It Began in Vauxhall Gardens

ONE

The Convent Notre Dame Marie stood on an incline above the town—of it and yet apart from it. Like a guardian fortress, it commanded views of the winding river. Its hard granite walls seemed to stand in defiance of intruders and in contemptuous scorn of the ruined chateau which occupied a similar position on the opposite side of the river.

It was said that both Convent and chateau had been built long before the days of gay King Francois, and that when that King had passed along the river, he had lingered. Beautiful buildings attracted him as did beautiful women, and he had taken a fancy to the chateau and the town's girls. He had extended the chateau and dallied with the women of the town until, tiring of them both, he passed on.

As the Mother Superior was fond of pointing out, the residents of the chateau had been Revelry and Sin; and now it was nothing but a ruin—a pile of stones here, the remains of a wall there, a spot to which people might climb in order to enjoy a picnic. Last year an Englishman had broken his leg scrambling over the ruins and had had to spend many weeks at the Auberge Lefevre, to his great discomfort but to the considerable profit of the Lefevres. Yes, the chateau represented Sin and the Convent Virtue. This, said the Mother Superior to the little ones in her charge, was a significant lesson to all who looked from the ruins to the solid walls of the Convent Notre Dame Marie. One was the house which had been built on a rock; the other the house which had been built on sand.

The peasants lived by the Convent bells. There were bells to arouse them from their sleep, and bells by which to go to bed. The black-clad figures of those nuns who had not taken the veil were continually seen in the market square, where they offered for sale the products of their gardens and the sewing room. Sister Therese was as well known as any of the old men who sat outside the auberge talking of days gone by when there had been revolution in France and the streets of Paris had run with blood.

"Bonjour, Soeur Therese!" even the children who could scarcely toddle would call after her; and she would turn and peer at them with her gentle, myopic eyes. She was not very beautiful; her back was bent from long work in the gardens, and her skin dry wrinkled and an unhappy shade of brown from the same labours. In the town the people said that she peered at them so searchingly because, in the years which saw the end of her youth and the beginning of her middle age, she had hoped to discover her lover, come to the town in search of her. She would not take her vows, they said, in case he came. And though it was hardly likely that her Jean-Pierre would come looking for her now, the peering had become a habit; but still she would not take her final vows.

She led the novices—the fresh-faced ones, so serious, so conscious of vocation—about the town like a benign shepherd. Leading her sheep to the slaughter which should never be for herself! So said Armand Lefevre; but he was a profane man, a lazy good-for-little, who sat outside the auberge, day in, day out, drinking with any who could spare the time for him, and leaving to Madame the business of keeping a roof over their heads.

Just before midday the children would walk in a little crocodile down the steep incline to the town, along by the river, and back again led by Sister Eugenie or Marie or old Therese, never loitering, never taking off their sabots to dip their toes in the river, for such was forbidden. The town mothers sorrowed for them and referred to them as les pauvres petites.

The Englishman who was staying at the auberge, and who was invariably sitting outside it with Armand beside him drinking a glass of wine, would follow them with his eyes.

He was tall and distinguished, this Englishman-—a real lord, it was said, although he called himself plain Charles Adam. Madame and Monsieur Lefevre shook their heads over that plain name. It was a masquerade, a little secret, they were sure. They had found a kerchief of his with a different pair of initials. C.T. instead of G.A. He was a lord, they were sure; he was an aristocrat of the sort whom they had known before the days of the Terror and had rarely seen since, even though France had once more a King in Louis-Philippe. Madame declared that she knew an aristocrat when she saw one. And, she said to Marie her cook, if Monsieur Milord had a secret, then he was more charming than ever, for it was a romantic secret—Marie could depend on that.

Madame looked down from an upper window on her husband and the Englishman. Armand does not love work, she thought; but he is good for business. It was true; few could resist his talk; he was an inquisitive old man who knew, almost before their conception, when new babies were to be expected; he would watch over town matters with such knowledgeable delight that it was impossible not to enjoy sharing his knowledge and with it his delight.

The Convent bell was ringing and here came les pauvres petites. Therese was leading them, and with her walked Sister Eugenie, their black garments swinging away from them like broken wings—two black crows, and the fledglings behind them.

Madame looked wistfully at the children who might have been so pretty but for their black clothes. The nuns might be industrious and clever with their needles, but alas! the dear saints were oblivious of the fashion for young children.

Madame sighed, thinking of her own two sons and daughter— all married and far away.

At the end of the crocodile was the naughty little one—the charming little one, whose small oval face with the flashing green eyes always warmed Madame's heart. How old was the little Melisande ? Thirteen, it was said; though in some ways she seemed older, in some ways younger; sometimes almost a young woman, at others a charming child.

Melisande loitered at the end of the crocodile. Once she had stopped to talk to a young boy in a boat, and Sister Marie had been angry with her. Had the child suffered ? Madame hoped the children were not beaten for wanting to stay in the sunshine, for wanting to play like other children. Nuns were inclined to suspect sin in what a less holy woman would call childish naughtiness.

Now they were passing close to the inn and as they came level with the table at which Armand sat with the Englishman, something clattered to the ground. Madame stared. She saw that the little Melisande had been carrying her sabots and one had fallen from her hands and alighted right at the feet of the Englishman.

He picked it up. Melisande had broken from the ranks and turned back to retrieve her sabot. The Englishman rose, picked up the sabot and handed it to the child.

Madame could not resist the temptation to lean out of the window and listen.

Melisande had lifted her charming face and was looking at the Englishman with bold pleasure. "It was hot," she said. "I took off my sabots"

Madame thought that Melisande's eyes were like cool clear water with summer leaves reflected in it.

"Thank you, Monsieur," said Melisande. "I am sorry to have given you the trouble of picking it up."

He said stiffly in his English-French: "It is no trouble, Mademoiselle."

"You are English!" cried Melisande. "I speak English. The nuns teach me." Then she continued in his own tongue: "How do you do? It is hot to-day. Have you seen my book? Here is a picture of my grandmother." Then she laughed in that clear, joyous way which Madame was sure would be frowned on in the Convent.

The Englishman was smiling. It was the first time Madame had seen him smile.

Melisande stood, her bare feet apart, delighting in what must, to her, be an adventure. But she looked over her shoulder suddenly, for the inevitable had happened; it would have been whispered through the crocodile, from tail to head; and at the head were the Sisters Eugenie and Therese. Now they had stopped; they had seen. At least Eugenie had; Therese was peering about her in anxious concern.

Melisande gave up English and let out a flow of French. "I have seen you before, Monsieur. You always sit at this table. I smiled at you as I passed yesterday, but you did not smile at me. I live at the Convent. I wish I lived at the auberge. At the Convent it is lessons all the time." She wrinkled her short nose. "And prayers ... prayers ... prayers... . They hurt my knees."

Eugenie called: "Melisande!"

"Yes, ma soeur." She was demure now; she had lowered her lids fringed with the blackest of lashes which helped to make the eyes such a startling green. Now she had composed her features and the eyes showed themselves. They were limpid with innocence. They seemed to ask, "But what have I done, ma soeur?"

"Put on your shoes at once."

"Yes, ma soeur"

"And join the others."

"It was so hot. I had a blister on my foot. See. I could no longer keep up, so ..."

"Pray join the others," said Sister Eugenie. "At once."

Melisande lingered long enough to throw a charming glance at the Englishman in which she included Armand. Armand, Madame knew well, had always been susceptible to feminine charm in old or young.

"Monsieur," said Eugenie, "I hope you will forgive this display of bad manners."

The Englishman began to explain in his laborious French. He did not think it was bad manners. The little girl had dropped her shoe and he had picked it up. She had thanked him quite charmingly. No, it was certainly not bad manners; it was the best of manners.

"We regret that Monsieur was disturbed," said Eugenie. She kept her eyes lowered; although she had not taken her final vows and did not live the sheltered life of some of her sisters, although she came out into the world, she would not look into the faces of men.

She led Melisande away, and watching, Madame saw the child marched to the head of the crocodile. Now she must walk between Eugenie and old Therese.

Madame offered a prayer to the saints for the children of the Convent, as she drew in her head. Such good people could mistake high spirits for sin so easily.

Armand, taking in every detail of the little incident, felt wise. He knew that the Englishman had been startled out of his calm. It had happened so suddenly. The child had deliberately dropped her sabot that he might pick it up and she have a close look at him and enchant him with her merry tongue. Well, why should she not ? This stately Englishman had a set of initials on some of his garments which did not tally with the name he gave; he had a habit of staring at Melisande every time she passed. Melisande was made to charm and she knew it; though she had few to try her charm on at the Convent! It was clear that Therese and Eugenie were immune; and it was certain that the Mother Superior was also. Yet such charm as that possessed by the child should not be hidden. It should flourish; it was, in Armand's opinion, worth a fortune.

Now here was the Englishman, so interested in her. That was why he was always at hand when the children passed; that was why his eyes lingered on the small figure of Melisande. Melisande was English, Armand had heard. She had been brought over to France when she was a baby and money had been paid to the nuns for her food and education. She was taught to speak English.

How did Armand know such things ? He garnered information as a jackdaw does bright stones and bits of glass; he picked a thread here, a thread there; and threads were made to be woven together, and in the weaving a pattern was formed. What should he do as he sat outside the auberge if it were not weaving the exciting patterns which made up other people's lives?

He and his wife discussed the Englishman's interest in Melisande as they lay in the big bed together, being careful to keep their voices low, for the Englishman was sleeping with only a thin wall between him and them.

"An indiscretion!" Armand had declared. "Depend upon that."

"That Englishman was never indiscreet."

"All men are indiscreet, Marie."

"That may be so. But he is so ... English."

"There are indiscretions even in the lives of Englishmen. Every country has to be populated, my little cabbage. Even the English, I believe, have found no other means of performing this necessary duty."

Then the bed would creak with Armand's laughter. Much as he loved all wit, he found his own especially amusing.

"How otherwise would you explain his interest in the little Melisande?" he had demanded.

"He might be interested in all children."

"You suggest that they are all his children!" Armand would be off again. He was so fat that one day, Madame had often warned him, his laughter would do him an injury.

"I must not die of laughing," he had whispered; "not until I have uncovered the mystery of the Englishman and little Melisande."

He was determined to do this, so the encounter between Melisande and the Englishman seemed heaven-sent. Armand had been beside himself with excitement, trying to turn his eyes from the lovely young face, trying not to be overcome by the charm of the child, that he might give all his attention to the Englishman; for through him the secret would be discovered. Young Melisande would have no notion of it.

"Ah!" he said now as he sat opposite the Englishman. "Monsieur amuses himself with our little town. Monsieur likes our everyday happenings. Is it not so ? Our bells ... our wine ... our nuns ... our poor little orphans... . And that little one! Very pretty, eh, Monsieur?"

"I find the place restful," said the Englishman. His speech delighted Armand almost as much as the mystery which surrounded him; correct as it was, it remained stubbornly English; and he spoke it almost as though it were rather a foolish joke in which he was forced to indulge.

"It is sad ... sad ... the little unwanted ones," said Armand, slyly.

The Englishman's expression betrayed nothing; but it seemed to Armand that he sat too still, that his fingers had tightened about his glass.

