The Girl In The Cellar (14 page)

Anne put on her hat and went out. She must think, and to think she must keep moving. When she sat still her thoughts were all confused. It was a clear, sunny afternoon. There was a blue sky deepening a little into mist, greying a little. There was no cloud, no cloud at all. The houses stood up tall and stiff. She wasn’t thinking about what she had come out to think of. It was no good trying to think of things you had forgotten—thoughts just drifted… just drifted. It wasn’t any use trying to remember. She knew that—she did know it really. Some day it would come again, the whole thing—who she was—what had happened to her—how she had come to the house with a dead girl in it. The curtain would lift quite suddenly and she would know it all. It wouldn’t come with trying. It was no use to try—no use at all.

She walked on, not knowing where she was going. The air was pleasant, soft, and mild. It reminded her of something, she didn’t know what—something very far back. And then suddenly she remembered. Only it wasn’t autumn, it was spring—a spring day with the birds singing, and the sort of uprush of living that the spring gives you—or used to give you in the days when you were yourself and you knew who you were.

The spring—everything fresh and green. Aunt Letty always said the spring was the time for children and all the young things in the world. She remembered her quoting a piece out of the Bible about it… something about the singing of birds… and she said—she said—No, it was gone. She couldn’t remember what Aunt Letty had said about spring.

Aunt Letty—who was Aunt Letty? She didn’t know any more. She had been a child for a moment. Aunt Letty had been someone whom the child knew—knew very well. But it was gone again. She wasn’t a child any more. It had all gone. Aunt—Aunt—she couldn’t remember the name any more, it was all quite gone. Like something that had happened in another world, another life.

But it was her life, her very own life. She had nothing to put in the place of it, nothing at all, until she came to what was for her the dreadful beginning of her present experience—the dark stair—herself sitting crouched upon it, knowing that below her in the black dark a dead girl lay.

She stood still, shuddering violently, and stamped her foot. Had she no sense at all? Couldn’t she control her thoughts better than this? The answer was that she hadn’t been trying to control them. She had just been letting them drift, and that she mustn’t do. Not ever.

For the first time she looked about her. She had been walking on, letting her thoughts run, not noticing where she was going. When there had been a crossing she had taken it mechanically. The thoughts that occupied her mind had given way and then closed in again. She had not noticed which way she went, only come out of her thoughts sufficiently to cross, to turn, to follow some road, some pattern that lay deep in her mind, too deep for conscious thought. Now, quite suddenly, she looked about her and saw a quiet decorous street and close beside her an entrance. She stood and looked at it.

Thoughts came up in her mind. She felt an extraordinary impulse to go in at the door. She even had a picture in her mind of the hall beyond. For the moment she could see it. The place was an hotel. There was a counter, and a girl who took your name down. She had a prompting to go in, to go up the stairs. And suddenly, quick on that, a flood of opposite thoughts, so strong that there was no escaping them. They turned her, set her feet going, so that she was walking hard, walking away with a most dreadful feeling of fear. She didn’t know where it came from. She only knew that it took all her firmness, all her self-control, just to keep walking steadily as if she knew where she was going. There was no clue as to why she should feel as she did. It was just fear made manifest, and she didn’t know why. She didn’t know that she had just missed a meeting with Maxton, who had called at the Hood to enquire whether Miss Anne Forest had returned to the hotel. If she had gone up the steps and entered the hall of the Hood she would have met him face to face.

She walked on. She didn’t know what an escape had been hers, but she felt a sense of relief, of release. She began to notice the faint sunshine, the light breeze. Her thoughts quieted. She began to think of Jim. He hadn’t just rushed off and been glad to be rid of her. He really cared what happened to her—he really did care.

She walked quite a long way and thought about Jim.

Anne got home just as it was getting dark. Janet looked up with a smile and said, ‘Here you are,’ in a voice from which she tried to banish the relief.

‘I’m not late?’

‘Oh, no—no.’

