Love Is My Reason

by Mary Burchell

  “I do.” he looked amused. “Is it so astonishing?”

  “Yes—no—I don’t know.” She put her hands up to her cheeks for a moment. “But you couldn’t have said anything nicer to me at this moment. Not if you had been my father.”

  “Is that so?” He laughed then, though he looked very faintly moved. “Well, I’m glad to know I deputized not unworthily for an old friend. And now—” he got up and stretched and yawned—“perhaps my dear mother is right. All this drama certainly exhausts one a little. Suppose we leave all the other questions and discussion until tomorrow.”

  She would have liked to go on then, for she felt at ease with him, and a dozen things she wanted to know about her father had now come to mind. But she had long ago been schooled to do instinctively what others wanted. And so she obediently accepted his suggestion, and together they went slowly upstairs.

  At the top of the stairs, when he said good-night to her, he unexpectedly kissed her and said, “That’s from your father.”

  He spoke lightly, and he even laughed a little as he said it. But Anya experienced such a rush of emotion at the words that she could only give him a brief smile in reply. Then she ran along the passage to her room, and, once she was safely in there, with the door shut, she flung herself on the bed and wept. But whether it was because she had never known her father or because she had just found him, she was not really very sure.

  * * *

  The next few days were curiously peaceful and uneventful, after the hours of concentrated drama. Celia was out a good deal, and both Mrs. Preston and Martin were kind and undemanding where Anya was concerned.

  She even had time to be a little bored and wish that she could begin on her scheme of work. Then Bertram telephoned one evening to inform her that he would take her to London the following day.

  “The man I want you to study with is back from Paris,” he informed her. I’ll take you to his studio tomorrow and get you started. I’ll call for you at ten tomorrow morning—” he didn’t seem to visualize her as having any plans of her own which might conflict with his—“and we’ll go up to town by car.”

  Anya thought fleetingly of what Celia had said about the inadvisability of driving around with David or Bertram. But nothing which Celia had said seemed to have quite the same poisonous significance now. She said she would be ready at the appointed time. And then, to her disappointment, Bertram rang off before she could make even the most casual enquiry about David.

  The next morning, which was fine and sunny, Bertram arrived punctually for her. And, with the feeling that at last she was about to embark on the first stage of her longed-for career, Anya said good-bye to Mrs. Preston and took her place in the car beside Bertram.

  At first he seemed disinclined to talk much. But then, just as Anya was wondering if any observation of hers would interfere with important reflections, he said.

  “I think you made a mistake the other night, you know.”

  “Made a mistake?” Rather mortified, she reviewed her performance in retrospect. “In what way?”

  “You ought not to have decided against letting Sir Basil Edcombe know about you.”

  “Oh—that.” She looked both relieved and obstinate.

  “He could be a lot of help to you, you know.”

  “He might not want to be. But we’ve gone over all this before, Bertram. Please, not again.”

  He gave her a half-exasperated glance. But he said,

  “All right. How are you making out at the Prestons’ place, then?”

  “Everyone is very kind to me.”

  “Everyone? Including Celia?”

  “Well—” she laughed slightly—“I haven’t seen very much of Celia in the last few days. She has been out a lot. I suppose she was up in town or seeing friends.”

  “She was up in town and seeing friends. I saw her having lunch with David one day, and I think they went to a show together last night,” Bertram replied carelessly.

  “D-did they?” The most unpleasant wave of dismay and disquiet swept over her. “I—didn’t know they were seeing so much of each other.”

  “Oh, yes. Why not? I suppose they regard themselves as more or less engaged.”

  Anya swallowed nervously, and her tone was more anxious than she had meant it to be as she said, “Do you really think so?”

  “Could be. Does it matter?”

  There was a silence. Then Anya said, “Why do you ask me that?”

  “Because,” Bertram told her deliberately, “I think you’re a silly girl, and throwing away your chances at a time when you can’t afford to do so. You’re in love with David, aren’t you?”

  Anya looked down at her tightly clasped hands and fought to keep her pathetic little secret still. But she was terribly shaken by what Bertram had told her—even while she knew it was unrealistic of her not to have foreseen this.

  Celia had not let off that tirade against her for nothing. She had calculated that she would sweep Anya from the scene and arrange things exactly as she wanted them. Subsequent events had done a good deal to restore Anya’s shattered morale. But that was no reason why Celia should have altered her plans.

  Of course she was seeing as much of David as she could. And meanwhile Anya had no choice but to stay quietly in the one house she could call home.

  Bertram was not, apparently, going to press her to any reply. But, after a few moments, Anya said, in a small voice,

  “What did you mean by saying I was throwing away my chances?”

  “Why, my dear, you’re up against some pretty stiff opposition in Celia, you know,” Bertram told her not unkindly. “She’d done a lot of spade-work on old David before you came on the scene at all, and she shares a number of his interests and experiences. You can’t afford to sit back and be a quiet little nobody at home. Why don’t you make a bid for the position that is really yours? To be acknowledged as Sir Basil’s niece could have its uses.”

