"But it is too old for Mademoiselle," said the saleswoman tenderly.
"But it is so beautiful," said Melisande.
The saleswoman laughed understanding^ while Melisande joined in excitedly; and they talked in such rapid French that he could not possibly follow the conversation.
"It is a travelling dress that is wanted," he began.
"Monsieur?"
"A travelling dress ..."
"I want a dress of scarlet!" cried Melisande. "Of scarlet and blue and gold. I want all the brightest colours in the world, because I have lived in a convent and never worn anything but black . . . black . . . black "
"Black is for when you are a little older," said the saleswoman. "Then with those eyes that will be beautiful. Black ... I see it . . . with the bodice cut low and frills and frills of chiffon."
"It is a travelling dress we want," he insisted.
But the saleswoman had taken Melisande away and as he heard the child's excited squeals of laughter and sat on the chair they had provided for him, he thought of Millie Sand at Hampstead and all she had wanted for this girl. Then he could smile at those excited voices. Could Millie see her daughter now? Of course she could. Wasn't it a tenet of his belief that those who passed away could look down on those who were left ? Then she would be looking down and saying: "I knew I could trust him."
He did not notice how the time was passing for he was going over it all again—that long-ago romance of which this girl, who had caused him such acute embarrassment and would cause him more, was the living reminder.
And when at length she came and stood before him he scarcely recognized her.
She was dressed in a travelling dress of black and green; it nipped in her tiny waist; it gave her a slight and charming maturity which had not before been visible. She was wearing a green bonnet of the
same silk with which the black dress was trimmed. There were petticoats, she gleefully told him; and there were other undergarments. She lifted her skirts to show, but the saleswoman restrained her.
"Such spirits! It is a pleasure, Monsieur, to dress one with such spirits. And there is a little dress with a wide skirt and a sous jupe crinoline to accompany it . . . which would be so useful for the special occasion, you understand?"
As he looked at Melisande he thought of the pride which would have been Millie's if she could see her daughter now. She had been educated as well as girls of the richest families; and now she was charmingly dressed by a Paris House, the most elegant in the world.
He said smiling: "The result is charming. And the little dress . . . yes! She must have that also. And perhaps another if that is what she will need."
The saleswoman, was enraptured. Melisande was enraptured.
The clothes should be sent to their hotel.
"You have spent much money," said Melisande.
"You needed the things."
She jumped up and, putting her arms about his neck, kissed him.
The saleswoman laughed. "It is understandable . . . Mademoiselle's gratitude to her kind Papa."
"The best of all Papas!" cried Melisande, her eyes gleaming because of the secret they shared. They must act their parts when they were travelling, her eyes reminded him; because if people thought they were not father and daughter there would be a scandal.
When they went into the streets heads turned to watch her. Perhaps, he thought, it would have been better to have left her in her convent clothes.
To travel with Melisande was like going over the familiar ground for the first time. How delighted she was with everything! The smallest things that happened to her became the greatest jokes. To travel on a railway! She had never believed she would enjoy such an adventure. How she delighted in her seat in a first-class carriage! And how sorry she was for those who must travel third! Her moods were changeable. They almost tripped over each other. Now she was delighting in the pleasures of Vauxhall—for he had been unable to
resist the impulse to take her there—then she was weeping for the plight of the beggars, the crossing sweepers, the old apple women.
He was partly sorry, partly relieved, when they were on a train again steaming westward.
"It is time now," he told her, "for us to stop our little pretence."
"I am no longer to be your daughter?" she asked.
"I think we should be wise to adopt another relationship."
"Yes?"
"We will say that you have been introduced to me by a friend because you want a post, and as my daughter will be lonely, I have taken the opportunity of providing a companion for her."
"I see that you do not wish them to know how good you have been to the daughter of your friend. You do not like being thanked."
"But I do. I like it very much."
She shook her head and gave him her warm smile. "No. When I thank you for my clothes, for the happiness you have brought me, you do not like it. You try to change the subject."
"You thank me too often. Once is enough. And now you must please do as I say. I think it advisable for people to think that you are the protegee of a friend of mine. You have been brought up in France; you need a post, and I thought it would be an excellent idea for you to come and stay with my daughter as her companion. As I told you, she has just lost her mother. She was to have been married soon, and that, of course, will be postponed for at least a year. Meanwhile you can help with her clothes; you can walk with her, do embroidery with her, play the pianoforte with her and teach her to speak good French."
"It shall be as you say," she said solemnly. "I will do all that you wish. My tongue has often been indiscreet but it shall be so no longer. Every time it is in danger of saying what it should not, I shall remind it of all you have done for me, of all the happiness you have brought to me, to the Paris dressmaker, to the nuns and to Monsieur and Madame Lefevre."
"Oh, come, I am not such a universal benefactor!"
"Oh yes, you are. To me—that is clear. To the dressmaker because you buy so much and make good business for her, to Monsieur and Madame Lefevre because you are rich and Armand makes up his stories about you, and you are Madame's special guest; and to the nuns because if you had not come for me I believe I should have run away and that would have given them much sorrow."