"Yet," went on Armand, in the slow careful speech he kept for the Englishman, "perhaps they are lucky, those little ones. A worse fate might have been theirs. The nuns are good."

The Englishman nodded. "Yes, the nuns are good."

"And," went on Armand, "it may be good for such little ones to live under a strict rule."

"For such?" asked the Englishman.

Armand leaned forward and let his mischievous eyes rest on the Englishman's face. "These children, Monsieur ... some have lost their parents; and some ... they should never have been in this world at all. The result of an indiscretion, you understand ? The love between two who could not marry."

The Englishman returned Armand's gaze without a trace of concern.

"That would be so," he said. "Yes, I daresay that would be so."

"And for such, a little strictness might be necessary."

There was silence while Armand refilled their glasses.

"Monsieur," he said artfully, "I wonder sometimes ... do the parents of these little ones ever think of them? I wonder—for I am a fanciful man—whether the parents come to our little town. We have visitors ... many visitors. Our town has its beauties. The river ... the old ruins ... and many love ruins. It is not without beauty, they tell me. But I wonder, do those parents of the little ones ever come here to see their children? How would you feel Monsieur, if you had a little son—or a little daughter—whom it had been necessary—and the good God knows how easily that can come about—whom it was necessary, Monsieur, to give to the worthy nuns to bring up ? I think, of course, of myself. Ah, I should come here. I should come here often to look at the little ones ... and my own among them."

"That might be so," said the Englishman, flicking a fly from his beautiful blue coat. He was fastidious in the extreme. A perfect aristocrat! thought Armand. And have I gone too far ?

The Englishman gave no sign that he resented Armand's not-very-clever insinuations. He went on nodding, drinking his wine, now and then adding a word in his schoolroom French.

Melisande now walked at the head of the procession with the sisters; the other children were watching her, so she must pretend not to be afraid. She was not afraid of anything, she insisted to herself; she was only afraid of being afraid.

She would not think now of the punishment which would surely be hers; she would continue to enjoy the adventure a little longer. There was at least five minutes of sunshine left to her before they went through the gates. She remembered the story of the girl who, it was said, had been walled in when the Convent was built. That was in the chapel and, at dusk, Melisande believed that her ghost haunted the place. She had never seen the ghost; but she fancied she had sensed its presence. She believed that the ghost said to her: "Be happy. Enjoy everything as I did before they walled me in." But that may have been because Melisande was inclined to believe what she wanted to believe. She wanted to be happy; she intended to enjoy as much of life as she could; it was pleasant therefore to believe that the supernatural presence advised her to do exactly what she wanted to do.

She thought of the nun who had had a lover. One of the elder children had told her the story long ago. The nun and her lover had been discovered. The lover was killed; but she, her judges said, had been more wicked because she was a nun and the bride of Christ. She had been unfaithful to Christ. That was a terrible sin, and to punish her, a wall had been built round her and above her, shutting out the light and air; and there she had been left to die.

Melisande had been thinking of the nun when she had dropped her sabot. She had known it was wrong to take off her sabots, just as the nun had known it was wrong to have a lover. But sometimes sins were irresistible. She had wanted so much to speak to the Englishman. She was fully aware that he watched her. People did look at her. When she passed the bakery the baker used to come out and give her a cake until Sister Emilie had seen and forbidden it. "I am so sorry if I have offended," the baker had said. "Such a pretty child ... such a charming girl." Others smiled at her, so she was not surprised by the Englishman's attention. She herself was very interested in him, because he was tall and handsome and wore such beautiful clothes. Such a contrast had been that blue coat, that embroidered waistcoat, that wonderful frothy cravat compared with the clothes of Monsieur Lefevre—slovenly, torn and spotted with food and wine.

Melisande smoothed down her own black garments with distaste. They were too big for her. "Leave room for growing," said old Therese. "It is better to have your gown too big than too small. It is better to have too much than too little of the good things of life." Melisande had answered: "But it is better to have a little of the bad things of life than too much, and perhaps this black gown is not one of the good things but one of the bad." Sister Therese had clicked her tongue at that. "Ungrateful child!" she had cried. "Why?" Melisande had asked, for she could never, as Sister Emilie had pointed out, leave well alone. "The stuff of my gown is rough. It scratches me. Should I be grateful for a hair-shirt... which is what my gown resembles?"

Her clothes were ugly and she longed to wear clothes made of beautiful cloth such as those worn by the Englishman. He had smiled and seemed pleased because she had dropped her sabot. His eyes were of a grey-brown shade as the river was after a great deal of rain when parts of the banks had been washed away; he looked as though he rarely smiled; yet he had smiled for her. She would remember that when she was being punished.

They had turned in through the gates and were crossing the path between the well-kept lawns. How cold it was inside the Convent! The bell was ringing. It was time for dejeuner. Melisande's heart beat very fast, for it had occurred to her that the punishment might result in her missing dejeuner, and she was very hungry. She was often hungry, but hungrier at this time of day than at any other. Petit dejeuner —bitter coffee and a twist of bread—was scarcely adequate, and it seemed hours since she had had it. But whatever the punishment is, she told herself, I shall think of the way he smiled at me and that he does not smile for everyone. She wondered what the young nun had thought when she was in the darkness with wall all about her—her cold dark tomb.

Sister Eugenie was beside her. "After dejeuner you will go to the sewing room and there Sister Emilie will tell you what your punishment will be."

After dejeuner I Melisande was almost rapturously happy. There was plenty of time before she need think of punishment; now she could remember the smile of the Englishman while she drank her cabbage soup and ate her piece of bread. She stood at the table, palms pressed together while Sister Therese said grace, and her eyes and thoughts were now on the steaming bowl before her. As they all took their seats she glanced quickly at Sister Therese at the top of the table and Sister Eugenie at the foot, and quickly looked away for fear they should see the triumph in her flashing green eyes.

The meal was over all too soon. Dumplings, which she loved, followed the cabbage soup; and it was only when she was eating her last mouthful that her fears returned.

Sister Therese was watching her. "Do not forget. To the sewing room."

She hated the sewing room and, as she went, she thought of the tedious hours, of fingers sore through sewing rough garments for children like herself, and shirts to be sold in the market square. On a dais was a large table where was laid out that altar cloth on which only the best needlewomen were allowed to work. It was an honour to sit at the table and work in gold and scarlet thread, instead of at the benches stitching ugly garments.

Sister Emilie said that to work on the dais was to work for God and the saints, but to work at the table was to work for mankind.

Melisande had shocked her once by saying that she would rather work for neither; although she loved the bright colours on the altar cloth she would like to wear dresses embroidered with them rather than have to sew for God and the saints.

"Sometimes," Sister Emilie had said, "I think you must be a very foolish or a very wicked girl."

"Perhaps I am both," was Melisande's ready answer, "for la Mere says that we are all wicked and all foolish ... all miserable sinners ... even the sisters and la Mere herself. ..."

Sister Emilie had been at a loss for words, as her fellow sisters often were with Melisande. "Don't you want to sit on the dais and work on the beautiful altar cloth?" she had asked.

"The needles prick my fingers just the same," Melisande had replied.

But now there would be no question of working on the altar cloth.

There would be some hideous task; and she would have to sit at the table and work and work until her back ached and her fingers were sore, to make up for breaking away from the crocodile and speaking to the Englishman.

"Come here," said Sister Emilie.

Melisande obeyed. Her eyes were lowered. It was no use smiling at Sister Emilie.

"You have misbehaved once more, I am sad to hear," she said. "Now you will sit at that table. Take the top shirt from the pile. You will remain there till you have finished it."

Melisande took the shirt. It was of the stiff stuff that she hated. She sat sewing; her stitches were big and uneven. There was blood on the shirt, for she had, of course, pricked her fingers. She carried out her plan and went over the delicious episode again and again.

Soon she was speaking her thoughts aloud. "At least it is not as bad as being walled up in the chapel."

"What was that?" asked Sister Emilie.

"I am sorry, ma soeur. I was thinking of the nun who had a lover and was walled up in the chapel."

Emilie was disturbed.

She said: "That is not the way to show your penitence. You must not speak of such things here ... in a holy convent."

"No, ma soeur"

There was silence. Melisande went on stitching, still thinking of the nun and her lover. It was worth while to stitch this hateful shirt for the sake of the day's adventure. Perhaps having a lover—since it must not be spoken of, and it was the exciting things of life which were forbidden—was so much more wonderful that it was even worth while being walled up in a chapel afterwards in the cold and dark, there to stay through the centuries.

In the cold bare room Therese and Eugenie stood before the table at which sat the Mother.

The Mother's hands were folded on her breast. It was a characteristic attitude when disturbed. She was sixty-three but she looked older; her face was wrinkled and almost colourless; her serenity was not easily disturbed over any matter other than that which concerned those whom she called her children ... the little ones who had been given into her care.

Eugenie spoke. She said: "Afa Mere, it is most alarming. The child purposefully did this thing. To take off her sabots —that was wickedness to start with, but to let one fall at the feet of this man ... deliberately! We do not know how to deal with such a matter."

"He is staying at the inn," said the Mother, shaking her head. "It is unwise."

"Mother, you think it is he?"

"I think, Sister Therese, it must be."

"But it was the child who made the encounter possible."

"Yes, yes, but he must have shown his interest in her in some way."

"There is something about the child," said Therese. "Yes, there is something."

"A wantonness," put in Eugenie.

"She is essentially of the world," said the Mother, and although she was silent for a while, her lips moved. She was talking to saints, the sisters knew; she would be seen gliding about the Convent, while her lips moved thus. All knew that she was praying to the saints. To whom did she pray now? wondered Therese. To Saint Christopher? Like the Christ-bearer, the Mother was seeking to carry a child across the bridgeless river, and like the saint she was finding the burden too much for her.

She looked up suddenly and said: "Be seated."

The Sisters sat and there was again silence, while all three continued to think of Melisande. She was thirteen. An impressionable age, thought Sister Therese, looking back over her life, an age when it was possible for the feet to be led along those paths which opened out to voluptuousness, to revelry and sin, winding on and on away from virtue and piety. Sister Eugenie, who had lived all her life in the Convent, was thinking that the simple solution was to whip the child and put her into solitary confinement until the Englishman left the town.

Thirteen! thought the Mother. I was thirteen fifty years ago. Then there had seemed to be security and peace. She saw herself in her parents' mansion near St. Germain; she saw the schoolroom and the governess; she saw the servants when they had begun to show fear in their eyes. They had locked up the house with great care at night. They had whispered together. "Did you hear shouting last night? What if they should come... . Hush, the little one listens." She recalled the gardens—the trees in bloom, the fountains playing; she remembered the day when her father and mother had come riding there in great haste. "Jeanne ... upstairs ... get your cloak... . There is no time to lose." The whispering of the servants, the anxious looks, the haste of her parents ... they were all like the ominous beating of drums that warned of death and danger. She had not understood then; she had run upstairs knowing only that that which they feared was about to come to pass. We are going to run away from it, she thought. We shall be safe now. But she was wrong. They did not run away. Before she was able to return to them there were shouts in the hall and those whom she thought of for years afterwards as the 'ugly people' were in the hall. She had peered through the banisters and had seen them take her father and mother; they were all over the house; nowhere was safe; nowhere was sacred. She heard the smashing of glass, the shouts, the screams, the drunken voices singing the song which she would never forget.

