Wenna had made up her mind. She would not remain passive any longer, for this was no time for passivity.
That wicked girl had not gone out to meet him; she was too artful for that. Like as not she was holding him off. She was more than wanton; she was cunning.
Wenna imagined her telling him that she was too good a girl to become one of his light o' loves. Clearly she had gone to the witch in the woods for a spell that would make him dance to her piping . . . dance to whatever tune she played; and her tune would be marriage.
So there was no time for delay.
Wenna went down to the kitchen.
Mrs. Soady was sitting at the table treating her eye with the cat's tail. The big tom-cat was on the table and Mrs. Soady was trying
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to make him keep still so that she could wipe his tail across her eyelid.
"What be up to?" asked Wenna.
" 'Tis this blessed stye again. My brother be a martyr to 'em, and they do trouble me now and then. I'm trying to cure the thing afore it grows so big as to close up my eye."
"Who told 'ee to do that then?"
" 'Twas old Tammy Trequint. She be very good. I remember how when Jane Pengelly's three had the measles she told her to cut off a cat's left ear and swallow three drops of the blood in a glass of spring water. My dear life, they was all cured by next day. That's Tarn Trequint for 'ee."
Wenna thought: So you knew they was going to see Tamson then? You told 'em to go. You're as thick as smugglers, you two be . . . you and that Mamazel.
She looked at Mrs. Soady who was so fat that she appeared to be sliding off the chair on which she sat. Mrs. Soady's small benevolent eyes smiled at the world through her puffy flesh. There was a lot of Mrs. Soady. It came of feeding herself with titbits all through the day. Not that she'd go short on her meals either! Mrs. Soady loved food. She also loved a bit of gossip—the tastier the better. Which did she love most, hog's pudding or news of the latest seduction, pilchards with cream or what Annie Polgard did to Sam? It was hard to say. Suffice it that both were irresistible.
There was something else about Mrs. Soady. She was the most generous body in the world. She could not enjoy her food completely unless she shared it with others; she could not enjoy her scandals unless she shared them also. It mattered not if it was her master's food she gave; it mattered not if she had sworn to keep the gossip secret. That was how it was with her.
"So you've been a-visiting Tamson then?" said Wenna.
"No, 'tis too far for me and the way through the woods too bony, my dear. I send Tarn a little something now and then. One of the maids takes it for me."
"So they've been to-day, have they?"
"Not so long ago."
"What's the trouble now?"
"Young Peg—she's after one of the fishermen."
"That girl's a bad 'un."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that. She's just what you might call affectionate natured. Some is; some ain't. It turns up in a human being now and then, Wenna, my dear."
"Did young Peg go alone, or did this here affection turn up in someone else?"
Mrs. Soady did not think she ought to tell, but it was going to be very hard not to; and Wenna felt too impatient to get the secret
out of her like a winkle out of a shell. She said bluntly: "I saw them coming in. After midnight. 'Tain't right, you know, Mrs. Soady, young girls going out at midnight."
"My dear, the spell only works at midnight, and going together no harm can come to them."
"So Mamazel had to have a token, eh?"
"Well, why not? 'Tis a bit of fun. Though as Mr. Meaker said, a pretty girl like she be didn't ought to want a token. That's what he did say."
" 'Tis easy to catch flies, my dear, but you want a net to catch a rare butterfly."
"My dear!" Mrs. Soady was overcome by such cleverness. "Do you think then . . . Oh, I don't know. 'Twas just a bit of fun. I remember what I was like when I was a girl." Mrs. Soady laughed softly at memories.
Wenna clenched her hands together. She thought: She's got to go. She must not stay here. And she did not care how she did it; she was going to drive Melisande from the house.
If she went to the master and told him all she knew of her, he would push aside all she had to say. Of course he would. What did he care if she took Master Fermor and broke the heart of his legitimate daughter? What had he cared for Maud? Hadn't he deliberately let her die because of his absorption with this girl?
Very well then. She knew how to attack where it hurt most. He was a dignified man. He was very proud of his position in the county. He might go off to gaiety in foreign parts and London Town, but no spot must tarnish his reputation here in Cornwall.
