Beggar’s Choice (22 page)

Arbuthnot said, “You've made up your mind?”

She sounded vexed when she said, “Yes, of course I have. I don't know why I hesitated. He's for it.” And she laughed again, a hard angry laugh.

I had never heard Anna talk like that in my life. It interested me very much. I wondered if it was Uncle John who was “for it,” and exactly what that meant. And whilst I was wondering she started the car.

I heard two things more, and I'm hanged if I can make head or tail of them.

Anna said, just out of the blue as it were,

“They'll be sewn inside his coat.”

And Arbuthnot Markham said,

“It's risky. Are you sure of her?”

Then she called out, “Good-night,” and he said angrily, “You're in a deuce of a hurry!”

And that was all.

The car went away down the drive, and Arbuthnot went into the house and shut the door.

XXIX

September
25
th
—I went home and went to bed. I didn't think I should sleep, but I was dog-tired and I pitched into sleep without knowing anything about it. One minute I was thinking I was going to lie awake for the rest of the night, and the next I was waking up into what I thought was a thunderstorm, but it was only Mrs. Bell banging on the door.

It wasn't till I was up and in the middle of shaving that I remembered I'd been having a dream about Isobel. It worried me, because I couldn't remember what I had dreamt. I kept on trying, and it wasn't any good.

As soon as I'd had breakfast, I did up all Z.10's money and went off the nearest post-office to buy a registered envelope and push it off. I kept three pounds as salary for the last week—I didn't think it was reasonable to leave myself without a penny at a moment's notice.

When I'd got rid of the stuff, I felt a good deal better. I think I'd really been afraid that something might argue me into keeping it. Of course I should have to do something about a job at once. Last night the prospects of my getting one had seemed particularly murky, but now I didn't think they looked so bad.

One of the people I had met a few days ago was Baron, whose young brother was at school with me. I'd never known the elder Baron particularly well, but he was very affable, and after I'd lunched with him and he'd told me all about Puggy and the job he'd got in Brazil, he said,

“You're fixed up, I suppose, or you might join him. You're just the sort of chap he's looking for.”

Well, that was a big vague, but I thought I'd go and see Baron and ask what about it. Whatever happened, Z.10 had done me one good turn—he'd pushed me into going about and meeting people again. I'd got to the point where I'd run a mile if I thought I saw a pal.

I rang Baron up, and found he'd gone to Scotland, so I got his address and wrote to him. I also wrote to a man called Hartness, who had been very friendly, and who, I knew, had a lot of irons in the fire.

I went out and posted the letters.

When I came in, I met Fay on the stairs between her landing and mine. I hadn't time to wonder what had taken her upstairs, because she began to explain the minute she saw me:

“I've been up to your room. You needn't be frightened—there weren't any love-letters lying about. Car, you really oughtn't to glare like that—I haven't stolen anything.”

She got as far as that, speaking in a sort of nervous rush, and then, to my surprise, she blushed, a real honest, unbecoming blush, and dashed past me into her own room.

Any other time, I suppose, I should have gone after her and asked her what she was playing at; but I was still angry. She had told me a lot of perfectly pointless lies and then tried to make out that it was something to do with me. I thought I'd cool down a bit before I had it out with her and told her what a little rotter she'd been.

I had hardly got to the top of the stairs when I heard Mrs. Bell calling me. She was halfway up the bottom flight, puffing and panting and waving an orange envelope.

I ran down, of course.

“Another of those there telegrafts! They'll be keeping a messenger special for you if it goes on like this,” she said.

I wondered what on earth Z.10 could be wiring to me about. But the telegram wasn't from Z.10.

It was from Isobel.

It said, “Must see you. Very urgent indeed. Meet me Olding Crescent Putney eight-thirty to-night without fail. Isobel.”

I stared and stared at the words. First they didn't seem to mean anything, and then they seemed to mean a great deal too much, and then they went blank and didn't mean anything at all.

I knew Mrs. Bell was talking, but I didn't hear a word she said.

Presently I said, “No, there isn't any answer,” and I went upstairs to my room.

