Maurier Daphne du - Frenchman’s Creek

At last he broke the silence, his voice very low and quiet.

"In the winter," he said, "when I used to lie in your room at Navron, and look at your picture, I made my own pictures of you in my mind. I would see you fishing perhaps, as we did this afternoon, or watching the sea from the decks of La Mouette. And somehow, the pictures would not fit with the servants' gossip I had heard from time to time. The two were not in keeping."

"How unwise of you," she said slowly, "to make pictures of someone you had never seen."

"Possibly," he said, "but it was unwise of you to leave your portrait in your bedroom, untended and alone, when pirates such as myself make landings on the English coast."

"You might have turned it," she said, "with its face to the wall-or even put another in its place, of the true Dona St. Columb, roystering at the Swan, and dressing up in the breeches of her husband's friends, and riding at midnight with a mask on her face to frighten old solitary women."

"Was that one of your pastimes?"

"It was the last one, before I became a fugitive. I wonder you did not hear it, with the rest of the servants' gossip."

Suddenly he laughed, and reaching to the little pile of wood behind him, he threw fresh fuel onto the fire, and the flames crackled and leapt into the air, "It is a pity you were not born a boy," he said, "you could have discovered then what danger meant. Like myself, you are an outlaw at heart, and dressing up in breeches and frightening old women was the nearest thing to piracy you could imagine."

"Yes," she said, "but you-when you have captured your prize or made your landing-sail away with a sense of achievement, whereas I, in my pitiful little attempt at piracy, was filled with self-hatred, and a feeling of degradation."

"You are a woman," he said, "and you do not care for killing fishes either."

This time, looking across the fire, she saw that he was smiling at her in a mocking way, and it seemed as though the constraint between them vanished, they were themselves again, and she could lean back on her elbow and relax.

"When I was a lad," he said, "I used to play at soldiers, and fight for my king. And then, in a thunderstorm, when the lightning came and the thunder clapped, I would hide my head in my mother's lap and put my fingers in my ears. Also, to make my soldiering more realistic, I would paint my hands red and pretend to be wounded-but when I saw blood for the first time on a dog that was dying, I ran away and was sick."

"That was like me," she said, "that was how I felt, after my masquerade."

"Yes," he said, "that is why I told you."

"And now," she said, "you don't mind blood any more, you are a pirate, and fighting is your life-robbing and killing, and hurting. All the things you pretended to do and were afraid to do-now you don't mind them any longer."

"On the contrary," he said, "I am often very frightened."

"Yes," she said, "but not in the same way. Not frightened of yourself. Not frightened of being afraid."

"No," he said. "No, that has gone for ever. That went when I became a pirate."

The long twigs in the fire began to crumple and fall, and to break into fragments. The flames burnt low, and the ashes were white.

"To-morrow," he said, "I must begin to plan again."

She glanced across at him, but the firelight no longer shone upon him, and his face was in shadow.

"You mean-you must go away?" she said.

"I have been idle too long," he answered, "the fault lies in the creek. I have allowed it to take a hold on me. No, your friends Eustick and Godolphin shall have a run for their money. I shall see if I can bring them into the open."

"You are going to do something dangerous?"

"Of course."

"Will you make another landing along the coast?"

"Very probably."

"And risk capture, and possibly death?"

"Yes."

"Why-and for what reason?"

"Because I want the satisfaction of proving to myself that my brain is better than theirs."

"But that is a ridiculous reason."

"It is my reason, nevertheless."

"It is an egotistical thing to say. A sublime form of conceit."

"I know that."

"It would be wiser to sail back to Brittany."

"Far wiser."

"And you will be leading your men into something very desperate."

"They will not mind."

"And La Mouette may be wrecked, instead of lying peacefully at anchor in a port across the channel."

"La Mouette was not built to lie peacefully in a port."

They looked at each other across the ashes, and his eyes held her for a long instant, with a light in them like the flame that had spent itself in the fire, and at last he stretched himself and yawned, and said: "It is a pity indeed that you are not a boy, you could have come with me."

"Why must I be a boy to do that?"

"Because women who are afraid of killing fishes are too delicate and precious for pirate ships."

She watched him a moment, biting the end of her finger, and then she said, "Do you really believe that?"

"Naturally."

"Will you let me come this once, to prove to you that you are wrong?"

"You would be sea-sick," he said.

"No."

"You would be cold, and uncomfortable, and frightened."

"No."

"You would beg me to put you ashore just as my plans were about to work successfully."

"No."

She stared at him, antagonistic, angry, and he rose to his feet suddenly, and laughed, kicking the last embers of the fire, so that the glow was gone, and the night became dark.

"How much," she said, "will you wager that I am sick, and cold, and frightened?"

"It depends," he said, "what we have to offer each other."

"My ear-rings," she said, "you can have my ruby earrings. The ones I wore when you supped with me at Navron."

"Yes," he said, "they would be a prize indeed. There would be little excuse for piracy if I possessed them. And what will you demand of me, should you win your wager?"

"Wait," she said, "let me think," and standing silently a moment beside him, looking down into the water, she said, seized with amusement, with devilry: "A lock from Godolphin's wig."