Lizabet turned a page of her book and said, ‘Janet thought you had gone for ever. I didn’t.’

No one asked her why she didn’t think so. When she had waited for a little she tossed her bright head and said languidly, ‘No such luck.’

Anne had come in in such a state of contentment that she could laugh. She said, ‘Just wait a little, Lizabet.’

When Anne went out of the room Janet followed her.

‘She’s like a child. It’s very good of you not to mind. She’s just a jealous child. I can’t give way to her.’

‘No, I suppose not. I won’t stay here. It makes things too uncomfortable for you.’

‘No—no, really! Lizabet must learn. She mustn’t think she’s the only one to be considered. That’s bad for her. Very bad.’

Anne made a little face.

‘I don’t know that I care about being a moral lesson.’

They both laughed.

‘Anne, I don’t know what you’ll say to this, but if you really do want to earn something—’

‘Oh, yes, I do—I really do.’

‘Well then, I’ve had a call from my old cousin, Miss Carstairs. She lives in Devonshire, and she comes up to town once in a while and stays with an old maid of hers who lets rooms. I won’t pretend she’s easy to get on with—she’s not. If you could stand it, she’d pay about three pounds a week, and the maid, Mrs Bobbett, lives just round the corner, so you wouldn’t have to go wandering about.’

‘Could I do it? What would she want me to do?’

Janet laughed.

‘I don’t know. She has a friend, and the friend’s got a family. Twice a year she goes off and sees them. It’s a law of the Medes and Persians, and everything has to give way to it. Well then, Cousin Clarry comes up to town full of wrath and demandings. It isn’t an easy time for anyone, and quite candidly it wouldn’t be an easy time for you. I haven’t said anything about it. For one thing, I didn’t know just when she was coming, and for another, I really hadn’t the nerve.’

‘You mean—Oh, Janet, how nice of you! You wouldn’t say anything as long as you thought I couldn’t very well refuse, only now—now that I’m not obliged to do it if I don’t want to—Why, Janet, of course, I will!’

‘It will only be for a couple of weeks, and if you can’t stand it—’

‘You can stand anything for a couple of weeks,’ said Anne.

‘Well, if you’re sure—if you’re quite sure—’

‘Of course I am!’

It was all fixed up by telephone, Anne’s part in the fixing being a silent one. She stood and heard Janet talk into the telephone.

‘I have a friend, Cousin Clarry, who I think would be just the thing for you. She’s staying here… Yes, with me. I think she is just what you are looking for.’ She paused. The telephone crackled vigorously. Miss Carstairs evidently had the gift of words. They poured out for about five minutes, after which time it became just possible to get in a word edgeways. Janet, apparently used to it, waited patiently. When the voice stopped for a moment, she resumed with calm.

‘If you would care to see her, I could bring her round tomorrow morning, and if you thought she would do she could stay on for the rest of the day and come back here at night… Yes, three pounds a week will be all right. She’s staying here, so it will be quite convenient… All right, I’ll bring her round in the morning… Ten o’clock?… Goodbye.’ She hung up and turned round.

‘Well, that’s fixed. If you find you can’t stick it you will just have to say so. Ten to six every day.’

In both their minds was the unspoken thought that Anne would be out of Lizabet’s way for the greater part of each day, and that would be something to the good.

Next morning Janet and Anne went through the square at a quarter to ten, turned to the left, and came up the next street, where the houses were a little shabbier but otherwise very much the same as in the square.

At the fifth house they stopped and rang the bell. A stout comfortable woman opened the door, beamed on Janet, and said. ‘Come up then, come up. She’s all in a fidget. Wants to get settled like. Wants to see the young lady. Puts herself about like because she didn’t think to say come round last night and fix it up. Never knew anyone worry herself like Miss Carstairs—never in my life!’

They were going up the stairs whilst she talked. When they came to what Mrs Bobbet called the first floor front she opened the door, said in a loud cheerful voice, ‘Miss Janet and the other young lady,’ and having shown them in disappeared from view and shut the door.

