The Silver Sty

by Sara Seale

  Sarah stood, her primroses tightly clasped in her hands, and looked at the gentle facade of the house, thinking it suited James as Fallow had never done. Fallow had been all right for John Silver and for Sarah—a comfortable dumping-ground for refuse; a setting for the only existence she had ever known. But James required more of life; a formality, a background that had I more to it than a roof over one’s head. At Little Barrow he would be rid, once and for all, of the responsibility of Handley Grey’s daughter.

  She sat down on a carved stone bench, and in the gathering dusk thought about her parents. What sort of man had her father really been? A great gambler, Mick had called him. A great gambler who had ruined thousands of homes, who had died in prison, little better than a criminal; whose wife, perhaps for very shame, had taken her life. A violent history to hand on to their only child. But they hadn’t bothered about their child. John Silver, for reasons best known to himself, had done that, and left her as a legacy to the one man who couldn’t possibly want her.

  Sarah covered her face with her hands. How James must have hated her all those years. How he must have resented the fact that Handley Grey’s daughter lived in plenty while his own mother suffered ... A chill fell over the walled garden and Sarah shivered. It was nearly dark. The primroses had fallen unheeded into her lap. She picked them up, arranging them carefully, then got up and walked stiffly back to the car.

  James and Sophie were in the middle of tea when she returned. Sarah held her flowers out toward Sophie and said:

  “Look! The first primroses.”

  “Are they selling them in London?” asked Sophie absently.

  “No, I found them at Little Barrow,” Sarah said.

  James looked at her oddly and wondered what had taken her back to the house.

  “You look cold,” he remarked. “Come and have some tea.”

  “No, thank you. I don’t want any tea,” she said, and took her primroses upstairs.

  James didn’t see her again until dinner-time, and he watched her then with worried eyes. She ate scarcely anything and he got the impression that she was holding desperately on to her self-control. Not a good moment for the talk he had decided he must have with her, but the child was looking positively ill, and he thought he knew the reason why.

  After Sophie had gone to bed, he looked up from the book he was reading and asked suddenly:

  “Did you collect your pearls?”

  Sarah’s eyes focused on him with an effort.

  “Pearls?” she repeated vaguely.

  “You were going to fetch your pearls from Drake’s.”

  “Oh!” Her eyes slid away from his. “They weren’t ready.”

  He sighed.

  “You never left them there, did you?”

  She looked frightened.

  “I told you—” she began, but he cut her short a little wearily. “Don’t bother, Sarah. I took the trouble to ring up Drake’s and ask if you’d been in. They said they hadn’t seen the pearls since the day I bought them.”

  There was a silence, then Sarah began to stammer:

  “I—I didn’t like to tell you before, J.B. I—I lost them.”

  “Lost them? Where?”

  “In a taxi, in a restaurant—I don’t remember where.”

  “Did you notify the police, or the insurance company?”

  “No. I—I didn’t tell anyone.”

  “Wasn’t that rather odd?” He was watching her gravely, and when she said nothing, he went on in a different tone of voice: “I don’t think we’ll have any more lies, Sarah. You sold the pearls, didn’t you, to pay your gambling losses?”

  “No,” said Sarah quickly. “It wasn’t like that. I haven’t been gambling.”

  “My dear, I happen to know—”

  “You happen to know just what Clare Rosenheim chooses to tell you,” she said hotly. “I expect she hinted, too, that I was having an affair with Mick. Trust her to tell you.”

  “Well, you won’t deny, I hope, that you’ve been seeing him. In fact, my precious little ward, you saw him today, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Sarah flatly. “I saw him today.”

  James got up and stood with his back to the fire.

  “Sarah, I’ve reached a decision about this thing,” he said quietly. “I’ve said very little lately—I hoped perhaps sometime you’d tell me. Things can’t go on like this between us, so I’ve made up my mind to send you away. I’m making arrangements for Sophie to take you abroad somewhere for a couple of months. Perhaps if you’re right away from me as well as Fennick, you’ll come to your senses.”

