by Sara Seale
“You are very much afraid for your pickings, aren’t you?” Sabina said, surprised by her own perspicacity.
“Pickings?”
“What you, as well as Tante, hope to make out of my marriage.”
“Now, my cabbage, you are talking nonsense.” Marthe was suddenly ingratiating, as Sabina had often known her be with Tante. “It is of you we think and your future—”
“And M. Bergerac of his house.”
“He has a right to it, mam’zelle—you could not afford to live in one corner of it by yourself.”
Sabina felt suddenly tired and her pleasure in the day’s happenings was utterly quenched. It was very likely, she thought, that when Tante had read Marthe’s interpretation of the situation, a telegram would follow immediately cancelling her letter.
“You must do as you think fit,” she said wearily. “Until I hear differently from Tante I shall remain where I am.”
“You will hear, my child—you will hear very soon,” said Marthe complacently, and tucking her fat chin into her bosom settled at once by the fire for sleep.
Bunny, next door, had heard most of the conversation, and her face was white as Brock came into the room by the garden door.
“That woman is vile, obscene ...” she told him, and recounted most of what she had overheard. “The child was admirable in her replies, but it is wrong that she should have been exposed so long to that filthy mind. Whatever Lucille Faivre’s failings, she is the only relative Sabina has, and for the girl’s sake should be decently whitewashed.”
Brock’s eyes were hard as flints.
“If the woman makes trouble for you—” he began, and she smiled a little shakily.
“Her insults don’t hurt me,” she said. “It’s the trouble she may make for others.”
“For Bergerac?” For a moment the old mockery was back.
“At the moment my concern is more for Sabina,” she replied with something like the familiar reproof.
“The woman knows little of the old affair or she would have talked before,” he said. “Lucille, no doubt, has taken good care to keep forgotten facts to herself. But I won’t have you upset, Bunny. If the offer of your hospitality is going to rebound on yourself, then both she and the girl can go tomorrow.”
“No, no,” she said. “Having overheard that little exchange, I am more than ever anxious to keep the girl until—”
“Until she marries her elderly roue?”
“Until something can be resolved one way or the other,” she retorted stubbornly.
Brock smiled, but he was not smiling when he woke Marthe in the next room and told her curtly that she could pack her bags.
“But monsieur, I cannot leave before Madame gives me instructions,” she whined, resolving to take it out of Sabina, who, she could only suppose, had run to him with complaints.
“Then I will telegraph Madame this evening,” he replied.
“You will telegraph?” she repeated, her small eyes narrowing.
“On Mrs. Fennell's behalf, naturally. She does not care to have you under her roof any longer in the circumstances. It is not Mademoiselle who repeated your conversation. It was overheard by Mrs. Fennell.”
A dull colour stained her flat cheekbones.
“It is easy to see that you and Madame have misled Mademoiselle—and Madame Lamb, also,” she said with a return to insolence.
“You will keep a civil tongue in your head,” he returned sharply. “I know your kind, Marthe—grasping, loyal when it suits you for what you can get out of a bargain, but with no real consideration for anyone other than Marthe Dupont. You doubtless have your uses for Madame Lamb but you have none at all for me, or for Madame your hostess. You may stay the night since it is getting late, but you will have your things packed in readiness. The reply to my telegram will be here before morning.”
The whole conversation had been conducted in French and, for the second time since meeting him, she was shocked into silence and the instinctive knowledge that for all her disparagement he was someone to be reckoned with. He did not wait for any argument, nor, clearly, did he expect it. She pulled the black wool shawl more tightly about her shoulders and shuffled upstairs to do her packing.
Sabina was much subdued by Marthe’s uncompromising attitude. She knew nothing of Brock’s intervention, but if she had it would have made little difference. It seemed only too probable that Marthe had made the most of a very nebulous situation and Tante, with the Bergerac money almost within her grasp, would take no chances.
She went out to the garden, avoiding the little graveyard, which she was not yet used to as part of the rectory s attractions, and came upon Willie Washer tending a compost heap. He did not see her and was capering about on the graves chanting:
Hinty, minty cutry, corn,
Apple seed and apple thorn Wire, briar, timber lock,
Three geese in a flock. . .
She drew nearer, careful to make no noise, fascinated by this new version of the singing rhymes she had known in childhood. Willie’s gentle face when he thought he was unobserved had a strange aliveness, and his ungainly limbs only the awkward uncoordination of a very young child’s. One flew east, and one flew west,
One flew over the cuckoo’s nest . . .
He saw her and stopped suddenly, shuffling back to his compost heap with a guilty hunch of the shoulders.
“I don’t know that one, Willie. Is there any more?” Sabina asked, and he grunted something unintelligible.
“There’s a French counting-out rhyme I know,” she said. “Would you like to hear it?” He made no reply, and she began softly:
Un, deux, trois, j’irai dans les bois.
Quatre, cinque, six, chercher des cerises,
Sept, huit, neuf, dans mon panier neuf. . .
“It sounds funny, doesn’t it?”
His attention was captured and he turned his back on the compost heap.