Miss Carstairs remained seated until they were half-way across the room. Then she got up and stood leaning on a black crooked stick and looking so exactly like an illustration in an old-fashioned book of fairy stories that Anne could hardly believe her eyes. She was the exact image of the Wicked Fairy who had terrorised her childish dreams. To begin with, she was only four foot eight or nine. It was a child’s stature but not a childish face. The cheeks were pendulous and the nose curved. The eyes were very keen and black. And black too was the elaborately dressed hair—coal black without a grey hair to soften it. It lay above the peering brow in elaborate folds and scallops, tight, neat, and extraordinarily artificial. She wore a curious black velvet garment pinned in front with an elaborate and apparently very valuable diamond brooch. She stood there leaning on her stick and waited for them to come to her.

Janet bent and kissed one of the yellow cheeks. The embrace was received without any return. It was endured, not reciprocated. The little creature received it, waited for it to be over, and went on waiting.

Janet, a little flushed, introduced Anne.

‘This is my friend whom I spoke to you about.’

Miss Carstairs spoke. She had a deep, decided voice.

‘You didn’t tell me her name. Very careless, very careless indeed.’

‘Oh, she’s Anne Fancourt,’ said Janet in a hurry.

Miss Carstairs did not offer to shake hands with Anne. She looked her up and down. Under that sharp gaze Anne felt herself looked through and through. There was something very unpleasant about the look. It seemed to say, ‘Hide from me and I’ll find you. Oh, yes, I’ll find you, no matter how clever you think yourself.’

Where Janet had coloured, Anne turned pale. And then the moment was over. The sharp black eyes shifted, the stick on which the little figure leaned moved. Miss Carstairs went back a step, seated herself, and leaning forward still propped on her stick, addressed Janet.

‘She understands what I want?’

Anne answered her.

‘You want someone to be useful to you—to take the place of your companion whilst she is on holiday.’

Miss Carstairs gave her a sharp look.

‘Not much holiday about it if the truth were told. Ada Lushington is a born fool to go near her cousin. The most disagreeable woman I ever saw in my life, and just because she’s taken to her bed there’s Ada gone pounding off on what she calls a holiday to see her! Holiday indeed!’ She laughed angrily. ‘But there, Ada’s a fool, and that’s all there is to it! Goodbye, Janet—I needn’t keep you. You’ll have plenty to do looking after that cousin of yours—what’s her name?’

‘Do you mean Lizabet?’

‘Who? No, I don’t mean anything of the sort. Lizabet indeed! Why, I was at the christening myself, and the name she was given was Elizabeth. You can bring her round at tea-time tomorrow. Get along on with you!’

Janet got along on. She had really forgotten how impossible Cousin Clarry could be—or else she had got worse. She ought never to have exposed Anne to this. Oh, well, there was nothing she could do about it now. She went down the stairs, stopping at the turn for a moment and hearing Cousin Clarry’s harsh, deep voice take up the talk.

The first thing that Miss Carstairs said when they were left alone was a challenge to Anne’s self-possession. She sat there, her hands crossed on the crutch of her stick and her head on one side.

‘Well?’ she said, ‘What do you make of me? Do I eat the young, or don’t I?’

Anne found herself laughing.

‘I don’t think you do.’

‘Oh, well, if I try you can always walk out, can’t you? How do you get on with Elizabeth? And don’t pretend you don’t know who I mean—but call her Lizabet I will not. It’s not her name, and that’s all there is to it.’

‘Was she christened Elizabeth?’

‘She was. And what’s wrong with that, I ask you. Lizabet’s rubbish! When she comes here she gets her Christian name, and that’s Elizabeth, after my poor cousin that was her mother. You didn’t know her?’

‘No.’

She got a sharp glance.

‘I never heard of you in my life till last night when Janet answered my call. How long have you known her?’

‘Not very long.’