Fay's door was a little open as I passed, and I had a sort of feeling that she was watching me. I went up two steps at a time. I didn't feel in the least like talking to Fay.

I shut the door of my room and sat down at my table with the telegram spread out in front of me. The thing just took my breath away.

What did Isobel know about Olding Crescent?

Why did she want to see me urgently—very urgently?

And why eighty-thirty?

It would be quite dark—black dark under those overhanging trees.

Why did Isobel want me to meet her in the dark?

I sat there and tried to think of answers to these questions. What made it difficult was that when I thought about meeting Isobel, Isobel herself just swamped everything else. Trying to think about the other things was like trying to hear street noises outside when an organ is playing—you know the noises are there, but the music just floods over and through them and blots them out.

XXX

The anniversary of Mr. Carthew's wedding-day began as it had begun for the last ten years or so. He came down to breakfast at a quarter past nine and was met by his wife's niece, Anna Lang, who offered him an affectionate embrace, and a bouquet of carnations and maidenhair, very tastefully arranged and all ready to put into a large silver loving cup which stood on the sideboard immediately below Mrs. Carthew's portrait.

Corinna Lee found the little ceremony “perfectly sweet.” The flush on Mr. Carthew's cheek and the slight moisture in his blue eyes touched the romantic side of her nature to its very core. She watched appreciatively whilst the old gentleman himself put the flowers in water, thrusting them down rather awkwardly, so that some bright drops splashed up and trickled down the massive silver cup. When he stepped back and surveyed the portrait, she surveyed it too.

Mrs. Carthew had been painted in extreme youth. The portrait showed a girl of seventeen looking down at her new wedding-ring. Anna Lang was this girl's niece and namesake, but she bore her no resemblance. Annie Carthew, who had been Annie Lang, was a thin, pale slip of a thing with big childishly blue eyes and a pretty, timid smile. It was very difficult to realize that she ought to be sitting here at the foot of the breakfast table, an old lady to Cousin John's old gentleman. She was just the picture of a girl, with a bunch of pink carnations stood up in front of her because it was her wedding-day.

Corinna found it touching but remote. It seemed odd to sit down to sausages and bacon, and to see Cousin John make a most excellent breakfast.

After breakfast the ceremonies of the day proceeded. Corinna's presence undoubtedly gave them a zest which they might otherwise have lacked. Mr. Carthew felt a good deal of pleasure in narrating the events of his wedding-day to some one who had never listened before to the story of how Annie Lang had walked to church. “It's only a step, and the village children had strewed the whole way with colored leaves from the hedges—the leaves turned early that year—and they stood in two rows for her to pass through them. They threw rose-leaves at her, and some of the red ones marked her dress, and the first thing that she said to me when she came out of church was, ‘Oh, there's such a stain on my dress—and what
will
Mamma say!' And I said”—Mr. Carthew here thumped the table,—“I said, ‘Your mother don't matter any more now, my dear. I'm the one that'll put you in the corner when you spoil your frocks.'” He leaned back laughing. “Her mother was very strict with all her children, but a very good mother for all that. Children were brought up in those days—they didn't just do what they liked.”

“There must have been something kind of soothing about being brought up,” said Corinna. “Now I've had the
hardest
kind of time bringing myself up and bringing Poppa up. I think the old times must have been real restful. What a pity we can't go back!”

Mr. Carthew gazed at her suspiciously. It was a fine warm morning. She was wearing a pale gray sleeveless frock. Her arms and neck looked as soft and white as milk; her gray eyes were as clear and innocent as a baby's; her small red upper lip just showed a glimpse of very white teeth.

“You don't want to go back. Nobody does. You like having your own way—don't you?”

“Don't you?” said Corinna.

“My own way? When you get to my age you don't expect to get your own way—and it wouldn't be any good if you did, because you wouldn't get it, my dear.”

