The crowd had moved forward in that brief time; their mood was angry. Fermor was gentry, but foreign gentry. These people had seen the blood of a felon in the streets that day; they had been disturbed while they were tormenting Anna Quale. They were protesting against interference. There was too much interference. Bodmin was trying to take from them what was theirs by right; should they be interrupted at their pleasures by foreigners . . . even if those foreigners were of the gentry! It was only the presence of known gentry—-John Collings and Caroline Trevenning—that prevented them from acting in unison against the arrogant strangers who had dared interfere; as it was, some were for pressing forward, others for holding back.
Someone caught at Fermor's leg and was kicked and sent sprawling for his pains.
"Stop this!" cried John Collings. "What the devil . . ."
"Tar and feather the foreigners!" cried a voice in the crowd. "Chain 'em up with the mad *un . . . since they do like her so much."
Meanwhile Fermor had gripped the bridle of Melisande's horse and was forcing a way through the crowd.
"Come on!" he urged. "We must get away . . . with all speed."
And as he with all his might forced the two horses against the surly people, they broke through and, once free of the pressure, the horses were trotting, then galloping across the market square, out and away.
After some minutes Melisande cried: "Stop! Stop! The others are not with us."
He laughed but did not draw rein.
"I said the others are not with us," she repeated.
He continued to ride on for a few minutes. Then he stopped. "Did they not follow us?" he asked. Then he laughed loudly. "Out of evil cometh good."
"What ... do you mean?"
They had left the town well behind, and he looked back towards it. "It was a damned ugly crowd," he said. "Their blood was up. They did not like us, Mademoiselle. They liked neither you nor me. Tasteless oafs . . . don't you think?"
"It was my fault."
"Ah, Melisande, you have a lot to answer for."
"What shall we do now?"
"There are several things we might do. First look for an inn and quench our thirsts. That was a thirsty job. Then look for the others. ... Or congratulate ourselves."
"Congratulate?"
"On at last finding ourselves alone."
"Is that then a matter for congratulation?"
"I think so. I was hoping you would too. I at least feel a little gratitude towards the crowd. Let's ride on. I should not like to be overtaken by them."
"But . . . John Collings and Caroline . . . they will be looking for us."
"Don't let's worry about them. They'll be all right. John will look after Caroline."
"But we've left them there . . . with those people."
"They were only annoyed with us, you know."
"But you must be anxious . . . about Caroline."
"She's all right. Those people won't hurt their own. They have a hatred for those they consider strangers. You're one and I'm one . . . I no less than you. We're strangers in a strange land. We ought to console one another." He took her hand and kissed it. "I beg of you, smile. Be gay. I like to see you gay. Come on. We've escaped. Let us be gay."
"I am sorry. I am afraid of what they might do to Caroline."
"Why? She's safe. She'll be glad we've got away. It would have been very awkward if we'd stayed . . . very difficult! And Caroline
does not like difficult situations. Let us find a tavern, shall we? Come on."
"No. We must go back."
"What! Back to those howling hooligans! By the way, you haven't said thank you. It is customary, you know, when people save your life."
"I do thank you."
"Are you truly grateful?"
"I am afraid I have caused much trouble."
"You're bound to cause trouble, Melisande. Merely by existing you would cause trouble. So a little more, such as we have had to-day, hardly makes any difference."
"You are not being very serious, I think. We should try to find the others. Of that I am sure."
"That would make you happy?"
"Yes please."
"As ever I am at your service. Come."
"Is this the way?"
"This is the way."
They rode on, and after a while Melisande cried: "Are you sure this is the way?"
"This is the way," he assured her again.
The mist had cleared considerably and she saw the moor about them, the heather glistening, little streams tumbling over the stones; the grey tors reminded her of poor Anna Quale, for they were like tormented beings.
"I have so long wanted to talk to you alone," said Fermor.
"Of what did you wish to talk?"
"I believe you know. You must know. You must realize that ever since I met you I have wanted to be . . . your friend."
"You have been very friendly, very kind. I thank you."
"I would be kinder than anyone has ever been. I would be the greatest friend you have ever had. Shall we pull up here and give the horses a rest?"
"But do they need a rest? They were watered and fed at the inn where we had the pasties. And I think we should get back to Treven-ning. Caroline will be very anxious if we are not there when she returns."
"But I want to talk to you, and it is difficult talking as we go along."
"Then perhaps we should talk some other time."
"What other time? It is very rarely that we get away from them all. Here there is no one to be seen. Look about you. You and I . . . are alone up here. We could not be more alone than this, could we?"
He brought his horse close to hers and suddenly stretching out an
arm caught her and kissed her violently. Her horse moved restively and she broke free.
She said breathlessly: "Please, do not. I wish to go back at once. This must not be. I do not believe we are on the right road."
"You and I are on the right road, Melisande. What other road matters ?"
"I do not understand you."
"You know that is not true. I thought you were a truthful young lady."
"I cannot believe . . . that you mean what ..."
"What you think I mean? Why should you not? You must know how damnably attractive you are."
