Anne Belinda
Page 2
John had the oddest sense that he was intruding; the room was so evidently Sir Anthony’s room. He glanced about it, and was on the point of drawing back, when Mrs. Mossiter spoke at his elbow, breathing heavily.
“The picture don’t go with the house, and you’ve no call to meddle with it. It belongs to Lady Marr—it don’t go with the house at all.”
“Ah!” said John. “Yes, you said that before, didn’t you?”
He followed the direction of her angry gaze, and saw the frame of the picture jutting out a bare inch on the far side of the tall-boy. The frame was a gilt one, and the picture leaned, face hidden, against the smooth mahogany. As he put his hand on it, he was aware of alarm as well as anger in Mrs. Mossiter’s voice:
“You’ve no call to touch it! It don’t go with the house—it belongs to Lady Marr.” And there she stopped, because John looked at her, and there was something in the look that stopped her.
He turned the picture to the light.
The canvas was about three feet by two. It showed a very young girl looking at herself in the glass. That was the first impression—a girl in white, with short fair hair, looking at herself in an old mirror with a walnut frame. Her head was bent a little forward, her face in profile; the light just touched her hair and showed the exquisite line of head and neck. But the face that looked back from the mirror was the face of the child who had told John Maurice nine years ago that she promised to be sorry if he was killed. On either side of the face in the mirror there hung the long dark plaits which he remembered.
The picture startled whilst it charmed, and charmed whilst it startled. Some vague recollection of having heard of this picture as Amory’s masterpiece just touched the outer surface of John’s memory. He looked at the two faces, and then at the neat black lettering which crossed the gold of the frame below:
“Jenifer Anne and Anne Belinda, twin daughters of Sir Anthony Waveney.”
CHAPTER II
When a firm of solicitors has been established for a hundred and fifty years or so, it may very well happen that the names which appear on the brass door-plate do not to-day reveal the identity of a single one of the partners.
It was Messrs. Garden, Longhope, Longhope and Mortimer who had informed John Waveney of his succession to the entailed Waveney property; but the benevolent old gentleman whom he interviewed on his arrival in England bore the name of Carruthers, and mentioned that, should Sir John Waveney require any information or assistance during the next month, “Mr. Smith, my nephew and partner, will be available—I myself am taking a short holiday.” There was, apparently, no Longhope, no Mortimer, no Garden. The past into which they had receded was decorous and honourable in the extreme. Its flavour clung about the dark, narrow stair and panelled walls of the old Georgian house.
John Waveney, asking for Mr. Smith, was shown into one of those high rooms with narrow windows, in which so much legal business is transacted. Outside, the sky was dark with the threat of rain. A lamp with a tilted shade stood on the desk at Mr. Smith’s elbow. The light touched the top of a cropped red head; then, as he looked up, shone full on sharp features and surprised blue eyes.
With a jerk that nearly upset both chair and lamp, Lewis Smith was on his feet.
“Maurice! Hullo! My dear chap, where on earth did you spring from?”
John dropped his hat.
“Good Lord! It’s Lulu!”
“But you—how on earth—where on earth? I say, you’re not—Where’s that card? You’re not Waveney? Don’t tell me you’re Sir John Waveney!”
“John Maurice Waveney. I dropped the Waveney when I enlisted. Just as well I did, though I didn’t know till afterwards that I was going to find myself in Tom Waveney’s company.”
“Sir Anthony’s second son?”
“Yes. Jolly good fellow—killed at Loos.”
There was one of those little pauses which fall suddenly when people meet who have not met for years—on one side of the gulf every step so familiar, so full of intimate detail, so crowded with memories, strange, odd, comic, and horrible; on the other, a new country, in which the two who were so closely associated are each cast for a different rôle.
