The Truant Spirit Read online

  The Truant Spirit

  by SARA SEALE

  Sabina was running away. Not very far, and not for very long: but even that mild bid for freedom landed her (for she was not the efficient type) in the wilds of Cornwall on a rainy February night, with no money, no belongings and no prospect of shelter except that offered by a total stranger. The situation seemed alarming, but she was to find that her wanderings had, after all, led her in the right direction.

  CHAPTER ONE

  SABINA was asleep when the train pulled into the little Comish junction where she was to change. The journey had seemed endless, and after the first hundred miles the elation of escape had given place to doubts. Was she not foolish to come so far with so little money? Would Marthe inform the police? What difference would it make in the end that she had seen Penruthan for herself and been for a brief few days independent and answerable to no one?

  I am myself and all alone, she thought firmly, as the train began to lull her to the resignation and impersonality of all long journeys. One is One and all alone and ever more shall be so ... It was a disquieting thought, but soothing at the same time. The lines of the old rhyme had been running through her head since the train had started ... twelve for the Twelve Apostles ... nine for the Nine Bright Shiners ... seven for the Seven who dwell in Heaven ... six for the Six Proud Walkers ... The rhythm fitted to the rhythm of the train, and she thought defiantly again: I am myself for the first time ... But the reflection of her face in the smoky windows as the train passed through tunnels was not reassuring. She looked lost and small and without distinction, and she knew that apart from Tante Lucille and Marthe she had little existence of her own. Her future was already decided, and she too young and too well disciplined to rebel; yet was not rebellion in this very action? To run away while Marthe was visiting a friend had not, perhaps, been very nice, or to flout Tante’s wishes when she was far away in the South of France and could not immediately retaliate, but the Six Proud Walkers, whoever they were, would, she felt sure, have struck out for freedom, however temporary, striding away into the unknown ...

  As Sabina began to drift into sleep while the train rattled through anonymous darkness, pictures formed with depressing assurance of the futility of even temporary escape. She remembered Tante accepting responsibility for her when she had been left an orphan, and the years of being pushed into the background because money was scarce and Tante, volatile and restless, must still contrive her trips abroad and her many small comforts; she remembered Marthe’s vigilance and endless scoldings, the cheap hotels, the cheaper day-schools where no friends were made, and finally, Tante’s plans, coming at last it would seem to maturity.

  Sabina had grown up with the French view of marriage and it no longer seemed strange that she should be promised in some vague fashion to the unknown Rene Bergerac, probably listening at this very moment to Tante’s propositions in his faraway chateau. The life she had led since the death of her father had made her grow up quickly in some matters and slowly in others. At nineteen she had a sobriety that warred constantly with the questions and doubts of adolescence, but, except upon this one day, sobriety had always won, for was she not, as Tante and Marthe frequently pointed out, beholden to charity which could ill be afforded?

  At first she had recoiled with mild alarm from her aunt’s proposal, but Tante, worldly and a little impatient as always, had soon ridiculed such unsophisticated objections.

  “But you are bourgeoise, ma petite!” she exclaimed, regarding her niece with a mixture of scorn and exasperation. “Do you dream of the fairy-tale prince who comes to reward all good little girls? That time has gone, cherie. Girls work these days and marry a bank clerk without prospects and keep on working to provide the monthly payments on the furniture, or, if they are wise, and have the opportunity, they make the marriage of convenience and let love look after itself.”

  “But this M. Bergerac might not be agreeable—besides, he is too old,” Sabina said, struggling to grasp her aunt’s point of view.

  “What has age to do with it?” Tante countered indulgently. “When you are not yet twenty the middle years sound a long way off, but they come quickly enough. A rich Frenchman of that age has sown his wild oats—he is ready to ranger himself with a wife who is convenable and not too demanding. Is there such hardship in taking the famous name of a man who will cherish you like a daughter—with a few reservations, of course?”

  “No no ... but he hasn’t seen me.”

  “He has seen the photograph on which I spent much good money. It was a triumph, that, hein—something to make a man think?”

  “But not a bit like me—not a bit like anyone I could ever hope to be.”

  “Bien sur,” Tante replied indifferently. “But that is no matter. Money can do much, and the Bergeracs have always married for reasonable considerations. Rene will not be concerned with a wife who is likely to turn his clients’ heads, which has its disadvantage in his business; also, the house will be of first importance.”

  Of course ... the house ... thought Sabina, finding it quite normal, if a little discouraging, that the house should be of primary consideration. She had never understood why Rene Bergerac’s mother should have left Penruthan to her, a distant, unimportant relation whom she had never met, but she had appreciated her aunt’s chagrin when it was discovered that the place was entailed and could not be sold in Sabina’s lifetime. Sabina had always understood that Penruthan was Tante’s trump card. Rene’s father, who had made the Chateau Berger one of the most famous hotels in Europe, had, so it was said, married his wife to acquire the house as an English branch, and his son, said Tante, would do the same to bring it into the family again.

  “Not very flattering,” Sabina had said once, “to be taken along with the house like—like the caretaker or—or an old dog that has been pensioned.”