  “But that wouldn’t matter to David,” she protested. “He—he likes me for myself. He doesn’t care whose niece I am. He wouldn’t think any more—or less—of me because I was related to any particular person.”

  “That’s true, in the literal sense, of course,” Bertram conceded. “But to be the centre of any picture does impart a subtle attraction to a person, Anya. As the romantically discovered niece of Sir Basil Edcombe, you would become a personality of interest. A position which, I might say, you would support with great charm. I might even fall in love with you a little bit myself, in those circumstances.” And he turned his head and grinned at her.

  Anya laughed protestingly, but she was impressed by what he had said.

  “Do you think it would really make a difference?”

  “Of course. These things always do. Quite apart from the practical fact that you would be infinitely freer to go and come as you chose. Even the most devoted admirer can’t do much if the object of his admiration is in the wrong place. What chances has David of seeing you alone, as you are at present?”

  It was all too true! Except for those moments at the bottom of the stairs, she had not seen him alone since she had left his aunt’s house. And that was exactly what Celia had intended to happen.

  “But, Bertram—” she was more than half convinced already—“how can you be so sure that Sir Basil—that is my uncle—will be prepared to welcome me?”

  “I’m not sure. No one can be sure of that.”

  “But then—” she shrank afresh at the thought—“he might be utterly dismayed at my existence. And—and even say I was an imposter or something.”

  “He might, of course.” Bertram viewed the possibility with terrifying calm.

  “I couldn’t bear that! I’ve had too much—” She stopped, because she didn’t want to sound ungrateful.

  “No? You feel David isn’t worth the risk of so much unpleasantness, you mean?” Bertram suggested judicially.

  “I didn’t say that!” She flushed and then paled. “David is worth anything—anythin
g—” She stopped again, and for several minutes they drove in silence. Then she gave a little gasp, as though she had taken some sort of plunge, and said,

  “Bertram—could you take me to see Sir Basil?”

  “If you wish it to be done that way, yes.”

  “Could you take me now—this morning—while my courage lasts?”

  “I think so.” He glanced at his watch. “Yes, there’s time before our other appointment.”

  “Very well then.” Anya spoke in a tone of desperate determination. “Let’s drive straight there—now.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  If Bertram was surprised at Anya’s sudden decision, he did not show it. He merely said,

  “I think that’s a very good idea. These things should be done on impulse or not at all.”

  Some part of Anya still pleaded for “not at all”. The essential, frightened part of her which had come into being during the years in camp when every major decision was made for one. But a new, restless, adventurous side of her which was struggling into life despised these inner fears and doubts, and she clung to her bold determination.

  They drove for a long time, it seemed to her, for her complete ignorance of London made it impossible for her to judge when they might be nearing Sir Basil Edcombe’s house. And it was a sort of shock, as well as a relief to her, when they left the river-bank, along which they had been driving, turned into a pleasant cul-de-sac, and stopped before a large, handsome house, with white painted window-frames and a gleaming white front door.

  “Is—is this the place?” She tried to imagine herself related to anyone who lived in such a house.

  “Yes. This is your uncle’s town house.” Bertram was outwardly quite calm, but Anya thought he too was not entirely free from excitement. “He has a place in the country as well.”

  To own one house was impressive enough to Anya. Two made the whole situation so fantastic that she had nothing to say, as they approached the gleaming front door. But when Bertram tugged briskly at the polished bell-pull, and she heard a bell sound musically somewhere in the back regions of the house, she wanted to catch her companion’s arm and say, “Come away! Come away before it is too late!”

  Before panic completely overcame her, however, the door was opened by a dignified looking manservant, who, on hearing Bertram’s name, admitted them to an elegant panelled hall, while he went away to enquire if his master were free to see visitors.

  “Don’t be scared. I’ll do the explaining,” Bertram told Anya kindly. And Anya swallowed nervously and nodded.

  In a few moments the man returned to say that Sir Basil would see them, and they were conducted into a large, pleasant room, which was, though Anya did not know it, almost a replica of the elegant sitting-room in Act I of one of Sir Basil’s earlier successes.

  The room, however, was not what engaged Anya’s attention at that moment. She fixed her gaze on the tall, handsome, elderly man who came forward to greet them. For here, she told herself—here at last—was someone of her own flesh and blood.

  He in no way resembled anyone she had ever known, being much handsomer and more impressive than the young man in the photograph. But she felt, or thought she felt, a strange sense of familiarity when she looked at him. Perhaps it was only her imagination. But the moment of half recognition was a moving one.

  While these thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, Sir Basil had greeted Bertram (whom he evidently knew more than slightly) and had turned to her.

  “This is a young protégée of my mother’s,” Bertram began, “and I have a rather special reason for bringing her to see you. It’s a long story—” their host indicated chairs at this point and they sat down—“and I think Anya would wish me to explain right away that we first met when she was an inmate of a camp for displaced persons.”

  Across Sir Basil’s handsome, mobile face there passed exactly the right degree of sympathetic interest. He was, in. an instant, the understanding elderly friend of the family who listens attentively to the Unkown’s story, just before the drama begins to unfold in Scene I.