‘I never heard of you before. Don’t stand there towering over me! Take off your hat and your gloves and sit down! There—that’s better. What were we talking about?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You’re not half-witted, are you? Of course you know! We were talking about Elizabeth. Janet got herself fairly tied up with that young woman. She’ll be sorry before she’s through with it. But she won’t listen, of course. She knows best, and she’ll go on knowing best until that Elizabeth girl has dragged her into some mess or other. And when she has, she’ll expect me not to say “I told you so”! And she may expect! Now, how do you come into it all? You might as well answer me truthfully, for I shall go on asking you until you do.’

It came into Anne’s mind that she was speaking the truth, and that there were only two ways of it—either she joined the truth-telling party, or she didn’t. If she didn’t she could get up and say goodbye and walk out. All right, which was it to be? It was her choice. And quite suddenly she knew what she would do. All right, she wanted to know—well then, let her know and see what she made of it. She leaned forward a little and said as if it was the most natural thing in the world, ‘I’ve lost my memory’

‘You’ve what?’

‘I’ve lost my memory. I don’t know who I am, or what my name is.’

Miss Carstairs thumped with her stick. Her black eyes stared.

‘Go on—tell me!’

Anne smiled at her.

‘But that’s all.’

‘Nonsense—it can’t be! Doesn’t Janet know who you are?’

‘No, she doesn’t.’

‘Have you been to the police?’

‘No—I don’t want to.’

‘Why don’t you want to?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Anyone would say that was a bad sign. I don’t know that I would myself. Go to the police and you go to the papers, that’s what I say. And of course that’s just what they want, most of these people who say they’ve lost their memory— only want to get into the papers and make a splash.’ Her eyes went over Anne in a queer bright look. ‘No, you’re not like that. You haven’t told me everything, have you?’

‘No, not everything.’

‘No tarradiddles?’

‘No—I wouldn’t do that.’

‘H’m.’ The black eyes looked very straight at Anne. They went on looking for a long time. In the end she said ‘H’m,’ again and got up.

‘Come into the other room and unpack for me,’ she said, and led the way.

Her bedroom was at the back of the house. It was untidy to the last degree. There were shawls, a dressing-gown, skirts, underclothes, all tossed, some on the bed, some on the floor. As Anne went about the business of picking them up and sorting them out, Miss Carstairs watched her from a seat on the bed. She took the same position as she had done in the chair, leaning forward with her hands on the stick, her chin propped on the handle, her eyes very bright and attentive. And all the while she talked.

‘Ada’s the worst packer in the world. The dresses will all have to hang, and one must just hope that the creases will come out. If Janet had had the sense to send you round yesterday it wouldn’t have been such a business. We must just hope for the best. Ever done anything like this before?’

‘Yes—I think so—’

‘But you don’t know if it was for yourself, or for someone else?’

‘I think it was for myself.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘I don’t know—I think—’

‘Well, what do you think?’

Anne stood in the middle of the floor, but she wasn’t really there. She was packing a blue and silver dress. She saw it quite clearly for a moment. It was a lovely dress. The feel of it was in her hands, and then it was gone again. What she had in her hands was not blue and silver but black and gold—stiff black brocade with a gold pattern on it. Across the black and gold, black eyes were looking at her, searching, full of interest.

‘Well, what did you see?’

She had no thought but to answer truthfully.

‘I saw a blue and silver dress. I think it was mine.’

Miss Carstairs broke into harsh laughter.

‘Blue and silver? That would be pretty. And it would suit you—oh, yes, quite. You didn’t have it on, did you?’

‘No, I was lifting it—’ Her voice failed suddenly.

‘H’m. Often do that sort of thing?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Oh, well, you had a blue and silver dress, and you’ve remembered it. There’s nothing so extraordinary about that. By and by you’ll remember everything. But don’t chase after it—that’s fatal. When it comes it will come—just like that, without any effort. But if you try for it, the mist will thicken and you’ll get nowhere at all.’ She nodded her head and said in a different voice, ‘That’s enough about that. Just get on with the unpacking.’