The little silence fell, and was broken by the sudden laughter of Mr. Lewis Smith:
“By gum, it’s funny!” He smote John on the shoulder. “You—why, the last I remember of you is damning you into heaps because you’d pinched the tin of Keating’s—only it wasn’t Keating’s, but a special bug-slayer which my Aunt Louisa had sent me for my birthday.”
John grinned.
“I wanted it more than you did. It was good stuff. Besides, old Ananias Brown had half of it.”
“The blighter!”
“Where do you suppose I ran into Ananias last year? Java, of all places in the world, where he’s a highly respected member of a highly respected engineering firm. I’ve knocked about all over the place these last few years, and it’s astonishing what a lot of fellows I’ve run into. You remember Fatty Higgins? I bumped into him in Rio. He told me that Kennedy—you know, Rat Kennedy—had made no end of a pile and was setting up as a landed proprietor. D’you ever come across Morrison?”
“We briefed him for the Burlsdon Bank Case only last week. He’ll be taking silk one of these days.”
“And Purdie?”
“Gone under, poor devil.”
The pause fell again; and again it was Lewis Smith who broke it.
“What on earth have you been doing with yourself? And why on earth didn’t you come home a year ago, when Sir Anthony died?”
John sat down on the arm of the big chair sacred to clients. With a swoop he retrieved his hat and cast it into the capacious leather seat. He answered the last question first.
“I didn’t come home, because the place without any money was more than a bit of a white elephant, and I was in the thick of old Peterson’s book.”
Lewis Smith got back into his chair, crossed his long legs, and said:
“Peterson?”
“Old Rudolphus Peterson. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of him—the snake man—tremendously famous.”
“Snakes? Yes, I’ve got him. But where do you come in?”
“When I got demobbed I went back to Canada. I’d been out there two years when the war started, so I thought I’d go back. I hadn’t any people over here, and Sir Anthony—well, he’d given me pretty plainly to understand that he didn’t want to set eyes on me. I don’t blame him, poor old chap; it must have been a most frightful knock for him, losing both his sons and feeling that I’d got to come in instead of the daughters. I must say it’s a pretty rotten law, and I don’t wonder he never wanted to see me.”
“I think he ought to have seen you. The whole thing would have come easier if you hadn’t been an absolute stranger.”
John made a quick, impatient gesture with his right hand.
“I wasn’t keen myself. Hanging around waiting for dead men’s shoes is a beastly job. But I’d a pretty rough time over there.” He jerked his head in the supposed direction of Canada. “First I got cheated out of my gratuity like the veriest tenderfoot. It makes me sick to think what a mug I was; and it used to make me a great deal sicker when I was absolutely on my beam ends, doing any sort of beastly odd job to get a meal.”
“As bad as that?”
“Worse, because I didn’t always get one. That’s how I ran into Peterson. I wanted to carry his bag for him; and he wanted to carry it himself, and went on saying ‘No’ in his funny cracked voice. And then, all of a sudden, he said, ‘You are hungry? No? Yes?’ And I said, ‘Damned hungry,’ and the old man looked at me as solemn as an owl and said, ‘It is wrong to swear, but it is damn wrong to be hungry. Come and eat, young man, come and eat at once. Carry my bag, and come and eat with me, and tell me why you are hungry. You are not a drunkard—no?’ Well, I went along with him, and about twelve hours later I woke up in a decent bed and thought I had dreamt the whole thing.”
“And had you?”
Lewis Smith leaned back in his chair and roared with laughter.
“Was he mad?”
“Not in the least—one of the best—one of the very best. We knocked about together for five years, petting material for his book on snakes. Pretty hot work some of it. I assure you the trenches aren’t in it when it comes to slithering on your tummy through a crawling swamp, trying to get a close-up of a puff-adder in the bosom of his family, or stalking one hamadryad whilst another one stalks you. Old Peterson was a wonder. He was too fat to crawl himself, but his pluck and endurance were amazing. We were in the thick of his book when I saw your advertisement; and, naturally, I couldn’t have left him then. Besides, I had no money to keep the place up on—and of all beastly jobs in the world, I should think the beastliest would be to sit down in a mouldering old place and wait for it to fall about your ears. I would rather tout for jobs in the street again—there’s more life in it.”
