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
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
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