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Authors: Mary Burchell

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It was almost dark when they arrived at their final destination—a pretty little countrified station, where their party was received with respectful friendliness by the station staff of one.

Cars were waiting and here at last the party divided. After very affectionate good-byes from Mrs. Preston and coolly graceful ones on Celia

s part, the Prestons and a great deal of luggage were stowed away in one car. A uniformed chauffeur held open the doors of the other waiting car, and Lady Ranmere shepherded Anya towards it.


All right, Chivers. I

ll drive,

Bertram said to the chauffeur, who yielded his seat rather reluctantly, Anya
thought, and throughout the short drive continued to look straight ahead, with a severe air which said plainly that he washed his hands of all responsibility for either the car or its occupants.


You won

t be able to see much of the outside of the house tonight,

David told Anya, as they turned into a short, gravelled drive with large trees on either side.

But it

s beautifully situated really and I think you

re going to like it.


I know I sh
a
ll love it,

she replied eagerly. Which was indeed the case. For a shed would have been almost beautiful in her eyes so long as David visited it often.

An elderly, uniformed maid admitted them, and showed every sign of austere pleasure on greeting Lady Ranmere.

Well, Dixon, it

s nice to be home,

Lady Ranmere said.

Is everything all right?


Oh, yes, my lady.

Dixon

s tone implied that nothing would presume to go wrong so long as she was in charge.


This is Miss Beranova, who has come back with us from Germany to pay us a visit,

Lady Ranmere went on making Anya

s advent among them sound irreproachably normal and undramatic.

I hope you got my letter, and that you have the green room ready for her.


Yes, my lady,

said Dixon again.

Good evening, madam.

Her greeting to Anya was an admirable mixture of respect for any guest of Lady Ranmere

s and pity for anyone who possessed such an outlandish name.

They went up the beautiful wide staircase then, and Anya was introduced to her room—a charming place with green and white chintz curtains and bedspread and a moss-green carpet which seemed to her the height of enchanting luxury.


What a pretty room,

she said shyly to Lady Ranmere, who had accompanied her there.


I

m glad you like it, my dear. I hope you will be happy here.

Lady Ranmere spoke with the impersonal kindliness which she always displayed to Anya.

Come downstairs when you have unpacked and we will have some supper. I think we must all be ready for it.

Then she went away with Dixon, leaving Anya to the elegant green solitude of the room which was now—incredibly—called hers.

Unpacking was still a simple matter for Anya, though not so pitifully so as when she had first come from the barracks.

She opened the neat new suitcases which had been bought for her in Munich, and carefully lifted out the one or two simple but pleasing dresses which Lady Ranmere and Mrs. Preston had provided between them.

It took her some time to discover that her wardrobe had sliding doors. But once she had mastered the simple mechanism of them, she found them indescribably attractive, and, with a good deal of artless pleasure, she hung her dresses on the hangers which she found inside the wardrobe.

Then she put away her new nylon underclothes in the chest of drawers, reserving one special drawer for the silk stole which David had given her.

After that she looked round and wondered if it would be all right for her to put her few personal belongings about the room. Finally she put the photograph of her mother and the man she had known as her father on the dressing-table, where they looked distressing alien and out of place. But she felt there would be some disloyalty in not letting them share her new and luxurious surroundings, so she left them there.

Her little ornaments and personal articles which had travelled with her from one deary camp room to another looked pathetically shabby and unsuitable for any place in the room. So she slowly put them back in her case, and, as she did so, she came across the photograph of the two young men, which had precipitated all the strange events of the last week or so.

She held it in her hands for several minutes, staring at it as though she would wrest its secret from it by sheer force of will.

Surely, she thought, if one of those young men in the photograph had been her father, there must be something

something
about him which would touch the edge of her consciousness with the knowledge of it. Could so close a bond awaken no real response, touch no chord of instinct?

Almost desperately she searched for the faintest, most fleeting likeness between herself and the smiling young man who had been Martin Deane. But there was none. Or none that she could see.

Less eagerly, she searched the features of the other face. But here again there was no likeness that she could see.

And yet, if all that had been hinted or said or guessed at were true—if only half of it were true—one of these men must have been her father. And if Martin Deane had been that man, then she was Anya Deane, granddaughter of Mrs. Preston and niece (however unwelcome) of Celia Preston. Which would mean that she
belonged
by right in this comfortable, secure, elegant world in which she now found herself.

Lady Ranmere, for all her efforts to be just and objective, would look at her with quite different eyes. David—yes, even David—would see her, not as the engaging waif towards whom he felt an indulgent but pressing responsibility, but, quite simply, as a girl of his own world.