"Allons, enfants de la patrie, Lejour de gloire est arrive. Contre nous, de la tyrannie Le couteau sanglant est leve... ."

And they had taken her beloved parents away to the Place de Greve where many heads were falling to that couteau. She had escaped with her governess who had taken her across the gardens to the copse; and the ugly shrieking people had not come that way. Little Jeanne and her governess had ridden through the darkness to the Convent Notre Dame Marie; and there she had stayed and lived ever since, shut away from horror, shut away from fear. That had happened nearly fifty years ago; and at the time she had been the same age as the little Melisande.

At such an age a child must be carefully protected. The Mother knew what it was even now to wake in the night and see the ugly faces, the blood on a beloved face, the tearing of a woman's silk dress, to hear the screams for mercy. Through her dreams—like drum beats—she heard the notes of the Marseillaise. She hated the world because she was afraid of the world; she wanted to take all little children and bring them into the security of the Convent; she wished their lives—as hers was—to be given to prayer and the service of others. She would like to gather them to her like a mother-angel protecting them from the dangers of the world outside.

But she was wise enough to know that there were some who did not wish to be protected. Melisande was one of these, and she believed they needed special care.

Therese was thinking of labouring in the fields, of the ripple of Jean-Pierre's muscles. He had shown her his arms and said: "See how strong I am, little Therese! I could lift you up. I could carry you off... and you'd not be able to stop me." She had been thirteen then. Life could be dangerous at thirteen.

The Mother had come to a decision. "It must be explained to him," she said. "Tomorrow you, Sister Therese and you, Sister Eugenie, shall go to the inn and ask to speak to him. You must speak to him with the utmost frankness. Ask him if he has any special interest in the child. If he is the man, he will know what we mean. Tell him that it is unwise of him to come here. The child is quickwitted. If he shows interest in her she may guess something near the truth. He must be asked not to come here, disturbing her, unless he has some proposition to lay before us."

The Sisters bowed their heads.

"It is to be hoped he has not," continued the Mother. "The child needs security, a life of serenity. I had hoped she might become one of us."

Sister Eugenie looked dubious and Therese shook her head.

"No, I fear not," went on the Mother. "But she must be guarded well until she is older. To put ideas into a head such as that one, might be to put sin there too."

"You are as usual right, ma Mere" said Therese.

"So ... see that she does not go out whilst he is here; and, to-morrow, go to him and say what I have told you. It is the best way."

The Sisters went out, leaving the Mother to hear again the shouts of the revolutionaries with the strains of the Marseillaise coming back to her over the years.

The clock ticked on. The seams were long. Melisande divided them up in her thoughts so that the material was the town and the needle herself walking through it. Here was the church, here the boat yard, here the baker's shop, the cottages, the inn, the river and the ruins of the chateau. She pictured the baker at the door as she passed. "A gateau for the little one?" It was delicious. She could taste the spices which the baker knew so well how to mingle in his delightful confections. Sister Therese and Sister Eugenie had not noticed. The baker winked. "We will deceive them," said that wink. "You shall have cakes because you are the prettiest, the most charming of the children, and it pleases me to give."

She could laugh to herself; she was far away from the sewing room. She went on past the cottages to the auberge, where he sat, smiling at her, without waiting for her to drop her sabot. He said: "You speak English so beautifully. I should have thought you were English. You shall leave the convent and come away with me." Melisande was remembering that last year a woman had come to the Convent and taken Anne-Marie away; the children had watched her leave in a beautiful carriage. "That is her aunt," said the children. "She is going to live with her rich aunt and have a satin dress trimmed with fur." Ever since, Melisande had waited for a rich woman to come and take her away, but a man would do very well instead.

The door opened and Sister Eugenie came in. She went to the table and whispered a few words to Sister Emilie. Then Sister Emilie went out and left Melisande with Sister Eugenie.

Sister Eugenie looked at the shirt which Melisande had been stitching. She pointed with a thin finger to the stitches which were too long and too crooked.

"Take this book and read it aloud," she said. "Give me the shirt. I will finish it whilst you read."

Melisande took the book. It was the Pilgrim's Progress in English. She read slowly, enjoying the story of the man with his burden; but she would rather have heard the story of Melisande, of how she came to the Convent when she was a baby, and how a rich woman —or a man—came one day to take her away to a beautiful house where she spent the rest of her life eating sweetmeats and wearing a blue dress trimmed with fur.

Madame Lefevre saw the two Sisters coming towards the auberge. She paused to look through the window. Armand, sitting at the table, rose to greet the Sisters. Madame heard his loud Bonjour and the quiet ones of the Sisters. Armand was flattering and gallant as he was to all women. "I am happy to see you here. Our little inn is at your service."

Madame did not wait for their reply; she went downstairs to see them for herself. She greeted them with warmth as Armand had done.

"They come to see the English gentleman," said Armand.

"Alas!" said Madame.

"I have told the Sisters that he left this morning."

Madame nodded. It was sad indeed; she was filled with melancholy at the thought. "He decided last night," she explained. "He came to me and he said: 'Madame, I must depart to-morrow.' He went off early in the coach."

The Sisters nodded. They were secretly pleased; that much was clear. They thanked the Lefevres and went slowly away.

Armand lifted his shoulders; he was afraid to meet Madame's eyes, for he feared he was responsible for the Englishman's departure. He would not tell Madame of their little conversation.

But he would be back, Armand soothed himself. He would sit here and watch the children, and his eyes would linger on the little Melisande. She was English; he was English; that was good enough for Armand.

Madame stood for a while conjecturing why the nuns had called; then she turned and went into the inn, for she had her business to attend to.

Armand returned to his seat and his wine. One of the stall-keepers on his way to the market came by with a basket of produce to sell in the square; he called Hold, to Armand and sat down for a while to drink a glass of wine.

The Convent bell began to ring. It would soon be midday. He heard the children's sabots on the cobbles. Sister Therese came in sight with the crocodile. Therese peered about, calling a greeting. "Bonjour, Madame."

"Bonjour, Monsieur."

"Bonjour, mes enfants"

The children wound their way along by the river, their feet noisy in protest because the day was hot, and perhaps some of them remembered that yesterday the little Melisande had taken off her sabots and walked barefoot.

And there she was, eagerly looking towards the auberge. Looking for the bird who had flown, thought Armand. Ah, he has gone, my little one. You and I have driven him away.

The children passed on. Armand talked with his companion of the affairs of the town.

Life flowed on, as it had yesterday.

TWO

As the coach trundled along to Paris, the Englishman was thinking the same uneasy thoughts which always disturbed him when he made this journey. Each time he made it, he assured himself it would be the last. Yet again and again he came. He was drawn there by the quaint figure of a girl in ill-fitting black clothes with marvellous green eyes which brought him memories.

What use was there in making these journeys ? None. What did he get from them but the anguish of memories, the reminder of an episode which was best forgotten and which he could have shelved with an easy conscience? He was rich, and wise enough to know that the most reliable salve for an uneasy conscience which the world could provide was money. He need never have concerned himself with Melisande again. He should have resisted the impulse to see her in the first place. If he had, there would have been none of these pointless journeys. And he had betrayed himself. That was disquieting. An inquisitive old innkeeper, on whom he had looked as a useful source of information, had probed his secret; and it was not what a man did that could bring trouble; it was what others discovered of his doings which chilled the stomach.

Sir Charles Trevenning was a man who rarely betrayed himself. He led a satisfactory life, missed nothing that he wished for, and if what he wished for happened to be something which it would be unwise for the world to know of, the world did not know. Yet he had betrayed himself to a humble innkeeper.

Such made uneasy thinking. Once before he had been caught off his guard, and what had followed? Pleasure, yes; delight, he might say if he were given to such fantastic expression; but surely such pleasure, such delight, had to be paid for. He had suffered some anguish, some misgiving, a moment of panic; but Sir Charles was not a man to pay more for a thing than that thing was worth.

When he had sat very straight, very controlled, at the table outside the Lefevres* inn, his outward appearance had given no indication of his inner turmoil which had been aroused by the little girl from the convent. When her green eyes had looked into his he had felt his calm expression cracking, as though it had been a shell. It was alarming. A moment outside a humble inn linked itself with another moment under the trees in Vauxhall Gardens; a humble child looked at him as a young woman had looked at him; and Sir Charles was aware of the weakness within him.

He, squire and landowner from Cornwall, magistrate and one of the most highly respected gentlemen of the Duchy, a man of wide financial interests in the City of London, whose friends in the country and town were of high social standing, had no right to be sitting outside an inn in a quiet French town, talking to an innkeeper. He should never have sat beneath the trees of Vauxhall. Had he wished to visit a pleasure garden, it should have been Ranelagh, to which he might have gone in his carriage with a party of friends. Looking back it seemed as though some unaccountable impulse had led him to Vauxhall, where persons of high degree did not go; where, it was said, one did not meet a creature above the station of cheesemonger. And had he not gone to Vauxhall he would never have sat outside a mean little auberge, talking to a bibulous, garrulous innkeeper.

So here he was now riding in a coach among humble people, people who gabbled, gesticulated and sweated. He, the fastidious one, forced to that which offended his fastidiousness and yet was somehow irresistible. It was disturbing in the extreme, for it was as though he did not know himself.

He closed his eyes to shut out the sight of the vulgar woman in the corner seat of the coach. Her sprigged muslin gown with the vulgar leg-of-mutton sleeves was none too clean; her bodice was laced to bring her bosom into prominence; her monstrously large hat took up too much room in the coach; and he disliked the glances she threw at him.

But he had forgotten her in a second, for his thoughts were back to this position in which, because of an evening in Vauxhall, he found himself.

He was there at Vauxhall that summer's day sixteen years before. He saw himself a younger man, proud then as now, but with no knowledge of that weakness within him. He had crossed the river to Lambeth. Why? On what mad impulse?

Vauxhall in early summer! He saw it as though he were there: the avenues of trees, the tables set under the trees, the gravel paths, the pavilions, the grottoes and lawns, the ostentatious little temples which aroused the admiration of the vulgar; the porticoes, the rotundas, the colonnades, the music; the lamps which would scintillate as soon as it was dark; the fireworks, frothed syllabub and sliced ham, scraped beer and burned champagne; and the people on holiday aping their betters.

In the twilight the girls tripped past him in their watered tabbies and bombazines which rustled like the silk of ladies. There were girls in cardinal capes and gay bonnets, swirling skirts and cosy tippets; there were young men—apprentices in flowing cravats, brilliantly waist-coated, gaudy copies of Beau Brummel and the Count D'Orsay ... in that dim light.

That was how he had first seen Millie; but she was young and sweet enough to bear the light of day.

How had he come to be there? It had begun with his periodic desire to escape from Maud and the quiet of the country to the pleasures of the town, to see old friends, to visit the incomparable Fenella's salon, to hope that their friendship might briefly burst into something more exciting, more amusing, as it had done once and could so easily do again.

