Anne Belinda

by Patricia Wentworth

  He drew up his chair and said perhaps the most tactless thing that it was possible for him to say:

  “Do you keep your servants a long time, Mrs. Fossick-Yates?”

  There was a slight but frosty pause. Conversation with Mrs. Fossick-Yates did not as a rule admit of pauses. John had just began to realize that his question was not a happy one, when the lady said:

  “I think I ought to. But one learns not to look for gratitude in this world, Sir John.”

  “How true that is!” said Miss Webster.

  John racked his brains for something to say. He wanted to ask about Anne, and had just enough sense left to realize that it wouldn’t do. Fortunately Mrs. Fossick-Yates had found the text for a new discourse.

  “The servant problem—” she began, and was launched. She touched lightly on what might be called the historical aspect. “The good old days, Sir John, when mistresses and maids shared, in the stillroom and the kitchen, those domestic labours which have since so unfortunately fallen into disuse and disrepute.” A survey of the years from 1914 to 1918 followed: munitions, high wages, fur coats, grand pianos, preposterous ideas, discontent—these words emerged like drops flung up by a torrent.

  Slightly dazed, John continued to listen.

  Leaving 1918 behind her, Mrs. Fossick-Yates had embarked upon a masterly analysis of post-war conditions of female labour in general, and domestic service in particular. As she approached her peroration, Anne came in, took the coffee-tray, and went out again.

  John dared not look at her after the one glance which showed her very pale, with dark marks under her dark blue eyes. When the door shut, he said quickly:

  “You seem to have solved the question very satisfactorily as far as your own household is concerned.”

  “Mrs. Fossick-Yates is so wonderful!” said Miss Webster.

  “I hope she may turn out well,” said Mrs. Fossick-Yates. “I hope so—but they very seldom do. Not that I allow myself to be deterred by ingratitude or lack of response. No matter how often I am disappointed, I shall continue to give a helping hand to those who need it.”

  “Did this one come from The Second Chance, dear Mrs. Fossick-Yates?” said Miss Webster.

  John blessed her in his heart.

  “Yes, I always go there. A most admirable society, Sir John, and very well described by its name.”

  “What does it do?” He hoped his voice sounded indifferent.

  Mrs. Fossick-Yates condescended to male ignorance.

  “They give prisoners a second chance—find them employment and so forth. The maid who waited on us at dinner has just come to me from them, and I must say I think she seems promising.”

  “You’re so wonderful with them!” said Miss Webster.

  “I always take a very firm line. I believe it is the only way. I do not believe in beating about the bush; I believe in absolute frankness. I said to this girl just what I say to them all.

  “She’s marvellous with them,” murmured Miss Webster.

  “I said to her, ‘Annie Jones, I am giving you a second chance—I believe in giving everyone a second chance. But I can only offer it to you. It lies with you to take it and make good, or to neglect this opportunity and slip deeper into the mire.’” She paused, and John realized with horror that he was expected to say something.

  He said, “Er—”

  “Of course I am very firm—it is necessary to be very firm. I do not believe in locking things up; it only constitutes an additional temptation. I say quite frankly, ‘Here is a list of the silver, and here is a list of my personal jewellery. The carpets and the bronzes are valuable—Mr. Fossick-Yates’ specimens are not. And I always know to a penny how much money I have in my purse. If anything is missing I shall send for the police at once,’”

  “Isn’t she wonderful?” breathed Miss Webster.

  John thought her so wonderful that the impulse to hit her over the head with the largest and heaviest of the valuable bronzes was almost more than he could control.

  CHAPTER XXII

  He did not see Anne again. Mr. Fossick-Yates went with him to the door, and after giving him three wrong hats in succession, followed him out on to the draughty stone landing, and completed at great length the thirty-year-old story of how he had missed his train.

  John listened, and did not listen. How was he going to see Anne? Parlour-maids had afternoons out; he wondered when Anne would have an afternoon out.

