It Began in Vauxhall Gardens

ONE

So Melisande was at Trevenning.

Sir Charles drew the curtains about his bed and lay down; he was shut away from the house, he felt, shut away from the room with a hundred memories of Maud.

Have I done right? he asked himself again and again. How could I send her to work in another household where she would be welcomed neither in the servants' hall nor as a member of the family but in that unhappy limbo somewhere between?

But he must act with the utmost caution. He had done a very daring thing in bringing her here. He must be careful to show her no special favours. He had been rather reckless during the journey; her charm had disarmed him; he had enjoyed letting people think that they were father and daughter. There must be no breath of scandal at Trevenning. He must have a talk with Caroline. He must ask his daughter to treat Melisande kindly; perhaps he could hint at a tragedy. He began to work out some plausible story; but he rejected that; he must not add to the mystery concerning Melisande.

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He felt the physical discomfort which came to him after a long journey; he seemed still to be swaying with the movement of the carriage, and when he closed his eyes he still seemed to see the passing countryside. He kept thinking of her, her sudden laughter, her joy in everything that was new to her, her pity for those who seemed unfortunate. She was a charming girl; if it had been at all possible he would have delighted in claiming her for his daughter. But there was one thing he feared more than anything else: it was that scandal should touch his name. It had always been thus with Trevennings.

When he thought of that he knew he would have been wiser to have taken her straight to Fenella. He should never have forged a link between Trevenning and the Convent Notre Dame Marie; his two daughters should never have met.

Yet, although he regretted his rashness, he was sure that if he could go back in time, he would do exactly as he had already done.

But—he promised himself—no more risks.

Caroline lay in bed thinking of the newcomer. She had not drawn the curtains about her bed. She was uneasy. She had not failed to notice the looks which Fermor had given the girl and she thought she knew the meaning of those looks.

The girl had both beauty and charm; she had that indefinable something which Caroline was sufficiently aware of to know that she herself did not possess it. She herself was pretty; she had a fortune and she was in every way marriageable; yet Fermor had been unable to prevent himself showing his admiration of the girl.

Her father had written of Melisande St. Martin as though she were a woman of forty, prim, a woman for whom they should be sorry. How could they be sorry for a girl such as Mademoiselle St. Martin?

Already she had seemed to cast knowledgeable looks at Fermor, had revelled in his admiration; already Caroline saw her as a coquettish trouble-maker who would scheme with all her might to make her position firmer. She was glad that Fermor would soon be leaving Cornwall. He had stayed—with his aunt Miss Tabitha Holland as chaperone—until her father returned, to console her because she was so distressed at the loss of her mother. He had consoled her, and she had been happy until her father had arrived, for Fermor had been tender rather than ardent; it was as though he had welcomed the constant company of his aunt. That seemed strange when she thought of the looks she had seen him cast at Peg and Bet, the two maids, and had remembered that long-ago scene with the parlourmaid. She had rejoiced in his restraint; she looked upon it as a sign of the respect he had for her.

He had said however that he did not see why they should wait a whole year. He had declared he would speak to her father and his people. "Perhaps we could have a quieter wedding if that would offend conventions less." He was impatient of conventions; he was by nature headstrong and ardent; that was probably why he enchanted her. She had felt temporarily sure of him until that moment when she had seen him look at the stranger and delight in her.

But he will soon be gone, she assured herself. And who knows, perhaps I can find some means of sending her away before he returns.

In the servants' hall Meaker sat at the head of the table. Supper, when they all gathered together to exchange gossip and discuss affairs of the household, was the high-light of their days. Mrs. Soady, the cook, could be relied upon to provide a loaded table; there were pies and pasties to keep up their strength; and it was Mrs. Soady's delight never to let them know what was beneath the piecrust. Sometimes it would be a taddage pie made of delicious sucking pig; at others a squab pie with layers of apple, bacon, onions and mutton with a squab at the bottom of the dish. There would be giblet pies and lammy pies, tatty pies and herby pies. There would be no secret about the popular pasty nor that favourite star-gazy pie, for in the first place there was no disguising the shape of the pasty, and the pilchards' heads peeping out of the pastry betrayed the star-gazy for what it was. No table of Mrs. Soady's was complete without a dish of cream with which Mrs. Soady liked to see all her pastry anointed; and there was always plenty of mead and cider with which to wash down the food. And with Mr. Meaker at one end of the table and Mrs. Soady at the other, they were a happy family in the servants' hall at Trevenning.

There was one notable absentee that night, but Wenna did not always join the others at table. When Lady Trevenning had been alive and she was always waiting on her ladyship, Wenna would have her meals at odd moments. Now she had continued the practice in the service of Miss Caroline. Wenna was a specially favoured servant.

On this day there was no talk of affairs outside the house. Mrs. Soady did not, as she often did, talk of her sister, the wise woman, and the members of her wonderful family. Mrs. Soady belonged to a 'pellar' family, and in such families supernatural power was handed down through generation after generation from an ancestor who had assisted a mermaid back to the sea. Mrs. Soady's sister, as well as being a member of such a family was a seventh child and a footling into the bargain (she had been born feet first) and everyone at the table had been reminded that being born feet first was an indication of great powers to come; so the Soady family were generally one of the favourite topics.

Mr. Meaker could not allow his family to be completely overshadowed. They were not 'pellars', but they were invalids and had suffered from all the most terrible diseases known to man. Mr. Meaker had not been so long at Trevenning as some of the servants; he had served other masters, and, according to his accounts, the houses in which he had served were not only much grander than Trevenning, but all the inhabitants had been martyrs to their various ailments. Such conversations, sponsored by Mrs. Soady and augmented by Mr. Meaker, went down very well with 'fair-maids' and pasties or one of Mrs. Soady's mystery pies.

But to-night, of course, there was no talk but of Miss Caroline's new companion.

Peg, who had shown her to her bedroom, was looked to for special information because she had actually helped the newcomer to unpack her bag. The trouble with Peg was that being rather silly she kept choking with laughter and had to be slapped on the back or given water or mead to drink in order that a threatened attack of hysteria might be counteracted. Mr. Meaker had warned her before about hiccups. A member of one of his families had started an attack just like Peg's, and it had lasted six weeks before it killed him.

"Now you, Peg," said Mrs. Soady with a trace of irritability, "don't 'ee be so soft, don't! And give over giggling. Now what was there in the bag?"

"Oh, not much, Mrs. Soady ... but what she had was terrible queer. And she had a black frock and a green bonnet ... green, I tell'ee!"

"Well that ain't telling us nothing," said Mrs. Soady. "Mr. Meaker saw that much."

Mr. Meaker was glad to seize an opportunity. "And a handsome wench, she was, Mrs. Soady. Healthy and shapely." He curved his hands to indicate the curves of Melisande, smiling as he did so.

"Give over!" said Mrs. Soady. "I'll warrant Mr. Fermor had his eyes on her."

"He had indeed, Mrs. Soady," put in Bet. She looked slyly at Peg. Bet lacked Peg's buxom charms so she was glad Mr. Fermor had noticed the stranger, for that would put Peg's nose out of joint. Bet knew—if others didn't—what Peg was. Peg came from West Looe, Bet from East Looe; they were natural rivals. Peg always took Mr. Fermor's hot water up in the mornings, and sometimes she stayed a long time and came out flushed and giggling. Bet knew; and it would serve Peg right if others knew and Peg was sent packing to that cottage on the quay whence she came.

"And what did you see, Bet?"

"Well," said Bet, with a titter, "I don't rightly think that Miss Caroline is all that pleased with the companion her father's brought from London."

Mr. Meaker said: "Master Fermor is a real gentleman. There's many like him. I remember Mr. Leigh up to Leigh House. Not the present Mr. Leigh, but his father. He was a man for the maidens. Some say it brought on his end ... prematurely." Everyone looked with respect at Mr. Meaker who had the manners and speech of a gentleman and who liked to baffle them with the use of words unfamiliar to them. Mr. Meaker looked round the company and laughed. "I remember old Lil Tremorney; she was in his bed ... regular, so I heard, when she was employed up to Leigh House."

"Now, Mr. Meaker, there's young people present," said Mrs. Soady, "and young people as is in my charge.''

"I beg your pardon humbly, Mrs. Soady ... I beg it humbly... . But facts are facts and best faced."

Mrs. Soady wanted to get back to the subject which interested her.

"And from foreign lands they say she do come."

"She do talk like to make you fair die of laughing," Peg put in; and others who had heard her speak confirmed this.

"She be French, I've heard," said Mrs. Soady. "Like as not Mr. Meaker will tell us how we calls a young woman that's French. T'ain't Miss, I do know for sure."

Mr. Meaker, who was delighted to be called upon to give information, explained that French ladies if unmarried—and they could be sure this young person was—were called Mamazel.

"There now!" said Mrs. Soady admiring Mr. Meaker's knowledge of the world. "Fancy that."

"When I was serving the tea," said Annie the parlourmaid, "after dinner 'twas ... in the drawing-room ..."

"We know when you serve tea, Annie," said Mrs. Soady sharply.

"Well then I heard Mr. Fermor say to her: 'You're very charming ...' I think it were ... and I forget what else."

"You should remember better," said Mrs. Soady. "What did Miss Caroline say?"

"She were terrible put out—you could see that."

"I can't think what's come over the master," said Mr. Meaker. "If he were a man like old Mr. Leigh it would not be outside my comprehension to see him bring a young female into the house. But we know the master for what he is; and for the life of me I cannot see why Miss Caroline wants a young female companion."

"And such a pretty one!" said the footman.

"Well," said Mrs. Soady, helping herself to more taddage, and pushing the dish along the table to be passed to Mr. Meaker, "I'd like to see our young lady married, that I would ... and that quick."

"What about the recent death in the family, Mrs. Soady?" asked Mr. Meaker.

"I don't know, I'm sure; but I do know that that wedding ought not to be put off too long. There's no knowing what'll come to pass ... and now we've got this young female in the house ..."

She stopped for a mouthful. Everyone was eating, but while they savoured the delicious food, they were all thinking of Mr. Fermor and his roving eye which reminded Mr. Meaker of old Mr. Leigh.

They were sorry for Miss Caroline; and they thought of the newcomer who was—in the footman's opinion—the prettiest, tiddliest little thing you'd find from Torpoint to Land's End.

Melisande lay in the big fourposter bed. Her clothes had been unpacked by Peg and were now hanging in the wardrobe. She had bathed in the hip bath with the hot water which Peg had brought her. She was living in luxury, she told herself.

The room was charming and a fire burned in the grate, although it was summer time, sending a flickering glow to reveal the velvet curtains and the carpet which were the colour of ripe rich plums. She had blown out the candles before getting into bed, for the fire gave her all the light she needed. She had drawn back the window curtains and peered out, but it was too dark to see anything.

What a different bed from the one which had been hers at the Convent! This was an ancient bed; most things in the house seemed ancient; it was a real fourposter, with an ornate tester, and silk curtains about it.

As she stretched luxuriously she reminded herself that she was really a sort of servant in this house. It would be necessary to please Caroline; and she would not be easy to please. The young man, Mr. Fermor—he would be very easy to please. Ah, if she were to be his companion, how much easier that would be!

She laughed at the thought. He had sat near her while she had drunk the strange tea in the drawing-room. She had been talkative, too talkative. "We never drank tea in the Convent," she had told him. "It has a strange flavour. I like it ... oh yes I like it. I like everything that is English. It is all an excitement ..." And he had laughed and leaned towards her and asked questions about the Convent. She who did not know how to restrain herself, and had not even thought it necessary to do so, had rattled on, occasionally breaking into French. "I have learned English, yes. But to write it ... that is easier. To talk ... one must think fast ... and the words do not always come. ..." What shining blue eyes he had! She liked him. Yes, she liked him very much. He made her feel happier than anyone had since she set foot in England, more than Sir Charles had when he had been so kind. Why, she was not sure. Was it because all the time he seemed to be telling her how much he wished to be her friend ?

"You have an unusual name," he had said, "Melisande. It is charming. I wonder why you were called Melisande."

"How can we know the reasons for the names when we do not know our parents!" she had said. And somehow that had shocked them all... all except the young man. "Mine is a family name," he told her, "handed down and down through generations. Fermor. It's as unusual as yours." That had made a bond between them. He was very friendly. He had said that they must have seen when she was in her cradle how charming she would be when she grew up, and they had given her the most charming name they could think of because of that. "It is you who are charming," she had said, "to say these charming things to me and make me feel so happy."

She had acted wrongly. She realized that. Sir Charles was not pleased; nor was Caroline. They were queer people, those two, not like herself and Fermor. That was another bond between them; they said what they wanted to say.

Perhaps she had been bold; she had talked too much. She had forgotten that she was but a servant in the house. "Be humble," Sister Eugenie had said. "Remember it is the meek who inherit the Earth."

Caroline had watched them all the time. She had said: "I am sure Mademoiselle is very tired." And the way in which she said Mademoiselle made Melisande feel that she was indeed a servant in this house. Then Caroline went on: "I am not going to allow her to be exhausted by your chatter."

She had made another mistake. "Oh, but I am not exhausted. I am so happy to talk here."

Caroline had purposefully pulled the bell rope and little Peg had come.

"Bring candles," Caroline had said. "Mademoiselle St. Martin is very tired. You can light her to her room."

The maid had led the way upstairs after Melisande had said goodnight to Sir Charles and Fermor. Caroline walked beside her as they ascended.

"What a large house," cried Melisande. "I had no idea that it would be so big."

"It has been the home of my family for years and years," Caroline had said, seeming more friendly now that they had left the young man in the drawing-room.

"That is very exciting for you. To say: 'My grandfather, my great-grandfather, my great-great-grandfather lived here... .' And I never knew my father ... nor my mother."

Caroline had clearly been taught to ignore what might be embarrassing. She had pointed to the effigies which were carved on the walnut banisters. "They represent members of the family. But you need daylight to see them."

"I look forward to to-morrow. I am sorry that I arrive in darkness. I shall sleep to-night in a house I do not see. It will be a strangeness."

Caroline had been silent. She had been aware that Peg, who must be listening, was with them. She had been thankful for Peg's stupidity, for one did not want such conversation repeated in the servants' hall. She had been glad when they were in the bedroom and Peg had set down her candle and lighted those in the sconces.

"Go and fetch hot water for Mademoiselle St. Martin," had said Caroline. "Or would you like her to help you unpack first, Mademoiselle?"

"There is so little to unpack."

"Peg," Caroline had commanded, "unpack the bag, please."

"Yes, Miss Caroline."

While she had been doing this, Caroline had gone to the window and Melisande followed.

Caroline had said: "You can't see a thing. It's as dark as a shaft, as the mining people say." She drew the curtains then. "There, that's better. I hope you will be happy here. We are a sombre household just at this time. My mother*..."

"Yes, I hear ... from your father. I am so sorry. It is a very great sadness. I know how sad. My own mother I never knew, but that does not mean I cannot have the sympathy. When your father told me ..."

Caroline had cut her short. "It was so unexpected. She was not strong but when it came ... we were unprepared."

Tears had filled Melisande's eyes. She who had never known a mother, who saw all mothers as idealized saints—a mixture of the Mother Superior and Madame Lefevre—believed the loss of a mother to be the greatest tragedy in the world.

Caroline had said almost angrily: "But if she had not died ... I suppose you would not be here."

A short silence had followed during which Melisande had thought: She is angry with me. This is a sadness. She has taken a dislike to me.

Peg had unpacked the bag and gone for hot water. Caroline had turned to Melisande and said quickly: "My wedding had to be postponed."

"I am sorry. That must make unhappiness for you."

"We are disappointed ... both of us."

"I understand."

"Mr. Holland has tried to persuade his people and my father that we should not wait. But there is ... convention, you know. It distresses us both."

"Convention?"

"Yes. The need to behave as people would expect... in a manner which is due to our position."

Melisande had been about to speak but Caroline had gone on quickly: "When my father wrote saying he was bringing you, he seemed to imply that you were quite a different sort of person."

"What sort of person?"

"He wrote saying that he had found a poor person who needed a home, and as Mamma had just died and my wedding had been postponed, he knew I must be lonely, so he had engaged her on the spot. He made her appear to be about forty, very poor, grey-haired, very prim and ... grateful. At least that is the picture I had in my mind."

"I am poor!" Melisande had cried with a smile. "And if I have not yet forty years then I shall one day. Prim I could be; grateful I am. I hope I shall not always disappoint."

"Oh no ... no. I am sure you will quickly understand us ... and fit in with us. Your English is a little quaint ... but I'm sure you will soon be as one of us."

Soon after that Peg had come back with the hot water, and telling Melisande that if there was anything she wanted she must pull the bell rope and someone would come and attend to her wants, Caroline said goodnight and left her.

So Melisande had undressed, washed in the hip bath, put on the cotton nightgown which she had brought with her from the Convent and got into bed. And now she found she was too excited for sleep. She could not stop thinking of the people whom she had met, and chiefly she thought of Fermor and Caroline; the one who so clearly wanted to be her friend, the other of whom she was unsure.

But life was exciting. To-morrow she would see the house; she would get to know it and all the people who lived in it.

As the firelight threw a flickering light about the room she thought of the cold bedrooms at the Convent. Even in winter there had been no fires in the bedrooms there.

She was just beginning to doze when there was a knock on her door. She started. The knock was repeated.

"Please come in," she called, and into the room came the woman she had seen when she had arrived at the house—the one whom they had called Wenna.

She stood by the door and for some inexplicable reason she alarmed Melisande. Perhaps it was because she looked fierce, angry. Why should she be angry with Melisande who had only just arrived at the house?

Melisande sat up in bed.

"I just wondered if you had all you needed," said the woman.

"That is so good ... so kind."

Wenna came slowly to the bed and looked down on Melisande. "I shouldn't by rights have disturbed you once you were in bed. I didn't think you'd be there yet though."

"But I am glad you came. It is a kindness."

"Well, you comfortable, eh? This must be a bit strange ... after the place you come from, I reckon?"

"It is very different."

"Did Peg look after 'ee? She do dream so. I wondered if she'd brought what you wanted. She do seem piskymazed half the time."

Melisande laughed softly. Why had she thought the woman was angry? Clearly she was trying to be kind. "Peg was very good. Everybody is very good."

"Then I didn't have no cause to come bothering."

"It was no bothering. It was a goodness."

"You come from across the water ... from foreign parts?"

"Yes."

"And lived there all your life?"

"I lived in a convent."

"My dear life! That must have been a queer place to live."

"It did not seem so. It seemed ... just the place where I lived."

"I suppose you was put there by your father ... or your mother."

"I ... suppose so."