Perhaps old Wenna had something to do with it. Odd to be driven from his house by one of his own servants. He had never liked Wenna and he would have dismissed her if he had had his way. But Maud —pliable in most things—would never agree to that. Old Morwenna Pengelly had been Maud's nurserymaid when Maud was a girl of five (how many times had he heard that story ?) and Wenna no more than fourteen; Maud was Wenna's 'Miss Maud' and would be so until they died. Why did he call her old ? She was nine years older than Maud and five years older than himself. That was not old. But there was an air of age about Wenna. It was impossible to imagine that she had ever been young. At fifteen she must have been a small wizened creature, watching over her Miss Maud and never giving a thought to those things which occupied the minds of other girls of that age. He should be glad. She was a good servant. But he did not like her hostility. There was no other word for it. And ever since her dear Miss Maud had first become pregnant, Wenna's hostility had increased. Foolish woman! But a good servant. No, certainly Wenna had had no part in his leaving home at that time. He had been stifled by the atmosphere of the house. Maud, who would bear a child in three months' time, had become the most important person in it; and he, the master, had been forced to take second place. He could escape to his life outside the house, of course, to his friends for a little gambling, a few dinner parties, supervising his estates, sitting on the bench, hunting; but he had had need of a complete change. Then, there had been the christening of Bruce Holland's boy.

He had said to Maud: "My dear, I think I shall have to go to London, confound it! Business threatens to make the trip necessary."

Then she had tried to hide the pleasure his words had given her, but she could never hide anything.

She had said: "Oh, Charles, how tiresome!" And, hardly able to keep the eagerness out of her voice: "When do you leave?"

She would be thinking: I shall have my meals with Wenna. We shall be comfortable. I shall no longer have to wonder what he is going to say next and how to answer him.

He had said airily: "Oh, in a week or two." And he had watched her settle cosily into her cushions.

He went to her and kissed her lightly on the forehead; he was well pleased with her. There were no irritating wifely questions from Maud. Did it occur to her that something besides business might detain him in London? Such thoughts would not occur to Maud. She was too pure. Her dear Mamma had never taught her to consider her husband's possible lack of morals; the only cause for alarm would have been any lack of fortune.

So, with Maud absorbed in the approach of motherhood, he needed the stimulation which London could give him.

He said: "Bruce expects me to put in an appearance at the christening."

"You must, of course."

He smiled at her calmly. He thought: If the child she is carrying is a girl we'll betroth him to this boy of Bruce's. He almost wished he would be cheated of the son he hoped for; it would be so neat if it were a girl and could be paired off with Bruce's son; and he liked neat arrangements. No! He did not hope for that. He and Maud had been married for five years; and this was the first sign of fruitfulness. His first-born must be a son. There had always been a son and heir at Trevenning. He had feared that Maud was not fertile, and he believed the fault was hers. She was completely without passion; she had dreaded their intercourse in the beginning, and the happiest state she had arrived at was indifference and absent-mindedness. Was such a state conducive to procreation ? He believed not. Fenella, in whose salon conversation was advanced, declared that it was not so.

Wenna, coming in saw him and, excusing herself, was about to hurry out, but he waved her excuses aside and declared he was about to depart.

A week later he left by post-chaise for London. The journey proved less eventful than usual. There was only one uneasy moment when, crossing Bagshot Heath, the postilions decided that a gallop was advisable; but they had come safely to the inn where Bruce Holland was waiting to greet him, and there he had enjoyed a meal of freshwater fish, roast fowl, cheese and salad such as could be enjoyed only at the posting inn and was not for humbler coach travellers.

He had stayed with Bruce, but his friend had not been such good company as usual; he was absorbed in Fermor Danby his new son. It might have been that Bruce's absorption had contributed towards that fatal visit to Vauxhall.

He had called on Fenella at the earliest possible moment. Fenella was as magnificent as ever. It was hard to believe there could be such a person until one saw her, heard her, and was part of that community of strange and brilliant people whom she gathered about her. Nothing could have been in greater contrast with the drawing-room at Trevenning than Fenella's salon in the London square. Her husband had squandered her large fortune before he died, and in her early twenties Fenella had found herself with neither husband nor fortune. She had thereupon set about retrieving the fortune; and she made it clear that no husband was going to take it from her. Lovers, declared Fenella, characteristically, were more satisfactory; a woman must look after herself and she needed lovers to protect her from would-be husbands. She was outrageously amusing and her friends and admirers said that she was in advance of her times. Tall, Junoesque, she had a taste for bizarre clothes. Clothes delighted her; she had defied all conventions by establishing her own dress salon for the service of ladies in high society. Fenella's dress salon was as no other; for everything Fenella did was as it had never been done before.

She had her delightful house in the London square; she had her girls to show her gowns. They mingled with the guests—noblemen and statesmen and their wives and friends, both Whigs and Tories. The politics of her guests mattered little to Fenella; she was a woman, she said, who liked to hear both sides of a question. The beautiful Caroline Norton was her friend, and among the guests who came to her drawing-room were Wellington, Melbourne and Peel.

It was said that many of her young ladies found wealthy protectors. There were some people who hinted that Fenella's was a rendezvous for the disposal of feminine wares other than tippets, gowns and pelisses, and that she derived great benefits from gentlemen of wealth and power by the services her young ladies helped her to render. There was bound to be idle gossip about a woman like Fenella.

She accepted the gossip concerning herself as though she enjoyed it equally with the scandalmongers. She grew richer in her elaborately feathered nest. Her morals were elastic. She was warmly generous and good natured, but a shrewd and hard driver of bargains. All those who worked for her were fond of her. She had a surfeit of friends and lovers. She was Queen in her half-world. Many could not understand how a woman—little more than a tradeswoman—could wield such influence and be accepted as the friend of so many men and women of standing. It was true that she was not received in the houses of the great; but Fenella did not wish to be received; she wished to receive.

Bruce Holland, hard-living man about town, typical of his generation, untouched by the new customs, was as much at home at Almacks as he was at a low cock-fight in the East End of London. He introduced Charles to London night life, to bear-baiting and dog-fights, to boxing matches between men of their own class or those frequenters of the water-front sluceries.

He it was who had taken Charles to Fenella's salon.

Once Charles had stayed behind to advise her about some investment of which he had particular knowledge, and he had spent the night in Fenella's company in that magnificent bedroom of soft carpets and thick curtains, of beautiful furniture and ornaments which Fenella had collected from her many admirers.

It had been an exciting experience, repeated on another occasion.

He would have been delighted if it had happened more frequently, but Fenella had many lovers and would not allow herself to become deeply involved with one. A comforting thought, he had believed; and the best possible sort of mistress with an outlook on life which could be called masculine. There would never be unpleasant complications with Fenella; no tears on parting; no regrets. Love for her was a passing joy, as delightful as champagne, to be sipped and enjoyed, not stored and wept over. And in love she was never calculating, never mercenary. What pleasure it was to love and be loved by Fenella especially after experiencing those dubiously enjoyable practices indulged in with an indifferent and absentminded though legal partner!

But Fenella had failed him on that last occasion. She had assured him that she was delighted to see him, that he was her very good friend; her sparkling eyes recalled with pleasure their last encounter in her perfumed bedroom; but there was a certain vagueness in her smile, for Fenella's interest was absorbed by a young man, a protege of Melbourne's. Consequently Charles, deeply disappointed, had left the house in the square and wandered aimlessly towards the river.

He had not realized how far he had walked when he heard the pipe of a cockney voice. "A boat, sir? Cross the river, sir? Vauxhal'll be pretty to-night, sir."

And so to Vauxhall.

As he had strolled through the avenues he had not seen the vulgarity of the place; he had not heard the shouts of the people. It was twilight and the crowds were impatiently awaiting the fireworks display. Somewhere in the distance a band was playing Handel's "Water Music."

Millie was sitting on a seat under a tree, her hands folded in her lap, and he would have passed her by but for the ruffian. This lout had sat down on the seat beside her. Charles stood still, arrested in his walk, because the girl was shrinking to one end of the seat, was trying to rise, but the man had her by the arm. Millie looked desperately about her, and her eyes fell upon Charles, who could do nothing but stride towards her and her unwanted companion.

"What are you doing to this young lady?" he demanded. It was the unmistakable voice of authority, and it startled the ruffian, who released his hold on the girl and shuffled uneasily to his feet as he took in the elegance, the fine cut of that magnificent coat, the cold arrogance of the man who is accustomed to being obeyed.

"I never done nothing ..." he began.

Charles raised his eyebrows and looked at the young woman whose eyes appealed to him not to leave her.

"Be off with you," said Charles, raising his cane. "And if I catch you molesting young ladies again, it will be the worse for you."

The ruffian first backed away, then he ran. Charles stood looking after him. That should have been the end. But Millie had risen. She was small—not much more than five feet in height; he was immediately impressed by her gentle timidity and a little moved by it-.

"I ... thank you ... sir," she stammered.

He was about to acknowledge her thanks and move on but, noticing afresh the helplessness and the melancholy in her pretty face, he said somewhat brusquely: "What are you doing here ... alone?"

"I shouldn't be here by rights, sir," she said. "I came ... because ... I had to come." Her eyes filled with tears. They looked bigger and greener thus. He saw that it was the contrast of dark lashes that made them so noticeable. "It was the last place we came to together, sir."

"It is no place for a young woman to be in at such an hour alone," he said, cutting short any confidence he feared she might be trying to make.

"No, sir."

He felt embarrassed. "My good woman," he said to emphasize the difference in their social standing, "no gentleman could pass a young person in such distress as you obviously were. Come, tell me why you linger here."

"It reminds me of him ... of Jim ... my husband."

"And he is no longer with you?"

She shook her head and brought out a handkerchief from the pocket of her linen gown.

He looked at her intently and asked: "Are you hungry?"

She shook her head.

"Come, come, tell the truth," he said. "When did you last eat?"

"I ... I don't know."

"That's nonsense."

"It was yesterday."

"So you have no money."

She twisted the handkerchief in her hands and looked at it helplessly.

"If you will not talk to me there is nothing I can do to help you," he said impatiently. "Perhaps you would prefer me to go away and not bother you."

She gave him another of those deprecating glances. "You are so kind," she said, and he noticed that her mouth was soft and trembling. Her smallness aroused both his pity and excited interest. "I ... I feel better here, sir," she went on. "That is when I'm not being bothered."

He smiled faintly. "If you sit here alone you will continue to be bothered."

She smiled. "Yes, sir."

"Go home. That's the remedy." Her lips began to tremble again and he went on: "You're in some trouble." It was the worst thing he could have said, for she sat down on the seat and covered her face with her hands. He saw the gloves—black and neatly darned; he noticed how thin she was. He felt that if he left her now he would never forgive himself nor would he forget her. It would be as though he had heard a call for help and refused to listen, as though he had passed by on the other side of the road. He felt in his pocket for money. No, he could not offer her money, not without ascertaining the cause of her distress.

He sat down on the seat beside her. It was getting darker every minute, so it was not likely he would be seen by anyone he knew. He was safe enough. He was discovering that he was interested so deeply that he was ready to take a risk.

"You are in deep trouble," he said, "and I am a stranger. But I might be able to help."

