"You were there, I suppose. You saw it all."
"I was not there, but nevertheless I know what happened. If the boy fell in, what would be a man's natural reaction? He would at least attempt to rescue him surely."
"A man who could not swim would be a fool to jump into such a sea. The only sensible thing to do was to run for help, and that is what he did."
"If a man could not swim; that's the point. But, my dear Melisande, Monsieur Leon could swim. He could swim very well."
"It is not true."
"It is true. I have seen him swimming."
"Where?"
"A mile or so along the shore ... in a very quiet cove."
"I don't believe you."
"I thought you wouldn't."
"So there is nothing more to say."
"Yes, there is. The next day I went to the cove again. It was just before midday. He was there again . . . swimming. This time I took the precaution of having one of the grooms with me. Jim Stannard. I have asked him to say nothing yet. But you can go along and ask him now. You'll hear what he has to say."
She looked at him incredulously, but a terrible fear was with her.
She said: "Of course I don't believe you."
"AndJimStannard?"
"I've no doubt you have bribed him to do your will."
With that she turned and left him.
She returned to the house and went straight to her room. Peg brought up her luncheon tray. She did not appear to see her, and Peg, ever curious, loitered.
"Is anything wrong, Mamazel?"
Melisande looked at her and did not speak. She had not heard her. She was thinking: Could it be true ? But how could I trust him ?
Could it be that the whole thing was planned? There was so much money involved. She thought of Leon and his plans for a new life. He could swim—so said Fermor. Then either he was a coward who had been afraid to attempt to save Raoul ... or he was a deliberate murderer.
Peg was watching her.
"Mamazel, you've had a shock. You'm frightened, Mamazel."
"I'm all right, Peg."
Peg stared at the carpet. Peg was fond of Mamazel. It frightened Peg when she thought of all the gossip that was going on in the servants' quarters. Seeing Mamazel in this state she couldn't keep quiet any longer.
"Mamazel," she said, "don't you marry him! Please, Mamazel, it would be wrong."
Melisande stood up and went over to Peg. She said: "Peg, what do you know ? If you know anything, you ought to tell me. You are my friend, Peg. You should not keep me in the dark."
"Mrs. Soady says as you ought to be kept in the dark. It's Mr. Meaker who ain't sure. He says he's going to see Sir Charles. To ask Sir Charles . . ."
"Peg, I have a right to know. Is it anything to do with . . ."
"It's to do with the French gentleman. Oh, Mamazel, you mustn't marry him. That's what everybody's saying . . . because . . . you see, Mamazel . . . we've seen him. I've seen him myself. Bet and me went one morning. Mr. Meaker, he's seen him and so's the footman. He was swimming in the sea in that quiet cove. . . . Mr. Meaker said that he might have had a chance to save the boy . . .
184 IT BEGAN IN VAUXHALL GARDENS
and ... he pretended he couldn't swim. We don't like it, Mamazel. We don't like it."
"So . . . many of you have seen. Why did I not see?"
"Well, they didn't tell you, Mamazel. They couldn't very well. But they'll all tell you now. There he was . . . swimming in the sea. And only a week or so since he said he couldn't. It's queer. It's frightening, Mamazel. Mrs. Soady's well nigh beside herself. She says foreigners b'ain't like we are. They do terrible things."
"Peg, I know you're my friend."
"We all are, Mamazel. We'd like to see you happy like. . . . And it's all fixed you should stay here ... we hope you won't marry him. Mr. Meaker says nothing can't be proved . . . but he hopes he goes away from here and us never hears no more of him. There'll be a good marriage for 'ee later on. There's as good fish in the sea as ever come out, so Mrs. Soady says. And the master 'ull see you have as good a wedding as Miss Caroline, shouldn't wonder . . . you being his own ... his daughter . . . same as Miss Caroline, only with a difference like. Mr. Meaker says they don't always make all that difference in the best families. I reckon Sir Charles will do something fine for 'ee. But don't 'ee marry that foreigner . . . after what has happened."
"Peg! Peg, what are you saying? / . . . I am Sir Charles's daughter?"
"Oh, 'tis a secret, I do know, but it must mean the master be fond of 'ee. That's why he have brought you here and set you above the servants like. No governess was ever treated like you have been, Mamazel. So now we do know, we don't mind like . . . being so fond of you."
This was too much to happen in a short hour. To know that Leon, who had declared he could not swim, could do so and might have saved Raoul's life; and to learn that Sir Charles was, in reality, her father.
She tried not to let Peg see how agitated she had become. She thanked Peg for her kindness in trying to comfort her. Then she turned to her tray and Peg went out.
She did not attempt to eat. She went straight to Sir Charles's study.
She knocked and was thankful to find that he had not yet gone to the dining-room.
He was startled by the way in which she stared at him.
She burst out: "I have just heard an extraordinary thing. Is it true that I am your daughter?"
She watched the colour drain away from his face. "Who told you that?"
"One of the maids,"
He repeated blankly: "One of the maids. Which one?"
"They all know, apparently. It seems that everyone knows . . . except myself.'*
"This is absurd."