"Seems a queer way of going on. Is it the foreign way then?"

"Well, they died, you see; and I had a guardian who thought I should be better in the Convent than, anywhere else. I think that was why I went."

"My dear land! Fancy that! And you never saw your father?"

"No."

"Nor your mother?"

"No."

"But this guardian of yours ... you had him. He was something, wasn't he?"

"Oh yes, he was something."

"Poor young lady! Did he come to see you often, this guardian?"

"No. He just arranged things for me."

"And I suppose he was a friend of our master's like?"

"I ... I don't know. I don't know very much."

" 'Twas queer like, to keep you in the dark."

Melisande was uncomfortable. She wanted the woman to go, for now she had an idea that with all her questions she was trying to trap her into betraying her kind benefactor. That was something which Melisande had decided she would never do. All her life she would remain grateful to him.

"I only know that I have been looked after ... fed and educated; and now that I am old enough this post has been found for me."

"I reckon you must feel pretty curious about all this. I know I would. I reckon I wouldn't leave no stone unturned."

"I lived with children most of whom did not know their parents. Thank you. It was good of you to ask. Peg has been very good and helpful. I am enjoying a comfort here."

Wenna was not going to be dismissed as easily as that.

She said: "Ah, a pity you didn't come earlier than this. This was a happy house not so long ago when my mistress was alive."

"It was a great tragedy. I have heard of it."

"She was an angel. I'd looked after her most of my life."

"I am very sorry for you. It is a tragic."

"And then to die! She was always delicate. I knew she'd catch her death sitting out there in the cold. She ought to have had her wrap. I'll never forget it. She was like an ice-block when I went out to her. It need not have happened. That's the pity of it. I know it need not have happened." Melisande was conscious of the intensity of this woman, of the passionate anger within her. "Then," she went on slowly, "I suppose if it hadn't happened you wouldn't be here ... would you? You wouldn't be in that nice comfortable bed with a fire in your grate. You'd be in that Convent where you'd been brought up. That's what would have happened if the mistress hadn't died."

Melisande was uncertain what to say. She had a wild fancy that the woman was accusing her of being in some obscure way to blame for the death of her mistress.

She stammered: "I suppose Miss Caroline would not have needed a companion if her mother had lived. She would have married very soon and ..."

"Yes, she would have married, and when she married I should have gone with her. I shall go with her when she marries."

"You are very fond of her," said Melisande.

The woman was silent. After a while she said: "Well, there's nothing you want. Everything's all right?"

"Yes, thank you."

She went out. Melisande lay back staring at the door.

What a strange woman! Melisande could not get rid of the fancy that she had not meant all she had said and that she had had some strange purpose in coming to her room.

She could not sleep for a long time, and then she would doze and awake startled to find herself looking towards the door. It was almost as though she expected it to open and Wenna to come in— for what purpose she did not know; she only knew that it made her uneasy.

The weeks began to pass—exciting, wonderful weeks for Melisande, filled with a hundred new experiences.

There was a new world to be explored.

It had been an exciting discovery to look from her windows and see the sea not more than a mile away. She had stood delightedly at her window on that first morning and looked out across the bay to the great strip of land which was like a battering ram flung out into the water; she saw the clouds gathered over the headland and because it was early morning and the sun was beginning to rise, those pink-tinted clouds made a coral-coloured sea.

She was then to live in a beautiful place, in a large luxurious house; she had to make the acquaintance of so many people. The house seemed full of servants and it needed all her gay carelessness of English convention to make their acquaintance. They were inclined to be aloof at first. They were deeply conscious of social layers. It was true she was not on the same shelf as the master and mistress, but neither did she belong on theirs. But Melisande inconsequentially did not see these differences. The servants were people; they lived in the same house as she did; she was eager to know them. First she charmed Mr. Meaker and the footman; and her delighted wonder in the pies and pasties of Mrs. Soady's making soon won her the regard of that excellent cook. The maids were amused and delighted with her; she was never haughty and she could be relied upon to give them her considerate help. The menservants thought her a real charmer and no mistake. She was undoubtedly a great success.

Her foreign ways delighted everyone. Her quaint speech amused while it gave listeners a sense of superiority which was pleasant. She would laugh with them. "Oh, I have said a funniness. Do tell me what you would have said." She would listen gravely and thank them charmingly. Oh, she was a caution all right, they all agreed; a charming caution. She must know this and that. She was full of energy and no matter was too insignificant for her attention.

If only she could have been so sure of her success in the drawing-room as in the servants' hall, Melisande would have been contented. But the family embarrassed her in some way or another.

Sir Charles had so many engagements that she saw very little of him. Caroline never seemed at ease in her presence. Caroline was the mistress and wished that to be clearly understood; but Melisande felt that the one thing Caroline would really have liked to ask her to do she could not, and that was to leave the house.

At the beginning Caroline said to Melisande: "I have never had a companion before. I have had governesses. I suppose a companion would be in the same class. My governesses always had their meals in the little room which adjoins the schoolroom. I think that is where you had better have yours. You wouldn't wish to have them with the family, would you? Except perhaps on special occasions. I remember my governesses had luncheon with us once a week. That was so that Papa and Mamma could ask questions about my progress. Sometimes they wanted an extra woman for a dinner party. Then one of the governesses would be asked. But on all other occasions they had their meals in this little room. It's difficult. You see, you couldn't be expected to eat with the servants."

Melisande laughed aloud. "No? I would not mind. They are my very good friends. Mrs. Soady and Mr. Meaker ..."

Caroline's mouth tightened a little as it did when she found it necessary to repress the new companion.

"Most governesses would have been offended if they were asked to eat with the lower servants. And of course it would have been quite wrong. So I think it would be a good plan if you had your meals in that room. ..."

So Melisande ate her meals alone in the room. It was of no importance although she would have liked the company of Sir Charles and Mr. Holland or the servants. She was fond of company and it was good fun to laugh and chatter.

Caroline said on that first morning: "I don't know what Papa expected you to do. Lady Gover has a companion. She reads to Lady Gover every afternoon; but then Lady Gover is almost blind, and in any case I shouldn't want to be read to. She makes Lady Gover's clothes too. Of course, there's Pennifield ... and Wenna does a lot of sewing for me."

"That makes me very happy. I do not like to sew."

Caroline's smile was icy. "There will be sewing for the poor each day. My mother used to read aloud from a good book while I worked. Perhaps we may take it in turns to sew and read." She was implying that it was not for Melisande to say what she liked to do; if it was part of her duty to do such a thing she should do it.

Melisande looked at her pleadingly and pressed her lips tightly together to prevent her indiscreet comment. She wanted to say: "Please like me, because I cannot bear to be disliked. Please tell me what it is you do not like, and I will try to change it."

But she merely looked prettier than ever and that was exactly what irritated Caroline. If she had been ugly—forty, prim and grateful—Caroline would have thought of ways to be kind to her. Caroline did not want to be unkind; she was only unkind to those she feared; and she feared this girl for all her poverty and dependence.

She had spoken to her father that very morning, going to his study even though she knew he did not like to be disturbed there.

"Papa," she had said, "I cannot understand why you have brought this girl here. I do not want a companion. I have plenty to do preparing for my wedding."

"I think you should have a companion for a year or so—until you are married," he had answered. "I wish you to perfect your knowledge of the French language. You need a young lady companion when you go visiting."

"People will not receive her."

''They will receive her as your companion. She is a gentlewoman and well educated—better educated, I fear, than you are. She is quiet and modest and would, I am sure, be received anywhere."

"Quiet! Modest! I would not describe her so!"

"You are extremely selfish, Caroline. This girl needs a post. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"I am sorry for anyone who has to work, but that does not mean I want a companion. Why not find someone who does ... someone like Lady Gover?"

"Lady Gover is very well satisfied with the companion she has. When you no longer have need of Miss St. Martin's services, I shall be obliged to find her another situation. In the meantime I should be glad if you would accept her as your companion and act as a well-bred young lady is expected to act—thinking a little of others less fortunate than herself."

Fermor was equally unsympathetic. When he said that it was a shame the poor girl had to eat alone, Caroline had retorted sharply: "You seem very interested in her."

"Interested! Well, she's a bit of a character. It's the way she talks. I find that amusing."

"She would find it uncomfortable if she were expected to have her meals with us, and I have no doubt that she thinks herself too good for the servants' hall. They always do. I remember there was always embarrassment about the governesses. One is always in danger of offending their susceptibilities. I suppose companions are the same. Genteel poverty is such a bore."

"Why not ask her which she prefers?" suggested Fermor. "I'm sure her ideas on the matter would be original."

"You forget that she is only a servant—although she's supposed to be a superior one."

He shrugged his shoulders; she sensed that he would have pursued the matter, but he was aware that she had noticed his interest in the girl.

Caroline had said that there should be an hour in the morning which they would devote to conversation in French.

During the first hour when this was in progress Fermor came into the library.

"You wanted me?" asked Caroline.

"No. I thought Pd take advantage of a little instruction myself. That is if Mademoiselle has no objection."

Melisande smiled warmly. Very ready, thought Caroline, to accept admiration. "There is no objection!" she cried. "There is only great welcome."

"Sit down then," said Caroline. "But do remember that nothing but French is to be spoken during this hour."

"Mon Dieu!" cried Fermor, lifting his shoulders in an attempt at suitable gesticulation.

Melisande laughed in great amusement, and there followed a torrent of French asking him if he had been in France, if so in what part, and if he had found any difficulty in making himself understood.

"Have pity!" he cried. "Have pity on a poor Englishman."

Caroline said sharply: "Really, Fermor, this is not what Papa intended."

"A thousand apologies." He began to answer Melisande's questions in French, so slowly and laboriously and with such an appalling accent—which Caroline was sure was greatly exaggerated—that Melisande could not understand until he had repeated some words several times. Then she would teach him how to say those words, and they would both laugh outrageously at his efforts.

Caroline watching them was tense with jealousy. She thought: It will always be like that. I shall never be able to trust him with an attractive woman. He'll never be different. He would not have thought of me if our parents had not arranged the marriage. He would have preferred someone like this girl—as he is preferring her now.

"Monsieur speaks very bad French," Melisande was saying with mock severity.

"It is time you took me in hand," he said in English. "Mademoiselle, it must not be only for an hour a day. You must talk to me often, for clearly I cannot go about the world in such ignorance."

How dare he! thought Caroline. He knows that I am watching, but he does not care!

"But French, Monsieur!" cried Melisande. "You have forgotten."

"Monsieur is very bad scholar, yes?" he said in broken English. "He deserves much punishment?"

"Fermor," said Caroline sharply, "Papa would say you are wasting time. He is most anxious for me to have French lessons. That is why Mademoiselle was engaged."

"I'll be good," he said, smiling from Melisande to Caroline. "I'll sit, meek and mild, and speak only when spoken to ... and then it shall be in French ... if I can manage it."

"It is only by speaking that you can improve," said Melisande. "You are very very bad, it is true, but I think you are eager to learn, and that is a very good thing."

"I am very eager," he said, putting his hand on his heart. "I am very eager to please you."

The hour progressed—for Caroline most unhappily. She was glad when she could stop the lesson.

"Shall we go for a ride?" she asked Fermor.

"The very thing! After all that brain work I need a little exercise."

"Come on then."

"What about Mademoiselle St. Martin?"

Caroline was aghast. How could he suggest such a thing! He was not treating her as a servant; he was behaving as though she were a guest in the house.

Melisande said: "Alas, I do not ride a horse. It was not taught me in the Convent."

He laughed. "I suppose not. I can't help laughing. I just had a picture of nuns on horseback ... in full gallop, black wings flapping. They'd look like prehistoric animals, wouldn't they? But I say, Mademoiselle Melisande, we can't allow this, you know. You can't ride! That's impossible! I mean of course, that we must put that right. Hunting is the noblest sport. Didn't you know that? You must ride. I'll teach you. You are teaching me to speak French. I'll teach you how to manage a horse."

"But that would be wonderful. I should like to be a rider. You are very good. I am filled with happiness."

"Then it's a bargain. Shake hands on it. When will you be ready for the first lesson?"

Caroline said quickly: "You forget, Fermor, you're going back to London next week."

"I'll stay a little longer. There's nothing I have to go back for. I'll wait until Mademoiselle Melisande is cantering round the paddock before I leave."

"I think," said Caroline, "that as Mademoiselle St. Martin is employed by my father, and you propose teaching her to ride on my father's horse, it might be advisable to ask his permission first."

"You are right, of course," said Fermor.

Caroline smiled faintly. "I'll ask him if he approves."

"I'll do the asking," said Fermor. "Perhaps to-morrow, Mademoiselle Melisande, you shall have your first lesson."

"Thank you, but I should not wish to if it were not the desire of Sir Charles and Miss Caroline."

"Leave it to me," he said. "I'll see to it."

Then smiling, he went out with Caroline, leaving her alone in the library caught up by her intermingling emotions, deciding that life in the outside world was more complicated than life in a convent.

As they rode out of the stable Fermor said: "What a bad temper you are in this morning!"

"I?"

"Certainly you. Weren't you rather rude to that poor girl?"

"I thought what I said was necessary."

"Necessary to hurt her feelings!"

"I wonder whether you would have been so solicitous of her feelings if she had had a squint and a hare lip."

"Would you have been so anxious to hurt her feelings if she had?"

"That is not the point."

"My dear Caroline, it is the point."

"You can't teach her to ride."

"Why not? I'm sure she'll make an excellent horsewoman."

"You forget she is only employed here."

"I may have forgotten, but you reminded me ... remember ... right there before her."

The tears filled her eyes. She said: "I can't help it. It makes me so unhappy to be ... slighted ... like that ... to be humiliated before a servant."

He could be very cold sometimes; he was cold now. He said: "It was you who humiliated yourself, treating her as you did."

He rode on in advance of her; she stared at his straight back and blinked away the tears. She thought: I am so unhappy. He does not love me. He never did. He will marry me because-, the marriage has been arranged. I would marry him if the whole world were against us.

They had reached the cliff path and she was glad that they had to pick their way carefully.

"We'll get down on to the beach," he said. "We'll have a gallop over the sand."

"All right," she answered.

She was thinking: Perhaps she'll be no good on a horse. Perhaps she'll have a violent fall ... spoil her looks. She might even break her neck. That was a terrible thought and she was sorry she had had it. She did not mean to be unkind. If only her father had brought her a poor middle-aged woman who needed kindness, how kind she would have been!

She was more composed when they were on the beach, and she came level with him. He turned his head and seeing her thus was greatly relieved.

"Come on," he said; and they were off, past the great rocks in which were streaks of pink quartz and amethyst, sending the seagulls squawking out of their path.

He began to sing for very enjoyment.

"On Richmond Hill there lives a lass ..."

She heard his voice mingling with the drumming of hoofs on the sand.

Melisande had been in the house six weeks when the thought came to her: I must not stay here. I must go away.

She was panic-stricken at the thought, for where should she go? How could she be happy away from here ? If Caroline had wanted her she could have been happy; but Caroline showed her so clearly that she had no right to be here. The French lessons continued— they were more or less a command from Sir Charles—and they played duets on the piano, but this Caroline could do as well as she could and so, as far as music was concerned, Melisande could teach her nothing. They did a little embroidery together, but here again Caroline was so much more efficient with the needle. Sometimes in the evenings she would join in a game of whist, taking Miss Holland's place if that lady was too tired to play or was suffering from one of her frequent headaches. But even that had to be taught her, for she had never played the game before. She and Sir Charles would be partners on these occasions; she wished that Fermor would partner her. Sir Charles would admonish her gently: "Oh, Mademoiselle, that was rather impetuous playing. You see, had you waited I could have taken that trick ..." She had the impression that he wished to be indulgent but that he was afraid of seeming too eager to excuse her; whereas Fermor would come boldly in to her defence. Whist did not therefore ease the tension; and she often wondered what she had to offer for her board and lodging, for a place in this lovely mansion.

To her it seemed such an exciting place with its great hall which, she had heard, had done service as a ballroom, and in which, in the old days, the whole family including the servants had taken their meals; she could have spent many interested hours in the galleries with the portraits of long dead Trevennings; there were parts of the house which had not changed since the days of Henry VIII; there was the magnificent carved staircase, and the large lofty rooms with their latticed windows and diamond-shaped panes, and those fascinating deep window seats. The servants' quarters were the most ancient; to descend to the great stone-floored kitchen with its huge fireplace and cloam oven, to see the cellars, the pantries, the butteries, was indeed to step back into the past.

There was so much that she had grown to love. She enjoyed rising early, leaping out of bed to stand at her window and watch the sun rise over the sea which seemed different every day. Sometimes it sparkled as though an extravagant god had scattered diamonds on its surface; sometimes it was overshadowed by mist, a creeping thing that seemed to be coming slowly onwards, but never came; she was excited to see it angry, lashing the rocks, contemptuously throwing up a broken spar, a mane of seaweed; to see it in a merry mood, tossing up the spume on the summit of its wave, catching it as a child catches a ball. She would look out across the sea to the Eddy-stone Lighthouse, like a slim pencil in the clear morning light, away towards Plymouth in the east and Looe Island in the west. It was a joy to ramble over the rocks, to stand alone watching the effortless flight of seagulls, to wander in the fields and lanes; she found great pleasure in walking down into the town and along by the quay, calling a greeting to the fishermen sitting at their cottage doors mending their nets, to walk out on the jetty and feel the salt sea air in her face; she liked to look back at the grey houses of the towns, the cottages on both sides of the river, some little more than huts, some much grander with their ornamental ridged tiles which she had learned were called the pisky-pows because they had been made so that the piskies might dance there during the night; and the piskies were friendly to those who gave them an alfresco ballroom.

There was so much to know, so much to learn; she was the friend of them all because they knew how anxious she was to be their friend. They would call her in to drink a little metheglin or mead, blackberry or gilliflower wine, to taste a piece of raisin cake, which they called fuggan—but that was for special occasions; there was always a piece of heavy cake or saffron cake for the young foreign lady at any time.

She had as many friends in West Looe as in East Looe. People were always glad to see her whom they called the little Mamazel. And although there were some in West Looe who would resent her friendship with the people who lived on the other side of the river, and some in East Looe who thought she owed allegiance to them— for the two towns liked to keep themselves apart—they forgave in Mamazel that which would have seemed duplicity in others.

Melisande knew of these resentments but she pretended not to. She was not, for the sake of East Looe, going to cut from her list of friends that wonderful old woman, Grandmother Tremorney, any more than she would, for the sake of the West, give up her friendship with old Knacker Poldown. Old Knacker—and he was so small and wizened that it was easy to understand why he had been so named— with his talk of the mines and the adventures he had there until he retired and came to live on the east side in a grand house with a pisky-pow on the roof, was too good to miss; but so w r as old Lil Tremorney sitting outside her cottage, purring at her pipe, with her tales of the lovers she had had.

