It began in Vauxhall Gardens

by Plaidy, Jean, 1906-1993

  "You have your answer for me?"

  "Yes." She smiled at him. She had lost her pity. It was not mere dislike she felt for Mr. Beddoes. To her he represented Hypocrisy, her newly found hate. From now on she would be one of the bold and adventurous. She hated shams. She hated the man who said: *I love you' when he meant 'I love your dowry and the good business which would be put in my way if I married you.' She loved the bold adventurer who promised love and passion without lies.

  "I can see what it is," he said. "Oh, Melisande, we shall be happy."

  "If a substantial sum of money and influential clients could make us happy, we should be very happy indeed, should we not?" she flashed.

  "Melisande?"

  "You look surprised. Why? I know that is what this marriage means to you. What have I ... I myself to do with it? It might have been Genevra, Clotilde, Daisy, Kate . . . anybody Madam Cardingly put before you. But it was Melisande St. Martin whom you wished to marry, for her father has provided for her so adequately."

  He stammered: "I do not understand. I am very fond of you, Melisande."

  "I know you are in love. . . . How comforting it must be to be in love with a sum of money!"

  "You bewilder me."

  "I am glad someone else is bewildered. I myself have been bewildered for so long. If you had said to me, 'Let us marry. Your father promises me a sum of money if I will take you off his hands and salve his conscience concerning you' I should have respected you more. But you came to me and talked of love."

  "But I do love you, Melisande."

  She laughed. "How much would you have loved me if my father had been a poor man unable to make it worth your while to marry me?"

  "Surely this is an unnecessary conversation?"

  "It is necessary to me. I am enjoying it. It eases my anger; it soothes my wounded pride to be able to talk to you in this way. You have had your hopes of a financially attractive marriage. Pray leave me my little satisfactions. Give me a chance to say that I despise you . .. not for wanting the money my father would provide, but pretending to want me."

  "Are you telling me that your answer is no?"

  "That must be clear. If it is not, take warning; you will have to be much sharper in your profession, if you are going to succeed without my dowry. But perhaps you will find other offers open to you. Certainly I am telling you that my answer is No."

  Fermor, who had been watching, came over and laid his hand on her arm. "Good evening, Mademoiselle St. Martin," he said. "Good evening, Mr. Beddoes. Did I gather that you wished to speak to me, Mademoiselle ?"

  She turned her blazing eyes upon him. "That is so."

  "I am gratified. Mr. Beddoes will excuse us, I am sure."

  They walked away, leaving the bewildered Mr. Beddoes staring after them.

  "Such lovers' quarrels should not be conducted in public," he said.

  "It was no lovers' quarrel."

  "Melisande, what has happened to you to-night?"

  "I have grown up. I am beginning to be wise . . as Genevra and Clotilde are wise. I have been foolish. I wonder you didn't lose patience with me long ago."

  "I am always losing patience with you. Haven't I wanted you fiercely from the moment I saw you, and haven't you been maddeningly coy?"

  "I am myself. . . now. I am in love with truth."

  "And with me too?"

  "In love with truth is to admit my love for you. Always before I have been in love with Tightness and what I believed to be good. But now I am in love with truth, and I love you because you are without pretence of goodness."

  "I hope you won't be shocked, my darling, when you discover my heart of gold."

  "There is so little chance of finding it that I will risk the shock. I am bad too. Oh yes, I am. I have wanted to be with you. I have said: 'Caroline? What of Caroline? She should not have married him knowing that he did not love her.' What do I care for Caroline? I want to leave this house at once."

  "We'll go to-night."

  "Now?"

  "This minute. Now I have made you admit the truth, we'll not wait another hour."

  "Where shall we go?"

  "There are places. To-morrow we'll find a house, and there we shall live."

  "You mean I shall live there. You will only partly live there. You have your home."

  "Will you believe me now if I say how much I wish it could have been different? I wish I could live there all the time."

