"What would you do if you were rich and free? Tell me. I should like to hear. You would return to France?"
"To France? No. My old home is a government building now. It is in Orleans, I have been there . . . not so long ago, walked through the streets past those old wooden houses, stood on the banks of the Loire and thought: 'If I were rich I would come back to Orleans and build a house, marry, raise a family and live as my people lived before the Terror.' I used to think that. But now I know that I would not go back to Orleans. I would go miles away ... to a new world. Perhaps to New Orleans. The river I should look at would not be the Loire but the Mississippi, and instead of building a great mansion and living like an aristocrat, I should have a plantation and grow cotton or sugar or tobacco. ..."
"That's more exciting than the mansion. For what would you do in the mansion?"
"I should grieve for the past. I should become one of those bores who are always looking backwards."
"And in the New World it is necessary to look forward ... to the next crop of sugar, tobacco or cotton. What do they look like when they are growing, I wonder? Sugar sounds nicest. That's because you can eat it, I suppose."
He laughed suddenly.
"Which would you grow if you could choose?" she asked.
"You have made me think that I should like to grow sugar." He smiled at her. "Melisande, you are so different from me. You are so full of gaiety. I am rather a melancholy person."
"What makes you melancholy?"
"The terrible habit of looking back. I always heard my parents say that the good old days were behind us and that we should never get back to the splendour of those times. They made the past sound wonderful, magnificent, the only life that was worth living. I suppose they heard it from their parents."
"It is an inheritance of melancholy."
He took her hands and said: "I want to escape from it. I long to escape from it."
"You can. This minute. These are the good times. Those were the bad times. Wonderful times are in the future . . . waiting for you."
"Are they?"
"I feel sure of it. Wouldn't Raoul like to grow sugar?"
"The climate would kill him."
"I see. So you cannot go until you are no longer needed to look after him."
"No. But when he is twenty-one, I shall come into a little money. Then he will no longer need me. I shall be free."
"That is a long way to look forward. Still, in the meantime you have Raoul to care for, and you know that, although he is sometimes a rather difficult little boy, he is an orphan, and you . . . you only . . . can love him and help him and look after him as his parents wished."
After a while he began to talk of the New World with an enthusiasm which astonished her, for she had never seen him as animated as this before. He had wanted to go there, he explained, since he had realized that France would never be the France for which his parents had made him yearn.
"The old France is gone," he said. "There is a King on the throne, but what a King! The son of Egalite, a man who gave up his titles to join the National Guard. What could be expected of such a King? No! It shall not be France for me."
"Tell me about the plantation you would have. Let us pretend that the climate would be good for Raoul, and that you are now making plans for leaving."
"The climate could never be good for Raoul."
"But I said, pretend it would. You say you are melancholy and I am gay. When I am sad, I pretend. I have always pretended. It is the next best thing to reality. It is better to imagine something good is happening than to brood on what is bad and cannot be altered. Now . . . how should we leave?"
"First we should cross the Atlantic. Are you a good sailor?"
"I am the best of sailors."
"I knew you would be. I have some friends in New Orleans. We should make for them. You would have to look after Raoul while I worked hard, learning all I had to learn about managing the plantation."
"That would be easy. I daresay there would be much to entertain us, and Raoul is interested in everything."
"We should employ negroes to work for us; and I think that, once I was proficient, the thing would be to get the plantation going and then . . . build the house."
She was smiling dreamily, seeing not the sea and rocks, but a plantation of her imagining. It was a sugar plantation. She did not know what a sugar plantation looked like, but she imagined rows and rows of canes and laughing people in gay colours with dark shining faces. She saw them all dancing at the Mardi Gras.
He broke in on her dreams. "If ever I go, will you really come with me? Would you marry me, Melisande?"
"But . . ."
"Forget I asked it. It was too soon. I see that. It is a mistake. I was carried away by your enthusiasm."
There was a short silence before he said: "I am right? It is too soon?"
"Yes," she answered, "I think it is too soon."
"What do you mean, Melisande?"
"That as yet you are my friend and I have been happy . . . and very comfortable . . . knowing you. It is too soon for big decisions. We do not, as yet, know each other very well."
"I know enough."
"You do not even know who my parents were."
"I did not think of knowing them. It is of knowing you that I am sure."
"You are a great comfort to me and that is a very good thing to be."
"I'll comfort you all the days of your life."
"I believe you would. You are gentle, and only sad when you look backwards."
"If you married me there would be so much to look forward to that I should no longer want to look back."
"A new life," she said dreamily, "in a new world."
"That would not be for years. You forget . . . Raoul."
"How would Raoul feel if you married me?"
"A bit hurt at first perhaps. He has had my undivided attention for so long. But he is fond of you and would grow fonder. You have charmed him as you have charmed all others. At present he is too self-centred to see anyone very clearly apart from himself; but we should soon overcome any opposition."
"Leon, he is not a bad little boy. It is just that he has too much power . . . and he is too young to handle it. He could change, I think."
