Love Is My Reason (21 page)

They all laughed rather at this simple scheme of life. But, the moment she began to act and sing, the laughter died away in rapt attention.

The tune Anya sang was a gay tripping one, but as she reaped because her father had ordered her to do so, she invested the melody with indescribable boredom, and from time to time the rhythm slackened and almost stopped, while her thoughts evidently went elsewhere. Then, sulkily, she picked it up again, only to drop into leisurely inattention once more.

Mrs. Preston smothered a slight, irrepressible yawn, without even knowing she had done so.

Then back came the tune again. But this time Anya was going about her reaping with a resentful purpose. Doggedly, efficiently, with never varying rhythm—but also without a spark of life or joy.

Finally the whole mood changed—her expression changed—one even believed that the tune changed, except that it was by now so familiar. With rapid, light mov
e
ments, she was reaping her field with a purpose. She was gay, she was smiling; her hands flew faster and faster, so that one laughed aloud with the rapidity and absurdity of it all. It seemed that she would never stop. The tune, the progress across the field, the flashing movement of hand and arm were all one crescendo of speed—until suddenly she fell into someone
’
s arms, at the other side of the field, and the song was over.

There was a chorus of laughter and again an outburst of clapping. But suddenly Martin
’
s voice dominated the babel of sound, and what he said was,

“
Where
’
s that photograph? I remember now who it was. I couldn
’
t be mistaken.
The
man was your father, wasn
’
t he? There couldn
’
t be two people with a talent like that, and no connection between them.
”

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

“The photograph! W
here is the photograph?
”

For a few moments everyone searched for it, with varying degrees of interest and excitement. Then David reached across and picked it up from a side table where Anya had left it earlier in the evening.

“
Here it is,
”
he said, and handed it over to Martin.

It seemed there was a concerned indrawing of breath while Martin stared consideringly at the old, but still unfaded picture. Then he said slowly.

“
Yes—of course I remember now. I don
’
t know why I didn
’
t recognize him before, except that it isn
’
t really much like him.
”

“
But who
is
he?
”
demanded Lady Ranmere, with hardly veiled impatience.

“
His name was Edcombe—Francis Edcombe.
”
Martin still spoke slowly, as though recalling carefully something long forgotten.
“
He was an extraordinary nice and clever chap. He married a Russian girl, I remember, but he was killed in some sort of accident only a few weeks later.
”

He paused, but the silence in the room was complete. Only Anya shivered slightly, with nervous excitement, as the identity of her long dead father slowly took shape before her.

“
You reminded me of him when I first saw you—
”
Martin turned towards Anya—
“
but it wasn
’
t actually a facial resemblance, and that
’
s why, after the first, few moments, I dismissed it. I even thought I had imagined it. But something about the photograph struck the same cord again without my quite realizing why. The eyes are the same, I
suppose
—
”
He looked from the photograph to the pale,
still girl who stood near David.
“
And then—the way you turn your head, and the rapid change of expression
—
”

He paused again, as though delving into
the
recesses of the almost forgotten past and feeling some surprise himself at what he brought up.

“
You say you knew him well?
”
Anya spoke almost in a whisper.

“
In a way, yes. That is to say I knew him ve
ry
well for a short time. We travelled around together tor a few months, ending up in Odessa. That was where he married this Russian girl. Her name was—
”
he groped in the back of his memory
—“
Natasha. She was your mother, I suppose?
”

Anya nodded wordlessly.

“
Extraordinary thing!
”
Martin looked back at the photograph once more.
“
I see now—it
’
s unmistakable. But this makes him look a lot less animated than he usually was. He was a clever chap, in the way you are clever. He used to do sketches and sing at all our parties, and was always a riot. He would have us all laughing or crying, just as he chose. It was when I saw you doing the same thing that I knew.
”

“
Was he in any way a professional?
”
Bertram asked, his voice vibrant with controlled excitement.

“
Oh, no! He hadn
’
t any real voice, you know. Just enough to put over what he wanted. But, I remember, he told me once that he came from a theatrical family. Had a much older brother in England who had already made some success.
”

“
A brother who was successful on the stage?
”
Bertram
’
s voice was no longer controlled.
“
What was his name?
”

“
Well, really—there you have me!
”
Martin gave a protesting laugh.
“
I
’
ve strained my memory about as far as it will go. I don
’
t think I
—
”

“
But it
’
s important!
”

“
Is it?
”
Martin frowned consideringly.
“
It wasn
’
t unfamiliar to me when he mentioned it, because I
’
d seen him in something just before I—left England.
”
He flashed an apologetic smile at his mother in the moment of slight hesitation.
“
I think—it began with
‘
B
.
Was it Bertram? No, that
’
s you. Barry? Barney? No, I remember! It was Basil.
That
’
s it! Basil Edcombe. Very good-looking fellow he was, too.
”

“
He still is,
”
Bertram replied drily.
“
And now he is one of our most famous actor-managers. Are you seriously telling us that Anya is his niece?
”

“
If she is the daughter of Francis—yes.
”

“
But how absolutely thrilling!
”
cried Mrs. Preston.
“
He
’
s tremendously well known. You must have heard of Sir Basil Edcombe, Martin dear. Even in America,
”
she added, without malice aforethought.

“
There must be some mistake.
”
That was Celia—pale and considerably dismayed.

