The Truant Spirit

by Sara Seale

  “No one will,” she said gently. “Take your boots off, Willie, and sit by the fire. Mrs. Fennell will let you have some stew later. Doesn’t it smell good?”

  “ ’Tes cursed,” he said again, and, turning, shuffled out of the kitchen with never another word.

  Sabina reported the conversation to Bunny as they ate their luncheon, but Bunny, instead of smiling, looked slightly worried.

  “Willie has not had one of these spells for a long time,” she said. “I wonder if I ought to go down to the village and have a word with that old aunt he lives with.”

  “Oh, Bunny, not on a day like this!” protested Sabina. “You’ll get blown off your feet. Willie often talks a little strangely—it’s nothing to worry about, surely?”

  “Perhaps not, but all the same—it was a pity you persuaded him to take you to Penruthan, Sabina. It’ s probably started the old train of thought again.”

  “That it really should belong to Brock? But that’s very natural, Bunny. He’s fond of Brock, and you said yourself he had probably got confused with the old history. I believe he thinks Madame Jouvez and Madame Bergerac are the same person, though he can’t ever have known Madame Bergerac, can he?”

  “No. He was a baby when she died, still—”

  Sabina experienced a moment of disquiet; it was unlike Bunny to fuss. Still, the mishaps of the morning had probably upset her and she was on edge.

  “Wait till Brock comes back. If you still think it’s necessary to go to the village, he can take you in the car,” Sabina said, and a small spring of excitement bubbled up inside her as she glanced at the clock. In another hour he would be here and she would know again the assuring touch of his hands and the hard pressure of his lips.

  Bunny saw the ardent happiness in the girl’s young face and smiled.

  “It stopped raining. Go down to the gates and watch for him when the time comes,” she said.

  But he took her unaware just the same. His train must have been early or she late in starting, and she did not hear the sound of the taxi in the high wind that was blowing. She had taken the short cut through the churchyard, lingering to read the epitaphs on the graves, and he came up behind her, making her start violently as he took her without warning by the shoulders.

  For a moment her old distaste for the graveyard returned in superstitious force, and as she looked up into the dark, forbidding face with the saturnine lift to the eyebrows, there was a hint of panic in her eyes.

  “Well!” he said with the remembered irony. “They say that Satan’s always behind you. You’re looking at me as if you think I’m the old gentleman himself!”

  “You frightened me,” she said, “and—you do look rather like Satan among all these creepy tombstones.”

  “The devil, I imagine, would fight shy of churchyards,” he replied dryly. “Is that the only greeting you have for me, Miss Lamb?”

  She had forgotten how much at a disadvantage he could make her feel. During the past week she had remembered only that he had wanted her, that whatever the limitations of his own more experienced feelings might be, for her he had filled a niche which had been empty since childhood.

  “Are you well?” she asked shyly. “Did you have a pleasant journey?”

  “How very correct and polite! Bunny would approve,” he said, then put a hand under her chin, tilting up her face and his eyes were suddenly tender.

  “I believe you’re shy,” he said softly as he kissed her. The wind swooped between the graves, flattening her against him and she suddenly flung her arms about his neck, yielding with a passion that had desire only for the moment.

  “That’s better,” he said. “I was beginning to think you had thought better of your decision of a week ago and were hankering for the unknown charms of M. Bergerac.”

  “Am I wise to forget him?” she laughed, half angry that he was still at his old trick of dragging Rene Bergerac into the most promising occasions.

  “Perhaps not,” he replied, a hint of laughter in his voice. “How good your hair smells. What have you been doing to it?” “Only washing it. It was full of soot and smoke because this wind has brought disaster to the living-room chimney, and Bunny has broken her pince-nez and is very upset.”

  “Poor Bunny. We had better go in and soothe her.” They walked back to the house, and Sabina saw that Brock was using a stick for the first time.

  “Is your leg worse?” she asked quickly.

  “Oh, no,” he replied. “But a little support speeds up progress. I can’t depend on that willing but not very adequate shoulder of yours all the time, can I?”