Oh, exquisite, elusive, magical security! What more could anyone ask of life? A home, a family, a place in the world, a right to be there. A place—a place—a place! Never again to be a
dis
placed person.


Anya Deane—Miss Deane—Mrs. Preston

s granddaughter.

She said the words over to herself, as though she were being introduced. And then she looked once more at the two young men—and they gazed back at her, blankly, secretly.

She gave a long sigh.

We shall probably never know,

she said aloud.

And what then?

Even to anyone as inexperienced as Anya, it was obvious that Mrs. Preston would not go on indefinitely accepting an arrangement which she regarded as a most unsatisfactory compromise. Sooner or later, she was bound to insist that, in the absence of any information to the contrary, Anya be accepted as her granddaughter.

She
would always behave as though Anya were indeed the child of her lost son, and if Anya accepted the situation there would be at least a sort of material security about it. But the position would not be easy. It would never have any real significance or integrity.

To everyone except Mrs. Preston, in a greater or lesser degree she would remain the unknown, slightly bogus mystery girl from

that camp

. And Celia would take care to give most people the impression that Anya had in some way contrived to foist herself, rather questionably, upon the devoted and credulous Mrs. Preston.

Oh, why, why had her mother, all those years ago, not said just those few words which would have solved the mystery, and given her child either security or at least a decent anonymity?


I was very fond of one of them—but it

s better for you not to know which.

Even now, Anya could hear the sad, nostalgic little laugh with which her mother had said that. And then, with a sigh, she had added those words which had shut off the past irretrievably—

He died before you were born.

Presently, with a start, Anya realized that time was slipping away, and that she had been sitting there in her room much longer than she had intended. Hastily she put the photograph in a drawer—the one which contained David

s stole—and she went downstairs, feeling rather intimidated by the quiet elegance of the house, which seemed to receive her politely but with reserve.

Over supper Lady Ranmere and the two men discussed their plans for the immediate future. All of them were obviously taking up the strands of an existence which claimed them as
soon as they returned home. Only Anya had no past on which to build a present, no future which stemmed inevitably from a past.


I shall run up to town tomorrow,

David said.

I suppose you will too?

He turned to his cousin.


For the day, at any rate. Though I

ll probably come down again in the evening,

Bertram replied.

Can I give you a lift, or will you be coming by train?

David, however, said that he would probably have to stay in London for a day or two. And Anya tried to look politely indifferent, and as though it were not a matter of tormenting interest to her whether David returned or stayed away.

While this conversation went on, Lady Ranmere was examining a pile of correspondence and making entries in an engagement book at her side. Obviously committees and local interests were already absorbing her. She was the complete picture of the busy, capable woman, fitting into her niche once more.

A little anxiously, Anya wondered what she herself would be expected to do while everyone else was either busy or absent. Presumably the same thought struck David, for he turned to her with a smile and said,


For the first few days you won

t want to do anything but get used to your new surroundings, I expect.


I—don

t know. I—I should like to do anything that would be of help,

she told him shyly.


Mama will work you into one or other of her various interests,

Bertram declared lightly.

But Lady Ranmere looked both surprised and doubtful, and obviously failed to see Anya fitting into such activities as the Women

s Institute or the Church Committee or, least of all, the Magistrates

Bench.


There is no need to make any hurried decisions,

she observed, a trifle irritably.

Anya can have some quiet days in the garden, or do some reading or get to know the district. After that


She broke off and returned to her
correspondence. And Anya thought that perhaps even Lady Ranmere was at a loss when it came to deciding what one could do with the stranger after that.


You concentrate on feeling at home,

David told her kindly.

Then we can talk about what you want to do.

To this Anya could only say,

Thank you,

in a suitably grateful tone. But she was annoyed that Bertram

s glance caught hers at that exact moment, and that he gave her a roguish little smile which reminded her of his remarks earlier that day about the depressing effect of gratitude.

No one seemed inclined to stay up late after the long journey, and good-nights were said early.


You had better have your breakfast in bed tomorrow.

David looked down indulgently at her as he said goodnight.

But Anya exclaimed,

Oh, no!

rather quickly, because the imminent departure of David weighed heavily upon her, and she told herself that she would at least see him for half an hour at the breakfast-table in the morning.

Even this small matter, however, was settled for her. Lady Ranmere glanced up and said,


Yes, that

s the best arrangement. You and Bertram will be breakfasting early, I take it. Anya and I will have our breakfast in our rooms.

She longed to cry rebelliously that she would get up and have breakfast with David, and enjoy the last short moments of his companionship. But one did not question Lady Ranmere

s domestic arrangements in her own house. One merely said meekly,

Very well.