  All he said, however, was “Ah, yes?” in a mellow, but non-committal tone. And suddenly it came to Anya that she did not want Bertram to do the explaining, after all. She wanted to do it herself, in her own way. Her timidity largely departed from her, and she said, quietly but authoritatively,

  “Do you mind if I explain, Bertram?”

  “Not at all.” Bertram looked slightly taken aback, but yielded immediately. And, leaning forward, her hands clasped tightly together, Anya said,

  “Sir Basil, I know you must have had more than enough of people who come to you for advice about their stage hopes. But Bertram is certain that I have an unusual theatre talent—” Sir Basil looked very faintly bored, while Bertram looked surprised at this turn in the conversation. “I am not so sure that he is right. But—would it be too much to ask you to decide for us?”

  “My dear young lady—” Sir Basil was no longer quite so much the urbane host, this role being overshadowed by that of the actor-manager who had to say “No” to stage aspirants every day of his busy existence—“My dear young lady, of course I am willing to give advice to any friend of Ranmere’s. But, in common kindness, the first warning I must give you is that the stage is an overcrowded profession, where even very talented people often make little headway.”

  “I do understand that,” Anya said quickly. “And, if I’m quite fair, I should say that Bertram didn’t bring me here primarily to ask your opinion on my stage talent. There—there was something else. But I think he will forgive me for mentioning this first.”

  “I give way to you over the timing of disclosures,” Bertram told her with a slight smile. “But since you have started on the stage business first—I should explain, Sir Basil, that Anya’s talent it of a rather intimate, individual type. She is more in the nature of a diseuse than an actress.”

  “Not up my street at all,” observed the great actor-manager more severely. “I deal strictly in straight drama, as you must very well know, Ranmere.”

  “Of course.” Bertram remained unmoved by the veiled reproach. “Anya is not expecting a job out of this, nor even any special recommendation of yours. I think she merely wants a friendly opinion of her quality, before she explains herself further. Is that it?” He glanced at Anya.

  “Yes. That is it.” She nodded eagerly.

  “Very well. You had better come into my studio.” Sir Basil got up with the air of a man very much at the service of his public and rather to be pitied because of it, and led the way across the hall to a large, light, bare room, with a small stage at one end of it.

  “Now, what do you want to do?” he asked patiently. “Anything you like, except Portia’s speech on the quality of mercy. I was one of the judges yesterday at the finals for the Barrington award,” he explained confidentially to Bertram, “and, my dear fellow, they almost all saw themselves as Portia. The girls, I mean. The boys were Mark Anthony, or Henry V. Very, very trying, I assure you.”

  Bertram laughed and said, “Anya hasn’t the dramatic weight for Portia.”

  “My dear Ranmere, do you really think that deters them?” replied Sir Basil gloomily.

  Then he turned to Anya, who had tossed off her hat and coat and had already gone on to the small stage. And he listened with courteous, though slightly bored attention while she gave him her short explanation of the little act with the bonnet.

  After that she did not take any more notice of him, for she was completely absorbed in the character she was portraying. Only when the brief, tense scene was over, and she glanced down the long room to where Bertram and Sir Basil stood, she saw that the older man was speaking with considerable animation to Bertram.

  Then Bertram called out, “Do something else, Anya.” So she did the song of the organ-grinder. And at that, her uncle—suddenly she felt that he was her uncle—came slowly down the room to the little stage.

  “You’re a very talented child, my dear,”
he said, and gave her his hand to help her down from the stage. “How far that talent would stand up to hard theatre life, I don’t know. But you have one of the rarest of all qualities—the simplicity which speaks from heart to heart. As I said before, I don’t deal in your line of country at all. But you interest me—you interest me.”

  Then he turned to Bertram and asked, “What are your plans for her?”

  “I’m going to let Marius Pernard give her some months of intensive coaching.”

  “Couldn’t do better.” The older man nodded approvingly. “And have that voice of hers developed and trained. It’s small but it projects well. It will never be sensational, but it could serve her very usefully if you have it developed instead of exploited. I’ll be glad to know how you get on.” He patted Anya’s arm, not unkindly.

  “Thank you.” Anya spoke almost in a whisper, because she was dismayed to find that she could not, in the emergency, now find the bridge between the subject of her stage talent and the disclosure which they had come to make.

  She glanced imploringly at Bertram. But, before he could say anything, Sir Basil himself supplied the opening.

  “How about her people?” he asked Bertram. “Is there anyone to—help her—back her up?”

  “Her parents are dead,” Bertram said slowly.

  “I’m sorry.” Again the great man touched Anya’s arm kindly. “But, with that charm and tact, you won’t lack friends, my child. What nationality are you, by the way?”

  “My mother was Russian. And my father—British.”

  Sir Basil’s eyebrows rose. “And yet you were in a camp for displaced persons?”

  “My father died before I was born. My mother married again—a Russian. I was given my stepfather’s name.”

  “Hm—Russian names are seldom any good professionally. Too difficult for the public either to pronounce or memorize.” Sir Basil was very much the practical man of the theatre at that moment. “What was your real name?” There was a strange and pregnant little silence, which Bertram did not attempt to break.