Anne Belinda by Patricia Wentworth Read Free Book Online

father—and she began to cry.”
    â€œWhat did your father say?”
    â€œHe didn’t say anything for a bit, except ‘Now, Mary!’ and things like that; but when she’d stopped crying, he said, ‘Why don’t you ask Jenny point-blank?’ And Mother said, ‘Oh, I couldn’t!’ And when he said, ‘Why on earth not?’ she said, ‘What’s the use? She’d only look sweet and tell me all over again that Anne was abroad and enjoying herself so much. And I couldn’t bear it. No, Cyril, I really couldn’t.’”
    â€œAnd then?” said John.
    â€œThen Father said, ‘We’ve nothing to go on—nothing at all.’ And Mother began to cry dreadfully, and she said—” Delia stopped and put her hand to her mouth.
    â€œGo on.”
    â€œI can’t.”
    â€œWhy can’t you?”
    She stared at him almost accusingly. There was black misery in her eyes.
    â€œI can’t.”
    John came up close and put his hand on her arm. “Delia, you’ve got to tell me. I’ve got to know—I’ve got to find her.”
    â€œShe said—she was crying all the time—she said, ‘Oh, Cyril, why did Sir Anthony tell you never to say her name again?’” Delia choked, pulled her arm away, and spoke harshly: “That’s what she said. What did she mean by it? Why wouldn’t Sir Anthony let Father speak about Anne?”
    â€œWhat did your father say?”
    â€œHe said, ‘My dear, I don’t know.’ That’s what they all say, till I’m sick of hearing it. Somebody ought to know.”
    John nodded.
    â€œI’m going to. Did they say any more?”
    â€œNo. Mother cried a lot.”
    There was a pause. The spring sunshine made everything about them look very bright and clear; the church tower stood up black against a turquoise sky. John tried to sort out the very little he had learned from the vague, misty confusion of what he could only guess at.
    â€œDelia,” he said, “you say Jenny and Anne went to London, and Jenny came back alone. Something must have been said about Anne not coming back.”
    â€œThey said she’d missed her train. I saw Jenny, because I’d gone up to the Hall to change a book—Anne used to lend me books. And when I asked where Anne was, Jenny said, ‘Oh, she missed the train. She’ll be down to-morrow.’ But she wasn’t—she never came at all.”
    â€œWhat did they say then?”
    â€œThey said she was ill—they went on saying she was ill. And then they said she’d gone abroad to get strong. But I don’t believe a word of it.”
    â€œShe might have been ill.” John looked down meditatively at the topmost bar of the gate. A rough splinter stood up on it. He pulled it off carefully, and then broke it into little bits and dropped them one by one upon a clump of primroses at his feet.
    â€œShe wasn’t. She wasn’t ill—I’m sure she wasn’t—I know when Jenny’s telling lies.” She gave her jerky laugh. “Jenny doesn’t take me in a bit. When her voice goes sweet and she looks down under her eyelashes, I know she’s telling lies every time.” She paused. “I’ll tell you something though—Sir Anthony really did think she was ill— at first.” She laid a heavy emphasis on the words.
    â€œHow do you know that?”
    â€œI met him just before the wedding, and he talked about it a lot; and he kept on saying how upset jenny was about Anne not being bridesmaid, and what an awkward time it was for Anne to be ill, but he hoped she’d be better soon, and then I must come and see her. I asked him if he’d seen her, and how she was. And he said, No—he couldn’t get about much—it was all he could do to manage the wedding—and Anne wasn’t allowed to see anyone; but Jenny or Mrs.