The Truant Spirit (5 page)

His bitter smile was cynical.

“Marriage with an elderly
roue
with a weak digestion? My advice hasn’t been asked, rather naturally, my dear, and I, a stranger, am scarcely in the position to offer any, am I?”

“In a very good position, I should have said,” Bunny retorted, but she looked disturbed. “How long have you known of this— this curious arrangement, Brock?”

“Since last night.”

“Only last night! Then—”

“What else were you thinking?” He was mocking her. “Should I have said immediately: ‘My poor child, the son of Rene Bergerac is not for you. Tell your aunt to make other arrangements?”

“It’s preposterous!” Bunny exclaimed.

“But typically French,” Brock reminded her gently. Her small mouth set in stubborn lines.

“You should tell her the truth.”

“Come now, Bunny, that might be embarrassing for all concerned. One needs a little more confirmation—on both sides.”

“Then we must send her back where she belongs as soon as she is fit to travel. The affair is distasteful and—awkward. Unless—”

“Unless what?”

“There’s another side,” she answered lamely. It was not quite what had been in her mind, but she knew Brock of old when he chose to sit on the fence and intervene only when it suited him.

“There’s always another side,” he said, knowing exactly what she was thinking. “And as for sending the child back to where she belongs, it may interest you to know that her aunt has already gone to the Chateau Berger to bring matters to a head.”

“And you believe that?”

“I’ve no reason to doubt it. But one can get corroboration from the good Marthe, who, incidentally, must be in quite a state by now, not knowing where her charge is. You had better get the London address and wire her, Bunny. I, for my part, will try to trace the missing luggage.”

Bunny rose at once and went upstairs. She was angry with Brock for becoming involved in an affair so outrageously foreign, and with Sabina for crossing his path at such a moment. It was possible, of course, that the girl had invented the whole thing, either to make an impression or for uglier reasons of her own, but when she stood beside the bed and looked down at the small, pointed face with its delicate bones, Bunny found it difficult to preserve her suspicions. The child was painfully thin in the bright light of morning and when she opened her eyes they held apology and acute embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry to be such a nuisance,” she said. “I think I could get up and get dressed now, though. I haven’t been sick for a long time.”

“Not until the doctor has seen you. He’ll be here this morning,” Bunny replied, but without sympathy.

Sabina was conscious of a new resentment behind the woman’s precise manner.

“I had better go back to London and Marthe,” she said with an air of defeat.

“Without a return ticket or any money?”

“I’d forgotten. Where should I inquire to try to get them back?”

“Mr. Brockman is doing it for you. In the meantime he thinks we should let this Marthe know where you are. Will you let me have her full name and address, please?”

“Oh, dear, she will be angry.”

“Did you not think of that when you ran away, my dear?”

“Oh, yes, but it seemed worth it then for a—a few days’ freedom.”

“It is never worth upsetting other people and causing anxiety,” Bunny observed in her best lecture manner. “If she has been left in charge while your aunt is abroad it was hardly kind or thoughtful to think only of yourself, was it?”

“No, I suppose not, only—”

“Well, I shouldn’t try to think of excuses now. I will do my best to assure the woman you are in good hands. Please give me her name and address.”

Sabina did so humbly. She was oppressed with her own iniquity and the trouble she was causing to strangers. Tante, if she knew, would accuse her of ingratitude, but Tante, if she returned with M. Bergerac, as hoped, could this time be placated. It was foolish, she thought with passing surprise at her own temerity, to run away from a future already accepted.

Bunny observed her dispassionately. The feverish flush which heightened her cheek-bones gave the girl’s face an impression of fragile charm which it had lacked last night, and the rounded forehead was child-like and somehow disarming. In other circumstances, Bunny felt she could have approved, and even been sorry that such an innocent should be sacrificed to the selfish whims of others. She did relax sufficiently to bestow a brief, frosty smile on her guest before leaving her to make the necessary arrangements, but Sabina was not reassured. Bunny did not like her, it was clear, and Mr. Brockman, already regretting his kindly action of yesterday, no doubt, must also be anxious to be rid of any further responsibility. She turned on her side and slipped into a doze until the doctor came.

When Brock returned at lunch-time, having recovered Sabina’s lost property without much trouble, he was greeted by Bunny in a familiar mood.

“You must be prepared, my dear boy, to suffer a little further inconvenience on account of your hasty decision yesterday,” she said. “Dr. Northy says the girl is not fit to travel for a day or two and needs rest and quiet and feeding up. He thinks she has been under an emotional strain and hasn’t had enough to eat. He has a weakness for the very young.”

“So?”

“So, she must remain here, naturally, until she is stronger. But I’m afraid we shall have this woman, Marthe Dupont, to contend with as well. I thought it best to put a call through and explain, rather than send a mystifying telegram. She was very voluble and French, and, I think, highly suspicious. She insists on coming down on the afternoon train and taking charge herself.”

“Oh, Lord, Bunny, I’m sorry,” Brock said, frowning impatiently. “As if you hadn’t got enough on your hands as it is,

but still—the woman’s a trained servant, I gather, perhaps she can relieve you of some of the work.”

“Perhaps,” said Bunny with a dubious smile. “Though, from what I know of other people’s servants, they are seldom anxious to do their share in a strange house. Still, it cannot be helped. She can at least look after the girl and carry up trays.”

Brock frowned again.

“She’s not really ill, is she? After all, this house isn’t a nursing home.”

“No, no—just run down and suffering from a chill. My only regret is that it interferes with your visit. A year is a long time since your last little holiday, and I think you need the rest. Does your leg trouble you much these days?”

“The physical discomfort is less irksome than the spiritual,” he replied impatiently, and she gave him a compassionate glance. “Still hankering for the mountains?” she asked. “Well, they tell us that discipline is good for the soul. You must learn acceptance, Brock.”

