At once a new idea, a foolish extravagant one, came into her mind. She went up to her room and unlocked the door of her cabinet. It contained all the money she possessed, the small wad of French notes and what was left of the wages that Lady Yarde paid her—Anna sent one-half of all she earned to the convent.
She counted up the money carefully, trying in her mind to convert it into francs as she counted. She had, she found, one hundred and fifty francs in the whole world. But she had not really needed to count at all; she had known all the time how much it was. And it seemed a small enough fortune on which to bring up a young child.
A small enough fortune—but the mischief in her mind had been started, and she could not rid herself of the idea. It grew every minute more fascinating and compelling.
“It would only be for a few days,” she began saying. “In a week I could be back again. Lady Yarde could not miss me for that length of time. It would only be like a holiday. She would understand that all I wanted to do is to see Annette. Once I had seen her I should be able to come back again. I should be able to come back here, and save.”
But when Anna spoke of it Lady Yarde was horrified. She refused flatly to countenance such a thing and took refuge in one of her nervous headaches, her migraines. She hated this unknown child, this little foreigner who kept stealing Anna’s affection from her just as it was growing. And there was Delia to consider. She seemed so much happier in herself since Anna had come to them: she might, for all Lady Yarde knew, even be learning something. Last of all—she was convinced that she really had kept it to the last—there was the question of her own convenience. She couldn’t have a governess who made plans of her own; a governess with a private life was something that was unheard of. So she dismissed the notion, refused entirely to discuss it.
“Please don’t mention it again,” she said. “It’s quite out of the question. It only shows that your mind isn’t on your work.”
She waved Anna aside and picked up a book that lay at her elbow to show that already she had put the ridiculous proposal clean out of her mind.
“Then I will defy her,” Anna told herself. “I will go.”
But it needed planning, such a journey as this. She didn’t even know how much it would cost to travel to Paris; to Paris and then on again, even farther, to the convent. She would have to find out everything.
The opportunity came sooner than she had expected: it came the next day in fact when she was taking one of those endless, lonely walks inside the Park. She had turned into the long drive when she heard the sound of wheels on the gravel. And, in the distance she saw Captain Webb, seated high in his dog-cart. He was driving carefully on a short rein, keeping the animal’s head held high. When he reached Anna, he pulled up. His face was reddened a little by the wind and he was rubbing the knuckles of his hands together to warm them.
“Going anywhere?” he asked. “Can I give you a lift?”
Anna placed her hand on the thin flat mudguard.
“I … I suppose you’re not going as far as Chislehurst?” she asked.
Captain Webb shook his head.
“Too late,” he said. “Not fair on the horse. Drive you there in the morning if you like.”
Anna turned away from him.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Really it doesn’t.”
“Sure it isn’t important?”
“No, really it isn’t.”
He bent forward and stared at her closely.
“You been crying?” he asked.
Anna didn’t answer, and she saw that Captain Webb had pulled out his watch and was looking at it.
“I’ll take you,” he said suddenly, and held out his hand to pull Anna up on to the seat beside him.
It was not until they had reached the gates that Captain Webb spoke again.
“What’s the trouble?” he asked.
“I’m unhappy,” Anna said simply.
“Been having a tiff with …” Captain Webb left the rest of the sentence expressively unfinished.
Anna nodded.
“Don’t take any notice of her,” Captain Webb advised. “She’s probably regretting it by now.”
Then another pause and Captain Webb spoke again.
“Where are you off to?” he asked.
“To the station,” Anna told him.
Captain Webb glanced at her.
“Not running away, are you?” he asked.
“Not now,” she said. “But I am going.”
Captain Webb whistled.
“What’s at the back of all this?” he asked.
To her own surprise she told him. Up there in the cold windy dogcart she told him things that she had not spoken about to any one before—about Annette and the convent and how Sister Veronica had taken pity on her and had asked Lady Yarde to have her. But it was about Annette that she spoke mostly—of her loneliness, and the first letter she had written, even about the tooth that she had sent because she was so proud of it. And all the while Captain Webb listened gravely, occasionally nodding his head to show that he was trying to understand these feelings, these emotions that were so strange to him.
“And so you see I have got to go back to her,” Anna said at last. “It isn’t what Lady Yarde wants. Or Delia. Or anyone. It’s what I’ve got to do.”
It was then that Captain Webb did something that astonished him, something that was foreign to his whole nature. He placed his big gloved hand over hers and let it rest there for a moment.
“We’ll find a way,” he said. “I’ll see that you manage it.”
And, having said it, he wondered what had made him do it; wondered how on earth anything that he might do could bring Anna and the child together.
“Often thought of chucking it up myself,” he said. “No appreciation. Doesn’t know anything about timber really, but he thinks he does. Very difficult man at times.”
He checked himself and turned towards Anna again.
“All the same,” he said, “great mistake to do anything rash. Always better to sleep on an idea.”