“Maister Brock sometimes talks like that,” he said slowly. “Yes, he speaks French, I know, though I don’t think he’d bother himself much about silly rhymes.”
“Silly Willie ... Silly Willie Washer ...” he muttered to himself suddenly, and Sabina knew he must have been taunted with that remark sometime or another.
“No, Willie, you’re not, ” she said with warmth, “and you knock anyone down who says so!”
He grinned, revealing a broken tooth in an otherwise perfect mouth.
“I do,” he said, suddenly delighted. “I goes for’m every time they says it. You’m kind, missy—like Maister Brock—” He advanced and touched her gingerly. “You’m not much more than a little maid, neither. Willie’ll tell ’e some more rhymes some day or t’other.”
“Thank you, Willie,” she said, shy because she felt that he had made a definite concession. “I’m only afraid I may not stay very long.”
“You stay, m’dear,” he said with the soothing assurance of a much older person. “Old rectory don’t see much life now, and me, I like the daid lying quiet over yonder.”
She shivered. The strange affinity of the simple-minded boy with the dead was chilling, or perhaps the afternoon was growing cold.
“I’d like to stay,” she said gently, but he had gone back to his compost heap and forgotten her, and she returned indoors.
Tante’s reply came late that night. It was a long, extravagant telegram but quite clear.
Tell Marthe her letter is received and understood. She should take a holiday at once. I will communicate with her at the old address when I need her. Money will follow if required. My felicitations to my little Sabina for whom my heart is impatient until we meet again.
Marthe, who had been summoned from her room, stood at the foot of the stairs with the telegram in her hands.
“But Madame is mad!” she exclaimed, and sounded really bewildered. “She cannot know what she is doing.”
“You think not?” said Brock politely.
Bunny had seen the surprise on Sabina’s face at the co
ncluding message in her aunt’s telegram and his lips tightened. Lucille Faivre was playing a game which she, at least, understood very well, and she said quietly: “Madame’s instructions seem quite clear. Are you packed, Marthe? There is an early train to London in the morning. Mr. Brockman
will drive you to the station.”
“But I do not understand.”
“You would like a holiday, would you not? You have friends to go to?”
“Naturally—and it is not that I have any wish to remain here, you understand, Madame. I do not care for the country or the inconveniences of old houses.”
“In that case,” said Bunny with finality, “Madame’s wishes should coincide with your own. You will be ready to leave by seven-thirty tomorrow, please.”
“Mademoiselle ...”
Sabina felt pity for the woman’s bewilderment. She herself could not understand this sudden amiability on the part of her aunt. The lamplight distorted their four shadows to grotesque shapes, and, standing in the dim, cold hall of this strange house, she experienced a little stab of distrust.
“Perhaps it would be better if I went, too,” she said and saw Brock’s ironical gaze travel slowly to her face.
“Without seeing Penruthan?” he asked, and she averted her eyes. In the recent happenings of the past few days she had almost forgotten Penruthan.
“Don’t you want to stay?” Bunny said more gently, and Sabina turned with relief from Brock’s uncomfortable gaze. Bunny was familiar and kind in a forgotten nursery fashion, and she had been to a great deal of trouble to secure this little holiday for her.
“Yes, I do,” she said. “It’s only—well, like Marthe, I suppose I don’t quite understand.”
“Me, I understand very well,” Marthe interposed grimly, “It is only Madame who I think has taken leave of her senses. Very well, mam’zelle, you stay, and to you and to Madame I am no longer responsible. If M. Bergerac should later ask the questions, then I am not to blame.”
“M. Bergerac, we understand, is agreeable to the arrangement,” Brock observed smoothly, and the Frenchwoman uttered an exclamation of disgust and started to mount the stairs again.
Sabina watched the squat, angry figure ascending alone and tenderness suddenly flooded her face. Marthe was coarse and grasping and often not very kind, but she had been the familiar bulwark of years. Sabina ran up the stairs behind her and put an arm round the woman’s shoulders.
“Marthe .” she said softly, but Marthe shook her off with uncaring impatience and proceeded on her way to bed.
“Well,” said Brock with an impassive shrug. “It never pays to squander compassion. Now that little matter is settled, let’s return to the fire.”
Sabina was awake early the next morning listening for sounds of departure in the house. She heard the luggage being brought down and later Marthe’s heavy footsteps passed her door but did not pause.
Was she going without saying good-bye, Sabina wondered, hurt by the thought of such indifference. She flung back the bedclothes and, shivering in the cold of early morning, reached quickly for dressing-gown and slippers. She could not let Marthe go without bidding her Godspeed.
Brock and the two women were standing in the hall and they turned to watch her as she ran down the stairs, her hair flying. Bunny, who cherished memories of the pictures of her youth, thought she looked like the young Queen Victoria upon her accession as she stood at the foot of the stairs in her long robe, her eyes wide with questioning.
Marthe!” she cried. “Were you going without saying good-bye?”
“There is no need to say anything, mam’zelle. You have made your choice,” the Frenchwoman replied sullenly.
