The Truant Spirit by Sara Seale Page B

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