The Silver Sty

by Sara Seale

  James glanced at her impatiently.

  “Of course it’s occurred to me,” he said shortly. “That’s what I’m trying to fight. Fennick is no sort of person for a young girl to fix her affections on.”

  Sophie flushed and looked apologetic.

  “I put it stupidly,” she said. “I wasn’t thinking of Mr. Fennick, I was thinking of you.”

  James looked completely taken aback.

  “I think, Sophie, that must be a bit of wishful thinking,” he said a little sadly. “Very nice of you, all the same.”

  “No,” said Sophie with sudden shrewdness. “There was a time—round about the week-end Mrs. Rosenheim was here—oh, and before—all that time when Sarah wasn’t well, I don’t think she really thought very much about Mr. Fennick then.”

  James was silent. Yes, there had been a time when he himself had thought ... But his own altered feelings had been a hindrance to clear thinking. Perhaps after all he had been foolish in treating her so much as a child.

  “You think then, Sophie,” he said gently, “that Sarah would have agreed to marry me if I’d asked her?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said at once. “I’m sure of it. What were you waiting for, James?”

  James made a helpless gesture. To Sophie all emotions were quite simple things to be taken as they came.

  “I suppose I was waiting for her to grow up a little more,” he said. “It didn’t seem fair to pin her down when she was still so unsure.”

  “Stuff and nonsense!” Sophie remarked with unusual firmness. “That’s just the time a young girl needs everything cut and dried for her. I must own when Mrs. Rosenheim came here, even I had my doubts, but—you do love her, don’t you, James—Sarah, I mean?”

  He looked at the ingenuous blue eyes, the soft, still babyish face, and felt a sudden affection for her.

  “Yes, Sophie, I do love her, heaven help me,” he said.

  It was a sign of Sarah’s distress that she returned to her old friendship with the Bakers. Since James’s homecoming, weeks at a time had elapsed without a visit to the farmhouse. Sarah had outgrown them, as James had foreseen that she would, but now she seemed to find solace in renewing the relationship. James knew’ that the village talked. Sarah was always hanging about the garage where Jake worked, but he said nothing, recognising the business as being part of her attitude of independence.

  On one occasion he was rung up by Tommy Noakes, who told him that Sarah was in the Skylark drinking with de Pinto.

  “All right, Tommy, let her alone,” was all he said. He didn’t think Sarah was in any danger from de Pinto now and he made no comment when she returned.

  Once he did say tentatively:

  “Do you think it’s wise to see quite so much of young Baker?”

  “Why not?” countered Sarah, on the defensive at once. “He’s an old friend. There’s no harm in Jake.”

  “I was really thinking of him,” James said quietly. “The boy’s at a difficult age, and he’s very fond of you. It isn’t quite fair to give him wrong ideas.”

  ‘The Bakers can take care of themselves—they’re tough,” retorted Sarah, and added rather childishly: “I’m tough, too.”

  “Not so very,” said James gently. “Why do you want to hit out at everyone, Sarah? If you’re unhappy, can’t you talk to me about it? I might be able to help.”

  For a moment she looked as if she would give in. James heard the telephone-bell ringing in his study and hoped it wouldn’t mean an interruption. It was the nearest he had got to Sarah for some days.

  “I can’t talk to you any more, J.B.,” she began a little piteously, then Pepper appeared in the doorway.

  “Mrs. Rosenheim on the telephone for you, sir,” he said, and James left the room, mentally cursing Clare for such an inopportune intrusion. When he returned to the library, Sarah’s face wore that still, closed look of withdrawal, and he knew it was no use pursuing the discussion then.

  The next day James had business in Brighton and he asked Sarah if she would like to drive in with him. She thought of refusing, then decided she might as well get her hair done while she had the chance, and rather to his surprise, agreed to accompany him.

  During the drive in, and at lunch, which they had at the Metropole, he talked pleasantly of abstract matters and was careful to keep off the subject which was uppermost in both their minds. Sarah’s avoidance to him was probably due to a fear of discussion, and it was best to gain her confidence again until the right moment arrived.

