The Truant Spirit (7 page)

“Well, not quite. The Maritimes can hardly compare with the great heights of the world.”

“But there are mountains?”

“Oh, yes, there are mountains. Why? Does that appeal?”

“All the time I’ve been up here, I’ve got to know those photographs,” she said slowly. “I lie and think about them — Kanchenjunga ... Everest ... and the mountains of Switzerland—the Matterhorn, the Jungfrau, Mont Blanc and Monte Rosa—such exciting names.”

He regarded her oddly, as if he was seeing her for the first time.

“You talk with nostalgia,” he said. “Do you have in you this inexplicable affinity with the strange grandeur of the heights?”

“I don’t know,” she answered with simplicity. “No one has ever talked to me about mountains; but you—you understand all about them, don’t you? You are a climber.” The eyes which had puzzled and chilled her on their first meeting were explained, she thought; they were the dispassionate, far-seeing eyes of the mountaineer. But even as she spoke she saw the change in his face.

“I’m no longer any good for that. The mountains require one’s full strength, both spiritual and physical,” he said, and she shrank into herself, dismayed by her stupidity. She had forgotten the handicap which slowed his movements to such deliberate stiffness.

“Tell me about some of your old expeditions,” she said, trying a little clumsily to cover her foolishness, and wishing shyly to detain him longer, but the bitter twist was back on his lips and he replied indifferently:

“There are plenty of books on mountaineering in that bookcase, if you’re interested. My own experiences don’t make very enthralling hearing.”

Marthe entered the room without knocking, and stood for a moment surveying them both, observing at once the flush on Sabina’s cheeks and the soft distress in her eyes.

“If Monsieur had said he intended paying Mademoiselle a visit, I would have made it my business to be present,” she said.

Brock rose slowly to his feet, remarking with faint mockery: “You consider a chaperone is advisable in the circumstances.”

“It is not usual in my country for a stranger of the opposite sex to share the intimacies of the bedroom of a
demoiselle
,” she snapped, and straightened the creased bedspread as if to remove all evidence of his presence.

“That’s rude, Marthe,” Sabina said with gentle dignity. “Mr. Brockman is my host, and it is perfectly usual to inquire for the health of a sick person.”

“You know nothing of such matters, my cabbage—and Monsieur is not your host. He is a guest in the house of his governess, like yourself,” Marthe retorted with ill-concealed malice.

“And of course, added Brock with misleading gravity, “Mademoiselle is affianced—or very nearly—which makes a difference. Your pardon, Mademoiselle Marthe ... I will bid you both
au revoir.”

He had spoken in French, and Marthe’s little pig-like eyes sent him a look of intense dislike, but she did not care to try any further conclusions with him, so set her lips in silence until he had left the room.

“You are unwise, mam’zelle, if you seek diversion in that quarter,” she said when she heard the door close. “He would amuse himself, no doubt, at your expense, but you have not the temperament to indulge the little flutter before marriage. M. Brockman would only laugh while you imagined a
maladie du coeur
to which you are not suited.”

Sabina’s eyes were angry and she suddenly pounded the bed with small, clenched fists.

“You are insufferable, Marthe!” she cried. “I am no longer a child to be spoken to in this manner, neither is it your place to be insolent to another guest in this house. ”

Marthe folded her arms and observed the girl with an annoyance that was mixed with surprise.

“O-ho!” she observed. “So the little one makes herself airs and scratches when Madame is away. Have I not worked without wages when it suited? Have I not been loyal to Madame and guarded you from the many foolishnesses you might commit before you are safely
ranger?
Do I then deserve that you should turn upon me because I seek to observe the instructions of Madame, your aunt?”

Sabina regarded the angry woman with eyes that were grave and curiously clear.

“I am beginning to understand that neither you nor Tante cares in the least what happens to me,” she said without any of her usual uncertainty. “I will oblige my aunt so long as it seems to be the right thing to do, but don’t drive me too hard, Marthe, for this bargain was not of my making, and who knows—I may

not care for Rene Bergerac once I meet him.”

“Och!” exclaimed Marthe, outraged. “Such talk! Such impudence! I will write to Madame this very day and acquaint her of your situation. It will not surprise me—it will not surprise me at all should she return immediately to England and remove you from these
sales
surroundings.”

She spoke with venom, but she spoke, too, at random. She did not care for this fresh turn of events, nor did she consider herself capable of averting a disaster which Madame, with her stronger influence, could reduce to ridicule in a few biting phrases.

“I will write to Madame,” Marthe repeated, not liking the cool regard of the young girl she had for so long dismissed as an unimportant factor in a perfectly logical arrangement. Then she slammed out of the room.

But it was not, in the end, Marthe who first wrote to Tante. Down in the kitchen, where Bunny was preparing vegetables for the evening meal, Brock sat by the old-fashioned range, smoking a pipe and delivering himself in stronger language than Bunny cared to hear of his opinion of the Frenchwoman.

“I know,” she sighed. “She can be quite intolerable. When one thinks what that poor child has probably had to put up with for years, it isn’t surprising that she can view marriage with a total stranger as the lesser of two evils. The aunt must be a callous woman to care so little for the girl’s happiness.” “The aunt was Lucille Faivre before she married her English husband. That might explain a lot for you,” said Brock, and Bunny, the vegetable knife poised in her numbed fingers, straightened her aching back.

“Lucille Faivre ... ” she repeated slowly. “Old sins with long shadows, Brock?”

“Perhaps—or alternatively a belated twinge of conscience.” “Hardly that,” said Bunny dryly. “Lucille Faivre ever looked to her own advantage, but it was before your time.” “Not altogether, but the repercussions of that affair have affected more people than those immediately concerned.”