She was trembling. She wanted to hate him. She thought of the hurt to Caroline. Yet she could not hate him. She could not keep in mind his unkindness to Caroline, his careless indifference to the suffering of others; she could only think of his singing along the road the sad song about the miller's daughter, the merry one about the gipsy and the earl; she could only think of his blazing blue eyes when he had caught her horse by its bridle and forced a way for them through the crowd.
"Dear little Melisande," he was saying now, and again he tried to put an arm about her shoulder. As she eluded him he laughed, and she realized that it was that sudden laughter which disarmed her criticism. "This is an awkward position!" he cried. "Damme if I ever was in such an awkward one . . . and never did I so long to be on my own two feet. But what if I dismount? I believe you'd gallop away and leave me standing here. Shall I chance it? Shall I dismount? Shall I make you do the same? Shall I carry you to the grass there and make a couch for us among the bracken?"
"You talk too fast. I do not understand."
"Do not cower behind your unfamiliarity with the language. You know very well what I say. You love me and I love you. Why make any bones about that? Life is too complicated to argue about the obvious."
"The obvious?"
"My sweet Melisande, how can you hide it any more than I can?"
"And what of Caroline?"
"I will look after Caroline."
"By . . . hurting her ... as the miller's daughter was hurt? What if she. . .?"
"This is not a song. This is life. Caroline is no miller's daughter. If she were I should not be affianced to her. If Caroline discovers that I love . . . but why should she ? You and I are not so foolish as to wish to make that sort of tr
ouble. You may rest assured that she will not be found in the cold river. Caroline will understand that she
and I must marry for the sake of our families; and all the arrangements for the future have been made for us. As for you and me . . . that is love. That is different."
She drew back, her green eyes blazing. "You are a very wicked man, I think."
"Oh come! You wouldn't like me if I were a saint."
She was thinking: I must get away . . . quickly. He is bad. He is one of those men of whom Therese thought, of whom Sister Emilie and Sister Eugenie thought when they would not look into the faces of men. It would be better if / had never looked into his face. She thought suddenly of the nun who had been walled up in the convent all those years ago; she wondered fleetingly if the man whom that nun had loved had been like this one, and she believed he must have been.
She quickly turned her horse and rode back the way she had come.
She heard him behind her shouting as she broke into a gallop.
"Melisande! You fool! You idiot! Stop! Do you want to break your neck?"
"I hope you break yours," she called over her shoulder. "That would be a goodness ... for Caroline ... for me. ..."
"I shan't break my neck. I can ride."
Soon he was beside her, catching at her bridle and slowing down the horses.
"There, you see. You cannot get away from me. You never will, Melisande. Oh, just at first you will be very virtuous. You will say 'Get you behind me, Satan! I am a virtuous young woman of very high ideals. I have been brought up in a convent and all my opinions are ready-made.' But are you sure they are, Melisande? Are you sure of your virtue?"
"I am sure of one thing. You are despicable. You knew we were not going the right way. Deliberately you brought us here. I am sorry for Caroline."
"That's a lie. You envy her."
"Envy her! Marriage with you!"
"Indeed you do, my dear. A minute ago, when you were full of your convent ideas and you thought I was suggesting a break with Caroline and marriage w ; th you, you could not conceal your delight. But wait . . . wait until you begin to think freely. Wait until you learn to be honest with yourself."
"You ... to talk of honesty! You . . . who have arranged this! Who brought us here?"
"Who started it ? Who had the crowd at her heels ? Do you realize that but for me you would be chained up with a mad woman now?"
"It is not true."
"You've never seen an angry mob before, have you? There is a
108 IT BEGAN IN VAUXHALL GARDENS
lot you have to learn, my dear Mademoiselle. It might have gone very badly for you if I had not been there."
"John Collings would have saved me."
"Well, I at least was the one who prevented disaster, wasn't I."
"It is a truth. I have already thanked you."
"So here is a little gratitude from you at last? Pity is love's sister, I've heard. What is gratitude?"
"I have thanked you for saving me from the crowd. Now let us return."
"Be sensible, Melisande. Be reasonable. What will you do when Caroline no longer needs your services? Have you thought of that?"
"You mean when you marry her?"
"She might even decide before then that she does not need them."
"Yes, that is a truth."
"A truth indeed. You should look to the future. And that, my dear, as you so charmingly say, is another truth."
"Look to the future! A future of sin is your suggestion."
"That's an ugly word. I don't like ugly things."
"But ugly things have ugly words, do they not?"
"You are too serious. Love should give pleasure. People were meant to be happy. Even companions were meant to be happy. I would make you happy. I would never let unhappiness touch you. I will give you a house in London, and there we shall be together. How can you stay here, buried away in the country ... in a position which, to say the best, is uncertain?" He broke into song:
"I would love you all the day . . . Every night would kiss and play, If with me you'd fondly stray Over the hills and far away ..."
"Let us return, please . . . the quickest way."
"Don't you like my singing? You do, I know. It draws you to me. Do you think I do not know?"
"Should you not be thinking of the effect of your singing on Caroline?"