“But it’s only for a short time,” Sabina said. “And I, at any rate, would like to say au revoir. ”
Marthe shrugged and Brock, who already had the front door open, observed that there was no time for farewells; they would miss the train. The hall was very cold, for fires had not yet been lighted for the day, and Bunny said:
“Go back to bed, dear child. You may take cold again after the chill.”
“Marthe ...” Sabina said again, and her voice was coaxing. “You will send some clothes for me, won’t you? And a little money?”
“The money is Madame your aunt’s affair. I have nothing but what she chooses to send.”
Sabina tried to make a joke of it.
“But we always live on your savings till Tante returns— you know we do.”
“This time you must make other arrangements. Goodbye, mam’zelle,” Marthe replied, and left, without adding anything more.
Bunny glanced curiously at Sabina’s stricken face as Brock slammed the door behind him. It surely was not possible that the girl could have regrets for this unpleasant woman’s departure.
“Marthe is not very nice, I know,” Sabina said as though Bunny had spoken her thoughts aloud, “but, you see, to me she’s familiar, and one misses familiar things.”
“Well, I hope that my company and Brock’s may compensate for that,” Bunny returned a little dryly. “Personally, I do not think that any young girl should be left in the charge of such a woman.”
“She’s very loyal to Tante, really, and she’s been our standby for years. I wish she had come to say good-bye to me, though,” Sabina said.
“Well, go back to bed and I’ll bring you a cup of tea,” Bunny said. “This house is very chilly before the fires are lighted.”
Sabina went back to her room and stood for a moment at the window, looking out on the bleak countryside. It was a grey day, and the chill of a late dawn still lay over the neglected garden and the graves beyond. It was not surprising, she thought, that Marthe had disliked the place. Sabina climbed gratefully into bed and reflected for the first time upon the comfort of constant hot water and fires that warmed at the touch of a switch.
When Bunny came up with the tea she glanced shrewdly at her guest’s disconsolate face and observed:
“Have you changed your mind already about the rectory, Sabina? We live very plainly here, and there is little in the way of amusement.”
Sabina coloured, feeling that she had been caught out in ingratitude.
“Oh, no,” she said quickly. “It’s most kind of you to have me, and I—I expect when the sun comes out the country will look quite different.”
Even as she spoke she remembered Brock telling her that other day that you could see the first hint of spring in the colours of the moor.
“I expect it wants knowing—the moor, I mean,” she added. Bunny smiled.
“Some never come to know it,” she said. “The moor accepts and rejects as it chooses.”
“Like Mr. Brockman,” said Sabina, sipping her tea.
“Brock? Yes, perhaps you’re right. He was bred on the moor, so perhaps there’s an affinity.”
“But Cornwall’s no longer his home, is it?”
“Not now, but Brock’s had many homes in many lands. His business takes him far afield.”
Sabina did not ask what Brock’s business might be and Bunny did not tell her. She said instead, nodding to the photographs round the walls:
“Do you get tired of looking at them?”
“No—oh no, I love them. Sometimes I make up stories about them.”
“That’s fortunate, for Brock wants you to keep his room while you’re here.”
Sabina looked surprised and then embarrassed.
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly do that,” she said. “All his own things are here, aren’t they? Besides, he must miss his mountains.”
“Well, you must settle that between the two of you, but personally I think it mightn’t be a bad thing if Brock was separated from his mountains for a time. It’s no good hankering after what you can no longer have.”
“Does his stiff leg mean that he can never climb again?” asked Sabina.
“Oh, yes. Climbing was finished for him some time ago — long enough for him to have learnt resignation, anyway,” said Bunny.
; Sabina’s eyes rested with gentle thoughtfulness on a magnificent photograph of the Matterhorn.
“But do you think one ever learns that?” she asked. “I mean, for someone who has known and conquered the heights, a physical handicap must seem like an insult.”
Bunny looked at her with surprise.
“How should you know that?” she said. “It is what he has tried to make me understand.”
“And you cannot?”
“Not entirely. It has always seemed to me that to resent an infirmity to such a degree is an admission of failure. One should be made strong by misfortune; one should have complete freedom of spirit.”
“Not at first,” Sabina said. “Not until there’s something else.”
Bunny looked at her with humility. How did she know, this ignorant child? How should she understand with such simplicity the truth which Bunny had been trying to preach for years? But already the awareness had gone from the girl’s face. She drew her knees up to her chin under the bedclothes and her expression was once more that of a shy child.
“How far is Penruthan from here?” she asked.
“Penruthan? Of course, that’s really why you are here, is it
not? It lies over the moor to the west.”
“Is it far? Could I walk there?”
“Oh, yes, if you’re not afraid of exercise, but the going can be rough. Brock should be back in half an hour for breakfast, so you had better get up now. I will put a can of hot water in the bathroom, but the bath water will not be hot, I fear, until the afternoon.”
Bunny picked up the empty cup, automatically straightened Sabina’s underclothes lying neatly folded on a chair, and left the room with no further speech.
After breakfast Sabina helped Bunny with the housework, for Mrs. Cheadle in the kitchen was suffering from her proverbial bad legs and drinking tea in vast quantities until such time when she could, with all honour, repair to her home in the village.