Anne Belinda (27 page)

“John, I begged Jenny to tell Nicholas. I said he'd believe her, that any man who really cared for a woman would believe her. But she went off to town next day, and in the evening she came back with the letters, and we burnt them. She'd pawned the string of pearls which Nicholas had given her.”

“Little fool!” said John.

“My poor Jenny! She was in the wildest spirits. She laughed and sang and made me dance with her—the relief was so tremendous. She cared—she
cares
—so very, very much for Nicholas.”

“I can't think why.”

Anne burst out laughing.

“Oh,
John,
how funny you are! You don't care for people because you've got a reason for it.”

John said what he hadn't meant to say:

“You certainly haven't much reason to care for Jenny.” Then, as Anne winced, he cried out: “I'm a brute!” and caught her close and kissed her.

Anne kissed him back, with soft, reproachful kisses.

“You're not being good. You promised to be good, and you're not being a bit good.”

“It's just as well you don't love by reason,” said John.

“Are you going to be good?”

“I don't know. I'll try. Go on.”

“I don't know where I'd got to.”

“That little ass Jenny had just pawned her pearls.”

Anne pushed him away and looked at him with laughing eyes that were suddenly swept by a shadow.

“Yes, she pawned them. She got five hundred pounds, and she was most awfully pleased about it. And then—you know the way things happen—Nicholas wrote and said he wanted her to go up and meet him in town, and she was to bring the pearls, because he was having them valued for insurance. They'd been his mother's, and someone had just told him that the value of pearls had gone up tremendously. Jenny went all to bits when she got his letter. She'd bought a string of sham pearls to wear, and she'd had the real clasp put on to them. The pawnbroking man did it for her; he had the sham pearls in his shop, and he told her no one would know—I shouldn't have known myself. And Jenny thought she could wear them, and then after she was married she could save enough money to get her own pearls back. Nicholas was making what Mr. Carruthers called ‘very handsome settlements.' She thought it was all going to be quite easy, and when Nicholas' letter came she couldn't bear it. She sat on the floor with her head in my lap and just cried and cried. She said she couldn't live if Nicholas found out. No, John—Jenny's like that. I don't mean to say that she'd do anything to herself; but I do think she'd die if the people she loved stopped loving her and thinking well of her and all that. She
depends
on it. I didn't know what to say to her except that if she couldn't tell Nicholas, couldn't she tell Cousin Jenifer?”

“Well, that was pretty sound. Why didn't she?”

“She said she couldn't. And
honestly,
John, I don't think she could. I don't know if you can understand, but if either of them had cared for her less, I think she could have told them. You see, they both thought her perfect—Cousin Jenifer always did think that Jenny was absolutely perfect—and Jenny simply couldn't bear them to think less of her. I went on talking and trying to persuade her and at last she said she'd try, and if she could tell Cousin Jenifer, she would. And next day she went off to town for a week. She wrote to me after she got up. She told me she'd seen Nicholas and managed to put off giving up the pearls for a week. She said she'd told him she must have them to wear in town.”

“Well?” said John.

Anne pushed her hair back. She had taken off the little damp felt hat; her dark, short hair was ruffled.

“Nanna and I went up to town for the end of the week. I expect you know that.”

“Yes.”

“We stayed at an hotel. I was going to have my bridesmaid's frock fitted. We were up two days. The first day Nanna and I were to meet Jenny at the dressmaker's. She came awfully late. I could see there was something wrong, but she wouldn't tell me what it was. And then Nanna went to see her daughter, and Nicholas called for us, and we had lunch and went to a theatre. I can see now just how it was. Jenny'd got those wretched pearls.” Anne's voice broke in a little dry sob. Then she drew a long breath and went on: “We dined out in the evening and danced. It's so funny to think of it now! Next day Jenny called for me to go for a last fitting on our way to the station. Nanna was going to take the luggage.”

“What is it?” said John as she stopped. She was so pale that he was frightened.

“It's so
hateful!
No—I want to get it over—I'd rather go on—it's only—”

“I know—Anne
darling
.”