"No. To Caroline I give marriage. I can spare nothing else for her."
"You are cynical."
"You mean I am truthful. Cynicism is a word the sentimental apply to truth. I could have made all sorts of false promises to you ... as the miller's daughter's lover did to her. But I would not. Think how I could have framed my proposal. I could have said: 'Melisande, elope with me to London. I will go off first and a few days later you must follow me.' That would have shifted suspicion
from me, you see. Then I should have met you, gone through a ceremony of marriage—not a real one you understand. There are such things . . . mock marriages. They have been going on for years. Then, you see, all would have been well until I was found out. Then you would have discovered that I was a scoundrel. Of course, I am a scoundrel, but I am an honest scoundrel. So I say to you: I love you. I love everything about you, even your prudery because it gives me something to overcome, and, by God, I will overcome it. I tell you the truth. I will never be a rogue in the guise of a saint. And I'll tell you this, Melisande: Look closely at the saints you meet in life. I'll warrant you'll find a little of the rogue in them. But you see, I'd rather be an honest bad man than a dishonest good one."
"Please to be silent," she said. "I have heard enough . . . too much."
Strangely enough he obeyed her and soon they saw the town stretched out before them.
"Better skirt it," he said. "They would recognize us and we don't want any more unpleasantness, do we? We might not escape so easily this time, and although I'd be ready to tackle any of them single-handed for my lady's sake, I don't fancy facing a mob of hundreds."
She recognized that they were now on the right road. Yet how changed everything seemed. Life had become no longer simple. She had so much to fear; Caroline, Wenna, a cruel and angry mob . . . and Fermor.
She took a quick glance at him. He was not in the least disturbed. She felt inexperienced and afraid. To whom could she go for advice? To Caroline? Impossible. To Sir Charles? He had been kind—he was still kind, yet he seemed remote. During those occasions when they were in each other's company she sensed in him an uneasiness. She believed that he avoided her; that he was anxious to prevent their ever being alone together. No, she could not ask him for advice. What of her friends in the servants' hall ? They were too garrulous, too fond of gossip. This was not only her trouble; it was also Caroline's.
She thought of the nun, as she had thought of her so many times before. She saw the nun as herself, the lover as Fermor. She feared that she was as weak as the nun; and surely the lover must have been very like Fermor.
She ought to go away—not only for her own sake but for thai of Caroline. But where could she go?
He was watching her, she knew; and he was laughing at her. She believed he was clever enough to read her thoughts, evil enough to laugh at them. He was a bad man. He represented Men as the nuns
thought of them. It was because of men like this one that they wished to shut themselves away from the world.
They left the high road and were within a mile of Trevenning. He broke into another of his songs.
"Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair?"
She tried to urge her horse to go ahead of his, but he would not have it so; he kept level with her and went on with his song.
"If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go; For if she be not for me, What care I how fair she be?"
And so they came to Trevenning.
Wenna was sitting by Caroline's bed; she was stroking the girl's forehead with her cool fingers.
"What is it, my queen? Tell Wenna."
S
he was different from Miss Maud. She frightened Wenna. Miss Maud had tears for all occasions. Caroline hardly ever wept. There were times when Wenna thought there could have been comfort in tears.
Wenna could only guess what had happened. The four of them had set off together. Caroline and John Collings had come home first; after that Fermor had arrived with Melisande.
Caroline had seemed to wear a mask to hide her suffering, but no mask could deceive Wenna. God curse all men! thought Wenna. Oh, if only my little queen would have none of them! If only she'd throw his ring in his face, and tell her father she'd rather die than marry him! And what was he doing here! He ought to have gone back to London weeks ago. It was clear what he was doing. Thoughts danced in and out of Wenna's mind. She would like to see them both ridden out of the place. She'd play a whistle herself and dance to their riding; she would be the first to call obscenities after them.
When they had returned—those shameless ones—he had been blithe and gay, but she was afraid. She was not one to be able to
hide her feelings. Her cheeks were scarlet, her eyes a more brilliant green than ever. Something had happened. Wenna could guess what. Oh shameful, shameful! In the open country, most like. There, soiling the good green earth, there among the flowers and grasses. It was doubly wicked that way.
Caroline had dressed herself in one of her loveliest dresses that evening. She had laughed and joked with her father—that old sinner—and the man she was to marry, that even greater young sinner. Oh, brave Miss Caroline, laughing with her heart breaking!
That imp of Satan had been put out of countenance though. She had had a tray sent to her room, and Wenna had seen Peg come out when she went to take it away, her lips greasy, still chewing. It looked as if Peg had had to finish her food for her. She had them all dancing to her tune. Mrs. Soady, Mr. Meaker, Peg and the rest. . . every fool of them.
I'd like to ill-wish her. I wish she was dead. Pd go along to a witch if I knew of one that did such things now, and I'd get a wax image of her and I'd stick pins in it every night, that I would. And I hope she finds trouble and he swears it weren't him. That I do. And I hope she dies. . . .
It began in Vauxhall Gardens Page 13