Текст книги "Frenchman's Creek"

Автор книги: Daphne du Maurier

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"They come in dozens, always," he told her; "they seem to know at once when we return, and they come in here from the headlands. My men will feed them, I can't prevent them. And I am as bad myself. I am always throwing crumbs to them, from the windows here." He laughed, and reaching for a crust of bread, he tossed it to them, and the gulls leapt upon it, screaming and fighting.

"Perhaps they have a fellow feeling for the ship," he said; "it is my fault for naming her La Mouette."

"La Mouette – the Sea-gull – why, of course," she said, "I had forgotten what it meant," and they went on watching the gulls, leaning against the window.

"This is absurd," Dona thought, "why am I doing this, it is not what I meant, not what I intended. By now surely I should be bound with ropes and thrust into the dark hold of the ship, gagged and bruised, and here we are throwing bread to the sea-gulls, and I have forgotten to go on being angry."

"Why are you a pirate?" she said at last, breaking the silence.

"Why do you ride horses that are too spirited?" he answered.

"Because of the danger, because of the speed, because I might fall," she said.

"That is why I am a pirate," he said.

"Yes, but…"

"There are no 'buts.' It is all very simple really. There are no dark problems about it. I have no grudge against society, no bitter hatred of my fellow-men. It just happens that the problems of piracy interest me, suit my particular bent of thought. It is not just a matter of brutality and bloodshed, you know. The organisation takes many hours of many days, every detail of a landing has to be thought out, and prepared. I hate disorder, or any slipshod method of attack. The whole thing is very much like a geometrical problem, it is food for the brain. And then – well – then I have my fun, my spice of excitement, my beating of the other fellow. It is very satisfying, very absorbing."

"Yes," she said. "Yes, I understand."

"You are puzzled, aren't you," he said, laughing down at her, "because you expected to find me drunk here on the floor, surrounded by blood and knives and bottles and shrieking women."

She smiled back at him; she did not answer. Someone knocked at the door, and when the Frenchman called "Enter" one of his men came in, bearing a great bowl of soup upon a tray. It smelt rich and good The hot steam rose in the air. The man proceeded to lay the table, spreading a white cloth on the farther end. He went to a locker in the bulkhead and brought out a bottle of wine. Dona watched. The smell of the soup was very tempting, and she was hungry. The wine looked cool, in its slim bottle. The man withdrew, and looking up she saw that the master of the ship was watching her, with laughter in his eyes. "Will you have some?" he said. She nodded, feeling foolish once again: why did he read her thoughts? And he fetched another plate and spoon, and another glass from the cupboard. Then he pulled up two chairs to the table. She saw that there was new bread too, freshly baked in the French fashion, the crust dark and brown, and little pats of very yellow butter.

They ate their meal in silence, and then he poured out the wine. It was cold and clear, and not too sweet And all the while she kept thinking how like a dream it was, a remembered dream that she had had once; a quiet, familiar thing, a dream she recognised.

"I have done this before," she thought, "this is not the first time." Yet that was absurd, for of course it was the first time, and he was a stranger to her. She wondered what hour it was. The children would have returned from their picnic, Prue would be putting them to bed. They would run and knock upon her door and she would not answer. "It does not matter," she thought, "I don't care," and she went on drinking her wine, looking at the bird pictures on the bulkhead, and now and again stealing a glance at him when she knew that his head was turned from her.

Then he reached out an arm towards a tobacco-jar on a shelf, and began to shake the mixture into his hand. It was close cut, very dark and brown. And suddenly, the truth striking at her like a blow, she saw the tobacco-jar in her bedroom, and the volume of French poetry, with the drawing of a sea-gull on the title-page. She saw William running to the belt of trees – William – his master, his master who made voyages from place to place – whose life was one continual escape. She got up from her chair, staring at him.

"Good God!" she said.

He looked up. "What is the matter?"

"It's you," she said, "you who left the tobacco-jar in my bedroom, and the volume of Ronsard. It's you have been sleeping in my bed."

He smiled at her, amused at her choice of words, smiling too at her astonishment, her confusion and dismay.

"Did I leave them there?" he said. "I had forgotten. How very remiss and careless of William not to have noticed."