"You're so kind," she said again. "I knew that as soon as you stopped." Her awe of him was obvious, her recognition of his status flattering.

"The first thing is to have something to eat and drink," he said. "I believe that is what you need more than anything."

She rose obediently.

In the eating-house with its evergreen plants in ornamental pots, and its music, he took her to a secluded table, and there, with his back to the crowd, he gave her his full attention. He watched her devour a leg of roast chicken and sip the burned champagne, which put some colour in her cheeks and made her eyes look like translucent jade. Watching her, he felt benign. He thought of Cophetua and the beggar maid or a small boy dipping his toes into a deliciously cool stream. He was savouring a pleasure knowing that he could withdraw whenever he wished to. Though why he should find pleasure in the society of an uneducated girl he was not sure.

It was after she had eaten and when they sat back listening to the music that she told him her sad story. He could hear her voice now— a little hoarse and tremulous with that queer sibilance which he would have thought ill-bred a short while before.

"It fell out like this, sir," she said. "I came up to London from the country—Hertfordshire, that's where my home was. There was a lot of us, you see, sir, and they was glad to get rid of us elder ones, Mother and Father was. ... I had a chance to work in the mantua maker's and learn a trade. A girl from our village had gone to her, and when she come home for a little stay, she said she'd take me back with her because there was a vacancy where she was, you see. So I left home "

She made him see it—the woman with her young girls working in the great room, rising early in the morning, stitching through the long hours, living simply, having no pleasures but each other's company. Mistress Rickards, the mantua maker, was strict. She would never allow the girls to go out alone. They were never allowed to go to any entertainments—not even a hanging outside Newgate Jail. Mistress Rickards was stern; she beat her girls with a stick when she thought they needed it; and she fed them on skimmed milk and texts from the Bible. They were with her to work, she told them continually; not to frivol away their time. If they worked hard they would one day be good at their trade, at which they could earn a living; then they would not starve in the gutter as some did. On the rare occasions when she took them out she would point at the beggars sitting on the street corners with their hired children, exposing their afflictions, their blindness, their ragged state, their sores. "Pity the beggars, ,, the poor things would chant miserably; and Mistress Rickards would threaten: "You'll come to that, Agnes, you lazy slut. You too, Rosie, you sluggard. Don't think you'll escape, Millie, you awkward girl. That's what you'll come to unless you learn your trade."

They had worked hard and they had been happy within their narrow lives. They used to sit at a bench by the window and the apprentices who passed by would look in and wave; each girl had had her apprentice to be teased about as she stitched and stitched to avoid the harsh prophecies of Mistress Rickards, the mantua maker.

"And one day," said Millie, in her hoarse yet childish voice, "I had to go to Mr. Latter, the mercer, for a piece of silk a lady wanted making into a mantle. Mistress Rickards went as a rule, but she'd eaten oysters the night before and they hadn't agreed with her. She sent me, and Jim was in the shop."

She softened when she talked of Jim. He was no longer an apprentice, she proudly explained, but the mercer found him too useful to let him go. So he paid him a wage to stay on, and Jim used to .say that he was the one who really managed the shop.

Their courtship had lasted ten months. Jim was a man with money. He wasn't afraid of Mistress Rickards. He said he was going to look after her and she needn't bother any more about learning a trade. He was going to see that she made mantles and pelisses for herself, not for others. She was going to be Mrs. Sand, she was.

She almost sparkled as she told him of the night they went to Vauxhall.

"There was fireworks, and we danced. I kept thinking of what Mistress Rickards would say when I got back. And when we did get back, there she was waiting, her hair in curlpapers and her cane propped up by the door. But Jim didn't care. He came in with me. He said: Tm going to marry Millie and don't you dare lay a finger on her.' "

And so they had married, and she had left Mistress Rickards' and they lived in the room which Jim had found for them in St. Martin's Lane. There they were happy for the whole of one year.

Her face darkened. "We'd been married a year ... exact to the day. Jim said: 'Let's go to Vauxhall.' So we did. We danced and watched the fireworks. Jim said let's have a drink. That was when we was just going to cross the river. So we went into one of the taverns and we hadn't been in that tavern before. If only we'd have known we'd never have gone inside the place. I didn't want the drink. Nor did Jim ... much. It was just to round off the day like. That makes it all the worse." She was silent for a moment before she went on: "We sat there laughing ... as happy as you like. It had been a lovely day. Then these men came in. I didn't know who they were. We didn't know what sort of a tavern it was. But they were bad ... them men. First they started to drink; then they put jewels and things on the table. Jim looked at me: 'Come on,' he said, 'we'll get out of here.' But as we went to the door one of them ... a big man in a red coat... got up. He was swaying with the drink. He caught me.... It was dreadful. I can't bear to think of it."

He filled her glass and told her to drink. She obeyed. He knew that she had been obeying someone all her life—her parents, Mistress Rickards, Jim.

"Tell me the rest quickly," he said. "Don't dwell on it, because it makes you unhappy."

She nodded. "There was a fight. I remember the glass breaking .. . and the screams.... One of them had a gun. They was highwaymen and they'd killed men before. One more didn't make no difference to them ... and that one was my Jim."

A deep silence had settled on them both. He knew that she was going over it all again, and he was angry with himself for being the means of reviving her melancholy memories. But silence would not help her now.

"Surely the law ..." he began.

"The law?" she said sadly. "That's for you and your sort. They couldn't find those men, and it wasn't worth much trouble ... not for a poor man."

He felt humiliated; eagerly he sought for some means of comforting her. He could think of nothing he could do; he found himself ineffectually patting the hand which lay on the table.

The rest of her story was pitiably inevitable. What could she do ? The rent had been paid in advance and there was still a little money left. But that had not lasted long. She had spent her last pennies on a trip to Vauxhall. After that? She did not know. She simply did not know. She thought she would go back to the tavern where he had died. Perhaps those men would be there. Perhaps they would kill her as she wished they had on that night.

"I don't know why I came here to-night," she said. "I truly don't know."

He said, to her surprise: "I don't know why I came."

After that he took her to her room and gave her money for food and rent. Perhaps, he told himself again and again, she is a clever beggar. There were many such in London. Some hired babies—the more deformed the better; some even mutilated the children and themselves to make them more almsworthy. Why should not a girl with appealing green eyes concoct a tragic story for a simple man from the country? Who knew—the lout in the gardens might have been an accomplice.

It would have been better to have believed this, to have paid the money that would appease his conscience, and then forget the incident. It could so easily have ended there. The money he had given her would take care of her needs for some weeks. What more could anyone expect of a chance encounter?

But she had continued to haunt his thoughts; there had been many meetings and much heart-searching before the inevitable had happened.

Soon after that first meeting he had been called back to Cornwall where his daughter Caroline was prematurely born. He found Wenna distracted, the household already almost in mourning. Wenna's dark eyes had seemed to flash threats of vengeance on him. But both the child and Maud had lived.

Before very long he returned to London. He could not forget the girl whom he had met in Vauxhall. He told himself that he would try to find some work for her, but in the meantime he would induce her to accept a little money from him.

She was reluctant at first. "How can I take it?" she asked.

His answer was: "Because life is unfair to some and gracious to others. Think of me as an uncle who has come into your life at an important moment."

"You are too young for an uncle!" was her reply. She could be merry and sad, changing quickly from mood to mood. He had glimpsed her capacity for happiness.

In his shrewd and businesslike way he had quickly made arrangements. Millie's landlady was a motherly woman with a fondness for lovers, which she had decided Millie and her benefactor were. She prided herself on her knowledge of the gentry and she recognized in Charles a true gentleman who could be trusted to pay his way. For such she was prepared to make concessions. So concessions were made; and one evening, after a visit to Vauxhall, he stayed with her, for she was as lonely as he was.

How long had it lasted? Was it only three years? Sometimes it seemed longer, sometimes far less. During that time he had found new feelings, new emotions within himself. How many times had they revisited Roubillac's statues of Handel and Orpheus with his lyre? He found enjoyment in the gardens; happiness was contagious. They took the short stage out to the pretty village of Hampstead and wandered over the heath; she picked heather which she said, as a memory of happy days, she would press in the Bible she had brought with her from Hertfordshire. The pleasure gardens were a source of great delight to them both; there they could spend long days away from the streets. They went to Marylebone, Bagnigge Wells; they walked gaily through the Florida Gardens.

It was a new life for him; during his visits to her he tried to look like a successful tradesman as he enjoyed the tradesman's pleasures. It astonished him that there was so much to enjoy in the humble life; it astonished her that there could be happiness in a life from which Jim was absent. He was happy in what seemed to him a gaudy squalor; she was enchanted by what seemed to her luxury. It was the never-ending surprise of the other which delighted them both.

But it had to end. There was to be a child.

She trusted him completely, for she had laid bare the softness in his nature. To her he was not the same man whom Maud had known. He lived two lives; never before had he understood the true meaning of the double life. The gay young man, the reveller at the pleasure gardens, the tender lover of Millie Sand, Charles Adam— he seemed to have little connection with Sir Charles Trevenning.

Once at Hampstead during the first months of pregnancy she had talked of the child. A little girl, she wanted, a dear little girl. "I'd like her to be a lady," she said.

Then she began to enumerate the things which she would like for the child. "Fd like her to have a gown made ofgros de Naples, and a pelisse of the same stuff and a large pelerine all of silk and a big Leghorn hat trimmed with ribbons and flowers. We had to make a dress of gros de Naples when I was at Mistress Rickards'. It took us the whole of the week with the six of us working. We had to get it done so fast that we hardly had any sleep at all."

"You are thinking of the child grown up," he told her.

"Yes. That's how I think of her ... as a lady."

"Are you afraid?" he asked.

"Afraid?"

"So many girls would be."

"Oh, that's when they're alone. I've got you."

She was so trusting, so sure of him. Had he wanted to he could easily have deserted her. But he did not want to. Did one desert pleasure ? Did one desert happiness and all the real joys of life ?

He had changed a good deal since he had known her. It was ironical that the change should be for the better. He was gentler with Maud; he no longer allowed her to irritate him. He was thoughtful, wanting to make up for his previous indifference. How strange that contentment should come through sin; and stranger still that a word like sin could be attached to his love for Millie Sand.

She had died, little Millie Sand, two days after the child was born. How desolate he had been! How sad and lonely! He could not imagine now what he would have done without Fenella, for it was to her he had gone with his tragic tale.

Fenella had taken charge. The landlady was a motherly woman. Let her look after the child until she was two years old; then she could be sent to a convent of which Fenella knew.

It was Fenella who had named the child.

"When Millie talked of her," he said, "she called her Millie. She called her little Millie Sand... . That was Millie's own name."

Fenella grimaced. "Millie Sand. It sounds exactly like a mantua-maker's apprentice. Don't forget this child is your daughter, Charles. Millicent. We might call her Millicent. I never greatly cared for Millicent. It sounds a little prim to me and I cannot endure primness. Millicent. Melisande. Why, that's charming. We must call her Melisande. And we'll call her after the street in which she was born. Melisande St. Martin. That's beautiful. That will fit her. She must be Melisande St. Martin."

