The Truant Spirit (8 page)

I do be powerful fond of quiet.”

“Yes, Willie, I know.” The mountains were quiet like the dead, with the same impersonal solace. “But you won’t neglect the garden, will you? Mrs. Fennell is not responsible for the churchyard any longer, you know.”

The tow-coloured hair fell over the boy’ s rather vacant eyes.

“Mis’ Fennell likes I should tend the daid,” he said with simple cunning. “She likes for to see they graves neat and tidy from her window.” He went on with what he was doing and took no further notice.

Poor Willie, thought Brock, moving away; he got what he wanted in the end, and Bunny would never turn him away, any

more than she would turn away that little waif upstairs when she had thought things out.

The day that Sabina came downstairs was bright and sunny, and she stood at one of the windows looking out with curiosity at the expanse of moorland which lay beyond the garden. It was desolate, she thought, but there was a certain grandeur in the desolation, and even the tombstones which straggled to the edge of the lawn seemed a natural part of the wild rough country.

“You see, even the weather has changed for you,” Brock said, glancing casually over her shoulder. “If you look you can see the first signs of spring—the green of the bogs, and the change in the heather before it blooms.”

“Spring!” said Sabina with disbelief. “But it’s the middle of winter!”

“It’s nearly March. Spring sometimes comes overnight in this part of the world.”

“Does it? Those hills on the horizon—are they mountains?”

“Hardly! They look like hills from this distance, but when you get close they are simply small rocky peaks, and are known as tors.”

“Tor ... what an odd word! How did they happen?”

“I don’t think anyone knows. A lot of this country was volcanic, of course, which explains the contours, but Cornwall is full of strange things—old tin-workings said to date back to the Phoenicians, hide-outs going back to the smuggling days, and, of course, legends and superstitions without number. Cornish folk are a race apart.”

“Is that why they think of us as foreigners?”

“Probably, though there’s plenty of genuine foreign blood about here—French and Spanish. One day I’ll take you to the coast and show you fishing villages which are as un-English as you can imagine.”

She looked up at him, surprised by the warmth of his interest. He sounded as though he really wanted her to care for this country.

“I would have liked that,” she said regretfully. “But we will have to go back to London in a day or so. I’m quite well now. Who is that boy?” She had caught sight of Willie Washer among the graves.

“That’s Willie Washer,” he replied. “He’s supposed to help in the garden and chop wood, but he always gets back to the

churchyard when he can. He loves the dead; he says they’re quiet.”

She shivered a little.

“How strange—and unnatural,” she said. This casual acceptance of the dead at one’s very door struck her as distinctly odd.

“Do you think so?” Brock asked with amusement. “There’s something to be said for poor Willie’s view. He’s simple, you see, and the living don’t want him.”

“Oh ...” It was a little soft sound of compassion, and he watched the change in her face and the unconscious little gesture of her hands as though she would have liked to run at once to Willie and give him comfort.

“Would you like to stay for a time?” he asked abruptly, and her eyes clouded.

“Yes—yes, I think I would. I don’t care much for London, and hotel life is so monotonous, but Tante would never stay in the country.”

Even as she spoke she became acutely aware of him standing so close that the rough tweed of his jacket brushed her hand, and she knew with a flare of uneasy discernment that it was his own faintly alarming presence in the rectory which made her want to stay.

“Well, your aunt is away.”

“Yes, but—” She began to realise that his suggestion was serious, and experienced a sharp pang of rebellion that she was not free to make plans of her own.

“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t, you know,” he said. “Bunny takes a few P.G.s in the summer and is very willing to keep you here. Much less expensive than a London hotel, and better for you.”

“But Marthe would never permit. She hates the country.” “Then Marthe can take a holiday elsewhere. Bunny wouldn’t be sorry.”

She laughed, but her reply held the disappointment of long acceptance.

“But my aunt would never give permission even if I were to write,” she said. “You see, she has not met Mrs. Fennell, and I would never be allowed to stay with strangers.”

She left the window and sat on a low stool by the fire, suddenly needing comfort. She liked this low, crowded room with its odd collection of bric-a-brac, its vast chimney-piece and the smoky, yellowing walls; at the moment she even liked with strange disquiet the dark, uncomfortable stranger who had

caused her such confusion.

“As it happens, Bunny and your aunt
have
met—many years ago.” Brock spoke from the window where he had remained and she looked up quickly.

“Mrs. Fennell knows Tante? How very queer!”

“Not really. In Bunny’s old profession you run across all sorts of people. Your aunt will be quite convinced of her suitability. Bunny wrote to her yesterday.”

Sabina sprang to her feet. She did not question a proposal so calmly stated, or stop to wonder how a chance acquaintance should somehow be bound up with Tante, far away in France. She was like an excited child as she ran to Brock and touched his hands with hers.

‘Truly ... truly?” she cried. “And Tante will say yes? She will allow me to remain here until—until she has concluded affairs with M. Bergerac?”

He looked down at her curiously. She was charming with life and colour in her face, he thought dispassionately, and absurd, too, with this perpetual acceptance of the omnipotence of M. Bergerac.

“I would say most certainly she will,” he replied. “But for your own and everybody else’s comfort in the house, I would advise saying nothing to Marthe until we receive your aunt’s reply.”

“I’ve kept secrets from Marthe before,” she said happily. “Mr. Brockman—it was your idea, wasn’t it? You persuaded Mrs. Fennell to write?”

He drew back from her eager hands, and his face was as she remembered it first, hard and saturnine and a little forbidding.

“I?” he said with deliberate withdrawal. “It makes no difference to me; I’m only here for a little while, anyway. You have Bunny to thank, not me—and perhaps the good doctor, too.”

