Love Is My Reason (2 page)

If he had run after her, he supposed, he could have caught her. At least, it would have mortified him to think anything else, since he had been a notable runner in his college days. But there would have been something ridiculous, even reprehensible, in chasing after an unknown girl through the late spring dusk. And, if she wanted to leave him, she was perfectly entitled to do so. They had talked long enough.

So he argued with himself as he slowly took the more direct path down to the town. But all the time the impression or her lingered with him—with astonishing clarity, considering the elusive quality of her personality.

“
She is quite lovely,
”
he said once, aloud, and his thoughts lingered with strange pleasure on the clear, dark blue of her eyes, the delicate charm of that oval face, the tumbled beauty of her disordered bright hair, and the curious allure of her soft red mouth.

He was surprised to realize how acutely he must have observed her. Even the little hollow at the base of her beautiful throat was a clear point of recollection for him. Too clear, he thought, and frowned slightly, for he was not a man to lose his head over women. Even the women of his own world.

There had been friendships and flirtations, of course. One did not reach thirty-two and considerable success as a barrister, without a good deal of worldly experience. But the only woman who had ever made a lasting impression upon him was Celia Preston.

Charming, self-possessed, graceful, with an unerring instinct for quality in everything material, as well as the more subtle ranges of the arts, Celia was everything that the wife of a rising barrister should be. And if the undoubted attraction between them deepened during these weeks in Bavaria, David had little doubt that they would be announcing their engagement on their return to London.

The prospect pleased him immensely. Any man who married Celia might well be proud and happy. She would grace his home, delight his own people, flatter his family pride, give him the kind of children which—when he thought about it at all—he visualized as completing a good and satisfactory life.

And if something obscure and inexplicable in him occasionally whispered that there were other indefinable, far-off things to set one
’
s heart upon, he dismissed the feeling with a sort of humorous impatience, telling himself that this was just the pe
r
verse strain in every human creature which tends to ask for the moon, however far away and incomprehensible it may appear.

As he entered the Hotel Rrei Kronen twenty minutes later, he was thinking less of the girl he had just encountered and more of the companions who made up the party with whom he had come abroad.

First there was his aunt, Lady Ranmere, the intelligent and still good-looking widow of a well-known brain specialist, who had died the previous year. David had been fond of his uncle—indeed, everyone who had known Sir Henry Ranmere had liked and respected him—and since the death of his own parents when he himself was in his teens, he had regarded the Ranmeres more in the nature of parents than aunt and uncle.

This deepening of the family tie had not extended to his cousin, Bertram Ranmere, who was something of an enigma. Refusing firmly to follow in his father
’
s distinguished footsteps, he had turned his undoubted talents to stage production and, to his father
’
s disappointment and his mother
’
s pride, took a not unimportant place in the theatre life of London.

Good-looking amusing and coolly sure of himself, Bertram had a provoking, rather puckish sort of approach to life. David himself had sufficient humour and tolerance to accept his cousin as he was, but he thought Bertram lightweight, and strongly suspected that he often deliberately flouted the views of his immediate associates for the sheer pleasure of seeing how they would take it.

Their party was completed by Celia and her mother. Mrs. Preston and Lady Ranmere were old acquaintances, and, although their temperaments were too different for them ever to have developed into close friends, the fact was that they had known each other a long while, and as one gets older there is something in this fact which draws people together,

“
Dear Teresa is, of course, a little bit of a poor thing,
”
Lady Ranmere had once told David good-humouredly, with an air of being a thousand miles removed from that category herself.
“
Even as a girl she was sweet rather than
strong, and obstinate rather than intelligently pliant. But we are as God made us, and there it is.
”

Lady Ranmere was on rather good terms with God and approved of most of His arrangements.

David—who at that time considered that he was falling in love with Celia—spoke up lazily for her mother.

“
She is very charming, Aunt Mary. And I suppose being widowed twice does tend to make one melancholy.
”

“
But, you know—
”
his aunt had given him a very bright and shrewd glance
—“
I never thought Teresa minded terribly about losing either of them. Oh, I don
’
t mean that she didn
’
t grieve very suitable and wish she had them back again. Separately, of course, not both together. But Teresa
’
s real tragedy was when she lost her boy.
”

“
Did Celia have a brother, then?
”
He was interested.