She said: "Mrs. Soady, I know something about this Mamazel."
"You know something!" Mrs. Soady's eyes glistened as they did when she chopped up apples, bacon and onions and laid them with mutton over a young and tender pigeon to make a squab pie. They could not have shone more over the drop of pig's blood that went into the making of a hog's or bloody pudding.
"I don't rightly know that I ought to tell."
"Oh, you can trust me, Wenna, my dear."
"Well, don't 'ee say a word then . . . not a word to a soul. Will 'ee swear?"
"I will, my dear. You can trust me."
Wenna drew her chair close to Mrs. Soady. "I happen to know whose daughter she is."
"Oh?"
"The master's."
"JVb/"
"'Tis so There was a woman up to London."
"You don't say!"
"Yes, I do then. He was always going up. Business, he said. Business? says I. I know what sort of business. And there was this girl, and they put her in a French convent; and then when she grew up, he wanted her here. Well, he couldn't very well bring her here while her ladyship lived. He's terrible strict about what's right and wrong . . . when it's going to be found out."
"How did you know all this? Did her ladyship know it, Wenna, my dear?"
"Well, she didn't know all. But I don't mind telling 'ee, Mrs. Soady, that just before Miss Maud died, there was a letter ... a letter from foreign parts. He was worried about it. I saw him with it. He was wondering what he could do. He was afraid to bring her here while Miss Maud was alive. Miss Maud asked him to bring her a wrap. . . . 'Twas on the night the engagement were celebrated. And what did he do ? He went in and read that letter instead. And Miss Maud caught cold and died."
"You mean that was what he wanted ... so he could bring Mamazel here?"
"I didn't say that. 'Twas you who said that, Mrs. Soady."
"My dear soul! I didn't mean it. I know the master to be a good man . . . none better. But you really think this be true?"
"I've every reason to believe it, Mrs. Soady. She's his daughter. She's what they do call his illegitimate daughter."
"That be the same as a bastard," said Mrs. Soady in a hushed voice. "Well, I never did!"
"Now, Mrs. Soady, I have took you into my confidence. You'll not breathe a word of it to a soul. 'Tis our secret."
"Why, Wenna, my dear, you can trust me. Not a word. My dear life! The times we do live in!"
"Don't 'ee forget, Mrs. Soady. What the master would do if this got about, I can't say!"
"My dear life! My dear soul! And here's me forgetting that veer we be having for dinner." She rose from the table. Her little eyes were shining; she was not thinking so much about the young sucking pig she was to prepare, as of the strange goings-on of the master of the house.
She would be absent-minded for a while, and Meaker would know she had something on her mind; and old Meaker was almost as much a gossip as she was. He wouldn't let her keep it on her mind; he'd get her to share it.
It would not be long, Wenna reasoned, before the servants' hall would be in the secret; they would all be whispering of the extraordinary relationship between the master and Mamazel.
And soon it would get to the master's ears.
A
nd then, Mamazel, my pretty dear, if I do know the master, you'll be something that has to be hushed up pretty quick; and things that has to be hushed up is put away where nobody can't see them. I reckon I have got rid of you good and proper, that I do!
TWO
a
'ctober brought the gales. The rain came driving in from the sea, bending the fir trees, beating against the houses, forcing its way through the windows and under the doors; the sea was grey and angry; the fishermen could not fish. They sat disconsolately in the Jolly Sailor, talking, as they talked every year, of the gales that kept a fisherman from his living. The sea mist, like a damp curtain, descended over the land.
"Everything be damp!" declared Mrs. Soady. "My shoes do get the mildew in them overnight."
Mr. Meaker complained of his rheumatics. Peg only was grateful for the weather. It meant that her young fisherman—for Tamson's charm had worked—could not go out, and everyone knew that fishermen kept from the sea needed a terrible lot of comforting.