  "Yes," she said, "I do believe you. You will tell Caroline?"

  "Tell Caroline! Certainly not."

  "Why not? To tell her would be truthful."

  "It might be, but it would also be the utmost folly."

  "What if she were to discover?"

  "Then we should have to make her see reason."

  "I am still frightened when I think of Caroline. Then I know that I am the same poor thing who has been deceived so many times ... by Leon, by Mr. Beddoes . . . and perhaps by you!"

  "The view of the world would certainly be that I am deceiving you. But the world has a queer twisted way of describing things sometimes. I would never willingly deceive you in accordance with our understanding of the word deceive. We cannot tell Caroline. It would hurt her unnecessarily. There is no reason why she should know. Can we leave now?"

  "Fermor, I'm afraid suddenly. It is Caroline who is making me afraid. She would know."

  "She would not know."

  "Wenna followed us that day. Caroline will know through her."

  "I didn't see Wenna. You imagined it."

  "Wenna is here in London with Caroline. You know that. What more natural than that she should follow us ? I can't come with you to-night."

  "You shall come. You have promised."

  "I will not come. I cannot come to-night. I must think of Caroline to-night."

  "You said we had done with all pretence."

  "This is no pretence. To-night I am intoxicated."

  "You have drunk nothing."

  "With freedom," she said. "I must not come while I am in this state."

  "So," he said, "you do not mean what you say?"

  "I think I mean it. I will not stay in this house after to-night. I am going to be free, and my first free act will be to come to you. I will come to-morrow, I promise; but not to-night."

  "Why not? Why not?"

  "Perhaps I know I should not. People are looking our way. Madam Cardingly and the girls . . . and some of the men . . . are watching us. Let us seem natural. I want no one to guess that I am running away to-morrow.'*

  "How I love you!" he said. "Now I shall show you how much."

  "Love is the best thing in the world. I know it."

  "To-morrow you may change your mind. You must leave this place to-night."

  "No. But I will come to-morrow. I swear."

  "I will meet you here at two-thirty. That is the time when you take a walk. Slip away before the others. I will be waiting in the square. I will have a place ready for you. Afterwards you can choose what you want. Oh, Melisande ... at last!"

  "At last!" she repeated.

  "Swear to me now that you'll not change your mind."

  "I will meet you in the square to-morrow without fail. I swear."

  "How long time takes to pass! It is not yet ten o'clock. Fifteen hours must pass before my dreams are realized! It is tormenting to be near you and not to be alone with you."

  "You alarm me sometimes," she said. "You always have. I feel like a child watching a fire . . . longing to touch . . . knowing she'll be burned, because she has been warned, and yet not knowing what the burning will be like."

  "You'll not be hurt," he said. "To some are given the gift of meeting one woman . . . one man ... in a lifetime, and that is the one . . . the only one. You are that one for me. If I had known it when we first met we would not have missed so much."

  "There was always Caroline though, wasn't there? She was there before we met. We should have brought unhappiness to her."

  "She would have married someone
else."

  "I cannot forget her. Sometimes I think I never shall as long as we live."

  "You must not think of her. I must not think of her. Think of ourselves and all the happiness we shall have. Should we miss that for the sake of one person who cannot know such happiness in any case?"

  "She could if you loved her."

  "How could I love anyone but you?"

  "Perhaps love grows sated. How do I know? What do I know yet? I am beginning to know. Perhaps I am being wrong. Perhaps I am going to suffer. There was a nun, long ago in the Convent, who loved. I think of her. I always did as a child. She took her vows and had a lover. She suffered terribly. Perhaps I too shall suffer . . . even as she did. They walled her up and left her to die in a granite tomb."

  "What a morbid thought! Someone ought to have walled up her judges instead of her."

  "We have to see everything through others' eyes as well as our own. They thought they were right. She knew she would be punished. Perhaps she willingly accepted punishment. I should want to do that if I had done something which deserved punishment. I should wish to take it in resignation as the nun did. That is why I must think of Caroline to-night."

