Love Is My Reason

by Mary Burchell

  “Three times a week, if Bertram can make the arrangements he wants. Possibly four times later on.”

  “For the whole day?”

  “I imagine so,” Anya said, not quite sure where these questions were leading. “I shall go by train usually, I think, unless David or Bertram happens to be down here and is going back to town the next morning.”

  “I think I should get into the habit of going by train, if I were you,” Celia remarked, looking out of the window, as though this conversation were not really of very much importance.

  Something in her tone arrested Anya’s attention and made her feel uneasy.

  “Why do you say that, Celia? And in just that tone?”

  “Because I think you should go by train.” Celia turned her head and looked coldly at the other girl. “You want to be independent, don’t you?”

  “But—” Anya gave a slight, doubtful little laugh—“not to the extent of refusing a car lift.”

  “I don’t think I would advise you to go too much with either Bertram or David.” Celia’s voice was still perfectly level and composed, but Anya was aware suddenly that something rather frightening had entered the conversation.

  “I don’t think I quite understand.”

  “Don’t you, Anya? Don’t you understand why you were pressed to come here? Or why I agreed to it?”

  Anya felt her mouth go uncomfortably dry, as though she were afraid. But she said determinedly,

  “Your mother was kind enough to invite me. That’s why I am here.”

  “Oh—” Celia shrugged away her mother’s invitation almost indulgently—“that wasn’t the real reason. Lady Ranmere suddenly thought you were going to make trouble with Bertram, and she couldn’t get you out of the house fast enough.”

  “Trouble with Bertram? I don’t know what you mean!”

  “Oh, yes, you do.” Again Celia gave that half-scornful little shrug. “You’re the kind that always makes trouble with men sooner or later.”

  “How dare you say such a thing!” Anya flushed, and then went very pale.

  “Because it’s true,” Celia said drily. “You may not mean to do it. It may even be that quality which makes you a success on the stage. I don’t know. But there’s something about you which makes men want to know more of you. Maybe you encourage them, or maybe your wide-eyed passivity does it without your raising a finger yourself. I saw it from the beginning.”

  “You mean that you disliked me from the beginning!” A sort of cold fury took hold of Anya—a feeling she had never before experienced. “You were jealous of me because David liked me.”

  “Very well,” said Celia, with almost terrifying candour. “I was jealous of you because David liked you. And for that reason I was aware of your dangerous quality before the others were.”

  Anya gasped.

  “I don’t mind admitting I was appalled by David’s interest in you,” Celia went on calmly. “Why should I be otherwise? We were in love—very nearly engaged—when you came along. I was David’s principal interest. It was for me that he had come on that holiday. And then, suddenly, he was absorbed in something else—caught up in whatever undertaking your so-called father had wished upon him.”

  “How dare you speak in that cruel way!” The tears stood in Anya’s eyes. “My father was dying, and he knew what sort of fate he was leaving me to. For the first time in years and years, someone good and kind came and spoke to him and offered to help him. Do you think it was strange that he asked that one person to look after me?”

  “No. I don’t think it was strange at all,” Celia said coldly. “Only I wish that one person had not been David!”

  “But it was David. That’s life—fate—God—whatever you like to call it. David came into my life, whether you like it or not. And—I’ll be as frank as you—it was the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me.” She caught her breath on an irrepressible little sob.

  “Very likely.” Celia regarded her without sympathy. “But you also came into David’s life. And that was not wonderful for him at all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” Celia said slowly and deliberately, “that you can’t possibly be any good to David, and you might do him a great deal of harm.”

  “That’s not true! I’d never, never do David any harm! How can you say such a thing?”

  “Oh, not intentionally, I daresay. But just think for a moment what David’s position is. You probably don’t even know about these things, Anya, or how important they are in our way of life. He’s a successful, respected, professional man. Everyone expects him to keep free of undesirable entanglements—”

  “I’m not an undesirable entanglement!”

  “Not in the usual sense. But you’re just the sort of interest that deflects a man from his rightful path. David should marry well, in his own class and set, someone who will be acceptable to his friends and associates.”

  “You, in fact,” Anya flung at her angrily.

  “I fill the requirements very satisfactorily,” Celia retorted coolly. “Why should I not be aware of it? And, in addition, I love David, and he loves me.”

  “Then what are you afraid of?” Anya faced her, white and tense. “Why do you warn me off and say these cruel things to me? If David loves you, that’s an end of it.”

  “No,” Celia said slowly, “it’s not—quite. Any man is open to a—regrettable infatuation, particularly if he has sympathies that are easily played upon. You don’t like my saying all this, of course. I shouldn’t like it if you said it to me. But the real point is—Do you love David for yourself, or do you want his own good?”

  “What?” Anya fell back slightly before the naked simplicity of the question. “I—I haven’t even said that I—love him.”

  “Do you want to deny it?”

  The two girls faced each other, and all the details of their conflict fell away, until there was only the one, tremendous, salient fact left. They both wanted the same man.

  “Very well,” said Anya quietly. “I love David.”