And that was all, for Melisande eventually crossed the Channel and went to live with the nuns of Notre Dame Marie. There she would be well educated and he need not think of her for years; and it might well be that she—like so many in such circumstances— would never wish to leave the convent. Then his responsibilities to Millie Sand would cease.

But he had not been able to resist the impulse. He had to see his daughter; he had to find out what sort of child he and Millie had created.

So he saw her, the enchanting Melisande; and again and again he had gone back to see her.

Of one thing he was certain. She would not stay in the Convent.

So as the coach carried him to Paris, once more he wondered what the future had in store for him and for Melisande.

THREE

Excitement filled the house, and the servants were hard at work polishing and cleaning; everything that could go into the wash-tubs went. The gardeners were keeping the hothouse flowers in perfect condition that they might be brought into the ballroom for the great night. The villagers were full of the pending event; on the night of the ball they would wander up the long drive, part of which was a right of way from the road to Trevenning woods, and get as near the house as they could in the hope of catching a glimpse of the fine ladies and gentlemen who would dance in the ballroom to celebrate the birthday and betrothal of Miss Caroline.

Miss Pennifield, who did all the dressmaking, had gossiped about the beautiful materials of which she was making a ball dress for Lady Trevenning and another for Miss Caroline. Lavender silk for my lady and white satin for Miss Caroline—the white satin to be embroidered with pink roses. "Oh, my eyes!" cried Miss Pennifield when she talked of those roses—and she did this twenty times a day. "I never saw such dresses in all my natural."

In Lady Trevenning's sitting-room Miss Pennifield was busily fitting Miss Caroline's dress. Her fingers were trembling a little because this very day the guests from London would arrive, and the dress should be finished by now. Lady Trevenning had declared herself delighted with the lavender silk; but Miss Caroline was always a problem, and she would keep changing her mind about the fullness of the skirt or the set of the sleeves.

Caroline was like her father in appearance, but in place of his aloofness she had an uncertain temper. She seemed to be continually brooding and she was never satisfied. That came of having so many of the good things of life, thought Miss Pennifield, who herself had very little.

"The set on the shoulders is not right," cried Caroline, shaking back the ringlets which she wore in the fashion set by the young Queen. "It makes the sleeves too short."

"But it seems right to me, dear," said Lady Trevenning. "Do you not think so, Pennifield?"

"Yes, I do, my lady." Miss Pennifield, in the presence of her employer, was a different person from the perky little woman the village knew.

"But it does not!" snapped Caroline. "It is too bunchy here, I tell you. That is not according to the London fashion."

Miss Pennifield, with the tears smarting behind her eyes and the pins pricking through her bodice into which in her agitation she had carelessly stuck them, changed the set of the sleeves.

Wenna, who was hovering about Lady Trevenning to make sure she had her wrap about her shoulders, looked at Caroline and understood all the fears and apprehensions which beset the girl.

Caroline was extra touchy this morning. No amount of resetting the sleeve would satisfy her. Wenna knew it. Her dissatisfaction with the dress was the outward sign of her fear that she would not please Mr. Fermor when he came. My poor little queen! thought Wenna. You be all right. You'm pretty enough. You'm the prettiest creature in the world ... in Wenna's world leastways; and if you're not like the smart ladies to London, well, that be no loss, and I've heard young men be very partial to a change.

Wenna went over to Miss Pennifield.

"Here," she said in her authoritative way, "let me see it, do. Well, what's wrong with that, my precious ? It do look beautiful to me. Why, you won't want the sleeves so long they hide your pretty hands."

Wenna remembered. She remembered everything about her Miss Caroline as she did about her Miss Maud. They were her life; they were her passion. Caroline had come back excited from the trip to London. She was fourteen then and had gone to see the wedding celebrations of the Queen. She had come back full of excitement— not because she had seen the Queen and her Consort but because she had seen Fermor; and she had known then that one day she was to marry Fermor.

Caroline had unburdened herself to Wenna, just as she always had during the days of her childhood. "Come, tell Wenna." That had been their cry at all times—when she was happy or afraid. When she was a little girl and had had bad dreams she would present herself at Wenna's bedside and whisper: "Tell Wenna." Wenna treasured such memories. And during that trip to London Caroline had been captivated by the handsome domineering boy who was only, a few months older than herself. He had finally approved of Caroline, but in a patronizing way. He had even told her she had pretty hands.

So now Wenna was reminding her of this > and she saw the soothing effect her words produced.

"That be right, b'ain't it?" she asked the dressmaker.

"It is indeed," said poor Miss Pennifield.

"Now slip it off and let Miss Pennifield stitch it. And I shouldn't try it on again. My dear life, it'll be spoilt before you wear it. There ... that's right. Now you're looking a little flushed.

I'm going to make you lie down and have a rest before the guests arrive."

"They won't be here for ages, Wenna."

"You never know. Master Fermor will be that eager. Nothing would surprise me."

That pleased her again. The dear sweet creature, thought Wenna. She'm so pretty when she do smile.

Purposefully Wenna helped her to put on her dress.

"I'm not going to lie down," said Caroline. "You foolish woman, do you think I'm an invalid?"

"Very well then. But you'll stop fretting, my handsome, and you'll go and change into your watered silk ... just in case the visitors arrive early. Then take a book and go to the hammock and wait there."

"Wenna, don't order me," said Caroline.

But she went all the same.

Miss Pennifield took the white satin away to the sewing-room with obvious relief, and Wenna was left alone with Lady Trevenning.

"Wenna, I don't know what we should do without you," said Maud, a little tearfully.

She was tearful on all occasions now, it seemed to Wenna; tearful when she was happy, tearful when she was sad, tearful when she was grateful. It was a sign of weakness, Wenna believed; and she knew that it irritated Sir Charles. Wenna disliked all men, but she hated Sir Charles. He had failed to make her mistress happy; Wenna did not know why; he was always courteous and gentle. He spent much time in London, and Wenna believed she knew the purpose of those visits. "Another woman!" she would say to herself. "Nothing would surprise me. He may be deceiving that poor woman as well, for all we know. I vow he's got a regular little love nest tucked away somewhere." The supposed secret woman qualified for her pity when she thought thus; at other times Wenna hated her with a scorn almost as great as that which she had for the master.

"Poor Miss Caroline!" said Wenna tenderly. "She's a little upset. What girl wouldn't be! With her betrothal about to be celebrated and a handsome young man coming all the way from London and all!"

"A handsome young man whom she has only seen a few times, Wenna. I do hope she'll be happy."

"She seems fond of him, Miss Maud, my queen."

"But what does she know of marriage? It reminds me ..."

Wenna nodded. It reminded her too. Her innocent Miss Maud twenty-two years ago entering into marriage with the man her parents had chosen for her.

"There," said Wenna, "you lie back and close your eyes. Here's your hartshorn. I'll sit beside you and finish off your new white petticoat. Then if you do want anything I'll be here."

Maud nodded. She was very docile; and Wenna knew how to manage both her precious ones—Maud and Caroline.

Now she looked into her mistress's face and thought of the young girl of twenty-two years ago—young, like Caroline, flattered, delighted, yet frightened.

If only they knew! thought Wenna angrily.

No man had spoken for her, and she rejoiced in that fact. They had sense enough to know when they met one who was too sharp for them.

She thought of Sir Charles who was in one of his absentminded moods to-day. Wenna guessed something was afoot. She did not quite know what, except that it had something to do with the secret wicked life he led. This morning she had seen a letter lying on his table. It was in a spidery foreign hand. It had come with papers from his solicitors in London. He had said nothing to Miss Maud about it; she would have told Wenna if he had. As if Wenna did not know how to prise their secrets from Maud and Caroline!

Maud was lying back with her eyes shut, the hartshorn held lightly in her delicate fingers. She looked very small and pale. Sir Charles had said: "Maud, if you would only take a little exercise it would do you the world of good." And poor Miss Maud had ridden to hounds and come back exhausted, so that Wenna had had to nurse her with her possets and her remedies.

Wenna, knitting the thick woollen stockings she made for herself or stitching at the undergarments which she made for her mistress— she would not allow Miss Pennifield to make her ladyship's undergarments—would jab her sewing needle into fine linen as though it were a rapier with which to attack the master, or click her knitting needles as though they were clashing swords.

She imagined the shameful things he must be doing with his secret woman in London. Her mental disparagement of Sir Charles grew in proportion to her love for Miss Maud.

When she had been young—one of many children living in one of the cottages by the quay—and they had been glad to get her into one of the big houses, her parents had said: "We'd like to see Wenna settled, for she'll never find a husband." And wouldn't want one! thought Wenna fiercely. I get on like a barn afire without.

Maud opened her eyes and Wenna said: "The master do seem put out this morning. I do hope nothing's wrong."

"What do you mean?" asked Maud.

"There was a letter came with his papers. It looked like foreign writing and he seemed worried after getting it."

"A foreign letter," said Maud. "It would be some business, I daresay. I believe Sir Charles has interests in foreign lands."

She spoke lightly. Business in her mind was something men were concerned with, necessary and to be tolerated, but far beyond the understanding of ladies. Wenna smiled sardonically; she had no such flattering opinions of the business of men.

Caroline was swinging to and fro in the hammock, thinking of Fermor. She saw herself in the white satin dress. It was beautiful, but would it look beautiful to him ? When she had stayed in London she had felt very smart in her green striped dress and matching pelerine—until she had seen the London girls.

She and her father had visited Fermor's parents; her mother had been too ill to accompany them. She remembered now the first time she had seen Fermor. It was in his mother's drawing-room. He had been a little resentful, knowing that their parents intended they should marry one day. He had shown this resentment by taking as little notice of her as he need. He did talk to her about his father's country house as though he thought the country was all she could possibly know anything about. The parents whispered about them. "How charming young people are," his mother had said. "Love's young awakening is so affecting!" That had embarrassed Caroline and rendered Fermor gruffer than ever.

When they rode together in the Row he seemed to like her better, for she was a good horsewoman, and she fancied that he would always want people who belonged to him to be perfect.

He tried to pretend that he was much older than she was, but she reminded him that it was only a few months. "But you have never been away from the country before," he retorted. "That makes all the difference."

"A few months can only be a few months wherever you live," she answered with spirit. He pretended to be very shocked. "What! Contradicting a gentleman! That is very bad manners."

"What about contradicting a lady? In the country gentlemen are supposed to be polite to ladies."

"Is that why they are supposed to be such bumpkins?" he had asked; and he had the last word on that subject. She believed he always would have the last word.

But during the ball which was held at his parents' house he had changed a little. She and he were considered too young to attend and had sat in a gallery with his grandparents and some elderly aunts to watch the dancers. She believed she had looked rather pretty in her blue silk party dress. Then he had said: "You have pretty hands. They don't look as if they could manage a horse as they do." It was a sign of approval. He was becoming reconciled to the fact that one day he would have to marry her.

After that he had become boastful; he had told her of incredible adventures in the streets of London; how he had been a highwayman at one time robbing the rich for the sake of the poor. In some stories he was a terror, in others a hero. She liked his stories though she did not believe them, but it was comforting to think that he took the trouble to make them up for her amusement. They had been allowed to drive in the carriage through the streets of London. He pointed out the Peelers in their top hats and blue tail-coats and white trousers. He asked her to take particular note of their truncheons. He told her that the streets of London were full of dangerous criminals; and he had taken a great delight in pointing out people in the crowd. "There is a murderer!"

