I then told her everything, in detail. The hunt, the hounds in full cry ready for the kill, the sudden transformation. She could question the people in the neighborhood: the strange disappearance of the fox when the hunters and their horses were already almost on top of it had provided food for discussion for many an evening at the village pub. I related the vicissitudes of the training, the progress made and the gaps that persisted, the enormous trouble to get her dressed. The good woman listened to me in silence; her fat cheeks quivered a little, her eyes wrenched themselves from mine to stare at Sylva gnawing at her kipper, then wrenched themselves away again to meet mine. While I was telling my story, the ghost of a smile began to hover on her rotund face, a kind of wondrous amusement. I had won: she believed me.
“Not half an hour ago,” I confessed in conclusion, “I never guessed I would tell you all this. I was prepared to let you find out for yourself a sufficient number of oddities to come pressing me with questions. But you’ve made me feel I can trust you,” I added, putting my hand on hers. “I am sure you won’t give me away.”
She understood this familiar gesture which the strange circumstances warranted, and for a long while she left her hand beneath mine, giving me a hesitant smile, a moist, anxious look. Then she got up, in a flutter of excitement.
“This is even… even more thrilling!” she cried in a stifled voice. She was devouring Sylva with her eyes, with far more avidity than Sylva displayed in eating her kipper. “I said right away that… that she seemed different from all the girls I’d known!”
“But you’ll keep all this to yourself, won’t you?” I said imperatively.
“Of course!”
“They’d shut us both up!”
She gave a little giggle.
“Most likely, indeed! In fact, it did cross my mind, a moment ago, to have you put in a strait jacket.”
“Or else we might be accused of goodness knows what—abduction, illegal restraint, all the rest of it.”
“She is your niece,” said Mrs. Bumley firmly. “Your sister is getting married again, she lives in Scotland and has entrusted you with her daughter. I know nothing else.”
To familiarize Sylva with her nurse, I asked Mrs. Bumley a little later to give Sylva her lunch (a pair of pigeons bought in Soho) and they became friends. The kind-hearted nurse tried hard to start a conversation with her new pupil, but failed at once. Sylva was still incapable of understanding any abstract question, however simple, if it was not intimately linked to her most immediate material needs.
Mrs. Bumley heaved a sigh. “Maybe she knows a lot already for a fox, but it is awfully little for a woman—even a very backward one.”
We traveled back to Wardley in an ordinary compartment; that is to say, I had not booked it entirely for ourselves this time. The presence of a nurse would render any possible incidents less significant in the eyes of fellow passengers, and it seemed to us that this was a useful time for experiment. Sylva proved docile between Mrs. Bumley and myself. We had come early to take our seats in order to be the first. Every time a passenger came in, Sylva gave a start and we had some trouble calming her fears. During the whole beginning of the journey she remained nervous and watchful, her eyes glued on the people opposite her, scared by their slightest movement, their every word.
Our attitude toward her had at once enlightened our fellow passengers and they showed no surprise at the unwonted behavior of “the poor child.” Embarrassed and constrained at first, as one usually is in such a case, they averted their eyes. But our placid serenity put them at ease, they relaxed and even displayed much kindliness, smiling frequently at the young girl, asking us if they could offer her a piece of chocolate.
Mrs. Bumley shook her head. “She does not care for sweets. Now if you had a sausage about you,” she said humorously, “a piece of meat…”
“Does she understand what one says?” asked an elderly lady, with eager solicitude.
“You can talk freely in front of her,” I assured her. “She understands only the simplest words.”
I had to answer a slightly perverse, though kindly and compassionate curiosity. I had the pleasure of hearing Mrs. Bumley butt in to supply imaginary facts that were far more authoritative than any I could have given. When the slow train stopped at Wardley Station, the whole compartment helped us to get out, vying in kindliness and tokens of friendship. Sylva had by now become quite reassured. To the passengers’ “good-by” she even answered “Bye… bye…” which increased their smiles and friendly waves: she was so sweet, so charming to look at! When the train had left, Mrs. Bumley and I exchanged a proud smile—and a sigh of relief. It had been a ticklish experiment and it had succeeded; our hopes had not been disappointed.
We found the horse and the gig where I had left them, and drove back to the manor. I introduced Mrs. Bumley and her ward to the farmer and his family, with the explanations I had previously prepared. They greeted these with the same blank indifference they showed for all that did not concern their own affairs. I had been a little worried about Fanny’s recollections, but she made no link whatsoever with the “ghost” she had perceived a fortnight earlier. She came with us to help Mrs. Bumley get her room ready as well as the one, between her room and mine, which Sylva was to occupy henceforth, if she consented to sleep in it. We had no great hopes in this respect and expected to meet with strong resistance. On this point we were neither right nor wrong, for Sylva’s behavior proved very different from what we had foreseen.
Chapter 7
ACTUALLY, she did not refuse to sleep anywhere, but she was not content with any one bed, either. Each night she emigrated several times from one to the other, apparently gripped—even more so in the darkness—by a feverish agitation which seemed to come over her whenever she was left alone. I would suddenly feel her warmth and weight on my feet, she would sleep there for an hour, rolled up in a ball, then a sudden lightening would wake me, she was no longer there. It was now Mrs. Bumley’s turn to receive her visit, or else it would be the other way around; we could never foresee in which room, on whose bed, we would find her in the morning. We did try locking ourselves in to force her to stay in her own room, but she scratched at our doors so obstinately that we could not sleep. We had to adapt to this restless, fickle disposition, and not only did we soon stop noticing it but even when, much later, these visits suddenly stopped, we found ourselves at a loss, disturbed in an old-established habit and positively unhappy to be abandoned, as we laughingly had to admit.
Mrs. Bumley called me “sir” and I called her “Nanny.” Hearing this repeatedly, Sylva too began to address me as “sir,” so I persuaded Nanny, despite her profound reluctance, to call me Bonny, which was the name I went by in my childhood. Sylva called “Nanny” at all hours of the day, but whenever I happened to be at home, it was “Bonny” that could be heard all over the place.
Mrs. Bumley was a little hurt by this preference, although she admitted I was entitled to it, at least by seniority. We did not dare suggest that there might, perhaps, also come into it a question of sex, but we both thought of it. Nanny therefore had her eye on me; I knew it, and it would have helped me in case of need. I readily admit, too, that it was not quite fair that I remained the favorite: for food, play, and toilet were now Nanny’s concern.
One Thursday morning, after breakfast, while Nanny was helping Sylva to dress, I received an unexpected visit which made me see the danger I was still exposed to despite the presence of the nurse, as long as I had not publicly put matters right. And this, as one knows, was not an easy thing on account of Sylva’s official nonexistence.
It was not such a surprising visit, either. Though not exactly my neighbor, Dr. Sullivan lived in the vicinity, in an old house called Dunstan’s Cottage, at some small distance from Wardley. It is a charming place, a little reminiscent of the house that sheltered the blind Milton and his daughters near Aylesbury, which every respectable Englishman has been to see: walls of weather-beaten old brick, narrow windows with small panes, a steep low roof that must have been thatched in the old days, a garden ablaze with a thousand flowers in spring but of modest size.