"Frenchman's Creek" - читать интересную книгу автора (du Maurier Daphne)

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.

She looked up suddenly, and saw that her guest was drawing her.

"Do you mind?" he said.

"No," she said, "of course not," wondering what sort of drawing he would make, and she watched his hands, skilful and quick, but she could not see the paper, for it rested against his knee.

"How did William come to be your servant?" she asked.

"His mother was a Breton - you did not know that, I suppose?" he answered.

"No," she said.

"His father was a mercenary, a soldier of fortune, who somehow or other found his way to France, and married. You must have noticed William's accent."

"I thought it Cornish."

"Cornishmen and Bretons are very much alike. Both are Celts. I discovered William first running barefoot, with torn breeches, about the streets of Quimper. He was in some scrape or other, which I managed to save him from. From then he became one of the faithful. He learnt English, of course, from his father. I believe he lived in Paris for many years, before I fell in with him. I have never delved into William's life history. His past is his own."

"And why did William decline to become a pirate?"

"Alas! For a reason most prosaic, and unromantic. William has an uneasy stomach. The channel that separates the coast of Cornwall from the coast of Brittany is too much for him."

"And so he finds his way to Navron, which makes a most excellent hiding-place for his master?"

"Precisely."

"And Cornish men are robbed, and Cornish women go in fear for their lives, and more than their lives, so Lord Godolphin tells me?"

"The Cornish women flatter themselves."

"That is what I wanted to tell Lord Godolphin."

"And why did you not?"

"Because I had not the heart to shock him."

"Frenchmen have a reputation for gallantry which is entirely without foundation. We are shyer than you give us credit for. Here - I have finished your portrait."

He gave her the drawing, and leant back in his chair, his hands in the pockets of his coat. Dona stared at the drawing in silence. She saw that the face that looked up at her from the torn scrap of paper belonged to the other Dona - the Dona she would not admit, even to herself. The features were unchanged, the eyes, the texture of the hair, but the expression in the eyes was the one she had seen sometimes reflected in her mirror, when she was alone. Here was someone with illusions lost, someone who looked out upon the world from a too narrow casement, finding it other than she had hoped, bitter, and a little worthless.

"It is not very flattering," she said, at length.

"That was not my intention," he replied.

"You have made me appear older than I am."

"Possibly."

"And there is something petulant about the mouth." "I dare say."

"And - and a curious frown between the brows."

"Yes."

"I don't think I like it very much."

"No, I feared you would not. A pity. I might have turned from piracy to portraiture."

She gave it back to him, and she saw he was smiling.

"Women do not like to hear the truth about themselves," she said.

"Does anyone?" he asked.

She would not continue the discussion. "I see now why you are a successful pirate," she told him, "you are thorough in your work. The same quality shows itself in your drawings. You go to the heart of your subject."

"Perhaps I was unfair," he said. "I caught this particular subject unawares, when a mood was reflected in her face. Now if I drew you at another time, when you were playing with your children, for example, or simply when you were giving yourself up to the delight of having escaped - the drawing would be entirely different. Then you might accuse me of flattering you."

"Am I really as changeable as that?"

"I did not say you were changeable. It just happens that you reflect upon your face what is passing through your mind, which is exactly what an artist desires."

"How very unfeeling of the artist."

"How so?"

"To make copy of emotion, at the expense of the sitter. To catch a mood, and place it on paper, and so shame the possessor of the mood."

"Possibly. But on the other hand the owner of the mood might decide, on seeing herself reflected for the first time, to discard the mood altogether, as being unworthy, and a waste of time." As he spoke he tore the drawing across, and then again into small pieces. "There," he said, "we will forget about it. And anyway it was an unpardonable thing to do. You told me yesterday that I had been trespassing upon your land. It is a fault of mine, in more ways than one. Piracy leads one into evil habits."

He stood up, and she saw that he had it in his mind to go.

"Forgive me," she said. "I must have seemed querulous, and rather spoilt. The truth is - when I looked upon your drawing - I was ashamed, because for the first time someone else had seen me as I too often see myself. It was as though I had some blemish on my body and you had drawn me, naked."

"Yes. But supposing the artist bears a similar blemish himself, only more disfiguring, need the sitter still feel ashamed?"

"You mean, there would be a bond between them?"

"Exactly." Once more he smiled, and then he turned, and went towards the window. "When the east wind starts blowing on this coast it continues for several days," he said. "My ship will be weather-bound and I can be idle, and make many drawings. Perhaps you will let me draw you again?"

"With a different expression?"

"That is for you to say. Do not forget you have signed your name in my book, and when the mood comes upon you to make your escape even more complete, the creek is accustomed to fugitives."

"I shall not forget."

"There are birds to watch, too, and fishes to catch, and streams to be explored. All these are methods of escape."

"Which you have found successful?"

"Which I have found successful. Thank you for my supper. Good night."

"Good night."

This time the Frenchman did not touch her hand, but went out through the window, without looking back, and she watched him disappear amongst the trees, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his coat.