"You see the rosy side of life."
"I love all rosiness," she told him. "It is because I must wear ugly black all the time I was at the Convent."
Then suddenly she kissed him again.
"It is the last time," she said. "You are no longer, from this
moment, my father who has come to take me from my finishing school and buys me beautiful clothes in Paris; you are the wise man who takes the opportunity of bringing me as a companion to his daughter."
Then she sat upright in her seat, looking demure, the picture of a young lady going to her first post.
They took the post-chaise when they reached Devon, for the railway had not yet been extended into Cornwall.
Melisande was thoughtful now. The bridge between the old life and the new was nearly crossed. She was thinking with some apprehension of the daughter who was a little older than herself.
They came along the road so slowly that it was possible for her to admire the countryside which was more hilly than any she had ever seen. The roads were so bad that again and again the wheels were stuck in ruts, and the driver and postilion had to alight more than once to put their shoulders to the wheel.
Melisande noticed that Charles was becoming more and more uneasy as they proceeded. She herself grew quiet, catching his mood. He was uneasy because of her, she knew; he wondered perhaps how his daughter would like the companion he was providing for her.
He told her stories of the Duchy while they waited for a wheel to be mended. He told of the Little People in their red coats and sugar loaf hats who haunted this wild country, of the knackers who lived in the tin mines; they were no bigger than dolls but they behaved like old tinners. The miners, in order to keep in their good graces left them a did
jan which was a part of the food they took into the mines with them. If they did not leave the knackers' didjans they believed terrible misfortune would overtake them.
Her eyes were round and solemn; she must hear more of these matters. "But who were these knackers? They were very wicked, were they not?"
They could be spiteful, he told her; but they could be bribed to goodness if they were left their crout. They were said to be the spirits of the Jews who had crucified Christ.
"How shall I know them and the Little People if I meet them?"
"I doubt whether you will meet them. Soon you will see old miners. The knackers are like them, but they could sit in your
hands. The Little People wear scarlet jackets and sugar loaf hats."
"What if I had no food to give them ? I could give them my handkerchief, I suppose. Or perhaps my bonnet." Her eyes were mournful at the thought of losing her bonnet.
"They would find no use for the bonnet," he said quickly. "It would be much too big. And you may never meet them. I never have."
"But I want to."
"People are terrified of meeting them. Some won't go out after dark for fear of doing so."
She said: "I should be terrified." She shivered and laughed. "All the same I want to."
He laughed at the way in which she peered out of the window.
"These are just legends," he said. "That is what people say nowadays. But this is a land of strangeness. I hope you will be happy in it."
"I am happy. I think this is the happiest time of my life."
"Let us hope it will be the beginning of a happy life."
"I was far from unhappy in the Convent," she said, "but I wanted something to happen . . . something wonderful . . . like your coming for me and taking me away with you."
"Is that so very wonderful?"
She looked at him in astonishment. "The most wonderful thing that could ever happen to anyone in a convent."
He was alarmed suddenly. He leaned forward and laid his hand over hers. "We can't say that anything is good or bad until we see the effect it has upon us. I don't know whether I am doing the right thing. I trust I am, my child."
"But this is the right thing. I know it. It is what I always wanted. I wished and wished that it would happen . . . and you see, it has."
"Ah," he said lightly, "perhaps you are one of those fortunate people whose wishes are granted."
"I must be."
"Perhaps my daughter will take you to one of our wishing wells. There you can make your wish, and we will hope that the piskies will grant it."
She said: "I will wish now." She closed her eyes. "I am wishing for . . ."
"No," he said laughing, "don't tell me. That would break the spell."
"What a wonderful place this is! There are Little People, piskies and knackers. I am going to be happy here. I am going to be so good a companion for your daughter that you will be very glad you decided to bring me here."
She was silent thinking of all that she would wish for herself and others.
And eventually they went on with their journey.
It was dusk when they turned in at the drive of Trevenning. The woman at the lodge came out to curtsey and open the gate. Melisande wanted to ask a good many questions about the woman, but she sat still, her hands folded in her lap. She must remember that their relationship had changed. He was becoming more and more remote, more stern; she must continually remind herself that she was only his daughter's companion now.
She could see the hilly slopes about her, the great gnarled trunks of trees, the masses of rhododendron bushes, the pond, the great sweep of grass and then the house.
She caught her breath. It was bigger than she had imagined— almost as big as the Convent, she thought; but it was a home and would be homely. How rich he must be to live in such a house! No wonder he had paid the Frenchwoman's bill for clothes without a murmur.
The carriage drew up on the gravel before the front door. As she alighted from it she was aware of the stately grandeur of grey granite walls and mullioned windows. A manservant was waiting in the porch. He took his master's cloak and hat.
"Is Miss Caroline in?" asked Sir Charles.
"Yes, Sir Charles. She is in the library with Miss Holland and Mr. Fermor."
