“I do, now.”
“Here, in France, things are different. Girls aren’t allowed to be friends with men. I don’t suppose that Delormes girl has ever been allowed to speak to anything in trousers . . . and she won’t be allowed until she’s safely married to a man chosen by her parents.”
“Yes, it’s true. I was silly.”
“Well, as long as you understand . . .” said Charles.
“Charles,” I said. “Your English is more – more elastic.”
He smiled. “That’s what I want. I still find it difficult to run the words together but I’m determined to learn to speak like an Englishman.”
“I’m determined to learn to speak French like a French girl.”
“Yes, your mother told me that was your ambition. I think——”
“German, too,” I interrupted. “I must be able to talk to you in your own language.”
He looked at me strangely. “Is that the reason?”
The reason seemed obvious – it had been in my mind for months and months – so I didn’t bother to reply.
“We haven’t much time,” I said. “Madame gets up at four . . . and I want to know such a lot of things: where have you come from, Charles? Where are you going?”
“I’ve been at Oxford and I’m on my way to Schloss Roethke. My father wants me to stay there for a while and help to look after the estate.”
“But you’ll come back to Oxford?” I asked anxiously.
“Yes, as soon as I can. Look, Sarah,” he continued, taking a little box out of his pocket. “I’ve got a little birthday present for you. It’s too late for your birthday, I’m afraid, but I wanted to give it to you myself.”
It was a little gold heart, set with pearls, on a thin gold chain.
“Oh, Charles, how lovely! But you shouldn’t——”
“Do you like it?”
“I love it – it’s beautiful! Oh, how kind of you, Charles!”
He fastened it round my neck. “You must wear it under your frock in case Madame sees it and wants to know where you got it,” said Charles, smiling.
“I shall wear it always, night and day, because I love you.”
“Dear little Sarah, I wish you were older.”
“I’m fifteen and a half – nearly.”
“You’re a child. That Delormes girl is grown-up.”
“She’s a year younger than I am!”
“Yes, but she’s years older.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“It’s because you’re English,” said Charles with a sigh.
“But you love me, don’t you?”
“Yes, I love my child . . . and I shall love the woman she is going to be. But it isn’t fair, Sarah. It isn’t fair to you. One of these days you’ll understand what I mean. Perhaps you’ll meet someone nicer than me and——”
“There isn’t anyone nicer than you in the world!”
“You’ve seen such a lot of the world, haven’t you?”
Suddenly a thought came into my mind. “Charles, perhaps you – perhaps you’ll meet someone else, someone pretty and – and charming and——” I stopped. My throat had tightened and I couldn’t go on.
There was a little silence.
“You must go now,” said Charles at last. “It was wrong of me to ask you to come but I had to find out what was the matter. Are they kind to you?”
“Yes. I don’t like it much – I’m longing to go home – but I’ve learnt a lot, not only to speak French.”
“What have you learnt?” he asked, looking at me anxiously.
It was difficult to explain and there was no time to go into details. “Oh, well, I’ve learnt how other people behave and – and quite a lot about vines and – and other things. I’ll tell you to-morrow. You’ll come to-morrow, won’t you?”
“No,” said Charles. “No, we mustn’t do this again. It’s too risky.”
“Oh, please!” I cried. “I haven’t said half the things I want to say. You haven’t told me about Fairfield and how they all were when you saw them. I haven’t thanked you properly for my dear little locket.”
He smiled. “Very well, I’ll be here to-morrow at the same time, but don’t come unless you’re sure it’s perfectly safe. I shall stay in Nivennes to-night and go home to-morrow night. Now you must go, Sarah. Go quickly, it’s almost four o’clock.”
“Couldn’t you – kiss me?”
He hesitated, but I held up my face, so he bent and kissed me very gently on my forehead. “Go quickly,” he repeated.
I turned and ran up the path and round to the back door; through the kitchen and up the stairs. When I opened the door of my room Yvonne was there; sitting on the bed and waiting for me with an unpleasant smile on her round fat face.
I stood in the doorway, breathless, and gazed at her in dismay.
“Maman will be interested to hear what I have seen this afternoon,” said Yvonne with a self-satisfied air.
“You followed me!”
“But yes . . . and I saw you with your lover.”
“He’s – he’s my friend,” I told her.
“Oui, ton cher ami,” agreed Yvonne.
The word was the same; I didn’t know how to explain.
She got up and came towards me. “That is a very pretty little locket. It is new, perhaps? I have not seen it before.”
I put up my hand and discovered that the locket had slipped out from its hiding-place under the neck of my frock. “It is a birthday present,” I told her.
“How pretty!” said Yvonne admiringly. “It is gold with real pearls. Look, Sarah, if you will give me the locket I might forget what I saw this afternoon. My memory is very convenient.”
“No, no, no!”
“Such a pretty locket! Yes, I am sure it would make me forget.”
“No!” I cried, slipping it under my frock.
“Well, in that case I must tell maman——”
The expression on her sly face gave me the horrors. “I shall tell Madame myself!” I cried. “Yes, I shall tell her exactly what happened. He wanted to give me a message from my father so he asked me to meet him at the gate.”