  "If you attempt to draw back to-morrow," he said, "I shall come and take you by force."

  "That would be so easy for me, wouldn't it? None could blame me then. All the burden of sin would be yours."

  "Sin! What is sin ? Sin, in the eyes of most people is doing what they don't approve of. Darling, have done with talk. You have promised . . . to-morrow."

  "I will be there to-morrow."

  "And you'll not draw back?"

  "What would be the use? You have sworn to force me to do as you wish."

  He touched her hand lightly, for others, sent by Fenella, were joining them.

  They talked; she was very gay; she seemed intoxicated. Many were enchanted with Melisande that night, and six women decided that they must have an ivory velvet gown; it gave such a glow to the skin, such a shine to the eyes.

  And the long evening passed.

  She was demure next morning, quiet and brooding. Genevra and Clotilde watched her anxiously, but she betrayed nothing.

  Fenella sent a message to say that she wished to have a chat with Melisande when the girls returned from their afternoon walk. Fenella would never have that chat, for Melisande by then would have left the house for ever.

  She feigned sleepiness while they drank their morning chocolate. "Poor darling!" said Genevra. "Last night wore you out. Never mind, ducky. Got to resign ourselves to what's what, you know."

  "Yes," said Melisande, "we have to resign ourselves."

  "And have you given dear Beddoes the go-by, or have you decided to take what's offered you?"

  "I shall never marry Mr. Beddoes."

  Clotilde smiled sagely. "I wish you all the best of luck, my dear," she said.

  And they did not worry her after that. She read with them during that long morning and, when they were preparing themselves for a walk in the Park, she slipped downstairs and out of the house.

  Clotilde saw her go. She stood at the door watching her meeting with Fermor; and Clotilde smiled knowingly and went back to wait for Genevra and Polly.

  Neither Fermor nor Melisande spoke much during that short walk to the furnished house which he had found for her.

  She was walking away from one existence to another. This was what she wanted—to be with him, not to banter and quarrel as they had always done before, but to exult in being together. It was true that a shadowy third person walked beside them. Melisande could never forget Caroline . . . Caroline in her black mourning dress, with her fair ringlets over her shoulders; there was an intensity about Caroline, something which suggested a capacity for deep feeling— for love, for suffering, for tragedy.

  He had taken her hand and gripped it tightly as though he feared she might run away.

  "I can't believe it's true," he said, "even now." He turned his face to hers and began to sing quietly but on a note of exultation:

  " 'Hark! Hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings . . .' "

  "Don't!" she said. "Please. I am so happy."

  And she thought: Or I should be if I could forget Caroline.

  "Here we are," he said.

  They stood before a small house. She looked at the latticed windows, the dainty white lace curtains, the miniature garden, the iron gate and the path which led to the front door.

  He opened the gate and they went through.

  "You like it?" he asked.

  She nodded.

  "Here's the key." He held it before her. "Our key, darling." He put his arm round her and laughed aloud. He did not release her while he opened the door. He drew her into the hall. She noticed how bright and clean everything looked and she wondered how he had found such a place so quickly. There were fresh flowers on the table.

  "All ready," he said. "All waiting for you." He stopped for nothing—not even to shut the door—before he lifted her off her feet.

  "Fermor ..." she began.

  "Put your arms about my neck and tell me you don't want to run away."

  She did so. "It would be no good if I tried, would it? You wouldn't let me, would you?"

  He was trying to kick the door shut, but it would not close. Indeed it was pushed open, and suddenly they were not alone in that little hall.

  Two people had come in and shut the door behind them. Fermor put Melisande on her feet, and she stood still in horrified despair.

  It was Wenna who spoke first. Caroline stood in silence.

  "There! There! What did I tell 'ee? There they are . . . caught in the act, you might say."

  Fermor said angrily: "What are you doing here?" And he was addressing Caroline.

