The Truant Spirit by Sara Seale Read Free Book Online

by more mature standards, but too old to conform with a young girl’s first dreams.
    “You do not understand such things in this country, she said contemptuously. “But in France these matters are more sensibly arranged. Mademoiselle is to marry a man much respected and well able to provide for her in the largest sense, you understand. Madame, her aunt, does not wish at this delicate state of the affaire that there should be—any distractions.”
    “And how delicate is the state of the affaire ?” asked Brock, and Bunny gave him a quick, amused glance.
    Marthe put down her empty bowl, and spread knees and hands in a familiar gesture of tolerance.
    “It is only a matter of adjustment on both sides,” she said. “But for Mademoiselle, you understand, it is a matter of duty. Madame has chosen the French way of settling the future. Mademoiselle has been brought up in that tradition and she does not, I assure you, wish for anything different.”
    Bunny had removed the soup bowl and was washing it up. She turned now to say over her shoulder:
    “As you say, we do not understand such things very well in England, but how can you be sure that the method is wise? Miss Lamb is very young. It is possible that she might prefer to choose for herself.”
    “And where does it get one?” retorted Marthe with sardonic amusement. “Does one know at so tender an age what one wants? Are you happier for making your own choice, Madame?”
    It was a shot in the dark, Bunny supposed, recognising the ridicule, but with the knowledge that her own marriage had come too late in life to alter her obvious spinster status in anything but name, she had no reply.
    “Mrs. Fennell is your hostess—personalities are not required of you. It would be as well, I think, if you went upstairs to Mademoiselle, and refrained, equally, from upsetting her unduly. She is not well, and needs rest and quiet for the next day or so.”
    Brock had spoken rapidly in French, and Marthe stood up instinctively, shocked into servitude as much by his sudden assumption of authority as the surprising flow of perfect
    French.
    “I did not know you were so familiar with my tongue, Monsieur,” she said ingratiatingly. “You speak as a Frenchman would. It is a pleasure to hear.”
    “Mrs. Fennell will take you upstairs,” Brock observed. “In a day or so, we hope both you and Mademoiselle may return to London.”
    Bunny took Marthe to Sabina’s room, speaking little on the way. She had taken an instant dislike to the insolent Frenchwoman and hoped it was not merely an insular prejudice. She was a humble creature, and knew only too well the average servant’s opinion of a governess, but that Brock should be dismissed as of no account by this aggressive foreigner was more than she would tolerate. She had been touched and amused when he had asserted himself so unexpectedly.
    The curtains were drawn and the lamp turned low in Sabina’s room, and Bunny lingered deliberately to watch the meeting of these two.
    “Well, mam’zelle, this is not a very pretty prank,” Marthe said, standing at the foot of the bed with her hands on her broad hips.
    Sabina raised an anxious face. She seemed better, but the colour was suddenly back in her cheek-bones and her eyes were apprehensive.
    “I’m sorry, Marthe,” she said. “I did not mean to lose my ticket and my luggage and oblige strangers to take me in.”
    “But you ran away,” said Marthe. “You ran away when my back was turned, and now I cannot trust you out of my sight until Madame returns.”
    “It was only for a little while,” Sabina pleaded. “I—I wanted to see the house.”
    “And could that not wait for M. Bergerac? The house is his concern, not yours.”
    “But it belongs to me.”
    “Zut!” And what matter does that make? You have only caused trouble to everyone, and now are under the obligation to perfect strangers. Is that gentil? Is it, in any way, how you have been brought up?”
    “I’m very happy