  As he tucked her into the car for the return journey, he thought she looked happier than when they started. Several times she forgot to be off-hand with James, and he had a brief glimpse of the old sparkling warmth he was missing so much. “I’m glad you came with me today,” he told her as the Bentley left the outskirts of Brighton behind, and proceeded along the wide arterial road still encrusted with snow. “There’s a house I want to go and look at on the way home.”

  “A house?” repeated Sarah. “Who wants a house?”

  “I might. I’m thinking of getting rid of Fallow if something good turns up,” said James, and never guessed the turmoil of mind into which his casual words had thrown her.

  Then it was true, thought Sarah bleakly. Hadn’t it always been Clare who had wondered why James kept Fallow? And Clare had rung up yesterday.

  Sarah said nothing, and James, disappointed at her apparent lack of interest, didn’t speak again until they left the main road and proceeded cautiously down a slippery lane running at the foot of the downs. They came upon the house quite suddenly, a perfect little Queen Anne manor-house surrounded by a high brick wall, lying in a fold of the hills.

  James had been over the small estate before, and he stopped the car at the graceful wrought-iron gates to give Sarah a view of the house before they drove up.

  “It’s perfect, isn’t it?” he said.

  But Sarah sat beside him, staring at the house, her small face pinched and stony. It would have been perfect any time, that gracious house, with its gentle formality, but in its present setting of snow it was beautiful. A dazzling breast of downland rose behind it, giving it shelter, and the clipped yews, frosted with silver, lent it a touch of faery.

  James waited in vain for some comment from Sarah, then suggested that they leave the car at the gates and walk up to the house. No one came to disturb them, indeed, only the footprints of birds marked the crispness of the snow. James had the keys, and they went through the empty rooms, and Sarah gazed at delicate mouldings, and Adam fireplaces, and listened to James’s half-shy suggestions for furnishing the place.

  ‘There are some good pieces at Fallow, but we’d scrap most of it and enjoy ourselves going round the sales picking up likely stuff,” he said, and Sarah thought: We—we—J.B. and Clare. He’s got it all worked out.

  At last the inspection was over. With every room visited, Sarah had fallen more in love with the house. To live here, just the two of them, and Sophie; that would be sheer delight. But Sophie had no place here. It would be Clare who would trail down that lovely curving staircase, her own beauty a perfect match for her surroundings, and Sarah knew she had no place here either.

  James paused outside again to lock up the front door and slip the keys in his pocket. He saw Sarah ahead of him, making her way back to the car along the snowy drive, and he caught her up, disappointed and exasperated by such unresponsiveness.

  “Don’t you like it?” he asked impatiently, and catching her by the shoulder, swung her round to face him. Her face was wet with tears.

  “Why, Sarah!” he said gently.

  “It’s lovely—lovely,” she said. “Now, let me go, and take me home.”

  But he kept his hand on her shoulder.

  “Sarah, we can’t go on like this,” he said gravely. “I can’t get near you these days. What’s happened to you, my dear?”

  She blinked back the tears with difficulty.

  “Just let me alone, J.B.,” she said, and pulled away from hi
m.

  They drove back to Fallow in silence. The afternoon post had come, and James sorted through the letters lying on the hall table. He handed one to Sarah without comment, but she knew by his expression that he had recognised Mick’s bold writing on the envelope.

  She read it in her room, and as she opened it, she guessed the contents.

  My sweet (Mick had written),

  Alas! Our little investment is a washout. Shall I try something else for you, or will you come up to Town soon and talk things over? In either event, I’m yours always,

  M.F.

  Oh, well! What did it matter now?

  It was at dinner that Sophie said suddenly;

  “Where are your pearls, Sarah? You always wear them.” Sarah looked up quickly and became aware of James’s grave regard.

  “I noticed you haven’t worn them for the past week,” he said. “Ever since you were in London, in fact.”

  The guilty colour stained her high cheek-bones.

  “I—I left them to be restrung,” she said quickly.

  “Where?” asked James.