  W T enna came forward; she looked like a witch in her town clothes, thought Melisande. Her hair escaped in wisps from under her black hat, and her dark clothes made her skin seem browner. There was sweat on her nose and upper lip; her cheeks were fiery red and her black eyes narrow and full of a furious hatred.

  "We caught you proper," went on Wenna. "I knew what was going on. I knew what kept you away from home."

  "You insolent woman!" said Fermor. "You are dismissed from my service."

  "Your service! I was never in it! I serve Miss Caroline, and with her I stay. There, my queen, now you do know what he is, and I reckon if you'm wise you and me '11 go home where we belong to be, away from this place of sin and vice."

  "Nothing could please me more," said Fermor coldly.

  "Fermor," whispered Caroline, "how could you do this?"

  "Caroline, you must see reason."

  Wenna burst into loud laughter. Fermor strode to her and grasped her by the shoulder. "Will you be quiet or shall I shake the life out of you?"

  "Try if you like!" said Wenna. "Kill me! Then you'll be hanged for murder. It would be worth dying to take you with me."

  He threw her from him.

  "Take her away, Caroline," he said. "I don't know how you could behave in this way . . . following me . . . spying on me. I'll not endure it."

  "How like you!" said Caroline sadly. "You are caught; you are in the wrong; so you seek to turn the tables and put others in the wrong."

  "You think it right then to follow your husband, to bring your insolent servant to abuse me!"

  "Oh, Fermor, this has nothing to do with it. You followed her to London. You found out where she was. You . . . you are in love with her, are you?"

  "Yes."

  "And this is to be your home?"

  "It is."

  "And our home? What of that? What of your life with me?"

  "My dear Caroline, you have no one but yourself to blame. It is a wife's duty to look the other way when there is something she should not see."

  Melisande could bear no more. She would never forget the suffering she saw on Caroline's face. She cried: "No, no. It is not so, Caroline. It is not so. It was to be . . . but I shall go away. You married him, and it is my .place to go away. I di
d not mean to hurt you like this. I thought you would not know of it."

  "You see what a good little girl she is!" sneered Wenna.

  "I could never trust you," said Caroline. "I always knew you would make trouble. Everything changed when my father brought you into the house. I was happy before that."

  "I will go away," said Melisande. "Caroline, I will go right away. He shall come back to you."

  "When you have finished arranging my future," said Fermor in tones of cold fury, "I have something to say."

  "What can you say to excuse this?" demanded Caroline.

  "I had no intention of excusing it. My relation with Melisande makes no difference to our marriage. What more can you ask than that?"

  Caroline laughed bitterly.

  "You have lived too long in the country," he said. "You have been brought up in the narrow way of life. You have to be reasonable, my dear. You must understand and then you will see that everything can be happily settled."

  Melisande looked at him and saw that the tender lover had disappeared. This was Fermor at his worst. He was hurting Caroline and he did not seem to understand, or was it that he did not care? He was hard and brutal. Perhaps everything seemed so simple to him. He had made a marriage of convenience; his family was pleased; her family was pleased. What more could be expected of him ? Melisande had despised Mr. Beddoes for wishing to make such a marriage. What of Fermor ?

  Now she saw him as utterly selfish, capable only of fierce desire, never of the smallest sacrifice. Had she turned shuddering from Mr. Beddoes, a cautious and practical man, to another who was simply a brute?

  She was still unawakened then ? She was still unsure. Here on the very edge of surrender she was turning aside.

  Caroline swayed slightly and put out her hand to the wall. Wenna cried out: "My pet. . . my little queen!"

  246 IT BEGAN IN VAUXHALL GARDENS

  "It's all right," said Caroline, "I'm not going to faint. I won't live . . . like this. I'd rather die."

  "Don't talk so, my little love," soothed Wenna. " Tis tempting evil."

  "So much that is evil has happened," said Caroline. "I would rather be dead than here at this moment in this house of sin."