Moreover Fermor had been moved to passion before. Passion was fleeting. Many women had loved him and he had loved many women. Was he going to be foolish over one? Such folly was for callow young men, for inexperienced boys.
She must be made to see that that for which she hoped was impossible.
His father was asking why he did not return to London. It was imperative for him to attend certain social gatherings. By shutting himself away in the country he was shutting himself away from his opportunities of making valuable friends.
So Fermor decided to end the waiting.
He went to Sir Charles's study.
Charles was nervous. He had expected a call from the young man. He wondered what he would have done in his place. He could never have married Millie, but Melisande was an educated young lady. He could see the temptation. Yet in his young days life had been easier. The conventions had been less rigid in the Georgian era than in that of Victoria.
"I have come to tell you, sir," said Fermor, "that my father is
128 IT BEGAN IN VAUXHALL GARDENS
urging me to return to London, and before I go I think we should have a definite date for the marriage. I know Caroline's mother has so recently died and that we are in mourning for her, but in view of the great distance between here and London and the rather special circumstances—our marriage was planned before the tragedy—I wonder whether you will agree that we might hurry on arrangements. Perhaps it would not be considered lacking in respect if the celebrations were quieter than was at first planned."
Charles looked at the young man. He is hard, he thought; harder than I was. He would not have fallen artlessly in love with a little mantua-maker.
Charles felt weary suddenly. It was for all these young people to live their own lives. Melisande must fight her own battles. It was foolish to blame himself, to feel he must shoulder all responsibility. To think as he had been thinking, was to blame or honour every father for what happened to his sons and daughters.
"Do as you think fit," he said. "As you say, these are special circumstances."
"Then," said Fermor, "let us have the wedding here at Christmas. Next week I shall return to London and be back in December."
Sir Charles agreed to this, and whei Fermor went out, he was smiling. He had put an end to the waiting.
Melisande wished to be alone.
Her charm had worked after all. Caroline was at last happy.
They were working on the garments for the poor when Caroline said: "Let us not read this morning. I am so excited. The date for my wedding is fixed."
Melisande bent closer over the flannel petticoat which she was stitching.
"It is to be Christmas Day," went on Caroline. "There is not much time. Why, it is less than two months ... six weeks. That is not very long. I want you to take a message to Pennifield this afternoon. Tell her she is to leave everything and come at once. She will be busy during the next few weeks. There is so much to do."
"Yes. There will be much to do."
"Fermor said it was absurd to wait longer. I fear people will talk. A wedding so soon after a funeral! But Fermor says these are special circumstances. To tell the truth I do not think he greatly
cares what people say. But our wedding was arranged before Mamma died."
"Yes," Melisande answered, "it is a special circumstance."
Caroline looked at Melisande with something like affection. She thought: After six weeks I shan't see her again. Poor girl! What will she do? I suppose she will go to some other house. But she is so pretty that she is bound to be all right. She might even find some man in a good position to marry her.
Caroline was in love with the world that morning.
Melisande continued to sew in silence.
She envies me, went on Caroline's thoughts. She was sure he was in love with her. She does not know him. He always looked at girls with a speculative eye, and she is nothing more to him than the parlourmaid he kissed when he was fifteen. As his wife she would have to curb her jealousy, to remind herself that such affairs were of little importance to him. Some men drank more than was good for them; Fermor probably did that too. Others gambled. He was doubtless a gambler. He liked women too. One must shut one's eyes to his faults, for with them went so much charm, with them went all that Caroline wanted from life.
Melisande was glad to escape from the sewing-room and Caroline's exuberant chatter. She was glad to escape to her room and glad that Peg brought her luncheon tray to her there.
"My dear life!" cried Peg. "You ain't got much of an appetite."
"I have not a hunger to-day, that is all," she explained.
As soon as possible she set out for the little cottage where Miss Pennifield lived with her sister. Perched on the cliffs it was a minute dwelling place with cob walls and tiny windows. The industrious Misses Pennifield had made the sloping garden a picture with wallflowers, sweet smelling cabbage roses and lavender. There were many cottages like this one in the neighbourhood. There was only one floor which was divided by partitions, made so that they did not reach the ceiling in order that the air might circulate. At the windows were dainty dimity curtains and the coconut matting on the floor was very clean and neatly darned in places. They had some pleasing pieces of furniture which had belonged to their grandparents. There was a buffette fixed high in the wall and as this had glass doors their precious china could be seen. There were two armchairs and a table at which they worked. On the mantelpiece over the tiny fireplace were brass candlesticks, relics of the days when their family had been better off; there were two china dogs and some pieces of brass. Their home was their delight and their apprehension; they were always terrified that they would not have enough money to keep all their possessions. In hard times they had already sold one or iwo of their treasures. It was a nightmare of both sisters that one
day they would grow too old to work and that they would lose their cherished home, bit by bit.
