Anne Belinda Read Online Free PDF Page A

anyone comes a cropper, they just wipe ’em off the map. Is she that sort?”
    â€œMy dear chap, I don’t know her; I’ve only seen her. She’s pretty, she’s smart, she’s prosperous. She has an adoring husband and a fat, thumping baby—a boy. So she’s inordinately proud of herself. She told me so.”
    â€œâ€™M,” said John. “Look here, I want to meet her.”
    â€œShe wants to meet you. She told me that too. I can write and say you’ve been in, and that there are one or two family matters you’d like to discuss with her.”
    John nodded.
    â€œI don’t know any of them. It’s a bad handicap. I don’t know who their friends are, or who’d be likely to know anything. That’s where I want help.” He spoke in a reflective undertone. “Yes, that’s where I want help. Would Mr. Carruthers know?”
    â€œHe might. I’ll ask him. He’s by way of taking a holiday, but he hasn’t gone away. I shall be seeing him to-morrow. I’ll ask him about the whole thing. But I expect he’ll say that you’d do better to leave it alone.”
    â€œI’ll leave it alone when I’ve found Anne Waveney. She mayn’t be in need of finding, in which case everyone curses me for butting in. Little things like that don’t worry me—I rather like scrapping. You go ahead and get me some introductions to people who may know where she is. If they’re friends of the family, it’s quite natural that I should want to know them. I’ll do the rest.” He drummed on the window-pane and hummed:
    â€œCassidy was a gentleman,
    Cassidy said to me,
    â€˜Don’t you go in with Jimmy McBride,
    Nor yet with Tim Magee.
    You come in on a ground-floor, rock-bottomed, stone-cold cert with me.’”

CHAPTER IV
    The Vicarage lay on the village side of Waveney. John drove up a sweep that had ceased to be gravelled; there was moss on it, and there were weeds. The enormous garden looked frightfully neglected; but the apple-blossom was coming out, and there were daffodils under the trees.
    He rang the bell, and was aware of a scurry in the hall, fierce whispering, and rapidly retreating footsteps. Presently he rang again. This time nothing happened at all. He watched the sunshine on the daffodils with resignation, and presently pulled the bell for the third time. As its loud ringing died away, there was a small patter of feet. The opening door disclosed a little angelic person with flaxen hair, forget-me-not eyes, and smudged pink face. It looked at John, and nothing happened. John was moved to speech.
    â€œHullo! Is Mrs. Thompson—is your mother at home?”
    The little girl nodded. Her eyes never left John’s face.
    â€œCan I see her?”
    â€œI—don’t—know.” The words dropped slowly; the blue gaze persisted.
    â€œI’d like to if I can. Will you go and ask her if she’ll see me?”
    He produced a card, pressed it into the plump, grubby hand, and waited. After a moment a door opened and shut, and a little lady came flying along the passage.
    â€œOh, Sir John, I’m so sorry—you’ve had to wait—I was in the garden. Do come in. I’m so very sorry.”
    She ran in front of him into a large bleak room, where each piece of furniture seemed to be a very long way from the next.
    â€œSo kind of you!” she fluttered. “So dreadful to keep you waiting—your first visit! And now, where will you sit?”
    John took the nearest chair—none of the chairs were very near—and found himself at some distance from his hostess. She was a small person with a high, hard colour and a good many hairpins stuck at odd angles into the heavy knot of fair hair which rather overweighted her little head. Once upon a time she must have been exceedingly pretty. Her eyes were still very brightly blue, but the face from which they looked was