mixed with surprise.
“O-ho!” she observed. “So the little one makes herself airs and scratches when Madame is away. Have I not worked without wages when it suited? Have I not been loyal to Madame and guarded you from the many foolishnesses you might commit before you are safely ranger? Do I then deserve that you should turn upon me because I seek to observe the instructions of Madame, your aunt?”
Sabina regarded the angry woman with eyes that were grave and curiously clear.
“I am beginning to understand that neither you nor Tante cares in the least what happens to me,” she said without any of her usual uncertainty. “I will oblige my aunt so long as it seems to be the right thing to do, but don’t drive me too hard, Marthe, for this bargain was not of my making, and who knows—I may
not care for Rene Bergerac once I meet him.”
“Och!” exclaimed Marthe, outraged. “Such talk! Such impudence! I will write to Madame this very day and acquaint her of your situation. It will not surprise me—it will not surprise me at all should she return immediately to England and remove you from these sales surroundings.”
She spoke with venom, but she spoke, too, at random. She did not care for this fresh turn of events, nor did she consider herself capable of averting a disaster which Madame, with her stronger influence, could reduce to ridicule in a few biting phrases.
“I will write to Madame,” Marthe repeated, not liking the cool regard of the young girl she had for so long dismissed as an unimportant factor in a perfectly logical arrangement. Then she slammed out of the room.
But it was not, in the end, Marthe who first wrote to Tante. Down in the kitchen, where Bunny was preparing vegetables for the evening meal, Brock sat by the old-fashioned range, smoking a pipe and delivering himself in stronger language than Bunny cared to hear of his opinion of the Frenchwoman.
“I know,” she sighed. “She can be quite intolerable. When one thinks what that poor child has probably had to put up with for years, it isn’t surprising that she can view marriage with a total stranger as the lesser of two evils. The aunt must be a callous woman to care so little for the girl’s happiness.” “The aunt was Lucille Faivre before she married her English husband. That might explain a lot for you,” said Brock, and Bunny, the vegetable knife poised in her numbed fingers, straightened her aching back.
“Lucille Faivre ... ” she repeated slowly. “Old sins with long shadows, Brock?”
“Perhaps—or alternatively a belated twinge of conscience.” “Hardly that,” said Bunny dryly. “Lucille Faivre ever looked to her own advantage, but it was before your time.” “Not altogether, but the repercussions of that affair have affected more people than those immediately concerned.”
“The evil that men do lives after them,” said Bunny slowly and plunged her hands again into the ice-cold water to deal with the rest of the vegetables.
“She was hardly evil, I suppose,” said Brock judiciously. “Merely a vain, selfish woman with a disregard for the normal standard of living. Strange that her niece should be so meek and sheltered as that child upstairs, but that kind are always the most conventional when it comes to their own.”
“I would not like someone so inexperienced to suffer for the whims of Lucille Faivre,” Bunny said; “but of course, a word from you can show her the truth about Rene Bergerac. There will be no need for sacrifices in any direction.”
“Except Lucille Faivre,” he remarked dryly. “She would scarcely remember me after all this time, but it’s strange our paths should have crossed in this way.”
“The mills of God ...” she said solemnly, for she was fond of apt quotations, but he laughed a little shortly.
“Hardly as dramatic as that,” he said. “But we might put a spoke in the wheel all the same. When does Northy say the girl can leave?”
“In a few days.
“O-ho!” she observed. “So the little one makes herself airs and scratches when Madame is away. Have I not worked without wages when it suited? Have I not been loyal to Madame and guarded you from the many foolishnesses you might commit before you are safely ranger? Do I then deserve that you should turn upon me because I seek to observe the instructions of Madame, your aunt?”
Sabina regarded the angry woman with eyes that were grave and curiously clear.
“I am beginning to understand that neither you nor Tante cares in the least what happens to me,” she said without any of her usual uncertainty. “I will oblige my aunt so long as it seems to be the right thing to do, but don’t drive me too hard, Marthe, for this bargain was not of my making, and who knows—I may
not care for Rene Bergerac once I meet him.”
“Och!” exclaimed Marthe, outraged. “Such talk! Such impudence! I will write to Madame this very day and acquaint her of your situation. It will not surprise me—it will not surprise me at all should she return immediately to England and remove you from these sales surroundings.”
She spoke with venom, but she spoke, too, at random. She did not care for this fresh turn of events, nor did she consider herself capable of averting a disaster which Madame, with her stronger influence, could reduce to ridicule in a few biting phrases.
“I will write to Madame,” Marthe repeated, not liking the cool regard of the young girl she had for so long dismissed as an unimportant factor in a perfectly logical arrangement. Then she slammed out of the room.
But it was not, in the end, Marthe who first wrote to Tante. Down in the kitchen, where Bunny was preparing vegetables for the evening meal, Brock sat by the old-fashioned range, smoking a pipe and delivering himself in stronger language than Bunny cared to hear of his opinion of the Frenchwoman.
“I know,” she sighed. “She can be quite intolerable. When one thinks what that poor child has probably had to put up with for years, it isn’t surprising that she can view marriage with a total stranger as the lesser of two evils. The aunt must be a callous woman to care so little for the girl’s happiness.” “The aunt was Lucille Faivre before she married her English husband. That might explain a lot for you,” said Brock, and Bunny, the vegetable knife poised in her numbed fingers, straightened her aching back.
“Lucille Faivre ... ” she repeated slowly. “Old sins with long shadows, Brock?”
“Perhaps—or alternatively a belated twinge of conscience.” “Hardly that,” said Bunny dryly. “Lucille Faivre ever looked to her own advantage, but it was before your time.” “Not altogether, but the repercussions of that affair have affected more people than those immediately concerned.”
“The evil that men do lives after them,” said Bunny slowly and plunged her hands again into the ice-cold water to deal with the rest of the vegetables.
“She was hardly evil, I suppose,” said Brock judiciously. “Merely a vain, selfish woman with a disregard for the normal standard of living. Strange that her niece should be so meek and sheltered as that child upstairs, but that kind are always the most conventional when it comes to their own.”
“I would not like someone so inexperienced to suffer for the whims of Lucille Faivre,” Bunny said; “but of course, a word from you can show her the truth about Rene Bergerac. There will be no need for sacrifices in any direction.”
“Except Lucille Faivre,” he remarked dryly. “She would scarcely remember me after all this time, but it’s strange our paths should have crossed in this way.”
“The mills of God ...” she said solemnly, for she was fond of apt quotations, but he laughed a little shortly.
“Hardly as dramatic as that,” he said. “But we might put a spoke in the wheel all the same. When does Northy say the girl can leave?”
“In a few days.
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