  And bitter though the circumstances were, she felt the bright finger of joy touch her as she made the admission at last.

  “I thought so. I did you the credit of believing that at least,” Celia said. “Then, if you love him enough to want his good, you must know perfectly well that the best thing you can do for him is to withdraw from his life before you upset it further. He’s given you your chance. Bertram is enlarging on that. Be thankful for a career and a place in the world, and don’t make trouble for the man who picked you out of squalor and obscurity.”

  Anya caught her breath sharply. But the fight had not all gone out of her yet. Her eyes looked big and dark in her white face as she stared back at the girl who so calmly dissected the position and tore her dreams to pieces.

  “You only see things as you want to see them,” she said quietly. “You keep on saying I could only be bad for David. But how do you know that is so? Why should it be I a disaster for him if he—if he grew fond of me? It might mean his happiness too.”

  “With all his friends pitying him or disapproving?” enquired Celia drily.

  Anya flushed.

  “They need neither pity nor disapprove,” she said just a little haughtily. “I refuse to accept your contemptuous assessment of me.”

  “Then will you accept Lady Ranmere’s?”

  “L-Lady Ranmere?” Anya faltered slightly.

  “Yes. Have you thought what her reaction was when she even faintly suspected that her son was becoming attracted to you? Why, the bare possibility of it made her snatch at Mother’s offer to remove you.”

  “That—that’s different.” Anya twisted her hands together nervously.

  “No, Anya. It’s exactly the same.”

  “But why? Why?” the other girl cried, in sudden angry terror.

  “Because—I told you—men will always be attracted by you, and their womenfolk will see you are unsuitable. That’s why I tell you that you could do
only harm to David. You’re alien and rootless and unknown. There’s even a faintly unsavoury mystery about your origin. It isn’t your fault, but you’ve lived most of your life in unbelievable squalor among the dregs of Europe.”

  “Are you blaming me for my misfortunes?” Anya gazed with the blank incredulity of a wounded animal at the other girl.

  “No, my dear. I’m not. I’m merely telling you that they make you quite unsuitable as a wife for David—and still more unsuitable to be the mother of his children. David is a warmhearted, domestic creature au fond, like most. Do you think he would like his children to have a mother who didn’t even know who her own parents were?”

  “Oh, you cruel, cruel beast!”

  Anya burst into wild, ungovernable tears, which poured down her face unchecked.

  “I’m sorry. Someone had to say this to you, if you couldn’t see it for yourself.” Celia too was pale now, but stonily determined to keep to her point. “You can hate me if you like. But, if you love David, you’ll know I’m telling the truth.”

  Then she turned and walked out of the room. And Anya, terrified lest someone should find her in this state, fled into the garden, taking, by instinct, a sheltered path through the shrubbery which presently led out into the open country.

  Sometimes she walked and sometimes she ran, sobbing at intervals and catching her breath in little gasps of grief and distress. She had no idea where she was going, and she did not care. She was not even sure that she would ever return to the house which had been the scene of such humiliation and shock.

  She hated Celia for her cruelty and her brutal candour. But still more did she hate her for the thread of truth which ran through her specious arguments.

  It was jealousy, of course, which had prompted nearly everything she had said. Even Anya knew that. But, on the other hand, there was a substratum of truth to the case she had built up.

  Anya was alien and rootless and unknown. Who knew it better than herself? And because life had made her humble and timid, she had never, even to herself, quite allowed the idea that she might become David’s wife.

  But now she was ruthlessly bidden to view the prospect and see how hopelessly inadequate she was for the part.

  “I only want him to love me!” she sobbed aloud once. “I didn’t ask for more.”

  But it seemed that to love and be loved demanded some impossible definition in the world she had now entered. If she loved him, she might do him harm. If he loved her, that harm would already be done.

  It was not all so clear-cut as Celia made it out to be. But it was hopelessly beyond anything that Anya could compass.

  After a long while, it seemed to her, she dropped down on the ground under some trees, and lay there with her cheek pressed against the grass, deriving some sort of dreary comfort from the feel of something familiar and natural.

  It was very quiet there, and the sunlight made a little pattern through the leaves, and it was all so silent and peaceful that, quite simply, she wished she could die there.

  She had never wished that before. Curiously enough, in all her physical miseries and the bleak, harsh struggle for existence, she had never wanted to give up and end it all. Indeed, the will to live had always been like a strong spring within her.

  But now, in a material state which most people would regard as the happiest she had yet known, she knew a sort of deadly inertia, a longing not to have to struggle any more.

  Presently the sun went in, and it grew colder, and an inquisitive little bird hopped from branch to branch overhead and looked down enquiringly at the motionless figure beneath.

  But still Anya lay there, unaware of the passage of time, unable to think out the problem which Celia had trust upon her, suspended in some curious way in a timeless vacuum.

  It was the fading light which at last made her aware of the outside world again. And, startled to realize how late it must be, she sat up and stretched her cramped limbs.

  The bird chirped and flew away immediately and Anya thought idly.

  “It’s going home. And I must go home too. Or to the place they call my home.”