“The evil that men do lives after them,” said Bunny slowly and plunged her hands again into the ice-cold water to deal with the rest of the vegetables.

“She was hardly evil, I suppose,” said Brock judiciously. “Merely a vain, selfish woman with a disregard for the normal standard of living. Strange that her niece should be so meek and sheltered as that child upstairs, but that kind are always the most conventional when it comes to their own.”

“I would not like someone so inexperienced to suffer for the whims of Lucille Faivre,” Bunny said; “but of course, a word from you can show her the truth about Rene Bergerac. There will be no need for sacrifices in any direction.”

“Except Lucille Faivre,” he remarked dryly. “She would scarcely remember me after all this time, but it’s strange our paths should have crossed in this way.”

“The mills of God ...” she said solemnly, for she was fond of apt quotations, but he laughed a little shortly.

“Hardly as dramatic as that,” he said. “But we might put a spoke in the wheel all the same. When does Northy say the girl can leave?”

“In a few days. She’s getting up tomorrow. In point of fact, she could go any time, but Dr. Northy keeps making excuses. He has an idea that a spell of quiet rectory life would do her good.”

“He may be right. What would you say to keeping her for a time—as a winter P.G.?”

Bunny tipped the dirty water down the sink, dried her hands carefully, then turned to look at him.

“What have you got at the back of your mind, Brock?” she asked with reserve. “It did not strike me that you were particularly interested in the girl when you brought her here.”

“I wasn’t, but you must admit the situation that has arisen is worth a glance.”

“You can clear that up if you wish.”

“But would it be doing anyone a kindness? Wouldn’t it be better and more amusing to wean the child from her aunt’s notions and make her think things out for herself?”

Bunny came and stood on the bright rag rug before the fire. Although she took the woollen mittens from the pocket of her overall and automatically pulled them over her cold hands, she gave him at the same time the straight, appraising look he remembered from boyhood.

“Are you hoping to lighten the dullness of a west-country winter for yourself?” she demanded sternly, but he only raised his eyebrows in mock disapproval.

“Really, Bunny, is that nice?” he said. “In any case, Miss Sabina Lamb is scarcely a woman, though she may be turned nineteen, and I am a hardened bachelor of thirty- five.”

“You needn’t boast of it so smugly,” she said a little tartly. “For all your aversion to the married state, your life as far as women are concerned has not been entirely blameless.” “Possibly not, but you yourself frequently tell me that there

are other ways of fulfilment than climbing mountains.”

“Oh, you’re hopeless when you get in this mood. You know very well that I would never advocate casual affairs of the heart as ways of fulfilment.”

“Every little helps,” he said flippantly, then saw that he was beginning to distress her. “All right, my prim preceptress, I won’t tease you. Will you agree to what I suggest? I know I’ll have Northy’s approval.”

“And how will you reconcile such a proposal with Marthe and with the aunt?” she asked.

“That’s very simple. You have only to write to Madame explaining as much of the circumstances as you consider advisable, and I think you’ll have her agreeing to any arrangement.”

“Blackmail?”

“No, the truth. I’ll write myself if you like. Lucille Faivre will have every incentive to remain indefinitely at the Chateau Berger.”

“And what of her overtures to Rene Bergerac?”

“They can proceed with a greater sense of security.” She tucked a stray wisp of hair neatly under the net. She was tired and she was at a loss to know what really lay at the back of Brock’s mind. He had always been expert at talking in riddles.

“I don’t mind about Lucille Faivre,” she said wearily, “but I wouldn’t like that child to get hurt. I’ve taken a fondness for her.”

“Why should she get hurt? Her notion of Rene Bergerac is scarcely very romantic as it is. Don’t you consider she needs time to reflect without the ever-present naggings of those two women?”

“There is still Marthe to contend with, and I don’t really feel, Brock, I can put up with her much longer.” “We’ll find a way to dispose of Marthe,” said Brock impatiently. “Won’t you give the poor little devil a chance,

Bunny?”

“Well, I don’t know. I must sleep on it,” she said, but she knew she was wavering. Whatever doubts she had with regard to Brock’s own motives, she did agree that the girl needed a respite and, in the end, might not Brock be right?

“Will you regret things when your mood changes and the child, perhaps, gets in your way?” she asked, and he smiled at her a little cryptically.

“She won’t get in my way,” he said. “Besides, she likes mountains.”

Bunny studied his dark face, weighing matters up in her mind. She believed in fate, though she preferred to call it the intervention of the Almighty. Was it not possible that the strange crossing of their paths might mean more in the end than a disentanglement—that even for Brock some knot might be unravelled and that bitter introspection broken?

Am I a sentimental, self-deceiving old woman? she wondered impatiently, then, seeing the dark familiar lines of Brock’s face already settling into indifference, she rejected her own fanciful notions.

“Very well,” she said; “but if this is to be an experiment— perhaps for both of you—you must remember that the advantage is yours. Whatever the truth Sabina may discover, never let it be said that you helped her towards unhappiness.”

His smile was the familiar little quirk of the mouth that he used when he detected reproof in her.

“That,” he said with irritating composure, “is not my intention at all.”

He knocked out his pipe on the range with a gesture of finality and took himself into the garden to gaze upon

the graves.

Willie Washer, the boy who periodically worked in the garden, was pulling weeds from the base of a tombstone. He liked to work in the churchyard, although the present vicar did not approve, for Willie was simple and nobody wanted him.

Brock stood watching the ungainly figure with a rough, impatient compassion. They were two of a kind, he reflected bitterly, both incapacitated by nature for the life for which they had been intended.

“Still at it, Willie?” he said, but he spoke gently and the mild blue eyes lifted to his face with trust.

“Yes, Maister Brock,” he replied with his slow, Cornish burr, “I do be terrible fond of they daid ’uns. They’m quiet-like, and