he is so handsome; and for another he is so pleased with himself."
"Anyone truly in love is pleased with the object of that love, and whatever it may seem to others it is handsome to the lover. I hope Caroline will be happy."
"You speak as though you think she will not."
"I am being foolish then."
Fermor seemed to sense that they were talking of him. He smiled in their direction and then came over.
"Are you enjoying the wedding feast, Mademoiselle St. Martin?" he asked.
"Very much. I don't believe you have met Monsieur de la Roche?"
"I have seen him."
"I do not remember seeing you," said Leon.
"I was at the top of the cliff; you were below. But I recognized you. I have, they say, hawk's eyes. They see a good deal."
"This is Mr. Holland, as you know," said Melisande to L6on.
"Indeed yes. We all know the bridegroom."
Fermor said: "I heard that you and Mademoiselle St. Martin are delighted to speak French together. How pleasant to meet compatriots in a foreign country!"
"It has been most pleasant."
"I really came to ask Mademoiselle to join in the dance. It is not right that young ladies should hold aloof from the festivities. I have hardly had a word with her since my arrival yesterday. I have to apologise for my neglect and to beg her forgiveness."
"Not only do I forgive," said Melisande, "I applaud. It is fitting, is it not, Monsieur de la Roche, that a bridegroom should neglect all but his bride?"
"It is an accepted rule of conduct, I believe."
"You have been a bridegroom?" asked Fermor; and Melisande fancied she detected the faintest streak of insolence.
"I have not; but I understand."
"Trust a Frenchman! But I won't be forgiven as easily as that. Every man—married or bachelor—has a duty to the community. Toujours la politesse, I believe you say in your country."
"In France," said Melisande, "la politesse always stands aside for Vamour. Thank you for asking me. Thank you for apologising. Please go back to your wife with a clear conscience. That is what all expect."
"Oh, but I must look after our guests, you know."
"Monsieur de la Roche looks after me and I after him."
He looked at her sardonically. "I guessed it, but I don't intend him to keep that pleasure all to himself. Come . . . dance with me."
He would have drawn her into the centre of the hall where the couples were forming for a barn dance, but at that moment there
was a knocking at the door, a shouting from without, and in the next few seconds the guise dancers were trooping into the hall.
Fermor said: "Another old custom! Who are these people?"
Jane Collings, who heard his remark, called out that they were the guise dancers who always came to the big houses at Christmas time.
"So it is another old custom!"
"Very ancient. Older than Christianity!" said Jane.
The guisards were unrecognizable, for most of them wore masks, and those who did not had blackened their faces in order to hide their identity. Some were dressed up to represent characters for whom the Cornish had a special sympathy. There were two as Sir Jonathan Trelawny as well as a Charles the First and a Monmouth. They acted their parts to the amusement of the guests, and after that they danced the ancient dances which they had been practising for weeks before Christmas.
Before they had finished their performance the wassaillers arrived, and with them the curl singers. The hall was full now; and there was general singing and dancing and drinking of dash-an-darras to the health of the bride and groom.
It was necessary for this last ceremony that Fermor should stand beside Caroline. As he did so he looked towards Melisande, and it was not easy to know what he was thinking. Melisande shivered. The scene seemed to her a strange one. The black faces of the dancers made them grotesque, and the masks worn by some of them were ugly, almost menacing. Yet she knew that beneath them were the faces of kindly simple people. There was the bridegroom, elegant in his wedding clothes from London, the handsomest man in the room, over six feet in height, an ideal bridegroom as she had heard him called; yet, thought Melisande, that handsome face was a mask more misleading than any worn by the revellers.
She turned suddenly to Leon.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I will marry you. I think ... we shall be happy together."
"Melisande . . ."
"Yes, if you still wish it, I will."
He gripped her hand. "I do not know what to say. I am overwhelmed with happiness."
"I believe it is the right thing for us," she said. "If I should wish to tell anyone that we are to marry, may I do so?"
"I want them all to know. Shall we announce it now?"
"Not here. They would not be interested. It would be an anticlimax. Who are we? Just consider— our betrothal announced at such a grand wedding!"
"When shall it be?"
"Not for a little while. There will have to be many arrangements, won't there."
"I will break the news gently to Raoul. Will you mind his being with us?"
"/shall not mind, but what of him? How will he like the idea?"
"He'll get used to it. Perhaps we could get married here . . . before we leave. Then we could all go away together. So, my dear sweet Melisande, we shall not be parted after all . . . never again."
Fermor's eyes were on them. "It is a great comfort for me to know that you are near," she said.
"I wish we could be alone somewhere."
"We shall meet to-morrow perhaps."
"At the usual tryst. Our own spot. In the years to come we shall visit it often. I shall always remember your coming down the cliffs with Raoul. . . down to where I stood on the sand."
"It was like coming down to safety."
They could no longer talk. As was the custom Caroline was about to sing for the guests.
