She Fell Among Thieves

by Yates, Dornford

  There was still no life to be seen about the house, but smoke was now rising from a chimney and cows were leaving a byre which belonged to the farm.

  After a careful survey, Mansel gave the glasses to Bell.

  ‘You take the first watch,’ he said. ‘The moment you see any movement, let me know.’

  He pushed himself back from the edge and got to his knees.

  ‘Come and sit by the water, William, and we’ll see what my mistress says.’

  The notes were in French.

  That addressed to ‘Lafone’ ran as follows.

  Lafone,

  I am sending you Jean partly because he has made a fool of himself and partly to take Luis’ place, when Luis is not with you. I have warned him that if he wishes his food to agree with him, he will do all that you tell him and do it well.

  Be very careful just now. Mademoiselle must have less freedom, and either Luis or Jean is to keep a constant lookout. You may be visited. If a visitor comes, he must by no means escape. If he does, you and Mademoiselle will leave for Jezreel within the hour.

  The girl from Carlos is dead.

  Send Luis to me on Monday. He is not to leave before dusk.

  In the note addressed to Jean was a smaller envelope, sealed. For this the note accounted.

  Jean,

  You will escort Lafone, should she leave for Jezreel. Before you leave, you will give the dog this powder, unknown to Mademoiselle. It is quite tasteless – as so many poisons are.

  ‘Pity Jean can’t see that,’ mused Mansel. ‘He’s much too fat.’

  We enjoyed a restful day.

  By nine o’clock we had all of us eaten and shaved, and though, of course, we took it in turns to watch, this was a lazy duty and pleasant enough to do.

  There was little enough to be seen, and in a way we seemed to be wasting time: but, as Mansel said, the pace I had lately set was a great deal too hot to last.

  We saw the girl I had seen return from her bathe. As before, the Great Dane was with her. We saw her feed some pigeons and make her way to the farm. The heat of the day she passed within the house. Jean spent the day at the farm: the condition of his clothes suggested that masonry was now his portion: that he found the work uncongenial was very clear, for, when he came in at mid-day, he kept on inspecting his hands and then throwing them up to heaven as if distraught by their state: but by one o’clock he was on his way back to the farm. It was clear that Lafone was a dragon – with poisoned teeth. We saw a man and three women at work on the farm: and a maid came out to hang clothes at the back of the house. But though once or twice we heard scolding we saw no sign of Lafone.

  At four o’clock the girl walked into the meadows towards the sheep. When she had passed the farm, she patted the dog on the shoulder and sent him back to the house. Then she made her way up to the sheep, who seemed to be glad at her coming, as well they might, for she looked very fresh and charming and ‘grace was in all her steps’. After a while she left them to pass on up the pleasance and out of my sight.

  As I lowered the glasses –

  ‘When you’re ready, sir,’ said Bell. ‘It’s just gone four.’

  ‘Right-oh,’ said I. ‘The lady’s gone round that shoulder.’ I handed over the glasses. ‘Did you have a good sleep?’

  ‘Lovely, thank you, sir. This is like the old days, this is. And I’d rather be here than down at the Château Jezreel.’

  ‘By George, you’re right,’ said I, and got to my knees.

  ‘The Captain’s asleep, sir,’ said Bell.

  ‘All right.’

  Five minutes later I was asleep myself.

  Mansel was speaking French.

  ‘Don’t be afraid. We’re friends.’

  As I started up –

  ‘I’m not afraid,’ cried the girl, with a stamp of her foot. ‘How dare you say such a thing? And what are you doing here? This is my house.’

  ‘We’re doing no harm,’ said Mansel. ‘We were tired and we went to sleep.’

  I had not dared dream that the miniature the glasses had framed could be magnified without loss. Yet it was so.

  She was standing just clear of some bushes, through which, though we had not seen it, the path we had used went on. Her head and her arms and her legs were, all of them, bare, and I think she wore next to nothing beneath her white linen dress. On her feet she had string-soled slippers, such as the peasants wear. But had she been robed as a princess, she could not have looked more royal or made a more striking picture against the leaves.