"Oh look, there's a pickpocket." And to please him she had cried out in assumed fear.

He had been ready to like her during those days. They had been taken to Hyde Park to see the Fair which had been erected there to celebrate the wedding. She had been thrilled by the fluttering flags, the bands and dancing, the boats on the Serpentine; the fireworks had especially enchanted her. A servant had been in charge of them and they had been allowed to eat ices which were sold in one of the tents, for everyone was saying that ices were a refined luxury.

On the way back, she remembered, he had told her of an execution he had seen outside Newgate Jail: he had also seen pickpockets ducked.

London had seemed to her a delightful and charming place, and Fermor the most delightful person in it.

She wished she had not seen him kiss the parlourmaid on that last night. Neither of them knew that she saw. He was not yet fifteen but big enough for twenty; and the parlourmaid was a fluffy, giggling sixteen. She had slapped him, as Caroline would not have dared to do. "You ... Master Fermor ... up to tricks again!" Caroline had gone shivering to her room and had been rather glad that her father would take her home next day.

She had not seen him since. That was three years ago. The journey between London and Cornwall was a tedious one, particularly on the Cornish side of the Tamar where there was no railway. Wheels were continually stuck in the ruts, carriages overturned, and isolated travellers were a prey to weather and worse. It was not a journey to be undertaken except on serious business.

And now she was nearly eighteen and her betrothal was to take place on her birthday. She wanted to be married; she believed she wanted to marry Fermor; but into her pleasantest thoughts of him would come a Fermor she had met only by accident, Fermor whom a parlourmaid had slapped and accused of being up to his tricks ... again. Again!

So ... she was afraid.

He came to find her in the hammock. She had heard the arrival and was expecting him.

"Caroline ... Caroline!" he called.

She studied him with excitement and pleasure. He was very tall and blue-eyed. He was bronzed, the same braggart whom she had met in London, yet more than three and a half years older than he had been then, and it seemed, far, far wiser, completely sure of himself, already seeming to be a man of wide experience.

Smiling he took her hand and kissed it; she watched him solemnly. Suddenly, laughing aloud, he tipped her out of the hammock.

"Unceremonious," he said, in the short clipped speech which had not been his before, "but necessary. How tall are you, Caroline? Why, scarcely up to my shoulder. Let me look at you- You're prettier than you were." He kissed her swiftly on the cheek. "Well, haven't you something to say to me? Some greeting? How does a young lady greet her affianced husband?"

She tried to think of something to say and could not.

"I was told I'd find you here," he said helpfully.

She said shyly: "Do you remember when we last met? It was just over three years ago, wasn't it? They made us talk together and they whispered about us."

"Why yes, I remember."

"And we hated each other because they were going to make us marry."

"Nonsense! I was enchanted from the minute I set eyes on you."

"That is not a true thing to say."

"Well, it's a very nice thing," he said.

She laughed and he put his arm through hers.

"I'll show you the gardens," she said.

As they walked he told her how he had spent the time during the waiting. He spoke as though he had scarcely been able to endure the dreary days between their last meeting and this one. They had despaired of educating him, he told her. So he had made do with the Grand Tour. He was just back. The sun had been hot in Italy— hence his sun-baked appearance.

"I like it," she said shyly.

They were determined to be pleased with each other. Everybody was pleased, except Wenna. She, thought Caroline, would like me to hate him so that she could comfort me.

She led him into the house for she knew she must not be too long alone with him unchaperoned. She sat next to him during dinner; after dinner she talked with him. And that night she could scarcely sleep for thinking of him, but she kept remembering that occasion when she had seen him on the stairs with the servant.

She reminded herself that she had nothing to fear. Her parents had arranged the marriage; it was a convenient marriage. Of course love matches were supposed to happen without the aid of parents. But theirs should be a love match which had been arranged for them. Caroline could not bear that it should be otherwise.

It had all happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly. The day of the great ball had come and everyone had been well and happy then. Caroline had worn her white satin and Fermor had said she looked like an angel or a fairy. They had danced together; and the gentry from the surrounding country had drunk their health in champagne. They were truly affianced; and she wore a diamond ring on her finger to prove it.

The villagers had looked in at the great windows. Some, very daring, had come quite close, and had had to be turned away by Meaker the butler.

It was a hot night. Who was it who had suggested they should go out and dance on the lawn? Why not? There was a moon and it was so romantic. The young people had begged for permission to do so. Their elders had demurred, yet with that hesitancy which means consent. Mammas and Papas had sat on the terraces to watch.

The dew was falling and Lady Trevenning, sensitive to cold, was the first to notice it. She looked for a servant whom she might order to bring her a wrap. Sir Charles was standing near her.

"What is it, Maud?" he asked.

She adjusted the lace scarf about her shoulders. "It's a little chilly. I need a wrap."

"I'll go and get one," he said.

He came into the porch. There was a young girl sitting on the seat there—a young man beside her. Her dress was black and she was very small. He saw her green eyes as she lifted her head to smile at him.

She was quite different, of course. He recognized her at once as Jane Collings the daughter of his old friend James, the M.F.H. But for the moment she had made his heart beat faster. He thought of the letter which he kept in his pocket, and as he went into the house he forgot why he had come in; he went to the quiet of the library and taking out the letter read it through once more. It was from the Mother Superior of the Convent Notre Dame Marie. She was anxious on account of Melisande. The child was now nearly fifteen and had learned all that the nuns could teach her. She was bright but not serieuse. The Mother had had a long talk with the child and with the nuns who had taught her, and none of them thought that the Convent was any longer the ideal place for Melisande. The girl was restless; she had been caught slipping out of the Convent without permission. She liked to visit the auberge and if possible talk to strangers who stayed there. It was disquieting and the Mother was perturbed. Would Monsieur let them know his wishes? It was the advice of herself and those nuns who knew Melisande so well that the child should be taken from the Convent—much as they would miss her and the money Monsieur had paid them so regularly. It was their considered opinion that Melisande should be put to some useful work. She was educated well enough to become a governess. She might be good with her needle if she would apply herself more diligently. The Mother sent her felicitations and assured him that she was his sincere friend Jeanne de l'lsle Goroncourt.

He had thought of Melisande continually since he had had the letter.

He could not make up his mind what to do. Perhaps he would go to see Fenella. She had advised him once, and her advice had been good; moreover she had gained wisdom with the years, and he was sure she would be only too happy to help him solve his problem.

As he sat there the door opened and Wenna came in. She looked at him in some surprise and her sharp eyes went to the letter in his hands.

He said: "Oh, Wenna, her ladyship wants a wrap."

She had come near to the table and he noticed that she continued to look at the letter. He felt uneasy. He laid it down and immediately wished he had not done so. He said quickly: "It is getting chilly out there."

"I'll go and get it... at once," she said.

When Wenna went out with it, Maud said: "I thought he had forgotten. It was a long time ago that I asked him."

"Men!" said Wenna fiercely. "Thinking of nothing but themselves ! Why, you'm chilled to the bone. You shall come in at once and I'll get 'ee a hot drink."

"Wenna, Wenna, what of my guests? You forget I'm not your pet now. I'm the hostess."

"You'll catch your death," prophesied Wenna, as she had prophesied a thousand times. But this time she was right.

The next morning her mistress was shivering yet feverish when she went in to her, and two days later she was dead.

There was great excitement in the Auberge Lefevre.

"It is Monsieur himself!" cried Madame. "Ah, Monsieur, it is a long time since we saw you. Come in. Come in. Your room shall be prepared for you. You will drink a glass of wine with my husband, will you not? Then we shall see about food for you. RagoUt ... a little of that crimped sole that you like so much ? Or the roast beef of your own country perhaps?"

"Thank you, thank you," he said.

"We shall make you comfortable here."

"I do not know how long I shall stay."

But Madame was away, calling her servants, preparing the warming pans, arranging for hot water to be carried to his room since he had a passion for the bath.

Madame herself would cook the meal. She would trust no other.

The Englishman drank a glass of wine with Armand.

He has aged, thought Armand. There is silver in his hair now.

They talked of town matters; but Armand was knowledgeable beyond the affairs of his own town. He shook his head. "There is a murmuring in the great cities, Monsieur. We hear it even here in the country. It is like a storm in the distance, you understand, Monsieur? This Louis Philippe and his Marie Amelie—are they going the same way as Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette ? There are some who say they are neither for the aristocrats nor for the people. They meddle with the ministers of State, they bribe the juries and they dictate to the press. Frenchmen do not like this, Monsieur, and they are not calm like the people of Monsieur's country. They are happy, your people. They have a good Queen, have they not, kept in control by her pious German husband?"

The Englishman might have replied that England had her troubles; he might have mentioned the Luddites and the men of Tolpuddle, the rising struggle over the corn law*, the concession already granted to one class by another in the reform laws; he might have mentioned the terrible inequalities between rich and poor which were—to those who saw it in a certain way, which he did not —a shameful disgrace to any nation; but of course the inequalities in France were even greater. But the Englishman said none of these things. He preferred to listen to the Frenchman, to shake his head and condole.

Moreover he was thinking of the reason for his visit.

But he did not hurry. It was not in his nature to hurry. He had rehearsed what he would say when he was confronted with the girl whom he had not seen since she had dropped her sabot at his feet.

He ate the excellent fish which Madame had prepared for him; he scarcely noticed Madame's special sauce, but he assured her that it was delicious. Then he retired early that he might be fresh for to-morrow's task.

Melisande stood before her class of little children. Outside the sun was shining. There was a butterfly trying to get out of the windows— a white butterfly with touches of green on his wings. She was thinking of the butterfly rather than of the children.

Poor little butterfly! He was imprisoned in the room even as she was imprisoned in the Convent. She knew nothing of the world; she only knew a life which was governed by bells—bells for rising, bells for prayers, bells for petit dejeuner, for the first class, for the second, for the walk through the town and so on through the days; and every day was alike except saint days and Sundays, and any saint day was like any other saint day, any Sunday like another.

What were the excitements of the days ? Little Jeanne-Marie had the colic; little Yvette had learned to read. Melisande loved little Jeanne-Marie; she was delighted in the triumph of little Yvette; but this was not living.

She spent much time in dreaming of wonderful things which would happen to her, of knights who rode to the Convent and abducted her; she pictured herself riding away with one of them to an enchanted castle, to Paris, to Rome, to London, to Egypt—all the wonderful countries of which she had read in the geography lessons. When she drew maps with the older children she would picture herself sailing up that river, climbing that mountain.

Sometimes when she was sent to the market with the garments or the garden produce which were to be sold, she would loiter and talk to the stall-holders. The eyes of old Henri would light up when he saw her, and she saw in the gaze of his young grandson that she was too pretty a girl to live in a convent all her life. She would linger at the auberge and try a piece of Madame's rich gateau; Armand would let her see how he admired her while he awaited the answers to the questions he asked her with such burning curiosity. "And how long shall you stay at the Convent, Mademoiselle Melisande? Do you never hear news of some relatives in the outside world?"

