The Truant Spirit (16 page)

“Tell me some of your funny rhymes,” he would say, and she would search her memory for the jingles which had comforted her in childhood because when there was no one to talk to reciting aloud to an imaginary audience provided company.

She would say for him
The King of China’s Daughter,
and Ben Jonson’s Battle-Hymn for James the First, and
Pigsnye
and a whole bunch of singing rhymes and old street cries. He liked particularly:

Young lambs to sell, white lambs to sell;

If I’d as much money as I could tell I wouldn ’t be crying, Young lambs to sell!

“That should have been written for you,” he commented lazily, and she blushed and would not repeat the catch next time he asked for it.

“Where did you learn all these things?” he inquired curiously. “I had an old book full of queer odds and ends that the other children didn’t seem to know,” she said. “Willie knows rhymes, too. He’s only just started saying them for me.”

“Poor Willie! The most popular rhyme in these parts used to be the one the children made up about him,” said Brock idly, and Sabina’s eyes darkened.

She remembered walking to the village one morning and meeting Willie followed by a handful of small children who suddenly burst into a jeering ditty sung to the tune of Bobby Shafto ...

Willie Washer’s proper mazed,

Doesn’t know where he was raised.

Silly Willie, proper dazed,

Silly Willie Wash-er!

At the last line the boy had turned to give chase, his arms waving wildly and his gentle face distorted with rage. Willie was turned sixteen now, but the old taunt could still make him lose all control of himself.

“Children are very cruel,” Sabina said, and Brock raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, I don’t know. Most of them are just unthinking little animals,” he said. “The race goes to the strong, you know. Willie and other maimed creatures are natural butts.”

There was a trace of bitterness in his voice, and Sabina said gently and a little shyly:

“The maimed might be special, I think. If you have something—physical to put up with, it could make you— well, more tolerant of others.”

“Do you think so? Well, if you’re speaking personally,

Sabina, you should know by now that I’m not the most tolerant of people.”

“No, but—”

“But what?”

“In your mind I think you are.”

“What’s the difference? You really are very young and very white, aren’t you, Miss Lamb? Much too young to be for sale,” he said, but she did not mind his derision, for she did not think he meant it.

It was a strange few days Sabina reflected, now so far in thought from Tante and Marthe and the cheap hotels that she could regard the rectory as home. It froze hard at nights and the snow was slow to go although no more fell. After that first sunny day, the wind blew bitterly and the three of them seemed marooned in an intimate fastness while ice blurred the windows and the milk each day was frozen in the pans before Bunny set them for scalding.

There was plenty to keep Sabina busy in the mornings, for

Mrs. Cheadle would not risk her ulcers this weather to walk up from the village, but in the quiet afternoons when she sat by the fire, sewing or mending for Bunny, she would love to idle over her work while she watched the flames leap up the cavernous chimney, and listened to the high wind sweeping round the house. Of Tante at the Chateau Berger she had heard nothing. Even she, like M. Bergerac, had become a little unreal, and Marthe, with her friends in London, although she had sent Sabina clothes, had not written.

Brock would lie back in his chair and watch Sabina through half-closed eyes. Often she would think he was asleep, but sometimes, when she let her own gaze dwell on his dark, saturnine face, he would open his eyes and disconcert her with a pertinent remark. She wondered about the accident which had deprived him of his old life, and once she asked him shyly how it had happened.

“On a climb,” he told her briefly.” I fell and got a compound fracture of the knee. Exposure didn’t help it to mend. Silly, wasn’t it?”

But he seemed less inclined to talk about the mountains than before, and would turn the conversation into more personal channels, commenting idly on what she wore and grinning when he made her blush.

He did not care for Tante’s outworn dresses, which had been her portion since she was adult enough to wear them.

“Too old for you,” he would say, frowning. “And too sophisticated. You aren’t the type for slinky lines and daring
decolletage.”

“It was very expensive,” she protested on that occasion, and dragged the slipping neckline higher on her throat. “The trouble is I haven’t the figure for well-cut clothes— Tante has often said so.”

“Tante would,” he remarked dryly. “Does she never buy you clothes of your own?”

“Well, of course, only it seems silly to spend money when her own things are still quite good.”

“And is the dyspeptic M. Bergerac to be introduced to his future bride wearing a cast-off wardrobe?”

“He’s not dyspeptic,” she retorted, goaded as usual by his disrespectful reference to Rene Bergerac,”—at least, I don’t think so. When M. Bergerac comes back with Tante I’m to have a little trousseau.”

“Will you start collecting it in Cornwall?” he asked politely and she laughed.

“Of course not. When the time comes, Tante will write to Marthe, I suppose, and I will have to go back.”

But he did not always tease her. If he was not prepared to discuss her proposed marriage with any seriousness, he encouraged chatter about herself. She thought he must have learnt a great deal about her in their short acquaintance, and did not find it strange that she knew so little of him. She did not know his business, or, indeed, if he had one, and it did not occur to her to ask. Men, T ante had always said, told one what was necessary; it was both impertinent and unwise to inquire into masculine affairs. Bunny would answer questions about Brock’s boyhood, of which she liked to talk, but she was evasive if more recent times were touched on and Sabina came to the conclusion that Marthe had probably been right; Brock had little money, possibly an ill-paid job, and stayed with his old governess because he had nowhere else to go.

By the end of the week the snow had nearly gone. The skies were grey and an icy wind still rattled the doors and windows of the rectory, but Brock seemed better. His face had ceased contracting with a sudden twinge of pain when he moved and he began to talk vaguely of leaving Truan.