  Her face and her limbs were not so much brown as glowing and a bloom I had never seen was becoming her exquisite skin as the dew becomes a lawn at the birth of a summer’s day. Her shining hair was curly and loosely clubbed, and her great blue eyes had the steady fearless look of a being that knows no wrong. Her features were very fine, and her wrists and ankles were slender beyond compare, and her hands were lovely to look at, because their perfection was virtual and not induced.

  To say that her air was natural is to say that the sea is wet. Her beauty and grace were those of some lovely creature which, though it is wild, has not yet discovered fear: but her artless manner – her charm was not so much that of a maiden as that of a child. Though she must have been nineteen or twenty, all the sweetness of girlhood dwelled in her glorious eyes, and I remember thinking that so Eve may have appeared, before she was brought to Adam, to be his wife.

  ‘Why are you tired?’ said the girl, using French, as she had before. ‘And where is your home?’

  ‘We were up all night,’ said Mansel.

  My lady opened her eyes.

  ‘That is like Luis,’ she said. ‘And then he sleeps by day. But now you must go away, because this is my house.’

  ‘It’s a very nice house,’ said Mansel. ‘Did you show it to Julie?’

  If he drew a bow at a venture, he brought the light of gladness into the great blue eyes.

  ‘Julie? Is Julie here? I’ve missed her so much. She was to have come for my birthday.’

  ‘She couldn’t,’ said Mansel. ‘But Julie told us about you, and we’re her friends.’

  ‘Then of course you can stay.’ She slipped to the turf by his side. ‘I’ll show you my rabbits, if you like. Ulysse is very tame. He eats out of my hand.’

  ‘I’ve got a rabbit,’ said Mansel, ‘that takes food out of my mouth.’

  ‘You haven’t! I’d love to see him.’ She laughed delightedly. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Jonathan,’ said Mansel. ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘Jenny,’ said the girl. ‘That’s English.’

  ‘Can you speak English?’ said Mansel.

  The girl shook her head.

  ‘Not now. I did in my dreams, though – before I was born.’ In the prettiest way she cupped her chin in her palms and looked up at the sky. ‘Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been?’ Triumphantly she lowered her gaze. ‘There. That’s English.’

  My wits were out of their depth, but, quick as a flash, Mansel had picked up the ball.

  ‘I’ve been to London to see the Queen,’ he chanted.

  Her precious lips parted, her eyes like stars, one little hand to her temples, the girl regarded him.

  Then –

  ‘That’s right,’ she cried. ‘I’d forgotten. How did you know?’

  ‘Perhaps I dreamed, too,’ said Mansel.

  My lady crowed with delight.

  ‘What fun!’ she cried. ‘Oh, I am glad you came.’

  So far I might not have been there, but now her great blue eyes came to rest upon mine. For a moment she regarded me steadily. Then she turned to Mansel and back to me.

  ‘Who’s that?’ she said.

  ‘That’s a friend of mine. He’s called William. He’s very nice.’

  ‘If Julie were here, we could play. I’ve never played. She says you can’t play alone, that you want four or five. I told Lafone – she’s my nurse: but she only got cross. Julie laughed when I told her I had a nurse. But then sh
e wouldn’t believe I was only ten.’

  Again my brain staggered, but if the statement shook Mansel, he gave no sign.

  ‘You look more than ten,’ he said simply.

  ‘How old are you?’

  Before I could think –

  ‘Thirteen,’ said Mansel quietly.

  My lady was counting upon her pointed fingers.

  ‘You know,’ she said gravely, ‘I don’t think Julie is truthful. She said that she was sixteen, but I’m taller than she.’

  ‘Tell me some more of your dreams,’ said Mansel.

  The girl looked away.

  ‘I can’t remember,’ she said. ‘I used to, but I’ve forgotten. There was a room that went up – a little room.’

  ‘The lift,’ said Mansel.

  Jenny clapped her hands with delight. Then she snuggled close up against him, threw an arm over his shoulders and laid her cheek against his.

  ‘I do like you, Jonathan,’ she said.

  I would have gone, but, when he saw my movement, Mansel made me a sign to stay where I was.

