so bruised and aching that I don’t think it knows what to say.”

  “Listen to me,” Manora drew her close. But for a moment Anna could listen to nothing, and Manora had to hold her and soothe her with those murmured little words of endearment in her own language that were so oddly comforting. At last Anna lay quiet, with her face strangely childish in its pallor and wistfulness.

  “I’m sorry to have made a scene,” she whispered, though the slight pressure of Manora’s arm bade her say no more about that. “I think it’s partly—oh, I so hate hurting Mario. He’s always been so dear and kind to me—kinder than anyone else in the world, except you, Manora.”

  Manora smiled, and presently Anna went on: “All he asks is to be allowed to smooth things for me. He’d always be a barrier between me and the things that hurt so ... There’d never be any loneliness ... Nothing is ever a problem with him ... It’s as though—” She stopped suddenly, at the sight of Manora’s little smile. “Why do you look like that?”

  Manora laughed quietly. “Which of us are you trying to convince? Me—or you?”

  Anna dropped her eyes almost sulkily. “Everything I’m saying is true,” she said, in a low voice. “You know it is.”

  “Everything you say is true,” agreed Manora. “Only we talk of nothing that really matters.”

  Anna looked up quickly, and the tenderness in Manora’s face startled her. “My child, there is only one question. Do you love Mario?”

  “Oh, Manora, it’s not so simple as that—”

  “You little fool, it is!”

  “Well then, I don’t know,” Anna cried, in sudden passion.

  “You don’t know!” Manora caught her suddenly by her arms, and jerked her round, with the only touch of harshness Anna had ever seen in her. “Well then, I’ll tell you. Do you feel when he comes in that the world grows brighter—and, when he goes, that he takes the sunlight with him? Do the days seem meaningless if you cannot talk with him, and the nights unbearable if you cannot sleep with him?”

  Anna shrank before the blue flame in Manora’s eyes, and wordlessly shook her head.

  “If he beat you would you crawl back to him? And if you found him with another woman would you choke her—and yet forgive him? Is that how you feel?”

  “No—no.” Anna was shaking now. She tried to twist herself away from Manora’s grasp, because she knew what was coming next.

  “Is there anyone who makes you feel like that?”

  “Manora—”

  “Is there?”

  “Yes!”

  “Who?”

  Anna suddenly went slack in Manora’s hands. “Oh, Tony, Tony, Tony,” she sobbed despairingly.

  Manora dropped her back against the pillows.

  “You have your answer,” she said quietly.

  The next moment she was" hanging over Anna, full of remorse and affection.

  �
��Darling, I have been too brutal with you. Only one had to say this thing to you. You torture yourself so with uncertainty. Always you would have wondered if you had been wrong to say ‘no’ to Mario.”

  “I shall never wonder now,” whispered Anna.

  “No, no.” Manora kissed her and held her close.

  “Manora.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think many people feel—as you said—when they love anyone?”

  “I think not. For me, I could not go with a man for less,” Manora said simply. “And I think with you is the same.”

  Anna nodded slowly.

  “I suppose that’s the way you love Schreiner?” she said diffidently.

  “Oh yes.” Manora spoke again with that rather touching simplicity.

  “Only with you it’s different, because—he loves you in just the same way.” Anna sounded very wistful again.

  “Yes. I am very fortunate,” Manora said gently.

  Anna sighed a little. “Sometimes I feel that loving Tony has brought me nothing but pain.”

  “Would you rather you never had met him?” asked Manora quietly.

  Anna was silent. She thought back over those disastrous months since Tony had come out of that snowstorm into her life. Scene after scene of mounting bewilderment and misunderstanding and misery.

  And yet there were other scenes too. Tony smiling at her with pride because she looked beautiful and had sung divinely that first evening Mario Frayne came. Tony carrying her from the room where she had cried because she was alone. Tony as her lover in the dear, untidy room that had known him as a little boy. Tony making love to her in the orchard. Tony holding her in his arms as he sat with her by the fire that first evening. Tony laughing with boyish pleasure and embarrassment when she said he looked like a prince.

  And suddenly, that brought her back with a quick, sweet pain to the present ... Tony that very evening, boyishly embarrassed once more as he tried to explain his impulse to come to Paris in case she should be a failure and alone.

  “No,” she said slowly. “Whatever it has cost, I wouldn’t have missed knowing and loving Tony.”

  Manora laughed softly.

  “Is always the way. We wince at the price, but always we would pay it again.”

  Anna smiled faintly. “I suppose that’s true.” And then: “Manora, did you have to—pay heavily for loving Schreiner?”