"Then it is not true?"
She noticed that he hesitated and great sorrow filled her. She was his daughter and he was ashamed to acknowledge her. He was alarmed because his secret had been discovered.
Fermor she knew for a bad man; Leon, of whom she had been fond, was now proved to be a coward or worse; and Sir Charles, the man to whom she had looked with admiration, was weak and could not acknowledge his own daughter because he feared the damage to his reputation.
The nuns were right. The world of men was an evil one. No wonder they had retired from that world; no wonder they averted their eyes from men.
Now she felt that she too wanted to escape from all men, to shut herself in, to readjust her ideas. They all had feet of clay, every one of them, and she was not sure that Fermor—so blatantly wicked— was any worse than the others.
Sir Charles was recovering from his shock. She saw now that her fallen idol's one idea was to protect his reputation.
He said: "This is absurd and ridiculous. It must go no farther."
"You will have to deny it," she said, and there was a faint smile about her lips. "There is so much that makes a scandal," she went on fiercely, maliciously. "You came to the Convent, you brought me here. You have not treated me entirely as a servant, not entirely as a member of your family. This is a foolishness, a carelessness, and so there is scandal."
He did not see the scorn in her eyes. He was too concerned with his predicament. "To deny it," he said, "would be to admit such a thing could be. No. There is only one solution. You will have to go away from here at once."
"Yes," she said, "I thought that."
He came over to her. The old kindness showed in his face. He was oblivious of the disappointment that was edged with contempt in hers. "Don't worry. I will arrange something. I have friends. I will see that everything is conducted as ... it should be. I will see that you are well cared for." He smiled, rather cunningly, she feared. He went on: "This engagement of yours . . . and the death of the child ... I am afraid it is rather unfortunate."
She said: "So you have heard. ..."
"Mr. Holland has told me, and it has been confirmed by the servants, that Monsieur de la Roche was seen swimming only a short while after the accident, so . . ."
"I
have heard," she said.
"So much scandal. So much gossip . . ." he said. "It is so unfortunate. And you?"
She cried out: "I want to go away. I want to go away from everything . . . everyone. I want to hide myself where no one can find me."
He laid a hand on her shoulder. "I understand. You shall go away from here. I shall not tell . . . him where you are ... if that is your wish. It is as well for you to go away. You will want to think of so much, and it is always possible to see things clearer when one is a long way from them."
She smiled. "It is convenient . . . these two things together," she said.
He answered her: "I will arrange everything. You need have no fears of the future. I will see that you are well-cared for. You may leave everything to me."
"You are very kind," she said, "to one who is . . . not your daughter."
She could bear no more and, turning, she ran out of the room.
She, who wanted to love all the world, despised too many people in it. There were three men whom she had wanted to love: Sir Charles, the rescuer, the man of dignity, the man of honour who trembled for his reputation; Leon who acted a part, gentle Leon, such a contrast to Fermor, sinister Leon who said he could not swim and had allowed a little boy to die when his death would enrich him and bring him all his desires—that dignity of which he had talked with passion, that security, that plantation in New Orleans; and Fermor, who had no sense of honour, who had nothing but his own violent appetites, who would stoop to any meanness, any unkindness to satisfy his carnal desires.
Yes, she wished to get away, to shut herself in with herself, to understand more, to leave this world where men looked like heroes and, beneath their shining armour, were cowards or brutes.
She lay on her bed for a long while. Caroline came to comfort her —Caroline her sister. Poor Caroline, who was as defenceless as herself in this wicked world of men.
PART THREE
FENELLA'S SALON
Wh
hen Fenella Cardingly received the letter from her old friend Charles Trevenning she lay back in bed gently fanning herself with it and smiling as she did so.
Polly Kendrick, her personal maid and constant adorer, came and sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her expectantly, like a spaniel hoping for a walk or a titbit. Polly's treats were the pieces of gossip Fenella threw to her from time to time. Polly was good-hearted and grateful, but Fenella knew that not even her private affairs were held sacred by Polly. Polly must know everything; she gave faithful service in exchange for her share in her mistress's confidences.
Fenella, mischievous by nature, liked to keep Polly in suspense, so she continued to look round the ostentatiously luxurious bedroom, still smiling, still fanning herself with the letter.
The bed was a large one; Fenella herself was large and she liked her possessions to be in proportion. It was a modern bed; Fenella was modern. The back piece was inlaid with mother of pearl designs. In these could be seen nymphs—large nymphs of the same proportions as Fenella's own—and gods who bore a striking resemblance to some of the famous figures of the day; no shepherds these, but fine handsome gentlemen of dignity and poise. The sheets were of silk—pale blues or pale mauves; the quilt was of the same blue and mauve decorated with gold thread. The bed itself was set upon a dais and the steps which led up to this were carpeted in blue; there were heavy blue curtains which could be drawn, shutting off the steps and dais from the rest of the room. The walls about that alcove in which the bed was placed were covered with tapestry in which nymphs and gods, similar to those on the bed-back, were depicted. Once there had been mirrors where the tapestries now hung, but Fenella had had these taken away some years ago. She had told Polly—to whom she told most things—that when gentlemen came into the sanctum she could delude them into believing that they resembled the figures on the bed-back. They took on greater stature, she had declared, new virility; but the mirrors had lately proved a deterrent and the tapestries were so much more effective. "You go on," said Polly at that, for her devoted affection made up for her lack of respect, "it's your own figure that's made you take the mirrors away, Madam dear." Fenella had laughed and not denied it. She was growing old; but there was still much in life
to delight her; her life was as rich and colourful as her establishment.