  Tante had given her automatic, artificial laugh, and tapped Sabina on the cheek.

  “What an amusing conceit!” she had said. “But you do not have to set your value so low, ma petite. Rene needs a wife as well as a house. It is best that a hotelier should be married—it is both a conventional necessity and a protection. You need not fear for your status at Berger. The French uphold family life more rigorously than the British.”

  Then, why, asked Sabina, not following her aunt’s philosophy very clearly, “wouldn’t he rather marry a Frenchwoman?” ...

  “You are a little stupid, sometimes,” Tante replied impatiently. “It is you who happen to own Penruthan, a place too large and demanding to be of any use to you in your lifetime; besides, Rene’s mother was English—that, no doubt, might influence him in the matter of taking a wife. Mon dieu, Sabina! Do you not understand that in this way you can repay me for my care of you? Had I known that Penruthan could not be sold I could not have afforded to make myself responsible for you. I was misled on many accounts, and now that you are in a position to offer me a home free from want and worry, you make the difficulties no French girl would contemplate for a moment.”

  Sabina became humbly aware of the thorn she must have been in Tante’s impatient flesh.

  “I could work,” she said.

  Tante laughed.

  “Assuredly you could work,” she said. “But that would not greatly help me, cherie. I will tell you a little secret. When I was younger I spent much time at the Chateau Berger. Rene Bergerac pere had more than a fondness for me. It was, I fear, perhaps on my account that his wife left him, so you see, since she willed her house away from her husband and her son, it is fitting that we should return it, hein?”

  Even then, Sabina had felt there was something specious about her aunt’s arguments, but the habit of obedience was too strong. What did it matter, after all? As time went on and letter
s passed between the chateau and their cheap little London hotels, she came to accept the situation just as long ago she had learned to accept Tante’s way of life, and Marthe, that uncompromising Frenchwoman who had remained in Tante’s service for years, probably without wages, had seen to it that proper gratitude should not be wanting.

  “For look you,” she would say. “You will never be chic or witty like Madame. It is only convenable that you should fall in with her wishes, and, believe me, mam’zelle, you are fortunate that such a chance should come your way. Madame is no longer young and it is right that her future should be assured, for, but for her, what future would you yourself look forward to?”

  Sabina supposed that this was only just. If Tante had not taken her when she had been left an orphan, what would have become of her?

  “This M. Bergerac,” she inquired a little timidly, “he is like the head waiter in our hotels?”

  Marthe’s black eyes were amused.

  “The head waiters in our hotels are canaille, ” she replied.

  “M. Bergerac, if he is anything like his father, would employ none of them in the humblest capacity. Me, I have known the great hoteliers—you do not need to fear, mam’zelle ... The name of Bergerac is famous among the discerning.”

  “Have you never seen him, then?”

  “Not the present Bergerac. He would, I believe, have never become hotelier had it not been for his illness. During his father’s lifetime he took little interest in the business.”

  “His illness? He’s not—I mean, he’s not—ill—in any way now, is he?”

  “Ca depend, but—well, I think he is not robust. It is a life in which one can look after the health, you understand. It was an illness, perhaps, that encouraged fears for the digestion and a dislike of fresh air.”

  “What was the matter with him?”

  “I forget, but you should be thankful, mam’zelle. He will not demand so full a life as some. He will be grateful, no doubt, for polite consideration and little else, and that should be enough for an English bride.”

  For a moment the woman had looked out from the girls clear eyes, and Marthe’s eyebrows lifted as she was asked gently:

  “And what of me, Marthe? Don’t I merit a—a full life— with someone of my own age—with a strong stomach?”

  “You are too young for such matters,” Marthe replied a little brusquely. “And Madame would say you are not the type. Now for her—but the English do not understand temperament. Be thankful that for you the future should be smooth, and if Monsieur is not quite to your taste, then—a rich woman can have her—relaxations—if she is clever.”

  The forthright Frenchwoman’s meaning was plain, and Sabina coloured slightly.

  “That wasn’t what I meant at all,” she said, and Marthe turned away with a shrug.

  “No? But then at your age, petite, you do not know what you want,” she observed. “Be guided by Madame, for to her you owe much. Had she not come forward it might have been an institution for you.”

  “Yes,” said Sabina, “I understand.”

  She did not altogether believe in the familiar allusion to an institution, but she had understood very early on that Tante’s generosity had been mainly prompted by the lure of Penruthan, and the tempting price it would fetch in the market. She shared her aunt’s disappointment that the place was entailed, and accepted the fact that, between them, she and Penruthan had

  cheated Tante of just expectations....

  The train carried her relentlessly to her unknown destination,

  to the house which for so long had stood empty and neglected on the edge of a Cornish moor. She had never seen it, and now with Tante only yesterday gone to France to make the final delicate arrangements, she had experienced this unaccountable urge to visit the little Cornish village alone, and find for herself this unwanted legacy which must play such a part in her future.

  She was tired and very conscious that her bid for freedom was foolish. In a few weeks Tante would return with M. Bergerac himself to inspect the house and his future bride; and what object had there been in running away?