She felt immediately chilled, and, putting her hands behind her back, edged away, feeling that it had been an impertinence to touch him.

“Yes, I see,” she said. “But perhaps I would be a nuisance. Perhaps it would be better if I waited for Tante where she expects to find me.”

“Bunny isn’t acting from a sense of duty,” he replied. “You would be doing her a good turn by bringing a little unexpected grist to the mill. Whether you turn out to be a nuisance is, of course, entirely your own affair.”

It did not sound encouraging and she looked at him with her old indecision.

“I wouldn’t make extra work,” she said. “In fact I could help with lots of things. I only have to be shown how.”

He lifted his eyebrows but made no reply, and she stood there uncertainly, not knowing what to say next.

“Well, anyway,” she said at last, turning away, “you’ll be able to have your room back. I’m sorry I’ve kept you out of it for so long.”

He grinned, but still made no comment, and Sabina went slowly back to the fire and sat down to brood uncertainly on her change of fortune.

But, later, her mood altered. Even if Brock had made it clear that whether she stayed on or not made little difference to him, Bunny had been gracious.

“If you want to stay and won’t be bored with our quiet life here, then I shall be very pleased, Sabina,” she said. “I like you, child, and I think the break would do you good. I may seem elderly and prim to you, but a governess has an odd affinity with youth. I would like to know you better, my dear.”

“You are so kind, Mrs. Fennell,” Sabina said humbly. “I only hope my aunt will give permission.”

“I’m sure she will,” Bunny replied with the same little air of certainty that Brock had shown. “And since I hope we will be friends, you had better start calling me Bunny, like everyone else.”

“How did you get that name?” Sabina asked affectionately, thinking again how like a rabbit she could look at times.

Bunny smiled.

“I was a Miss Bunson in my governessing days, so the abbreviation was obvious,” she said. “I remember when Brock was small we used to play an absurd game; for his surname, too, had been shortened, and we were boon companions of the wild—the rabbit and the badger.”

“The badger?”

“Brock is the country name for a badger—did you not know?”

“No,” said Sabina, feeling ignorant under Bunny’s mild but inquiring gaze.

“There will be lots to teach you,” Bunny said, looking rather pleased, and Sabina had the strange feeling that the precise, rather colourless little woman had missed her old pupils and the pleasure of imparting information to receptive minds.

But to Marthe none of them said anything. Sabina, waiting impatiently for her aunt’s reply, hugged her secret to herself and paid little heed to the Frenchwoman’s continual grumbling. Even the most barbed reproofs were received without

resentment and Marthe began to be worried.

Sabina had shaken her confidence that afternoon when both speech and manner had been those of an adult person. Since that day her charge had been subtly different, and Marthe thought she knew where to lay the blame. This governess who had never lost the stamp of her profession and who worked in the house like one of her own servants, could have made little impression on a young girl about to marry into a rich family, but M. Brockman ... there was the one who would turn the head of the unsophisticated with his brusque manner and his dark, disagreeable looks. If Madame could see - if Madame could only know of the risk to her plans, she would not tolerate such a situation for one moment ...

At last Marthe brought herself to write, but before a reply could reach her Bunny had already received her own, and by the same post came, also, a letter for Sabina.

Bunny read hers composedly, conscious of the girl s eyes upon her.

“It’s all right,” she said at last, and passed the letter on to Brock. “Now read your own.”

Sabina unfolded the pages carefully. Even after reassurance she could not believe that Tante’s letter would not be full of reproaches, but it was couched in the most effusive phrases. She was enchanted, she wrote, that her dear niece should remain in the care of her old friend Mademoiselle Bunson ... She was concerned for the health of her little one and country air was indubitably the best thing for her ... M. Bergerac, who was taking a cure nearby,
helas!
was in complete agreement with the arrangement ... Sabina was to be guided by Madame until her return, which would not be immediately, for M. Bergerac had amiably extended his invitation to an indefinite date ...

“Well!” said Sabina, looking quite bewildered, “Tante must have a very high regard for you, Bunny, and M. Bergerac, too. Had you met him?”

“He knows of me,” Bunny replied. “Well now, Sabina, my dear, you need have no further fears. Now it is your business to grow strong and well and—and learn to play a little, too, I think.”

“Play?” Sabina repeated, reflecting that such things must be long since done with. “Poor M. Bergerac, she added, “He is taking a cure. It seems to me, Bunny, that he must be rather sickly, for Tante told me long ago that he suffers from ill-health and cannot lead a full life.”

“And doesn’t that put you off?” asked Brock, folding the

sheets of Tante’s other letter and handing them back to Bunny.

“Well, I would like to know the nature of his illness,” said Sabina seriously, then she caught the familiar derision in his eyes and blushed.

“Tante would not let me marry someone with a serious complaint, Mr. Brockman,” she said with her nose in the air, and Bunny frowned reprovingly.

“Well spoken,” she said. “And Brock, you mustn’t tease. If Sabina is to be my guest for a little while, you will have to learn tolerance.”

“I will retort with your own words, Bunny—well spoken!” he said with mock solemnity. “And if Sabina and I are both to be guests under your roof, she had better start calling me Brock and establish an armed truce. I don’t think she likes me very much.”

“Why should she?” Bunny retorted. “Your manner isn’t always encouraging.”

He made no attempt to put the girl at ease, but said directly:

“You don’t like me very much, do you, Sabina?” She felt herself flushing as she met his ironical gaze. “Like” was a negative word when applied to such a personality and he would not care either way, she thought. She looked away to hide the confusion which must lie in her eyes, and took refuge in a childish dignity.

“I don’t know you, Mr. Brockman,” she answered sedately, and Bunny smiled involuntarily, while Brock himself bowed to her gravely and murmured,
“Touche
...”