“Maman will not believe that story.”
“She must believe it because it’s true!”
“What must I believe?” asked Madame. She had approached silently in her felt slippers and stood in the doorway, looking at us with a grim smile.
Her sudden appearance startled me and I was dumb, searching vainly for words.
Yvonne was not dumb. She burst into a torrent of explanations: she had watched Sarah at déjeuner and had seen Sarah’s impatience – every few moments Sarah had glanced at the clock – it was obvious that Sarah had a rendezvous. Then from her window she had seen Sarah running down the path to the front gate – running quickly – so she had followed, but when she got to the gate there was no sign of Sarah. No sign at all; Sarah had vanished. Then she had heard voices, talking very quietly, and, looking through a gap in the hedge, she had seen Sarah and her lover sitting on the bank together. Oh, very close together, his arm was round Sarah’s waist!
Yvonne had been so horrified at this dreadful sight that she had run all the way back to the house without stopping.
“Incroyable!” cried Madame, throwing her hands in the air. “Oh, what wickedness!”
“It isn’t true!” I exclaimed.
“But I saw you!” declared Yvonne.
“I mean I met Charles because he wanted to give me a message from my father. My father asked him to see me and talk to me. He is a friend of my family. We have known him for years . . .” I went on explaining – or trying to explain – but I was so upset that most of the French I had learnt had vanished from my mind. I found myself thinking in English and translating the words haltingly. Perhaps I could have explained the matter in my own language – or perhaps not. The trouble was that Madame’s whole outlook was different . . . and I knew from the beginning that it was hopeless, for of course I was
in the wrong. It was true that I had been deceitful; it was true that I had slipped out of the house and run to meet Charles; it was true that we had sat on the bank together and talked in low voices.
Madame scarcely bothered to listen; she didn’t believe a word I said. Then, when my explanations faltered into silence, she began to rage at me, working herself up into a fury. She told me what she thought of me in plain unvarnished language; she blamed herself for taking an English girl under her roof – everyone knew that the English were immoral. They were depraved and sex-mad. It was dreadful to think that her innocent daughter had been exposed to such a wicked influence . . . but Yvonne should be exposed to it no longer. No, not a moment longer. . . .
It was a terrible scene. I felt dazed and bewildered, battered by the storm of words. I had been completely ignorant of “the facts of life” but when Madame had finished with me I was no longer ignorant. The shock was frightful; I knew now what Charles had meant when he called me his “child.”
“I want to go home!” I cried.
“Yes, indeed you shall go! Your father must come and fetch you instantly.”
“I’ll go to-morrow! If you send me to the station I can go by myself.”
“Petite imbécile!” said Madame scornfully. “You cannot travel alone. You will remain here in your room until your father can make arrangements for you to be taken away.” She signed to Yvonne and they went out together; the door was shut and the key turned in the lock.
I flung myself down on the bed and wept bitterly. I wept because I was horrified and bewildered and frightened. Yes, I was frightened; never before in all my life had I seen anyone in a furious rage. I had been sheltered and cared for; I wasn’t used to roughness and violence . . . and the dreadful things she had told me had opened a pit full of horrors before my astonished eyes.
After a while my sobs grew less and I began to think of father and mother. What would they do when they heard I had disgraced them? What would they say? They would be angry, of course, but all the same I wanted to go home; I wanted to go now – this minute – not wait until I was fetched.
Presently there was the sound of the key being turned in the lock and Suzette came in with a tray.
“There is trouble downstairs; you are everything that is wicked,” said Suzette cheerfully. “But do not distress yourself; I do not blame you! I, too, have a cher ami and meet him in the vineyard when the work is done. She would be angry if she knew but she does not know so she is not angry—voilà tout! She said you were not to have any supper but Monsieur came to the kitchen and told me to bring you food . . . so dry your eyes, Mamselle, and sit up and eat it while it is hot. Look, it is the wing of a chicken and some salad!”
“How kind of you, Suzette!”
“You have been kind to me; you do not treat me like a machine that is good for nothing but washing dishes and cleaning lamps. I shall be sorry when you go away to-morrow.”
“To-morrow? But Madame said——”
“I heard Madame arranging it with Madame Monnier. She was speaking on the telephone. Madame Monnier is going to Paris to-morrow and will take you with her in the train; after that – I do not know.”
I didn’t care what was to happen “after that.” All I wanted was to get away from La Touche as soon as possible. I had my tickets and I could go home by myself.
Suzette put the tray across my knees. She said in a low voice, “Listen, Mamselle, I would take a message for you. He is staying at Hôtel de la Paix in Nivennes.”
For a moment I hesitated. Then I decided that there had been too much deceit already . . . besides, Charles might do something reckless when he heard what had happened; he might come to the house and try to explain . . . and that would cause more trouble! No, it was better to leave things as they were and go home to-morrow as had been arranged.
Perhaps the chief reason why I didn’t want to send Charles a message was because I had suddenly grown up and wasn’t a “child” any longer. I would have to get used to my new knowledge before I could meet Charles again; perhaps I would never be able to meet him without feeling shy. I could never again throw myself into his arms and tell him I loved him.