"It would be so good for him to have us both. More . . . normal. We could both be parents to him. It is so difficult ... a man all alone."
"Yes, I see that. But it is not Raoul we are discussing, Leon. It is ourselves."
"And I have spoken too soon."
"Yes, that is it. You have spoken too soon. Could we put this aside . . . until later on ? Leave it for a few weeks, Leon. That is best. Let us talk of other things and suddenly . . . soon ... I shall know. I feel it. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Melisande, I understand."
She jumped up. "It will soon be dark and I am late. Please . . . I must go at once."
They walked back to Trevenning, but they did not talk any more of marriage. But when he left her he said: "We must meet often . . . every day. We must get through this business of knowing each other 'as soon as possible. You are very beautiful and T am very impatient.''
"Good night," she said.
He took her hands and kissed them.
"I am very fond of you," she said, "and a little of Raoul. I think it could be a happy thing if we were all together."
He would have put his arms about her but she held him off. "Please ... we must wait. It is too important and, as yet, we cannot be sure."
She left him and, as she did so, she seemed to hear Fermor's mocking laughter. Two proposals—and how different!
"Life is a strangeness," she murmured in English.
Three ways were open to her now. Which should she choose?
Take the one you long for! she seemed to hear a voice urging her. Be bold. Say goodbye to the dull life. Live gaily and recklessly. That is the way. She could imagine the tuneful tenor voice:
"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 ..."
Over the hills and far away to a sinful life ... to adventure. She thought: Clearly if I were wise I should marry Leon.
It was Christmas Day.
Melisande lay awake, though it was early and the house not yet astir.
Caroline's wedding day had come.
Fermor had returned only yesterday, having been, he said, delayed in London. As soon as she heard his voice she felt excitement rising within her; as soon as she looked from her window and saw him laughing as he was greeted by the grooms and servants, she knew great disquiet.
Now on this early morning she would look facts in the face and see
them as they really were. She had dreamed—she who lived so much in dreams—that something would happen before this day was reached. Her romantic thoughts, winding along pleasantly to a happy ending, had given John Collings to Caroline, and had found a charming girl for Leon; that left Melisande and Fermor who, by a miraculous stroke of good fortune, had changed his nature; he became serious-minded without losing any of his gaiety; he became tender without losing any of his passion; he became loving instead of lustful.
In her dreams Melisande lived in a perfect world.
But now—on Caroline's wedding day—reality had risen indisputably over fantasy, and ruthlessly was preparing to stamp it out.
In the wardrobe was the dress of green silk, made to her own design, which Miss Pennifield had helped her to sew; at the neck were little bows of black velvet, and there was a big rose of black silk and velvet to wear at the waist. "Black!" Miss Pennifield had cried. "Why, it looks like mourning. Black is for funerals, not for weddings. Why don't you make a nice pink one? Roses are pink, not black, my dear. And I'll find 'ee some lovely pieces." "There can only be black," she had said. "It is a need ... for a green gown." And she thought: For me too.
She was not quite seventeen, and that was young to despair. She wondered how old the nun had been at the time of her incarceration. She, Melisande, would this day be walled in—walled in by the death of hope.
She had not seen him alone since his return. He had not sought her, she knew, for had he wished to see her he would have found some means of doing so. He had come with wedding presents . . . for Caroline. He talked with Caroline; he rode with Caroline; and that was fitting.
So clearly Melisande had meant nothing to him but a possible partner in a light adventure which he thought they might share together; Melisande had turned away and he was shrugging his shoulders as he passed on.
Now she could hear the first stirrings in the house. In the servants' hall they would be up very early. Mrs. Soady, a sedate priestess in her kitchens had been withdrawn and absentminded for days, her mouth watering at the pies and pasties she was making, the cakes, the puddings. There was hardly time to gossip with a wedding so near.
Melisande rose. She must go down to help them. It was better than lying in bed and examining lost dreams.
Caroline lay awake. She had scarcely slept all night.
The day had come—the day she had feared would never come. She had left the wardrobe door open that she might see the white dress which had been the despair of both herself and Miss Pennifield. On the dressing table was the white lace veil which had been worn by her mother and her grandmother.
She was trying to think of the future and she could only think of the past, of seeing him in London when they were children, of his teasing contempt of her, of a housemaid's whispered words on a staircase, of Melisande. But she was foolish to brood on these things. He had scarcely looked at Melisande yesterday.
She had meant to tell him, when they had ridden out alone, of the friendship between Melisande and Leon de la Roche and how it seemed to be moving towards an inevitable conclusion. But she had been afraid, lest it should spoil the happiness of her wedding eve.
She could not lie in bed . . . waiting. She wanted the day to come; she wanted the ceremony to be over. For two weeks they were to stay in this house, for they had decided that there should be no honeymoon. That was a concession to convention which they had decided to make. Sir Charles had agreed that they might marry although a year had not elapsed since the death of Caroline's mother, but gaily to go off on a honeymoon was too flippant, too disrespectful. The matter had been talked over with several people, and all had agreed that the married pair should stay quietly at Trevenning for a few weeks, and then leave sedately for London.
