The Truant Spirit by Sara Seale Page A

Tante says that part of the Alpes Maritimes is very beautiful.”
    “It has its charm, certainly.”
    “Is it like that?” She nodded to the photographs on the wall, and he smiled.
    “Well, not quite. The Maritimes can hardly compare with the great heights of the world.”
    “But there are mountains?”
    “Oh, yes, there are mountains. Why? Does that appeal?”
    “All the time I’ve been up here, I’ve got to know those photographs,” she said slowly. “I lie and think about them — Kanchenjunga ... Everest ... and the mountains of Switzerland—the Matterhorn, the Jungfrau, Mont Blanc and Monte Rosa—such exciting names.”
    He regarded her oddly, as if he was seeing her for the first time.
    “You talk with nostalgia,” he said. “Do you have in you this inexplicable affinity with the strange grandeur of the heights?”
    “I don’t know,” she answered with simplicity. “No one has ever talked to me about mountains; but you—you understand all about them, don’t you? You are a climber.” The eyes which had puzzled and chilled her on their first meeting were explained, she thought; they were the dispassionate, far-seeing eyes of the mountaineer. But even as she spoke she saw the change in his face.
    “I’m no longer any good for that. The mountains require one’s full strength, both spiritual and physical,” he said, and she shrank into herself, dismayed by her stupidity. She had forgotten the handicap which slowed his movements to such deliberate stiffness.
    “Tell me about some of your old expeditions,” she said, trying a little clumsily to cover her foolishness, and wishing shyly to detain him longer, but the bitter twist was back on his lips and he replied indifferently:
    “There are plenty of books on mountaineering in that bookcase, if you’re interested. My own experiences don’t make very enthralling hearing.”
    Marthe entered the room without knocking, and stood for a moment surveying them both, observing at once the flush on Sabina’s cheeks and the soft distress in her eyes.
    “If Monsieur had said he intended paying Mademoiselle a visit, I would have made it my business to be present,” she said.
    Brock rose slowly to his feet, remarking with faint mockery: “You consider a chaperone is advisable in the circumstances.”
    “It is not usual in my country for a stranger of the opposite sex to share the intimacies of the bedroom of a demoiselle ,” she snapped, and straightened the creased bedspread as if to remove all evidence of his presence.
    “That’s rude, Marthe,” Sabina said with gentle dignity. “Mr. Brockman is my host, and it is perfectly usual to inquire for the health of a sick person.”
    “You know nothing of such matters, my cabbage—and Monsieur is not your host. He is a guest in the house of his governess, like yourself,” Marthe retorted with ill-concealed malice.
    “And of course, added Brock with misleading gravity, “Mademoiselle is affianced—or very nearly—which makes a difference. Your pardon, Mademoiselle Marthe ... I will bid you both au revoir.”
    He had spoken in French, and Marthe’s little pig-like eyes sent him a look of intense dislike, but she did not care to try any further conclusions with him, so set her lips in silence until he had left the room.
    “You are unwise, mam’zelle, if you seek diversion in that quarter,” she said when she heard the door close. “He would amuse himself, no doubt, at your expense, but you have not the temperament to indulge the little flutter before marriage. M. Brockman would only laugh while you imagined a maladie du coeur to which you are not suited.”
    Sabina’s eyes were angry and she suddenly pounded the bed with small, clenched fists.
    “You are insufferable, Marthe!” she cried. “I am no longer a child to be spoken to in this manner, neither is it your place to be insolent to another guest in this house. ”
    Marthe folded her arms and observed the girl with an annoyance that was