“
Why?
”
enquired Bertram rather brutally.

“
Because it
’
s so—so improbable. So melodramatic.
”
Celia was evidently resistant to any solution of the Anya mystery which might leave the central character in a favourable and acceptable light.

“
That
’
s how life is,
”
her brother told her
,
with a glance of shrewd amusement.
“
You have no idea how improbable and melodramatic your own brother
’
s life has been at times.
”

“
That
’
s different.
”

“
Oh, no, it isn
’
t. And, anyway, don
’
t you think it
’
s very pleasing to find that Anya has distinguished relations, instead of being an unknown waif?
”

“
Very pleasing,
”
Celia said coldly. And then she relapsed into a glum silence.

“
So we
’
ve found an uncle for you at least, Anya,
”
David smiled and put an arm round her.
“
How does it feel to be identified?
”

“
I—don
’
t know,
”
she said. And turning her head, she suddenly hid her face against him.

He laughed—but kindly—and ruffled her hair. But Lady Ranmere, unerringly scenting the approach of a too
-
emotional scene, observed briskly,

“
Well, this is all very satisfactory and interesting. Now I suppose the next thing is decide who is to tell Sir Basil about Anya—and how.
”

“
But I don
’
t know that I want him told!
”
Anya looked up quickly again.

“
Nonsense, my dear.
”
Lady Ranmere was quite emphatic about that.
“
One doesn
’
t keep these things a secret.
”

“
Why don
’
t you want him told, Anya?
”
David
’
s tone was more gentle than his aunt
’
s.

“
Because—I told you before—people don
’
t necessarily want to have unknown relations suddenly wished on to them. It
’
s embarrassing and—and makes problems.
”

“
I can
’
t imagine anyone not welcoming the arrival of his own brother
’
s child,
”
exclaimed Mrs. Preston sincerely.

“
But then you
’
ve never been a refugee, Mrs. Preston,
”
retorted Anya.
“
You
’
ve never seen the doors closing and the backs turning. Not necessarily because people are unkind, but because they simply cannot make room for those who
’
ve been to
rn
from their moorings.
”

“
But when that person is a
relation,
child, surely it
’
s different?
”
protested the older woman.

“
Not always. You think that
’
s how people are because that is the way you would be.
”
Suddenly Anya left David
’
s side and, crossing over to Mrs. Preston, she put her arms round her and
ki
ssed her.
“
I know how you would have behaved to me if I had really been your granddaughter. And I
’
ll remember you all my life and be grateful for that. But you mustn
’
t think all people are the same. Or even that
they
can
be the same. This man—this actor
—
”

“
Your uncle,
”
Bertram reminded her briefly.

“
My—uncle
—“
She said the word as though it were
indescribably curious to speak of someone who belonged to her, even so passingly.
“
My uncle is a famous man, you tell me. He must be a busy man, with a life of his own
and a family of his own
—
”

“
No. His wife died some years ago and he has no children.
”
Once more it was Bertram who interrupted.

“
Then still less is he likely to want to have the responsibility of some unknown girl forced on him.
”
Anya spoke almost passionately.
“
I don
’
t want him to
have
to take me
—
to
have
to bother himself about me—to
have
to pretend that he is glad to see me, when he probably wishes profoundly that I
’
d never been born. I won
’
t have him told!
”

She looked round on them all, her eyes bright and a streak of angry color in her cheeks. And so compelling was the urgency of her declaration that, for a moment, they were all silent.

Then David said quietly,

“
What do you want us to do, then, Anya? Maintain a sort of conspiracy of silence about this extraordinary discovery? That would be difficult, you know.
”

“
I don
’
t care.
”
She sounded completely obstinate.
“
I don
’
t want him told. Not just now, at any rate.
”

“
Not until you
’
ve made some sort of success for yourself and can meet him on his own level, I suppose?
”
David said, with such complete understanding that she was hard
p
ut to it not to throw her arms round him this time and
k
iss him, as she had kissed Mrs. Preston.

“
Yes.
”
She nodded eagerly.
“
That
’
s it.
”

“
And suppose you never make any sort of success at all
.
What then?
”
enquired Celia, in a cool tone calculated to deflate anyone
’
s ego.

“
I shall make a success,
”
Anya retorted coldly, and she drew herself up slightly and spoke with such conviction that, in that moment, no one doubted she was right.

Then Lady Ranmere said, in a not very satisfied tone,
“
Well—I don
’
t know. It seems quite extraordinary to make a mystery of all this. But I suppose Anya is entitled to choose her own time for making herself known to her uncle. This certainly has been a day of surprises, Teresa—
”
she turned to her old friend
—“
and I think we all feel we want some rest after so much excitement. We won
’
t keep you up any longer. And I
’
m very glad, my dear, that you have Martin under you own roof again. However temporarily,
”
she added, with a slightly disapproving glance at the unperturbed Martin.

Good-nights followed then. All too briefly for Anya
’
s liking, for, in front of the others, it was impossible to do more
than
smile at David and hold his han
d
tightly for a moment. Then the visitors drove away, and the somewhat oddly constituted family party was left.

Almost immediately, Celia—who had been reduced to discontented silence by the events of the evening—said that she was going to bed. And Anya, wishing to leave Mrs. Preston to the private enjoyment of her newly recovered son, would have done the same.

At that point, however, Mrs. Preston got up from her chair and said,