Melisande had so many friends and she could not bear to leave them. Only yesterday she had been called in to Mrs. Pengelly's to see the new baby and taste a bit of the kimbly which had been saved for friends. It was a delicious cake made especially for the child's christening and she was honoured to receive her share.

How could she give up such things ?

There was something else which she had to give up, and she had to admit to herself that it was what she would miss more than anything.

Fermor had been teaching her to ride for some weeks. Sir Charles had given his permission. He seemed secretly pleased and said he thought it was an excellent idea, and it was a good thing to let Fermor pay for his lessons in French. Fermor had declared that there must be a lesson every day, and he said he would not return to London until he had made Melisande into a proficient horsewoman.

He was kind and friendly, but she was becoming more and more conscious of an underlying wickedness within him.

One day during a riding lesson she realized that she could no longer shut her eyes to the danger of her position.

Her horse bolted suddenly and made straight for the cliff's edge. Immediately she was aware of the thudding of Fermor's horse's hoofs close behind her. In an instant he was between her and danger.

The horses were at a standstill, and for a few moments Melisande and Fermor remained stationary in breathless silence, with the scent of the sea and the heather in their nostrils, looking at each other. She was conscious of the deep feelings they aroused within each other.

Suddenly he became flippant. "Don't do that again," he said. "That horse is valuable."

She was still trembling. "It does not matter about me then?"

He came close and touched her arm. "You are more precious than all the horses in the world," he said in deep and solemn tones.

She was in no mood for more instruction that day. "We'll go back to the stables," he said. "You're shaken."

They walked their horses soberly back to the stables. He helped her to dismount and as he did so held her while he gazed steadily into her eyes.

Then he bent his head and kissed her cheek lingeringly. He said: "You will ride to-morrow." It was a statement, not a question. "You're scared, Melisande," he went on. "You're very scared. When you're scared of something, face it, look it straight in the eyes. Don't run away from it. If you do, you'll remain scared all your life. Whereas if you look it straight in the eyes, you may find it is something you have been a fool to miss."

She knew that he was not referring to riding only.

She was certain now that she ought to go away.

"I must go at once," she said. "I have things to do." He did not seek to detain her and she hurried into the house.

She met Miss Pennifield on her way to the sewing-room. Miss Pennifield's face was flushed a patchy red, her lips were quivering, and in her hand she carried a dress.

"Is anything wrong, Miss Pennifield?" asked Melisande.

Miss Pennifield was obviously near tears. She held up the dress and shook her head wearily; she could not trust herself with words. Melisande followed her into the sewing-room; it was a relief to divert her attention to someone else's problems.

"This is the second time I've unpicked it," said Miss Pennifield. "There's no pleasing her."

"Can I help you?"

"'Tis kind of you, Mamazel. I'm at my wit's end, I do declare."

She sat down and spread the dress on the table. "It's the sleeve. She says it don't fit. She do always say the sleeves don't fit. She's in one of her moods this morning. I do declare they get worse and worse. If only it was a flaring temper I could stand it, but it's a quiet sort of rage ... brooding like and cruel."

"Poor Miss Pennifield! What's wrong with the sleeves?"

"First it be too bunchy here ... then it be too bunchy there. There be no pleasing her. I don't know when I'll get through."

"I could finish off the skirt hem while you do the sleeves."

"Will you then? 'Tis good of you, and a relief to talk to someone. Sometimes I say to myself I'll be glad when Miss Caroline do marry and go to London, though I'll have one the less to work for. She wasn't always like this ... come to think of it. I don't know. I think she's fretting for marriage like. There's some as is like that. Why it should be so, a maiden like myself can't say."

"Are these stitches all right? I was never very good with the needle."

"Keep them a bit smaller, my dear, and just a mite more even. We can't have her complaining about the stitches as well as the set. 'Tis Mrs. Soady's belief that Miss Caroline should be married quick. But I reckon she won't be no better then, for he ain't the sort that's going to grow more loving after marriage ... as Mrs. Soady says. I couldn't say ... being a maiden like."

"You have always earned your living at sewing, Miss Pennifield?"

"Why yes, my dear ... sewing of a sort... . Lace-making too. Me and my sister Jane."

"You like it?"

"Oh, 'tis a hard life. Though better here in the country among the gentry than in the towns, I do hear. There was a time when me and Jane was both put to the lace-making to Plymouth. Travelled there we did through Crafthole and Millbrook and Cremyll Passage on the coach, then over the Tamar. My dear life! What a journey! And we was put with a lady to Plymouth. There was eight or nine of us ... all little things—some not more than five years old. Whenever I be a bit upset about bunchy sleeves and the like, I think of lace-making to Plymouth. Then I be satisfied with my lot. That's why I be thinking of it now, I daresay. Sitting there in a sort of cupboard it were ... wasn't much more ... a cupboard of a room ... nine of us and the bobbins working all the time ... and we dursen't look up for fear of wasting a second. So much we had to do or go without supper—and that weren't much; but it seemed a terrible lot to go without."

"Poor Miss Pennifield!" Melisande saw herself stitching shirts in the Convent needlework room. How she had hated it! And yet how fortunate she had been!

Her eyes were filled with sympathy and Miss Pennifield said: "Why, what a dear good little soul you be!"

"I wish I could sew better. I wish I could sew as quickly and neatly as you do."

"You come to it in time."

"Do you think I could? Do you think I could be a dressmaker? Perhaps I could. You see, Miss Pennifield, I cannot sew, but I know how to set a bow on a dress, or a flower ... or how a skirt should hang ... even though I cannot do the sewing. Perhaps I could be that sort of dressmaker."

"My dear life, who knows? But you wouldn't wish for to be a dressmaker, my dear. A young lady as speaks French so well, and English not bad ... why, you be an educated young lady. You be a companion. That's like a governess. 'Tis a cut above a dressmaker."

"Miss Pennifield, tell me about you and your sister ..." Melisande paused to consider herself. She had changed since she had been in the Convent and had chattered ceaselessly; she had wanted to talk about herself, her dreams and desires; she had not been eager to listen to others. She said quickly: "Don't tell me about the woman in Plymouth. That makes me sad. I want to laugh. Tell me about the happy times. There must have been happy times."

"Oh yes," said Miss Pennifield, "there was happy times. Christmas time was the best. Decorating the church. Mr. Danesborough, he was a merry sort of gentleman. But we moved away from his church when I was little, and we lived near St. Martin's then. Mr. Forord Michell ... he were the vicar then. We'd decorate the church with holly and bay, and we'd go round a-gooding, which I'll tell 'ee, as you'd not know being not of these parts, was going round begging for sixpence towards our Christmas dinner. We'd go to all the big houses both sides of the river ... this house and Leigh, Keverel, Morval and Bray ... then we'd go to Trenant Park, Treworgey and West North. Then we'd go wassailing. We'd get one of the men to carve us a bowl and we'd decorate it with furze flowers, and we'd go begging a coin that we could fill the bowl and drink to the wassail."

Miss Pennifield began to sing in a small reedy voice:

"The mistress and master our wassail begin Pray open your door and let us come in With our wassail ... wassail ... wassail ... And joy come to our jolly wassail.

"Ah, there was a merry frolic, I can tell 'ee. We'd black our faces. We'd dress up and dance in the fields and some of us would be so far gone in merriment—and like as not with too much methe-glin and cider—that we'd call on the piskies to come and join us. Oh, they was jolly frolicking times! Then there was Good Friday. I remember when we did all go down to the beaches, with knives to get the horned cattle off the rocks, and we'd have sacks to put 'em in and we'd bring them back for a real feast. But May Day was the best day ... if 'twas not Midsummer's Eve when we'd go out on the moors for the bonfires. Yes, May Day was best. Then we'd get together and wait till midnight, and there'd be fiddlers there too, and we'd all go to the farms nearby and they'd give us junket and cream or heavy cake and saffron or even fuggan. They dursen't refuse for, you do see, 'twas an old custom. The Little People don't like them that is too mean or too busy for old customs. Then we'd dance in the fields. We'd do the old cushion dances that was beautiful to watch. But it wasn't all feasting and dancing and games—oh, dear me no. Bringing home the may was a solemn thing. They'd been doing it for years—so I be told—before there was Christians in these parts, so said Mr. Danesborough, and he was terrible clever and knew much about these parts. When we brought home the may some of us would have whistles and we'd pipe it home like. Those was wonderful times ... though there was much wickedness among them as took advantage of the dark. Though I know nothing of that ... being a maiden like."

And so, as they talked, Miss Pennifield was laughing and gay again; she had forgotten that Miss Caroline had frightened her; and even when she took the dress back and Caroline admitted grudgingly that it would do, she still had that aura of happiness about her.

Melisande was subdued after Miss Pennifield had left her. What a sad life! she thought. To be a dressmaker! She tried to picture herself, old like Miss Pennifield, with eyes that seemed to be sinking into her head through too much sewing. Yet if she left this house, where would she go ?

But to brood on unpleasantness was not a habit of Melisande's. She went to the kitchen and asked if she might have supper with them instead of on a tray in her room.

Mr. Meaker was in doubt; he was not sure that that was right, and he had been in some very big houses. Mrs. Soady, flattered and delighted, said, Who was to know ? And it was a matter for Mamazel herself to decide. She set about making a special muggety pie for, as she confided to Mr. Meaker, she had heard that people set a powerful lot by French cooking, and she would show the little Mamazel that Cornwall could compete. Muggety couldn't fail to do this and there should be fair-maids to assist as well as a hog's pudding.

A place was found for Melisande at Mrs. Soady's right hand.

"We've got a guest to-night," said Mrs. Soady gleefully. "We must all be on our best behaviour like."

"No, no, no!" cried Melisande. "That I do not wish. I wish us to be ourselves. I am going to be very greedy, and I wish you to talk as though I am not here because I am so happy to listen."

There was much laughter and everybody was very happy. Squeals of delight went up when Mrs. Soady brought up a bottle of her best parsnip wine from the cellar.

"I hear the French be terrible wine drinkers," said Mrs. Soady, "and us mustn't forget we've got a French Mamazel at our table this day. Now, my dear, would 'ee like to start off with some of this here fair-maid? 'Tis our own dear little pilchards which I done in oil and lemon, and we do always say in these parts that it be food fit for a Spanish Don. Now, Mr. Meaker, pass the plates, do. I'm sure Mamazel wants to see us all do ourselves and the table justice."

"But this is delicious!" cried Melisande.

At first they all seemed a little abashed by her presence at the table, but after a while they accepted her as one of them and the conversation was brought to the subject of young Peg, who had fallen in love with one of the fishermen down on west quay and couldn't get the young man to look her way. Bet was urging her to go along to the white witch in the woods, adding that Mrs. Soady, who belonged to a pellar family, was surely the best one to consult about this.

"A white witch?" cried Melisande. "But what is this?"

Everyone was waiting for Mrs. Soady's explanation which was not long in coming. "Well, my dear, 'tis a witch and no witch. Not one of them terrible creatures as travel around on broomsticks and consort with the Devil ... no, not one of they. This is a good witch, a witch as will charm your warts away. You've no need to cross the fire hook and prong to keep off a white witch. They don't come interfering like. They do only help when you do go to them. They'll tell you how to find them as is ill-wishing you, or they can cure the whooping cough. They give you a love potion too and, my dear life, that's a thing to please some of the maidens."

"A love potion!" cried Melisande, her eyes sparkling. "You mean so that you can make the one you love love you! But that is a goodness. So a white witch will do that ? I wonder why Miss Caroline...." She stopped short.

There was silence about the table. They were accustomed to discussing the affairs of their employers, but they were not sure that they should do so with one whose station was midway between the drawing-room and the servants' hall.

Peg, Bet and the rest were waiting for a lead from Mrs. Soady or Mr. Meaker.

Mr. Meaker was for discretion, but Mrs. Soady—a member of a pellar family—was on her favourite subject, and this subject accompanied by a liberal supply of her own parsnip wine had excited her.

" 'Twouldn't do her no harm neither," she said.

The colour had risen to Melisande's cheeks. If Caroline could only make him love her as he should, there would be no need for her to think of going away from Trevenning. She could stay here, enjoying many of these informal suppers.

" 'Tis my belief," said Mr. Meaker, "that the gentry ain't got the way of going about these things. Charms don't work for the likes of them as they do for some."

"And 'tis easy to see why," said Mrs. Soady sharply. "They do approach in a manner of disbelief, and if that ain't enough to scarify the piskies away, I don't know what is."

"Mrs. Soady," cried Melisande, "you do believe in these piskies?"

"Indeed I do, my dear. And my very good friends they be. They do know me well as coming from a pellar family. Why, when I was staying awhile with my sister on the moors, I went out one day and the mist rose and, my dear soul, I were lost. Now, t'aint no picnic being lost on our moors. Out Caradon way this was, and I don't mind telling 'ee I was scared out of me natural. Then sudden like I thought of the piskies, so I sang out :

'Jack o' Lantern! Joan the Wad! Who tickled the maid and made her mad, Light me home; the weather's bad.'

"And do 'ee know, the mist cleared suddenly, but 'twas only where I was, and it didn't take me long to find my way home."

"Oh, please sing it again," pleaded Melisande. "Jack o' what is it?"

And Mrs. Soady sang it again; then the whole company chanted it, while the little Mamazel sang with them, trying to imitate their accents. Hers sent them into such fits of laughter that poor Peg nearly choked, and Bet grew so red in the face that the footman had to thump her on the back; as for Mr. Meaker, he had to have an extra glass of parsnip wine—he felt the need after the exhaustion he was suffering through laughing so much.

All this made everyone glad to have such a charming guest at the table, and they all set out to be as entertaining as they could.

Peg declared that she must go to the white witch, for she was sure young Jim Poldare would never look at her else. Then Mrs. Soady announced that Tamson Trequint, who lived in a little hut in Trevenning woods, was one of the best white witches she had ever come across. "Do 'ee remember my warts then? It was Tamson I went to on account of they. Where be they warts now ? You're at liberty to find 'em if you can. She said to me: 'Search among the pea pods, my dear, for one as contains nine peas. Take out the peas and throw them away ... one by one, and as you do it say: "Wart, wart, dry away!" And as them peas rot, my dear, so the warts will disappear.' "

"And did they?" asked Melisande.

"Not a sign of them from that day. And if that ain't white magic then tell me what is."

"Yes," said Peg, "but what about love potions, Mrs. Soady?"

"My dear life, you go along to see Tamson. It has to be after dark, remember. Tammy won't work a charm in daylight."

"But it is wonderful," murmured Melisande. "It is an ... excitement. Would Tamson work a spell for anyone? Would she work a spell for ... me?"

"Tamson could work a spell for the Queen. And a word from me, my dear, as belongs to a pellar family and has a footling for a sister ... why, my dear life, of course her'd work a spell for 'ee!"

"Who would you be wanting a spell for, Mamazel?" asked Peg.

They were all looking at her expectantly and the footman said: "I do reckon Mamazel's face and ways is as good as any potion."

"Now that's a very nice thing to have had said to 'ee, Mamazel," said Mrs. Soady.

"You are all so kind to me ... everyone. Here and in the town and the cliffs and the lanes ... everybody has a kindness for me." Melisande stretched out her arms as though to embrace them all; her eyes were shining with friendship and parsnip wine. "You invite me to your table. You give me this ... megettie ... and these delicious fair-maids ... you give me your parsnip wine ... and now your white witch, that I may drink, if I wish, a love potion."

Peg, who laughed every time Melisande spoke, went off into fresh convulsions. After they had thumped her out of them, Mrs. Soady said: "We'll open that other bottle of parsnip, I think, Mr. Meaker. 'Tis an occasion. We'll drink to Mamazel's health, and we'll hope that the love potion she gets from Tamson Trequint will give her the one she's set her heart on. And Peg shall have her fisherman too. That's what we'll be drinking to."

There was a sudden silence about the table. In the noise they had not noticed the door's being opened. Wenna had come into the room. She must have been leaning against the green baize door for some seconds while they had been unaware of her.

Melisande felt the black eyes burning as they rested upon her. They were like two fierce fires that would scorch through to her mind and discover what Wenna wanted to know of her.

"There was such a noise," she said. "I got to wondering what was happening."

They were all uncomfortable in the presence of Wenna—even Mrs. Soady and Mr. Meaker.

Mrs. Soady recovered her poise first. "Why don't 'ee sit down and try a bit of this muggety pie ? The crust be light as a feather. Peg, set another place do, girl, and don't forget the glass."

"Parsnip wine!" said Wenna, almost accusingly.

"It's what you might call a taster," said Mrs. Soady. "Just a little I put by when I was making my last. I reckoned it had matured just right and we was trying it."

Wenna was the spy. She would report to Miss Caroline anything of which she did not approve. The household was not what it had been in her ladyship's day. Mrs. Soady knew herself to be safe enough—although Miss Caroline could be spiteful—for she was forty-five and shaped like a cottage loaf and not the sort to trap Master Fermor into a bit of junketing in a dark corner. Peg had better look out—and even Bet. They were saucy girls, both of them; and Mrs. Soady wouldn't like to know—which meant she would— how far either of them had gone, inside the house or out. It was no use blaming them. There was some made that way. Peg was one and Master Fermor was another. She wasn't sure of the little Mamazel; but there was that in her to provoke such things—that was clear as daylight. And Wenna had overheard that bit about the love potion, and Wenna was an expert trouble-maker. Perhaps the little Mamazel had better be warned.

Wenna sat down at the table. She said: "Didn't Mamazel get her tray then?"

Melisande herself spoke. "I asked that I might come here. We have had a pleasant time. It is more pleasant to be with others than to eat alone. I am not one to find the great enjoyment in my own company, you understand? I like to hear the talk and the laughter ... to know what is going on. It is a great enlightenment."

Wenna said: "None of the governesses did ever come down to eat in the servants' hall. That be right, Mrs. Soady, as you do know."

" 'Tis so," agreed Mrs. Soady. "But we did think it terrible friendly like, and Mamazel being such a foreigner, we didn't take aught amiss."

Melisande felt a wave of fear sweep over her as she looked at Wenna. Wenna was the skeleton at the feast. Wenna disliked her. Wenna would tell Caroline that she had found her here, and that it was most unladylike for a companion to sit in the servants' hall. Then it might be that Caroline would seize that excuse for getting rid of her. A companion must be ladylike. That was very necessary.

