Anne Belinda (7 page)

It was odd to find a break in so rigid a scheme. Yet a break there was; the room contained no nick-nacks, but there were three framed photographs on the piano, and they were all photographs of the same person. John had no difficulty in recognizing Jenny Marr—Jenny in her wedding-dress, with an exquisite lace veil on her fair hair—Jenny in Court dress, with feathers and a gleaming train—and, prettiest of the three, Jenny in soft, thin drapery bending over a tiny sleeping baby.

He wondered what Mrs. Courtney would be like; and as he wondered, she came in. Like her room, she was dressed in grey—he was to discover that she never wore anything else. Her masses of white hair were arranged in such elaborate waves and curls as to remind him of an eighteenth-century peruke. It was hair that would have suited well enough with delicate arched brows and a long oval face; but Mrs. Courtney's face was square, her features harsh, and her brown prominent eyes surmounted by broad, tufted eyebrows.

She shook hands with John, giving him a firm, rather hard clasp. Then she settled herself in a chair, observed him keenly for a moment, and said:

“I'm glad you came. You mustn't mind if I have a good look at you. I knew your father and mother.” Her voice was deep and, like her features, rather harsh.

John was sharply surprised.

“You knew them? I didn't, you know.”

“Yes, I know. It's a pity. Your father was the best-looking man I ever saw. You don't take after him.”

John could not help laughing; she shot the sentence at him so suddenly and with more than a tinge of grievance in her tone. It was rather as if someone had been trying to foist an imitation upon her.

“No, I'm afraid I can't compete,” he said.

Mrs. Courtney frowned.

“And you needn't imagine an old romance either. Your father was already besottedly in love with your mother when I knew him. He used to come and confide in me—they both did. Probably you can't imagine why.” Her face softened in an extraordinary manner; the rather large mouth turned up at the corners in a wide, enchanting smile. “Your mother was the sweetest child in the world. She was seventeen then, and Tom was three-and-twenty. I was as old as the hills. Well, well, they were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided. But it's your loss.”

“My great loss,” said John simply.

She nodded.

“You can understand why I wanted to see you. I'm sorry you're not like them, but I dare say I shall get used to that. Now, let's come down to present day. There's something depressing about the past—don't you think so? People of my age generally live with their heads screwed round backwards, looking at things that have been over and done with for years. Thank the Lord, I don't do that! I'm interested in to-day. I'm interested in you. You're going to stop at home and live at Waveney, I hope.”

“I don't know yet.”

“Nonsense! What's the good of having a place if you don't live in it? You've got money to keep it up—and that's more than most people have nowadays. So you'd better look round you for a wife and do the old place up a bit. It was looking shocking the last time I was down there—just before Jenny's wedding that was. Have you seen Jenny yet?” A warm tone had come into her voice at the mention of Jenny's name.

“No,” said John. His heart beat a little faster. “I want to meet her. And I want particularly to meet Anne.”

“Anne?” The warmth was gone. “Jenny's my girl—my god-daughter, you know. She gets her Jenifer from me.”

“Yes, I want to meet Anne,” said John.

“'M—she's not a patch on Jenny. It always makes me quite angry when people pretend they don't know one from the other.”

“Aren't they very much alike?”

“Oh, there's a
likeness
—I'm not saying there isn't. But they're as different as they can be. Jenny's the sweetest thing—like a sunny day.”

“And Anne?”

“Oh, I've nothing against her. But she's not Jenny. Anyhow, you can't meet her, because she's been ill, and I believe she's still abroad. And look here, just let me give you a hint—when you do meet Jenny, don't go and worry her by talking about Anne.

“Why should it worry her?”

Mrs. Courtney's thick eyebrows rose.

“Because she's ridiculously devoted to her. I never can see why twins should be specially devoted to each other. But there it is, Jenny has taken this illness quite absurdly to heart. There she is, with an adoring husband, and a nice fat baby, and everything in the world to make her happy; and yet one only has to mention Anne's name to see her cloud over and look wretched, positively wretched. So I thought I'd just give you a word of warning.”