Melisande was uneasy now and then. She would wonder whether her onion pierced with pins had been as effective as Peg's wax image. Melisande was by nature gay, and the first shock of finding herself in a somewhat alarming position had given place to a certain exhilaration. She must live for the moment. She was only just past sixteen and each week seemed an age in itself; she found she could not think very seriously of the future. As for Fermor she understood his feelings for her. She was certain that she herself was inclined to wickedness. Had not the nuns always told her so ? Fermor was wicked and, like Satan, was tempting her to sin. Any wickedness at the Convent, so said the nuns, had invariably involved Melisande. So now, naturally enough, Fermor was tempting her because he opined that she would be very likely to fall into temptation. One should love the saints and abhor the sinners; but one could not help being very interested in the sinners; and she, poor little orphan, had been excited because, for the first time, someone had spoken to her of love.
No one had talked of love in the Convent. The baker had given her the gateau; and that was friendship. The affection of the Lefevres was also friendship. Sir Charles had brought her here, and that was kindness. But love was like parsnip wine; it went to your head.
So, she decided, she must be forgiven for thinking of him. He was merely tempting her as one of the devils with the pitchforks depicted on the altar cloth, had tempted St. Anthony and St. Francis. She wondered if St. Anthony and St. Francis had enjoyed being tempted.
Peg would often steal to her room to talk to her, for Peg felt that there was a bond between them since they had gone to Tamson's together. Peg would set down the tray and rock on her heels while she talked of her fisherman, twirling her hair, her eyes soft.
Peg thought suddenly that it was on account of Mamazel that she had fallen in love with the fisherman. Before Mamazel had come she had thought a powerful lot of Master Fermor. Peg had to be in love with someone, and Peg was no dreamer; love for her had to be reciprocated. Master Fermor had been absentminded when she had taken in his hot water, and it was because his thoughts were ori Mamazel. So Peg had promptly looked about and found her fisherman.
"I think my spell worked," said Melisande. "Tamson Trequint is wonderful."
"Her's pretty good. Though Mrs. Soady's stye be no better. 'Tis that old tom-cat. He's a terrible creature. There's no magic in him. Mamazel, I never heard of nobody ever wanting love turned from 'em before."
Pegs thoughts struggled for expression, but she could not find the words. She wondered what became of people like Mamazel. Governesses there were, she knew. There were governesses at the Danes-boroughs' and the Leighs'. But they were not the sort whom love could touch. There were companions too. There was the one at Lady Gover's. They were all middle-aged and Peg was vaguely contemptuous of them. But what could governesses and companions do ? There was no one to marry them. They couldn't marry the gentry like Mr. Fermor and Frith Danesborough; and they couldn't marry the miners and the fishermen. It was a sad thing to be a governess or a companion. But to be a young companion—that was a very queer position.
She wondered what would happen to Melisande when Miss Caroline married. Would Miss Caroline take her with her ? She'd be mazed if she did. But could Mamazel stay at the house if she did not? Who could she be companion to ?
It was too complicated for Peg, so she let her thoughts drift back to her fisherman. That was uncomplicated. If anything should come of it they'd marry and she'd go away to his cottage on the quay. Her story was set in a familiar groove. It was Mamazel's which could twist and turn in any direction.
"Mamazel," she said at length, "what'll 'ee do when Miss Caroline do marry?"
Melisande was silent for a while. Then she said: "I ... I don't know."
Peg looked at her with vague sympathy, and Melisande did not want sympathy. She said almost defiantly: "It is a secret, is it not? It is the mystery. How do any one of us know what will become of her? It is that which makes of life an . . . excitement. When I was at the Convent, I did not know what was coming. And then one day . . . I leave ... I leave the nuns and all that I have known for so many years. I have seen them every day and then ... I never see them any more. It is all a change. There is a new country ... a new house . . . new people. Everything is new. It is like stepping from one life to another. That can be a sadness. But it is an excitement to wonder what will happen next."
Peg stopped twirling her hair to stare at Melisande.
Melisande continued: "It may be that I shall go away from here. It may be that I go to a new country, to a new house, to new people." She added, still defiant: "That is how I wish it to be. That is an excitement. You do not know; it is all there before you . . . waiting for you . . . but you do not know."
