Sylva

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.