  She knew he was thinking of that slow, painful walk home in the snow and said, because sooner or later such things must be said between them:

  “Bunny once told me you were afraid of pity. To help someone you—you love is not pity, and the helper shouldn’t be insulted by such compassion. My shoulder will always be there, Brock.”

  He did not answer sharply, as he would have done before, but said with grave attention:

  “I know, Sabina. The fact that I can accept your compassion with humility should tell you a great deal.”

  The wind had whipped colour into her thin cheeks and she looked up at him with inquiring and suddenly brilliant eyes, but he only smiled and, opening the rectory door, stood aside to let her pass in.

  Bunny gave Brock her usual warm but restrained greeting, but she still seemed put out by the small household mishaps and apologised repeatedly for the enforced use of the parlour, which had no comfortable chairs.

  “This is unlike you, Bunny,” Brock said at last. “You and I have picnicked in more uncomfortable situations than this. If it’s only the chairs that worry you, we can shift something in from the other room.”

  “I’m being foolish,” she apologised. “I think this high wind must have made me nervous, and I’m a little anxious about Willie.”

  “Willie Washer? What’s he been up to?”

  “Nothing, I hope, but I think he’s working up for one of his spells. Sabina persuaded him to take her across the moor to Penruthan yesterday, and I’m afraid it upset him.”

  Brock’s cool blue eyes went to Sabina’s face.

  “A final check-up before throwing away your inheritance?” he inquired, and she flushed.

  “No,” she replied. “And I’m not throwing away an inheritance. Since I’m not marrying M. Bergerac it’s mine whether I like it or not.”

  “True,” he observed. “And what will you do with it?” “Willie thinks I should give it to you,” she said, and Bunny made a small gesture of impatience.

  “This whole affair has gone far enough, Brock,” she said. “Now you’ve presumably settled your—your business, we should all know where we stand.”

  “Is that what’s making you jumpy?” he asked. “All in good time, my dear; I’ve only just walked into the house.” He began to fill a pipe, and as the front-door bell rang Bunny exclaimed crossly:

  “Now who can that be in the middle of the afternoon?”

  “I’ll go,” said Sabina. “It might be news of Willie. There was, indeed, no reason why there should be news of Willie, who had been talking to her in the kitchen only at lunchtime, but Sabina thought it best to try to get rid of the unwanted caller if she could. It was no time to be forced into a discussion on mundane affairs with Mrs. Weymouth or one of the ladies of the parish.

  But the visitor was not of the parish. She had tied a chiffon scarf over her flaming hair to protect it from the wind, but even with her back to the door that tall, elegant figure was unmistakable.

  “What can I do for you, Madame Jouvez?” Sabina asked quietly.

  “I have come to see Blaireau. I am expected, yes?” Jeanne Jouvez said.

  “I don’t think so, but Brock has only just arrived.” “No matter. We are old friends, and Madame la gouvernante would not refuse me a moment’s hospitality. This is her house, I think?”

  Although the last sentence was phrased as a question, Sabina k
new that it was she who was being put in her place.

  “Of course,” she said. “Will you come in?” she had no chance to warn Bunny, for Jeanne was close on her heels.

  She could catch the scent of her heavy French perfume as she opened the parlour door.

  “Madame Jouvez seemed to think she was expected,” Sabina said, and saw the almost comic outrage in Bunny’s mild eyes as she bowed stiffly to the newcomer.

  “Madame ... ” murmured Jeanne in acknowledgment, “and Blaireau ... It is an inconvenient moment, yes? You would prefer that I call another time?”

  Brock stood, his pipe in his hand, and looked at her steadily without moving. If he was pleased, annoyed, or merely surprised, he gave no sign. Only his eyebrows lifted a little higher at the corners and his eyes were frosty and intensely blue.

  “I didn’t know you were still in England, Jeanne,” he said. “Let me introduce Mrs. Fennell and Miss Sabina Lamb.”

  “Mademoiselle and I have already met—at Penruthan,” Jeanne said, seating herself unasked in a chair by the fire.