"Tell her I am home. No ... we will go there ourselves."
They were in a lofty hall, the walls of which were hung with portraits and trophies from the hunting field; rising from this hall was a wide staircase; and there were doors to the left and right. Sir Charles opened one of these and, as she followed him, Melisande was aware of the watching eyes of the manservant.
Now she could see a room lighted with candles; books lined one of its walls; there was a thick carpet; she was conscious of velvet curtains and an air of magnificence.
"Ah, Miss Holland . . . Caroline . . . Fermor. . . ." Sir Charles approached the three people who had risen from their chairs and were coming towards him. Melisande saw an elderly lady in pearl grey, a tall young man and a fair girl who was dressed in deep black.
Her hair, worn in ringlets, looked almost silver in contrast with her black gown.
Sir Charles greeted the three ceremoniously before he turned and beckoned Melisande forward.
"This is Miss St. Martin, your companion, Caroline. Miss St. Martin, Miss Holland, the aunt of Mr. Fermor Holland who is affianced to my daughter. And Mr. Fermor Holland . . . and my daughter, Miss Trevenning."
Caroline stepped forward. "How do you do, Miss St. Martin?"
Melisande smiled and the young man returned her smile.
"Welcome, Miss St. Martin," he said.
"I am sure Miss Trevenning will be delighted with your company," said Miss Holland.
"Thank you, thank you," said Melisande. "You are all so kind."
"Miss St. Martin has been brought up in France," explained Sir Charles. "It will be good for you, Caroline, to improve your French."
"You speak perfect English," said the young man, his blue eyes still on Melisande.
"Not perfect, I fear. Though I hope soon to do so. Now that I am in England I realize that there is a ... a wrongness about my speaking."
"Not a wrongness," said the young man. "A charm."
Melisande said: "But you make me feel so happy ... so much that I have come home. You are all so kind to me here .. . everyone."
Caroline said: "You must be tired after your journey, Miss St. Martin ... or would you prefer us to call you Mademoiselle?"
"It does not matter. Miss ... or Mademoiselle . . . please . . . say which is easier for you."
"I suppose you're used to being called Mademoiselle. I'll try to remember. I have had them prepare a room for you. Perhaps you would like to go straight to it?"
Before Melisande could answer there was a knock on the door and a woman came in, a small woman with black eyes and cheeks glowing like a holly berry in winter.
"Ah, there you are, Wenna," said Charles.
"Have you had a good journey, Sir Charles?" asked Wenna, and Melisande was struck by the odd expression on her face. She did not smile; there was no welcome in her face; she looked as though she hoped he had had a very bad journey indeed.
"Quite good," said Sir Charles.
Caroline said: "Wenna, this is the young lady whom my father has brought to be my companion."
"Her room be ready," said the woman.
In that moment Melisande was deeply bewildered. She was conscious of the uneasiness of her benefactor; of Caroline she knew
nothing, for Caroline at this moment was wearing a mask over her features. The elderly lady was gentle and meek; she would be kind. The young man Fermor was kind too; he was offering her the kind of friendship which she had come to expect. She had seen it in old Henri's eyes, in those of his grandson, in those of Armand Lefevre and of many men who had smiled at her during the journey, who had opened windows for her or handed her something she had dropped. They had all smiled as though Melisande was a person whose friends they would wish
to be. And that was how Fermor was smiling.
But now she had caught the eyes of Wenna upon her. They startled her, for they were almost menacing.
PART TWO
TREVENNING
Jo Melisande was at Trevenning.
Sir Charles drew the curtains about his bed and lay down; he was shut away from the house, he felt, shut away from the room with a hundred memories of Maud.
Have I done right? he asked himself again and again. How could I send her to work in another household where she would be welcomed neither in the servants' hall nor as a member of the family but in that unhappy limbo somewhere between?
But he must act with the utmost caution. He had done a very daring thing in bringing her here. He must be careful to show her no special favours. He had been rather reckless during the journey; her charm had disarmed him; he had enjoyed letting people think that they were father and daughter. There must be no breath of scandal at Trevenning. He must have a talk with Caroline. He must ask his daughter to treat Melisande kindly; perhaps he could hint at a tragedy. He began to work out some plausible story; but he rejected that; he must not add to the mystery concerning Melisande.
He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He felt the physical discomfort which came to him after a long journey; he seemed still to be swaying with the movement of the carriage, and when he closed his eyes he still seemed to see the passing countryside. He kept thinking of her, her sudden laughter, her joy in everything that was new to her, her pity for those who seemed unfortunate. She was a charming girl; if it had been at all possible he would have delighted in claiming her for his daughter. But there was one thing he feared more than anything else: it was that scandal should touch his name. It had always been thus with Trevennings.
When he thought of that he knew he would have been wiser to have taken her straight to Fenella. He should never have forged a link between Trevenning and the Convent Notre Dame Marie; his two daughters should never have met.
It began in Vauxhall Gardens Page 7