“You are going?” exclaimed Sabina with such dismay that he smiled.

“Well, not just yet; but I’m only here on a visit, like you,” he said.

It was a sharp reminder of the impermanence of her holiday, and she realised then how much these past few days had done to make her forget her obligations. Brock had been gentle and Bunny had treated her as if she really belonged, but it was an interlude in her life just as it was in theirs, though for her so much more important.

“Come here,” said Brock suddenly from his chair by the fire and held out a hand.

He and Sabina had been left together for tea, for it was Bunny’s afternoon again for the Women’s Institute. Tea was finished, but neither of them had troubled to light the lamp. Sabina crossed the room slowly and sat on the floor in the firelight, and Brock touched her cheek.

“You like it here, don’t you?” he said. “Bunny will keep you for as long as you like, you know.”

But that, she thought, would not be quite the same. She was

fond of Bunny, but it was Brock who, for all his uncomfortable ways, had given her this sense of sanctuary. “Bunny has been most kind,” she answered politely, “but Tante must return soon. It’s nearly a month since she’s been gone.”

“Your aunt wouldn’t be averse to another month in the luxury of the Chateau Berger, I imagine.”

“No, but you forget—”

“I do
not
forget the egregious M. Bergerac,” he said irritably, “but it would seem that he has been only too happy to allow Madame board and lodging for so long as she pleases. The negotiations are doubtless progressing with leisure and much finesse on both sides.”

She glanced at him warily, suspecting, for not the first time, that he knew more of Tante’s affairs than he would admit. “There is the question of money,” Sabina said, remembering the matter much too late. “It’s odd that Tante has sent me none. Bunny isn’t well off. I—I can’t live here on her charity.”

“There’s no need to worry. Bunny and your aunt are in communication. ”

“Oh, I see.” Sabina felt relieved. It would have been typical of Tante to forget inconvenient obligations should her own resources run low.

“You worry about a lot of things that shouldn’t concern you, don’t you?” he said. “I think you must be very conscientious.”

He was idly twisting a strand of her hair round his finger and she leant against his chair, conscious of a new intimacy. “Brock,” she said, “is it wrong to marry a man you don’t love?”

A fortnight ago she could never have brought herself to ask him such a question, but she did not fear his mockery now.

“It depends what you want out of life,” he answered lazily. “Riches and ease with fat M. Bergerac, or love in a cottage, which can be very uncomfortable.”

“Fat?”

“Well, he could be fat. Good living makes you flabby.”

“Oh!”

“But you’ve never had very romantic ideas about our mutual friend, have you? Very polite with shiny hair, looking like a head waiter, I think you said.”

He was teasing her, of course, but it was strange he could

never describe satisfactorily a man he had met. “Well, you told me he wasn’t at all like that,” she said.

“And I also told you he wasn’t in the least attractive,” he retorted bluntly. “You hadn’t got these doubts when you first came here.”

“I hadn’t met any other men then,” she said and immediately blushed at what her words must imply.

“You know,” he said slowly, “that remark could be taken as a direct invitation. I think Bunny’s very trusting to leave us alone together in the circumstances.”

“But she knows—she knows—” she stammered helplessly, and he grinned.

“That I wouldn’t make love to you, were you going to say? She knows nothing of the sort—in fact she might nearly approve in her prim spinsterish fashion.”

“What nonsense!”

“Nothing of the kind. Experience is good for everyone, as she would be the first to tell you.”

“Experience for your amusement wouldn’t help me at all,” she said and tried to move away from him, but he had her suddenly by the shoulders, lifting her up on her knees so that her face was level with his.

“I amuse myself with adult women, not with children,” he said grimly. “Which category do you prefer to be in?”

“I’m not a child,” Sabina said, the colour staining her cheekbones.

“No, you’re not,” he replied softly and kissed her deliberately for the second time.

She slid back on to her heels and rested her head against his knee wanting to weep. It was not fair of Tante to explain so little, she thought ... it was not right of Marthe to dismiss so much ... She felt Brock’s hand on her head and gently he slipped it down under her chin to raise her face.

“You’ll find out for yourself it’s wrong to marry a man you don’t love,” he said strangely. “You have very few defences, my little lamb, should they be put to the test.”

She stared at him mutely. She had not even known until now that defences were necessary.

He saw the brightness of tears on her lashes and brushed them away.

“Would you go through with this marriage if you found yourself in love with another man?” he asked.

She wondered if he meant to be cruel and answered steadily: “I have no choice until I’m twenty-one.”

“And then?”

“I don’t know. I—I’m so far committed.”

His eyebrows met on a quick frown.

“Only by your aunt. You are as free as any other girl if you have the courage.”

His hand was warm on her slender throat and she lowered her lashes.

“I don’t think I would need courage if I was sure,” she said.

“Of yourself?”

“No—of him.”

He released her as they heard Bunny’s key in the front door, and Sabina moved away, conscious of her hot cheeks and wet lashes.

Bunny stood in the doorway and surveyed them, her quick eyes resting longest on Sabina’s face in the firelight. In her old-fashioned coat and little pork-pie hat she looked prim and slightly severe.

“Do you not want a light?” she asked, and made the question sound like a rebuke.

Sabina jumped up to find the matches but Bunny forestalled her and lighted the lamp, turning up the wick with precision.

“And how was the Institute?” Brock asked lazily.

“There were very few there,” Bunny replied, automatically straightening ornaments on the mantelshelf. “Too cold, I expect, and the roads are still bad. Have you finished with the tea-things?”