Lewis Smith looked puzzled.
“Aren’t you going to stay over here now? My uncle seemed to think—”
John shifted his position rather abruptly.
“Well,” he said, “I haven’t made up my mind. I’ve got the money now. That ripping old chap just lived to see his book come out, and when he was gone I found he’d left me every cent he’d got. I don’t believe he knew himself how much it was—money didn’t interest him. Well, I’ve got plenty.”
“What a stroke of luck!”
John’s eyes went bleak. That he would have given the money twice over to hear old Peterson say “My boy,” with his funny accent, was a thing which Lulu Smith couldn’t be expected to understand. He leaned forward with a sudden change of voice and manner.
“Well, that’s that. About Waveney—I haven’t made up my mind. I got an order to view from your uncle and went down incog. to have a look at the place.”
“What did you think of it?”
John wasn’t going to say. He laughed, and drummed with his heels against the side of the chair.
“The housekeeper’s the grimmest female I ever met—absolutely. Now look here, Lulu, I want to ask you some questions.”
“Fire away.”
“Well, the estate comes to me. But most of the money went to Sir Anthony’s daughters?”
“Daughter.”
“What?” The word came out very short and sharp. John felt, in fact, as if he had been hit.
“Daughter,” repeated Lewis Smith.
“But there are two, aren’t there?” He still spoke quickly. “I saw a picture of them down at Waveney.”
“Yes—twins. But the money went to Lady Marr.”
“All of it?”
“Yes, all of it.”
John stared at the carpet, but he didn’t see the pattern; he saw a girl looking into a mirror at a reflection which was yet not a reflection—fair, short hair cut close to the neck; and long dark plaits hanging down until they were lost in the shadow. Jenifer Anne and Anne Belinda—which of them was Lady Marr? He looked up with a frown and said the words aloud:
“Jenifer Anne and Anne Belinda—which of them’s Lady Marr?”
“Oh, Jenifer. They call her Jenny.”
“And which is she? One of ’em had fair hair, cut short the way everyone’s wearing it now; and the other one had long dark plaits.” His voice changed ever so little. With all his conviction that it was the fair-haired girl that was Lady Marr, he waited impatiently for Lewis to say so.
“I don’t know that I noticed. We drew up the marriage settlement; but my uncle attended to it mostly. I only saw the sisters together once, and they were awfully alike—what you’d expect of twins. Lady Marr was in here about a month ago, and I saw her then, because my uncle was out.”
“Well?” The impatience was in John’s voice now.
Lewis laughed. “You can’t see anyone’s hair nowadays. She’d on one of those sort of extinguishers women wear, just let you tell how much lipstick they use. But now I come to think of it, I could see one of her eyes; and it was brown, if that’s any help.”
John felt a quick relief. Impatience and relief were both quite out of proportion to the incident.
“Oh, then she’s the fair one. The other one had blue eyes.”
They came up before him vividly—dark, solemn eyes like dark blue water. The eyes, and the long plaits, and the oval face were Anne Belinda’s. From that instant she ceased to be the funny kid of nine years ago, the dim reflection in her sister’s mirror; she became an astonishingly realizable creature; she became Anne Belinda.
“Where is she?” he said, and was, not unnaturally, misunderstood.
“Lady Marr? Oh, they’ve a place down in Sussex—Waterdene.”
“No, the other one—Anne Belinda.”
CHAPTER III
There was just the very slightest pause before Lewis Smith said, “I don’t know.” As soon as he had spoken, he pulled his chair up to the table and reached for pencil and paper.
“By the way, I’ve made an awful break. You’ve just reminded me. That picture you saw at Waveney—Lady Marr wanted it removed before you came over; and it went right out of my head. I’ve been pretty busy with all my uncle’s work to see to.”
