Call and I'll Come Read online

  But all the same, it was he who tenderly tucked blankets round her and carried her out to his car, while the vicar and his wife climbed into their workmanlike little saloon car.

  As they drove away over the snowy crest of the hill, Roone glanced back with the profound hope that he would never see the place again. But Anna stared ahead with bleak eyes that seemed to see an empty world.

  From the moment they entered the pleasant, shabby vicarage, it seemed to Roone that life took on a new glow of sanity once more. Mrs. Orpington, now completely in charge of the situation, swept Anna off to bed on a wave of kindly firmness, and it took only ten minutes of discussion with the vicar to make the very simple arrangements for the girl’s immediate future.

  By the time Mrs. Orpington came down again, Roone was ready to start for Coryton.

  “I shall be there for about a week” he explained, “and shall come over, of course, for the inquest.” He paused, and then turned a little diffidently to Mrs. Orpington. “Shall I—may I go up and say good-bye to her?”

  “I don’t think I should disturb her now. She looked very much like going to sleep again,” was the practical reply. And because there didn’t seem much to argue against that, Roone found himself agreeing to leave his next meeting until he came back to the village for the inquest.

  As he drove on to Coryton, the memory of the strange, attractive girl was clear beside him; but once, he had reached his journey’s end and was with his friends and in his own world again, she faded to extraordinary indistinctness.

  It was partly that he had nothing with which to connect her in his everyday life, so that she seemed like a sweet and disturbing dream; partly that he instinctively said little about her to his friends. He couldn’t possibly have explained to her. Why try?

  Not until he was alone in his bedroom at night did she take full possession of this thoughts. And then it was with an intensity that almost hurt. He lay in bed thinking of her with a strange mixture of pleasure and pain that was a little frightening.

  “She’s closing her hand—and my heart is inside it,” was his last half-laughing thought as he fell asleep.

  In the end, his visit to the inquest was brief in the extreme. Business recalled him to London much sooner than he had expected, and Dr. Irwin managed to have things so arranged that Roone merely called in at the village on his way home.

  The evidence of Dr. Irwin and of Roone himself was practically all that was needed. Anna was still ill in bed, and Mr. Orpington presented a short, formal statement on her behalf, which the country coroner accepted unhesitatingly.

  The proceedings were purely formal. The deceased, it seemed, had been in a precarious state of health and had, intermittently, been under the care of Dr. Irwin. A family dispute had precipitated a fatal heart attack, and the husband—a man of very irregular life—had immediately left the neighbourhood. Fortunately for the girl, a casual visitor had been in the house, and had done all that was possible in the circumstances.

  The absent husband was censured (which did him no harm). A verdict was entered of “death from natural causes” (which seemed to Roone singularly inappropriate). And the proceedings were over.

  Roone was returning to London by train in order to save time, and having his car sent later. Until the moment of coming from the bare, stuffy room where the inquest had been held, he had fully intended to go to the vicarage and see Anna. But he suddenly discovered that, since the proceedings had been so short, he could, if he wasted no time at all, catch a much earlier train.

  He made some quick calculations, stifling the strange ache of disappointment at the back of his consciousness. After all, he argued, she was in excellent hands, and he would be coming back quite soon to settle something about her future. And it was really tremendously important that he should get home as soon as possible.

  He explained to Mr. Orpington, who promised to give his greetings to Anna and tell her why he could not see her this time; and ten minutes later he was in the local train on his way to the nearest junction to pick up his connection to London.

  And then—and only then—he asked himself in slight bewilderment why he had arranged things this way. Again, with that strange mixture of pleasure and pain, the memory of Anna’s thin, lovely face rose before him. And, instead of being almost a stranger who had touched the fringe of his life, she became suddenly the most important thing in the world.

  He stared out of the window, biting his lip and trying to combat the hot little waves of feeling that kept surging over him. Then, by and by, common sense returned slowly, and he was able to remember that he had been with her less than twenty-four hours, and that she was just some unknown village girl.

  “But there’s something about her, of course,” he told himself very calmly, as he lit a cigarette with hands that trembled slightly “A quality that women in legends must have had. I can imagine she would only have to call, and some men would come to her from the ends of the earth. She doesn’t know she has it, of course.”

  Or did she know?

  Suddenly, for some inexplicable reason, he was overwhelmingly glad that he was going home to the people and things he knew and understood.

  The moment he arrived home he began to see his queer experience in its right proportion.

  He had always been pleasurably aware of his position as the adored only son, and, having sufficient sense of humour, was able to enjoy it without taking it too seriously. Indeed, Roone was used to taking most things in life with comfortable lightness. He supposed—if he ever thought about it at all—that his family would have been intensely uncomfortable if anything deeply emotional had come their way.

  He had no idea that therein lay the fundamental difference between himself and his family. Indeed, he would have been surprised and distressed to know that there was any fundamental difference, for to run true to type was one of the cornerstones of the Roones’ social creed.

  All he knew was that it was indescribably good to be back again in the pleasant, conventional richness of his home, to have his father rolling out agreeable platitudes from the head of the table, to listen while his aunt inquired with detailed interest about his doings, and to watch the beautifully correct and controlled movements of his pretty sister.