There was one thing which could make Caroline happy. If she were happy she would not seek to make trouble for all about her. If she could be sure that Fermor loved her she would be completely happy. A love potion was necessary for Caroline; but according to the servants, the gentry were denied these privileges because they did not entirely believe in them.

A love potion for Caroline, yes. But what of Wenna ? What did she need?

Melisande could not guess. All she knew was that Wenna filled her with alarm.

Wenna knocked at the door of the study. She knew that Sir Charles hated to be interrupted, and she knew that she would be the last person he wished to see, for he had no more affection for her than she had for him; but she did not care.

"Come in," he said.

He was sitting in his chair at the desk which was immediately before the window. From where he sat he could look over the park; he could see Melisande riding on her horse—the horse, as Wenna believed, which she had no right to ride. Did servants learn to ride ? Why should one be specially favoured ? Wenna had the answer. She saw that tolerance, that indulgence, which came into his eyes when they rested on her—a certain secret pleasure because the girl was living in his house; she was supposed to be a servant but she enjoyed far too many privileges to be considered so. And soon others besides Wenna would notice this.

"I had to speak to you, master," she said. " 'Tis getting beyond a joke. 'Tis this girl you've brought here as Miss Caroline's companion."

His eyes went suddenly colder and quite angry, but she stood her ground. She thought: Please God, Miss Caroline will be married and I'll go away with her. I'll stand between her and the wickedness of the man she's going to marry. There'll be dear little children and they'll be mine just as Miss Caroline were.

"Miss St. Martin?" he said.

" 'Twas her I spoke of, Sir Charles. I think you should know she's no fit companion for your own daughter, Miss Caroline."

"I don't believe that. Miss St. Martin is most suitable ... most."

"She goes down to the servants' hall and drinks with them. I went there last night and found them all well nigh tipsy ... and it was her doing. Nothing like it has ever been done before. She was egging them on. Drinking the health of the little Mamazel, they were."

A faint smile seemed to touch his lips, as though he were applauding her conduct, thinking how clever she was. The shame of it! thought Wenna. He has to bring the shame into his own house and think it right and proper!

"She has a very friendly nature. She has not been brought up in our English way. I doubt there was any harm in her taking a meal with the servants. She does not have any in the dining-room and probably feels lonely sometimes. She seems to be very popular ... not only with the servants. ... I think you must realize that as she is not entirely English ..."

"She'll be riding with Master Fermor and Miss Caroline one time of the day and drinking parsnip wine with the servants at another. It's wrong, master."

"You must understand that she has been brought up in a convent. There, I imagine, there were no servants. The nuns were servants and friends. Therefore she does not see distinctions as we do."

"I don't know nothing about that. All I know is that Miss Caroline shouldn't have to treat her ... like a sister."

The shaft went home. He looked uneasy. Now Wenna had no doubts. She felt like an avenging angel. He should pay for the unhappiness he had brought to her darling Miss Maud ... he should pay for the murder of Miss Maud—for murder it was. If he had been thinking of her getting a chill instead of what was written in foreign letters about this girl, Miss Maud would be here to-day.

The misery of her loss came back to her in all its bitter vividness.

How she hated him and his wickedness! She would not rest until that girl was out of the house. That she should be here was a slight to Miss Maud's memory. Perhaps he had deliberately let her get that chill so that he could bring the girl into the house and no questions be asked by those who had a right to ask them.

No sooner had that thought come to her than she was sure she had hit on the truth.

"I think," he said, after only the briefest pause, "that I am the best judge of what is right for my daughter."

For your daughters, you mean! she thought. Ah, that's what they are, both of them. One of them my dear Miss Maud's child, and the other the spawn of the whore of Babylon.

Oh, Miss Maud, may my right hand forget its cunning if ever I forget the wrong he has done you!

"I think that girl will bring trouble to the house," she said aloud. "I've got a feeling. It's the same sort of feeling I had before Miss Maud passed away. I just know. I've always known such things."

He softened a little, remembering her devotion to Maud. He could be softened by memories of Maud. He felt guilty because he had forgotten to take her the wrap, although he assured himself that that had nothing to do with her death. She had always been ailing and the doctors had been prophesying her death for years.

"Send her away, master," said Wenna. "Send her away before something happens ... something dreadful."

He was shaken by her intensity. Then he thought: She's a superstitious old woman. Are they not all superstitious in this part of the world? They are always imagining they are ill-wished, always dreaming that the Little People are at their elbows.

He said sharply: "You are talking nonsense, Wenna. Certainly I shall not send the girl away. Don't be so uncharitable. She is young and high-spirited. I am glad she is being taught to ride. She has given Mr. Holland French lessons. It is only fitting that he should reward her in his turn. You are prejudiced against her because Caroline spends so much time with her."

Wenna turned away muttering to herself.

"Wenna!" he said almost pleadingly. "Be kind to this girl. Do not resent her presence because you feel Caroline is growing fond of her. Remember that she would have a poor life if I sent her away from here."

Wenna replied: "I've said my say, master. It's something I feel within me."

Then she went out. She was thinking derisively: Caroline fond of her! Fond of her for trying to take Fermor away from her, as her mother took you from my Miss Maud! There shan't be another robbery like that one if I can stop it. And stop it I will. I'll see her dead first—your daughter though she may be, and the living proof of your sin and shame.

They had ridden into Liskeard. There were four of them: John Collings, son of the M.F.H. who had formed a friendship with Fermor, Fermor himself, Caroline and Melisande.

Caroline was angry. It was absurd, she was thinking, that they should have Melisande with them. Fermor had arranged that. There were two people at Trevenning who were determined, it seemed, to treat Melisande as a daughter of the house—her father and Fermor.

There sat Melisande on her horse—small and piquant. Sir Charles had given her the riding habit she was wearing. If she was to accompany Caroline she must be decently dressed, he had insisted. John Collings—as did so many people in the neighbourhood—thought Melisande was a poor relation, a distant connection of Sir Charles's. How could they think otherwise when the girl was treated as she was ? No ordinary companion would receive such privileges. It seemed wiser to let people believe this was the case. Fortunately, thought Caroline, as she was still in half-mourning for her mother, there were few social occasions. Caroline felt that otherwise Melisande might have received invitations which would have involved awkward explanations.

It was September and there was a mist in the air, which thickened as they climbed to high ground. It hung like diamond drops on the hedges giving a fresh bloom to the wild guelder roses and a velvet coat to the plums of the blackthorn. Spiders' webs were festooned over the bells of the wild fuchsias which flourished in the road-side hedges. The silence was only broken by the clop-clop of their horses' hoofs or the cries of the gulls, mournful as they always seemed on such days.

Caroline glanced over her shoulder at Melisande who always seemed to enjoy everything more than normal people did. Now she was revelling in the mist which the others would deplore.

They were riding two abreast and Fermor was beside Melisande, John Collings with Caroline. Caroline heard Fermor teasing Melisande, provoking that sudden joyous laugher.

John Collings was saying that he hoped Caroline would soon be able to come to parties again and that he would see her in the hunting field. They missed her.

Caroline angrily felt that he was sorry for her, that he was as aware as she was of the pleasure the two behind found in each other's company. She was not listening to John Collings; her attention was focussed on Melisande and Fermor.

"The mist grows thicker," said Melisande.

"It'll be dense on the moor," said Fermor.

"What if we are lost in it?"

"The piskies will carry you off. They set a ring round you and, hey presto! they appear in their hundreds. Fee-faw-fum! I smell the blood of an English... . No, no, of a little Mamazel, as they call her in these here parts ..."

Caroline could not resist breaking in. "He knows nothing about it, Mademoiselle St. Martin. He is not a Cornishman and he makes fun of our legends. And his attempt to imitate the dialect is very poor indeed."

"That's not quite true, Caroline. I don't make fun. I fear the piskies, the knackers and the whole brood. I bow my head when I pass old Tammy Trequint's shack, for fear she should ill-wish me."

"She would not do that!" cried Melisande. "She is a good witch. A white witch, she is called. She does not ill-wish. She will charm away your warts and cure your whooping cough ... or give you a love potion."

"Interesting," he said. "Now I have no warts, no whooping cough ..."

Melisande said quickly: "Mrs. Soady has told me of her. Mrs. Soady comes from a pellar family and is the sister of a footling."

"What nonsense the servants talk!" interrupted Caroline. "They should not say such things to you."

"But I like to hear. It is such an excitement. I feel a delight. To live so near us. A white witch! There are so many interesting things to learn in the world, are there not?"

Fermor leaned towards her slightly. He said: "There are many interesting things for a young lady to learn, but Caroline means— and I agree with her—that Mrs. Soady may not be the one to teach you such things, pellar family though she may have, and whatever it is that unnatural sister of hers may be."

"But I would learn from all. Everyone has something to teach. Is that not so? It is different things we learn from different people.''

"You see, Caro," said Fermor. "She is wiser than we are. She leaves no cup untasted in her thirst for knowledge."

John Collings said: "There's a lot of superstition about here, Mademoiselle St. Martin. Particularly among the servant class. You mustn't judge us all by them."

"As a matter of fact," said Fermor, "these Cornish are all superstitious ... every one of them. You and I, Mademoiselle, do not belong here. I am as much a foreigner as you are. We may snap our fingers at the piskies. They daren't touch us."

He began to sing in a loud and tuneful tenor voice:

"On the banks of Allan Water, When the sweet spring time did fall, Was the miller's lovely daughter, Fairest of them all ..."

And his merry eyes sought those of Melisande as he sang.

Caroline, setting her lips firmly, thought: Why does he? And before me! Doesn't he care at all? Is he clearly telling me that when we are married he will make no attempt to be faithful ?

She began to talk to John Collings. How much easier life might have been if she had been affianced to someone like John. He had not town ways, town manners; he did not possess the allure of Fermor; yet how much happier she might have been.

He was still singing and he had reached the end of the song as they came near the outskirts of Liskeard.

"On the banks of Allan Water, When the winter snow fell fast, Still was seen the miller's daughter, Chilling blew the blast. But the miller's lovely daughter, Both from cold and care was free, On the banks of Allan Water There a corpse lay she."

Melisande could not refrain from laughing at the mock pathos in his voice. "But it is so sad," she protested.

"And I cannot forgive myself for making you sad!" declared Fermor. "It is just a song. There is no miller's daughter, you know."

"But there are many millers' daughters," said Melisande. "The one in the song ... she is just in a song ... just in the mind of the song writer. But many have loved and died for love, and that song is of them."

Caroline said: "The girl was a fool in any ease. She should have known the soldier was false; she should not have believed in that winning tongue of his."

"But how could she know?" asked Melisande.

"One can tell."

"She could not."

"Then, as I say, she was a fool."

"In my opinion," said John Collings, "she might have waited until a more suitable time of the year. I mean to say ... drowning herself when the snow was falling! Why could she not wait until the spring!"

"She was so unhappy. She did not wish to live until the spring," said Melisande. "That was a long time ahead. She was so sad that the snow was of no importance to her."

"What a controversy my little song has aroused!" said Fermor.

"When," put in Caroline, "it is intended as nothing more than a warning to foolish young women who listen to the honied tongues of deceivers!"

"All lovers have honied tongues," said Melisande.

"A provision of nature!" agreed Fermor. "Like a thrush's song or a peacock's tail."

"But how should a young woman judge between the true and the false?"

"If she cannot, she must take the consequences," said Caroline.

"I will sing you another song," declared Fermor, "to show you that it is not always the young women who must take care."

Immediately he began:

"There came seven gipsies on a day, Oh, but they sang bonny, O! And they sang so sweet and they sang so clear, Down came the earl's lady, O.

They gave to her the nutmeg, And they gave to her the ginger; But she gave to them a far better thing, The seven gold rings off her fingers."

He sang on, of how the earl came home to find that his lady had gone off with the gipsies; and with mock feeling sang of the earl's pleading and of the lady's refusal to return to him.

"The Earl of Cashan is lying sick; Not one hair I'm sorry; I'd rather have a kiss from his fair lady's lips Than all his gold and his money."

They were all laughing—even Caroline—as they came into the town.

"Three cheers for the lovelorn Earl of Cashan for chasing away the gloom of that corpse—the tiresome miller's daughter!" cried Fermor.

They went to a hostelry where the horses had a rest and a feed while they refreshed themselves before going to the horse market, for Fermor wished to look at horses and John Collings perhaps to buy.

They sat in the parlour with the sawdust on the floor, and a girl in a pretty mob-cap came to bring them tankards of Cornish ale. Hot pasties were served with the ale—fresh from the oven, savoury with onions.

"There seems to be merrymaking in the town to-day," said Fermor to the girl in the mob-cap, for she was a pretty girl, and Fermor would always have a word and a smile for a pretty girl, no matter how much he was taken with another.

"Well, sir," she said, "there's to be a flogging in the streets to-day. You'm here in time to see it. 'Tis old Tom Matthews. Caught red-handed, he were, stealing one of Farmer Tregertha's fowls. The whole town's turning out to see it done."

"What revelry!" cried Fermor. "Bring us some more of those pasties, please. They're good."

The girl bobbed a curtsy and went away.

"What does she mean?" asked Melisande.

John Collings said: "Oh, these people get excited about nothing. Just another felon, that's all."

"And he is to be flogged in the street?" asked Melisande.

"He stole a fowl and was caught," said Caroline.

"But ... to be flogged in the street ... where all can see! It is a great indignity ... as well as a pain to the body."

"Well, let us hope it will teach him not to steal again," said Fermor.

"But in the streets ... for people to see." Melisande shuddered. "To be beaten in private ... that is bad. But in the streets ..."

"It is a warning to other people, Mademoiselle," said Caroline. "There are some people who have to be shown that if they steal they will have to take the consequences."

Melisande was silent, and when the maid brought fresh pasties she found that she had lost her appetite.

When they came out into the streets they were just in time to see the dismal procession. The victim, stripped to the waist, was tied to the back of a cart which was slowly drawn through the streets. Behind him walked two men with whips; these men took it in turn to apply a stroke to the bleeding back of their victim.

Caroline, Fermor and John looked on with indifference; only Melisande turned shuddering away. Perhaps, she thought, he was hungry; perhaps his family was hungry. How can we know that he deserves such punishment?

She was as unhappy as she had been gay a short time before when riding along the misty road.

Fermor was beside her. He said: "What is it?"

She shook her head, but he came nearer, demanding an answer. She tried to explain, although she did not think he would see her point. "The hedges and the flowers and the mist ... they are so beautiful. And this ... it is so ugly."

"Felons must be punished. If they were not they would not hesitate to steal the coats off our backs."

They rode away to the stables and, while Fermor and John were selecting a horse, Caroline said to Melisande: "You are too easily deceived, Mademoiselle St. Martin. You are too sorry for felons and ... for millers' daughters. Stupid people and criminals have to suffer for their mistakes."

"I know it," said Melisande. "But that does not stop my being sorry."

"It is unwise to steal ... no matter what. People have to be reminded of that."

It was unfortunate that on their way back through the town they should see mad Anna Quale, for it seemed to Melisande that the flogging of Tom Matthews was a minor tragedy compared with that of Anna Quale.

Anna had many visitors that day. Some had come in to the market and some to see Tom Matthews flogged; and they could not leave without a glimpse of Anna.

Outside the tiny cottage where she lived, a crowd had gathered. Anna's fame had travelled far, and there would not always be an opportunity of seeing her. She was mad; and her insanity was of a type which appealed to the ignorant crowd. Anna's was not a quiet introspective madness; it was not melancholy; Anna's mad fits were fits of rage in which she behaved like a wild animal, spitting and clawing at any who came near her, throwing herself against walls, trying to tear off her clothes, screaming abuse. Her fits occurred at ever-shortening intervals now, and it was considered a great treat to be an onlooker. She would throw herself to the ground, lash out with her arms and legs, bite her tongue; and her face would grow purple as she would utter shrieks and strange sounds. It was said that devils were in her; but the devils were not always so entertaining; sometimes they sulked and would not show their presence. Everybody hoped for a demonstration of the devils when they went to see Anna, and did their best to provoke them to action; but very soon Anna was to be taken away to Bodmin where she would be put in a cage and exhibited to passers-by in that town.

It was a terrible shame, said the people of Liskeard, that Bodmin should have all the fun. There were plenty of lunatics in Bodmin; you could see their cages any day you liked. It was unfair to take Liskeard's entertainers and give them to the Bodmin folk. However, Liskeard and its visitors were determined to get as much fun out of Anna as and while they could; and for the time being she was chained up in the cottage which had recently housed her parents and their large family.

The shrieks of laughter and shouts could be heard streets away.

"What's the excitement?" Fermor asked a man in a smock and leather gaiters.

"Don't 'ee know then, sir?" cried the man.

"That is precisely why I am asking."

" 'Tis old Anna Quale, sir. A regular caution, she be. And there be so many here on account of the flogging, sir. Did you see the flogging, sir?"

"We did. But what about Anna Quale?"

"They'm taking her away to Bodmin soon. 'Tis a crying shame."

Two more men had come up—old men, their faces eager and alight. Talking to strangers was the greatest joy they knew, for passing on knowledge which was theirs and of which the stranger was ignorant was a tremendous stimulation to self-esteem. They touched their forelocks, recognizing John Collings and Miss Caroline Trevenning, although the other lady and gentleman were unknown to them.

"Well, sir, 'tis like this here ..." began one.

"No, Harry, you let me tell it. You do take too long... ."

"Now, look here, Tom Trewinny, you keep out of this."

"How'd it be if you shared the prize?" asked Fermor. "A sentence each, eh?"

They looked at him oddly. Gentry, for sure. But a foreigner with a fancy way of talking. Trying to be smart too; and they did not like foreigners.

John Collings said: "What is this all about, my good man? We're in a hurry."

"Well, sir, 'tis Anna Quale. She'm in the cottage there, and they be going to take her to Bodmin soon. We've always looked on Anna as ourn. Regular caution she's always been. You could see her lying in the market square, kicking and screaming and lashing out like ... with all the devils calling out of her mouth. Then all of a sudden she'd go quiet ... just like all the devils had come out of her. And they had too, sir, through the mouth. There's some in this town as has seen 'em. Then she'd get quiet and walk away."

"So they're taking her away and the people don't like it?"

"That's how 'tis, sir. They'm taking their last look, you might say. You see, sir, she's chained up now ... and has been this last day or so since the rest of them Quales was drove out of the town. They'm a bad lot, them Quales. Two of the girls in trouble and the mother and father no better than they should be ... begging the ladies' pardon. We got a party together ... with whistles and such like ... and we gave they a riding out of the town. That left Anna, sir; and now she be alone they've chained her and they've ordained to send her to Bodmin."

The crowd about the cottage had turned to look at the four on horseback and, since some of them had fallen away from the cottage door, Melisande had a glimpse of one of the most horrible sights she had ever seen in her life.

