Love Is My Reason (26 page)

Anya said that she was, since she did not want to be a nuisance to anyone. But secretly she was a good deal alarmed at the prospect of going on her own.

When Friday came, however, the excitement and interest of going to stay with her uncle, in the big, elegant house with the white front door, enabled her to subdue her fears somewhat. She bade Mrs. Preston an affectionate good-bye. She even did the same to Martin, who had come to adopt an indulgent, half-avuncular attitude towards her himself.

Then, just as she heard the taxi drive up to the front door, she remembered that she had not packed the photograph which Sir Basil had asked her to bring.

“
Oh, ask him to wait a moment,
”
she cried to Mrs. Preston.
“
I
’
ve forgotten something.
”
And she ran upstairs to her room.

At the top of the stairs she almost cannoned into Celia, who stepped back and said coldly,

“
Are you just off?
”

“
Yes. But I forgot the photograph of—of my father. Sir Basil wanted to see it.
”

“
To establish your bona fides?
”
asked Celia, not very kindly.

“
No.
”
Anya raised her chin defiantly.
“
He
never expressed any doubts about me at any time.
”

“
Then I
’
m surprised he doesn
’
t offer you a home with him,
”
retorted Celia drily.
“
A weekend visit seems rather poor measure from a devoted and trusting uncle.
”

“
You do try so hard t
o
spoil everything for me, don
’
t you?
”
Anya
’
s eyes went dark with anger and distress.
“
But I
’
m not going to stand and argue with you now. I know you are longing to have me out of this house permanently. But fortunately the decision doesn
’
t rest with you.
”

Celia looked at her speculatively in silence for a moment. Then, as Anya would have pushed past her, she said slowl
y
.

“
It doesn
’
t matter, really, because I shall not be here so much longer myself. Perhaps this is as good a time as any to tell you that David an
d
I shall be announcing our engagement next week.
”

“
David—and you
—
!
”
For a moment Anya felt as
though something had struck her on the head, and she was so sick and stunned that it was difficult to enunciate
clearly.
“
David—and you
—
”
she said again. But she
could get no further.

“
Yes. There
’
s no harm in telling you, since you are going away. We shan
’
t be telling Mother for a day or
two. But by the time you come back
—
If you do come
back
—
”
she added thoughtfully. And then,
“
If you can
persuade your uncle to keep you, perhaps it might be
—
easier all round.
”

She did not wait for Anya to make any reply to that. She went on downstairs, quite calm and collected, while Anya went unsteadily towards her room, unable to remember what it was she meant to fetch from there.

“
It
’
s not true! It can
’
t be true!
”
She stared at her pale reflection in the mirror, as though the girl who gazed back at her might give her some reassurance.
“
David
—
and Celia. He can
’
t love her! He can
’
t, he can
’
t. Oh, what shall I do? Why didn
’
t I die in the camp, long ago, like my mother? I don
’
t want to go on if David isn
’
t
there
—
What am I looking for
—
?
”
She opened a
drawer and fumbled aimlessly among the contents.
“
Oh, David—David—David! Do you really love that girl better than me? She doesn
’
t know the very first thing about loving you. She is so
un
loving. Don
’
t you know it? I must go. The taxi is waiting to take me away. Away
from David—forever and ever and ever
—
”

“
Anya dear,
”
Mrs. Preston called from below,
“
you
’
ll have to hurry if you
’
re going to catch that train.
”

“
I
’
m coming,
”
Anya said distractedly.
“
I
’
m coming.
”
Then suddenly she remembered what she had come to fetch, and she snatched the photograph from the desk where it had been standing.

“
It
’
s all over,
”
she told the bright-eyed young man who was her father.
“
The story
’
s ended. It
’
s like the act I do with the bonnet. All the while I was ma
k
ing my silly little
plans to please him—he liked the other girl better and walked away with her. Oh, I wish I were dead!
”

But she was alive, and the taxi was waiting, and one had to go on with things as they were, and do the best one could.

She ran downstairs, to find Mrs. Preston waiting anxiously in the hall. Fortunately she was sufficiently short of time for it to be quite natural for her to say no more than a passing word as she hurried out to the taxi. And then at last she was safe in its musty-smelling interior, and she was driving away to the station—and whatever life could still offer, now that David had gone from her.

There was no question about being nervous of the journey now. Such small things did not matter any more. If someone had proposed that she should go to America alone, she would probably have agreed, in her present mood. Nothing was of importance—nothing at all—beside the news which Celia had given her with such casual cruelty at the top of the stairs.

The train was already in when she entered the station. And, once she was installed in her compartment, she leaned back, with closed eyes, and slowly and painfully passed the recent weeks in agonized review.

First there had been the time when she had not even known David. Inconceivable now—but true, nevertheless. And then he had come into her life, and everything had changed for her. He had smiled at her, that evening on the hillside, and the world had, quite simply, taken on a radiance it had never shown before.

Even the dreariness and sordidness of the camp had lost its final degree of misery. Even the death of her stepfather had brought with it the comfort of David
’
s presence and sympathy. Indeed, she remembered that she
ha
d felt guilty because she could be happy in the shadow of so much tragedy, and she had wondered if it were wicked of her to be able to feel so much joy when David put his arm round her, even though her step-father had died that day.

And then had followed the strange new life. The wonder and delight of it, as well as the many problems. And through it all, David had been her support and joy. Didn
’
t
he know—didn
’
t he
know
—
that she could not fail to love him in return?