  “Oh—the place where you bought them—I can’t remember the name.”

  Sarah lied badly. Even as she made the explanation, she knew that James didn’t believe her.

  “There’s nothing odd in having pearls restrung,” she said defensively.

  “Nothing,” he agreed quietly, and left it at that.

  Sarah slept badly that night, and dreamed of Little Barrow, that lovely Queen Anne house which James and Clare would live in.

  She spent a good deal of her time with the Bakers during the next few days. But Tigger, dashing in from school, had ploys of his own and seemed to have forgotten her. Jake, when he returned from work, seemed surly and restive and had little to say; and Pop Baker, affable and fulsome as usual, hinted broadly that he was out of whisky and cigars, and looked disappointed when she came empty-handed. It was Ma Willick who opened Sarah’s eyes.

  “Why don’t you leave us alone?” she said to Sarah. “We’re not your kind, as that guardian of yours well knows. You’ve no call to come upsetting Jake because you’re tired of your fine London friends.”

  “But, Ma,” protested Sarah, “we’re old friends. You were always glad to see me when we were children. What’s the matter now?”

  But she knew, even if Ma hadn’t told her.

  “When you were a child, Miss Sarah, you hadn’t anyone who’d look after you properly. You were no better than Jake or Tigger running wild. Old Mr. Silver—well, you know what the village says. But now things are different. You have a real gentleman who knows what’s what, and we’re not your sort. Him”—she jerked her untidy head in the direction of Pop Baker’s bedroom, where he was presumably working on another novel—“he’s nothing but a soaker and a sponger, as your Mr. Fane soon spotted. But Jake and Tigger are decent boys if they’re let alone, so you stop putting ideas into Jake’s head for want of something better to do.”

  “All right, Ma,” said Sarah wearily. “I’m sorry.”

  She went away thinking how odd it was that rough-and-ready cockney Ma Willick should have so uncompromisingly backed up James.

  She so far forgot her coolness with James to ask him that evening if John Silver had been her father.

  He looked at her quickly. “Why do you ask?” he said.

  “Something Ma Willick said. And something somebody else said too,” she replied, thinking of Mick.

  “No,” said James quietly. “You are no relation to Long John or to me.”

  “To you?” she said sharply. “Oh, I see. If Long John had really been my father, we would have been cousins, wouldn’t we? Who was my father, J.B.?”

  “One day, Sarah, I’ll tell you all about him,” he said gently. “But Long John adopted you, remember, so in the meantime go on thinking of him as your father.”

  “All right,” said Sarah indifferently, “I don’t suppose it makes much difference who I am.”

  Upstairs, in her own room, she wandered restlessly about, picking up objects and putting them down, postponing the moment for undressing and getting into bed. Something fell off her dressing-table and smashed on the floor and she squatted down beside the broken fragments. It was Jake’s green china dog, smashed beyond hope of repair. A solitary beady eye stared at her reproachfully from amongst the pieces.

  Sarah left them where they lay on the floor, and finding a writing pad and a pencil, began, in a methodical fashion, to write a letter to Mick.

  The snow had almost disappeared by the time Sarah went up to London to see Mick. It was early February, and the air seemed mild and soft after the bitter cold. Sarah wished she could have spent the morning riding on Fallow Down instead of going to an interview which was bound to be difficult.

  She had announced her intention of going to London only at the last minute, expecting that James would ask questions, but all he said was:

  “You can collect your pearls. They ought to be ready.”

  “Yes,” said Sarah hurriedly. “I’ll ask.”

  She caught the early train and went straight to Peronel’s shop in South Molton Street, where she found everyone busy unpacking the new spring models.

  “Hullo, my sweet!” said Peronel. “My spring collection is a dream. Have you come to buy?”

  “No,” said Sarah. “Just to fill in time before lunch. Are you very busy?”

  Peronel was looking at her critically. “You look a bit peaked since I last saw you,” she remarked. “Who’s the lunch date with?”

  “Mick.”

  “Oh! The last time you met Mick in that coat you lost fifty pounds. Be careful, Sarah.”