  “Miss me, Kate?” he inquired affectionately, as his sister’s clear grey eyes met his across the dinner-table.

  “Of course,” said Katherine pleasantly, without any sign of having done so. But Roone was completely satisfied because it would never have entered his head to expect any signs of genuine emotion from his sister.

  “What was this business about an inquest?” his father wanted to know. “Katherine tells me you said something about it in your letter.”

  “Yes, Tony,” exclaimed his aunt—this was how the family affectionately shortened his name. “What a terrible experience for you.”

  “Oh, I don’t know that it was so terrible for me,” Roone said slowly. “It was terrible for the girl.”

  “What girl?” asked his father.

  “I told you, Father,” said Katherine patiently. “Tony was snow-bound and had to put up for the night with some dreadful people. The man was drunk and beat the woman or something, and she died of heart failure, and Tony was left with some common little girl to look after.”

  “Kate!—that’s not right at all,” exclaimed her brother, unaccountably distressed. “The girl wasn’t—wasn’t common in the least.”

  “I thought you said they lived in a cottage,” said Katherine, as though that settled the matter.

  “Well began Hamilton. “Kate, she was a most unusual girl. Very pretty and—and gentle and intelligent.”

  “You have only to add that she was clean and honest, Tony, and you’ve given her an excellent reference as a daily,” said his sister with a slight laugh as they got up from the table.

  Hamilton was conscious of acute resentment suddenly. Of course it was quite impossible to make them understand Anna. He didn’t really understand her himself,
come to that. But it hurt unaccountably to have Katherine dismiss her like that.

  He wanted to reopen the subject. He felt somehow that he was being disloyal to Anna not to make them see her differently. But their polite and complete indifference rose like a concrete wall and barred any possible attempt.

  The matter had to drop for the present, but he decided to tell Katherine all about it later. He had an entirely mistaken belief that there was a strong bond of sympathy between his sister and himself, and that anything which interested him must interest her.

  But it was a week or two before the opportunity occurred, and during that time the picture of Anna faded inevitably. Then, one evening he came in to find Katherine alone. His father was at the House and his aunt out at a bridge party.

  Katherine was doing some tapestry work, and Hamilton lounged in an armchair for a few minutes watching her capable, very beautiful hands as they worked. Usually her calmness pleased him, but for an incomprehensible moment or two he rather resented her perfect poise.

  She sat there with the light full on her unusual coronet of thick fair hair. Her skin was that perfect pink and white which means constant attention since babyhood, and her movements were those of someone whose education had included “deportment” so early that calm grace now came perfectly naturally. No one could have mistaken her for anything but the valued daughter of wealthy, indulgent parents, and the firm set of her mouth suggested that she would know what to do if that indulgence faltered.

  It was very perverse of him, of course, but Hamilton suddenly found himself longing for a few signs of unreasonableness, for waywardness and unaccountable resentment, for long hazel eyes of wide grey ones, and for hair of smoky brown instead of thick pale gold.

  “Katherine,” he began suddenly, “I never told you anymore about that girl.”

  “What girl?” Katherine didn’t even look up.

  “Anna. The—the girl in that house on the moor.”

  “Was there anything else to tell?” Katherine’s voice held only the mildest curiosity.

  “Well—yes.” Her brother ruffled his hair rather anxiously. “I more or less made myself responsible for her, you know.”

  His sister did look up at that, faintly startled. But “How very silly of you” was all she said.

  “Oh no, it wasn’t, If you’d been there you would have understood. She was so ill and—pathetic and—and thin,” he finished lamely.

  “Really, Tony! That class can always exploit their wretchedness for anyone as gullible as you,” Katherine told him coolly.

  “Don’t say ‘that class’ in that perfectly disgusting way,” exclaimed her brother angrily. “She’s—she’s just like us in most ways.”

  His sister put down her work and looked across at him. “What do you mean exactly about ‘making yourself responsible for her’?”

  He explained eagerly about the Orpingtons then and was glad it all sounded so suitable and ordinary.

  “I see.” Katherine tapped her thimble thoughtfully against her excellent front teeth.

  “There was no choice between that and letting her fend for herself,” her brother explained earnestly. “And I couldn’t do that, of course.”

  “No? Well, I don’t know why not. But still, it’s too late now. Surely this Mr. Orpington can find her a job or something?”

  And suddenly Hamilton knew it was worse than useless to discuss the question with Katherine.

  “I don’t know,” he said quickly. “I’ll see about it. I shall be going up there in a week or two and I’ll talk the whole thing over with Mr. Orpington.”

  But when he did decide to go, there was a little trouble with Katherine.

  “You can’t go this week, Tony. I have Angela Slater coming to stay and I want you to meet her.”

  “I’ll meet her some other time,” her brother promised carelessly.

  “Oh, no. I want it to be this week,” said Katherine obstinately, and his aunt added, “We do want you to meet her, Tony dear. She’s such an exceptional girl.”

