Anna (64 page)

“But nobody suggested that,” Gervase reminded her. “There must be plenty of convents she could go to.”

“I'm not so sure,” Lady Yarde answered. “It isn't easy. She's a French child remember.”

She was rearranging the Patience cards as she spoke, and she was thinking hard. There was certainly a great deal in Gervase's suggestion to commend it now that she had come to give it some consideration. For a start she would be able to avoid making Delia unhappy; and secondly she would be spared one of those awful trips to Mrs. Haverfield's Select Agency in Wigmore Street to interview another carefully chosen batch of young ladies of good family. She had made so many of those trips in her time that Wigmore Street in her mind seemed entirely full of modest and indistinguishable young women, all in reduced circumstances, all congenitally devout and all with black fabric gloves.

“I suppose we might try it as an experiment,” she said at last.

And as she said it, she felt better. It was as though she had succeeded in making up her mind without actually coming to a
decision. And she knew that Lord Yarde would be pleased. It would be the end of all the unpleasantness over Captain Webb.

“I'll write to Caroline to-morrow,” she said, “and see what she suggests. Perhaps she knows somewhere. At any rate she oughtn't to mind trying. After all, it was Caroline who wished all this trouble on to us. I'd never even heard of the girl.”

When Gervase left his mother's room he did not go down the main staircase but pushed open the big green baize door that led into the schoolroom side. The passage here was narrower, and the carpet that ran up the short flight of stairs was shabby. Once through that deadening baize door it was all narrow and shabby. Narrow and shabby and familiar. There were pleasant half-forgotten memories of stamp collections, and goldfish and a special kind of cake for tea.

He ran up the stairs two at a time and knocked on Anna's door. As he stood there waiting for her to answer he realised to his surprise that he was trembling.

She was seated at the table when he entered and, as she turned, the light of the lamp caught her hair and set it glowing. He stood looking at her.

Then he recovered himself.

“It's all fixed up,” he said. “I've done it. You can have the kid over here.”

And having said it he was quite unprepared for what happened. At first Anna sat there staring at him without answering, and he began to wonder if she had really understood. Then quite slowly her face began to wrinkle up and he saw that she was crying; crying and still striving to conceal it. At last, because by now her shoulders were shaking and there were tears actually running down her cheeks, she dropped her head on her hands and cried openly.

For a moment Gervase stood there watching her. He felt large and clumsy and in the way.

“I say,” he said at last. “Don't take on like that about it. I … I thought you'd be pleased.”

He came over and put his hand on her shoulder. He could feel that she was trembling all over.

Anna lifted her head and he could see her face, the corners of the mouth still drawn down.

“It's only because I'm happy that I'm crying,” she said.

And having said it, she put her head down on her hands again and went on crying.

But a moment later she sat up and began drying her eyes on a handkerchief that seemed pathetically wet already.

“I'm being very silly,” she said. “And I've been very ungrateful. I haven't even said ‘thank you.'”

“You don't have to,” he said and tried to find her hand so that he could squeeze it.

He paused and looked down at her.

“You might at least say that you've forgiven me for what happened yesterday.”

“Oh, but I have,” Anna told him. “Really I have. I've forgiven you now.”

He had taken hold of her hand and was fondling it. Then he raised it to his lips and kissed it. His eyes caught hers as he did so and he saw that there was the same smile, half amused, half incredulous, upon her face again. A little of his confidence deserted him, but he continued with what had been in his mind to say.

“Why do you think that I went to all this trouble?” he asked.

Anna shrugged her shoulders.

“You were sorry for me,” she said.

“Do you think that was all?”

She had removed her hand from his by now and was playing with the deep fringe that ran round the plush cloth, drawing the backs of her fingers along the soft tassels.

“You can see that I'm grateful,” she said. “I don't think that I have ever been so grateful to any one before.”

Gervase paused.

“Is that all you've got to say to me?” he asked.

Anna smiled at him again. It was a gentle, less appraising smile this time, and his heart began pounding.

“But what is there that I can say?” was all she said.

“I understand,” Gervase said slowly.

As he turned to go towards the door, Anna rose and went after him.

“But you can't go away like that,” she said. “It would make me feel terrible. I owe Annette to you.”

Gervase did not reply at once.

“It's only Annette you care about, isn't it?” he asked.

“But, of course.”

“Then you don't … you don't care anything about me?”

Anna stared at him for a moment and then placed her two hands upon his shoulders. She was certainly smiling at him this time.

“You mustn't be so foolish,” she said. “I like you very much. You've made me like you. I hope we shall always be friends now.”

“Friends!” Gervase answered, and stood there without moving. Then pushing her hands aside he took her in his arms and kissed her again.

For a moment she remained in his arms, not moving.

“You must go now,” she said. “Or I shall start crying again.”

But Gervase did not move.

“And you think that I can go just like that?” he asked. “I tell you that I've been thinking about you day and night ever since I saw you at the dance. That's why I came here—just to see
you.
”

He swallowed again as he said the last words and Anna saw that his lips were trembling.

“Poor Gervase,” she said. “You're so much in love and I know how it hurts. But it's no use. You've got to get over it. Remember, I shall be unhappy, too; I shall know it's because of me that you're miserable. But there's no other way, Gervase. You'll be Lord Yarde one day, and I shall be a governess in somebody else's house by then. But I shall never forget you: I shall always remember that once when I was very sad Gervase Yarde was kind to me, and I shall love you for it.”

There was a knock at the door and Mrs. Merton stood there. Her hands were kept folded in front of her, and she did not raise her eyes: it was as though she were both seeing and ignoring them.

“Her Ladyship is asking for you, Mr. Gervase,” she said. “May I tell her Ladyship that you will be coming?”