But there was no question of that to-day. The Mamazel had come to tell them of work.
Melisande sat at the table and listened to their twittering chatter.
"Well, there'll be dresses, I vow, and petticoats and all that a young lady would be wanting for her marriage. There b'ain't much time. Six weeks, did you say! Six weeks!"
Miss Janet Pennifield, who was not the expert seamstress that her sister was, and only helped on occasions, took in washing to help the family income. There seemed always to be clothes drying on the rocks and bushes at the back of the cottage.
Now she was brandishing a pair of Italian irons which she called 'Jinny Quicks' and used for ironing the frills on ladies' caps and the like.
"Well, I shall be able to bring home work, I don't doubt," said Miss Pennifield, "and you can give a hand, Janet. Oh, my life, 'tis soon to have a wedding after a funeral, but if Sir Charles consents, you may be sure 'tis right enough."
Melisande was aware that their merry chatter and their gaiety was tinged with relief. They had six weeks of hard work before them—six weeks of security.
"I should be scared if I be asked to do the wedding dress," said Miss Pennifield suddenly.
"You'll do it," said Janet. "You'm the best needlewoman this side of Tamar."
Miss Pennifield turned to Melisande: "You'll take a glass of Janet's elderberry."
"It is so kind, but I have much to do at the house."
"Oh, but Janet's elderberry ... 'tis of the best."
She knew that they would be hurt if she refused; she knew that she must compliment Janet and tell her that it was the best she had tasted and ask them not to tell Jane Pengelly, because many a glass of elderberry had she had at Jane's and she had on as many occasions assured her that it was the finest in the world.
"There!" said Miss Pennifield. "You try that. Just a thimbleful for me, my dear, while you'm about it."
Miss Pennifield stared suddenly at Melisande, the glass in her hand shaking so that she spilled some of the precious elderberry. "But, my dear, I see now
why you'm quiet!"
Melisande blushed faintly. Had she conveyed her pity for these two, with their few possessions and their desperate longing for security? "I . . . I . . ." she began.
Miss Pennifield went on: "What will 'ee be doing . . . when Miss Caroline do marry ? I mean 'twill be a new place for 'ee then.
Oh, my dear, 'twas careless of me. I didn't think. . . . Here we be laughing and drinking elderberry when you ..."
"I will be very well, thank you," said Melisande. "But it is a kindness to think of me."
"I reckon you'll find a nice place," said Miss Pennifield. "There's many as would be glad to have 'ee, I don't doubt a moment. And being with Miss Caroline, well . . . 'tweren't all saffron cake and metheglin, was it?"
"No," said Melisande with a little laugh, "it was not."
"Though mind you, she be better now. Sir Charles is a good and kind gentleman. He wouldn't turn 'ee out before you was ready to go. 'Tis a pity Lady Gover be satisfied. I wonder if Miss Danes-borough is in want of a companion. There's Miss Robinson at Leigh House. Now you'd be very happy there teaching Miss Amanda . . . if Miss Robinson were to leave."
"It is a goodness to find these places for me. Let us drink. This is a delicious."
Miss Pennifield insisted on refilling her glass. Janet was nodding her sympathy. They were embarrassed, both of them, because they had rejoiced in their good fortune which might so easily turn out to be bad fortune for the little Mamazel.
When she said she must go they did not seek to detain her and she was glad to hurry out into the damp warmth of the November afternoon.
She hesitated at the top of the cliff and looked down into the sandy cove bounded on one side by a formation of rocks and on the other by the short stone jetty.
The sea, silent in the misty light, was like a sheet of dull grey silk to-day. Without thinking very much where she was going she started down the cliff side.
There was a narrow footpath, very steep and stony. Now and then she paused to cling to a bush, and wondered why she had chosen this difficult descent. The path came to an abrupt end and was lost among a clump of thick bushes. She slipped, caught a prickly bush and gave a little gasp of pain. Ruefully she examined her hand and looked back the way she had come. She saw the narrow footpath winding upwards and it looked steeper than ever. She decided that she would continue with the downward climb. The tide was out and she would walk along the shore past Plaidy to Milendreath. It was a long way round, but she wished for solitude.
She looked out to sea. The gulls were swooping and drifting. Their cries were mournful and the thought came to her that they were saying goodbye to her.
The visit to the Pennifield cottage had depressed her. Of course she would have to go away. There would be no excuse for her to stay.
She would have to go to another house—as a companion or a governess. It would all be so different. She thought sadly of Sir Charles's coming to the Convent, of the happy time in Paris. But Sir Charles at Trevenning was a different man from the one she had known in that first week of their acquaintance. As they had come nearer and nearer to Trevenning he had seemed more and more remote.