“Why didn’t she take it away before if she wanted it? It’s a year since Sir Anthony died.”
“She doesn’t want it. As a matter of fact, she wanted us to have it destroyed.”
John made a sharp sound of protest. Lewis swung round in his chair.
“Yes, I know. She changed her mind when I told her that it was probably worth at least five thousand pounds. There’s been a boom in Amorys, and this is considered one of his best.”
“She wanted it destroyed? Why? Why on earth?”
Lewis Smith began to be conscious of indiscretion. He drew in the corners of his mouth and hesitated before he answered.
“I don’t know. Don’t ask me.”
John’s glance took in the hesitation; his mind refused the spoken words.
“Destroyed? That picture! She must have had a reason.”
“She probably thinks it doesn’t do her justice,” said Mr. Smith suavely.
“Rot! Why did she want it destroyed?”
Lewis turned to his scribbling-block without answering. John was leaning forward, elbow on knee, chin in hand, eyes very intent. Where was Anne Belinda? Why had Sir Anthony left all his money to Jenny Marr? Why had Lulu dried up like that all of a sudden? And—back again to the first question—where was Anne? Where was Anne Belinda?
“Look here, Lulu,” he said, “what’s the good of being so poisonously discreet all at once? You know something; and I want to know what you know. It’s all in the family, anyway. I want to know why Sir Anthony left all his money to one of his daughters—and the one who didn’t need it. Nicholas Marr’s rolling, isn’t he? I was at school with a cousin of his, and he used to talk about Nicholas and say he’d got money to burn—that’s how I know.”
“He made a very generous settlement on Lady Marr. Sir Anthony was still alive then, of course.”
John’s expression hardened a little. Lewis wasn’t writing, though he was pretending to write. The writing-pad showed a meaningless scribble.
“Yes, I’m not feeling anxious about my cousin Jenny,” he said drily; “I’m thinking about my cousin Anne. Why did her father cut her out of his will? Where is she? What is she doing? And what is she living on? More particularly, what is she living on? I’ve had a shot myself at living on nothing a year. There aren’t any points about it at all. Where is my cousin Anne?”
“I don’t know.”
“Look here, Lulu, I mean business. What do you know?”
Lewis Smith pushed his pad away.
“I really don’t know anything.”
“Then tell me what you do know. I won’t give you away.”
“I tell you I don’t know anything. I can give you a few disconnected facts, most of which are public property.”
“That’s better.”
“They don’t amount to much. We drew up Lady Marr’s settlement, as I told you. She came in once to sign some papers, and brought her sister with her. Sir Anthony wasn’t able to come to town, so my uncle went down to see him once or twice.”
“Yes?”
“There’s really nothing I can tell you.”
“Go on! Get it off your chest!”
“Lady Marr was married in April—at least I think it was April—last April year. She was married in London, from an hotel. Her sister wasn’t at the wedding.”
John’s “Why?” was a sharp exclamation. When he got no answer, he repeated the word in a more ordinary voice.
“Why wasn’t she?”
Lewis Smith shrugged his shoulders.
“Illness, I think. I know next time I saw Lady Marr she went out of her way to tell me that her sister had gone abroad for her health.”
There was a pause. Then John said:
“What about the will? Where does that come in? When did Sir Anthony make the will that left everything to one daughter?”
“He made it within a month of Lady Marr’s marriage. My uncle went down to see him. I don’t mind telling you that he came back a good deal distressed. He hoped, I know, that the dispositions were not final—he said as much to me. Of course, this is all very confidential.”
“Of course.”
“He told me he hoped Sir Anthony would change his mind. But there was no time for that; Sir Anthony died just a week after he signed the new will.”
John got up and walked to the window. He stood there looking down into the wet street. An interminable procession of shiny, dripping umbrellas passed, crossed, and jostled each other.