Why had she married Martin? She had never loved him —that was very certain. Of course she had been flattered and thrilled at Martin's attentions; Martin was so much older than herself and so clever. He had been to Rome and Florence and could talk about all sorts of interesting things.
Martin enjoyed talking and Anne enjoyed listening to him; usually she listened without comment but one evening when Martin came to dinner at the flat he began to tell Anne about a friend of his who had an apiary.
"Oh, monkeys!" cried Anne. "What fun to keep monkeys! Aunt Beatrice and I saw some at the Zoo."
"One keeps bees in an apiary, not monkeys," said Martin without a smile. "The word is derived from the latin—apis, a bee. An apiarist is a man who studies the habits of bees."
"Oh, I thought—"
"You thought the word was derived from ape," said Martin.
Anne felt slightly annoyed; but of course it was very silly and Martin was so clever. It was ridiculous to feel annoyed.
Apart from that somewhat unfortunate contretemps everything went well and Martin's visits became more frequent and prolonged. Aunt Beatrice was very excited about it.
"Martin is devoted to you," she declared. "He's so tall and handsome and so romantic! It's wonderful to see him look at you with his heart in his eyes."
It was rather wonderful, thought Anne. Nobody had ever looked at her like that before. Nobody had ever sprung to his feet to open doors for her; nobody had ever given her roses. All the same when she discovered that Martin wanted to marry her she was a little frightened.
Aunt Beatrice soothed Anne's fears and pushed her very gently into Martin's arms.
It was all settled and everybody was happy and excited. Anne lost her head completely; she was swept away. It was delightful to be the principal person in the affair, to be praised and cherished and to have all her washes consulted. That night they had a celebration—a little dinner for three in Aunt Beatrice's flat—Anne wore her new pink frock and looked enchanting; her eyes shone like stars and her cheeks were rosy. They drank each other's healths.
"I wish Nell were here," said Anne at last. "That would make it quite perfect."
"Yes," agreed Aunt Beatrice. "But things can't be absolutely perfect in this world."
"I suppose it wiU be all right," said Martin. "I suppose Anne's father won't object. You haven't told him yet, have you?"
"No, we must talk about that," replied Aunt Beatrice. "As I said before things can't be absolutely perfect—and I know my brother so well. He's very unreasonable."
"But Miss Ayrton!" exclaimed Martin in alarm. "You said—"
"It will be all right, I promise you," declared Aunt Beatrice and forthwith revealed her plan that they should marry without the consent of Anne's parents.
"But why?" asked Martin. "Surely it would be better to ask them."
"They wouldn't give their consent."
"Good heavens!" Martin exclaimed. "You don't mean—"
"I know my brother," repeated Aunt Beatrice. "He's very unreasonable indeed. He would absolutely refuse to allow you to be married. If you go and ask Anne's parents you may as well give up the idea of getting married altogether. They would send Martin away and you would never see each other again. My parents did that to me. If you wait and talk and argue it will all fall through. That's what happened to me. I shall never forget how dreadful it was—all the talk and the arguments—all the unkind things that were said to poor Harry! Eventually he went away and I never saw him again."
There was a horrified silence.
"Then you think—" began Martin.
"I know," said Aunt Beatrice firmly. "The only thing to do is to get married and then tell them. They can't part you once you're married."
Anne had said nothing. She had a feeling that Aunt Beatrice was right; her father would not like Martin. Martin was wonderful of course, but he liked his own way—so did her father. The idea of talk and arguments between them was appalling. It would end in a row, thought Anne. Martin would be sent away and she would never see him again . . . and she would be like Aunt Beatrice, unloved and unwanted.
"What do you think about it, Anne?" asked Martin.
"Well, Aunt Beatrice knows better than I do," said Anne doubtfully.
"Of course I do," agreed Aunt Beatrice. "You leave it all to me. I'll arrange everything."
Aunt Beatrice was as good as her word, and for the next few days she was extremely busy. Minors can be married in Scotland without their parents' consent so there was no trouble on that score. She bought Anne's small trousseau out of her own pocket.
"I'll get the money back from your father afterwards," she said.
"Do you think he'll give it to you?" asked Anne.
"Of course he will I And even if I don't get it back from him it won't, matter. I'll give it to you as a wedding present ... or you can pay me out of your allowance if you would rather. Your father will give you an allowance when you're married. He gives Connie a very generous allowance and of course you'll get the same."
"You're quite sure they'll be pleased?" asked Martin.
"Of course they'll be pleased."
"Then why not tell them?"
"Because they won't be pleased at first," replied Aunt Beatrice. "I've told you before. They'll say Anne is too young, and they'll put all sorts of obstacles in the way, but once they realise that it is a fait accompli they'll come round and everything will be all right. I know what I'm talking about." She sighed and added, "if only I could have my life over again! I had nobody to help and advise me. When I was Anne's age . . ."
Martin had listened so often to the story of Miss Ayrton's romance that he was heartily sick of it. He glanced at the clock and said he had no idea it was so late; he must go at once . . . and Anne as usual went with him to the door.
"I don't know why you love me," said Anne. "I'm not clever or—or anything."