"It was for you that William stayed at Navron," she said; "it was for your sake that he sent the servants away. All these months, while we were in London, you have been at Navron."

"No," he said, "not continually. From time to time, when it suited my plans. And in the winter, you know, it can be damp here in the creek. It made a change, a luxurious change, to seek the comfort of your bedroom. Somehow, I always felt you would not mind."

He went on looking at her, and always that glimmer of secret amusement in his eyes.

"I consulted your portrait, you know," he said. "I addressed myself to it several times. 'My lady,' I said (for I was most subservient), 'would you grant a very weary Frenchman the courtesy of your bed?' And it seemed to me that you bowed gracefully, and gave me permission. Sometimes you even smiled."

"It was very wrong of you," she said, "very irregular."

"I know," he said.

"Besides being dangerous."

"That was the fun of it."

"And if I had known for one moment…"

"What would you have done?"

"I should have come down to Navron at once."

"And then?"

"I should have barred the house. I should have dismissed William. I should have set a watch on the estate."

"All that?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe you."

"Why not?"

"Because when I lay in your bed, looking up at your portrait on the wall, that was not how you behaved."

"How did I behave?"

"Very differently."

'What did I do?"

"Many things."

What sort of things?"

"You joined my ship's company, for one thing. You signed your name amongst the faithful. You were the first, and the last woman, to do so."

And saying this, he rose from the table, and went to a drawer, and fetched out a book. This he opened, and on the page she saw the words La Mouette, followed by a string of names. Edmond Vacquier… Jules Thomas… Pierre Blanc… Luc Dumont… and so on. And he reached then for his pen, and dipped it in the ink, and handed it to her.

"Well?" he said, "what about it?"

She took it from him, balancing it in her hand a moment, as though weighing the question, and she did not know whether it was the thought of Harry in London, yawning over his cards, or Godolphin with his bulbous eyes, or the good soup she had taken and the wine she had drunk, making her drowsy and warm, and a little careless, like a butterfly in the sun, or whether it was because he was standing there beside her, but she looked up at him, laughing suddenly, and signed her name in the centre of the page, beneath the others, Dona St. Columb.

"And now you must go back, your children will wonder what has happened to you," he said.

"Yes," she said.

He led the way out of his cabin, and on to the deck. He leant over the rail, and called down to the men amidships.

"First you must be introduced," he said, and he called out an order, in the Breton patois she could not understand, and in a moment his company assembled themselves, glancing up at her in curiosity.

"I am going to tell them that from henceforth you come to the creek unchallenged," he said; "that you are free to come and go as you please. The creek is yours. The ship is yours. You are one of us." He spoke to them briefly, and then one by one they came up to her, and bowed, and kissed her hand, and she laughed back at them, saying, "Thank you" – and there was a madness about, a frivolity, like a dream under the sun. Below, in the water, one of the men waited for her in the boat. She climbed the bulwark, and swung herself over the side onto the ladder. The Frenchman did not help her. He leant against the bulwark and watched her.

"And Navron House?" he said. "Is it barred and bolted, is William to be dismissed?"

"No," she said.

"I must return your call, then," he said, "as a matter of courtesy."

"Of course."

"What is the correct hour? In the afternoon, I believe, between three and four, and you offer me a dish of tea?"

She looked at him, laughing, and shook her head.

"No," she said, "that is for Lord Godolphin and the gentry. Pirates do not call upon ladies in the afternoon. They come stealthily, by night, knocking upon a window – and the lady of the manor, fearful for her safety, gives him supper, by candlelight."

"As you will," he said, "tomorrow then, at ten o'clock?"

"Yes," she said.

"Good night."

"Good night."

He went on standing against the bulwark watching her, as she was pulled ashore in the little boat. The sun had gone behind the trees, and the creek was in shadow. The last of the ebb had run away from the flats, and the water was still. A curlew called once, out of sight, round the bend of the river. The ship, with its bold colouring, its raking masts, looked remote, unreal, a thing of fantasy. She turned, and sped through the trees towards the house, smiling guiltily to herself, like a child hugging a secret.

CHAPTER VII

When she came to the house she saw that William was standing by the window of the salon, making a pretence of putting the room in order, but she knew at once he had been watching for her.