  “You’re going to stay here?” Sarah had risen too.

  “I shall probably see about getting rid of Fallow. I’m already negotiating for Little Barrow.”

  Yes, thought Sarah bleakly, and when I’m out of the way, you’ll marry Clare quietly, then write me a kind letter saying your new wife is waiting to welcome me to her new home.

  She stood, very slim and straight in her long green frock, looking at him with eyes that were suddenly older. Her face was as white as paper.

  “You won’t have to send me away, J.B.,” she said gravely, “You won’t have to be bothered with me ever again.” She turned, and without saying good night, walked quietly from the room. Half-way up the stairs, she felt the old sick giddiness beginning to assail her, and she stood for a moment, holding tightly to the banisters, wondering if those queer attacks were going to start again. But the faintness passed this time, and she went on slowly to her bedroom. She sat on the bed, staring at her untidy dressing-table and deciding what she must do. Mick no longer seemed an evil genius; he was a way of escape. James had said he was sending her away. Well, he wouldn’t have to do that. She would go away herself.

  Wearily, she tumbled into bed and fell into the deep sleep of utter exhaustion.

  At breakfast the next morning there was one letter beside her plate. She recognised Clare’s big, decorative writing on the envelope, and wondered why she had written. Aware of James’s curious glance, she slit the envelope carelessly and began to read.

  My dear (Clare had written),

  I feel that you resented our little conversation this morning, and I do want to assure you most earnestly that it was of both you and Jim I was thinking. You must forgive me, Sarah, if I put Jim’s happiness first. That is natural, isn’t it?

  You are young and with so much before you, but Jim’s brief romance is over unless you, my dear, are big enough to release him from his obligations. It is a very great thing you are taking, a man’s whole life to satisfy an exaggerated idea of duty. All I ask is that you think well what you are doing, and remember that I ask nothing for myself—only for Jim.

  I must own that I feel a teeny bit unhappy about you and Mick Fennick. Forgive an interference which I am sure you will consider no affair of mine, but believe me, I do wish you well.

  Your sincere friend,

  Clare Rosenheim

  P.S.—Has Jim ever told you who your parents were?

  Sarah read the letter steadily, down to its last sly postscript, and grew a little whiter as she read. It only needed this to seal her decision of the night before. Oh, she was clever, was Clare, with her little digs, her half-truths, her nagging hints. Clare never came out in the open, but she got there just the same.

  “What’s Clare got to say?” asked James.

  She folded up the letter and stuffed it into the pocket of her slacks.

  “Oh, nothing,” she said, “nothing at all. Just waffling about some dress she saw at Peronel’s. We met there yesterday morning.”

  It wasn’t convincing, thought James. It was unlikely that Clare would suddenly write to Sarah about clothes; besides, he had watched her face as she read the letter, and he felt vaguely uneasy, and hoped that Clare hadn’t taken it upon herself to deliver womanly advice on the subject of Mick at this stage of affairs.

  Sarah waited until she was sure James was out of the house, then she shut herself into his s
tudy where she knew she wouldn’t be disturbed, and put through a telephone call to Mick.

  “I’ll come,” she said briefly, when she got through.

  He wasted no time showing his satisfaction or surprise at such a quick decision, except to say:

  “Are you sure, Sarah? Once you’ve made up your mind there’ll be no turning back.”

  “I’ve made up my mind,” she said, “only I’d like it to happen as soon as possible, please.”

  “That suits me. Just give me a day or two to make arrangements, also to ensure that my—er—wife takes the necessary steps.”

  She felt a little hot at that. She hadn’t quite realised that she would feature as co-respondent in a divorce case.

  “You’d better not ring up here, J.B. might answer,” she said.

  He laughed.

  “All right, I’ll think of something, and let you know in a day or so. What would you like to go with the pearls? Earrings, a ring?”

  “Oh, nothing, nothing!” she cried with pain, and rang off.

  Next she put through a call to South Molton Street. Peronel’s voice sounded tired at the other end of the line and she admitted to a harassing morning.