Don

t get downcast without me.

David smiled at her

reassuringly, even a little teasingly.
“I’ll
be down again in a few days

time.

And in reply to this, she had to smile and murmur something suitable. For of course no one must know that her heart gave a frightened flutter and then seemed to sink like lead at the idea of facing life at last without David at any rate somewhere near at hand.

She slowly climbed the stairs to her room, telling herself that it was all right—that everyone was kind to her and that in Lady Ranmere

s house no harm could come to her. It was sad to be without David, of course. But he would be coming back in a day or two, and meanwhile no one expected anything difficult or impossible of her. She had only to do what she was told and all would be well.

But for the first time since David had brought her from the camp, she slept badly, waking at intervals with a beating heart and a sensation of choking terror. She would lie there for a few moments, unable to imagine where she was

the pretty room dark and sinister in its mystery, the soft bed like something in which one was buried alive.

Then, slowly, the terror would ebb and she would tell herself again that she was safe—that no danger threatened her except some formless shadow of her own imagination.

Towards morning she slept deeply and tranquilly at last, so that finally when she woke it was to the sound of a car driving away from the house.


That

s David!

she thought, and, jumping out of bed, she ran to the window.

Before her stretched a glorious expanse of rolling countryside with, nearer at hand, a lawn and an infinitely attractive flower garden. But she looked at none of these. Only at the gravel drive and at the car which was just turning out of the end of it into the road beyond.


He

s gone,

she said aloud. And then, because the sun was shining and she felt refreshed and rested at last, she added eagerly,

But it

s all right. He

ll be coming back. He said he would.

Feeling vaguely presumptuous, she presently rang her bell, and a neatly dressed maid, younger and less rigid than Dixon, appeared, and accepted her timid request for breakfast as something perfectly normal.

It was all rather fun, she could not help thinking suddenly, and her spirits rose irrepressibly, so that she looked round and took fresh pleasure in her beautiful room, in the elegant house, and the knowledge that, if she did not belong here, at least she was here temporarily by invitation.

After her breakfast, she dressed and went downstairs, to find Lady Ranmere already seated at her desk in the morning room, telephoning to someone with her characteristic air of benign dictatorship.

She made a friendly little gesture towards Anya which did duty both as a greeting and an indication that she might sit down and wait. Then she rapidly completed her telephone conversation with a few crisp instructions, thinly disguised as suggestions.


Good morning, my dear.

Lady Ranmere replaced the receiver and addressed Anya kindly, if absently, as she made a note on a pad in front of her.

Did you sleep well?

Ignoring the early part of the night, Anya said she had slept very well and asked if she could do anything for her hostess.


Oh—no, thank you. I don

t think so. Why don

t you go out and have a look at the garden?

Lady Ranmere suggested.

Gardens always look their best in the morning.

It was perfectly obvious that she wished Anya to take herself off and be happy elsewhere. So Anya obediently rose and stepped out into the garden, by way of the open french windows, for she had had a great deal of experience in gauging the moments when she was not wanted.

It was indescribably peaceful and beautiful out in the garden. Distant sounds of the countryside came to her as she wandered along the paths, and the sun shone warmly on flowers and trees. It was all so far removed from the harsh ugliness of life as she had known it for years that it was difficult to decide which was reality and which only a dream.

Presently she heard the sound of a car coming up the front drive and, although she knew this could not be David returning, some nervous compulsion drew her back to the house, so that she even hurried a little, as though she might be late for something.

As she entered the morning-room again by the french window, Celia came in by the door, and in an inexplicable moment of shock the girls faced each other across the room, almost as though Lady Ranmere was not there. And this was strange, for one did not often overlook Lady Ranmere, particularly in her own house.

It was the older woman, however, who spoke first.


Good morning, Celia. How nice of you to call so early,

she said, though she did not really mean this at all, for she thought early calls interfered with one

s own routine.


I didn

t mean to be so early. I shouldn

t have been—But I had to come—at once


It was not like Celia to
speak in this breathless, jerky way, and Lady Ranmere asked sharply,


What is it, my dear? Has something happened?


Yes.

Celia looked at Anya again, and Anya found herself groping for the back of a chair, as though she were going to need some support.

Something has happened. We had news this morning—of Martin.


News of Martin?

Lady Ranmere

s glance went to Anya then.

You mean—real news? Something which concerns Anya?


It is real news. But it doesn

t concern Anya in the least.

Celia spoke quite confidently now, in clear, almost triumphant accents.

The news is of Martin himself. He is alive



Celia!

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