She would not tell him immediately, for the fun of teasing him, and coming into the room, casting her kerchief from her head, she said, "I have been walking, William, my head is better."

"So I observe, my lady," he said, his eyes upon her.

"I walked by the river, where it is quiet and cool."

"Indeed, my lady."

"I had no knowledge of the creek before. It is enchanting, like a fairy-tale. A good hiding-place, William, for fugitives like myself."

"Very probably, my lady."

"And my Lord Godolphin, did you see him?"

"His lordship was not at home, my lady. I bade his servant give your flowers and the message to his lady."

"Thank you, William." She paused a moment, pretending to arrange the sprigs of lilac in their vase, and then, "Oh, William, before I forget. I am giving a small supper party tomorrow night. The hour is rather late, ten o'clock."

"Very well, my lady. How many will you be?"

"Only two, William. Myself and one other – a gentleman."

"Yes, my lady."

"The gentleman will be coming on foot, so there is no need for the groom to stay up and mind a horse."

"No, my lady."

"Can you cook, William?"

"I am not entirely ignorant of the art, my lady."

"Then you shall send the servants to bed, and cook supper for the gentleman and myself, William."

"Yes, my lady."

"And you need not mention the visit to anyone in the house, William."

"No, my lady."

"In fact, William, I propose to behave outrageously."

"So it would seem, my lady."

"And you are dreadfully shocked, William?"

"No, my lady."

"Why not, William?"

"Because nothing you or my master ever did could possibly shock me, my lady."

And at this she burst out laughing, and clasped her hands together.

"Oh, William, my solemn William, then you guessed all the time! How did you know, how could you tell?"

"There was something about your walk, as you entered just now, my lady, that gave you away. And your eyes were – if I may say so without giving offence – very much alive. And coming as you did from the direction of the river I put two and two together, as it were, and said to myself: 'It has happened. They have met at last.' "

"Why 'at last,' William?"

"Because, my lady, I am a fatalist by nature, and I have always known that, sooner or later, the meeting was bound to come about."

"Although I am a lady of the manor, married and respectable, with two children, and your master a lawless Frenchman, and a pirate?"

"In spite of all those things, my lady."

"It is very wrong, William. I am acting against the interests of my country. I could be imprisoned for it."

"Yes, my lady."

But this time he hid his smile no longer, his small button mouth relaxed, and she knew he would no longer be inscrutable and silent, but was her friend, her ally, and she could trust him to the last.

"Do you approve of your master's profession, William?" she said.

"Approve and disapprove are two words that are not in my vocabulary, my lady. Piracy suits my master, and that is all there is to it. His ship is his kingdom, he comes and goes as he pleases, and no man can command him. He is a law unto himself."

"Would it not be possible to be free, to do as he pleases, and yet not be a pirate?"

"My master thinks not, my lady. He has it that those who live a normal life, in this world of ours, are forced into habits, into customs, into a rule of life that eventually kills all initiative, all spontaneity. A man becomes a cog in the wheel, part of a system. But because a pirate is a rebel, and an outcast, he escapes from the world. He is without ties, without man-made principles."

"He has the time, in fact, to be himself."

"Yes, my lady."

"And the idea that piracy is wrong, that does not worry him?"

"He robs those who can afford to be robbed, my lady. He gives away much of what he takes. The poorer people in Brittany benefit very often. No, the moral issue does not concern him."

"He is not married, I suppose?"

"No, my lady. Marriage and piracy do not go together."

"What if his wife should love the sea?"

"Women are apt to obey the laws of nature, my lady, and produce babies."

"Ah! very true, William."

"And women who produce babies have a liking for their own fireside, they no longer want to roam. So a man is faced at once with a choice. He must either stay at home and be bored, or go away and be miserable. He is lost in either case. No, to be really free, a man must sail alone."

"That is your master's philosophy?"

"Yes, my lady."

"I wish I were a man, William."

"Why so, my lady?"

"Because I too would find my ship, and go forth, a law unto myself."

As she spoke there came a loud cry from upstairs, followed by a wail, and the sound of Prue's scolding voice. Dona smiled, and shook her head.

"Your master is right, William," she said, "we are all cogs in a wheel, and mothers most especially. It is only the pirates who are free." And she went upstairs to her children, to soothe them, and wipe away their tears.

