"Good afternoon," said Melisande.
When he smiled he was very pleasant. "Good afternoon," he said. "So my nephew has made your acquaintance."
"He was kind enough to bring me down."
"I am glad he was of use."
"It was easy to me" boasted the boy.
"Raoul, Raoul!" admonished the man softly, but he smiled indulgently. He turned to Melisande. "Forgive his exuberance. He is really delighted to have helped."
"I am sure he is. You are living here for the winter, he tells me."
"Yes, we have taken a house. It is a great comfort to meet someone with whom we can talk with ease."
"/find it a great comfort," said the boy. "I told Mademoiselle St. Martin that the people here speak either very bad French or no French at all."
"Well, that is good for you," said Melisande. "It will teach you to speak English all the quicker."
"And when they do speak we can't understand," said the man. "I thought I had a fair knowledge of English, but I cannot understand that which is spoken here."
"It is a mixture of Cornish and English," said Melisande.
"I shall engage Mademoiselle as my interpreter!" said the boy.
The man said quickly: "I very much doubt that she would be willing to give you her services. You must forgive Raoul, Mademoiselle St. Martin. He is ten years old and we have brought him here to make him strong on cream and pasties. We have come for the climate which is supposed to be warmer than the east of England. Last winter we were in Kent. That was very cold. How I am talking! You must forgive me. It is because I have had to pick my words and stumble for so long."
"There are just the two of you?"
"We have brought our servants with us. They are not French."
"They are Kentish, and from London some of them," said Raoul, who clearly did not like to be left out of the conversation. "/ thought they were hard to understand until we came here. The people here are far worse speakers."
"Well, I must say thank you for bringing me down," said Melisande, turning to Raoul.
"But you must not go yet!" said the boy, making it sound like a command.
"Oh, but I have to get back. I work here. I came out to take a message, and it is going to take me longer to get home round by the shore as I intended. So I must say goodbye."
"Let us walk with Mademoiselle," said Raoul.
"Let us ask first if she will allow us to do so."
"I should be delighted," said Melisande.
"/shall not be tired," said the boy. "I have had my afternoon sleep."
They walked over the rocks to the patches of sand.
"I hope we shall be able to meet again some time," said the man. "Gould you visit us, I wonder?"
The boy's darting attention had been caught by the living creatures in a rock pool and he stooped to examine them.
"I am only a companion here; you understand that?"
"I too am a companion of sorts."
"The little boy explained."
"He is delicate," said the man quietly. "He is clever and imaginative and full of high spirits, but bodily weak. I am afraid he has
been rather spoiled because of this . . . and because of other things. It is my task to look after him. I gather that you—a poor young lady —are companion to a rich woman. I—a poor man—am companion to a rich little boy."
"He said you were his uncle."
"The relationship is not so close as that. He thinks of me as his uncle. I am really only a second cousin. You see, you and I are in similar positions. I look after him. I teach him. I guard his health. That is my task."
"It must be very pleasant."
"I am fond of him, though at times things are a little difficult. As you have gathered he has been a little spoiled; but at heart he is the best little fellow in the world. Tell me, Mademoiselle, do you expect to stay here for a long time?"
"I don't know. I came here not very long ago as a companion to Miss Trevenning. Trevenning is the name of the house. Perhaps you know it. She is to be married soon . . . after that ... I am not sure."
"And when will she be married?"
"On Christmas Day."
"That is some weeks ahead!"
"Why yes."
"I am glad. We must meet during that time. Compatriots in a foreign land must be friends."
The boy had come up. He was animated as he discussed the creatures he had been studying in the pool. His face was slightly pink and he was breathless; the knees of his knicker-bockers were damp.
The man said: "But you have got wet. We must go back at once."
"/ do not wish to go back. / wish to stay and talk with Mademoiselle."
"But you must go back at once. You must change your clothes. Why, Mrs. Clark would be angry if you stayed out in wet clothes."
The boy's face was stubborn. He said: "It is not for Mrs. Clark to do anything but what / wish her to."
The man turned to Melisande as though he had not heard the boy's remark. "Mrs. Clark is our housekeeper," he explained. "A wonderful person. We are very fond of Mrs. Clark."
"All the same," said the boy, "she may not say when I have to go in and when I may stay out."
"Come," said the man, "I am sure Mademoiselle St. Martin will forgive us if we hurry away."
"Indeed I will, and I must hurry myself," said Melisande. "I must say goodbye . . . quickly. Goodbye."
"Au revoir!" said the man. "We shall be on the beach to-morrow."
"If it is possible I may see you then."
She did not look at the boy's sullen face. She felt a sudden pity for the man who was poor and in charge of the spoilt rich little boy. She felt sorry for all those who were poor and must pander to the rich.
"Thank you," she said to Raoul, "for showing me the way down."
His face brightened. He seemed to have recovered from his sullen-ness. "Au revoir, Mademoiselle. / shall look for you to-morrow."
