Anne Belinda (20 page)

Anne looked down into the heather. It was a deep forest. Far away down in it there were tiny busy creatures going to and fro upon their business, or upon each other's business.

She said, “I see,” in a low gentle voice.

“You see, I'm not a stranger—I can't be. If I've got your brothers' place, I've got to do what they would do for you. You must see that.”

“How do you know that they would do anything?” Anne's voice died away. Courtney and Tom had nothing to do with Annie Jones who had been in prison.

“You're talking nonsense! Now, look here, this is what I want to do. Your father altered his will.” He did not look at her as he spoke. “He left eight hundred a year to Jenny, instead of four hundred to each of you. People do odd things when they're ill, and I don't want to say anything about what he did. But you ought to have that four hundred a year out of the estate; and I'm going to see that you do have it.”

“You can't.”

“Of course I can. It's absolutely simple.”

Anne looked at him for the first time, straight and steady.

“You mean that you would give it to me?”

“I mean that it would come from the estate.”

“From you.”

There was a pause.

“That's just the way you put it.”

“It's the way it is.”

“Look here, Anne, are you so beastly proud that you won't take a provision out of your own father's estate?”

All the colour went out of her face.

“I won't take what my father didn't leave me.”

John felt the stab of her pain as he had never felt wound of his own.

“Anne—don't!”

“It's true.”

He could see that she was fighting for composure, and he got up and walked away a few paces to give her time to recover. If he stayed, he would touch her; and if he touched her, he did not know what might happen. So he walked away.

When he came back, Anne was standing. As soon as he came up, she spoke:

“I can't do it. You mustn't mind, but I really can't.”

“Why can't you?”

“I really can't. You—you mustn't think I'm ungrateful. And I don't want you to think things—things—about Jenny.” His face hardened, and she put a hand on his sleeve. “You mustn't—
really
. You don't understand—and I can't explain. Jenny—Jenny has offered me half.”

She said the words with such a painful effort that his heart cried out in him. Jenny, to make her suffer like that!
Jenny!
Some day Jenny Marr should pay her utmost farthing.

He put his hand down roughly on hers.

“So Jenny has offered you half? Are you taking it?”

The hand under his throbbed. She tried to pull it away, but he held it close.

“No. I can't take it. Please let me go.”

He let her go then, and stood wondering what to say. Everything that he said hurt her. How was he to help hurting her? She was like a bird in a net, fluttering and bruising itself against the hands that are trying to set it free. What did one do? Leave the bird in the net for fear of hurting it? Or just go blundering on?

“I've made a hash of it!” he said aloud.

“
You
haven't.”

“I've made a beastly hash of it. I knew I should. Look here, Anne, for the Lord's sake, let's start fresh. We're cousins. I want to be friends. Oh, hang it all! Don't you see that you can't possibly go on with that Fossick-Yates woman?”

Anne did not know what she had expected—not Mrs. Fossick-Yates' name. She hastened to shelter behind her.

“Why do you hate the poor thing so?”

“She isn't a poor thing—she's an arrogant, bullying, rostrating henpecker. I wouldn't be poor little Fossick-Yates for a million.”

“Nor would I. But then he can't give notice—I can. I shall stay six months to get a character and then I shall be able to take a really decent place.” Anne's voice died suddenly on the last word. What had she said? What had she told him? How much did he know? He had accused her of looking upon him as a stranger. But the trouble was that she couldn't look upon him as a stranger. She found herself talking to him easily, intimately, and without taking any heed of what she said. What had she said now?

With a look of distress that went to his heart she faltered out another lame sentence or two. John broke in on them:

“You can't possibly go on for six months.”

Anne was silent. One could manage a day at a time; but a month has thirty days, and July and August would have thirty-one. Six times thirty, and some odd days added in, was a hundred and eighty-three. She saw herself struggling through a hundred and eighty-three stuffy nights in a little stuffy room, with Mrs. Brownling breathing heavily beside her, and Mrs. Brownling's bed creaking every time Mrs. Brownling turned over in it; a hundred and eighty-three breakfasts with Mrs. Brownling, and a hundred and eighty-three dinners in the littered, dirty kitchen; a hundred and eighty-three suppers of bread and margarine, with an occasional piece of stale cheese thrown in; a hundred and eighty-three days of saying “Yes, madam,” respectfully to Mrs. Fossick-Yates.