“I'm all right. We took a taxi. The road was up; we went by a lot of side streets. I didn't know where we were. I said, ‘Oughtn't we to be in Bond Street?' and I leaned out of the window. We were just opposite a jeweller's shop. There was a man without a hat looking in at the window. He turned round and he saw me, and he called out something, and Jenny pulled me back, and our taxi went on round the corner into Bond Street. I looked back, and I saw that the man was running. And then I looked round and I saw Jenny's face. John, she looked as if she was dying—she really did. She said: ‘Save me, Anne, save me!' And then she said: ‘Is he coming?' And I looked again and the man was getting into a taxi. I said: ‘Yes—what is it?' And she told me. John, I thought she had gone mad. She said: ‘I took his pearls yesterday. Is he coming?' I don't know what I said. She went on saying: ‘I took them.' And then she said ‘Prison' in a dreadful sort of whisper. She said: ‘I can't go to prison.' I thought she was going to faint. I shook her, and I said: ‘Where are the pearls?' And she pushed her bag into my hand. I made up my mind what I would do. The man thought I was Jenny—we had grey coats and skirts just alike, and little black hats—I'm wearing mine now, but I expect Jenny's burnt hers. She was wearing it when she took the pearls, but in the taxi she wasn't wearing it. She had an old blue coat on. The man saw my grey coat and skirt and thought I was Jenny.”

“You're not so much alike.”

“We used to be. I was fatter than I am now, and I'd more colour; and clothes do a lot. People were always taking us for each other when we dressed alike. That's why Nicholas didn't like it. Well, I felt sure that the man would follow my grey coat and skirt, and I made a plan. I told Jenny she was to drive straight to the station and go down with Nanna, and that, whatever happened, she wasn't to say a word or tell a soul. And then I looked out again, and, just as I looked, our taxi stopped in a block. I grabbed Jenny's bag, and I jumped out and ran round the back of the taxi so that the driver shouldn't see me.” Anne stopped.

“Anne—you little plucky darned idiot! Go on.”

“There isn't any more. I thought I might get away—then I could have sent the pearls back—but I didn't.” Her voice trailed away, and a shiver shook her from head to foot.

For a long minute she went on trembling, her head on John's shoulder, his arms comforting her. Then she sat up.

“I
am
a fool!”

“Yes, darling Anne, why did you do it? No one has any right to a sacrifice like that.”

Anne put her hand on his shoulder and pulled herself up. She had to move, to try and break the vivid memory of that one most unendurable moment when Levinski's voice had accused her and she had felt the policeman's hand fall on her shoulder. It was the worst moment of all; nothing that came afterwards was as bad as that—the crowd, staring eyes, someone laughing, the accusing voice, and that hand on her shoulder.

She went over to the fireplace and leaned there warming herself against those icy shudders, which came back even now when she let herself think about it.

John followed her to the fire, and for a moment neither of them spoke. Then he said roughly:

“You'd no business to do it. It was your whole life.”

Anne leaned on the mantelshelf and looked down into the fire.

“I do want you to understand,” she said. “I do,
do
want you to understand.”

Her left hand hung at her side. He took it, held it strongly for a moment, and then let it go again.

“I'll try.”

Anne began to speak in a low voice:

“I only had a minute to think what I was going to do, but I just seemed to see the whole thing, for me and for Jenny. Time didn't seem to come into it. I
saw
it.”

“What did you see?”

“I saw Jenny.” She turned a little and began to look at him as she spoke. “I saw what had happened to her. It was just ruin—Nicholas, her marriage, her friends, her whole life, smashed and done for. Jenny couldn't—ever have got up again—she
couldn't.
I could.” The colour rose brightly in her face. “That's what I want you to understand. I saw the whole thing; I didn't go into it without seeing it all. And I knew I could do it. Don't you know? You have that feeling sometimes. There's something very hard. You look at it, and all of a sudden you know you can do it; you have the feeling, the strength. That's how it was. I knew I could do it. I knew I could make them think it was me. And I knew, if they sent me to prison, that I could come out of it and not be different. Jenny couldn't. That's why I couldn't let her; she'd have been smashed. I knew I could do it and be just the same in myself.”

John watched her with a deep emotion, for which he could not find any words. With those shining eyes, that ebb and flow of sensitive colour, that soft appealing voice, she moved him to a passion of pity and love. He lifted her hand and put it to his lips. He wanted to speak to her, but he could not find his voice. He held her hand against his face and struggled into speech.