There was silence. Melisande had forgotten Peg. She remembered her childish dreams. When the rich woman had come to the Convent for Anne-Marie, Melisande had dreamed that a rich woman came for her, took her away to spend her life eating sweetmeats and wearing a silk dress. That was a foolish dream but it had been pleasant dreaming it. It had helped her over the monotonous days. Now there were other dreams. Perhaps Caroline would fall in love with John Collings and wish to marry him. Perhaps Fermor would discover that he wished to marry Melisande. Perhaps he would change a little. He would still be himself yet there could grow in him a kindness, a tenderness. Anything could happen in dreams, and dreams would not be suppressed. They were as vivid now as they had been in the days when she had dreamed of sweetmeats and silk dresses. Perhaps these dreams were as flimsy, as unlikely of achieving reality?
In the house everyone seemed to be waiting for something to happen.
Sir Charles, often shut away in his study, sitting back from the window, seeing but unseen, watched the girl he had brought into the
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house. He was aware of the conflict between Fermor and Caroline, and that the most foolish thing he had done in the whole of a fairly-exemplary life was to have become Millie's lover, and the next most foolish thing was to have brought Millie's daughter into his home.
Melisande was her mother reborn, it seemed to Sir Charles. In bringing her here he had sinned against his daughter Caroline, as in loving Millie he had sinned against his wife Maud. He recognized the passion Melisande had aroused in Fermor; he understood it. But what could he do? Could he send Melisande away? He believed that wherever she went Fermor would follow. It seemed there was nothing Sir Charles could do but watch and wait.
Wenna was waiting for the whispers to start. They had not yet begun to spread. Here they were through October and into November, and it was weeks since she had told the secret to Mrs. Soady. The cook was being unusually discreet. Had she whispered the secret to Mr. Meaker and had he warned her to silence ?
Caroline was waiting fearfully. Fermor was affectionate; he talked often of their marriage. She wished that she did not know so much.
Melisande too was waiting. She could not believe that life was not good. Dre
ams did come true if they were dreamed as vividly as Melisande dreamed them. They would not come true in the way she dreamed them, for she was no seer, no white witch who could see into the future; but nevertheless they would come true.
She wished that she had not gone to the witch in the woods. She had acted impulsively as usual. She should have waited. She should have asked for a spell to make Caroline turn to John Collings and to change Fermor into a loving husband for Melisande.
Surely this must come to pass. Life was a goodness; and Melisande was Fortune's favourite.
Fermor too was waiting. He was experienced and he knew what was passing through Melisande's mind. He was an eagle watching his prey. His emotions alternated between a passion which was almost brutal and an unaccustomed tenderness. He had laid plans for trapping her, but always that unaccountable tenderness would enter like a forbidding parent watching over a recalcitrant child. On the moors she had not known of her feelings. She was young—even younger than her years. That was due to the Convent life when she had been shut away from realities; but she would learn quickly. He could appraise her at times in the same cool manner in which he would select a horse. There was an air of breeding about her and there was too an air of simplicity. He intuitively knew that she was the result of a love affair between a person of breeding and another of humbler station in life—perhaps a lady and her servant, he ruminated; there were such cases. And her education had been given her by the aristocratic partner in her conception and birth.
Sir Charles was aware of the secret of her birth, Fermor felt sure. He had tried to extract that secret; but Sir Charles was determined to communicate nothing. He could imply with a look that he considered vulgar curiosity an unpardonable offence against good manners.
But Fermor hated inactivity. His desires must be satisfied while they were warm and palpitating. He was afraid of his own feelings, though he scarcely liked to admit this. There were times when he thought of marriage with Melisande. It would be disastrous of course. Even here in Cornwall it would be disastrous. What was he going to do with his life? Parliament was what his father had in mind for him. It could be a life of absorbing interest and adventure. To have a hand in government affairs, to make history—that appealed to Fermor. His father had friends in those quarters which would make advancement certain. Peel, Melbourne and Russell were his friends. There were many young men looking for advancement; it would be ridiculous to make the way more difficult by marrying the wrong young woman merely to satisfy a brief passion. Melbourne had figured in an unsavoury divorce case, but Melbourne was a man of power who had been Prime Minister. He had come through, but not exactly untarnished—no one could do that— although he had survived the scandal. Yet it was growing clearer that, in an England where a young queen was becoming more and more influenced by her priggish German husband, there would be a tightening-up of class distinctions, and a misalliance could ruin a man's career.
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