“
A step-brother. Martin Deane was Teresa
’
s son by her first marriage.
”

“
And he died?
”

“
No one ever knew. He just disappeared. He went off on some holiday abroad and never returned. Lost somewhere in the Balkans, I believe.
”

“
But he coul
d
n
’
t be! I mean people aren
’
t. Just like that.
”
David thought poorly of the Balkans, but he felt that this was taking thing too far.

“
Well, he was,
”
Lady Ranmere declared, with good
-
humoured energy.
“
I was a youngish woman at the time, of course, and not very much in touch with Teresa, so I don
’
t know the full facts and never liked to question her. But I suppose he ran after a girl, or got killed in a duel or overtaken by an avalanche or something.
”
Lady Ranmere
’
s admirable common sense did not prevent her from also having a vivid and ingenious imagination.
“
There are lots of things that can happen to people—in the Balkans.
”

“
But not without a trace,
”
her nephew had objected.
“
Accidents are reported, enquiries are made through consulates and all that sort of thing.
”

“
Well, I suppose they made all possible enquiries. I do remember that Teresa was ill over it at the time. I sometimes wondered—
”
Lady Ranmere looked reflective—
“
if
there had been some sort of trouble at home first. Something which made Teresa wonder if he
chose
to disap
p
ear.
”

“
It all sounds rather sensational,
”
David had objected.

“
But life is sensational,
”
his aunt had retor
t
ed.
“
In some ways, much more sensational than fiction.
”

He had not agreed with her at the time. But as he came into the comfortable, though unpretentious, lounge of the Drei Kronen, for some odd reason he remembered his aunt
’
s words.

She was sitting there now, the game of bridge over, chatting amiably with Celia
’
s mother and a middle-aged American couple with whom she had struck up an acquaintance.

“
Hello, my dear.
”
Her bright, keen eyes smiled at him as he came across to the group.
“
You know Mr. and Mrs. Corbridge, don
’
t you?
”

Polite greetings were exchanged.

“
Have you and Celia been out somewhere?
”
Mrs. Preston smiled faintly at him too. The smile a mother bestows upon a man to whom she is willing to entrust her daughter.

“
No. I was alone. Celia wanted to do some shopping. I went out of the town and round by the woods. There are some fine views from the high ground on the south there.
”

Mrs. Corbridge said that she did think one sometimes wanted to be all alone with nature, though nothing about her suggested that she often gratified that need.

“
A bit melancholy, walking for an hour or two with no one to speak to,
”
replied Mr. Corbridge who, like so many Americans, enjoyed the company of others.

“
I did speak to someone.
”

For the life of him, David could not imagine why he had said that, and he would have liked to take the words back. Only his aunt asked immediately,

“
To whom? Were you practising your German on some of the natives? Or did you team up with some other tourists?
”

“
Neither. The girl I spoke to was a Russian.
”

Both the Americans looked suitably grave at the mention of the enemies of democracy.

“
Russian
?
But you can
’
t speak Russian,
”
objected David
’
s aunt.

“
No, of course not. She spoke English.
”

“
An English-speaking Russian, hiking in the Bavarian Uplands. It sounds improbable,
”
declared Lady Ranmere.

“
I didn
’
t say she was hiking.
”
Her nephew smiled, for the hearty-sounding word applied to his elusive companion could hardly have been more incongruous.

Mrs. Corbridge observed here that there were times when one wondered what the Russians were
at.
Even the best of them, she added broad-mindedly.

“
What was she doing, darling?
”
Lady Ranmere enquired, and for a moment her glance lingered affectionately but penetratingly on her nephew.

“
She was standing at the edge of the wood, looking down on the town below.
”
He was not aware that his tone subtly conveyed the reconstruction of a scene which had had significance for him.
“
I spoke to her. And she told me she was a—a displaced person, living in some barra
ck
s on the other side of the river.
”

“
Oh, poor thing!
”
exclaimed Lady Ranmere. But before anyone else could add anything to that, Celia entered, creating a diversion which was, for varying reasons, welcome to all of them.