  “The road,” said Mr. Fossick-Yates earnestly, “was very steep and very dusty, and we were all beginning to feel more than a little hungry. If it had not been for the chocolate in my pocket—”

  Perhaps Mrs. Fossick-Yates was so wonderful that she didn’t give her parlour-maid an afternoon out. What a woman! Oh, what a woman!

  “But, of course, the worst of chocolate is that it makes one so very thirsty. And, as I said before—”

  John wondered what little Fossick-Yates would say if he were to seize him by the lapel and say, “When does your parlour-maid go out?” He checked the impulse to experiment, and learned with what gratitude that long dispersed party had happened on a streamlet.

  “Nectar, my dear fellow!” The little man’s eye kindled at the memory. “Delicious! Unforgettably delicious! Er—I’ll walk downstairs with you.”

  John shed him at last a quarter of a mile down the street. He walked back to the hotel in a turmoil of thought. He was profoundly disturbed without knowing why.

  It was Anne Belinda who disturbed him. The effect that she had upon him was one that no one else had. You liked people, or you didn’t like them. You made friends with some people, and not with others. You were fond of some; and a few you loved. None of them had this extraordinary disturbing effect. To hear a thing about Anne Belinda wasn’t like hearing the same thing about anyone else.

  Anne Belinda wasn’t like anyone else. He had talked to her nine years ago for perhaps twenty minutes, and he had never forgotten it, never forgotten the least detail of how she looked and what she said. Then two days ago he had seen her again for less than a minute, and he could still feel her desperate grip upon his arm; the storm of her agony still shook him.

  To-night—to-night had left him with the strangest feelings of all. It was as if Mrs. Fossick-Yates and her flat and her dinner-party, her subservient husband, and her adoring friend, were all part of an insubstantial dream into which he had strayed. He had moved in the dream and mixed with the creatures of the dream, and all the while he was aware of Anne, who was real, moving to and fro in a waking world just out of reach. Dreams go by contraries. In the dream, he and the other unreal people had sat in a lighted circle, with Anne beyond it in the twilight. Dreams go by contraries. It was Anne who was in the light; it was Anne who was real. And the most desperate need of his life was to get out of the dream and go to her.

  He went back to Ossington Road next day. He had no definite plan of how to come to speech with Anne. He thought of telephoning, and was daunted at the prospect of Mrs. Fossick-Yates answering him, or listening whilst Anne answered. He thought of writing. But suppose she got his letter and just ran away. Suppose she had recognized him last night; and suppose she had run away already!

  The Fossick-Yates might have spoken of him as Sir John, or they might have said Sir John Waveney—anyone might have said Sir John Waveney. Even if Anne had only been there thirty-six hours she might have heard his name a dozen times. She might have heard it once, or she might not have heard it at all. If she had heard it, she might have run away. And if she had run away, how in heaven’s name was he to find her? He had called off Messing that morning, and he simply could not stick the idea of letting him, or anyone like him, go prying and ferreting after Anne.

  It was about three o’clock when he turned the corner of Malmesbury Terrace and walked slowly up Ossington Road. It was a long road, and at one end there were a few shops, whilst at the other the houses became steadily larger and more expensive. The big block in which the Fossick-Yates had their flat stood abou
t half-way up the street, just where the ground began to rise.

  John was still in the neighbourhood of the shops when he saw Mrs. Fossick-Yates, in a black corded silk coat and a crinoline hat with a large grey ostrich feather, come down the opposite pavement at a brisk yet stately pace. She carried a grey parasol, with a violet handle carved to represent a parrot’s head.

  The nearest shop was a greengrocer’s. John was inside it before the lady had taken another step. He gazed at bananas, oranges, apples, French cherries, and early strawberries. What on earth could one buy in a greengrocer’s shop? There were bottled plums on a shelf, and baskets of potatoes, and bunches of spring onions, and boxes of dates. He bought a box of dates, asked for change for a pound note, and then, after a glance over his shoulder, inquired if he could have six coppers for sixpence.