His eyes were cold and a little bleak. “Haven’t the last few years taught me that?”

“I’m not sure. There’s been nothing to take the place of your earlier love.”

“Meaning, I suppose, that if I’d found a desirable wife my passion for the mountains would be sublimated?”

She smiled, then compressed her lips.

“I don’t set much store by such loose modern jargon,” she said, “but there are other ways of fulfilling oneself besides climbing unconquerable heights and leading expeditions.”

“You say that rather as if you thought such ambitions were merely an adult form of showing off.”

“Not in your case,” she answered seriously, “not in that of any of the real pioneers, but a physical infirmity should not embitter the spirit. There are other ways of fulfilment.”

He moved abruptly, dragging his stiff limb with unconscious impatience.

“So you said,” he returned shortly, then dismissed the subject altogether. “You don’t have to put up with this Frenchwoman here, you know. We can probably find her a room in the village.”

“She won’t trouble me,” said Bunny serenely. “Also, I think it might be a good opportunity to find out a little more about this matter.”

“With discretion,” Brock said, one eyebrow lifted quizzically. She gave him a reproving look.

“Naturally,” she said. “Only I think you must make your intentions—if indeed you have any—a little clearer to me, first. But that can wait; luncheon, I think, is ready.”

Marthe arrived in the evening and at once made her presence felt in the house. Although she came of peasant stock she had spent all her life in cities, and one glance at the shabby country rectory and the dowdy little woman who greeted her prosaically, although assuring her of propriety, confirmed her worst fears of English discomfort.

She sat in the kitchen drinking, without gratitude, the soup which Bunny had prepared for her, and appraised Brock in silence out of her small, pig-like eyes.

She had been unprepared for Brock, who had met her at the station, and was disturbed to find that he was also stopping in the house. Accustomed to Tante’s sleek, well-tailored escorts, she found nothing to admire in the worn slacks and faded pullover which this tall man wore with the negligent casualness of a peasant, but Sabina, she thought, had led too sheltered a life to be as discerning, and it was possible that an escapade such as last night’s might give her notions which Madame could find very upsetting to her plans.

“You will observe the usual rules in my absence,” Tante had said upon departure. “The child is prepared against eventualities. I want no foolish distractions to interfere now— no adolescent infatuations or imagined friendships. You understand?”

Marthe had understood perfectly. She had not thought, herself, there was danger from outside influences, for Sabina had no opportunities for making friends of her own and, in Marthe’s opinion, no gift for attracting admiration. Yet now, in the space of twenty-four hours, she had run away, ventured into a public-house, and allowed a perfect stranger to take her home for the night.

Marthe’s tightly encased bosom swelled as the enormity of the situation struck her, and the coarse black down on her long upper lip seemed to bristle as she announced suddenly:

“In case Mademoiselle failed to tell you, Monsieur, she is already promised.”

Bunny surveyed the flat, sallow face with distaste, but Brock merely raised his eyebrows and replied mildly.

“Mademoiselle told me several odd things. Perhaps you can explain.”

“I do not know, Monsieur, what Mademoiselle saw fit to tell

you,” Marthe retorted. “But that she is betrothed to a rich gentleman of France is true. Madame Lamb, my employer, is there at this moment concluding the negotiations.” “Negotiations?” repeated Brock.

Marthe gave him an appraising stare. Young, yes, by more mature standards, but too old to conform with a young girl’s first dreams.

“You do not understand such things in this country, she said contemptuously. “But in France these matters are more sensibly arranged. Mademoiselle is to marry a man much respected and well able to provide for her in the largest sense, you understand. Madame, her aunt, does not wish at this delicate state of the
affaire
that there should be—any distractions.”

“And how delicate is the state of the
affaire
?” asked Brock, and Bunny gave him a quick, amused glance.

Marthe put down her empty bowl, and spread knees and hands in a familiar gesture of tolerance.

“It is only a matter of adjustment on both sides,” she said. “But for Mademoiselle, you understand, it is a matter of duty. Madame has chosen the French way of settling the future. Mademoiselle has been brought up in that tradition and she does not, I assure you, wish for anything different.”

Bunny had removed the soup bowl and was washing it up. She turned now to say over her shoulder:

“As you say, we do not understand such things very well in England, but how can you be sure that the method is wise? Miss Lamb is very young. It is possible that she might prefer to choose for herself.”

“And where does it get one?” retorted Marthe with sardonic amusement. “Does one know at so tender an age what one wants? Are
you
happier for making your own choice, Madame?”

It was a shot in the dark, Bunny supposed, recognising the ridicule, but with the knowledge that her own marriage had come too late in life to alter her obvious spinster status in anything but name, she had no reply.

“Mrs. Fennell is your hostess—personalities are not required of you. It would be as well, I think, if you went upstairs to Mademoiselle, and refrained, equally, from upsetting her unduly. She is not well, and needs rest and quiet for the next day or so.”

Brock had spoken rapidly in French, and Marthe stood up instinctively, shocked into servitude as much by his sudden assumption of authority as the surprising flow of perfect

French.

“I did not know you were so familiar with my tongue, Monsieur,” she said ingratiatingly. “You speak as a Frenchman would. It is a pleasure to hear.”

“Mrs. Fennell will take you upstairs,” Brock observed. “In a day or so, we hope both you and Mademoiselle may return to London.”

Bunny took Marthe to Sabina’s room, speaking little on the way. She had taken an instant dislike to the insolent Frenchwoman and hoped it was not merely an insular prejudice. She was a humble creature, and knew only too well the average servant’s opinion of a governess, but that Brock should be dismissed as of no account by this aggressive foreigner was more than she would tolerate. She had been touched and amused when he had asserted himself so unexpectedly.