John leaned forward.

“Mrs. Courtney, where is Anne Waveney? Can you give me her address?”

She looked at him with an effect of surprise.

“I don't know her address. I believe she's abroad somewhere. To tell you the honest truth, I've never taken very much interest in Anne. Jenny's my girl, as I told you.”

“I want very particularly to know where she is. If she's ill, she can't be alone—someone must be looking after her.”

“Oh, I expect she's all right again by now. She was ill at the time of Jenny's wedding. And then, I believe, she went abroad with Aurora Fairlie. She's a cousin on the Courtney side—you must have heard her name. She wanders about Europe and writes the sort of books I never read myself:
Platitudes from the Pyrenees, Meanderings in Morocco, Balkan Balderdash,
and so on.”

“And Anne Waveney is with this Miss—er—Fairlie?”

Mrs. Courtney looked vague.

“Jenny said something about it. But, as I told you, I don't talk to her about Anne. It only upsets her; and I wouldn't have Jenny upset for a dozen Annes.” She paused, smiled beautifully, and added: “I'm a fool about Jenny. But wait till you meet her.”

It was as she said the last word that the door opened and Jenny came in. John would have known her from Amory's picture, and from the photographs, even without Mrs. Courtney's cry of “My darling!” and her close embrace. She turned, with one hand still on the girl's shoulder.

“I haven't got any manners—I always forget introductions. And, besides, you ought to have known each other for years.”

Jenny turned her head, in its close black cap, and smiled a puzzled, deprecating smile. The movement and the smile were full of a natural grace and charm. She did not speak, but stood there smiling with a delicate lift of the eyebrows.

“It's your cousin, John Waveney,” said Mrs. Courtney in her deep voice.

John shook hands, and became properly sensible of the fact that he was certainly lucky to have so charming a cousin. An old woman in Waveney village once said of Jenny Marr that everything she did became her. “If she talks to you, the time just passes like a flash. And if she don't talk, one can always look at her.”

She was much prettier than John had expected. The thin black which she wore showed off a very graceful figure and a dazzling complexion.

John stayed ten minutes, and then made his farewells. From the moment of Jenny's entrance Mrs. Courtney's interest centred on her so obviously as to make him feel himself in the way. Jenny gave him three fingers and a pretty, friendly glance.

“You must come and see us. You will—won't you? I'm only up for the day, but you must come down to us for a week-end. I suppose this week's no good?”

“Well, as a matter of fact—”

“Could you come? Then do. As Aunt Jen says, we ought to have known each other years ago, and I want you to meet Nicholas.”

He went out into the street, warmed with a pleasant sense of kinship. Jenny turned to Mrs. Courtney.

“He's rather nice. I like the quiet, straight way he looks at you. Thank goodness he's presentable. He might have been anything, really, what with going out to the colonies at eighteen, and the war, and knocking about all over the place ever since. You'd better start match-making for him.”

“I told him he ought to marry and settle down. Jenny, he's frightfully interested in Anne. When's she coming home?”

“In Anne!” Jenny's pretty colour faded slowly. “How can he be interested in Anne?”

“I don't know. But he is.”

Jenny's eyes filled with tears.

“Aunt Jen,
don't!
I can't bear it.”

“Isn't she any better? Oh, my darling, don't cry! What a fool I was to ask!”

Jenny dabbed her eyes.

“It's silly of me. I won't. I do miss her so, Aunt Jen. And when you said that about John Waveney being interested, I couldn't help thinking how lovely it would be if—” Her voice broke into a sob.

“Well, perhaps it will be.” Mrs. Courtney would have said anything to bring the sunshine back.

Jenny pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. Mrs. Courtney could feel her trembling. She said, “No—no,” in a muffled, broken voice. Then she got up, went quickly to the window, and stood there fighting for composure. When she turned round she was still pale, but her smile had come back.

“Look what Nicko gave me yesterday!” she said.

She dropped back into her chair and held out a long chain of square-cut crystals held together by platinum links. The links were set with emeralds. The crystals were exquisitely carved.