  By the time a damsel with bobbed red hair had obliged him with twelve halfpennies, the coast was clear; Mrs. Fossick-Yates, her feather, and her parrot were off the map. John put the dates in his pocket and went away whistling. No one would go out at three o’clock in the afternoon dressed like that unless they meant to stay out for a good long time. His fancy dwelt fondly on Mrs. Fossick-Yates staying out for a good long time. But still he had no idea of how on earth he was going to get hold of Anne.

  He walked on past the block of flats and began to mount the hill. It was a very fine afternoon; there was a blue sky and a light breeze. The houses on the hill had gardens, in which laburnum and crimson may were coming into bloom. There were guelder roses and lilacs, and neat, flat beds full of wallflower and forget-me-not. Some of the beds were edged with white arabis and some with the big, pink double daisies, which his nurse had always called bachelors’ buttons. He remembered having a really frightful quarrel with a little girl who said that bachelors’ buttons were blue, and that the red daisies were hen-and-chickens; it had come to loud screams and the pulling out of hair, and the two nurses had never really been friendly any more. He had forgotten the little girl’s name, but he could remember putting out his tongue at her whenever they met. The little girl did not put her tongue out; she looked well brought-up and superior, and stuck her nose in the air, and she and her nurse always crossed over to the other side of the road.

  John turned at the top of the hill and walked back. When he was about half-way down he saw someone come out of the block of flats and stand on the pavement. The sun dazzled on a white cap and a white apron. The girl who wore the cap and apron had a letter in her hand. She looked down towards the shops and up towards the hill. The pillar-box was on the left-hand side opposite the third house with a garden. She began to walk up the hill towards the letter-box.

  It was Anne Belinda.

  John felt as if someone was shouting to him. He would have liked to shout himself; he wanted to shout at the top of his voice and go pounding down the road to meet Anne Belinda. He subdued this impulse, and having arrived at the letter-box, began to absorb information as to the hours of clearance.

  He leaned against the box so that Anne could not reach the slit. She had come up to the box, and he was aware of her standing there, only half a yard away, waiting for him to move.

  He stood up suddenly and looked at her in an odd excitement. She was still very pale. It wasn’t only the black and white that made her look pale; she looked as if she had been crying. He must say something quickly, or she would think he was a lunatic.

  He kept his hand on the pillar-box, and he said:

  “Anne Belinda.”

  CHAPTER XXIII

  Anne had not taken any particular notice of the man at the pillar-box until he straightened himself and looked at her. Then she recognized last night’s guest, and wondered why he was behaving so oddly. He did not look in the least like the sort of man who speaks to you in the street.

  Then suddenly she was cold with anger because he was speaking to her. She had time to be angry, to look past him as if he were not there, before she realized that he had called her Anne Belinda. The realization brought the bright colour to her face. She looked down at the letter in her hand, and said:

  “Let me pass, please.”

  “Anne!”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “I must speak to you.”

  Anne turned in a whirl of anger and began to walk quickly down the hill. John came after her in a couple of great strides.

  “I’m a perfect fool! Of course you don’t know who I am. Do, please, listen for a moment. I’m John Waveney—John Maurice Waveney, your cousin.”

  Anne stood still. Then, without a word, she turned round and walked back to the letter-box. Her cousin, John Waveney—he had called her Anne Belinda—he was John Maurice Waveney. But she wasn’t Anne Waveney any more; she was Annie Jones, who had been in prison for stealing, and who was being given a second chance as Mrs. Fossick-Yates’ parlour-maid.

  She posted her letter, and stood there for a moment looking down. She felt giddy; the sunlight was full of little bright specks.

  “I really am a fool—I’ve frightened you—I’m most frightfully sorry. But I didn’t know how to get hold of you. I was afraid, if I let you go—I say, are you all right?”

  “In a minute,” said Anne. The words were rather unsteady; the ground on which she stood seemed to wave up and down.

