Anna (68 page)

“What's he been up to?” he repeated.

Lord Yarde rose and placed himself with his back to the high fireplace.

“Been trying to carry on with the French governess,” he announced.

“Good Lord!” said Captain Webb devoutly. And it was all that he said.

His mind was frantically turning over and over within itself. It had all evidently happened just as he had warned Anna it would do, and his one relief was that her part in the affair was so entirely blameless. For all he knew, it might have been Anna herself who had gone to them asking to be protected from the attentions of this impetuous son of theirs. Then his own part in this little scandal came back to him and he recalled that he was actually at the bottom of it all. It was he who had delivered the first foolish letter that Gervase had written. He remembered how strong his instinct had been at the time to destroy the thing, and he could scarcely forgive himself for not having obeyed the instinct. It made him feel a little ashamed to be sitting there while Lord Yarde told him so confidentially of something that he knew already. He wanted to get up and to make a clean breast of it.

But already Lord Yarde was speaking again.

“Came out only by accident,” he said. “Damn' lucky coincidence. Otherwise God knows how far it might have gone.”

“Bad business,” said Captain Webb briefly. “What have you done about it?”

“In the first place,” Lord Yarde answered. “I have asked Gervase to come and see me. I don't believe even now he realises what he's been saved from. If he shows any fight I shall threaten him. I shall stop his allowance. He can see how far he gets on his pay.”

Lord Yarde paused and took another devout sip of his brandy: its smoothness, its really astonishing smoothness, pacified him a little.

“And in the second place,” he added, “we've sent the girl packing. She goes out of here first thing in the morning.”

“You're sending her away?” Captain Webb repeated.

“You could hardly expect that we should want to keep her here, could you?” Lord Yarde inquired sarcastically.

“I … I don't know,” Captain Webb replied. “She mightn't be to blame. It may all have been an infatuation on Gervase's part.”

“It may seem that way,” Lord Yarde said sagely. “But you can depend upon it that she started it. She was evidently pretty anxious to get to him. Told Lady Yarde some cock and bull story about going to see a school friend in Tunbridge Wells. That was what gave everything away. Someone saw them having lunch together.”

“Good Lord,” Captain Webb said for the second time.

“It makes one pretty sick,” Lord Yarde continued, “when one thinks what had been done for the girl. She tried to run away once, and we agreed to overlook it. Actually went to the length of arranging for her to have that child of hers brought over here.” He dropped his voice a little. “It's my belief,” he said, “that if the truth were known that child is illegitimate. This kind of thing's probably happened before.”

He pushed the decanter hospitably towards Captain Webb as he said it. So far as he was concerned the evening was only now beginning: they had not yet spoken a single word about timber. But Captain Webb had actually risen. He was standing there with an air of apology about him.

“Have to ask you to excuse me,” he said. “Mind if I get along … I don't feel too-good.”

Lord Yarde put his head on one side and inspected him.

“What's the matter with you?” he asked. “You seemed able to put your food down all right.”

It annoyed him to have his agent suddenly walking out on him like this: he couldn't imagine what had suddenly come over the man.

“Not the stomach,” said Captain Webb briefly. “It's the leg.”

And he rubbed his hand expressively and dishonestly over the place where his wound once had been.

Lord Yarde relented.

“Weather touching it up?” he asked.

“That. And other things,” Captain Webb answered.

It was a grey morning. An entirely grey morning. There didn't seem to be any sunlight to the day at all.

Anna finished the letter she was writing and rose from the table. In front of her Mrs. Merton was standing.

“The train leaves at nine five,” she said warningly. “There's only forty minutes.”

“I shan't miss it,” Anna answered. “I shall be there.”

Mrs. Merton did not reply. She went over to the window and stood looking out across the parkland. It was hers alone now. She would never again see Anna walking across it. Another governess had gone out of Tilliards. She bent down and inserted her finger under one of the straps round the big travelling trunk.

“It's very loose,” she said. “It'll work looser on the journey.”

Anna came over towards her.

“I know,” she said. “The leather's too stiff. I couldn't pull it together. Perhaps one of the porters will do it for me.”

One of the porters! Mrs. Merton's lip curled contemptuously. She drew back her mittens a little and took hold of the strap in her own fingers. They were strong fingers, surprisingly strong for so frail a woman. She pulled, and the next eyelet came into line and then the next.

“There!” she said, as the strap sprung back like a bow-string. And she resumed her position in front of the window.

Anna went over to the mirror above the fireplace and put on her hat. Her face was pale and the circles under her eyes showed up alarmingly. It was obvious that she had been crying.

“I'm ready,” she said quietly.

Mrs. Merton surveyed the pile of luggage, glanced pointedly round the room as though to see if there were anything missing, and went over to the bell-pull.

“One of the maids will help you down with these,” she said.

As she went towards the door, Anna stopped her.

“I've got these letters,” she said. “Will you deliver them for me?”

There were two letters in her hand, and Mrs. Merton looked at them suspiciously: it was plain that she was reluctant to have anything to do with them. But finally she reached out and took them. Without looking at either of them, she thrust them into the open pocket of her skirt.

“You can give them both to Lady Yarde—after I'm gone,” Anna told her. “One of them is for Miss Delia.”

Mrs. Merton inclined her head slightly.

“It will be for her Ladyship to decide,” she said.

Outside, the corridor had a bare deserted appearance. The invisible telegraph which connects above stairs with the servants' hall had been working, and there was not one of them who did not know that the French governess was a discovered wanton. They longed for one last look at her. But Mrs. Merton had been adamant. She threatened to punish any one she met on the landing. And, as Anna passed along, it might have been an uninhabited house that she was leaving.