"You're sweet," declared Martin kissing her. "You're innocent and sweet. That's why I love you."
2
It was all very thrilling. Anne longed to write to Nell and tell her what was happening but Aunt Beatrice explained that it would not be fair to Nell—and of course Aunt Beatrice was right. It would put Nell in a very difficult position if she were told before her parents. Once it was all over and everything was smoothed out Nell could be told . . . and perhaps Nell could come and stay in London and they could go about together. What fun that would be!
Martin had a flat in London, quite near the school, so the problem of where they were going to live did not arise. It was a very small flat, said Martin, but that would not matter. Anne agreed that it would not matter at all. There would be no time for a honeymoon, because Martin had to go back to the school, his holiday was over, but that did not matter either.
Anne and Martin were married quietly; it was very different from Connie's wedding with all the fuss and excitement, but Anne was so excited about all the wonderful things that were happening to her, about her new clothes and the prospect of going to London with Martin that she did not mind. She was on top of the world. She had been nowhere and seen nothing so the journey to London was marvellous and she was interested in everything and delighted with all she saw and made Martin laugh with her naive comments.
It was very late when they arrived at Martin's flat. He opened the door with his key and ushered her in,
"It's very small," said Martin. "I told you that, didn't I?"
Anne said nothing. She was absolutely horrified at the sight of Martin's flat. It brought her down to earth with a bump. Martin had told her it was small but she had imagined it to be a sort of doll's house; she had imagined a tiny bright sitting-room and a kitchen with a glittering array of pots and pans on the shelves. This place was dark and squalid and dirty, it was the dirtiest place Anne had ever seen. Her first thought on seeing Martin's flat was that she could not live here—it was impossible.
"It's a little dirty, I'm afraid," said Martin cheerfully. "Of course it's been shut up for som
e time, but perhaps we can get a woman to come and help you to clean it up. Then, once it's nice and clean, you can look after it yourself."
"I can't cook," said Anne. "I told you—"
"I know, but you'll soon learn. Every woman knows how to keep house and cook—it's an instinct. Birds don't have to be taught how to make nests. But there's no need to worry because it will only be temporary; your father will give you an allowance—Miss Ayrton said so—and then we can move to a larger flat and have a daily maid. You must write to your father tomorrow."
"Yes, I suppose so," said Anne.
The next morning Martin went off early to his work and left Anne alone in the flat. She had thought last night that the flat was horrible and it seemed even more horrible in the light of day, it seemed dirtier and more dingy. It was terribly cramped and inconvenient—the meanest cottage on the Amberwell estate was a palace compared with Martin's flat. The worst part of it was that Martin did not seem to notice the dirt and discomfort (or at least he did not seem to mind) and the discovery that his standards were so different from her own alarmed and depressed her. However it was no use giving way to despondency, Anne had promised to write the all important letter and to have it ready when Martin returned so she sat down at the battered old desk which stood near the window and began her task.
The letter took hours. She had known it would be difficult but it was far more difficult than she had expected. With the paper before her and the pen in her hand, she found she had not the slightest idea what to say. She had felt depressed and discouraged before she started and she became more so. A dozen times she began the letter and a dozen times she tore it up . . . but at last in sheer desperation she finished it and when Martin came in she showed it to him.
"My dear girl!" exclaimed Martin. "This letter is supposed to be to your father. It reads like a letter to a total stranger—and incidentally there are two spelling mistakes."
"I'm not very good at spelling," said Anne meekly.
"Well, never mind the spelling. The whole thing is wrong."
Anne had felt the same herself. She sighed and said, "I don't know what to say. Perhaps it will be better if you write it out and then I can copy it."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Martin. "Can't you write a letter to your own father? How can I tell you what to say? I don't know him."
Anne realised that she did not know him either.
"Look here," said Martin. "You said it would be all right. You said you would write to him and explain everything and he would understand."
"I don't think he will understand," said Anne miserably. "I think he'll be very angry."
"Why have you changed your mind?"
She found this difficult to explain. The truth was she had been so buoyed up with excitement that she had not really thought about her father at all. It was not until she had sat down to write to him that his personality took shape before her eyes. She envisaged her letter arriving at breakfast-time and her father receiving it, opening it and reading it. The vision was horrifying in the extreme. Nell would have understood Anne's somewhat lame explanation of this curious phenomenon, but Martin did not, and what was worse he did not believe in it. He did not believe what she said.
"It's absolute nonsense," he declared. "Either you knew all the time that your father would be angry or else something has happened to change your mind. What is it?"
"Nothing," said Anne with a sob. "I never thought about it properly. Aunt Beatrice said—"
"For heaven's sake don't cry," said Martin in exasperation. "Sit down and write your letter. I'll tell you what to say."
Somehow or other the letter got written and Martin took it to the post.
3
When the letter had been despatched they settled down to wait for an answer and Anne did her best to cope with household affairs. She tried to clean the flat but as fast as she cleaned it the smuts drifted in at the windows; she tried to cook but the meals she produced were practically uneatable. She toiled all day at her unaccustomed tasks and by the time Martin returned she was always tired.