My journey home was uneventful. Madame Monnier took me to Paris and from there I travelled to London by myself. I had my tickets, and I had travelled by myself before, so it was quite easy. Even the crossing from Calais to Dover didn’t bother me for everyone was kind and helpful.
Father met me in London and we hugged each other tightly. I didn’t know whether he had been told why I had been sent home . . . and he didn’t mention the subject until we were sitting in the train on our way to Fairfield. The compartment was empty except for ourselves so we could talk comfortably.
“Sarah, what on earth happened?”
“Didn’t Madame Delormes tell you?”
“She tried to,” said father, smiling. “She spoke to me on the phone but I couldn’t understand a word. Then she got a friend to speak to me. I don’t know who it was but he spoke a little English and I gathered that you had met a man at the gate and had sat on a bank with him and ‘talked in low voices for a whole hour.’ I didn’t worry about that, of course; all I wanted to know was when and how you were coming home.”
“You didn’t worry?” I asked in surprise.
“I know you,” he explained. “So I knew it couldn’t be true.”
“It was true, Father. I slipped out of the house in the afternoon while they were all resting and we sat together on the bank and had a long talk——”
“Who?” exclaimed father in alarm.
“Charles, of course! I thought you knew.”
“Suppose you begin at the beginning and tell me the whole story?”
I took a long breath and told him everything as clearly as I could. “That’s what happened,” I said. “I shouldn’t have done it, of course – it was sly and deceitful – but I had to see Charles.”
“It was my fault,” said father. “It was I who asked Charles to have a chat with you and make sure you were all right. When first you went to Nivennes your letters were quite cheerful but afterwards we got rather a miserable letter so we were a little worried. It seemed a good opportunity to find out through Charles if all was well. It never occurred to me that you wouldn’t be allowed to speak to him. I shall write to Madame Delormes and explain.”
“She doesn’t understand a word of English.”
“No matter,” said father cheerfully. “I shall write the letter in English and you can translate it into French. It will be good practice for you.”
I began to giggle hysterically . . . and I couldn’t stop.
He took my hand and held it firmly. “I believe you’ve been worrying, you foolish child. Did you think I would be annoyed with you?”
Chapter Thirteen
It was lovely to be home . . . so lovely that it was almost worth while to have been miserable at Nivennes. It was September; mother had gone to Craignethan and the two boys had taken the pup and were touring in Devonshire, so we were a small party.
Father wrote a letter to Madame Delormes; it was a good letter, polite but firm. I translated it and took it to Mademoiselle Bénet and she corrected a few small mistakes. She had heard Madame’s account of the affair so I was glad of an excuse to show her father’s version. I hadn’t intended to tell her anything more about the Delormes family but she insisted, explaining that she had another pupil who wanted a month’s holiday in a French household and she didn’t want to recommend the Delormes unless everything was satisfactory.
When I told her about Yvonne’s deceitfulness she looked at me rather strangely and said, “That accounts for your behaviour, Sarah. Deceitfulness is infectious.”
I saw what she meant and I wondered if it were true. Had my own standard of behaviour been lowered by contact with Yvonne?
“Think about it seriously,” said Mademoiselle Bénet. “You have seen that deceit can cause infinite trouble so be careful to avoid it in future.”
; I nodded thoughtfully.
“And another thing,” added Mademoiselle Bénet. “You must not make the mistake of saying to yourself, ‘All French people are like that.’ There are bad people and good people in my country – as there are in every country under the sun.”
“Oui, c’est entendu,” I replied. Her warning shouldn’t have been necessary . . . but, strangely enough, it was.
The little presents I had brought were very acceptable: father liked his bear, and put it on the chimney-piece in his study, and Minnie was delighted with her gaily-coloured scarf.
Minnie wanted to know about my experiences and asked searching questions about the manners and the customs of the country. I told her how Madame had done her marketing, and about Suzette – and all the work she did – and I told her about Yvonne’s deceitfulness and her passion for sticky sweets. If I had told Minnie that they filed their teeth into points to make themselves look fierce she would have believed it.
I had to be tactful about the French dishes which I had learned to prepare, but Minnie was eager to try them. I showed her how to cook vegetables with very little water and lots of butter, and when she saw the result she was quite pleased and consented to do them “the French way.” It was a great improvement on her usual method of boiling cabbages and brussels sprouts into a green poultice.
Lottie and I had a very happy time together. She was even prettier now than when she was a small child and I found her a delightful companion. Mrs. Meldrum had given her a guitar and she was learning to play it; she practised for an hour every morning, sitting on a cushion on the floor.
I discovered that father hadn’t told Lottie why I had come home from Nivennes, but had just said I was unhappy there . . . which was perfectly true as far as it went. It was kind of father but I decided that I should like her to know so I told her the whole story myself.
We had taken a picnic tea up to the field and were sitting on the stones under the oak-tree.
Lottie listened to my tale in silence and then exclaimed, “The old woman must have been crazy! Why shouldn’t you talk to Charles?”
Sarah Morris Remembers Page 10