At the foot of the steps the dogcart was waiting. The groom touched his hat to Anna from long habit as though she were still respectable, and she took her place on the high seat beside him. Then the maid appeared in the doorway, carrying the smaller of the cases; and, finally, the butler and one of the houseboys, both wearing green baize aprons, emerged with the big trunk supported between them. They thrust it into the boot, dusted their hands and went back to the house again without speaking. They too, like the coachman, knew the history of Anna's downfall. But, unlike the coachman, they did not have to compromise themselves by having anything else to do with her.

Anna glanced back at the house for the last time. As she did so, she noticed that the windows were crowded with faces that disappeared again as she looked. And on the steps Mrs. Merton was standing. She had made no effort to say good-bye, had simply remained there motionless. There was only one thing about her that showed that she was feeling any particular emotion, and that was the position of her arms. They were no longer held in front of her, her hands clasped. Her arms were crossed now; crossed victoriously above her bosom.

The dogcart had just turned in the drive and the groom was fixing his whip back into its socket when there was a cry behind them. Anna swung round in her seat. It was Delia. She had thrust Mrs. Merton to one side and was running frantically along the gravel.

“Stop!” she was crying. “Oh, please stop.”

The coachman, for a moment, was undecided. He knew perfectly well that his real duty was to whip up the horse again and drive straight off. But, on the other hand, it was Miss Delia who was stopping him and he did not feel that he could disobey. Besides, at the back of his mind it seemed only fair that the young lady should have an opportunity of saying good-bye properly: he guessed what was behind this uncomfortably early start.

Delia had reached the dogcart by now.

“Don't go,” she said. “I don't want you to go.”

Anna bent down and put her arms round her. She could feel the child's shoulders rising and falling. She wanted to say something. But she couldn't because she was crying too much.

The groom coughed politely.

“Haven't got any too much time for the train, Miss,” he said.

He flicked the reins restlessly as he spoke and the dogcart started to move. Delia thrust her hand into her pocket and drew out something which she pushed into Anna's lap.

“Take this,” she said. “I want you to. It's a present. It's all I've got.”

The horse was moving off quite quickly now. Delia had given up attempting to follow it. She simply stood there, her hands to her sides, her eyes streaming. Anna turned in her seat and forced herself to wave. She went on waving until the dogcart had completed the long half circle of the drive, and Delia and Tilliards, and all the life that went on there, were out of sight.

Then she opened the little package that Delia had given her. In it was a child's lace handkerchief. And in the middle were two half-crowns.

“Good-bye, Miss,” the coachman was saying. “Hope it's a good journey.”

To his own surprise—for he was a man of strict principles and no defender of wantons—he felt sorry for her: she looked so lost and forlorn standing there beside the pile of luggage. But he had got his orders and, turning his horse's head, he drove smartly off again. Anna Karlin and the family of the Yardes no longer had any connection with each other.

Anna went through into the booking hall. Behind her, a porter was loading her luggage into a trolley. She bought a ticket—a single ticket—for London, taking the money out of her purse mechanically. There seemed for the moment to be a lot of money in it: Mrs. Merton had given her a month's wages and the sovereigns shone brightly. But she was too much dazed to notice anything. She passed on to the empty platform and stood there, numbed and shivering.

A wave of faintness, a sudden draining away of all her energy, came over her, and she moved towards one of the seats against the wall. As she did so, she saw that she was alone no longer. Hurrying over the bridge towards her was a man. He was not a particularly impressive man, and he walked with a slight limp. The pipe between
his teeth had gone out and his tweeds seemed shabbier than ever. He raised his cap as he approached.

“Afraid I was too late,” he said. “Didn't know you were catching this train.”

For a moment Anna wished that he hadn't come. She was afraid that she would start crying again. But she tried to smile at him.

“Did … did you come simply to say good-bye?” she asked.

Captain Webb nodded.

“Mostly that,” he replied. “That, and something else.”

“So you heard about me,” Anna said quietly. “You heard that it all happened just as you said it would.”

Captain Webb nodded his head again.

“I know,” he answered. “Bad business. Very bad business.”

The signal down the line sagged suddenly and Captain Webb started.

“Not any too much time to talk about things,” he said. “Got anywhere to go to? Know any one in London, I mean?”

Anna avoided looking at him.

“I shall be all right,” she said. “Please don't worry about me. I shall find somewhere when I get there.”

“Unfriendly sort of place,” Captain Webb told her. “Give you an address if you'd like to have it.”

But her mind wasn't working properly. She couldn't think of things like addresses now.

A small cotton-woolly point of white grew larger and resolved itself into the train: it whistled. Captain Webb's agitation grew greater. He was searching feverishly through his pockets to find a pencil with which to write the address down for her. Before he had found it, the train was already drawing into the station.

Anna held out her hand.

“Good-bye,” she said. “It was … it was very kind of you to come.”

She was trying to keep her voice level and natural sounding.

“It doesn't matter how much I cry in the train,” she told herself.

The train was actually pulling up at the platform now. Captain Webb was saying something. She could see his lips moving, but she couldn't hear what the words were. The porter came up to her and asked whether she liked travelling with her back to the engine or facing it. She wanted to laugh at such a question at this moment. But the man was already putting the small luggage on the rack, and she got in obediently. Captain Webb stood watching Anna take her seat in the carriage. She noticed that he had suddenly gone very pale.

He stepped forward. “Didn't just come to say good-bye,” he said. “Something else I wanted to ask you.”

He was looking into her eyes as he said it and Anna saw that the familiar sleepy look had gone from them. Captain Webb cleared his throat.

“I.. I wanted to ask you to …”

The guard blew his whistle and gave a wave to his green flag.

“I wanted to ask you to …” Captain began again.

But the train was already moving. Captain Webb had to start walking along the platform to keep up with her. Then, just as the station master called sharply to him to stand away, he twisted the door handle and swung himself in the compartment beside her.