She was flushed, shining with an inner happiness. Wenna watched her.
She's happy to-day, thought Wenna. But is one day's happiness worth a life-time's misery?
Caroline was saying: "I haven't much of a voice, as you know, but I will do my best, and here is a song you all know and perhaps you'll help me by joining in."
Caroline's voice was sweet but weak, so there must be absolute silence for her. She sang:
"A well there is in the West Country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the West Country But has heard of the well of St. Keyne."
Several of the guests sang lustily:
"But has heard of the well of St. Keyne."
And they went on to sing with Caroline of the stranger who came to the well and, being tired out, drank of the waters, and how he heard of the waters' magical power from the old man who had seen him drink.
" 'Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?' quoth he, Tor an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drunk this day That ever thou didst in thy life!'"
Melisande listened intently while Caroline and her helpers continued.
" 'St. Keyne,' quoth the Cornishman, 'many a time Drank of the crystal well, And before the angel summoned her, She laid on the water a spell.
'If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he For he shall be master for life.' "
Fermor had sidled over to Melisande and Leon. He whispered: "We're foreigners ... all of us. These Cornish are a bit overpowering.'*
"I wish," said L£on, "that I could understand the words. It is so difficult to follow . . . for one with my not very excellent English."
"Mademoiselle will doubtless explain. She understands, I am sure. She has become so proficient with our English that there is little she does not understand."
"Listen to the last verses," said Melisande; and they all turned to look at Caroline.
" 'You drank of the well I warrant betimes ?' He to the Cornishman said; But the Cornishman smiled as the stranger spake And sheepish
ly shook his head.
'I hastened as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch; But i' faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church.' "
There was a burst of applause. Many of the Cornish began to chant the last words again, looking slyly from Caroline to Fermor as though they wondered which of them would drink first of the waters of the well.
"The song is . . . what you call an appropriate one?" said Melisande.
"I suppose you would say so," said Fermor.
"And you have drunk of this water? Or do you intend to?"
"Dear Mademoiselle, do you think I need the help of this St. Keyne or whatever her name is? No. I rely on myself. Have no fears that I shall be unable to look after myself."
Melisande thought he was like a satyr, mocking her, assuring her that he had vowed to bring her to surrender; and that he could be thus on the day of his wedding seemed to her the depth of infamy.
There was a sudden silence all about them. The guests had finished with St. Keyne. It was the bridegroom's turn, they were declaring.
"First the bride . . . then the groom. 'Tis an old Cornish custom.'*
He sauntered towards the musicians.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "how can I follow such a spirited rendering as we have just heard, with one of my little songs? You will excuse me ..."
"No, no!" they cried. "You must sing. The bride has sung. The groom must sing too."
His reluctance was feigned, Melisande knew. Everything about him is false, she thought. He wants to sing. He wants them to admire his voice. He is all conceit, all arrogance. Now that she knew him, she knew him for the devil, as Therese and the Sisters thought of the devil.
He sang to them in his powerful voice and there was immediate silence in the hall; and only Melisande knew that the song was for her.
"Go, lovely rose! Tell her, that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired;
And not blush so to be admired.
Then die! that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee:
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair."
Listening Melisande felt that he was luring her—in spite of all she knew of him—to some fate which must be avoided and which she yet feared would overtake her.
She turned to Leon at her side.
She was relying on him to help her withdraw from that quicksand into which she had already taken a step.
In the servants' hall the Christmas bush hung suspended from the ceiling; every servant had gathered some of the evergreen leaves with which to decorate the woooden hoops. The walls were adorned as lavishly as were those of the great hall itself with holly, mistletoe and evergreen leaves wherever it was possible to put them.
Mrs. Soady sat at the head of the table, a contented woman. It was near midnight; the guests were growing weary, and the servants were free now to settle themselves about the table. Now and then, of course, one or the other of them would be called to the guests, but the calls were less frequent.
Mrs. Soady, who had had her fill not only of her favourite foods but of her favourite wines, was saying it was a Christmas they would all remember as long as they lived, when Peg came in to announce that Mamazel and the Frenchman were still together and that she had seen them holding hands.
Mrs. Soady nodded. Metheglin made her very sleepy—the nicest possible sleepiness that made her love all the world, that made her want to share her pleasures with all.
" 'Twouldn't surprise me," said Bet, "if there was to be another wedding hereabouts."
"Oh, I don't know about that," said the footman. "This Frenchman he looks after the little boy, and the little boy be a duke or something—though only a French one. Well, this Mounseer ... if he be a relation—though a poor one—he'd be close to dukes, you do see."
"And what's that got to do with it?" asked Mrs. Soady, faintly truculent. The footman was bringing discord into happiness. Mrs. Soady was as fond of the little Mamazel as though she were one of the children she herself had never had. Mrs. Soady wanted the Mounseer to marry the Mamazel. She liked weddings. Look what a Christmas they had had through this one!