“I
can
do it—I
can!
” she said to herself.

She faced John with her head up and a little smile on her lips.

“It's no good,” she said. “You see, you don't understand. You said just now that we were cousins. Well, we're not. Anne Waveney's dead. She was your cousin. I'm Annie Jones, and I haven't any claim on you at all. I've got nothing to do with the Waveneys; and none of the Waveneys have anything to do with me—they haven't any responsibility. I'm Annie Jones. I'm earning my living, and I mean to go on earning it; and I can't have friends outside my own class. You said you wanted to be friends. But we can't be friends. You can't be friends with Annie Jones.” She stopped, breathing rather quickly.

“Is that all?” said John.

“Yes.”

“Then do you mind being Anne Belinda, just till we get back? I mean it would prevent you feeling how improper it is for me to be out with Annie Jones.”

Anne looked hard at him. He wore a grave and submissive air. His eyes met hers with a simple and earnest expression.

“You see, we're about forty miles from London, and we might just as well enjoy the drive back. We had quite a jolly time coming, didn't we?”

“You've been frightfully kind,” said Anne.

“I've got a kind disposition. I expect it runs in the family. I expect you could be kind if you really gave your mind to it.”

There was a slight pause. Then for a fleeting instant he smiled, a wide friendly smile.

“Come along, Anne Belinda!” he said.

CHAPTER XXVI

They took the road again, with John in a new mood. He seemed, for some reason, to be in very high spirits; and he talked so much that Anne hardly had to talk at all. Her vehement protest had left her rather shaken. She experienced a reaction. Why had she said all that? Perhaps he was laughing at her. Perhaps he thought—

Suddenly she felt that she did not care what he thought of her. She pushed the whole thing away and shut the door upon it. It was such a lovely day; the trees and the green slopes slid past. Why should she bother about anything? Why not just enjoy herself?

John told her about Rudolphus Peterson, and about crawling through swamps to photograph a foot or two of deadly snake. He was very friendly and cheerful. Once he told her an instructive anecdote about a gentleman called Red Pete, who was so proud that when an uncle left him fifty dollars, he tied it up in an old bandanna handkerchief and slung it over Niagara. And once he sang, cheerfully and unmelodiously, a ditty referring to a different aspect of the same vice, as exemplified by an incident in the life of a certain Mr. Page:

“Where the tram-lines run on Kingston Hill,

And fares are penny-a-ride,

Mr. Caractacus Emery Page

Drives forth in a car of pride.

“He drives in a Rolls or Daimler,

Or some other expensive bus;

And oh, how Caractacus Emery Page

Looks down on the likes of us!”

“I met a toad called Caractacus once,” he added. “I saved his life. Perhaps he'll leave me fifty dollars, and I can throw them into the Thames off Waterloo Bridge, if it hasn't fallen down by then. Toads live to be frightfully old.”

They came home in the dusk, and stopped at the corner of Malmesbury Terrace. As they drew up, John said in brisk, businesslike tones.

“If you'll send me a list of what clothes you want, I'll see Mrs. Jones gets them for you.”

“Oh!” said Anne, a good deal taken aback. “Please don't.”

“I never met anyone who said ‘don't' so often. It's the sort of thing that gets into being a habit; and then you can't stop.”

“I don't think—”

“You don't need to think. You want a coat, because it won't always be so warm as it was to-day. I suppose your clothes are somewhere. If they're at Waterdene, Mrs. Jones can just go down and dig them out. If they're at Waveney”—a brilliant idea struck him—“if they're at Waveney, we can run down there and you can get what you want yourself.”

“I couldn't do that.”

He had hurt her again. One couldn't move without hurting her.

“All right, Mrs. Jones can go.”