“How lovely! But, Jen, it must have cost a fortune. Why not pearls? I do so love you in pearls.”

Something flickered for an instant in Jenny's eyes. They were brown eyes—brown, sunny eyes; but just for that instant they looked dark and cold.

“I don't care frightfully for pearls,” she said. Then, with a complete change of voice, “Aunt Jen, baby laughed at me yesterday—he did really. He saw me come in at the nursery door, and he turned his head and laughed. Nurse says he's most awfully young to laugh. She says babies of three months old often don't—and he was only two months yesterday. She says—”

She talked ecstatically for an hour about little Tony Marr. Mrs. Courtney did not mention Anne again.

CHAPTER IX

John enjoyed his week-end at Waterdene—the small, well-chosen party, the gay ease, the informal friendliness which he found there. Jenny was a perfectly delightful hostess, and Nicholas Marr an equally delightful host.

The other guests were all young; Nicholas himself older than any of them by some years. John liked him, but wondered occasionally what lay behind a manner of so much charm. Sometimes he thought there might be a stiff, black pride behind it. He could imagine that Nicholas Marr would continue to be perfectly charming to a man whom he hated and meant to kill; he could imagine him absolutely implacable behind a smile. He had the dark good looks, the tinge of pride, which made the right complement to Jenny's sunny beauty.

Jenny, for her part, was very much pleased with her new cousin. He actually noticed that the baby had a dimple, a fact which she had insisted on from the first in the face of a good deal of scepticism from Nicholas. Also he admired her in a very proper and cousinly manner—and above all things in the world, Jenny loved the warm, sweet atmosphere of admiration and liking. She had had it all her life; father, brothers, Aunt Jen, had provided it without stint until she met Nicholas and received its distilled essence. And the more she received, the more she gave back. Small wonder that so warmly responsive a creature should be surrounded by a devoted court in the midst of which she moved with a singular grace.

After the first twenty-four hours John found that he could no longer see any likeness to Anne; there was a similarity of feature, but no more. Jenny was Jenny, and there was an end of it. She was a radiant creature in the full sunshine of youth, beauty, and happiness. In what shadowed place, under what sombre cloud was Anne? A curious resentment sprang up in him at the thought; he was filled with jealousy for Anne. Jenny had everything—friends and home, face and fortune, husband and child. What was Anne's portion? Where was she? Everything came back to that. He had meant to wait, but a strong impulse carried him away. He turned to Jenny with a question which he could not keep back any longer:

“Jenny, where's your sister Anne?”

They had been dancing together, and were sitting in one of the low window-seats of the long panelled room. At the far end of it a gramophone discoursed jazz. Three couples were still dancing. Nicholas Marr passed them with Pamela Austin. Her sleek, smooth black head was higher than his. It might very well have been a boy's head, and close cropped even for a boy. The brilliant scarlet dress, cut daringly low and ending at the knee, gave a shock of incongruity. Nicholas laughed as they passed, and Pamela waved her hand.

Jenny put her head back against the polished wood. She loved the dark background, which threw up her shining hair and the freshness of her tints. She was wearing a little white frock that made her look seventeen again; her soft, fair neck was innocent of even a school-girl's row of pearls. She looked at John and caught her breath.

What did you say? Shall we go on dancing?”

“No, I want to talk. I want to talk about your sister Anne. Do you mind?”

Jenny nodded.

“I—I can't—I can't really.”

“That's just it. Why can't you?”

Jenny's heart fluttered dreadfully. If only she could get over minding about Anne. She was being a perfect idiot. If she could only control this stupid shaking and just say something, anything, quite casually and as if it didn't matter.

“Why can't you?” said John. He made his voice very gentle and persuasive. “Look here, Jenny, I can't help knowing there's something wrong. You see, I met Anne once—”

“When?” Jenny looked startled.

“Years ago—nine years. She was only a kid. She didn't know who I was. And I didn't know who she was until I saw Amory's portrait of you both.”