Standing just inside the room, into which it was possible to step straight from the street, was a creature who looked more like a wild beast than a human being.

Melisande saw bare arms, mottled purple, hanging at her sides, saw the dirty skin, showing through dirtier rags, the hair which hung about the creature's face, the slobbering mouth from which came a hideous muttering sound. But it was the eyes which Melisande would never forget as long as she lived. They were bewildered, tormented eyes, wild, defiant and yet somehow appealing for help.

And in that brief second a boy in the crowd, close to the door of the cottage leaned forward. In his hand was a long branch with which he prodded the mad woman. She tried to grasp the branch, but as she nearly succeeded in doing so, the boy would pull it away. She lunged as far as the chain would allow; the ring about her waist must have caused her a good deal of pain; and as the boy again prodded her and she tried to catch the branch she cried out a second time in suppressed rage. It was clear that this had been going on for some time.

The crowd shrieked its merriment and the gentry looked on indifferently at the amusements of the poor. Only one person in that assembly experienced a passion as great as that of the tormented. Melisande, without a second's hesitation, without stopping to think of anything but the mad creature's pain, slipped from her horse, handed the reins to John Collings who happened to be nearest and was too astonished to do anything but take them, ran forward and snatched the branch from the boy's hand.

"Do not!" she cried. "It is wicked. So cruel!" In the stress of the moment she had spoken in French.

The boy, at first startled, had released his hold on the branch; he tried after that brief hesitation to retrieve it. He kicked out at Melisande, as he tried to reach for the branch which she held above her head; and as he did so, she brought it sharply down across his face.

A pair of hands seized her ... two pair of hands. She was aware of angry distorted faces about her, of a sudden roar of fury. She heard the word: "Foreigner!" They were forcing her to the ground.

But Fermor had leaped from his horse, had thrown his reins to John Collings and was in the midst of the crowd.

"She be French!" someone was shouting.

"They French have tails... ."

"Now be a chance to see for ourselves. ..."

"Stand back, you swine, you oafs, you country fools ... stand back!" That was Fermor, eyes blazing, his arms swinging out. Someone staggered and fell, and Fermor had Melisande in his grasp.

"Get to your horse ... at once!" he said.

She obeyed. None tried to stop her. Fermor was facing the crowd with that arrogant insolence which they knew so well and which they had respected and obeyed all their lives.

"How dare you!" Fermor was shouting. "How dare you molest a lady!"

He had backed away from them and in a second or so he had leaped into his saddle.

The crowd had moved forward in that brief time; their mood was angry. Fermor was gentry, but foreign gentry. These people had seen the blood of a felon in the streets that day; they had been disturbed while they were tormenting Anna Quale. They were protesting against interference. There was too much interference. Bodmin was trying to take from them what was theirs by right; should they be interrupted at their pleasures by foreigners ... even if those foreigners were of the gentry! It was only the presence of known gentry—-John Collings and Caroline Trevenning—that prevented them from acting in unison against the arrogant strangers who had dared interfere; as it was, some were for pressing forward, others for holding back.

Someone caught at Fermor's leg and was kicked and sent sprawling for his pains.

"Stop this!" cried John Collings. "What the devil ..."

"Tar and feather the foreigners!" cried a voice in the crowd. "Chain 'em up with the mad 'un ... since they do like her so much."

Meanwhile Fermor had gripped the bridle of Melisande's horse and was forcing a way through the crowd.

"Come on!" he urged. "We must get away ... with all speed."

And as he with all his might forced the two horses against the surly people, they broke through and, once free of the pressure, the horses were trotting, then galloping across the market square, out and away.

After some minutes Melisande cried: "Stop! Stop! The others are not with us."

He laughed but did not draw rein.

"I said the others are not with us," she repeated.

He continued to ride on for a few minutes. Then he stopped. "Did they not follow us?" he asked. Then he laughed loudly. "Out of evil cometh good."

"What ... do you mean?"

They had left the town well behind, and he looked back towards it. "It was a damned ugly crowd," he said. "Their blood was up. They did not like us, Mademoiselle. They liked neither you nor me. Tasteless oafs ... don't you think?"

"It was my fault."

"Ah, Melisande, you have a lot to answer for."

"What shall we do now?"

"There are several things we might do. First look for an inn and quench our thirsts. That was a thirsty job. Then look for the others. ... Or congratulate ourselves."

"Congratulate?"

"On at last finding ourselves alone."

"Is that then a matter for congratulation?"

"I think so. I was hoping you would too. I at least feel a little gratitude towards the crowd. Let's ride on. I should not like to be overtaken by them."

"But ... John Collings and Caroline ... they will be looking for us."

"Don't let's worry about them. They'll be all right. John will look after Caroline."

"But we've left them there ... with those people."

"They were only annoyed with us, you know."

"But you must be anxious ... about Caroline."

"She's all right. Those people won't hurt their own. They have a hatred for those they consider strangers. You're one and I'm one ... I no less than you. We're strangers in a strange land. We ought to console one another." He took her hand and kissed it. "I beg of you, smile. Be gay. I like to see you gay. Come on. We've escaped. Let us be gay."

"I am sorry. I am afraid of what they might do to Caroline."

"Why? She's safe. She'll be glad we've got away. It would have been very awkward if we'd stayed ... very difficult! And Caroline does not like difficult situations. Let us find a tavern, shall we? Come on."

"No. We must go back."

"What! Back to those howling hooligans! By the way, you haven't said thank you. It is customary, you know, when people save your life."

"I do thank you."

"Are you truly grateful?"

"I am afraid I have caused much trouble."

"You're bound to cause trouble, Melisande. Merely by existing you would cause trouble. So a little more, such as we have had to-day, hardly makes any difference."

"You are not being very serious, I think. We should try to find the others. Of that I am sure."

"That would make you happy?"

"Yes please."

"As ever I am at your service. Come."

"Is this the way?"

"This is the way."

They rode on, and after a while Melisande cried: "Are you sure this is the way?"

"This is the way," he assured her again.

The mist had cleared considerably and she saw the moor about them, the heather glistening, little streams tumbling over the stones; the grey tors reminded her of poor Anna Quale, for they were like tormented beings.

"I have so long wanted to talk to you alone," said Fermor.

"Of what did you wish to talk?"

"I believe you know. You must know. You must realize that ever since I met you I have wanted to be ... your friend."

"You have been very friendly, very kind. I thank you."

"I would be kinder than anyone has ever been. I would be the greatest friend you have ever had. Shall we pull up here and give the horses a rest?"

"But do they need a rest? They were watered and fed at the inn where we had the pasties. And I think we should get back to Trevenning. Caroline will be very anxious if we are not there when she returns."

"But I want to talk to you, and it is difficult talking as we go along."

"Then perhaps we should talk some other time."

"What other time? It is very rarely that we get away from them all. Here there is no one to be seen. Look about you. You and I ... are alone up here. We could not be more alone than this, could we?"

He brought his horse close to hers and suddenly stretching out an arm caught her and kissed her violently. Her horse moved restively and she broke free.

She said breathlessly: "Please, do not. I wish to go back at once. This must not be. I do not believe we are on the right road."

"You and I are on the right road, Melisande. What other road matters ?"

"I do not understand you."

"You know that is not true. I thought you were a truthful young lady."

"I cannot believe ... that you mean what ..."

"What you think I mean? Why should you not? You must know how damnably attractive you are."

She was trembling. She wanted to hate him. She thought of the hurt to Caroline. Yet she could not hate him. She could not keep in mind his unkindness to Caroline, his careless indifference to the suffering of others; she could only think of his singing along the road the sad song about the miller's daughter, the merry one about the gipsy and the earl; she could only think of his blazing blue eyes when he had caught her horse by its bridle and forced a way for them through the crowd.

"Dear little Melisande," he was saying now, and again he tried to put an arm about her shoulder. As she eluded him he laughed, and she realized that it was that sudden laughter which disarmed her criticism. "This is an awkward position!" he cried. "Damme if I ever was in such an awkward one ... and never did I so long to be on my own two feet. But what if I dismount? I believe you'd gallop away and leave me standing here. Shall I chance it? Shall I dismount? Shall I make you do the same? Shall I carry you to the grass there and make a couch for us among the bracken?"

"You talk too fast. I do not understand."

"Do not cower behind your unfamiliarity with the language. You know very well what I say. You love me and I love you. Why make any bones about that? Life is too complicated to argue about the obvious."

"The obvious?"

"My sweet Melisande, how can you hide it any more than I can?"

"And what of Caroline?"

"I will look after Caroline."

"By ... hurting her ... as the miller's daughter was hurt? What if she...?"

"This is not a song. This is life. Caroline is no miller's daughter. If she were I should not be affianced to her. If Caroline discovers that I love ... but why should she ? You and I are not so foolish as to wish to make that sort of trouble. You may rest assured that she will not be found in the cold river. Caroline will understand that she and I must marry for the sake of our families; and all the arrangements for the future have been made for us. As for you and me ... that is love. That is different."

She drew back, her green eyes blazing. "You are a very wicked man, I think."

"Oh come! You wouldn't like me if I were a saint."

She was thinking: I must get away ... quickly. He is bad. He is one of those men of whom Therese thought, of whom Sister Emilie and Sister Eugenie thought when they would not look into the faces of men. It would be better if I had never looked into his face. She thought suddenly of the nun who had been walled up in the convent all those years ago; she wondered fleetingly if the man whom that nun had loved had been like this one, and she believed he must have been.

She quickly turned her horse and rode back the way she had come.

She heard him behind her shouting as she broke into a gallop.

"Melisande! You fool! You idiot! Stop! Do you want to break your neck?"

"I hope you break yours," she called over her shoulder. "That would be a goodness ... for Caroline ... for me. ..."

"I shan't break my neck. I can ride."

Soon he was beside her, catching at her bridle and slowing down the horses.

"There, you see. You cannot get away from me. You never will, Melisande. Oh, just at first you will be very virtuous. You will say 'Get you behind me, Satan! I am a virtuous young woman of very high ideals. I have been brought up in a convent and all my opinions are ready-made.' But are you sure they are, Melisande? Are you sure of your virtue?"

"I am sure of one thing. You are despicable. You knew we were not going the right way. Deliberately you brought us here. I am sorry for Caroline."

"That's a lie. You envy her."

"Envy her! Marriage with you!"

"Indeed you do, my dear. A minute ago, when you were full of your convent ideas and you thought I was suggesting a break with Caroline and marriage w ; th you, you could not conceal your delight. But wait ... wait until you begin to think freely. Wait until you learn to be honest with yourself."

"You ... to talk of honesty! You ... who have arranged this! Who brought us here?"

"Who started it ? Who had the crowd at her heels ? Do you realize that but for me you would be chained up with a mad woman now?"

"It is not true."

"You've never seen an angry mob before, have you? There is a lot you have to learn, my dear Mademoiselle. It might have gone very badly for you if I had not been there."

"John Collings would have saved me."

"Well, I at least was the one who prevented disaster, wasn't I."

"It is a truth. I have already thanked you."

"So here is a little gratitude from you at last? Pity is love's sister, I've heard. What is gratitude?"

"I have thanked you for saving me from the crowd. Now let us return."

"Be sensible, Melisande. Be reasonable. What will you do when Caroline no longer needs your services? Have you thought of that?"

"You mean when you marry her?"

"She might even decide before then that she does not need them."

"Yes, that is a truth."

"A truth indeed. You should look to the future. And that, my dear, as you so charmingly say, is another truth."

"Look to the future! A future of sin is your suggestion."

"That's an ugly word. I don't like ugly things."

"But ugly things have ugly words, do they not?"

"You are too serious. Love should give pleasure. People were meant to be happy. Even companions were meant to be happy. I would make you happy. I would never let unhappiness touch you. I will give you a house in London, and there we shall be together. How can you stay here, buried away in the country ... in a position which, to say the best, is uncertain?" He broke into song:

"I would love you all the day ... Every night would kiss and play, If with me you'd fondly stray Over the hills and far away ..."

"Let us return, please ... the quickest way."

"Don't you like my singing? You do, I know. It draws you to me. Do you think I do not know?"

"Should you not be thinking of the effect of your singing on Caroline?"

"No. To Caroline I give marriage. I can spare nothing else for her."

"You are cynical."

"You mean I am truthful. Cynicism is a word the sentimental apply to truth. I could have made all sorts of false promises to you ... as the miller's daughter's lover did to her. But I would not. Think how I could have framed my proposal. I could have said: 'Melisande, elope with me to London. I will go off first and a few days later you must follow me.' That would have shifted suspicion from me, you see. Then I should have met you, gone through a ceremony of marriage—not a real one you understand. There are such things ... mock marriages. They have been going on for years. Then, you see, all would have been well until I was found out. Then you would have discovered that I was a scoundrel. Of course, I am a scoundrel, but I am an honest scoundrel. So I say to you: I love you. I love everything about you, even your prudery because it gives me something to overcome, and, by God, I will overcome it. I tell you the truth. I will never be a rogue in the guise of a saint. And I'll tell you this, Melisande: Look closely at the saints you meet in life. I'll warrant you'll find a little of the rogue in them. But you see, I'd rather be an honest bad man than a dishonest good one."

"Please to be silent," she said. "I have heard enough ... too much."

Strangely enough he obeyed her and soon they saw the town stretched out before them.

"Better skirt it," he said. "They would recognize us and we don't want any more unpleasantness, do we? We might not escape so easily this time, and although I'd be ready to tackle any of them single-handed for my lady's sake, I don't fancy facing a mob of hundreds."

She recognized that they were now on the right road. Yet how changed everything seemed. Life had become no longer simple. She had so much to fear; Caroline, Wenna, a cruel and angry mob ... and Fermor.

She took a quick glance at him. He was not in the least disturbed. She felt inexperienced and afraid. To whom could she go for advice? To Caroline? Impossible. To Sir Charles? He had been kind—he was still kind, yet he seemed remote. During those occasions when they were in each other's company she sensed in him an uneasiness. She believed that he avoided her; that he was anxious to prevent their ever being alone together. No, she could not ask him for advice. What of her friends in the servants' hall ? They were too garrulous, too fond of gossip. This was not only her trouble; it was also Caroline's.

She thought of the nun, as she had thought of her so many times before. She saw the nun as herself, the lover as Fermor. She feared that she was as weak as the nun; and surely the lover must have been very like Fermor.

She ought to go away—not only for her own sake but for that of Caroline. But where could she go?

He was watching her, she knew; and he was laughing at her. She believed he was clever enough to read her thoughts, evil enough to laugh at them. He was a bad man. He represented Men as the nuns thought of them. It was because of men like this one that they wished to shut themselves away from the world.

They left the high road and were within a mile of Trevenning. He broke into another of his songs.

"Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair?"

She tried to urge her horse to go ahead of his, but he would not have it so; he kept level with her and went on with his song.

"If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go; For if she be not for me, What care I how fair she be?"

And so they came to Trevenning.

Wenna was sitting by Caroline's bed; she was stroking the girl's forehead with her cool fingers.

"What is it, my queen? Tell Wenna."

She was different from Miss Maud. She frightened Wenna. Miss Maud had tears for all occasions. Caroline hardly ever wept. There were times when Wenna thought there could have been comfort in tears.

Wenna could only guess what had happened. The four of them had set off together. Caroline and John Collings had come home first; after that Fermor had arrived with Melisande.

Caroline had seemed to wear a mask to hide her suffering, but no mask could deceive Wenna. God curse all men! thought Wenna. Oh, if only my little queen would have none of them! If only she'd throw his ring in his face, and tell her father she'd rather die than marry him! And what was he doing here! He ought to have gone back to London weeks ago. It was clear what he was doing. Thoughts danced in and out of Wenna's mind. She would like to see them both ridden out of the place. She'd play a whistle herself and dance to their riding; she would be the first to call obscenities after them.

When they had returned—those shameless ones—he had been blithe and gay, but she was afraid. She was not one to be able to hide her feelings. Her cheeks were scarlet, her eyes a more brilliant green than ever. Something had happened. Wenna could guess what. Oh shameful, shameful! In the open country, most like. There, soiling the good green earth, there among the flowers and grasses. It was doubly wicked that way.

Caroline had dressed herself in one of her loveliest dresses that evening. She had laughed and joked with her father—that old sinner—and the man she was to marry, that even greater young sinner. Oh, brave Miss Caroline, laughing with her heart breaking!

That imp of Satan had been put out of countenance though. She had had a tray sent to her room, and Wenna had seen Peg come out when she went to take it away, her lips greasy, still chewing. It looked as if Peg had had to finish her food for her. She had them all dancing to her tune. Mrs. Soady, Mr. Meaker, Peg and the rest... every fool of them.

I'd like to ill-wish her. I wish she was dead. Pd go along to a witch if I knew of one that did such things now, and I'd get a wax image of her and I'd stick pins in it every night, that I would. And I hope she finds trouble and he swears it weren't him. That I do. And I hope she dies... .

"Tell, my handsome. Tell Wenna. Caroline, my darling, tell Wenna."

"You know everything, Wenna, don't you?" said Caroline.

"Everything that concerns my lamb."

"Wenna, there's no one else I could talk to about this."

"Course there ain't. But there's Wenna. There's always Wenna. You'll be happier telling. What happened, dearie ? What happened, my queen?"

"She wants him, you see, Wenna. She's doing all she can to get him, and he ..."

"Well, my little queen, there's things I could say about him, but let's admit betwixt ourselves he's like all the men ... perhaps no better ... perhaps no worse."

"And she, Wenna, she's very pretty. She's more than pretty."

"There's the devil in her."

"Let's be fair. I don't think she means ..."

"Not mean! She's been working for it. She looks at any, who'll be duped, with those great big eyes of hers. I never did like green ones. There's something of the devil in green eyes. I never yet knew any green-eyed person that hadn't got wickedness in them ..."

"No, Wenna. That's not true."

"You're too soft, my precious. You're too good and kind. You're like your mother."

"I don't know whether she planned it, but he did ... from the moment he saw that they could get away."

"What did happen? Tell Wenna."

"There was trouble in Liskeard. It was outside Anna Quale's cottage. The mob was there and she took it upon herself to interfere with them."

"She would!"

"They didn't like it, Wenna, she being a foreigner."

"The impudence! I wonder they didn't tear her limb from limb."

"They might have done. But he was watching her and I was watching him. He was off his horse before any of us could do anything ... and he looked as if he would have killed anyone who laid a hand on her. He got her on to her horse and they galloped away. It seemed some time before John and I realized what had happened. It could only have been for a second or two though. Then John said: 'We'd better go... .' And the people just parted and made way for us ... looking ashamed of themselves. It was because they knew who we were, I suppose. In any case, there was never any question of their touching us. We couldn't find those two, Wenna. We didn't know where they'd gone."