  “Penruthan! ”

  “She did not tell you?”

  “There’s scarcely been time,” said Sabina quickly, noticing Brock’s frown.

  “And you talked of—?” he inquired with a dispassionate courtesy which carried a warning note of steel.

  “Of many things, Cherie,” Jeanne replied looking up through her lashes. “Mademoiselle is, I think, a little confused in her notions.”

  “I thought I had at least made matters clear to you when we met,” Brock said, and Sabina, knowing now that the woman had simply come to make mischief, broke gently into the little exchange.

  “You don’t need to enlighten my ignorance, madame,” she said. “It was quite clear that there had been a—a fondness between you and Brock in the past, but that has nothing to do with me.”

  “This is embarrassing!” Bunny exclaimed. It was long past tea-time and growing dark, but she had no intention of extending her hospitality further. “Sabina, I think it would be better if you and I let these two settle their—differences in private. Come, my dear.”

  “No, no, no,” said Jeanne, but the amusement in her eyes held a glint of spite. “I would not put you to an inconvenience, madame; besides, there are matters we should all discuss.”

  “I think not,” said Brock with icy politeness. “These matters, as you call them, no longer concern you, and I prefer to do things in my own way.”

  “Very possibly,” she retorted, undisturbed. “But you, my

  friend, cannot play one woman off against another and keep them both.”

  “You and I settled that question long ago,” he said wearily. “I have never tried to keep you, Jeanne; marriage didn’t enter into our scheme of things.”

  “Perhaps not in yours,” she snapped with sudden malice. Sabina said gently:

  “It was Rene Bergerac you hoped to marry, so I understood yesterday. I thought I had made it clear that I was no longer in the way.”

  Bunny’s distress was now plain for all to see, and she made a small, futile gesture towards Jeanne.

  “Madame... ” she said, but Jeanne took no notice of her. Her long, brilliant eyes travelled over Sabina’s slender immature body, then she flung back her head and laughed.

  “Oh, my poor innocent!” she said. “So much in love with the good Blaireau, and what will you say when you find how you have been deceived? What will you do when you find that, after all, a heartless man can win in a few short weeks the final seal to a bargain?”

  “I don’t understand you,” said Sabina, moving instinctively nearer to Bunny who put out a distressed hand.

  “No? Well, you have been used very cleverly, ma petite, and I, for one, will have much interest in finding out how far you can be tricked in this affair.”

  Brock had not spoken, and she turned to him suddenly, with an amused air of exasperation.

  “How much longer is this farce to continue, Rene? Until Lucille Lamb returns with the marriage settlement and there is no turning back?”

  There was an instant’s pregnant silence while the wind rattled at the windows and the shabby, old-fashioned furniture and the faded papered walls of the parlour had a moment of unreality.

  “Rene?” said Sabina, her voice sounding curiously loud.

  “Yes, my child,” said Jeanne with a careless snap of the fingers. “It is as well to know which of them you are marrying, for Rene Bergerac and our good Blaireau are one

  and the same person.”

  C HA P T E R T E N

  NOBODY spoke, then Brock knocked out his pipe with a sharp sound of finality and Sabina looked at him.

  “Is that true?” she asked.

  He put his hands in his pockets and surveyed her reflectively. He was neither disconcerted nor in any hurry to offer explanations.

  “Yes,” he replied. “Should it make any difference?”

  “But I don’t understand,” Sabina said. “Why did you call yourself by a different name?”

  “The name happens to be mine,” he said. “I’m old Rene Bergerac’s stepson, of which fact your otherwise careful aunt was apparently unaware. Would you prefer it if I were French?”

  His tone was light and ironical, as if the whole question was of no importance, and Sabina’s young mouth looked suddenly hurt.

  “Did you do it for amusement—to see how far you could upset Tante’s plans before telling me the truth?” she asked.

  “He did it because he knows well his attraction for women and wished to be quite sure of Penruthan,” observed Jeanne, enjoying the situation she had created. “It was not difficult to fall in love with him, was it, mademoiselle? You know nothing of men, my poor child, or the lengths they will go to for something they want. As you suggested yourself, it will have had its amusing side, too.”