That night, as she lay in bed, she reached for the volume of Ronsard on the table by her side, and thought how strange it was that the Frenchman had lain there, his head upon her pillow, this same volume in his hands, his pipe of tobacco in his mouth. She pictured him laying aside the book when he had read enough, even as she did now, and blowing out the candle, and then turning on his side to sleep. She wondered if he slept now, in that cool, quiet cabin of his ship, with the water lapping against the side, the creek itself mysterious and hushed. Or whether he lay on his back as she did, eyes open in the darkness and sleep far distant, brooding on the future, his hands behind his head.

Next morning, when she leant from her bedroom and felt the sun on her face, and saw the clear bright sky with a sharp gloss about it because of the east wind, her first thought was for the ship in the creek. Then she remembered how snug was the anchorage, tucked away in the valley, shrouded by the trees, and how they could scarce have knowledge there of the turbulent tide ripping up the parent river, the short waves curling, while the steep seas at the mouth of the estuary reared and broke themselves into spray.

She remembered the evening that was to come, and the supper party, and began to smile, with all the guilty excitement of a conspirator. The day itself seemed like a prelude, a foretaste of things to come, and she wandered out into the garden to cut flowers, although those in the house were not yet faded.

The cutting of flowers was a peaceful thing, soothing to her unquiet mind, and the very sensation of touching the petals, fingering the long green stalks, laying them in a basket, and later placing them one by one in the vases that William had filled for her, banished her first restlessness. William too was a conspirator. She had observed him in the dining-hall, cleaning the silver, and he had glanced up at her in understanding, for she knew why he worked with such ardour.

"Let us do full justice to Navron," she said; "bring out all the silver, William, and light every candle. And we will use that dinner service with the rose border – that is shut away for banquets." It was exciting, it was amusing – she fetched the dinner service herself and washed the plates, dusty with disuse, and she made a little decoration in the centre of the table with the young buds of fresh-cut roses. Then she and William descended together to the cellar, and peered by candle-light at the cobweb-covered bottles, and he brought forth a wine greatly prized by his master, which they had not known was there. They exchanged smiles, they whispered furtively, and Dona felt all the lovely wickedness of a child who does something wrong, something forbidden, and chokes with secret laughter behind his parent's back.

"What are we going to eat?" she said, and he shook his head, he would not tell. "Rest easy, my lady," he said. "I will not disappoint you," and she went out into the garden once more, singing, her heart absurdly gay. The hot noon passed, hazy with the high east wind, and the long hours of afternoon, and tea with the children under the mulberry tree, and so round to early evening once again, and their bed-time, and a ceasing of the wind, while the sun set, the sky glowed, and the first stars shone.

The house was silent once more, and the servants, believing her to be weary, to be retiring supperless to bed, congratulated themselves on the easiness of their mistress, and took themselves to their own quarters. Somewhere, alone in his room no doubt, William prepared the supper. Dona did not ask. It did not matter.

She went to her own room, and stood before her wardrobe, pondering which gown to wear. She chose one cream-coloured, which she had worn often, and which she knew became her well, and she placed in her ears the ruby earrings that had belonged to Harry's mother, and round her throat the ruby pendant.

"He will not notice," she thought, "he is not that sort of person, he does not care about women, or their clothes, or their jewels," and yet she found herself dressing with great care, combing her ringlets round her fingers and setting them behind her ears. Suddenly she heard the stable clock strike ten, and in a panic she laid the comb aside, and went downstairs. The staircase led direct into the dining-hall, and she saw that William had lighted every candle, even as she had told him, and the bright silver shone on the long table. William himself was standing there, arranging dishes on the sideboard, and she went to see what it was he had prepared. Then she smiled. "Oh, William, now I know why you went down to Helford this afternoon, returning with a basket." For there on the sideboard was crab, dressed and prepared in the French fashion, and there were small new potatoes too, cooked in their skins, and a fresh green salad sprinkled with garlic, and tiny scarlet radishes. He had found time too to make pastry. Thin, narrow wafers, interlaid with cream, while next to them, alone in a glass bowl, was a gathering of the first wild strawberries of the year.