"They gave 'ee the slip then. They gave 'ee the slip on purpose."

"That was his intention."

"Hers too. Depend upon it."

"Then we came home and they came home. At least they came home not much more than half an hour after us."

"Half an hour be long enough for mischief, and they wouldn't want to call attention to themselves."

"Oh, Wenna, I'm so unhappy."

"There, there, my dearie. Why don't 'ee tell him you've done with him?"

"I can't, Wenna. I'll never be done with him."

"Why, you could stay here and there'd be Wenna always to look after and comfort 'ee."

"Wherever I go you'll be there to look after and comfort me."

"I know. Bless 'ee for that. We'll never be parted, my little love. But he's not the one for you."

"He is, Wenna. He is. There's one thing that frightens me. What if he is so much in love with her that he wants to marry her!"

"Not he! Who be she then? Somebody's bastard! Oh yes, you can be shocked, my pretty, but that's what she be. I know it. Some light o' love had a baby she didn't want, and she be it. Master Fermor's a proud man. So be his family. They don't marry the likes of her, no matter how green their eyes be."

"That sort of marriage has happened."

"She'd need the devil and all his spells to bring it off. He ain't given no sign that he's thinking of backing out of marriage with you?"

"No, Wenna."

"Well, don't 'ee fret about that. You'll marry him, my love; and to my way of thinking, one man ain't much worse than another. You'll have trouble with him ... like this day. You'll always have that sort of trouble. But we'll fight trouble when it comes. We'll fight it together. Wenna would die for you, my precious. Wenna would kill for you. If I had her here now I'd take her throat in my two hands and wring it like I would the neck of a chicken for the boiling pot."

"Oh, Wenna, you're a comfort to me."

"Don't 'ee fret, my dear. Wenna's beside 'ee."

Caroline was quiet then. She lay still with her eyes closed while Wenna thought of the slender neck in her strong hands, and the green eyes, wide with horror, staring dumbly, asking for mercy which should not be given.

There was quietness throughout the house. In half an hour it would be midnight.

In her room, Melisande waited, her cloak wrapped about her, her shoes in her hand.

A board in the corridor creaked. Melisande was tense, listening.

Cautiously she opened her door and a small plump figure glided in.

Peg said: "Be you ready then, Mamazel?"

"Yes, Peg."

Peg whispered: "The back door be unbolted. Mrs. Soady said not to forget to bolt it when we did come in. We'll pick up- the food as we go out. 'Tis all ready. Come."

They tiptoed downstairs, every now and then pausing to make sure that no one in the house was stirring; down the back staircase, through to the servants' hall, where they could breathe more freely, for if they awakened any of the servants that would be of no great importance as the adventure had the blessing of Mrs. Soady.

Into the great stone kitchen they went, where two neat packages lay on the table.

" 'Tis roast fowl," whispered Peg. "Tamson Trequint be terrible partial to roast fowl. Mrs. Soady said she'd give a beautiful spell for a wing or a bit of the breast. Now then ... be you ready?"

"Yes," said Melisande.

"Then come on."

Out through the back door they went.

"Keep close to the house," whispered Peg, "just in case someone has heard and looks from the windows."

But they had to cross the park.

"Hurry," said Peg. "We must be there by midnight. That be terrible important. A midnight spell be the best you can have. More like to work ... so says Mrs. Soady; and her'd know, being a pellar."

When they reached the high road, Melisande turned to look about her. The country was touched with the white magic of the moon; it cast a light path on the waters. The rocks looked like crouching giants; on the water there gleamed an occasional phosphorescent light, ghostly and fascinating.

"What be looking at?" demanded Peg. "What be over there by the sea?"

"It's so beautiful."

"Oh, 'tis only the old sea."

"But look at the shadows there."

"Only they old rocks."

"And the lights! Look! They come and go."

"'Tis mackerel ... nothing more. Them lights do mean we'll have mackerel the next few days ... like as not. Come on. Do 'ee want a midnight spell, Mamazel, or did 'ee come out to look for mackerel?"

It was eerie in the woods. Some of the trees gleamed silver like ghosts from another world, others were black and menacing like grotesque human shapes. Now and then there would be a movement in the undergrowth.

"What be that?" cried Peg.

"A rat? A rabbit?"

"I've heard of people what comes out alone at night being carried off."

"We're not alone."

"No! I wouldn't have come out alone ... not for a farm ... not for roast fowl every day of my life. That I wouldn't. The Little People don't carry 'ee off in twos, so 'tis said. All the same, I be scared. Better say Jack o' lantern."

Peg began in a trembling voice:

"Jack o' Lantern, Joan the Wad, Who tickled the maid and made her mad, Light me home; the weather's bad ..."

"But we do not want to be lighted home and the weather is not bad," pointed out Melisande.

"Well, we dursen't say 'Light me to the witch's cave.' I don't know that piskies be terrible fond of witches. I do reckon we might get pisky-led if we was alone. I'm terrible glad we'm not."

They pushed on, and Peg screamed when a low branch caught her hair and she could not immediately extricate herself. They both felt that at any moment they would see hundreds of little figures making a ring round them, tickling them until they were mad, leading them away to regions below the earth. But Melisande was able to release Peg, and after that, they took to running; and they did not stop until they reached Tamson's hut.

Wenna had heard the creaking of the stairs. Wenna slept lightly.

Someone was creeping about the house, she decided.

Wenna had her own ideas. She thought she knew. Wouldn't it be just like him? She reckoned that the wicked Mamazel, the daughter of Babylon, was creeping up to his room. She pictured the terrible deeds they would perform.

What if she caught them together? That wouldn't do though. It would only bring sorrow to Miss Caroline. No! But she could go to the master with her tales.

She went to the door of her room. She slept in the room next to Caroline's.

Pray God, Miss Caroline don't wake, the poor lamb! she thought.

She waited. There was no sound now. Had she been mistaken? Had she been dreaming? But she would keep a sharp look out, she would. One little slip and she'd be off to the master. He couldn't keep a harlot in his house ... not one who was going to rob his legitimate daughter of a husband. But perhaps he was shameful enough for that! Hadn't he brought that woman's daughter into the house to live alongside Miss Caroline?

She went back to her room, but as she was about to get into her bed she heard a sound from without. So, they were meeting out of doors. Why hadn't she thought of that!

She was at her window. The lawn was bright with moonlight. She listened. Yes. Surely footsteps. If only she were down there! But they were keeping close to the house. Where were they off to to do their wickedness ? On the sweet pure grass! Let them catch their deaths and die.

Now she saw them—two figures; one was Mamazel, the other was short and squat. Peg!

And what were they doing, and where were they going? They were making their way towards the woods.

Suddenly she knew, and the thought filled her with misgiving.

She knew why girls went out in pairs round about midnight. She knew why they made their way to the hut in the woods.

She sat at the window, waiting.

Melisande shuddered as they stepped into the hut. It was dimly lighted by a lamp which hung from the ceiling and smelt strongly of the oil. A fire was burning in a hollow in one corner of the hut. Two black cats lay stretched on the earthen floor. One rose and arched his back at the sight of the visitors; the other lay still, watching them with alert green eyes.

"Be still, Samuel," said a gentle voice. " 'Tis only two young ladies come to see us."

The black cat settled down on the floor and watched them.

On a table several objects lay in some disorder. There were pieces of wax, wooden hearts and bottles of red liquid which had the appearance of blood. There were charms made of wood and metal, a chart of the sky and a great crystal globe.

About the clay walls herbs were hung. There was a wooden beam across the ceiling of the hut and from this hung dark objects in various stages of decomposition. Two live toads were near the fire; a pot was simmering there; the steam which rose from it smelt of earth and decaying vegetables.

Tamson Trequint had risen. She was a very old woman whose untidy grey hair fell about her shoulders; her skin was burned brown by the sun and wind and she was very thin. Her eyes were black and brilliant and her heavy lids suggested an eagle.

"Come in. Come in. Don't 'ee be scared," she said. "Samuel won't hurt 'ee. Nor will Joshua. What have you brought me?"

Peg was too frightened to speak. Melisande forced herself to say: "We have brought roast fowl for you."

"So you be the pretty foreign one. Come here, my dear, that I may look at 'ee. You b'ain't frightened, be you? 'Tis the same with all these servant girls. They want my charms; they want their plough-boys and their fishermen. But they'm scared of coming to me to ask my help. What do you want, my dear? Speak up. You don't altogether believe in our ways, do 'ee? But you've come all the same."

"Is it true that you can give charms and potions to make people love," asked Melisande. "Can you make people love those it is good for them to love ... even though they do not do so?"

"I can give a charm as will put a bloom on a young girl, my dear. I can smear her with jam like ... so that the wasps come a-buzzing round. Are there witches where you do come from? Are there black witches like some ... and white witches like old Tammy Trequint?"

"I do not know of them. I lived in a convent ... away from such things."

"I understand 'ee, my dear. You be like a bird as is let free. Mind someone don't catch 'ee and clip your pretty wings. Why do you come here?"

"I want a charm ... a spell ... a potion ... if you will be so good as to give me one."

"You want a lover. You should be fair enough without a charm."

Melisande looked into the hooded eyes and saw that they were kindly for all their strangeness. She said quickly: "I am afraid of... someone. I wish his attentions to be turned from me. I wish them to go ... where they belong. Could that be done?"

" 'Tis a love token in reverse, so to speak."

"Can you give me such a one?"

" 'Twill not be easy. There's some who might come and ask such a thing and I'd know it would be no more than breaking a couple of twigs. But 'tis not so with you, my dear. We'll see. What does the other maiden want?"

Peg came forward. Her wants were simple. She wanted a love token to catch the young fisherman whom, try as she might, she could not catch without.

"Let me see what you've brought." She unwrapped the parcel of food. She sniffed it. " 'Tis good," she said. "Mrs. Soady have sent you and Mrs. Soady's my good friend."

She put the food on the table and, picking up a piece of wax, with expert fingers, she forced it into a metal mould. This she put on the fire.

She said to Peg: "Think of his face, my dear. Think of him. Conjure him up. He's there behind you ... a bonny boy. Close your eyes and say his name. Can you see him?" Peg nodded. The mould was drawn from the fire and left to cool.

"Sit you on that stool, my dear. Keep your eyes closed and don't for a minute stop thinking of him. When he's cooled down you shall have him. Just sit 'ee still now."

Peg obeyed.

"Now you, my dear. 'Tis not the same for you. 'Tis a double spell you need. Now first we must turn his affection from you like. I've got an onion here and I want you to pierce it with these pins. In the old days we'd use nothing but a sheep's or bullock's heart. But onions serve, and they be easy to come by. Now, my dear, take these pins and as you stick them in the onion you must conjure up his image. You must see him standing close behind you."

"This will not bring a misfortune to him?" asked Melisande anxiously. "There is no harm for him in this?"

Tamson laughed suddenly. "What be harm? Harm to one be good to another. If he do love you truly he might be happy with you. If he's to love this other, he might find sorrow there. Then that would be harm. So whether harm or good will come of this, I can't tell 'ee. I be a witch but a white witch. And I'll tell 'ee this, because I've took a fancy to 'ee: meddling with fate ain't always a good thing. 'Tis writ in the stars what shall be. Fate's Fate and there's no altering that; and when people come to me for spells they're after altering it. 'Tis devils' work to alter Fate. You got to call in magic. 'Tis more like to be harm that way than good."

"I know I must turn his thoughts from me. I know it would be a goodness to do so."

"Then stick in they pins."

The tears started to Melisande's eyes.

"'Tis that old onion. But tears be good. Tears never done no harm. Is it ready, well riddled with pins? He's there. He's behind you. He's tall and handsome and gay. He loves many, but not one of them as he loves himself. Now we'll roast his heart, and as we roast it, you must say with me:

'It is not this heart I wish to burn, But the person's heart I wish to turn ...'

"Then, my dear, you whisper to yourself the name of her who should be his love, and you must see them together, and they must be joining hands while you do say those words. Say his name and her name ... and see them bound together in love."

Melisande closed her eyes and repeated the lines after the witch. She tried to see Caroline and Fermor, to see them embrace; but instead she was filled with a passionate wish that she might have been Sir Charles's daughter, that she might have been the one who was chosen for him. Caroline would not stay in the picture. He was there, singing on his horse, leaning over to kiss Melisande, laughing at her, mocking her. And she was there, riding away from him, yet reluctantly, knowing he was gaining on her. Then she thought of the nun who had broken her vows all those years ago and had died in her granite tomb.

"There!" said Tamson Trequint. "That'll do 'ee both. Now, my dear," she went on, turning to Peg, "here be your image. You stick pins in it every night, just where his heart is, and if you've seen him aright and you've done all I told 'ee, he'll be your lover before the coming of the new moon. Get on with 'ee now."

Peg said breathlessly: "Oh, Mrs. Soady did say she have a stye coming and what should she do?"

"Tell her to touch it with the tail of a cat."

"And Mr. Meaker be feared his asthma's coming back."

"Let him collect spiders' webs, roll them in his hands and swallow them."

"Thank 'ee, Mistress Trequint. Mrs. Soady said as something would be left for 'ee."

"Tell Mrs. Soady her's welcome."

They went out into the woods and the journey back was not so terrifying as the journey to the hut. They were too absorbed in what they had seen to think of the supernatural inhabitants of the wood. Peg was clutching her image and thinking of her fisherman. Melisande was less happy.

They crossed the lawns to the house.

"Quietly now," said Peg.

But Wenna, watching at her window, had already seen them.

Wenna had made up her mind. She would not remain passive any longer, for this was no time for passivity.

That wicked girl had not gone out to meet him; she was too artful for that. Like as not she was holding him off. She was more than wanton; she was cunning.

Wenna imagined her telling him that she was too good a girl to become one of his light o' loves. Clearly she had gone to the witch in the woods for a spell that would make him dance to her piping ... dance to whatever tune she played; and her tune would be marriage.

So there was no time for delay.

Wenna went down to the kitchen.

Mrs. Soady was sitting at the table treating her eye with the cat's tail. The big tom-cat was on the table and Mrs. Soady was trying to make him keep still so that she could wipe his tail across her eyelid.

"What be up to?" asked Wenna.

" 'Tis this blessed stye again. My brother be a martyr to 'em, and they do trouble me now and then. I'm trying to cure the thing afore it grows so big as to close up my eye."

"Who told 'ee to do that then?"

" 'Twas old Tammy Trequint. She be very good. I remember how when Jane Pengelly's three had the measles she told her to cut off a cat's left ear and swallow three drops of the blood in a glass of spring water. My dear life, they was all cured by next day. That's Tarn Trequint for 'ee."

Wenna thought: So you knew they was going to see Tamson then? You told 'em to go. You're as thick as smugglers, you two be ... you and that Mamazel.

She looked at Mrs. Soady who was so fat that she appeared to be sliding off the chair on which she sat. Mrs. Soady's small benevolent eyes smiled at the world through her puffy flesh. There was a lot of Mrs. Soady. It came of feeding herself with titbits all through the day. Not that she'd go short on her meals either! Mrs. Soady loved food. She also loved a bit of gossip—the tastier the better. Which did she love most, hog's pudding or news of the latest seduction, pilchards with cream or what Annie Polgard did to Sam? It was hard to say. Suffice it that both were irresistible.

There was something else about Mrs. Soady. She was the most generous body in the world. She could not enjoy her food completely unless she shared it with others; she could not enjoy her scandals unless she shared them also. It mattered not if it was her master's food she gave; it mattered not if she had sworn to keep the gossip secret. That was how it was with her.

"So you've been a-visiting Tamson then?" said Wenna.

"No, 'tis too far for me and the way through the woods too bony, my dear. I send Tarn a little something now and then. One of the maids takes it for me."

"So they've been to-day, have they?"

"Not so long ago."

"What's the trouble now?"

"Young Peg—she's after one of the fishermen."

"That girl's a bad 'un."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. She's just what you might call affectionate natured. Some is; some ain't. It turns up in a human being now and then, Wenna, my dear."

"Did young Peg go alone, or did this here affection turn up in someone else?"

Mrs. Soady did not think she ought to tell, but it was going to be very hard not to; and Wenna felt too impatient to get the secret out of her like a winkle out of a shell. She said bluntly: "I saw them coming in. After midnight. 'Tain't right, you know, Mrs. Soady, young girls going out at midnight."

"My dear, the spell only works at midnight, and going together no harm can come to them."

"So Mamazel had to have a token, eh?"

"Well, why not? 'Tis a bit of fun. Though as Mr. Meaker said, a pretty girl like she be didn't ought to want a token. That's what he did say."

" 'Tis easy to catch flies, my dear, but you want a net to catch a rare butterfly."

"My dear!" Mrs. Soady was overcome by such cleverness. "Do you think then ... Oh, I don't know. 'Twas just a bit of fun. I remember what I was like when I was a girl." Mrs. Soady laughed softly at memories.

Wenna clenched her hands together. She thought: She's got to go. She must not stay here. And she did not care how she did it; she was going to drive Melisande from the house.

If she went to the master and told him all she knew of her, he would push aside all she had to say. Of course he would. What did he care if she took Master Fermor and broke the heart of his legitimate daughter? What had he cared for Maud? Hadn't he deliberately let her die because of his absorption with this girl?

Very well then. She knew how to attack where it hurt most. He was a dignified man. He was very proud of his position in the county. He might go off to gaiety in foreign parts and London Town, but no spot must tarnish his reputation here in Cornwall.

She said: "Mrs. Soady, I know something about this Mamazel."

"You know something!" Mrs. Soady's eyes glistened as they did when she chopped up apples, bacon and onions and laid them with mutton over a young and tender pigeon to make a squab pie. They could not have shone more over the drop of pig's blood that went into the making of a hog's or bloody pudding.

"I don't rightly know that I ought to tell."

"Oh, you can trust me, Wenna, my dear."

"Well, don't 'ee say a word then ... not a word to a soul. Will 'ee swear?"

"I will, my dear. You can trust me."

Wenna drew her chair close to Mrs. Soady. "I happen to know whose daughter she is."

"Oh?"

"The master's."

"No!"

"'Tis so. There was a woman up to London."

"You don't say!"

"Yes, I do then. He was always going up. Business, he said. Business? says I. I know what sort of business. And there was this girl, and they put her in a French convent; and then when she grew up, he wanted her here. Well, he couldn't very well bring her here while her ladyship lived. He's terrible strict about what's right and wrong ... when it's going to be found out."

"How did you know all this? Did her ladyship know it, Wenna, my dear?"