At twenty-five, Celia Preston was tall, slender, and with that indefinable quality called poise. She had grey eyes which could look sleepy, but which missed
very
little, an exquisite complexion, and smooth, impeccably dressed fair hair. Perhaps her outstanding quality was her serene coolness. Some men found this attractive; David among them.

She kissed her mother now, smiled at David and politely greeted the others. And when her mother—who thought Celia superseded in interest all other subjects of conversation—asked eagerly,
“
What did you buy, darling?
”
she smiled with faint indulgence and said,

“
Only one or two souvenirs of the less aggressive variety, and a rather lovely knitted sweater. One of the shops had a display of work done by the displaced persons. It seems there is a sort of camp for them in the town.
”

“
Why, how funny! We were just talking about them when you came in. David met one,
”
exclaimed Mrs. Preston, rather as though she were speaking of an unusual but harmless type of animal.

“
David did?
”
Celia
’
s cool grey glance rested on him for a moment.
“
How was that?
”

He explained briefly. And Mrs. Corbridge, who, like many of her countrywomen, was kindness itself when it came to the practical relief of distress, said,

“
Now isn
’
t that just fine, to think one can do something? You must tell me where the shop is, Miss Preston, and I
’
ll go there first thing tomorrow and buy some sweaters for my two daughters. I do think it
’
s a wonderful thing if these poor souls can do some useful work and be paid for it.
”

“
Perhaps your girl knits?
”
Lady Ranmere looked reflectively at her nephew.

“
Perhaps,
”
he agreed shortly, for he felt vaguely irritated. Anya knitting seemed as much in character to him at that moment as the idea of a wood-nymph scrubbing. But then he told himself not to be a fool, and that if his young discovery did knit and sell her work, good luck to her. He would see to it that his womenfolk benefited her in their shopping.

The conversation changed then, and he thought, with a touch of relief, that no one had noticed his inexplicable interest in the unknown girl.

He was wrong, however. For much later that evening, when he and Celia were lingering over their after-dinner coffee, while the others returned to their bridge, Celia said thoughtfully,
“
You were somehow worried about that D.P. girl, weren
’
t you, David?

For a moment he thought of laughing off the subject impatiently. But a sort of eagerness to speak once more of Anya stopped him.

“
I don
’
t know that
‘
worried
’
is quite the term.
”
He made that sound casual.
“
But I admit I was shaken by the miserable existence she described. And she was a nice little thing. One couldn
’
t help feeling sorry for her.
”

He knew, with a slight sense of shame, that he was not describing his reactions truthfully. But if he were to speak of Anya at all, he must do so in terms Celia would accept. A nice little thing who one pitied was quite in order. A strange, elusive ghost of a girl who caught at one
’
s heart was not.

“
One is sorry for
anyone
who is homeless and wandering on the face of the earth,
”
Celia replied, with quite unwonted emotion.

“
Why, Celia—
”
he was astonished—
“
you said that almost as though you felt the tragedy personally.
”

“
Perhaps I do.
”
With a slender, well-manicured finger she traced a nervous pattern on the tablecloth.
“
I
’
ve sometimes wondered if Martin ended up in one of those dreadful camps. Destitute and too proud to come home. Or suffering from loss of memory or—or something like that.
”

“
Martin?
”

“
My step-brother. Did no one ever tell you about him?
”

“
Why, yes. My aunt mentioned him once. But somehow I imagined he disappeared too long ago for you to remember him.
”

“
Oh, he did,
”
Celia admitted.
“
But blood is a curious thing, David. Not to have known him doesn
’
t make him unimportant.
”

“
No, of course not!
”

“
I
’
m not going to pretend I grieve or worry about him often. But sometimes something makes me think of him.
”
She was silent for a minute, and because he was oddly touched by this unfamiliar side of Celia he was silent too. Then she went on,
“
I was only about four when he went away. Mother was absurdly young when she first married. Seventeen or something like that. And Martin was the only child of her first marriage. I think he was at college when she was left a widow and married again.
”