Caroline had not cared about a honeymoon—all that mattered was that she and Fermor should marry—but now she realized she would have felt less apprehension if they could leave the house to-day . . . after the ceremony and the reception.
Yet she and Melisande had become friends, and she knew that Melisande was no scheming woman. She was an impulsive girl, eager to please—a friendly, charming girl. But how much happier Caroline would be if she could say goodbye to her. With Fermor's return her jealousy had come back.
But she must not invent unhappiness. She got out of bed and going to the dressing table put on the veil. She saw from the mirror that she was very pale and there were shadows of sleeplessness under her eyes. She scarcely looked like a happy bride. Yet everything for which she had hoped promised to be hers.
The door had opened and Wenna looked in.
"My dear life! Out of bed! What be doing? Why, my queen, you look so tired. Didn't 'ee sleep then? And trying that thing on. Don't 'ee know 'tis unlucky?"
"Wenna . . ."
Wenna ran forward and took Caroline in her arms.
164 IT BEGAN IN VAUXHALL GARDENS
"I'm frightened, Wenna."
"What of, my little one? Tell Wenna what's frightening 'ee? It be he. I do know."
"No. It's the future, Wenna. Everything. Nerves, Wenna . . . wedding day nerves. They say people get them."
"It ain't too late, you know, my precious. If you do say the word . . ."
"No, Wenna, no! Never!"
Wenna was resigned. "I'll be with 'ee, my precious. All the days of my life I'll be there beside 'ee."
The ceremony was over and there was gaiety in the house. How could it be otherwise? It was true that not a year had elapsed since the death of the mistress, and everyone knew that a year was the shortest period which should elapse between a funeral and a wedding in the same house—but it had pleased the guests to forget this.
The infectiously gay bridegroom banished all gloom. Handsome, dashing, he seemed all that a bridegroom should be.
As for Caroline, she was subdued, pale and obviously nervous, which, said the guests, was all that a bride should be.
Sir Charles was grave and clearly delighted with his daughter's marriage; the bridegroom's parents, rich and fashionable from London, were equally pleased with the match. From the surrounding county all the best families had come as guests to Trevenning; and as the friends of the bridegroom's family were also present, the house was full. Never had there been such a dazzling ceremony in the great hall, decorated as for Christmas, with holly, ivy, box and bay leaves. Christmas Day and the wedding day of the daughter of the house! What could be more demanding of ceremony ? Let gloom be banished! It was so easy to say: "I know her mother has not been gone so very lcng, but this is what she would have wished." They could be happy, laughing, dancing, singing, as long as they could remind themselves that in doing so they were merely carrying out the wishes of the dear one who had departed.
On the great table were bowls of punch; there was metheglin, mead, dash-an-darras, and shenegrum—that concoction of boiled beer, Jamaica rum, lemon, brown sugar and nutmeg—without which no Cornish Christmas was complete.
The table was loaded with Mrs. Soady's greatest masterpieces.
There were boars* heads, and every sort of pie that could be made; besides the usual meat pies there were fish pies containing mackerel, bream and pilchards. There were pilchards offered in every way known to Cornish connoisseurs. There were sucking pigs—both veers and slips; and of course there was hog's pudding—tha
t Cornish delicacy—of which the Londoners took sparingly.
Harassed serving men and maids scurried about the house; from the kitchen came the last minute cakes and pies which Mrs. Soady felt must be made in case they should be short.
And after the banquet, the servants descended on the hall like a swarm of locusts and cleared everything away that the guests might dance and disport themselves as was fitting for a wedding in the family on Christmas Day.
The old dances were danced and all the company, led by the bride and groom, joined in the Quadrille and Sir Roger de Coverley; and the Cornish guests, at the request for Cornish dances, formed up and showed the foreigners the furry dance to the accompaniment provided by musicians specially engaged to play for the company.
It was a merry party.
Leon had been invited; he stayed close to Melisande and it was clear that he was enjoying the spectacle of a Cornish Christmas and wedding party.
"If you married me," he said, "there would not be such a grand occasion as this, alas."
"The grandeur would be of no importance," she told him.
"You are a little sad to-day."
"Sad? On such a day! Why should I be?"
"Perhaps because Miss Trevenning will go away now that she is married. Are you apprehensive too ... on her account?"
"Apprehensive when she is in love? That is clear. Don't you agree?"
"Yes, I agree."
"And so is he. Can you see that?"
"He? Oh, he is in love with himself."
She looked at him sharply.
"I am envious perhaps," he said. "Not of him as he is . . . oh no! I do not envy him his wealth or his bride. But I wish that I had that assurance which wealth gives. I wish I had a bride who was in love with me as his is with him."
"Be careful!" she warned. "This is Cornwall where strange things happen. Piskies and fairies lurk unseen. It may be that your wishes will be granted. You may have his wealth and you may—as you say he has—fall in love with yourself."
"No doubt he found that easier than I should. For one thing
It began in Vauxhall Gardens Page 20