“I swear I'll make it up to you!” he said.

CHAPTER XXXVI

Anne's hand pressed his cheek for a moment before it slipped away.

“I can't let you,” she said.

“I'm not asking you to let me do anything; I'm telling you what I'm going to do.”

Anne murmured something almost indistinguishable. He understood her to say that she didn't see how he could get married alone. When she had said this she blushed rather beautifully and looked into the fire again. John put his arm round her, and there was an interlude. When the interlude was over, John was very much himself again, and not in the least in a mood to stand any nonsense.”

“Sit down on the fender-stool—it's nice and warm—and I'll tell you exactly what we're going to do. First of all, as I said, you're coming here to Aurora. And if Mrs. Courtney asks you, you can go to her for a few days. You want to go about and show yourself and go and see everyone you know. Aurora'll see you do it whilst you're with her. And then you'll go down to Waterdene and stay with Jenny until we get married.”

“John—I can't!”

“I do wish you'd stop saying that; I'm frightfully fed up with it. You've got to. It won't be for long, because we're going to give our engagement out at once and get married in about three weeks. No, don't begin all over again and say you can't go to Waterdene because Jenny and Nicholas won't have you. You
were
going to say that, weren't you?”

“Yes, I was.”

“I knew you were. Now, look here, I've had about enough of this. You've made the sort of sacrifice for Jenny that only about one person in ten million would ever dream of making for anyone, and the sooner Jenny and Nicholas get down on their knees and start licking your shoes, the better.”

Anne looked at the point of her shoe, and her lips trembled. She said: “John—
dear!
” And then: “Nicholas doesn't know.”

“Nicholas has got to know. No, Anne, it's not the slightest use. The people who think you took those pearls have got to know the facts. Jenny knows, you and I know, Aurora knows. The people who've got to be told are your old nurse, and Mr. Carruthers, and Nicholas.”

Anne locked her hands together and gazed at him, pale and agitated.

“John—really!”

“I've thought it all out. It's what's right. I'm not vindictive; I'm not out to hurt Jenny. Mrs. Jones is devoted to her and as safe as a house. Your family lawyer ought to know, and must know. And Nicholas has got to know. Jenny can tell him herself—put it any way she likes. But he's got to know what Jenny owes you, and he's got to do what he can to put things right for you. He can do a lot. I won't have talk about you.”

Anne lifted her head with a small, proud movement.

“You mean you won't have talk about your wife. That's why I won't marry you; there's bound to be talk.”

“I don't mean anything of the sort. I do wish you'd stop talking nonsense! I mean I won't have talk about you—
you.
I don't care who you marry. I'm not thinking of your husband's feelings; I'm thinking about you—and you ought to know that by now. Anyone who's heard the lie about you is going to hear the truth. That lets Jenny down a lot more lightly than she deserves. I've written to her. You can read the letter if you like.”

He produced an envelope from his pocket, extracted a large sheet of paper, and laid it open upon Anne's knee. She read, in John's firm, rather upright hand:

“D
EAR
J
ENNY
,

“Anne and I are going to be married. I hope you will be pleased, because we are. Anne is going to stay with Aurora for a week, and then, I think, she ought to come and stay with you until we're married. I'm sure you will want Anne to be married at Waterdene. She need not stay with you for more than a fortnight, because we want to get married as soon as possible.”

Anne shot him a chilly glance, met one that confused her, and went on reading:

“I think you had better tell Nicholas all about Levinski's pearls. It will make it easier for you to be nice to Anne. Besides, it will be really more comfortable for you when he knows—he's rather in a false position. Anne didn't tell me about Levinski. I found out. The old man noticed your emerald ring, and the assistant who served you admired your hair. Besides, I was sure of it all along. Don't get frightened—I'm not going to hurt you. Mrs. Jones must know, and Mr. Carruthers, and Nicholas; because they think it was Anne, and I can't have that. You'd better tell Nicholas at once, because I'm coming down to-morrow, Monday, afternoon to talk things over. You see, people have been talking about Anne and wondering where she's been all this time, and all that's got to stop. It can be stopped quite easily if we all rally round. But if you and Nicholas don't play up, people will go on thinking there's something wrong. So will you please tell Nicholas at once.