  That passed. She had closed her eyes so as not to see the little dancing specks of light. She opened them now, and there was only clear, sunny air between herself and John Waveney. He was looking at her with so much concern that she smiled.

  “I’m all right now. I must go back.”

  “I want to talk to you most awfully.”

  The smile just showed in her eyes.

  “Here? I’m afraid—”

  “No, not here, of course. But I must see you. Mrs. Fossick-Yates has gone out—I saw her go. Is the little man in?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go back and ask him if you can go out for half an hour. I’ll wait down at the bottom where the shops are.”

  Anne bent her head and walked away. Her thoughts were racing. John Maurice Waveney—what an extraordinary thing! She had heard them say “Sir John” last night. How had he found her—and why? And how many people in how many houses had seen her standing by the pillar-box in her cap and apron talking to a man?

  John walked down to the bottom of the road, and kept an eye on his watch. If she didn’t come in a quarter of an hour he would go to the post office and ring her up. He wasn’t going to have any more nonsense. He had found her, and he was going to talk to her whilst the coast was clear. Half an hour ago he had felt comfortably certain that Mrs. Fossick-Yates had gone out to tea; he now had a horrible conviction that she might come back at any moment.

  In the end it was Anne who came—Anne in a grey coat and skirt with a little black cap, just as he had described her to Messing.

  You couldn’t really describe Anne; you could only describe her clothes. There was the way the corners of her mouth lifted, and there was the way her eyelashes came down over her eyes; and there was the way she looked when she was angry, and the way she looked when she was sad. You couldn’t describe any of these things—no one could. They were like things that he had known always, and they held a secret which he wanted most frightfully to guess. They were Anne Belinda.

  She came up to him with a little colour in her cheeks.

  “I didn’t have to ask—he asked me. He said would I be so very good as to take a parcel to the post office; and he apologized three times, because he had only just sent me out with a letter.”

  “Where can we go?”

  “Well, I’ve got to go to the post office.”

  He frowned.

  “I can post the thing afterwards. Let’s find a tea-shop or something, where we can talk.”

  “No,” said Anne. “I’ve only got half an hour, and I must post the parcel myself.”

  “Nonsense!”

  “I said I would. Why do you want to speak to me?”

  “I’ve been looking for
you ever since I got home.” He hated the pain that clouded her eyes.

  “Why?”

  “Well, first of all I wanted to find you; and then—well, I suppose I’m obstinate. Everyone seemed so dead set on my not finding you—” He broke off, a little flushed. This was not in the least what he had meant to say.

  Anne’s clear regard dwelt on him for a moment. Then she said, sadly and clearly:

  “They were quite right. I didn’t want to be found. I want you to promise me not to tell anyone that you have found me. I want you to leave me alone.”

  They walked for a moment in silence. This end of Malmesbury Terrace was very quiet—a row of mid-Victorian houses with veiled windows and an air of decorum. Just beyond was the busy High Street, where the trams slid to and fro with a metallic screech, and cars and vans and a very hardy race of bicyclists competed for the remaining road space.

  “I can’t leave you alone,” said John in a gruff, angry voice.

  “Please,” said Anne more sadly still.

  “No—I can’t.”

  “Why?” The word broke rather a long pause.

  John didn’t answer; he didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. This is the most exasperating thing that a man can do. Any woman would rather have anything said to her than have to watch her own words sink deeper and deeper into a bog of silence.

  Anne coloured sharply and broke in.

  “How did you find me? No one knew—and I’ve only been here two days.”

  “I’ve been looking for you ever since I came home. I—I’ve been anxious about you; I wanted to be sure you were all right.”

  “How did you find out where I was?” Her tone accused him.

  To her surprise he grinned suddenly.

  “I didn’t find you. I’d been straining every nerve trying to, and making a nuisance of myself to everyone. And then, when I didn’t know what to do next—there you were. Little Fossick-Yates had bothered me into saying I’d come and see his specimens, and I was most frightfully fed-up with the whole show. And then all of a sudden I found you there.”