"Then goodbye. Au revoir. 9 *
She hurried on, making her way rapidly until she came to Plaidy beach, where she left the shore and scrambled up the steep path away from the sea.
She heard a laugh and her name was being called.
She recognized Fermor's voice.
"Who was the friend?" he called, sauntering towards her.
"Friend?"
"I'll tell you right away. I saw the encounter. I heard you were going to the Pennifields and came to meet you. I was at the top of the cliffs and saw you with your friends."
She felt that mingling of pleasure and apprehension which being alone with him could not fail to bring.
He had come very close. "You look as though you think I'm one of the gorgons and about to turn you to stone."
She stepped backwards and said quickly: "It is so strange that they should be French, and that I should have met them like that."
"How did it happen?"
"I was going down the cliff and found it rather difficult. The little boy came out of a cave in which he was playing bandits. He helped me down."
"And took you to Papa?"
"It is not his father—a second cousin."
"You've quickly become acquainted with the family tree. You enjoyed the company of the second cousin."
"You have very good eyes."
"My eyes are as those of a hawk . . . where you are concerned."
"You make me feel like a field mouse waiting for the swooping. You should not have such ideas. I am not to be seized and carried off by a hawk. Now I must hurry back to the house. I am late."
"You spent too much time with your new friends, little field mouse. Perhaps I should say shrew mouse. You are becoming shrewish."
"It is good that you think so. Field mice are poor pretty things; but shrew mice are not so pretty. Perhaps they are not so well liked by hawks."
"They are even more popular. And did you know that the best sort of hawks are noted for their patience?"
"Are you still thinking of that offer you made me?"
"I have never ceased to th
ink of it."
"What . . . even now . . . with your wedding day fixed!"
"It is a thing apart from weddings."
"You have made that very clear to me. I wonder if you have explained to Caroline also?"
"You must not be a silly little shrew mouse. You must be grownup. Of course Caroline knows nothing of it."
"What if I told her? If you ever try to see me alone again I will tell her."
"What!" he said lightly. "Blackmail?"
"You are the wickedest person I have ever met in the whole of my life. I did not know anyone could be so wicked."
"Then it is time you learned. You could reform me, you know. Now, there is a task for you. If you will love me—if you admit you love me, for of course you love me—you will see how charming I am . . . how good, how tender, how devoted."
"I wish to hurry back."
"Do you imagine I cannot keep pace with you?"
"I would rather be alone."
"But I would rather be with you."
"Do you never do what others want ? Is it always what you want ?"
"Well, what about yourself? Are you doing what others want? Now if you were as unselfish as you would like me to be, you would say: 'Well, I know I shouldn't, but because he wants me so much I must please him. That would be unselfish, and I am so good, so kind—in fact such a little martyr, that I must sacrifice myself since my own desires count for nothing.' "
"You twist everything. You are flippant. If Caroline knew you as you really are she would not love you."
"But you love me, in spite of all you know of me?"
She walked quickly but he quickened his pace. She broke into a run.
"You can't keep that up . . . not on these steep paths." He caught her arm.
"Please do not touch me."
"You have commanded too long." He laughed as she would have
wrenched herself free. "You see, it is of no use. If you struggle you will merely become exhausted, and here we are alone. You may call for help and who will come ? Your brave little bandit and the handsome second cousin are far away. And if they did hear you they would find it a different matter rescuing you from me than from the cliff path. You are at my mercy."
"You tell so many lies. ,,
"No. It is you who pretend. You cannot distinguish between what you want and what you think you ought to want. When I said: 'You are at my mercy!' your eyes sparkled at the thought. Do you think I don't understand! You could say then: 'It was not my fault!' What joy! To be forced to what you dare not do yet long to. What could be better? Shall I give you that satisfaction? I love you so much that I am greatly tempted to please you so."
"You say the most cruelly cynical things I have ever heard. I did not know there were people like you."
"How could you? How long have you been in the world? We don't haunt the Convent precincts hoping to seduce holy nuns."
He allowed her to escape and she began to walk on rapidly.
"I wish to be serious," he said, catching up with her and taking her arm. "We have so little opportunity to talk. I am going to London at the end of the week. Ah, that saddens you."
"No. It is a pleasure for me. It is the best news I have heard for a long time."
"The coward in you is delighted, but is that the true Melisande? No! I do not believe it. In reality you are sad. Now there is no need to be sad, only sensible. Tell me, what will you do when you get away from here?"
"That is my affair."
"Let us be sensible and make it mine too."
"I do not see how it can be yours."
"You need to be protected."
"I am able to protect myself."
"When I say you need a protector I use the word in the fashionable sense. You may protect yourself with your wits, but they will tell you that without help they cannot provide you with the necessities of life. For that you need a human protector."
"Please understand that I shall be my own protector."
"How? In the house of some disagreeable woman?"
"Are all women who employ governesses and companions disagreeable?"
"Most are—to their governesses and companions."
"Well, that appears to be my lot in the world and I must bear it."