  “What sort of a girl?” he asked absently, conscious of a strange feeling that was like a desire to escape.

  “Well, our sort, of course,” said Katherine impatiently. “What else?”

  “Oh lord!” said her brother.

  “What do you mean?” Katherine spoke sharply. “I don’t know how else to describe her.”

  “I do,” broke in his aunt. “She’s the sort of girl we should like to see you marry, Tony dear.”

  Hamilton gave a short, annoyed laugh.

  “Oh, that’s it, is it? Well, Aunt Charlotte, you must put off your match-making a little longer. Kate doesn’t want to lose me just yet, do you, Kitten?” And he affectionately pulled the little ends of hair at the nape of Katherine’s neck.

  “Don’t call me such ridiculous names,” said his sister coldly. “And it wouldn’t be losing you to have you marry anyone like Angela. It’s only when a man gets tangled up with somebody quite unsuitable that his family lose him.”

  Hamilton didn’t say anything to that, but, very much to his sister’s surprise, he clung obstinately to his determination to go north that week-end.

  He would never have believed, he told himself, that eight weeks could have made so much difference in any landscape, but after a hard winter, spring had come early that year and the first weeks of May were as warm as midsummer. Even the moors looked gracious instead of bleak, and when Hamilton turned down the lane which led to the vicarage he thought he had never seen anything more beautiful than the warm green of the grass and the white and pink of the fruit blossom on the trees.

  The vicar and his wife welcomed him most cordially, and, after a minute or two, Mrs. Orpington said, “Anna is out in the garden. I like her to be out of doors as much as possible. Perhaps you would prefer to go out and find her yourself.”

  With a murmured word of thanks, Hamilton pushed open the french windows and went into the vicarage garden. He was surprised and a little ashamed to find that he was trembling slightly as he went along the uneven, moss-grown paths, looking for her at every turn.

  It was a very big garden, with unexpected paths and corners—the sort of place, he told himself, where you would expect to find something or someone a little mysterious.

  And then he saw her suddenly. She was sitting on the grass near the gate which led into an attractive untidy orchard. There was an open book in her hand, but she was not reading. She was looking away across the orchard with that characteristic expression of gravity.

  He came quite close to her, his footfall deadened by the grass, and spoke her name quietly.

  “Anna.”

  She turned her head, and the book fell from her hand.

  “Oh,” she said slowly, and he thought her voice was like the warm wind blowing through the apple blossom. “You’ve come back.”

  he smiled as she sat there looking at him, and suddenly Hamilton knew why she had haunted his thoughts, drifting in and out of them like a strange, sweet ghost. He had never seen her smile before, and, in his heart, he must have known that he could not rest until he had seen it.

  That was what he had meant when he had told himself that if she said “Come” a man would come to her across the world.

  He was conscious of a desire to fling himself down on the grass beside her, to put his head in her lap, to press his face against her and feel her thin fingers on his cheek. His heart was beating high in his throat and he felt it would choke him.

  And then she said timidly: “Won’t you sit down?”

  He dropped to the grass beside her, somehow summoning a conventional, kindly smile to his lips.

  “You sounded as though...” he began, and then broke off. “Didn’t you think I would come back?”

  “No.”

  “But I said I would.”

  “But you didn’t come. You didn’t even say goodbye.” And he found himself wishing desperately that he had taken more care not to hurt her.

  “Oh, Anna, were
you hurt that I didn’t come?”

  “No,” she said, and her lashes came down in that sullen sweep he remembered so well.

  “Look at me, Anna.”

  “No.”

  “Please.” But she was perfectly still, and he gave up trying to persuade her. “What were you reading?” He put out his hand to turn over the book. But she snatched it away and held it against her.

  “No!”

  He looked amused and said teasingly: “Come on, let me see.”

  But she sprang up suddenly and ran from him into the orchard. At the gate she glanced back for a second over her shoulder, and at that look Hamilton was on his feet and after her like the wind.

  He was laughing a little still, but it was not amusement that sent him speeding after her. He had never known anything like the tide of feeling that swamped him when she looked back as she ran from him. He knew that, if ever he was to know peace again, he must catch her and hold her now.

  His hand shot out to take her by the shoulder, and she was snatched back into his arms. She lay there panting a little, and staring up at him, while he could feel the warmth of her body through her thin dress, and the wild beating of her heart against his.

  “Let me go,” she whispered. “Let me go.”

  And suddenly the world he had known all his life broke around him in a million fragments. And every one of them shone dazzlingly in a strange and frightening radiance he had never known before.

  “I’ll never let you go,” he said slowly. “Never, never, never. You’ve called me—and I’ve come—you witch, with your warm red mouth and your honey-gold skin.” And he kissed her and kissed her, all over her thin, startled face and her smoky hair and the warm gold of her neck.

  And as his lips touched her throat her hand fell slackly to her side, and her book slipped unheeded to the ground, to lie there in the long grass of the orchard. A little old-fashioned, forgotten book from the back of Mr. Orpington’s book-shelves: A Gentlewoman's Guide to Good Manners and Etiquette in English Society.