"You shall have the wig itself," he said.

"Very good," she said, turning, and making her way down to the boat, "then we need discuss the matter no further. It is all arranged. When do we sail?"

"When I have made my plans."

"And you start work to-morrow?"

"I start work to-morrow."

"I will take care not to disturb you. I too must lay my plans. I think I shall have to become indisposed, and take to my bed, and my malady will be of a feverish sort, so that the nurse and the children are denied my room. Only William will attend me. And each day dear faithful William will bear food and drink to the patient who-will not be there."

"You have an ingenious mind."

She stepped into the boat, and seizing the paddles he rowed silently up the creek, until the hull of the pirate ship loomed before them in the soft grey light. A voice hailed them from the ship, and he answered in Breton, and passing on brought the boat to the landing place at the head of the creek.

They walked up through the woods without a word, and as they came to the gardens of the house, the clock in the courtyard struck the half-hour. Down the avenue William would be waiting with the carriage, so that she could drive up to the house as she had planned.

"I trust you enjoyed your dinner with Lord Godolphin," said the Frenchman.

"Very much so," she answered.

"And the fish was not too indifferently cooked?"

"The fish was delicious."

"You will lose your appetite when we go to sea."

"On the contrary, the sea air will make me ravenous."

"I shall have to sail with the wind and the tide, you realise that? It will mean leaving before dawn."

"The best time of the day."

"I may have to send for you suddenly-without warning."

"I shall be ready."

They walked on through the trees, and coming to the avenue, saw the carriage waiting, and William standing beside the horses.

"I shall leave you now," he said, and then stood for a moment under the shadow of the trees, looking down upon her.

"So you will really come?"

"Yes," she said.

They smiled at one another, aware suddenly of a new intensity of feeling between them, a new excitement, as though the future, which was still unknown to them both, held a secret and a promise. Then the Frenchman turned, and went away through the woods, while Dona came out upon the avenue, under the tall beech trees, that stood gaunt and naked in the summer night, the branches stirring softly, like a whisper of things to come.

IT WAS WILLIAM who awoke her, William shaking her arm and whispering in her ear "Forgive me, my lady, but Monsieur has just sent word, the ship sails within the hour." Dona sat up in bed at once, all wish for sleep vanishing with his words, and "Thank you, William," she said, "I shall be ready in twenty minutes' time. What hour is it?"

"A quarter to four, my lady."

He left the room, and Dona, pulling aside the curtains, saw that it was yet dark, the white dawn had not broken. She began to dress hurriedly, her heart beating with excitement and her hands unnaturally clumsy, feeling all the while like a naughty child proceeding to a forbidden venture. It was five days since she had supped with the Frenchman in the creek, and she had not seen him since. Instinct had told her that when he worked he would be alone, and she had let the days go by without walking through the woods to the river, without sending messages even by William, for she knew that when he had laid his plans he would send for her. The wager was not a momentary thing of folly, broached on a summer's night and forgotten before morning, it was a pact by which he would abide, a testing of her strength, a challenge to her courage. Sometimes she thought of Harry, continuing with his life in London, his riding, his gaming, the visits to the taverns, the playhouses, the card-parties with Rockingham, and the images she conjured seemed to her those of another world, a world which concerned her not at all. It belonged, in its strange fashion, to a past that was dead and gone, while Harry himself had become a kind of ghost, a phantom figure walking in another time.

The other Dona was dead too, and this woman who had taken her place was someone who lived with greater intensity, with greater depth, bringing to every thought and every action a new richness of feeling, and an appreciation, half sensuous in its quality, of all the little things that came to make her day.

The summer was a joy and a glory in itself, the bright mornings picking flowers with the children, and wandering with them in the fields and in the woods, and the long afternoons, lazy and complete, when she would lie on her back under the trees, aware of the scent of whin, of broom, of bluebells. Even the simple things, the basic acts of eating, drinking, sleeping, had become, since she had been at Navron, a source of pleasure, of lazy still enjoyment.

No, the Dona of London had gone for ever, the wife who lay beside her husband in that great canopied bed in their house in St. James's Street, with the two spaniels scratching in their baskets on the floor, the window opened to the stuffy laden air and the harsh street cries of chair-menders and apprentice boys-that Dona belonged to another existence.

The clock in the courtyard struck four, and the new Dona, in an old gown long laid aside to be bestowed upon a cottager, with a shawl about her shoulders, and a bundle in her hands, crept down the stairway to the dining-hall, where William awaited her, a taper in his hand.

"Pierre Blanc is outside, in the woods, my lady."

"Yes, William."

"I will supervise the house in your absence, my lady, and see that Prue does not neglect the children."

"I have every confidence in you, William."

"My intention is to announce to the household this morning that your ladyship is indisposed-a trifle feverish, and that for fear of infection you would prefer that the children did not come to your room, or the maid-servants, and that you have bidden me wait upon you myself."

"Excellent, William. And your face, so solemn, will be exactly right for the occasion. You are, if I may say so, a born deceiver."