  The rhythm of the train became more hypnotic ... Seven are the Seven who dwell in Heaven ... six are the Six Proud Walkers ... five are the Flamboys under the boat... four are the Gospel Makers ...

  She had slipped into a dream which made no sense long before the train stopped with a jerk which threw her across the seat of the empty carriage. She awoke with a start and wondered for the moment where she was. No passengers left the train, and Sabina, hanging out of the window to see where she was, shivered in the cold night air and wished she had not given way to that unusual impulse for self-expression.

  The train was about to leave when she saw the name of the station, Kairy, painted on a seat, and, wrenching at the door in panic as she remembered that here she must change, she fell on to the platform as the train began to move. She felt very much alone as she watched the last carriage disappear round a bend in the line. The station seemed deserted and rain was dripping off the glass roof on to her bare head. She had never travelled without Tante or Marthe, and she looked timidly for someone to direct her as to the next procedure. The platforms were devoid of porters; indeed the whole station seemed bereft of life. Ill-lit and ominously quiet except for the wind which whistled in from the outer darkness, it seemed to Sabina a place from which there could be no departure.

  She crossed the bridge to the exit and found the ticket-collector already shutting the gates.

  “Thought no one got off her tonight,” he remarked crossly. “Ticket, please.”

  It was only then that Sabina realised that in her hurry she had left both her handbag and her suitcase in the train. She tried to explain, wondering miserably how she would manage for the night with nothing but the clothes in which she stood up, but the man merely kept repeating: “If you’m lost ticket you have to pay again.”

  “But I can’t,” said Sabina, almost in tears. “I keep telling you I’ve left everything in the train—my money as well.”

  He regarded her sourly.

  “You’m proper mazed. Where be to?” he said at last. She was unfamiliar with west-country phraseology, and looked at him blankly.

  “Where be going?” he translated more simply. “The folks’ll mebbe pay for ’e.”

  “I’m not staying here,” Sabina said. “I’m going to Truan, and I wanted to know which platform the train goes from.”

  “Not without ticket you don’t,” the man replied, “That’s cheating railways to travel without ticket. They could put ’e in gaol, m’dear.”

  “But I’ve told you—can’t you ring up the next station and get them to look?”

  “Don’t stop afore Bodmin, and that’s another hour. Last train to Truan will have gone by then.”

  They stared at each other with dislike; then the ticket-collector made an effort.

  “Where be to in Truan?” he asked. “Mebbe you could telephone ’e.”

  “I—I’m not expected,” faltered Sabina. “I thought perhaps there would be an inn—there are always inns in villages, aren’t there—somewhere you can stay, I mean?” He spat over his shoulder and became very official. “Now that don’t sound right to me—it don’t sound right at all,” he said, and his eyes beneath the peaked cap seemed suddenly menacing. “It’s my belief you’m just diddling the railways and haven’t no place to go at all. You’d best come with me and see the constable over to police-station. If you’m not diddling railways, then you’m up to no good no ways. You come along o’ me.”

  It did not occur to Sabina in her panic that at the police-station she might have explained her position more satisfactorily; she only thought they would send her back to London, to Marthe and the loss of her first precious freedom.

  “No ... no ... ” she cried, and before he could stop her she was through the little wicket gate in a flash and swallowed up in the darkness beyond.

  She ran down a street between huddled cottages, the rain driving i
n her face. Presently the houses ended and the road stretched dark and lonely into the unknown country. Her steps slowed to a walk and she went forward with hesitancy, wondering where, in all this confusing blackness, she could find refuge when, at a turn in the road, she came suddenly upon a small public-house, its painted sign swinging disconsolately in the wind, one naked light showing above the shabby saloon door. Sabina knew little of public-houses, but she imagined that all and every one of them must have rooms to let. If the landlady was kind ... if they would trust her until tomorrow ... The ticket-collector’s reaction had not been encouraging, but perhaps he had been slow to understand; in any case it was no fit night to wander aimlessly in a strange countryside. Sabina walked round the solitary car which stood outside and, gathering her courage together, pushed open the saloon door.

  It was a quiet little bar and rather shabby. A man stood behind the counter in his shirtsleeves staring morosely into a glass of bitter; the only customer sat on a stool in the corner, his hat pulled down over his eyes to meet the upturned collar of his raincoat.

  “Yes, miss?” the landlord said without enthusiasm.

  “I—I want a room for the night,” Sabina said, approaching the bar uncertainly.

  “Don’t let rooms,” the man said laconically. “What’ll you have?”

  “I don’t want anything to drink, thank you. I just wanted a room,” Sabina said a little desperately.

  The landlord finished his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “I’ve told you, we don’t let rooms,” he said and added, eyeing her suspiciously, “You got a car?”

  “No,” said Sabina, surprised.

  “Then where’s your luggage?”

  She began to tell him, but at the expression in his eyes she faltered and came to a stop.

  “Is there anyone else round here who would take me in?” she ventured at last.

  “No,” he replied, “and if you take my tip you won’t try that hard-luck story in these parts. Cornish folk are suspicious of foreigners—specially them without luggage or money at this time of night.”