"Well, she didn't know all. But I don't mind telling 'ee, Mrs. Soady, that just before Miss Maud died, there was a letter ... a letter from foreign parts. He was worried about it. I saw him with it. He was wondering what he could do. He was afraid to bring her here while Miss Maud was alive. Miss Maud asked him to bring her a wrap... . 'Twas on the night the engagement were celebrated. And what did he do ? He went in and read that letter instead. And Miss Maud caught cold and died."

"You mean that was what he wanted ... so he could bring Mamazel here?"

"I didn't say that. 'Twas you who said that, Mrs. Soady."

"My dear soul! I didn't mean it. I know the master to be a good man ... none better. But you really think this be true?"

"I've every reason to believe it, Mrs. Soady. She's his daughter. She's what they do call his illegitimate daughter."

"That be the same as a bastard," said Mrs. Soady in a hushed voice. "Well, I never did!"

"Now, Mrs. Soady, I have took you into my confidence. You'll not breathe a word of it to a soul. 'Tis our secret."

"Why, Wenna, my dear, you can trust me. Not a word. My dear life! The times we do live in!"

"Don't 'ee forget, Mrs. Soady. What the master would do if this got about, I can't say!"

"My dear life! My dear soul! And here's me forgetting that veer we be having for dinner." She rose from the table. Her little eyes were shining; she was not thinking so much about the young sucking pig she was to prepare, as of the strange goings-on of the master of the house.

She would be absent-minded for a while, and Meaker would know she had something on her mind; and old Meaker was almost as much a gossip as she was. He wouldn't let her keep it on her mind; he'd get her to share it.

It would not be long, Wenna reasoned, before the servants' hall would be in the secret; they would all be whispering of the extraordinary relationship between the master and Mamazel.

And soon it would get to the master's ears.

And then, Mamazel, my pretty dear, if I do know the master, you'll be something that has to be hushed up pretty quick; and things that has to be hushed up is put away where nobody can't see them. I reckon I have got rid of you good and proper, that I do!

TWO

October brought the gales. The rain came driving in from the sea, bending the fir trees, beating against the houses, forcing its way through the windows and under the doors; the sea was grey and angry; the fishermen could not fish. They sat disconsolately in the Jolly Sailor, talking, as they talked every year, of the gales that kept a fisherman from his living. The sea mist, like a damp curtain, descended over the land.

"Everything be damp!" declared Mrs. Soady. "My shoes do get the mildew in them overnight."

Mr. Meaker complained of his rheumatics. Peg only was grateful for the weather. It meant that her young fisherman—for Tamson's charm had worked—could not go out, and everyone knew that fishermen kept from the sea needed a terrible lot of comforting.

Melisande was uneasy now and then. She would wonder whether her onion pierced with pins had been as effective as Peg's wax image. Melisande was by nature gay, and the first shock of finding herself in a somewhat alarming position had given place to a certain exhilaration. She must live for the moment. She was only just past sixteen and each week seemed an age in itself; she found she could not think very seriously of the future. As for Fermor she understood his feelings for her. She was certain that she herself was inclined to wickedness. Had not the nuns always told her so ? Fermor was wicked and, like Satan, was tempting her to sin. Any wickedness at the Convent, so said the nuns, had invariably involved Melisande. So now, naturally enough, Fermor was tempting her because he opined that she would be very likely to fall into temptation. One should love the saints and abhor the sinners; but one could not help being very interested in the sinners; and she, poor little orphan, had been excited because, for the first time, someone had spoken to her of love.

No one had talked of love in the Convent. The baker had given her the gateau; and that was friendship. The affection of the Lefevres was also friendship. Sir Charles had brought her here, and that was kindness. But love was like parsnip wine; it went to your head.

So, she decided, she must be forgiven for thinking of him. He was merely tempting her as one of the devils with the pitchforks depicted on the altar cloth, had tempted St. Anthony and St. Francis. She wondered if St. Anthony and St. Francis had enjoyed being tempted.

Peg would often steal to her room to talk to her, for Peg felt that there was a bond between them since they had gone to Tamson's together. Peg would set down the tray and rock on her heels while she talked of her fisherman, twirling her hair, her eyes soft.

Peg thought suddenly that it was on account of Mamazel that she had fallen in love with the fisherman. Before Mamazel had come she had thought a powerful lot of Master Fermor. Peg had to be in love with someone, and Peg was no dreamer; love for her had to be reciprocated. Master Fermor had been absentminded when she had taken in his hot water, and it was because his thoughts were ori Mamazel. So Peg had promptly looked about and found her fisherman.

"I think my spell worked," said Melisande. "Tamson Trequint is wonderful."

"Her's pretty good. Though Mrs. Soady's stye be no better. 'Tis that old tom-cat. He's a terrible creature. There's no magic in him. Mamazel, I never heard of nobody ever wanting love turned from 'em before."

Pegs thoughts struggled for expression, but she could not find the words. She wondered what became of people like Mamazel. Governesses there were, she knew. There were governesses at the Danes-boroughs' and the Leighs'. But they were not the sort whom love could touch. There were companions too. There was the one at Lady Gover's. They were all middle-aged and Peg was vaguely contemptuous of them. But what could governesses and companions do ? There was no one to marry them. They couldn't marry the gentry like Mr. Fermor and Frith Danesborough; and they couldn't marry the miners and the fishermen. It was a sad thing to be a governess or a companion. But to be a young companion—that was a very queer position.

She wondered what would happen to Melisande when Miss Caroline married. Would Miss Caroline take her with her ? She'd be mazed if she did. But could Mamazel stay at the house if she did not? Who could she be companion to ?

It was too complicated for Peg, so she let her thoughts drift back to her fisherman. That was uncomplicated. If anything should come of it they'd marry and she'd go away to his cottage on the quay. Her story was set in a familiar groove. It was Mamazel's which could twist and turn in any direction.

"Mamazel," she said at length, "what'll 'ee do when Miss Caroline do marry?"

Melisande was silent for a while. Then she said: "I ... I don't know."

Peg looked at her with vague sympathy, and Melisande did not want sympathy. She said almost defiantly: "It is a secret, is it not? It is the mystery. How do any one of us know what will become of her? It is that which makes of life an ... excitement. When I was at the Convent, I did not know what was coming. And then one day ... I leave ... I leave the nuns and all that I have known for so many years. I have seen them every day and then ... I never see them any more. It is all a change. There is a new country ... a new house ... new people. Everything is new. It is like stepping from one life to another. That can be a sadness. But it is an excitement to wonder what will happen next."

Peg stopped twirling her hair to stare at Melisande.

Melisande continued: "It may be that I shall go away from here. It may be that I go to a new country, to a new house, to new people." She added, still defiant: "That is how I wish it to be. That is an excitement. You do not know; it is all there before you ... waiting for you ... but you do not know."

There was silence. Melisande had forgotten Peg. She remembered her childish dreams. When the rich woman had come to the Convent for Anne-Marie, Melisande had dreamed that a rich woman came for her, took her away to spend her life eating sweetmeats and wearing a silk dress. That was a foolish dream but it had been pleasant dreaming it. It had helped her over the monotonous days. Now there were other dreams. Perhaps Caroline would fall in love with John Collings and wish to marry him. Perhaps Fermor would discover that he wished to marry Melisande. Perhaps he would change a little. He would still be himself yet there could grow in him a kindness, a tenderness. Anything could happen in dreams, and dreams would not be suppressed. They were as vivid now as they had been in the days when she had dreamed of sweetmeats and silk dresses. Perhaps these dreams were as flimsy, as unlikely of achieving reality?

In the house everyone seemed to be waiting for something to happen.

Sir Charles, often shut away in his study, sitting back from the window, seeing but unseen, watched the girl he had brought into the house. He was aware of the conflict between Fermor and Caroline, and that the most foolish thing he had done in the whole of a fairly-exemplary life was to have become Millie's lover, and the next most foolish thing was to have brought Millie's daughter into his home.

Melisande was her mother reborn, it seemed to Sir Charles. In bringing her here he had sinned against his daughter Caroline, as in loving Millie he had sinned against his wife Maud. He recognized the passion Melisande had aroused in Fermor; he understood it. But what could he do? Could he send Melisande away? He believed that wherever she went Fermor would follow. It seemed there was nothing Sir Charles could do but watch and wait.

Wenna was waiting for the whispers to start. They had not yet begun to spread. Here they were through October and into November, and it was weeks since she had told the secret to Mrs. Soady. The cook was being unusually discreet. Had she whispered the secret to Mr. Meaker and had he warned her to silence ?

Caroline was waiting fearfully. Fermor was affectionate; he talked often of their marriage. She wished that she did not know so much.

Melisande too was waiting. She could not believe that life was not good. Dreams did come true if they were dreamed as vividly as Melisande dreamed them. They would not come true in the way she dreamed them, for she was no seer, no white witch who could see into the future; but nevertheless they would come true.

She wished that she had not gone to the witch in the woods. She had acted impulsively as usual. She should have waited. She should have asked for a spell to make Caroline turn to John Collings and to change Fermor into a loving husband for Melisande.

Surely this must come to pass. Life was a goodness; and Melisande was Fortune's favourite.

Fermor too was waiting. He was experienced and he knew what was passing through Melisande's mind. He was an eagle watching his prey. His emotions alternated between a passion which was almost brutal and an unaccustomed tenderness. He had laid plans for trapping her, but always that unaccountable tenderness would enter like a forbidding parent watching over a recalcitrant child. On the moors she had not known of her feelings. She was young—even younger than her years. That was due to the Convent life when she had been shut away from realities; but she would learn quickly. He could appraise her at times in the same cool manner in which he would select a horse. There was an air of breeding about her and there was too an air of simplicity. He intuitively knew that she was the result of a love affair between a person of breeding and another of humbler station in life—perhaps a lady and her servant, he ruminated; there were such cases. And her education had been given her by the aristocratic partner in her conception and birth.

Sir Charles was aware of the secret of her birth, Fermor felt sure. He had tried to extract that secret; but Sir Charles was determined to communicate nothing. He could imply with a look that he considered vulgar curiosity an unpardonable offence against good manners.

But Fermor hated inactivity. His desires must be satisfied while they were warm and palpitating. He was afraid of his own feelings, though he scarcely liked to admit this. There were times when he thought of marriage with Melisande. It would be disastrous of course. Even here in Cornwall it would be disastrous. What was he going to do with his life? Parliament was what his father had in mind for him. It could be a life of absorbing interest and adventure. To have a hand in government affairs, to make history—that appealed to Fermor. His father had friends in those quarters which would make advancement certain. Peel, Melbourne and Russell were his friends. There were many young men looking for advancement; it would be ridiculous to make the way more difficult by marrying the wrong young woman merely to satisfy a brief passion. Melbourne had figured in an unsavoury divorce case, but Melbourne was a man of power who had been Prime Minister. He had come through, but not exactly untarnished—no one could do that— although he had survived the scandal. Yet it was growing clearer that, in an England where a young queen was becoming more and more influenced by her priggish German husband, there would be a tightening-up of class distinctions, and a misalliance could ruin a man's career.

Moreover Fermor had been moved to passion before. Passion was fleeting. Many women had loved him and he had loved many women. Was he going to be foolish over one? Such folly was for callow young men, for inexperienced boys.

She must be made to see that that for which she hoped was impossible.

His father was asking why he did not return to London. It was imperative for him to attend certain social gatherings. By shutting himself away in the country he was shutting himself away from his opportunities of making valuable friends.

So Fermor decided to end the waiting.

He went to Sir Charles's study.

Charles was nervous. He had expected a call from the young man. He wondered what he would have done in his place. He could never have married Millie, but Melisande was an educated young lady. He could see the temptation. Yet in his young days life had been easier. The conventions had been less rigid in the Georgian era than in that of Victoria.

"I have come to tell you, sir," said Fermor, "that my father isurging me to return to London, and before I go I think we should have a definite date for the marriage. I know Caroline's mother has so recently died and that we are in mourning for her, but in view of the great distance between here and London and the rather special circumstances—our marriage was planned before the tragedy—I wonder whether you will agree that we might hurry on arrangements. Perhaps it would not be considered lacking in respect if the celebrations were quieter than was at first planned."

Charles looked at the young man. He is hard, he thought; harder than I was. He would not have fallen artlessly in love with a little mantua-maker.

Charles felt weary suddenly. It was for all these young people to live their own lives. Melisande must fight her own battles. It was foolish to blame himself, to feel he must shoulder all responsibility. To think as he had been thinking, was to blame or honour every father for what happened to his sons and daughters.

"Do as you think fit," he said. "As you say, these are special circumstances."

"Then," said Fermor, "let us have the wedding here at Christmas. Next week I shall return to London and be back in December."

Sir Charles agreed to this, and when Fermor went out, he was smiling. He had put an end to the waiting.

Melisande wished to be alone.

Her charm had worked after all. Caroline was at last happy.

They were working on the garments for the poor when Caroline said: "Let us not read this morning. I am so excited. The date for my wedding is fixed."

Melisande bent closer over the flannel petticoat which she was stitching.

"It is to be Christmas Day," went on Caroline. "There is not much time. Why, it is less than two months ... six weeks. That is not very long. I want you to take a message to Pennifield this afternoon. Tell her she is to leave everything and come at once. She will be busy during the next few weeks. There is so much to do."

"Yes. There will be much to do."

"Fermor said it was absurd to wait longer. I fear people will talk. A wedding so soon after a funeral! But Fermor says these are special circumstances. To tell the truth I do not think he greatly cares what people say. But our wedding was arranged before Mamma died."

"Yes," Melisande answered, "it is a special circumstance."

Caroline looked at Melisande with something like affection. She thought: After six weeks I shan't see her again. Poor girl! What will she do? I suppose she will go to some other house. But she is so pretty that she is bound to be all right. She might even find some man in a good position to marry her.

Caroline was in love with the world that morning.

Melisande continued to sew in silence.

She envies me, went on Caroline's thoughts. She was sure he was in love with her. She does not know him. He always looked at girls with a speculative eye, and she is nothing more to him than the parlourmaid he kissed when he was fifteen. As his wife she would have to curb her jealousy, to remind herself that such affairs were of little importance to him. Some men drank more than was good for them; Fermor probably did that too. Others gambled. He was doubtless a gambler. He liked women too. One must shut one's eyes to his faults, for with them went so much charm, with them went all that Caroline wanted from life.

Melisande was glad to escape from the sewing-room and Caroline's exuberant chatter. She was glad to escape to her room and glad that Peg brought her luncheon tray to her there.

"My dear life!" cried Peg. "You ain't got much of an appetite."

"I have not a hunger to-day, that is all," she explained.

As soon as possible she set out for the little cottage where Miss Pennifield lived with her sister. Perched on the cliffs it was a minute dwelling place with cob walls and tiny windows. The industrious Misses Pennifield had made the sloping garden a picture with wallflowers, sweet smelling cabbage roses and lavender. There were many cottages like this one in the neighbourhood. There was only one floor which was divided by partitions, made so that they did not reach the ceiling in order that the air might circulate. At the windows were dainty dimity curtains and the coconut matting on the floor was very clean and neatly darned in places. They had some pleasing pieces of furniture which had belonged to their grandparents. There was a buffette fixed high in the wall and as this had glass doors their precious china could be seen. There were two armchairs and a table at which they worked. On the mantelpiece over the tiny fireplace were brass candlesticks, relics of the days when their family had been better off; there were two china dogs and some pieces of brass. Their home was their delight and their apprehension; they were always terrified that they would not have enough money to keep all their possessions. In hard times they had already sold one or two of their treasures. It was a nightmare of both sisters that one day they would grow too old to work and that they would lose their cherished home, bit by bit.

But there was no question of that to-day. The Mamazel had come to tell them of work.

Melisande sat at the table and listened to their twittering chatter.

"Well, there'll be dresses, I vow, and petticoats and all that a young lady would be wanting for her marriage. There b'ain't much time. Six weeks, did you say! Six weeks!"

Miss Janet Pennifield, who was not the expert seamstress that her sister was, and only helped on occasions, took in washing to help the family income. There seemed always to be clothes drying on the rocks and bushes at the back of the cottage.

Now she was brandishing a pair of Italian irons which she called 'Jinny Quicks' and used for ironing the frills on ladies' caps and the like.

"Well, I shall be able to bring home work, I don't doubt," said Miss Pennifield, "and you can give a hand, Janet. Oh, my life, 'tis soon to have a wedding after a funeral, but if Sir Charles consents, you may be sure 'tis right enough."

Melisande was aware that their merry chatter and their gaiety was tinged with relief. They had six weeks of hard work before them—six weeks of security.

"I should be scared if I be asked to do the wedding dress," said Miss Pennifield suddenly.

"You'll do it," said Janet. "You'm the best needlewoman this side of Tamar."

Miss Pennifield turned to Melisande: "You'll take a glass of Janet's elderberry."

"It is so kind, but I have much to do at the house."

"Oh, but Janet's elderberry ... 'tis of the best."

She knew that they would be hurt if she refused; she knew that she must compliment Janet and tell her that it was the best she had tasted and ask them not to tell Jane Pengelly, because many a glass of elderberry had she had at Jane's and she had on as many occasions assured her that it was the finest in the world.

"There!" said Miss Pennifield. "You try that. Just a thimbleful for me, my dear, while you'm about it."

Miss Pennifield stared suddenly at Melisande, the glass in her hand shaking so that she spilled some of the precious elderberry. "But, my dear, I see now why you'm quiet!"

Melisande blushed faintly. Had she conveyed her pity for these two, with their few possessions and their desperate longing for security? "I ... I ..." she began.

Miss Pennifield went on: "What will 'ee be doing ... when Miss Caroline do marry ? I mean 'twill be a new place for 'ee then.

Oh, my dear, 'twas careless of me. I didn't think... . Here we be laughing and drinking elderberry when you ..."

"I will be very well, thank you," said Melisande. "But it is a kindness to think of me."

"I reckon you'll find a nice place," said Miss Pennifield. "There's many as would be glad to have 'ee, I don't doubt a moment. And being with Miss Caroline, well ... 'tweren't all saffron cake and metheglin, was it?"

"No," said Melisande with a little laugh, "it was not."

"Though mind you, she be better now. Sir Charles is a good and kind gentleman. He wouldn't turn 'ee out before you was ready to go. 'Tis a pity Lady Gover be satisfied. I wonder if Miss Danes-borough is in want of a companion. There's Miss Robinson at Leigh House. Now you'd be very happy there teaching Miss Amanda ... if Miss Robinson were to leave."

"It is a goodness to find these places for me. Let us drink. This is a delicious."