When Gervase had gone away Anna sat there motionless, staring into the small grate in which the fire was failing. There were no tongues of flame now, only the faint glow of the tired coals. It was chilly, but she didn't move.

“I did not realise until this moment,” she thought, “how old I really am. But I see it clearly now. I'm young no longer.”

The Scene of forgiveness was over now: and the relief that Lady Yarde felt was enormous. In particular, she felt relieved that Lord Yarde had not raised any objections. She had been careful to conceal from him that the whole fantastic scheme—for the scheme
was
rather fantastic, she supposed, when you came to think about it—was Gervase's. And Lord Yarde's only comment had been: “If the girl's satisfactory, keep her. If she isn't, let her go.” It seemed that he was perfectly prepared that the whole of this storm should blow itself out above his head without troubling him.

And Lady Yarde found every moment fascinating. Anna's gratitude was so evident and so touching that whenever she looked at her a great lump came into her throat.

“They could never send a child all that way alone,” she said suddenly. “They
must
send someone with her. I shall tell them so.”

She seated herself at her desk and began to write. The words came copiously. She filled the first page and turned over. It was only when she had reached the bottom of the second page that she stopped for a moment and then started writing furiously again. Anna could hear the rough point of her quill racing across the paper. When she had finished Lady Yarde was really exhausted: her hand was shaking as she raised the stick of sealing wax to the candle and pressed her crest into the red blob of the envelope.

“I have a great surprise for you, my dear,” she said. “A very great surprise. I've asked Caroline to come herself. They must let her have a holiday sometime. I'm sure she won't mind travelling with a child: she's always been very peculiar.”

Lady Yarde sat back and began adjusting the big comb in her hair. She leant over and patted Anna's cheek.

“To-day is a day,” she said with a sigh. “When I have made everybody happy.”

She beckoned to Anna to come over to her.

“And another time,” she added, “don't try to run away from us. You hurt my feelings more than you'll ever realise.”

Nobody noticed that Anna wasn't living at Tilliards any longer. She still taught Delia the dates of the French kings and the names
of the rivers of Europe; still helped Lady Yarde with her correspondence; still took those long solitary walks in the park. But she was living in the convent really. She was back inside those grey walls once more. Only, this time she was watching the nuns all crowded round one fair-haired little girl. They were telling her that she was going on a long journey, in a train and on a
boat,
and that at the other end she would find her mother waiting for her.

Often, as Anna walked alone, she said Annette's name aloud and pretended that she could hear her answering.

“It can't be long now,” she kept telling herself. “And then I shall really be able to hear her. I shall know what her voice sounds like.”

And at the thought that ever for a moment she should have forgotten, tears would come into her eyes.

But to-day as she went out in the park she found Captain Webb waiting for her. He was standing solidly planted across the path, his legs wide apart and his pipe reeking into the air above his head as if he were prepared to remain there all day for her if necessary. And, when he saw her, he came at once in her direction.

“Mind if we go along together?” he asked.

It was obvious from his tone that there was something troubling him. He did not say very much and even when his pipe went out he did not trouble to re-light it.

“Got something for you,” he said at last. “Came this morning.”

He began searching about in his pocket and produced, somewhat crumpled, a blue envelope with a regimental coat of arms upon the back.

“Asked me particularly to give it into your own hands,” he added, without explaining who in fact it was who had asked him.

She knew at once who it was from, saw Gervase himself in those clumsy, flourishing capitals that had been pressed down so hard upon the paper that the points of the nib had splayed open. It was an impetuous, immature-looking sort of hand.

“But this is impossible,” she thought angrily. “He had no right to send a letter. I warned him not to be foolish.”

She turned to Captain Webb and saw—or was it only that she imagined it?—that he was eyeing her closely.

“Have you … have you seen him?” she asked.

Captain Webb shook his head.

“Came by post,” he said briefly. “Inside a letter for me.”

From the way he spoke it was apparent that he would have liked to be able to wash his hands of the whole affair.

They walked on for a moment in silence, Anna holding the letter in her hand still unopened.

“Why did he have to do this?” she asked at last. “It is so silly of him.”

Captain Webb considered the remark for a moment and, not knowing what the answer was, he made none. He began fiddling with his pipe instead. Finally, taking his pipe out of his mouth altogether, he turned towards her.

“Have to forgive me for what I'm going to say now,” he began. “Simply trying to keep you out of trouble. Better keep clear of that young man. No use to you. Even thought of tearing up his letter and not giving it to you.”

Anna smiled.

“What a lot of trouble I've given you,” she said.

But Captain Webb was not to be put off so easily.

“Playing with fire, you know,” he went on, searching awkwardly for his words. “If her Ladyship came to hear of it, there'd be the Devil to pay.”

It was obvious that Captain Webb was by now very much embarrassed. He had put his pipe away in his pocket and, now that he had nothing to do with his hands, he began pulling at his tie, rearranging it.

“Poor dear,” Anna thought, “he means so well. He is so straightforward. Even his embarrassment embarrasses him.”

Captain Webb, however, had taken the bit squarely between his teeth.

“Good fellow and all that,” he said. “Don't want to say anything against him. Just not your sort. Got himself into a very fast set.”

“You mean I'm not good enough for him?” she asked.

The question amused her as she put it. There was something strangely endearing about seeing this earnest, ex-soldier trying so hard to warn her against a step that she did not propose to take.

But she was not prepared for the effect that her question had on him. Captain Webb drew in his breath sharply.

“Not good enough?” he repeated. “A damn' sight too good! He's not fit to tie up your shoe-lace.”

Having made this remark, Captain Webb checked himself immediately. He took out his handkerchief and began blowing his nose quite unnecessarily.