  I did not know what to think, but I knew I was near to tears. The girl was, of course, abnormal: that a stone of such quality should be flawed was more than grievous: but the flaw itself was so lovely it rent the heart.

  Mansel set an arm about her and picked up her little hand.

  ‘What’s your other name, Jenny?’

  ‘I haven’t another’ – abstractedly. ‘Does anyone have two names?’

  ‘Sometimes they do. Never mind. Would you like us to come again?’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes, yes. Tomorrow?’

  Her head slid on to his shoulder.

  ‘Perhaps, but listen, my dear. Julie’s never come back, has she?’

  The girl shook her curls.

  ‘But I don’t care now that you’ve come. I don’t want her back.’

  ‘Do you know why she didn’t come back?’

  With her eyes on the tree-tops –

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Lafone knew about her.’

  Jenny sat up, wide-eyed.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she said.

  Mansel nodded.

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘She did seem cross,’ said Jenny, finger to lip.

  ‘If she knows about us, she won’t let us come any more.’

  The girl looked from Mansel to me with dismay in her face. Then to my great distress she began to cry.

  Mansel’s arm was about her and her head was down on his chest. ‘Don’t cry, my darling. Don’t cry. I promise that we’ll come back.’

  ‘Promise, promise,’ she sobbed.

  ‘I will, indeed: but I can’t if you tell Lafone.’

  She lifted a tearful face.

  ‘I won’t tell her,’ she said.

  ‘You must be very careful, Jenny. She mustn’t guess.’

  ‘I will. But why? Why wouldn’t she let you come back?’

  ‘I don’t know. But she stopped Julie. Luis went off to tell her she mustn’t come.’

  The eyes grew thoughtful.

  ‘That’s right. Luis went off the next day, after Julie had gone. She only came twice. I thought he went to see granny. He often does.’

  ‘You see?’ said Mansel. ‘So if you want us to come–’

  ‘I do, I do.’

  ‘Then keep our secret, sweetheart…’

  ‘Sweetheart. That’s English. Why did you call me sweetheart?’

  ‘Didn’t anyone call you sweetheart in your dreams – before you were born?’

  ‘Yes, yes. They did. Oh, Jonathan, how did you know?’

  ‘I’ve dreamed, too, sweetheart.’

  ‘But not about me?’

  ‘Yes. I have. I’ll tell you one day…’

  Gravely he dried her tears: like the child that she was, she suffered him: and I sat by and wished that the earth would suddenly open and swallow me up.

  Mansel was frowning.

  ‘Lafone mustn’t see you’ve been crying.’

  He rose and stepped to the spring to soak his handkerchief.

  Then he kneeled down and bathed her upturned face…and she smiled…and he smiled back.

  ‘I do like you, Jonathan,’ she said, and put up her mouth.

  Mansel stooped and kissed the beautiful lips.

  Then he surveyed his work.

  ‘No one would know now,’ he said. With a sudden movement he turned again to the spring. ‘Let’s make a cascade, shall we? If we build a little dam there and fill up that pool… Cut me some sticks, William. About six or eight inches long.’

  I was glad to go and do as he said.

  When I came back the two were kneeling, like children, one on each side of the rill, gravely discussing the form the cascade should take: and when their decision was come to, I shaped the sticks to their liking and then sought pebbles with which they could fill the pool.

  If ever there was one, the work was a labour of love. Jenny was radiant: her charm welled out, as the spring. For myself, I would have hauled timber to make her glad. And Mansel looked ten years younger…

  He was one of the best-looking men I ever saw. A little grey was stealing into his thick, fair hair, but though he was more than forty, his face was young. His steady, grey eyes were set very far apart, and though his way was most gentle, the set of his chin betokened a strength of purpose which nothing could ever shake. He was tall and well built, but spare, and because of a wound he had had he walked with a limp. Though he had a keen sense of humour, his mien was grave; and he did not smile as quickly as many men. This tale must have shown already how rare was his address, but his gravity was so natural and his manners were so easy and fine that you had a curious feeling that his presence was royal: and, in a sense, I shall always believe that it was, for where he passed by, he was respected, but where he rested, men found him worshipful.