But then, if he had already given his love to Celia, none of this would be important to him.

Only—how did one love Celia? she thought wonderingly. How did one yield one
’
s heart and soul and being to anyone so essentially cold and unloving?

The train clattered on its way, and outwardly Anya remained calm and quiet and self-possessed. But inwardly her heart and mind raged round the situation which had so suddenly overwhelmed her.

She had been stupid to listen to Bertram—she saw that now. Stupid to console herself with his specious assurances that, once Sir Basil acknowledged her as his niece, her position would be entirely different.

“
He couldn
’
t know,
”
she thought sadly.
“
My instinct was sounder than his. I
knew
something went wrong at that party the other evening. I should somehow have managed to see David afterwards, and convince him that no uncle—no change of status or family or position
—
could in any way loosen the bond between us.
”

But if he loved Celia, none of that would have been of any avail either. She would merely have run the risk of embarrassing him by betraying the fact that she loved him although he only liked her.

“
Nothing would have been any good. She told herself bitterly.
“
Why do I pretend to myself that, if I had done this or that, the situation could have perhaps developed differently? If he loved her, that
’
s an end of it. Why can
’
t I accept that fact?
”

But she
k
new why she shrank from it. For, even more shattering than the discovery that he would never love herself, was the conviction that he must love Celia. The first she could forgive him, but the second she could not. For if David could truly love that cool, shallow girl, then he was not the man she had thought him.

It was agony to think of him as less than the dear and wonderful figure he had always been to her, and she struggled angrily against the acceptance of such an idea; but she knew, in her inmost being, that if he could really love Celia and marry her, he was not quite worth the misery he was now causing her.

She wished she could have seen things less clearly. In the depths of her unhappiness, she would much rather have slung to her illusions than rejected them. But, as
the train-wheels rattled along to the rhythm of
“
David
—
David—David
—
”
the bitterness of disillusionment was
added to her silent heartbreak.

By the time they arrived at Marylebone the afternoon was clouding over, and rain spattered on the taxi windows as Anya drove through the streets towards her uncle
’
s house, as though even the weather were in sympathy with her mood.

She made a great effort to put her personal misery out of her mind, or at least to thrust it into the background of her consciousness, for instinct told her that Sir Basil would not be specially pleased to have a pensive or melancholy niece upon his hands.

To him her visit was a matter for rejoicing. And rejoice she must, if she were to please him. But the thought of having to smile brightly and be cheerful, while she was still reeling from an almost mortal blow, seemed very nearly impossible to Anya at that moment.

When the taxi stopped, however, she deliberately summoned a pleased an
d
happy expression to her face. She would have to play her part exactly as she played out her little sketches. If she made a sort of game—even a sort of challenge—of it, she should be able to satisfy Sir Basil.

Keyed up, as she was, to meet him immediately, she was somewhat taken aback when the manservant greeted her courteously with the information that Sir Basil had had to go out and would not be home for an hour.

“
But he said you were to make yourself entirely at home, Miss Anya, and Mrs. Downes, the housekeeper, will be pleased to show you to your room.
”

At this point Mrs. Downes appeared. Rather large and gowned in rustling black, and so exactly like a stage housekeeper that it was almost impossible to believe in her authenticity.

However, she greeted Anya with a nice mixture of respect and condescension, and conducted her upstairs to a charming bedroom, which had obviously been made ready with some care and imagination for a young gir
l.

Anya was touched by such evidence of thought on her behalf, and shyly thanked Mrs. Downes for everything.

“
You
’
re very welcome, Miss Anya.
”
Mrs. Downes was evidently pleased with this show of proper appreciation.
“
Sir Basil was very particular that everything should be as you would like it.
”

“
I ought to be happy and grateful!
”
Anya thought.
“
Oh, why do I have to be heartbroken just at this moment?
”

Having ascertained that Anya had everything she wanted, Mrs. Downes retired, with the advice that she should
“
go down whenever it pleased her.
”

Left alone, Anya unpacked her case. She was becoming quite accustomed to unpacking her things in other people
’
s elegant rooms. And presently, because it was very quiet in the house and not at all alarming, she decided to go downstairs and explore. If she stayed in her room she would only begin to cry—and that would fit her very ill for an evening with her uncle.

She felt slightly overawed by her surroundings, and her instinct was to walk on tiptoe down the wide staircase. But she found it was so richly carpeted that this precaution was quite unnecessary. So she walked down boldly and crossed the hall to the room she thought she identified as the one into which she and Bertram had been shown that first day.

The door stood ajar, and she saw that, in spite of the time of year, a pleasant fire flickered on the hearth, throwing delightful patterns of light and shadow on the well
-
chosen furniture.

It was a luxurious—in some way, a beguiling—room, and she entered it with a feeling of pleasure.

As she did so, someone rose from a seat on the other side of the room. In the first instant, she thought her uncle must have returned early. And then, with a mixture of alarm and rapture which sent the blood from her face to her heart, she saw that it was David.

“
David—
”
she held out both her hands to him, all the distress and emotion and bewilderment of the last few hours in her shaking voice
—“
David
—
”

He came over and took her hands in his, wordlessly, but with a strength of clasp that steadied her.

“
I don
’
t understand,
”
she stammered.
“
Have you—have you come to see my un
cl
e?
”