They, were nearing the station by now and Captain Webb had pulled the horse up to a walking pace. The clock in the post office showed four o’clock and Captain Webb thought regretfully of his tea. The housekeeper would have cleared the things away by the time he got back there; and, now that he knew that Anna had wanted so urgently to go to Chislehurst simply to ask the fare to Paris, the fact irritated him. He began telling himself that she could have written, have found out in some other way, and he resented the sudden unreasonable journey.
“Just like a woman,” he decided.
When he finally helped her down he was still feeling that he had been imposed on.
“Going to buy some tobacco,” he said abruptly. “Find me here when you get back.”
Then as he turned and looked after her, his annoyance vanished.
“What she’s been through!” he told himself respectfully. “Damn’ difficult world for a pretty woman to be alone in.”
II
In front of the small mirror in his bedroom Gervase was rubbing just a trifle more pomade into his hair: he didn’t want to kill the curls altogether but he did want to suppress their boyishness. And, when he had finished, he rubbed a thin smear of the stuff along his moustache to make it glitter. Altogether, the effect pleased him. Admittedly, he had cut himself in two places while shaving. But the scars, now that the two little tufts of cotton wool had been removed, merely lent a certain robust ruggedness to the countenance that he found gratifying. He studied himself a little longer, twisting his head this way and that. Then, after running his finger round inside the tight dress collar, he sat down on the solitary straight-backed chair and thrust out his legs in front of him for his batman to put his boots on.
It was while he was sitting there that he began thinking on the unpredictable strangeness of life. His thoughts had been moving in unfamiliar circles of late, and a mood of melancholy was obsessing him. He had even turned against his foo
d.
“Damned extraordinary thing,” he told himself. “Here am I with forty-eight hours’ leave and an invitation to the Darcys’, and I’m going back to Tilliards instead. I’d never have believed it of me: honest to God I wouldn’t.”
He bulged out his instep so that he should still be able to walk even after the batman had drawn the laces tight, and went on with his private thoughts again.
“Of course,” he admitted. “She may have forgotten me. There were a hell of a lot of other people at the dance.”
“Dammit,” he said aloud. “I’ve got to go and find out.”
The batman looked up in surprise but Gervase ignored him. He was too much engrossed in thinking about someone with the fairest hair and the most sharply slanting pair of eyebrows that he had ever seen.
Then the batman got to his feet and helped Gervase into his greatcoat. He handed him his gloves, his cane, and the small Hussar cap. Gervase squared his shoulders and motioned to the man to pick up his valise. He was ready.
The Honourable Gervase Yarde was on his way to spend his precious forty-eight hours’ leave in pursuit of a governess.
III
In front of Lady Yarde, Mrs. Merton was standing. Her eyes were dropped respectfully to the carpet and the hands were folded in front of her.
“There is something that I think that I ought to mention to your Ladyship,” she was saying.
Lady Yarde passed her hand across her forehead.
“Oh dear,” she said. “Nothing wrong, I hope.”
“It’s about Mademoiselle Anna,” Mrs. Merton continued.
There was silence for a moment. It was only yesterday when they had last been discussing Anna together. In her agitation, Lady Yarde had summoned Mrs. Merton and told her of Anna’s preposterous suggestion. Mrs. Merton had been suitably shocked. She had drawn in her breath and agreed that such a jaunt was unthinkable.
“Her place is in the schoolroom, your Ladyship,” she had said quietly.
In face of that assurance, Lady Yarde wondered what on earth Mrs. Merton now wanted to talk about.
“Well, go on. Don’t keep me waiting,” she said irritably.
“One of the maids told me that she heard Mademoiselle Anna inquiring the fare to Paris yésterday afternoon,” Mrs. Merton told her. “She was asking the times of the trains and everything. She wanted to know how soon she could go and get back again.”
Lady Yarde sat bolt upright.
“I don’t believe it,” she said.
“She heard her most distinctly, your ladyship,” Mrs. Merton said. “She repeated every word of it to me when she got back.”
Lady Yarde began fluttering. She groped uncertainly for the smelling bottle.
“The duplicity of it,” she said. “The wicked duplicity. And just when I was ready to forgive her, too.”
Mrs. Merton paused. She still had not raised her head.
“And there is another thing that I think your Ladyship should know,” she said apologetically.
Lady Yarde took a deep sniff at the ammoniac fumes and raised her head again.
“Tell me,” she said feebly.
“It was Captain Webb who took her to the station, your Ladyship,” Mrs. Merton added. “The maid saw him waiting for her when she came out. I felt it my duty to report the whole affair.”
She did not add that, as duties went, she happened to find this a particularly agreeable one. She had never liked Anna; had disliked her on sight, in fact. And on the day-on which Anna had been moved into the Tower room she had longed, had prayed, for the moment of her eventual dethronement. As for Captain Webb, she felt no personal bitterness towards him. It was simply that by mentioning his name, by implicating him, she was able to sow just that much more doubt and confusion in her Ladyship’s mind.
But Lady Yarde could bear no more. She dismissed her housekeeper with a wave of the hand and sat there with her other hand across her eyes. Then, as soon as Mrs. Merton had left her, she rose hurriedly, re-corked the smelling salts, smoothed out her dress and set off in search of her husband. She was so angry that there were tears running down her cheeks as she walked.