"So you will be resigned to that state of life to which God has called you?"
"I must make it good."
"It will not be good. It is hateful for a girl of your spirit. It is so undignified. I wish I could marry you. Why weren't you Caroline and Caroline you ? How virtuous I should have been then! I should have been a model wooer. Goodness is a result of circumstances. Has that occurred to you ? I believe that if a marriage between us had been arranged I should have been a faithful husband."
"People become good by adjusting themselves to their circumstances, not by arranging the circumstances to suit themselves. That is the difference between good and bad surely."
"Now, Mademoiselle, you are not the Mother Superior of that Convent of yours, lecturing a miscreant. If the world does not suit me, I must make it suit me. Look, my dear, you are young and inexperienced; you have dogmatic ideas about life. I am being very serious now. Let me find a house for you where you can live discreetly. It shall be secure as a marriage. Everything you want in the world will be yours."
"This is like Satan and his temptations. You think to show me the kingdoms of the world."
"The kingdoms of the world are well worth having."
"At the expense of what one knows to be right?"
"When you have endured the indignities your careless employers will not hesitate to put upon you, when you have suffered at their hands—even been unable to find employment at all—then perhaps you will not despise those kingdoms of comfort. . . and more than comfort ... of affection and friendship as well as passion and all the love I will give you."
"You speak with much persuasion, but you cannot disguise your wickedness. If you were unhappily married and spoke thus to me there would be a difference. But while you plan to marry you make these plans . . . with the cold blood ... on the eve of your wedding."
"There is nothing cold-blooded about me. You will, I prophesy, ere long discover that."
She was silent and he went on gently: "Melisande, of what do you think?"
"Of you."
"I knew it. Now that you are in a truthful mood, admit that you think of me continually."
"I think a good deal of you . . . and Caroline. I wish that I had lived more in the world. I wish I could understand you more."
He put his arm about her. "Give yourself time to understand me. Try to cast aside most of what these nuns have taught you of the world. It is all very well for them, living their shut-in lives. What were their lives—living death, mere existence. You don't know what is to be found in the world—what joy, what pleasure. I will
show you. Yes, I am offering you the kingdoms of the world. But you see, my dearest Melisande, life is not the simple thing of black and white that those nuns have painted for you. They believed they were teaching you the truth. They know no other. Poor little cowards . . . afraid of the world! People like you and I should be afraid of nothing."
"But we are both afraid. I am afraid of what I have been taught is sin. You say that you wish they had chosen me to marry you. Then, if you are not afraid, why should you not make your own choice ? You are afraid . . . even as I am. You are afraid of opinion ... of the convention. You are afraid of marrying outside your own social class. That, it seems to me, is more cowardly than being afraid of what one has been taught is sinful."
He was nonplussed for a while. Then he said: "It is not fear. It is the certain knowledge that a marriage between us would be impossible."
"You may dress it up as you like. You can call it certain knowledge. I call it fear, and I call you a coward. You are not afraid to face any man single-handed; you are not afraid of an angry mob. That is because you are big and strong ... in your body. But in your mind you are not strong; and it is in your mind that you ar
e afraid. You are afraid of what people may say and do; you are afraid they will not help you to the position you want. That is a fear. It is a worse fear than being afraid because the body is not strong enough to fight."
"You mistake wisdom for fear."
"Do I? Then please go on being wise . . . and so will I!"
He said: "I've hurt you. I've been too frank. In other words, I've been a fool. I've shown you too much of myself. I don't know why I did it. I ought to have waited ... to have caught you unaware."
"You are too interested in yourself, Monsieur. You think yourself irresistible. That is not the case as far as I am concerned."
He caught her angrily and kissed her. She could not hold him off, but she knew that she did not want to. She was shaken at having to admit to herself that, if he had made his proposals at a time other than when he was planning marriage to Caroline, she might have been unable to resist them.
She must fight him. He must never know how near she was to submission. She must continually see him as he really was, not as she was trying to believe he must be.
"Do you think I don't understand you?" he said as though reading her thoughts.
"You are clever at self-deception, I do not doubt."
"You attack me with your tongue, but you betray yourself in other ways."
"You have a high opinion of yourself. If it pleases you, keep it, Monsieur."
"Do not call me Monsieur as though I am one of your prinking Frenchmen."
"If I were so misguided as to do as you wish, we should spend our lives in quarrelling."
"Our sort of quarrels can be more stimulating than agreement."
"I do not find them stimulating . . . only an irritation."
"That is why your cheeks grow scarlet, your eyes blaze and you are a hundred times more attractive when you are with me than with anyone else."
"I must return. Caroline will wonder what has happened to me. I should not take all day to visit Miss Pennifield and ask her to make dresses for Caroline's marriage to you." She hurried on.
"Melisande!" he called. "Don't go yet."
She answered over her shoulder: "You had better not come any farther with me. You would not wish Caroline to see you with me, you brave man."
It began in Vauxhall Gardens Page 17