  She had a great reluctance to go, and the thought of meeting Celia again made her shudder. But she knew now, with the more practical part of her mind, that it was impossible to stay away indefinitely. As it was, she would have all sorts of questions to answer and explanations to make.

  Perhaps she could say she had gone for a walk and lost herself. Perhaps it was not quite so late as it seemed. But in any case she must hurry.

  It took her quite a long time to find her way back, and the light was fading rapidly as she finally crossed the lawn and entered the house again by the french window, unwilling to face a curious servant at the front door.

  There was a light in the drawing-room, and she stood there for a moment, blinking slightly after the gloom outside. And, as she did so, a man she had never seen before got up from a chair and regarded her.

  She thought he must be a visitor and made an effort to appear natural and at ease.

  “Were you waiting to see Mrs. Preston?” she asked. “Or Celia perhaps?”

  “No. I wasn’t waiting for anyone,” he told her. “I’ve done all the greeting, and now I’m making myself at home. Because this is my home, you see. I’m the prodigal son.”

  “You’re—? Why, you’re Martin Deane!” she cried, her surprise and interest breaking even through her unhappiness.

  “Yes, I’m Martin Deane,” he agreed. “And who are you, I wonder?” He came slowly forward and regarded her with intense interest. “Funny—you’re the image of someone I knew very well when I was a young man. But that’s years ago. Before you were born, I should think.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Anya came quite close to Martin Deane and looked up at him.

  “You say you—knew someone like me once? I wonder who it was.” She almost held her breath. “I am a little like my mother, I believe.”

  “No. This was a man I knew,” he explained carelessly. “We were young together. Lord, how long ago!” He laughed reminiscently. “What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t say. But it is Anya. Anya Beranova—” she added, for she had no other name to give. “Haven’t they told you about me?”

  “No. Do you live here?”

  She saw then that, in the tremendous excitement and upheaval of his arrival, no one had given her a second thought. She doubted if she would even have to explain her long absence except in the most casual terms.

  “I am staying here,” Anya began. And then Mrs. Preston came into the room and, catching sight of her, exclaimed,

  “Why, there you are, darling! I was just wondering—And you’ve made friends with Martin, I see. Isn’t it wonderful? He arrived without even so much as a phone call first.”

  She came over and slipped an affectionate arm into Martin’s, whereupon he immediately bent down and kissed the tip of her ear. It was a charming, even an affectionate, gesture. But Anya could not help remembering that he had left this same devoted mother to mourn him as dead for many years.

  “Where have you been, dear?” Mrs. Preston regarded her kindly, but definitely as though she had suddenly become of secondary interest.

  “I went out for a walk, and I wandered much further than I intended and got lost.” With Mrs. Preston smiling at her rather absently it was perfectly easy to make the stock excuse. “I had no idea how late it was.” Anya glanced at the clock. “I’ll run up and change.”

  “You have a quarter of an hour,” Mrs. Preston told her, and turned back to her son.

  Anya crossed the room, and in the doorway came face to face with Celia. Both girls drew back slightly, in an instinctive movement of enmity and recoil. Then it was Anya who gave the other girl a cold, haughty glance, and she brushed past and went out of the room without a word.

  She was trembling a little, she found, as she ran up the stairs, for the encounter had shaken her more than she had shown. But at least the dreadful first meeting w
as now over. An hour or two ago she had thought she could never bear to look Celia in the face again. But of course life was not like that. A decent veil of convention had to be drawn over even the bitterest of divisions.

  For some while longer she and Celia would have to go on living under the same roof, pretending to a sort of outward amiability. And so it was almost providential that Martin, whose arrival was bound to oust any other matter of interest, should have chosen this hateful day to make his appearance and engage all-round attention.

  As she rapidly changed into the pretty short lace evening dress which Lady Ranmere had considered suitable to her age and situation, Anya thought again, with a sort of nervous excitement, of Martin Deane’s exclamation when he had first seen her.

  It had been a relief as well as a disappointment when Mrs. Preston had come in and prevented the discussion from going further, for Anya felt she could not bear much probing into her personal affairs after the cruel things Celia had said. But it was impossible not to wonder what more he would have said, if the interruption had not happened.

  For a brief moment, she took out the photograph on which all speculation was based, and looked at it yet again. In the eager face of the young Martin Deane she thought she could trace some likeness to the thin, faintly disillusioned-looking man downstairs. But in the other, more sensitive face she could not, she thought, find much resemblance to herself.

  The diner bell put an end to any further reflection and, hastily slipping the photograph into a drawer again, Anya went downstairs.

  Over dinner, Mrs. Preston happily monopolized the conversation, and it was obvious that she simply could not hear enough of all that had happened to her son in the long years since she had last seen him.

  He was very good-humoured about answering her questions, and Anya had to admit that his manner to his mother was charming, while on Celia he turned the half-amused, half-curious attention of someone who had never had a sister, and could not quite believe that he had one now.

  Inevitably, Anya took little part in the conversation. This was a family reunion, and she did not grudge any of them—not even Celia—the joy which belonged to it.