They were in the library. It was not a very studious-looking room. There was, to be sure; an old-fashioned roll-top desk, but the table at which he sat was strewn with picture papers and light novels. The walls gave more room to sporting prints than to bookshelves, and the chairs were less conducive to mental exercise than to sleep. Over the mantelpiece was another, and a later, portrait of Mrs. Carthew. It showed her tightly laced in black satin with a stiff fuzzy fringe under a hair-net. The small, pale features had a meek, obstinate expression. One felt that this was a lady who would say “Yes, John,” and “No, John,” and would then continue with meek pertinacity upon a predetermined way.

“It would have been rather fun to see them together,” thought Corinna, whilst Mr. Carthew produced a large photograph album and proceeded to show her photographs of Annie as a child, with all her hair drawn back like the pictures of Alice in Wonderland, and a frilled apron and white stockings with colored stripes on them. There were also portraits of Annie's parents, culminating in a terrific one of Annie's mother in a Victorian widow's cap and a large black cashmere shawl. Corinna glanced from the photograph to Anna standing over by the far window. She was very like this handsome domineering old lady. She had the same fine, decided arch of the brow, the same abundant hair, the same dark eyes; and when she, too, was a grandmother, one could quite easily picture her with the same hooked nose, bitten-in lips, and air of authority.

Mr. Carthew passed to a water-color sketch of the church in which he had married Annie. It had been painted by Annie's younger sister Ellen. He began to tell her all about Ellen's deplorable marriage to a fellow of positively Socialist opinions.

Anna stood at the window and looked across to Linwood Edge. The sky was full of light. The trees showed no sign of turning. The scent of mignonette and heliotrope came in through the open window. The air was summer air, but she shivered a little as it touched her. She wasn't really seeing the trees, or the sky, or any outside thing at all; she was looking into her own mind and seeing just to what place she had brought herself—and Car.

It was a narrow, difficult place. If she took the next step forward, she could never go back any more. She had planned and schemed to bring herself to this place, but now that she had reached it, her heart beat and her senses shrank. She could still go back. Uncle John was showing photographs. He might go on showing them for half an hour. If he did, that would be half an hour's respite. But she couldn't count on it. At any moment he might look up and call to her, “Anna, where are my keys? Bless my soul, what have I done with my keys?” Even then it wouldn't be too late. There were things that she could say. If her imagination had not always been so ready to furnish her with things to say, she would not have come to this dark, difficult place.

She still had time, but it was slipping away. Every moment seemed to pass slowly, and each new moment might be the moment of decision. It hadn't ever been like this before. She couldn't remember any other time when she had stood with a space cleared before her and waited, not knowing for certain what she was going to do. She had always before been pushed—driven, without time to think, so that when she could think again it was too late to go back.

Sometimes it was fear that had driven her. She could not bear not to be praised and admired. The child, covering a fault with a quick lie, had grown into the woman who would ruin a man because he had slighted her.

She had not meant to ruin Car; she had only meant to force him into marrying her. Her wild accusation had not been premeditated. She had seen him look at Isobel, and had rushed from a passionate quarrel with him to his uncle, not caring what she said. Her reputation didn't matter. Nothing mattered except to damn Car in his uncle's eyes. Uncle John would make him marry her, or he would drive him from Linwood and from Isobel. After three years, she still did not know just why she had done it. Anger swept you away, and you did things, and then you couldn't go back. It had been like that ever since. She had said things that she had not meant to say, spoken aloud thoughts that she had played with—dangerously. She had acted, and been carried away by her own acting. But now she had come to a moment in which all the heat of anger, all the glamour and thrill of drama, were stripped away, and there was only fear left. If she went on, Car … She saw him in the dock, in prison. She saw him changed, coarsened, spoilt. She saw herself in the witness-box—a slim, black frock, a small, black hat, a pale profile, her emerald ring, her hands very white; Car looking at her; the judge's voice sentencing him.

The picture broke at the thrust of a stabbing pain. If she went back—she could still go back. Another picture rose up vivid and clear—Car at the chancel of Linwood church with Isobel's hand in his, and Car's voice saying “to have and to hold from this day forward.” The pain stabbed again. Forward—the word stayed with her—Forward. She wasn't going back whatever happened. You couldn't really go back. She had been a fool to think of it. What? After all she had done and all she had made Bobby do? With all her plans ready and only one more step to take?