by Sara Seale
“Why do you not let the woman do this work?” she asked, regarding her hostess’s efforts with a critical eye.
“This is a big house and she has enough to do in the time,” Bunny replied, striving to be pleasant. “Besides, I don’t care to idle, and it keeps my hand in for the summer.”
Marthe grunted, a comment very French and very ambiguous, and Bunny felt bound to explain:
“In the summer I take a few paying guests; it all helps with the living expenses. Of course in the winter months no one comes to such a remote spot, and it’s then I like to catch up with household chores.”
“This an ’otel!” exclaimed Marthe with such scorn that Bunny had to smile.
“Well, scarcely that,” she said. “I can only take two or three people at a time and we are too much off the beaten track for casual holiday-makers.”
“And Monsieur, your husband, he reconciles such matters with his work in the parish?”
“My husband is dead,” said Bunny quietly. The woman probably did not mean to be impertinent; she merely had the insatiable curiosity of her kind.
“Pardon ...” Marthe muttered, then added irrepressibly: “But I see no church, only the graves which, look you, cannot be healthy so near at hand.”
“The church is modern and up on the hill,” Bunny replied. “After my husband died it was more convenient to build a smaller house close by for the new rector. The cemetery is here, yes, but in the Middle Ages the church was here, too. You can still see the ruins from the upstairs windows. Perhaps you would be kind enough to give me a hand with this bookcase,
Marthe. It is rather heavy to move alone.”
The woman got up reluctantly. She did not see why M. Brockman, who appeared to have so much time on his hands, should not be summoned to make himself useful in such matters, or the imbecile boy who worked in the garden, but she half-heartedly helped Bunny shift the bookcase away from the wall and stood watching while a long-handled brush was thrust behind it to remove cobwebs.
“He is not strong, M. Brockman?” she hazarded.
“Perfectly, to the best of my knowledge.”
“But one cannot help noticing the leg—it is an old war wound, hein?”
“No. It was an accident.”
“Tiens ... And Monsieur’s business—it brings him here much?”
Bunny withdrew the brush and dusted her hands on her overall. She tied her head up in an unbecoming handkerchief while she was working and under it her face looked prim and pinched and rather absurd.
“Mr. Brockman is on holiday,” she observed discouragingly. “You should ask him these things yourself, Marthe, if you are interested.”
Marthe grunted again and returned to her seat by the fire, leaving her hostess to replace the bookcase as best she might. She recognised and resented the snub, knowing, as did Bunny, that she would not have the temerity to question Brock. She despised his shabbiness and the unconcern with which he would help with the evening wash-up, but there was a quality about him that made her uneasy. She kept a civil tongue when those frosty, dispassionate eyes were upon her, and when he spoke to her sharply in her own tongue she was not so sure in what category he might be placed.
“M. le docteur gives permission for us to return soon, yes?” she said, but Bunny shook her head.
“Miss Lamb is only getting up tomorrow for the first time,” she said. “You will have to be patient for another few days, Marthe.”
Bunny knew that Dr. Northy, who had also taken a dislike to Marthe, was prolonging the period of convalescence more than was necessary, but she had herself conceived a fondness for Sabina in the last few days. She did not care for the way Marthe spoke to the child, nor did she approve of the friendless life of neglect she appeared to lead in London.
Sabina had not asked for Brock, but on the third day, when her temperature was down again, he had gone upstairs to see her. She welcomed him doubtfully, very conscious that she had turned him out of his room for too long, and his expression as he stood at the foot of the bed, regarding her, was not reassuring.
“I’m afraid I’ve been a lot of trouble,” she said, and as he did not reply, fidgeted nervously with the ribbons of her bed jacket, very conscious all at once of the alien masculine presence by her bed.
He continued to observe her, his hands in the pockets of his old slacks, and as the colour began to mount in her cheeks, he smiled suddenly, altering the whole expression of his face.
“Was I staring rudely?” he mocked gently. “It’s the first time I’ve seen you properly—by daylight, I mean.”
He came and sat on the side of the bed, and observed, as Bunny had done, how sharply defined were her bones and how light and immature she looked against the pillows.
“How do you feel?” he asked, frowning. “Northy doesn’t seem very satisfied with you.”
She smiled shyly.
“That’s only because he thinks I’m too thin.”
“You are—much too thin. You look as though you need country air and a lot of feeding.”
“I’ve always been thin,” she said apologetically. “I expect it’s because I’ve just finished growing, but Tante says it s unbecoming. I hope she hasn’t given M. Bergerac a— a false impression. The photograph she sent him a little while ago wasn’t a bit like me.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“No. It was flattering of course, and sort of vague and smudgy in an artistic kind of way, and Marthe had dressed my hair very elaborately.”
She was talking too much, she knew, but she was nervous, and as she saw his eyes travel to her hair, which lay soft and childishly straight on her shoulders, she put up a hand to administer an ineffectual twist to the ends.
“So you weren’t inventing, after all, he said. M. Bergerac is real and you are prepared to go through with this marriage to oblige your aunt.”
“Marthe told you, I suppose.”
“Oh, yes, Marthe made things very clear. Are you going to like living in France with a stranger?”
“I don’t know, but Tante says that part of the Alpes Maritimes is very beautiful.”
“It has its charm, certainly.”
“Is it like that?” She nodded to the photographs on the wall, and he smiled.
“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 reconcil
e 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?