  Bunny spoke for the first time, and her voice was a little unsteady.

  “You have done enough damage by your interference, madame. I would be glad if you would go now,” she said.

  “But perhaps I am not ready to leave,” Jeanne retorted with lazy insolence, and Bunny replied:

  “This happens to be my house, and I do not care to have you any longer under my roof.”

  Even Jeanne recognised the old schoolroom authority and rose to her feet without hurry.

  “As you please,” she said with a shrug. “Au ’voir, mademoiselle. Perhaps I have saved you from making a fool of yourself, hein?”

  “You can say the rest to me—outside,” said Brock quite pleasantly, and placing a hand under her elbow thrust her firmly from the room.

  Sabina’s face still had that frozen look of helplessness which Jeanne’s remarks had put there. Seeing it, Bunny said:

  “Don’t take it badly, my dear. She’s gone now. When Brock comes back he will explain things to you.”

  “There’s nothing left to explain, now, is there?” Sabina answered with careful politeness, then the stillness went from her face and gave place to pain and a bitter humiliation.

  “You knew, Bunny,” she accused. “You could have saved me from making a fool of myself, instead of Madame Jouvez, only you didn’t choose. Like Brock, I suppose you wanted to be sure of Penruthan.”

  Bunny’s eyes were suddenly reproving, and she automatically felt for the pince-nez which were normally pinned to her dress.

  “That does not seem logical, dear child,” she observed. “When you came here you were resigned to marrying a man you had never met, knowing the position about Penruthan. The fact that he and Brock are the same person should make things easier, surely? You had not, after all, reckoned on falling in love with Rene Bergerac.”

  “But can’t you see—can’t you see what he’s done to me?”

  “I cannot see, except for the untimely interference of a malicious woman, that it can make the smallest difference. Brock would have told you himself today.”

  Sabina was crying, rubbing the tears from her cheeks and lashes with helpless, im
potent gestures.

  “It was different before,” she said. “But to make me love him, and laugh at me all the time, was—was—”

  Bunny touched her gently.

  “Oh, my dear, that’s not true. I confess at the beginning I had doubts because—well, I’m afraid your aunt had read more into the situation than was warranted. We kept you here because—well, because we thought you deserved a chance of finding your own feet, and then—he fell in love with you.”

  “No. He realised that, as Madame Jouvez said, a heartless man can accomplish more in a few short weeks—when he has someone young and inexperienced to deal with,” said Sabina bitterly.

  Bunny sighed. The young were so headstrong, so ignorant of shades and subtleties.

  “Listen, Sabina—let me tell you something of Brock’s early life,” she said, and stopped automatically to make up the fire. The familiar homely gesture brought fresh tears to Sabina’s eyes and she knelt on the hearth to help.

  “Brock was only three when his mother married M. Bergerac and took him to France. The old man delighted in the child, insisted on giving him his name and, no doubt, spoilt him. Later, when the marriage had not turned out well, Madame Bergerac returned to England to live at Penruthan. I was governess there, and I think the boy, too young to understand his mother’s situation, fretted for the Chateau Berger and his gay, wealthy stepfather. The Brockmans were poor, and Brock and his mother lived in one wing of the house, and she, poor lady, became a recluse with less and less time to give to a growing child. When Brock was older he insisted on spending a portion of the year with his stepfather, who looked on him as his own son, hoping he would follow him in the business. He took pride in being known in France as young Rene Bergerac and when, later, he came into the business it was quite natural and better for trade to be known by his stepfather’s famous name. There are probably few people in France who remember that Brock is not old Rene’s son, and when he is over here— well, he finds it restful to be himself and revert to his proper name. You see, he realised too late that all his boyhood he had sided against his mother, and her action in leaving Penruthan away from the family was not spite, as many people think, but a final renunciation of everything she had thought belonged to her and her child. Not very logical, you think, perhaps, but she was very melancholy towards the end, poor thing, and there was no one to advise her.”