  “What is it, Sarah?” she asked. “I mustn’t stop chattering.”

  “I only want to beg a bed for the night,” Sarah said.

  “Which night?”

  “I’m not quite sure, yet. Quite soon. I’ll let you know.”

  There was a long pause and Sarah got the impression that Peronel suspected.

  “All right, my sweet,” she said then. “You’ll have to take your chance as to whether I’m out that evening, but I expect you’ve got plans of your own.”

  “Yes, I have,” said Sarah hurriedly, adding: “And, darling, don’t tell Clare if you should see her.”

  There was another pause, then Peronel said with an odd inflection in her voice:

  “Okay, I won’t tell Clare.”

  The next couple of days dragged by mercilessly for Sarah. At first she was too stunned by the momentous events of the past hours to realise fully that her life at Fallow was ending, but as time went on, the suspense of waiting for Mick’s message began to tell on her nerves. She was filled with a restless excitement which even Sophie noticed and wondered at, and James decided that the sooner he got her away the better it would be for everyone.

  Once he said to her a little tentatively:

  “If you care to tell me where you took the pearls, Sarah, I’ll trace them and try and get them back for you.” Under all his disappointment he still felt a great compassion for her. She was so plainly unhappy.

  She turned away so that he shouldn’t see her trembling mouth.

  “I told you I didn’t sell them,” she said in a hard voice.

  “Oh, very well,” said James quietly, and his voice sounded very tired.

  Sarah was in the sewing-room with Sophie when Mick’s message came. It was a wet day, and the sound of Sophie’s sewing-machine was pleasant and homely and reminded Sarah of nursery days. She looked at Sophie’s faded fair head bent over her work and thought she would miss her. Sophie’s vague kindliness had been a background for so long that it was difficult to imagine life without her. For the first time she wondered what would happen to Sophie after she had gone.

  “Will you mind going away from Fallow?” she asked, then remembered that, of course, Sophie knew nothing of her plans.

  But to Sophie it was a perfectly natural question. James’s plans were already cut and dried, and she had wanted an opportunity for discussing them with Sarah.

  “I shan’t mind at all,” she said briskly. “I’ve always wanted to travel. I think the change will do us both good.”

  “Oh, that,” said Sarah indifferently. “I meant, would you mind leaving Fallow for good—if you ever had to, I mean?”

  Sophie wrinkled her smooth forehead.

  “Well, of course, dear, I’ve never expected to stay here for ever,” she said prosaically. “As Monty has always said, ‘One day Sarah will get married, and then your job will be finished.’ ”

  “Monty?”

  “Colonel Moon, I mean—somehow I think of him as Monty,” said Sophie, and blushed.

  Sarah smiled at her.

  “He’s always had his eye on you, hasn’t he?” she said. “Would you marry him, Sophie?”

  “Well, I don’t know, at my time of life,” said Sophie. “In any case, I don’t think about it as long as I’m wanted here. I want very much to see you settled in a happy marriage, Sarah.”

  Sarah’s eyes grew misty. Dear Sophie—she had cherished so many romantic notions. Sophie would be bitterly hurt at her elopement with Mick.

  “You may get your wish sooner than you think, darling,” she said gently. “And then you’ll have to do more than consider the Colonel as a prospective husband.”

  Sophie’s blue eyes grew round.

  “Oh, Sarah,” she said shyly. “Are you and James—after all? I’ve been so unhappy about this estrangement. James is so very fond of you, you know, and he’s been so worried about this business of Mr. Fennick.”

  Quite suddenly, Sarah burst into tears.

  “You’re such a fool, Sophie!” she sobbed. “Such a nice, feather-headed fool! You’re quite quite wrong. I’m J.B.’s responsibility, the old man of the sea who sits on his shoulder. He’ll never shake me off unless I make him.”

  “Dear child,” said Sophie, looking distressed and bewildered, “I don’t understand a word you’re talking about. Switzerland will be an excellent thing for you.”