"Well, Mrs. Soady," pleaded the footman, "you do know these families be terrible particular."
172 IT BEGAN IN VAUXHALL GARDENS
"I can tell you," said Mrs. Soady, "that Mamazel have come from as good a family as any French mounseer, and be fit to marry with dukes . . . French ones leastways."
Mr. Meaker was alert. He was flashing warning glances. It was all very well to impart such weighty secrets to the senior member of the male staff, but to announce it to housemaids, parlourmaids and such chattering maidens, that would be folly such as even Mrs. Soady would not indulge in except under the influence of Christmas feasting and good metheglin.
Mrs. Soady intercepted Mr. Meaker's glances. She brushed them aside. She was excited now.
"You little know who Mamazel be," she said to the footman.
"Who then, Mrs. Soady?"
Many pairs of alert eyes were fixed on Mrs. Soady.
Mr. Meaker groaned inwardly. He knew Mrs. Soady could not resist the temptation. She was leaning back in her chair smiling.
"Well then, this be all between ourselves. 'Tis a secret as must never be mentioned outside these walls. Now, I'll tell 'ee . . ."
And she did.
It was early morning before the celebrations ended.
Melisande went to her room. She felt very tired. Pictures of the evening kept flitting through her mind. She saw herself standing beside Leon, heard his whispered words and herself giving the promise to marry him; she saw herself out in the cold night air waving as his carriage drove away. But most vivid of all were the pictures of the bride and bridegroom standing side by side acknowledging the toast, of Fermor strolling over to speak to her, of Fermor standing smiling at her as he sang for her.
Her head was aching, and as she was about to snuff out the candles panic seized her. On impulse she ran to the door and turned the key in the lock. She left the candies burning and getting into bed lay, looking at the door.
And as she lay.there she thought she heard sounds outside—slow stealthy footsteps.
It could not be Fermor. He would not leave Caroline on their wedding night. It was someone going downstairs for something. She must remember that there were many people in the house.
But it seemed to her that the footsteps paused outside her door.
She was trembling and tense, aware of immense relief because she had locked the door.
Then she saw something white lying on the carpet. The faint creaking of boards outside her door told her that whoever had come along the corridor had slipped that note under her door.
She got out of bed and picked it up. A little flower fell from it.
On the paper was scrawled in a bold hand which she knew at once must be his: "They say these flowers cure madness. They bring a state of calm reason. It is only a Christmas rose, but all flowers are the same inasmuch as they share the common fate of all things rare."
She wrapped up the flower in the paper and burned them in the candle flame.
He was callous and brutal. She was thankful that she could turn to L£on and never think of him again.
In the early hours of the next day, the storm began to rise. The rain lashed the windows and the wind moaned and howled about the house.
Melisande was unable to sleep for long; all through the hours of that morning she had dozed and been awakened by
the gusts of wind that seemed to shake even Trevenning to its foundations.
Each time she woke it was as though in a panic. Afterwards she thought that the storm had been like a dramatic herald of tragedy.
When she rose from her bed and stood at the window, she could see the roaring raging sea tossing the foam in the air; she could see it frothing about the rocks that looked like angry black guards defending the land against the seething monster.
Everyone was sleepy after the revels of the preceding night. Sir Charles warned his guests that it would be unwise to go near the edge of the cliffs in such weather; in a wind like this one, people had been blown over and into the sea.
No one ventured out of doors, for all through the morning the rain was beating down; but in the afternoon it stopped, though the wind was as furious as ever.
Melisande was about to go out to meet Leon when Sir Charles intercepted her.
"Surely you are not going out in this?"
"Just a litde way."
"I shouldn't if I were you . . . unless it is very important."
"Well, I suppose it is not really important. It could wait until to-morrow."
He smiled at her in the wistful way he did when they were alone. "Then let it wait. The gusts are terrific on the cliffs. By to-morrow it may have calmed down. Our storms soon tire themselves out."
She thanked him and went back to her room. She stood for some time at the window watching the angry waves. The storm continued and it grew too late to think of going out that day. But how she wished next day that she had gone out to meet Leon. She could not help feeling then that had she gone everything might have turned out differently.
There was more merrymaking in the great hall and in the servants' hall that night, but Melisande joined neither party. She pleaded a headache and stayed in her room. She could not have borne to exchange words with Fermor at that time.
That night she slept well, being tired out; and when she awoke in the morning, the sun was shining and the fields and stubby fir trees were a glistening green; the sea was almost as calm as a lake—a pale blue-green.
When Peg brought her breakfast to the little room in which she had her meals, she knew at once that something had happened. Peg's face expressed that excitement which was in people's faces when they had exciting news to impart, whether the news was pleasant or unpleasant. But as Peg caught her eye she set her face into tragic lines, so Melisande knew that this was tragic news.
It began in Vauxhall Gardens Page 21