In the bedroom there were many vases and statues—all presents from admirers—and every object was of high value. The painted ceiling was decorated with nymphs and gods similar to those already in evidence.
To Polly—child of the slums of St. Giles's—the house of Fenella Cardingly was an exotic palace over which Madam reigned as supreme Caliph; but Polly was the Grand Vizier of especial powers; and Fenella's life was not more full of pleasure and excitement than was Polly's.
Polly was small—no more than four feet eleven inches in height; she was so thin that she resembled a child, except that her face betrayed her age; her features were small and wizened, but her close-set darting eyes were so bright that they gave her a look of intelligence while they betrayed her overwhelming inquisitiveness. Beside Fenella, five feet nine inches, with her large bust and hips, dark hair —which Polly declared grew darker every year—large round brown eyes, jewelled and clad in colourful garments of fantastic design, Polly was an excellent foil. Polly Kendrick and Fenella Cardingly lived in their magnificent world, and neither of them could imagine what life would be like without the other.
Fenella's carriage had run over Polly one day; this had happened at the time when Fenella had been disastrously married, and before she had reigned in her own right in the social world she had made her own. In those days Fenella had been the wife of Ralph Cardingly, and it was not until he died that she had found her own personality and had created this world of excitement, extravagance and impudence of which she was the undisputed queen.
To the poor waif of the slums whose daily lot had been starvation and bestiality, Fenella had become goddess-mistress; and to Fenella the loyalty of this poor little woman had become very precious indeed. From the beginning they had played an important part in each other's lives. Polly had been saved from a life of misery; Fenella had been goaded to greater daring in order to shine more brightly in the eyes of her slave.
And what excitement Polly glimpsed through the love affairs of their young ladies! They were hers, she considered, as much as Fenella's. All lived fantastically in Fenella's temple, for Fenella had, with Polly's help, created a fantastic world about them.
Fenella grew rich. She sold lotions for the beautifying of women, and concoctions to restore virility to men. Any member of either sex could trust Fenella. They could come to her temple unseen and leave it, as she said, new men and women. That she had a dressmaking establishment in the upper rooms of her large house was well known. Her young ladies—the six goddesses of grace, as she
called them—wore the clothes designed in her workrooms when they mingled with her guests. They were all different types and she was constantly replacing them, for so many of her goddesses left her after a brief stay. Her temple was but a resting place, she was fond of saying.
She rarely went out nowadays, but when she did and she by chance saw a lovely girl in a shop, or even in the street, she would offer to take her in and train her. It was a great opportunity for those girls. To meet Fenella was to meet fortune. These girls who, had they not met Fenella, would have had little but poverty to look forward to, invariably found a protector when they were in Fenella's care and, if they were wise—and Fenella brought up her girls to be wise—they would learn how to protect themselves in readiness for that occasion when the protector no longer protected. There were other young ladies whose fathers paid considerable sums of money that Fenella might teach them poise, grace, and how to charm; and when these young ladies passed out of Fenella's charm school, which they would do by way of the entertainments she gave, they would invariably find the sort of husbands their parents wished for them.
It was typical of Fenella that she entwined th
e respectable with the not so respectable. She could be a duenna for young ladies of fortune whose parents had not the entry into society; and she could be procuress as regards her poorer beauties. She had her open dress salon and also her discreet trade in those commodities which people wished to buy in secret. In one of the rooms of this establishment was her Bed of Fertility. It cost a great deal of money to occupy the Bed of Fertility for one night. The room in which it was placed was very similar to that in which Fenella sat reading the letter. There were dais and rich curtains; and the tapestry which lined the walls depicted the progress of lovers through many stages. There were beautiful statues and pictures—all of lovers. Some, it was said, would pay the price of a night in that chamber merely to see the pictures. But, said Fenella, the bed was for the married who wished for children and had been disappointed in that respect. To sleep in it meant that almost certainly a child would be conceived. The motive behind Fenella's letting the apartment was a righteous one.
That was how it was in their domain over which she presided. Respectability by itself was dull; eroticism was revolting. But what a combination Fenella had to offer! Eroticism paraded side by side with respectability!
Now, watching her, Polly knew from Fenella's smile that something was about to happen. She waited patiently.
"Well," said Fenella, "why do you sit there?"
"Madam dear has had some news?"
"You will know soon enough."
"Oh ... so it's a new arrival."
"Who said so ?"
"Madam dear, you can't diddle Polly."
"You're an inquisitive old woman."
"Two years younger than yourself, Madam dear. So I wouldn't talk about old women if I was you."
It began in Vauxhall Gardens Page 23