The Truant Spirit by Sara Seale Page A

mad ...
    The shouting came again, much nearer, and this time she knew that it was her name that was called. At the same moment she saw the light of a torch mark somebody’s passage round the end of the house, and she replied at once. It was Brock, of course. She could see his stiff, dragging walk in the light of his torch and the strange shadows of buttresses and pillars sprang out from the house as he passed.
    “Where are you?” he called.
    “Here,” she replied, making no attempt to rise, and presently he was standing over her and flashing the beam of his torch upon her. She blinked up at him in the light but said nothing. “Are you hurt?” he asked sharply, and when she shook her head, ordered her to get up at once.
    She obeyed, conscious of acute pins and needles in her legs. “I heard you shouting,” she said.
    “Then why the hell didn’t you answer at once?”
    “I thought it was the mountains. The books say that if you’re lost the mountains play tricks.”
    “You’re not in the mountains, you crazy little idiot. Did you think a bit of snow gave you an excuse to play games with yourself and everyone else?”
    “You’re angry,” she said with surprise, and he took her by the shoulders and shook her.
    “Of course I’m angry,” he retorted. “What possessed you to run away again without a word to Bunny?”
    “I didn’t run away. I came to find Penruthan. This is Penruthan, isn’t it?”
    “Yes. How did you get here?”
    “I came across the moor—going west.”
    The light threw strange shadows on his face. He wore no hat and snow had settled on his hair, giving him the look of an older, kindlier man.
    “Brock ...” she said, using his nickname for the first time. “Don’t be angry ... I had to find Penruthan by myself, didn’t
    I?”
    She rested her head on his breast, because she was too tired to remember that they were strangers, and for a moment he held her there, recognising a spirit that had once been his
    own, then he pushed her away with an impatient gesture.
    “You might have known that Bunny would have been alarmed,” he said. “Really, Sabina, you haven’t much consideration for your hostess, have you?”
    “I’m sorry,” she said, humbly. “But she said Penruthan lay west over the moor, and I didn’t think I would get lost.”
    “I don’t suppose she imagined that a town-bred girl would venture on the moor without a little more knowledge,” he retorted. “Do you know west from south or north from east?”
    “Yes, I think I do.”
    “Well, that’s debatable. I think luck brought you here— and, possibly, an endurance that we neither of us had suspected. Would you have stayed here all night?”
    “I suppose I would. I was so tired, you see, and after the moor it seemed shelter. How did you know where to look?” “We didn’t until Willie came out with some garbled story,” he said with grim rebuff; “but Penruthan seemed worth a visit. Now, if you’ve had enough of your adventure, we’d better be getting home. Bunny is worried.” He turned to retrace his steps along the terrace without waiting to see if she followed, and at her first attempt to walk the cramps in her legs almost made her fall.
    “Wait .” she cried, “I’ve the most terrible pins and needles ... I can’t move.”
    He turned and flashed his torch on her again, but his voice was hard and unsympathetic as he replied:
    “That’s not surprising. Exercise will get the circulation back. Come along—I’m not prepared to carry you.”
    She moved towards him and the pain in her legs made her cry out. He put an impatient hand under her elbow and together they walked slowly to the front of the house, where his car was standing.
    He had left his headlights on, and in the twin beams Sabina could see the outlines of the great house, the porch with its studded door, the stone supports of mullioned windows reaching high above her.
    “It’s so big,” she said. “How queer to think I should own