  “Is it to be Switzerland?” Sarah said shakily.

  “Well, James thought France, but I always think Switzerland has a great tonic effect. I went there once as a girl, I remember, and the air was most invigorating. All those quaint little chalets, and the cowbells, and the snow—”

  “And the yodelling and the edelweiss,” finished Sarah with a twisted smile. “No, Sophie, I don’t think I’ll go to Switzerland.” Pepper put his head round the door and told Sarah she was wanted on the telephone by Swan & Edgar’s.

  “Swan and Edgar?” said Sarah, looking puzzled. “But I never go there.”

  When she got to the telephone, however, it was Mick.

  “That was my secretary. Pretty neat, don’t you think?” he laughed. “Can we talk, Sarah?”

  “Just a minute—” She had a swift look round. She was in the hall and no one was about. “Go on,” she said, “I’ll just say yes and no.”

  “Well then, listen. Everything’s arranged. Come up tomorrow and spend the night with Peronel, and we’ll be off first thing in the morning.”

  “Where?” asked Sarah.

  “I thought Switzerland for a start,” he said, and wondered why she laughed a little hysterically. “In a week or so we’ll beetle off to Monte or somewhere and try our luck at the Casino. Have you got that, Sarah? Tomorrow night with Peronel, but don’t let on my plans to her or anyone else. We’ll write the suitable communications when we’re safely across the Channel. Have you got a passport?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I think I can get that fixed quickly. I’ll ring you at Peronel’s tomorrow evening. Au revoir.”

  Sarah put down the receiver, feeling a little dizzy. So the thing was fixed, settled; she was finally committed. Well, wasn’t that what she had wanted? No more delay, no more uncertainty. She picked up the receiver again with firmness and asked for Peronel’s number.

  Soon after breakfast the next morning, James had a telephone call which he said made it necessary for him to go to London for the day.

  “I’ll be back in time for dinner,” he told Sarah.

  Sarah had a moment of panic. Was their final parting to be so soon? She hadn’t yet begun to think what it would be like saying good-bye to James. But common sense came to her rescue. No need now for her to tell him she would be away for the night. By the time he returned she would be gone. Awkward questions would be avoided and Sophie would tell him that she
was spending the night with Peronel. Things couldn’t have worked out better.

  But she didn’t know how hungry her eyes looked to James as she watched him get into the Bentley, and at the last minute she jumped into the front seat and flung her arms round his neck.

  “Good-bye, J.B.,” she said. “And I’d like you to know I’m sorry about everything. Take care of yourself.”

  He looked up swiftly, puzzled by her change of manner. This was the old Sarah returned for a brief moment after weeks of living with a stranger.

  “Would you like to come with me?” he: asked on impulse. “I’ve business to attend to before lunch, but afterwards, I could take you to a matinee or something.”

  She drew back at once.

  “I’m not dressed for London—I should only make you late,” she said jerkily. “Besides, I’ve things to do here.”

  “Very well, I’ll see you at dinner. Good-bye for the present.”

  “Good-bye...” echoed Sarah, and got out and stood in the drive, motionless and taut, watching him drive away. As the car reached the lodge, she cried, in spite of herself: “Come back! Oh, please come back!” But the Bentley turned out of the gates and on to the road and he was gone.

  Sarah shrugged her shoulders, and shivering a little, turned back into the house.

  James, driving fast towards London, felt a reluctance to leave Fallow. The memory of Sarah’s somehow tragic face as she bade him good-bye travelled with him, causing him much disquiet. It had almost seemed as if she was bidding him a genuine good-bye; as if, when he returned tonight, he would find her gone. His reason for going to London was no more reassuring. It was, surprisingly, Peronel who had put through that call this morning. She had wasted no words, simply saying: “Could I possibly see you at once?”

  “Is it about Sarah?” he had asked sharply, and she had replied:

  “Yes, and I have an idea it’s urgent.”

  She would take a morning off from the shop, she told him. She would wait for him at her flat until one o’clock.