Martin was quite patient with her, he gave her money and told her what food to buy and how to cook it. "You'll learn," he kept saying. "It isn't difficult once you get into the way of it . . . and of course it will be much easier when we get our new flat."
Anne was not quite so confident as Martin; she had her doubts about her father's reaction to the news of her marriage (and as the days went by her doubts became increasingly oppressive) but when at last the letter from her father arrived it was worse than even Anne had expected. It forbade her to write or to hold any communication with her family. Anne's eyes saw the sentences written in her father's neat and slightly old-fashioned copperplate hand but her brain could hardly take them in:
"Your mother and I were horrified to hear of your outrageous behaviour ... I have made enquiries concerning the man you have married and discovered he has nothing to recommend him . . . if our consent had been asked we should most certainly have refused it, but now that you have married this undesirable person we can do nothing and you must abide by your rash act . . . your letter seems to suggest that I am under an obligation to help you financially but you are mistaken. I have no intention of doing so either now or in the future . . . you have disgraced yourself by your ill-considered marriage and what is a great deal worse you have disgraced your family . . ."
Anne would have kept the letter from Martin but he came in while she was still reading it and took it out of her hand.
"Don't!" Anne cried. "Don't read it!"
But already Martin was reading it—at first with incredulity and then with rage. Martin's fury knew no bounds. He was furious with the Ayrtons and furious with Anne, he was even furious with himself. He tore the letter into shreds and stamped round the tiny flat cursing and swearing. He had been tricked; tricked into marrying a penniless girl, a useless girl who could not boil a potato, a girl who went about with a miserable face!
Anne, cowering in a chair, asked him most unwisely if he had married her for her money.
"No!" shouted Martin. "Of course not."
"Then why—"
"Because I couldn't afford to marry anyone unless she had a little money to help out."
"It's the same," said Anne.
"It's utterly different," stormed Martin. "Don't you understand plain English? I asked you to marry me because I loved you, but I wouldn't have dreamt of asking you to marry me if I had known your parents would cast you off."
"Neither would I," declared Anne weeping bitterly.
This brought Martin to his senses. "It was your aunt," he said more quietly. "It was all her doing. It was she who— who—"
"Who told you to marry me," suggested Anne.
"Well—yes—if you want the truth," said Martin. "And I suppose she pushed you into it too?"
Anne nodded.
"Why?" asked Martin savagely. "Why the hell! The woman is crazy. I shall write and tell her exactly what I think of her."
He sat down at the desk and took out a sheet of paper.
"Oh don't!" cried Anne. "It isn't really her fault. It was our fault for listening to her. She really thought it would be all right."
"How do you know?"
"Because—don't you see?—she's cut off too. Father is furious with her. She'll never be able to go to Amberwell again. She's cut off from Amberwell—and so am I!" sobbed Anne.
"Amberwell!" exclaimed Martin. "I hate the sound of the name! If you were so enamoured of the place why did you leave it?"
Why indeed?
In spite of this quarrel, when both had said words which were hard to forgive, Martin and Anne managed to settle down and arrange their lives together. There was nothing else to do. Anne learnt to shop economically and to cook reasonably well, and somehow or other they managed to make ends meet on Martin's meagre salary. Anne did not mind pinching and scraping, or at least she would not have minded if Martin had been kind and friendly—but he was not. Any love he had had
for her seemed to have vanished and had been swallowed up in bitterness. Martin felt he had been tricked and cheated. His resentment turned inwards and poisoned his whole life, it poisoned his relations with Anne. Sometimes when Anne looked at his sulky face she wondered what had happened to the Martin who had kissed her so fondly and had given her roses. This Martin was like a different person.
Anne was different too, of course, for she was no longer gay and happy and she was not experienced enough to hide her misery and put on a cheerful face. It was dreadful to be tied to a man who had a grudge against you; it was dreadful to have to share his life. It was dreadful to have to eat food bought with his money. Lack of money was one of the hardest things to bear . . . Anne was obliged to ask Martin for money to pay for every small necessity, for money to have her shoes mended or to replace a worn out toothbrush.
The misery of her life and the worry of cooking and trying to keep things clean wore her out and detracted from her appearance. When she looked at herself in the damp-spotted mirror she saw a white peaky face, two large grey eyes and lank dejected hair . . . I'm definitely ugly now, she thought. No wonder Martin doesn't love me . . .
Tears came very easily. They ran down her cheeks suddenly and for the silliest reasons. Anne wept when the milk boiled over and the flat was filled with a greasy smell and she had to clean the gas stove; she wept when she found that one of the eggs she had bought was bad; she wept over the holes in Martin's socks—which she had to darn.
Sometimes Anne tried to look into the future; she wondered what would happen, how long could she go on bearing this life? It was so loveless, it was so frightening. She was literally frightened of Martin now. He did not ill-treat her physically of course but he ill-treated her with words and looks which played havoc with her nerves. When the time drew near for Martin to return from school she would find herself holding her breath—and listening. His key would scrape in the lock as he turned it and he would throw down his satchel of papers with a bang. Anne, struggling with the supper in the kitchen, would feel her heart begin to thump in a suffocating manner and her hands would tremble so that she could scarcely lift the pan from the stove.
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