Anne Belinda by Patricia Wentworth Page B

felt by day. He had had good times and bad times, but never before had he felt this utter poignancy of joy. It was quite beyond his experience; there was nothing easy or soft about it; it had a keenness that was only just not pain; it was something he did not know. It was a strange thing to find it in a dream.

CHAPTER VIII
    John went to call on Mrs. Courtney next day. He was shown into the drawing-room and left there whilst the maid went to find her mistress.
    He looked about him with interest. The room was not at all like any room he had seen before. Walls, floor and ceiling, curtains, woodwork, and chair-covers were all of one even shade of grey—and that not the bluish grey which is called French, but the real pure grey which comes from the equal mixture of black and white. Against this neutral background the few contrasting objects took on an added value. There were cushions of half a dozen shades of purple, from violet to cyclamen; there was a bright green clock on the mantelpiece, flanked by tall green candlesticks; on one long, bare wall there hung an etching of a black pine tree bending in the wind.
    It was odd to find a break in so rigid a scheme. Yet a break there was; the room contained no nick-nacks, but there were three framed photographs on the piano, and they were all photographs of the same person. John had no difficulty in recognizing Jenny Marr—Jenny in her wedding-dress, with an exquisite lace veil on her fair hair—Jenny in Court dress, with feathers and a gleaming train—and, prettiest of the three, Jenny in soft, thin drapery bending over a tiny sleeping baby.
    He wondered what Mrs. Courtney would be like; and as he wondered, she came in. Like her room, she was dressed in grey—he was to discover that she never wore anything else. Her masses of white hair were arranged in such elaborate waves and curls as to remind him of an eighteenth-century peruke. It was hair that would have suited well enough with delicate arched brows and a long oval face; but Mrs. Courtney’s face was square, her features harsh, and her brown prominent eyes surmounted by broad, tufted eyebrows.
    She shook hands with John, giving him a firm, rather hard clasp. Then she settled herself in a chair, observed him keenly for a moment, and said:
    â€œI’m glad you came. You mustn’t mind if I have a good look at you. I knew your father and mother.” Her voice was deep and, like her features, rather harsh.
    John was sharply surprised.
    â€œYou knew them? I didn’t, you know.”
    â€œYes, I know. It’s a pity. Your father was the best-looking man I ever saw. You don’t take after him.”
    John could not help laughing; she shot the sentence at him so suddenly and with more than a tinge of grievance in her tone. It was rather as if someone had been trying to foist an imitation upon her.
    â€œNo, I’m afraid I can’t compete,” he said.
    Mrs. Courtney frowned.
    â€œAnd you needn’t imagine an old romance either. Your father was already besottedly in love with your mother when I knew him. He used to come and confide in me—they both did. Probably you can’t imagine why.” Her face softened in an extraordinary manner; the rather large mouth turned up at the corners in a wide, enchanting smile. “Your mother was the sweetest child in the world. She was seventeen then, and Tom was three-and-twenty. I was as old as the hills. Well, well, they were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided. But it’s your loss.”
    â€œMy great loss,” said John simply.
    She nodded.
    â€œYou can understand why I wanted to see you. I’m sorry you’re not like them, but I dare say I shall get used to that. Now, let’s come down to present day. There’s something depressing about the past—don’t you think so? People of my age generally live with their heads screwed round backwards, looking at things