It was unfortunate, extremely unfortunate, that Lady Yarde should have chosen this of all moments to address Lord Yarde. He had been out all day and he was tired. All that he wanted was a hot bath, a very hot one. When she found him, he was sitting in the one easy chair in his dressing-room, with his stockinged feet up on the stool in front of him, and a drink in his hand. He was expecting at any moment to be told that his bath was ready.
And instead of that, it was Lady Yarde who swept in on him. He could see as soon as he glanced at her that something had gone badly wrong, and he felt in no mood for any kind of trouble now. He got up reluctantly and offered her his chair.
“Well,” he asked, “what is it?”
When Lady Yarde had finished, he poured himself out another drink. He had already sent the valet away and told him to keep the hot water running.
“Good Lord,” he said.
“So of course she must go,” Lady Yarde began saying all over again. “I can’t have her here a day longer. I don’t trust her now.” She paused for a moment, and clenched her hands together. “And to think,” she said, “that Webb has been plotting with her. The horrible man. After all the years he’s been with us.”
“I should leave Webb out of this,” Lord Yarde remarked firmly.
“After what he’s done?” Lady Yarde demanded. “You’ll be telling me to keep this other creature next.”
“We don’t know the facts,” Lord Yarde persisted. “There’s probably some perfectly simple explanation. We’ve only got Merton’s word for it.”
“Isn’t it sufficient,” Lady Yarde asked, her voice rising, “that he was aiding her? Do you like having someone by you who is capable of doing such a thing.”
When Lord Yarde declined to answer such a question and said that he’d be catching cold if he didn’t get into his bath, Lady Yarde’s self-control left her. She started crying again, and began breathing in quick short gasps. Lord Yarde could no longer hear what she was saying.
Outside the door, the valet was shifting his weight from one foot to another and wondering when he dared to knock again.
It was into this divided household that Gervase was announced. His arrival was wholly unexpected. He entered the dining-room with the broad grin of a schoolboy who knows that he is playing truant, and stood for a moment at the door as if he expected people to rush forward and embrace him. Then, as he saw that his father was seated there alone, the grin faded and he came forward slowly, rather hesitatingly, rubbing the palms of his hands nervously up and down the gold braid of his trousers.
“The mater not well?” he asked.
Lord Yarde stared at him to see if he had been drinking, and decided that he had been.
“Your mother is in her room,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“Short leave,” Gervase told him.
“Have you eaten?” Lord Yarde asked.
“Not yet, sir,” Gervase answered.
“Then perhaps you’ll join me instead of standing there,” Lord Yarde replied.
“Don’t you think perhaps I ought to go up to see her first?” Gervase suggested a trifle diffidently.
Lord Yarde bowed his head.
“As you prefer,” he said, and went on eating.
The room in which Gervase found his mother was close and suffocating. Two shallow saucers of pine and menthol burned in the corners of the fireplace to relieve Lady Yarde’s breathing, and she was sitting supported by a whole stack of cushions. She had removed the combs which she usually wore and the remains of her beautiful hair hung down over her shoulders in limp disorder. She was moaning.
“Evidently one of her bad ones,” Gervase told himself. “Wonder what the old man’s been saying to her.”
Lady Yarde gave a little scream when she saw him and struggled to her feet. The short breathing magically stopped and she stood there cla
sping him.
“Gervase, my little Gervase,” was all she could say.
After allowing her to cry on him for a few minutes he led her back gently to her couch, and consoled her.
“What’s the trouble, Mater?” he asked.
It was not until after two or three bouts of crying that she really started to tell him. And by the time she began, Gervase was regretting that he had ever come to Tilliards at all. He had known this kind of situation too often before. It was not until his mother had reached Anna’s part in this personal and domestic tragedy that he began to attend. And then he attended very closely. A little shiver of apprehension ran through him.
“Of course, now that it’s happened, she’s got to go,” he heard Lady Yarde telling him. “I won’t have her here.”
Gervase cleared his throat.
“But what’s she done?” he asked.
“She knows well enough what she’s done,” Lady Yarde replied ominously.
“Isn’t … isn’t it something that you could overlook?” Gervase asked hesitatingly.
“It’s no affair of mine any longer,” Lady Yarde answered. “My feelings don’t matter. It’s only herself she thinks about. She wants to get back to that child of hers.”
“She wants what?”
He knew as he asked the question that he had heard perfectly. But he still couldn’t believe it. A child! It was unthinkable. Until this moment he had thought Anna the most virginal thing he had ever seen. And then suddenly the light of revelation came to him. He saw her now as a young girl bereaved while still a bride and his heart ached for her. He realised that unaware he had stumbled upon the hidden secret of her life.
“Where is the child?” he asked at last.
“Somewhere in France in a convent,” Lady Yarde told him. “I only had her because your Aunt Caroline wanted me to. I was always opposed to it.
The clock on the mantelshelf struck and Lady Yarde started.
“Good gracious,” she said. “It’s dinner time. You must be starving. That horrible girl has upset everything.”
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