  With glistening fingers, Jenny sat back on her heels.

  ‘Isn’t this playing?’ she said.

  Mansel nodded.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Then Julie was wrong. You can play two together. William’s done nothing but watch.’

  ‘We’ll play again tomorrow. Does Luis ever come here?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No one ever comes here, except me. Besides, Luis is away. He’s been away ages. Lafone can’t understand it – he was to have come with Jean.’

  Mansel glanced at his wrist and got to his feet.

  ‘Oughtn’t you to be going, Jenny? I mean, what time d’you get in?’

  The girl threw a glance at the sunshine which was bathing the heads of the hills on the opposite side of the park.

  ‘About now,’ she said.

  ‘Then go, my dear. Remember, Lafone mustn’t guess.’

  Jenny stood up.

  ‘All right,’ she said slowly. ‘You’ll be here tomorrow, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mansel. ‘I promise.’

  ‘And William, too.’

  I felt absurdly proud.

  ‘Yes, Jenny.’

  ‘But do be careful,’ said Mansel. ‘If Lafone asks what you’ve been doing…’

  ‘She never asks,’ said Jenny. ‘Shall I bring Goliath tomorrow? Goliath’s my dog.’

  ‘Yes, please. But he mustn’t bark when he sees us.’

  ‘I’ll tell him not to,’ said Jenny. She looked into Mansel’s face and caught his hand. ‘Come a little way with me. I don’t want to say goodbye.’

  ‘I’d better not. They might see me.’

  She slipped her arm under his.

  ‘Just to the trees.’

  As they crossed the turf, she saw Bell.

  Before she could ask –

  ‘That’s our nurse,’ said Mansel, twinkling.

  Jenny threw back her head and laughed.

  ‘Why, he isn’t as old as you are. I know. He can play with William tomorrow, and I’ll play with you.’

  With that, she looked over her shoulder and smiled at me: but bef
ore I could make any gesture, her eyes were gone.

  I did not watch her going, but turned instead to the spring and the miniature fall of water which she and Mansel had made…

  A hand came to rest upon my shoulder.

  ‘Take my watch for me, William. It’s long past six.’

  ‘Of course,’ said I, and turned.

  As I walked to where Bell was lying, something made me look back.

  Mansel was lying face downward, with his coat-sleeve across his eyes.

  The Great Dane came bounding to meet her, as Jenny approached the house: the maid that had hung out the clothes reappeared to take them in: Jean plodded back from the farm: and, after a little, the cows filed back to the byre. Evening had come to the pleasance, and dusk was at hand.

  Overlooking the pretty Georgic, I revolved the entrance of Jenny and the startling role which she had begun to fill.

  This lovely, abnormal creature was the grandchild of Vanity Fair. Her existence was a dead secret, to keep which Vanity Fair was ready to go all lengths. Lafone was Jenny’s jailer and constable of the park.

  That seemed to be all we had learned.

  Vanity Fair had had a son – who had died: and that, by her first marriage. Jenny, no doubt, was his child. But her grandmother’s blood had prevailed, for she did not look French.

  Jenny’s brain had never developed. That was most clear. So Vanity Fair had determined to put her away. Nine relatives out of ten would have given her a suite at Jezreel, for, flawed though it was, the stone was too precious to hide. But Vanity Fair could only see the stigma – the brutal, indelible abatement with which a mocking Fate had dishonoured her coat of arms. So Jenny had been immured.

  When all was said and done, we seemed to have found out a secret which Vanity Fair, if she pleased, had a right to keep. (She had no right to do murder: but, where her will was in peril, she knew no law.) If she pleased to suppress a grandchild whose little brain had stood still, let it run by the side of Nature and lead this most sheltered life, that was no business of ours or of anyone else. So far as our duty was concerned, the pleasance had become a dead end: and since Jenny’s glancing footsteps had made it holy ground, we should have done well to forget it and go our ways.

  I say ‘we should have’… But it was now too late. Though Jenny did not know it, she had fallen in love with Mansel, and he with her.