"William, you are a genius," she said, and he bowed, permitting himself a smile. "I am pleased you are glad, my lady."

"How do I look? Will your master approve?" she asked him, turning on her heels. "He will make no comment, my lady," replied the servant, "but I do not think he will be entirely indifferent to your appearance."

"Thank you, William," she said gravely, and went out into the salon to await her guest. William had drawn the curtains for greater safety, but she pulled them back, letting in the summer night, and as she did so the Frenchman came towards her across the lawn, a tall, dark figure, walking silently.

She saw at once that he had fallen in with her mood, and knowing that she would play the lady of the manor he had dressed himself, even as she had done, as though for a party. The moonlight touched his white stockings, and glimmered on his silver-buckled shoes. His long coat was wine-coloured, and his sash the same, though in a deeper tone, and there was lace at his throat, and at his wrists. He still disdained the curled wigs of fashion, and wore his own hair, like a cavalier. Dona held out her hand to him, and this time he bent over it, as a guest should do, brushing it with his lips, and then stood on the threshold of the salon, by the long window, looking down upon her with a smile.

"Supper awaits you," she said, shy suddenly, for no reason, and he did not answer, but followed her in to the dining-hall, where William stood waiting behind her chair.

The guest stood a moment, looking about him at the blaze of candles, at the bright silver, at the shining plates with the rose border, and then he turned to the hostess, with that same slow mocking smile she had grown to expect: "Is it wise of you, do you think, to put all this temptation before a pirate?"

"It is William's fault," said Dona, "it is all William's doing."

"I don't believe you," he said; "William never made these preparations for me before, did you, William? You cooked me a chop and served it to me on a chipped plate, and you brushed away one of the covers of the chairs, and told me I must be content."

"Yes, sir," said William, his eyes glowing in his small round face, and Dona sat down, shy no longer, for the presence of William broke constraint between them.

He understood his role, playing the butt to perfection, laying himself open purposely to shafts of wit from his mistress, accepting with a smile and a shrug of the shoulder the mockeries of his master. And the crab was good, the salad excellent, the pastries light as air, the strawberries nectar, the wine perfection.

"I am a better cook than William, for all that," pronounced his master, "and one day you shall taste my spring chicken, roasted on a spit."

"I will not believe it," she said, "chickens were never roasted in that cabin of yours, like a hermit's cell. Cooking and philosophy do not go together."

"On the contrary, they go very well," he said, "but I will not roast your chicken in my cell. We will build a wood fire in the open, on the shores of the creek, and I will roast your chicken for you there. But you must eat it in your fingers. And there will be no candle-light, only the light of the fire."

"And perhaps the night-jar you told me about will not be silent," she said.

"Perhaps!"

He smiled at her across the table, and she had a sudden vision of the fire they would build, on the shore beside the water, and how the flames would hiss and crackle in the air, and how the good burnt smell of roasting chicken would come to their nostrils. The cooking would absorb him, even as his drawing of the heron absorbed him yesterday, and his planning of piracy would do tomorrow. She noticed, for the first time, that William had left them, and rising from the table she blew the candles, and led the way into the salon.

"Smoke, if you wish," she said, and there, on the mantelpiece before him, he recognised his jar of tobacco.

"The perfect hostess," he said.

She sat down, but he went on standing by the mantelpiece, filling his pipe, looking about the room as he did so.

"It is all very different from the winter," he said. "When I came then, the covers shrouded the furniture, and there were no flowers. There was something austere about the room. You have changed all that."

"All empty houses are like sepulchres," she said.

"Ah, yes – but I don't mean that Navron would have remained a sepulchre, had anyone else broken the silence."

She did not answer. She was not sure what he meant.

For a while there was silence between them, and then he said, "What brought you to Navron, in the end?"

She played with a tassel of the cushion behind her head.

"You told me yesterday that Lady St. Columb was something of a celebrity," she said, "that you had heard gossip of her escapades. Perhaps I was tired of Lady St. Columb, and wanted to become somebody else."

"In other words – you wished to escape?"

"That is what William told me you would say."

"William has experience. He has seen me do the same sort of thing. Once there was a man called Jean-Benoit Aubery, who had estates in Brittany, money, friends, responsibilities, and William was his servant. And William's master became weary of Jean-Benoit Aubery, and so he turned into a pirate, and built La Mouette."