Now she went to the window and opened it, but the silly butterfly did not seem to know how to get out even then. She seized it gently and released it.

"It is flying away, home to its children," said young Louise.

"To its little house and its baby butterflies," said Yvette.

She looked at the children, her green eyes momentarily sad. These children were obsessed by the thought of homes, of families in which there was a mother and father. They longed for a home— a real home however humble; they longed for brothers and sisters. She had ceased to long for such impossibilities; she wanted to escape into the world because she felt herself to be a prisoner.

As the butterfly flew away the door opened and Sister Eugenie came in.

Melisande sighed. The classroom in an uproar over a butterfly! She would be reprimanded for this. Why was it that her smallest misdemeanours always seemed to be brought home to her?

But Sister Eugenie did not seem to notice the disturbance. She was looking straight at Melisande, and there was a faint colour in her cheeks; her eyes, beneath her stern headdress, looked as excited as they ever could look.

"I will take the class," she said. "You are to go to la Mere at once."

Melisande was astonished. She opened her mouth to speak, but Eugenie went on: "Go at once. Oh, but first tidy your hair. La Mere is waiting."

Melisande hurried out of the classroom along the corridors to the dormitory. Over the bed which was slightly bigger than the others hung a mirror. The bed and the mirror were hers; now that she was nearly sixteen, it was her duty to sleep in the dormitory with the small children.

Her hair, as usual, was untwining itself from the plaits which hung over her shoulders. No wonder Sister Eugenie had noticed it!

She hastily replaited it. What could the Mother want with her? She had dallied in the market square only yesterday; she had gossiped and laughed and chattered with Henri. Was that it? "Now, now," had said Henri's grandson. "No flirting with the young lady, Grandpapa!"

She had laughed with pleasure at the time; but what if the nuns had overheard ? What a sin! What a penance would be hers!

She began to frame excuses as she went along to that room in which the Mother spent most of her time studying religious books and looking after the affairs of the Convent.

"Come in," said the Mother, when she knocked.

A man was sitting by the table. She caught her breath with surprise and felt the blood rush into her face. She knew that man. She would have recognized him anywhere because he was not like anyone else she had ever known. He was the Englishman who had sat outside the auberge.

"Melisande," said the Mother, "come here, my child." As Melisande approached the table, the Mother went on: "This is Mr. Charles Adam."

Melisande curtseyed to the stranger.

"Speak to him in English, child," said the Mother. "He would prefer that. Mr. Adam has come to see you. He has something to say to you, and he thinks it would be better if he told it to you himself. I am going to leave you that you may talk with him."

"Yes, ma Merer"

"He is your guardian, Melisande. Do not forget ... in English. He will wish to know how proficient you have become in that tongue."

The Mother rose and laid a hand on Melisande's shoulder; she gave her a little push towards Mr. Adam who had risen and was holding out his hand to shake hers.

The door closed on the Mother.

"This is a surprise to you," he said.

"My ... guardian?" she said.

"Yes ... yes."

"But you did not say. I mean ... outside the inn ... when I dropped my sabot. You did not tell me then. I should have been so excited. I did not know ..."

She stopped. She was becoming incoherent as Sister Emilie said she was when she was excited, and it was only the fact that it was not so easy to translate her thoughts into English which stopped the flow of words.

"I am sorry," he said. "I could not explain then. It is difficult even now ..."

"Of course, Monsieur." She looked at him with delight, taking in every detail: the elegant clothes, the hair slightly greying at the temples, the rather cold grey eyes, the stern mouth; she decided he was somewhat formidable, but everything that a guardian ought to be. He was not the sort of man about whom Therese need have the slightest qualm—nor the Mother, 'it seemed. How odd! Here she was alone in a room with a man for the first time in her life. Her lips curled up at the corners.

"So, Monsieur," she said, "you are my guardian."

"I ... I knew your father."

"Oh, please tell me. I have so often wondered. What Was my father like? Where is he now? Why was I left at the Convent? Is he still alive?"

"Your father was a gentleman," he said.

"And my mother?"

"Your mother died very soon after you were born."

"And my father also?"

"You ... lost him too. He asked me to look after you."

"And it was you who sent me to the Convent?"

"The education which has been given you here is as good as any you could get. ... I was persuaded."

She laughed and, because he looked surprised, she said: "I am only laughing because I am pleased. No one has been really interested in me before."

"I had thought you might make the Convent your permanent home."

Her face fell. She felt as the butterfly would have felt if, after she had shown him the fresh air and freedom, she had brought him back into the schoolroom.

"I am not good enough to be a nun," she said. She was sad suddenly ; her lids hid the brilliance of her eyes and all the joy seemed to have gone out of her face. "I did not feel the ecstasy of prayers and fasting. Little Louise said that when she worked on the angel's wing in the altar cloth she felt as though she had wings and was flying up to heaven. When I worked on the angel's robe, I just felt it was tiresome and hurt my eyes. You see ..."

But of course he was not interested in little Louise and her feelings, nor in the weaknesses of Melisande.

She noticed that he ignored what she said and went on with his speech as though he were unaware of her interruption. She must keep quiet, for only by letting him do the talking could she know what he wished to say, and curb this aching curiosity within her.

"But," he went on, "it seems you are unsuited to convent life. So I have come to take you away if you wish to leave."

She clasped her hands together. They were trembling with excitement.

"I have one or two propositions to put before you." He looked at her eager animated face. "I am told that you know something of teaching. That means you could earn your living as a governess. I am told that you would be a good needlewoman if you would apply yourself to such work. It is possible that I may find a situation for you."

She was thoughtful. Perhaps, he thought, she saw herself escaping from one prison to another.

He made up his mind suddenly then. He had not until this moment been quite sure whether he could act so daringly. This was one of the most reckless moments of his life. It would be so simple to take her to Fenella. Fenella would have helped him as readily now as she had once before.

But Melisande was so charming—those shapeless ugly garments could not hide that. She was Millie re-born ... Millie turned into Melisande. Millie had been pretty and appealing, but this girl had real beauty. Millie was uneducated; this girl's intelligence shone through her beauty. That look of alert enquiry in the green eyes might have been inquisitiveness, but it was enchanting. How could he resist the temptation to bring his own daughter into his home, to watch her day by day? How could he allow her to take a menial post in another household ? He seemed to hear Millie's voice saying: "I want her to have a gros de Naples gown and a mantle ..."

She shall! he decided. He would, for once, forget to be cautious; he would override all difficulties.

"I have a situation for you," he said slowly.

"Oh ... yes?"

He went on quickly: "My wife died recently. I have a daughter a few years older than you are. She needs a companion. Would you like to live in my house and help to cheer my daughter ? The work would not be arduous. I should like you to be happy in my house. You would have all the comforts . .. the privileges ... of my daughter herself."

Her eyes were shining, for he had changed. She had thought for a moment that he was going to lay his hands on her shoulders and kiss her.

"Yes please," she said. "Please."

"When will you be ready to leave?"

"Why, now!" she cried.

"I think in a few days' time would be more convenient. You will need time to prepare."

She was smiling, and she spoke as usual without considering. "I believe," she said, "that you were very fond of my father."

He turned away from her sharply; then suddenly he turned his head and said over his shoulder: "What makes you think so?"

"To have cared so much about me ... whom you didn't know ... to be so pleased because I am coming to live in your house."

When he turned back to her his face was without expression. "Let us hope," he said, "that everyone will be pleased."

It was impossible to keep the secret. The auberge hummed with it.

"What did I tell you ?" cried Armand, delighted. "Now, Madame, you see that I am a man who can put two and two together."

But Madame was sad. "He will never come to see us again. And we shall lose Melisande too."

"You have grown fond of her," said Armand pensively. "She is a beautiful girl. You should rejoice since she is going to her father's house. She will have silks and satins, a handsome husband and a fine dowry."

"But we shall not see her in her silks and satins. We shall not see the handsome husband; and none of the dowry will be spent at our inn."

Armand was philosophical. "There will be others ... other gentlemen who come to see their daughters ... other gentlemen to sit with me and watch the children."

"That would be too much of a coincidence," retorted his wife.

"Indeed no," murmured Armand; "it would be life."

They watched them depart on the coach which would take them to Paris—that incongruous pair; the Englishman with the melancholy expression and the vivacious young girl in her sombre convent clothes.

Madame was openly weeping, and Armand wiped a tear from his eye as he returned to his bottle of wine.

It was not until they were in Paris that Charles changed his identity. Now it was safe, he thought; and he would have to tell her before they reached England.

"I was Charles Adam to the nuns," he said. "But that is not my real name. It is Charles Trevenning."

"Trevenning," she repeated with her French accent. "Is that so then?" How true it was that she spoke first and thought afterwards. "This ... it was a ..." She struggled for the word. "It was a necessary ... ?"

"The position was a little difficult. My friends ... being unable to see to these matters for themselves ..."

"You mean my parents?"

"Yes. And I ... with a child on my hands."

She nodded. "It was an awkwardness," she said. "A great awkwardness," she repeated, delighted with the word. Her eyes were sparkling. She had read forbidden books. There had been a lady staying at the auberge who had spoken to her and, being interested in her, had given her several books. She had smuggled them into the Convent. One grew tired of PilgrirrCs Progress and the Bible. How enthralling were those books! What excitement to read of the outside world, where there was love, death and birth—all of which, it seemed so often, should never have taken place.

She was not as ignorant as people believed of life outside convents. She saw his point. Her parents had died and left him a baby. That was an awkwardness indeed. There would be scandal—and scandal was a frequent ingredient of the forbidden books. She understood perfectly why he had had to be Charles Adam. "But," she said, speaking her thoughts aloud, "the nuns would never have told."

"It seemed wiser," he said. "Will you remember then that I am Charles Trevenning, Sir Charles Trevenning. There is another matter. You must have noticed that you and I attract some attention. That is because people wonder about our relationship. It might be wiser if at this stage of our journey I call you ... my daughter."

She nodded vigorously and with delight. "It is an honour," she said. "It pleases me."

He was relieved to find her so intelligent. He was becoming more and more drawn to her with every passing moment.

"And," he went on, "there is the matter of clothes. While we are in Paris we will try to find something more suitable for you."

She was enchanted by the idea of buying new clothes.

It was necessary to stay some days in the French capital, and he was determined to make her presentable before they left; he wished her *o look like an English schoolgirl, who, having been met by her father after completing her stay at a finishing school, was going home.

He was sure that she attracted attention because of her incongruous clothes, because she talked too much, because she was excited by everything she saw. He believed that she would calm down. But he found that he could not make her into the girl he wished her to be; she was, above all things, herself. He pictured her vaguely in a discreet dress of dark tartan with a little cape about her shoulders; he saw her in a neat bonnet which would help to subdue the brilliance of her eyes.

When they entered the shop he said to the saleswoman in his stiff French: "This is my daughter. I want her to have a discreet outfit."

But he had reckoned without the saleswoman ... and Melisande. The latter had already seen a beautiful gown with frills and flounces, with a low-cut bodice and leg-of-mutton sleeves. She stood before it, her arms folded across her breast.

"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 didjan 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.