“No, I don't want—”

“There you go again! Of course you want your things. Make a list and send it to me. Mrs. Jones shan't know where you are, if that's what you're afraid of. She'll simply pack a box and send it to me; then I'll send it on to you by Carter Paterson. It's as easy as mud.”

He was dreadfully, perseveringly obstinate. It would be nice to have her things. These two ideas entered Anne's mind together.

“You won't tell anyone where I am?”

“Same terms as last week,” said John firmly. “If you murder the Fossick-Yates woman and run away, you'll let me know where you've gone to.”

Anne laughed just a little tremulously. Her lovely, lovely day was over. There were lights in all the houses; the sun that had shone upon the pine-scented moor was gone. She put her hand into John's and said, as lightly as she could:

“Thank you for my nice tea and my lovely drive.”

He held her hand for a moment, and then let go of it rather suddenly.

Anne was a yard away when he called after her:

“Good-night, Miss Jones.”

Mrs. Brownling let Anne in with a warning gesture in the direction of the drawing-room, the door of which was ajar.

“Is that Jones?” said the voice of Mrs. Fossick-Yates as they passed.

“Yes, madam.”

The hundred and eighty-three days began to rise up in front of her.

“I'm glad you are punctual. I expect punctuality.”

“Yes, madam.”

The kitchen was untidier than ever. Anne had slipped into doing quite half Mrs. Brownling's work. During the hours that she had been away an incredible number of dirty plates seemed to have accumulated. A game of patience was in progress amidst the débris of tea and supper. Something with a pungently unpleasant smell had been spilt upon the stove.

“Good thing you weren't late,” said Mrs. Brownling, shutting the door. “Didn't I tell you she'd sit there with the door open waiting to catch you? In a way, she'd be in a better temper if you was late, because then she'd get it off her chest, so to speak. It's to-morrow you've got to look out for now, and don't you forget it. There's a drop of soup I saved for you in the far saucepan. She don't allow supper on your evening out; but I've saved it, for I know what it is to go off to your bed feeling hollow. So you just drink it up.”

Anne was glad of the kindness, if not of the soup.

“I wouldn't mind her temper if she wasn't so mean,” pursued Mrs. Brownling. “Drat the cards! What's come to them? There isn't an ace in the pack to-night, and that I'll swear. ‘Lucky at cards, unlucky in love,' is what they always say. And I'm sure if it was true, I'd be the Queen of England; for worse cards than what I've always had you couldn't imagine, let alone see. But there, I suppose I've had my share, when all's said and done. Did I tell you about the Italian Count that I was engaged to?”

“No—not that one.”

“Didn't I? He was a very handsome gentleman—if you don't mind them black, which I didn't, being so fair myself.

She patted her light fuzzy fringe complacently. The colour of it reminded Anne vaguely of parsnips.

“Fair ladies prefer dark gentlemen as a general rule. And, of course, his manners were
lovely
. It was my poor father who came between us. He was a very violent-tempered man, though a perfect gentleman and very highly respected at the Board of Trade—I think I told you what a lovely inkstand he had given him on his twenty-fifth anniversary. Well, it was he that came between us. He said he didn't hold with marble halls, and curling hair, and a diamond ring on a gentleman's finger. And when he called the Count an organ-grinder's monkey to his face, there was quite an unpleasantness, and nothing for it but for me to send him back the lovely real mosaic brooch he'd given me for my birthday.

On Saturday Anne received a parcel. It contained a writing-pad, envelopes, an indelible pencil, a stylographic pen, five shillings worth of stamps—and a letter from John Waveney.

The letter ran:

“D
EAR
M
ISS
J
ONES
,

“I think I'd better practise calling you Miss Jones. I feel as if it would need a good deal of practice. Are you going to practise calling me Sir John? Or shall I be a Jones too? I don't mind being one if you'd rather. But John Jones sounds pretty awful—doesn't it? Of course you could call me Mr. Jones if you liked. You had better think it over and let me know on Sunday—you do get out this Sunday, don't you? I'll be at the same place at half-past two. I'm sending you some things to write with, because you haven't written yet, and I thought perhaps you hadn't got a block, and couldn't get out to get one. I think you owe me five letters.