  “I’ve stopped gambling,” said Sarah bleakly. “This is business of another kind.”

  “Business, my sweet—with Mick?” There was a wealth of innuendo in Peronel’s lifted brows.

  “I still owe him money,” Sarah reminded her. “I owe him more now. An investment went wrong.”

  Peronel blew clouds of thick blue smoke into the air.

  “I don’t think I like this,” she said very carefully. “Why don’t you talk to James about it?”

  “I can’t talk to J.B. about anything just now,” Sarah said.

  Peronel looked at her thoughtfully and remarked:

  “I suppose you know Mick is married.”

  “Yes,” said Sarah, “but the divorce is half-way through.”

  “It’s been half-way through for some years,” said Peronel dryly. “Well, it’s none of my business. I suppose you can look after yourself.”

  “Peronel”—Sarah traced a pattern on the desk with a nervous finger—“if—if I ever wanted to say I was spending the night with you, and I wasn’t—would you back me up?”

  “Now, Sarah!” said Peronel indulgently.

  “I don’t suppose it will ever arise,” said Sarah hurriedly. “But sometimes explanations can be awkward. Things aren’t too good between me and J.B. just now.”

  “Be careful where your girlish pranks land you,” warned Peronel half-mockingly. “Fun is fun, but be discreet, I beg you. I must leave you for a moment now and see how the girls are getting on.”

  Peronel was gone for some time, and when she came back it was to announce that Clare was in one of the fitting-rooms trying on evening gowns.

  “Having got her bills settled for her, I suppose she’s now going haywire with another lot,” said Peronel cynically. “I wonder if your credulous guardian is making himself responsible again. To hear her talk you’d think she was buying a trousseau.”

  Sarah, already struggling into her coat, looked up swiftly. “Perhaps she is,” she said bravely. “Oh, well, it’s good for business. I must go, Peronel. I don’t awfully want to run into her.”

  Peronel glanced at her oddly.

  “You really don’t look well, Sarah,” she observed. “You haven’t started those attacks again, have you?”

  “No,” said Sarah carelessly. “I haven’t done a faint for over three months. It�
��s hot in here, though.”

  She hurried across the showroom, but Clare had heard her voice and opened the door of her fitting-room.

  “Is that Sarah?” she enquired with interest. “Come in and tell me what you think of this dress, dear.”

  Reluctantly Sarah went into the fitting-room. Even in the middle of the morning when evening clothes are a trying test for anyone, Clare looked superb in a low-cut black velvet model.

  “Very nice,” said Sarah brightly.

  Clare smiled at her reflection in the glass.

  “Funny child,” she said. “This is one of Peronel’s most exclusive designs.”

  “I can see it looks expensive,” replied Sarah, and wondered if James would pay the bill.

  “What a divine coat,” smiled Clare. “But a little—a little too much for you, isn’t it, my dear?”

  “It’s warm,” said Sarah, and thrust her hands doggedly into her pockets.

  “What are you doing now? Just up for the day?”

  “I’ve got a lunch appointment.”

  “With Jim?”

  “No. He’s not up.”

  “I see.” Clare looked as if she liked what she saw. “Well, come along with me and have a drink. I’m meeting David at twelve o’clock. I won’t try on any more this morning.”

  “Oh, I don’t think—” began Sarah, but Clare said crisply:

  “Nonsense! It will do you good. Besides, David would like to see you. I suppose your lunch appointment isn’t with him by any chance?”

  “No,” said Sarah again, and reflected that Clare knew perfectly well she was lunching with Mick.

  Peronel watched them leave the shop together, wondered if she would ring up James, decided that the affair was none of hers, and went smilingly forward to meet a new client.

  Sarah, sharing a taxi with Clare, felt uneasy.

  “You know,” Clare said, suddenly patting her knee, “you were a naughty little girl telling me such tales about your nice guardian.”

  “What tales?” asked Sarah, who had forgotten about the fruits of that week-end.

  “Suggesting that he took too much to drink. I might have known Jim would never do that.”