Perhaps she could ask Caroline or Sir Charles what was to happen to her when Caroline married. And standing there on the cliffs she was aware of a surging anger. Why should her destiny always be dictated by others ? Why should she not manage her own affairs ? Yet how could it be otherwise? She had discovered a little of what happened to the people who were alone in the world. She remembered some of the poor whom she had seen in Paris and London; she recalled the man whom she had seen whipped through the streets of Liskeard; and as long as she lived she would never forget the mad woman chained in the cottage.
"What will become of you?" Fermor had challenged. And he had one solution to offer her.
She could hear his voice:
"I will love you all the day, Every night would kiss and play, If with me you'll fondly stray Over the hills and far away ..."
But where was 'Over the hills and far away' ? Whither would he take her if she put her hand in his and allowed him to lead her?
She was afraid . . . afraid of the pride within her, the desire to mould her own destiny. The Misses Pennifield, shaking their heads over her, had pictured her eagerly trying to please new employers, and there was no mistaking their pity. They knew; and she herself was ignorant. She was in that station of life to which they had been called; but she had received some education and perhaps because of that she found it harder to accept her lot. She had seen Lady Gover's.companion, a sad elderly lady whose face had no animation in it, no love of life. Melisande had seen the same dull, deprecating look in the face of the Leighs' governess.
That was the life of virtue. Fermor was offering another life—the life of sin. And now here alone, with no one in sight, she knew that the nuns had been right to fear for her.
As she stood still considering which way to go, a high-pitched voice suddenly said in perfect French: "Mademoiselle, you cannot get down that way."
"Who is that?" she cried in French, looking about her.
"You cannot see me, can you? I am a bandit. You should be very
frightened, Mademoiselle. If I wished, I could kill you and drink your blood for supper."
The voice was that of a child and she said with a laugh: "I wish you would show yourself.''
"You speak French very well, Mademoiselle. No one else here does . . . except me and Leon."
"I should. I was brought up in France. But where are you? And is Leon with you?"
"No, he is not here. If you can find me I will take you to safety."
"But I can't see you."
"Look about you. You cannot expect to see without looking."
"Are you in that clump of bushes?"
"Go and see."
"It is too high up."
There was a slight movement on her right and a boy appeared. He was small and looked about six years old; his bright dark eyes glowed in his olive-skinned face and he wore a wreath of seaweed round his head. He had an air of extreme arrogance.
"You are not a pisky, are you?" asked Melisande.
He said with the utmost dignity: "No. I am Raoul de la Roche, at your service, Mademoiselle."
"I am glad of that. I need your service. I should be glad if you could show me an easy way down."
"/ know a good way down. / discovered it. I will take you if you like."
"That is kind of you."
"Come this way."
It was difficult to believe he could be as young as he looked. He had such an air of seriousness. He noticed her eyes on the seaweed and took it off.
"It was a disguise," he said. "I was hiding in my cave there, and I wore it to frighten people ... if they should come. / did not wish them to come. / have been watching you. You did look scared. Only / can climb up here."
She was amused by his emphasis on the personal pronoun; it conveyed a certain contempt for the rest of the world and a great respect for Monsieur Raoul de la Roche.
"Do you live here?" she asked.
He led the way, answering: "We are staying here for my health, Leon and I. My health is not good, they say. Are you here for your health?"
"No. I am here as a companion, which means . . ."
"/ know," he said quickly. "Leon is my companion."
"Oh, but you see, I'm a paid companion."
"So is Leon, and he's my uncle too. Fm called old-fashioned. I
make people smile. It's because I've lived with grown-up people, and I like reading better than games, really."
"You're very unusual, I'm sure," said Melisande with a smile, for his arrogance was amusing.
"Yes, I know," he said. "They're trying to make me more usual. . . . Not quite usual, of course, but more usual. That's why I'm here with Leon."
"Where is Leon now?"
"Down there."
"He doesn't mind your climbing about?"
"Oh, no. It is good for me. I do it to please Leon. I play b
andits and disguise myself with seaweed to please him. It is good for me, the doctors say."
"But you enjoy it, I'm sure. You sounded as though you did when you called out about drinking my blood."
"A little perhaps. Otherwise I should not do it. You are French also?"
"I suppose so. I lived in France ... in a convent. I am not sure whether my parents were French or not."
"You are an orphan. / too am an orphan."
"Then we are of a kind."
"This is a steep bit. You may slip."
"I'll follow in your footsteps."
"When I am strong I shall swim. That will be good for my health. You should tell me your name. I must introduce you to Leon."
"It is St. Martin. Melisande St. Martin."
He nodded and went on. "There is Leon over there. He has seen us."
A tall thin man was coming towards them; there was a book in his hand; between him and the boy there was a slight resemblance.
"Leon!" cried the boy. "This is Mademoiselle St. Martin. She may be French. She does not know. She is an orphan as I am. She was lost but /showed her the way down."
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