"And is it really possible to become somebody else?"

"I have found it so."

"And you are happy?"

"I am content."

"What is the difference?"

"Between happiness and contentment? Ah, there you have me. It is not easy to put into words. Contentment is a state of mind and body when the two work in harmony, and there is no friction. The mind is at peace, and the body also. The two are sufficient to themselves. Happiness is elusive – coming perhaps once in a lifetime – and approaching ecstasy."

"Not a continuous thing, like contentment?"

"No, not a continuous thing. But there are, after all, degrees of happiness. I remember, for instance, one particular moment after I became a pirate, and I fought my first action, against one of your merchant ships. I was successful, and towed my prize into port. That was a good moment, exhilarating, happy. I had achieved the thing I had set myself to do, of which I had been uncertain."

"Yes," she said. "Yes – I understand that."

"And there have been other moments too. The pleasure felt after I have made a drawing, and I look at the drawing, and it has the shape and form of what I meant. That is another degree of happiness."

"It is easier then, for a man," she said, "a man is a creator, his happiness comes in the things that he achieves. What he makes with his hands, with his brain, with his talents."

"Possibly," he said. "But women are not idle. Women have babies. That is a greater achievement than the making of a drawing, or the planning of an action."

"Do you think so?"

"Of course."

"I never considered it before."

"You have children, have you not?"

"Yes – two."

"And when you handled them for the first time, were you not conscious of achievement? Did you not say to yourself, 'This is something I have done – myself? And was not that near to happiness?"

She thought a moment, and then smiled at him.

"Perhaps," she said.

He turned away from her, and began touching the things on the mantelpiece. "You must not forget I am a pirate," he said; "here you are leaving your treasures about in careless fashion. This little casket, for instance, is worth several hundred pounds."

"Ah, but then I trust you."

"That is unwise."

"I throw myself upon your mercy."

"I am known to be merciless."

He replaced the casket, and picked up the miniature of Harry. He considered it a moment, whistling softly.

"Your husband?" he said.

"Yes."

He made no comment, but put the miniature back into its place, and the fashion in which he did so, saying nothing of Harry, of the likeness, of the miniature itself, gave to her a curious sense of embarrassment. She felt instinctively that he thought little of Harry, considered him a dolt, and she wished suddenly that the miniature had not been there, or that Harry was in some way different.

"It was taken many years ago," she found herself saying, as though in defence; "before we were married."

"Oh, yes," he said. There was a pause, and then -

"That portrait of you," he said, "upstairs in your room, was that done about the same time?"

"Yes," she said, "at least – it was done soon after I became betrothed to Harry."

"And you have been married – how long?"

"Six years. Henrietta is five."

"And what decided you upon marriage?"

She stared back at him, at a loss for a moment; his question was so unexpected. And then, because he spoke so quietly, with such composure, as though he were asking why she had chosen a certain dish for dinner, caring little about the answer, she told him the truth, not realising that she had never admitted it before.

"Harry was amusing," she said, "and I liked his eyes."

As she spoke it seemed to her that her voice sounded very far distant, as though it were not herself who spoke, but somebody else.

He did not answer. He had moved away from the mantelpiece, and had sat down on a chair, and was pulling out a piece of paper from the great pocket of his coat. She went on staring in front of her, brooding suddenly upon Harry, upon the past, thinking of their marriage in London, the vast assembly of people, and how poor Harry, very youthful, scared possibly at the responsibilities before him, and having little imagination, drank too much on their wedding-night, so as to appear bolder than he was, and only succeeded in seeming a very great sot and a fool. And they had journeyed about England, to meet his friends, for ever staying in other people's houses in an atmosphere strained and artificial, and she – starting Henrietta almost immediately – became irritable, fretful, entirely unlike herself, so unaccustomed to ill-health of any kind. The impossibility of riding, of walking, of doing all the things she wished to do, increased her irritation. It would have helped could she have talked to Harry, asked for his understanding, but understanding, to him, meant neither silence, nor tenderness, nor quiet, but a rather hearty boisterousness, a forced jollity, a making of noise in an endeavour to cheer her, and on top of it all great lavish caresses that helped her not at all.