Miss Pennifield insisted on refilling her glass. Janet was nodding her sympathy. They were embarrassed, both of them, because they had rejoiced in their good fortune which might so easily turn out to be bad fortune for the little Mamazel.

When she said she must go they did not seek to detain her and she was glad to hurry out into the damp warmth of the November afternoon.

She hesitated at the top of the cliff and looked down into the sandy cove bounded on one side by a formation of rocks and on the other by the short stone jetty.

The sea, silent in the misty light, was like a sheet of dull grey silk to-day. Without thinking very much where she was going she started down the cliff side.

There was a narrow footpath, very steep and stony. Now and then she paused to cling to a bush, and wondered why she had chosen this difficult descent. The path came to an abrupt end and was lost among a clump of thick bushes. She slipped, caught a prickly bush and gave a little gasp of pain. Ruefully she examined her hand and looked back the way she had come. She saw the narrow footpath winding upwards and it looked steeper than ever. She decided that she would continue with the downward climb. The tide was out and she would walk along the shore past Plaidy to Milendreath. It was a long way round, but she wished for solitude.

She looked out to sea. The gulls were swooping and drifting. Their cries were mournful and the thought came to her that they were saying goodbye to her.

The visit to the Pennifield cottage had depressed her. Of course she would have to go away. There would be no excuse for her to stay.

She would have to go to another house—as a companion or a governess. It would all be so different. She thought sadly of Sir Charles's coming to the Convent, of the happy time in Paris. But Sir Charles at Trevenning was a different man from the one she had known in that first week of their acquaintance. As they had come nearer and nearer to Trevenning he had seemed more and more remote.

Perhaps she could ask Caroline or Sir Charles what was to happen to her when Caroline married. And standing there on the cliffs she was aware of a surging anger. Why should her destiny always be dictated by others ? Why should she not manage her own affairs ? Yet how could it be otherwise? She had discovered a little of what happened to the people who were alone in the world. She remembered some of the poor whom she had seen in Paris and London; she recalled the man whom she had seen whipped through the streets of Liskeard; and as long as she lived she would never forget the mad woman chained in the cottage.

"What will become of you?" Fermor had challenged. And he had one solution to offer her.

She could hear his voice:

"I will love you all the day, Every night would kiss and play, If with me you'll fondly stray Over the hills and far away ..."

But where was 'Over the hills and far away' ? Whither would he take her if she put her hand in his and allowed him to lead her?

She was afraid ... afraid of the pride within her, the desire to mould her own destiny. The Misses Pennifield, shaking their heads over her, had pictured her eagerly trying to please new employers, and there was no mistaking their pity. They knew; and she herself was ignorant. She was in that station of life to which they had been called; but she had received some education and perhaps because of that she found it harder to accept her lot. She had seen Lady Gover's companion, a sad elderly lady whose face had no animation in it, no love of life. Melisande had seen the same dull, deprecating look in the face of the Leighs' governess.

That was the life of virtue. Fermor was offering another life—the life of sin. And now here alone, with no one in sight, she knew that the nuns had been right to fear for her.

As she stood still considering which way to go, a high-pitched voice suddenly said in perfect French: "Mademoiselle, you cannot get down that way."

"Who is that?" she cried in French, looking about her.

"You cannot see me, can you? I am a bandit. You should be very frightened, Mademoiselle. If I wished, I could kill you and drink your blood for supper."

The voice was that of a child and she said with a laugh: "I wish you would show yourself.''

"You speak French very well, Mademoiselle. No one else here does ... except me and Leon."

"I should. I was brought up in France. But where are you? And is Leon with you?"

"No, he is not here. If you can find me I will take you to safety."

"But I can't see you."

"Look about you. You cannot expect to see without looking."

"Are you in that clump of bushes?"

"Go and see."

"It is too high up."

There was a slight movement on her right and a boy appeared. He was small and looked about six years old; his bright dark eyes glowed in his olive-skinned face and he wore a wreath of seaweed round his head. He had an air of extreme arrogance.

"You are not a pisky, are you?" asked Melisande.

He said with the utmost dignity: "No. I am Raoul de la Roche, at your service, Mademoiselle."

"I am glad of that. I need your service. I should be glad if you could show me an easy way down."

"I know a good way down. I discovered it. I will take you if you like."

"That is kind of you."

"Come this way."

It was difficult to believe he could be as young as he looked. He had such an air of seriousness. He noticed her eyes on the seaweed and took it off.

"It was a disguise," he said. "I was hiding in my cave there, and I wore it to frighten people ... if they should come. I did not wish them to come. I have been watching you. You did look scared. Only I can climb up here."

She was amused by his emphasis on the personal pronoun; it conveyed a certain contempt for the rest of the world and a great respect for Monsieur Raoul de la Roche.

"Do you live here?" she asked.

He led the way, answering: "We are staying here for my health, Leon and I. My health is not good, they say. Are you here for your health?"

"No. I am here as a companion, which means ..."

"I know," he said quickly. "Leon is my companion."

"Oh, but you see, I'm a paid companion."

"So is Leon, and he's my uncle too. Fm called old-fashioned. I make people smile. It's because I've lived with grown-up people, and I like reading better than games, really."

"You're very unusual, I'm sure," said Melisande with a smile, for his arrogance was amusing.

"Yes, I know," he said. "They're trying to make me more usual... . Not quite usual, of course, but more usual. That's why I'm here with Leon."

"Where is Leon now?"

"Down there."

"He doesn't mind your climbing about?"

"Oh, no. It is good for me. I do it to please Leon. I play bandits and disguise myself with seaweed to please him. It is good for me, the doctors say."

"But you enjoy it, I'm sure. You sounded as though you did when you called out about drinking my blood."

"A little perhaps. Otherwise I should not do it. You are French also?"

"I suppose so. I lived in France ... in a convent. I am not sure whether my parents were French or not."

"You are an orphan. I too am an orphan."

"Then we are of a kind."

"This is a steep bit. You may slip."

"I'll follow in your footsteps."

"When I am strong I shall swim. That will be good for my health. You should tell me your name. I must introduce you to Leon."

"It is St. Martin. Melisande St. Martin."

He nodded and went on. "There is Leon over there. He has seen us."

A tall thin man was coming towards them; there was a book in his hand; between him and the boy there was a slight resemblance.

"Leon!" cried the boy. "This is Mademoiselle St. Martin. She may be French. She does not know. She is an orphan as I am. She was lost but I showed her the way down."

"Good afternoon," said Melisande.

When he smiled he was very pleasant. "Good afternoon," he said. "So my nephew has made your acquaintance."

"He was kind enough to bring me down."

"I am glad he was of use."

"It was easy to me" boasted the boy.

"Raoul, Raoul!" admonished the man softly, but he smiled indulgently. He turned to Melisande. "Forgive his exuberance. He is really delighted to have helped."

"I am sure he is. You are living here for the winter, he tells me."

"Yes, we have taken a house. It is a great comfort to meet someone with whom we can talk with ease."

"I find it a great comfort," said the boy. "I told Mademoiselle St. Martin that the people here speak either very bad French or no French at all."

"Well, that is good for you," said Melisande. "It will teach you to speak English all the quicker."

"And when they do speak we can't understand," said the man. "I thought I had a fair knowledge of English, but I cannot understand that which is spoken here."

"It is a mixture of Cornish and English," said Melisande.

"I shall engage Mademoiselle as my interpreter!" said the boy.

The man said quickly: "I very much doubt that she would be willing to give you her services. You must forgive Raoul, Mademoiselle St. Martin. He is ten years old and we have brought him here to make him strong on cream and pasties. We have come for the climate which is supposed to be warmer than the east of England. Last winter we were in Kent. That was very cold. How I am talking! You must forgive me. It is because I have had to pick my words and stumble for so long."

"There are just the two of you?"

"We have brought our servants with us. They are not French."

"They are Kentish, and from London some of them," said Raoul, who clearly did not like to be left out of the conversation. "I thought they were hard to understand until we came here. The people here are far worse speakers."

"Well, I must say thank you for bringing me down," said Melisande, turning to Raoul.

"But you must not go yet!" said the boy, making it sound like a command.

"Oh, but I have to get back. I work here. I came out to take a message, and it is going to take me longer to get home round by the shore as I intended. So I must say goodbye."

"Let us walk with Mademoiselle," said Raoul.

"Let us ask first if she will allow us to do so."

"I should be delighted," said Melisande.

"I shall not be tired," said the boy. "I have had my afternoon sleep."

They walked over the rocks to the patches of sand.

"I hope we shall be able to meet again some time," said the man. "Gould you visit us, I wonder?"

The boy's darting attention had been caught by the living creatures in a rock pool and he stooped to examine them.

"I am only a companion here; you understand that?"

"I too am a companion of sorts."

"The little boy explained."

"He is delicate," said the man quietly. "He is clever and imaginative and full of high spirits, but bodily weak. I am afraid he has been rather spoiled because of this ... and because of other things. It is my task to look after him. I gather that you—a poor young lady —are companion to a rich woman. I—a poor man—am companion to a rich little boy."

"He said you were his uncle."

"The relationship is not so close as that. He thinks of me as his uncle. I am really only a second cousin. You see, you and I are in similar positions. I look after him. I teach him. I guard his health. That is my task."

"It must be very pleasant."

"I am fond of him, though at times things are a little difficult. As you have gathered he has been a little spoiled; but at heart he is the best little fellow in the world. Tell me, Mademoiselle, do you expect to stay here for a long time?"

"I don't know. I came here not very long ago as a companion to Miss Trevenning. Trevenning is the name of the house. Perhaps you know it. She is to be married soon ... after that ... I am not sure."

"And when will she be married?"

"On Christmas Day."

"That is some weeks ahead!"

"Why yes."

"I am glad. We must meet during that time. Compatriots in a foreign land must be friends."

The boy had come up. He was animated as he discussed the creatures he had been studying in the pool. His face was slightly pink and he was breathless; the knees of his knicker-bockers were damp.

The man said: "But you have got wet. We must go back at once."

"I do not wish to go back. I wish to stay and talk with Mademoiselle."

"But you must go back at once. You must change your clothes. Why, Mrs. Clark would be angry if you stayed out in wet clothes."

The boy's face was stubborn. He said: "It is not for Mrs. Clark to do anything but what I wish her to."

The man turned to Melisande as though he had not heard the boy's remark. "Mrs. Clark is our housekeeper," he explained. "A wonderful person. We are very fond of Mrs. Clark."

"All the same," said the boy, "she may not say when I have to go in and when I may stay out."

"Come," said the man, "I am sure Mademoiselle St. Martin will forgive us if we hurry away."

"Indeed I will, and I must hurry myself," said Melisande. "I must say goodbye ... quickly. Goodbye."

"Au revoir!" said the man. "We shall be on the beach to-morrow."

"If it is possible I may see you then."

She did not look at the boy's sullen face. She felt a sudden pity for the man who was poor and in charge of the spoilt rich little boy. She felt sorry for all those who were poor and must pander to the rich.

"Thank you," she said to Raoul, "for showing me the way down."

His face brightened. He seemed to have recovered from his sullenness. "Au revoir, Mademoiselle. I shall look for you to-morrow."

"Then goodbye. Au revoir. "

She hurried on, making her way rapidly until she came to Plaidy beach, where she left the shore and scrambled up the steep path away from the sea.

She heard a laugh and her name was being called.

She recognized Fermor's voice.

"Who was the friend?" he called, sauntering towards her.

"Friend?"

"I'll tell you right away. I saw the encounter. I heard you were going to the Pennifields and came to meet you. I was at the top of the cliffs and saw you with your friends."

She felt that mingling of pleasure and apprehension which being alone with him could not fail to bring.

He had come very close. "You look as though you think I'm one of the gorgons and about to turn you to stone."

She stepped backwards and said quickly: "It is so strange that they should be French, and that I should have met them like that."

"How did it happen?"

"I was going down the cliff and found it rather difficult. The little boy came out of a cave in which he was playing bandits. He helped me down."

"And took you to Papa?"

"It is not his father—a second cousin."

"You've quickly become acquainted with the family tree. You enjoyed the company of the second cousin."

"You have very good eyes."

"My eyes are as those of a hawk ... where you are concerned."

"You make me feel like a field mouse waiting for the swooping. You should not have such ideas. I am not to be seized and carried off by a hawk. Now I must hurry back to the house. I am late."

"You spent too much time with your new friends, little field mouse. Perhaps I should say shrew mouse. You are becoming shrewish."

"It is good that you think so. Field mice are poor pretty things; but shrew mice are not so pretty. Perhaps they are not so well liked by hawks."

"They are even more popular. And did you know that the best sort of hawks are noted for their patience?"

"Are you still thinking of that offer you made me?"

"I have never ceased to think of it."

"What ... even now ... with your wedding day fixed!"

"It is a thing apart from weddings."

"You have made that very clear to me. I wonder if you have explained to Caroline also?"

"You must not be a silly little shrew mouse. You must be grownup. Of course Caroline knows nothing of it."

"What if I told her? If you ever try to see me alone again I will tell her."

"What!" he said lightly. "Blackmail?"

"You are the wickedest person I have ever met in the whole of my life. I did not know anyone could be so wicked."

"Then it is time you learned. You could reform me, you know. Now, there is a task for you. If you will love me—if you admit you love me, for of course you love me—you will see how charming I am ... how good, how tender, how devoted."

"I wish to hurry back."

"Do you imagine I cannot keep pace with you?"

"I would rather be alone."

"But I would rather be with you."

"Do you never do what others want ? Is it always what you want ?"

"Well, what about yourself? Are you doing what others want? Now if you were as unselfish as you would like me to be, you would say: 'Well, I know I shouldn't, but because he wants me so much I must please him. That would be unselfish, and I am so good, so kind—in fact such a little martyr, that I must sacrifice myself since my own desires count for nothing.' "

"You twist everything. You are flippant. If Caroline knew you as you really are she would not love you."

"But you love me, in spite of all you know of me?"

She walked quickly but he quickened his pace. She broke into a run.

"You can't keep that up ... not on these steep paths." He caught her arm.

"Please do not touch me."

"You have commanded too long." He laughed as she would have wrenched herself free. "You see, it is of no use. If you struggle you will merely become exhausted, and here we are alone. You may call for help and who will come ? Your brave little bandit and the handsome second cousin are far away. And if they did hear you they would find it a different matter rescuing you from me than from the cliff path. You are at my mercy."

"You tell so many lies. "

"No. It is you who pretend. You cannot distinguish between what you want and what you think you ought to want. When I said: 'You are at my mercy!' your eyes sparkled at the thought. Do you think I don't understand! You could say then: 'It was not my fault!' What joy! To be forced to what you dare not do yet long to. What could be better? Shall I give you that satisfaction? I love you so much that I am greatly tempted to please you so."

"You say the most cruelly cynical things I have ever heard. I did not know there were people like you."

"How could you? How long have you been in the world? We don't haunt the Convent precincts hoping to seduce holy nuns."

He allowed her to escape and she began to walk on rapidly.

"I wish to be serious," he said, catching up with her and taking her arm. "We have so little opportunity to talk. I am going to London at the end of the week. Ah, that saddens you."

"No. It is a pleasure for me. It is the best news I have heard for a long time."

"The coward in you is delighted, but is that the true Melisande? No! I do not believe it. In reality you are sad. Now there is no need to be sad, only sensible. Tell me, what will you do when you get away from here?"

"That is my affair."

"Let us be sensible and make it mine too."

"I do not see how it can be yours."

"You need to be protected."

"I am able to protect myself."

"When I say you need a protector I use the word in the fashionable sense. You may protect yourself with your wits, but they will tell you that without help they cannot provide you with the necessities of life. For that you need a human protector."

"Please understand that I shall be my own protector."

"How? In the house of some disagreeable woman?"

"Are all women who employ governesses and companions disagreeable?"

"Most are—to their governesses and companions."

"Well, that appears to be my lot in the world and I must bear it."

"So you will be resigned to that state of life to which God has called you?"

"I must make it good."

"It will not be good. It is hateful for a girl of your spirit. It is so undignified. I wish I could marry you. Why weren't you Caroline and Caroline you ? How virtuous I should have been then! I should have been a model wooer. Goodness is a result of circumstances. Has that occurred to you ? I believe that if a marriage between us had been arranged I should have been a faithful husband."

"People become good by adjusting themselves to their circumstances, not by arranging the circumstances to suit themselves. That is the difference between good and bad surely."

"Now, Mademoiselle, you are not the Mother Superior of that Convent of yours, lecturing a miscreant. If the world does not suit me, I must make it suit me. Look, my dear, you are young and inexperienced; you have dogmatic ideas about life. I am being very serious now. Let me find a house for you where you can live discreetly. It shall be secure as a marriage. Everything you want in the world will be yours."

"This is like Satan and his temptations. You think to show me the kingdoms of the world."

"The kingdoms of the world are well worth having."

"At the expense of what one knows to be right?"

"When you have endured the indignities your careless employers will not hesitate to put upon you, when you have suffered at their hands—even been unable to find employment at all—then perhaps you will not despise those kingdoms of comfort... and more than comfort ... of affection and friendship as well as passion and all the love I will give you."

"You speak with much persuasion, but you cannot disguise your wickedness. If you were unhappily married and spoke thus to me there would be a difference. But while you plan to marry you make these plans ... with the cold blood ... on the eve of your wedding."

"There is nothing cold-blooded about me. You will, I prophesy, ere long discover that."

She was silent and he went on gently: "Melisande, of what do you think?"

"Of you."

"I knew it. Now that you are in a truthful mood, admit that you think of me continually."

"I think a good deal of you ... and Caroline. I wish that I had lived more in the world. I wish I could understand you more."

He put his arm about her. "Give yourself time to understand me. Try to cast aside most of what these nuns have taught you of the world. It is all very well for them, living their shut-in lives. What were their lives—living death, mere existence. You don't know what is to be found in the world—what joy, what pleasure. I will show you. Yes, I am offering you the kingdoms of the world. But you see, my dearest Melisande, life is not the simple thing of black and white that those nuns have painted for you. They believed they were teaching you the truth. They know no other. Poor little cowards ... afraid of the world! People like you and I should be afraid of nothing."

"But we are both afraid. I am afraid of what I have been taught is sin. You say that you wish they had chosen me to marry you. Then, if you are not afraid, why should you not make your own choice ? You are afraid ... even as I am. You are afraid of opinion ... of the convention. You are afraid of marrying outside your own social class. That, it seems to me, is more cowardly than being afraid of what one has been taught is sinful."

He was nonplussed for a while. Then he said: "It is not fear. It is the certain knowledge that a marriage between us would be impossible."

"You may dress it up as you like. You can call it certain knowledge. I call it fear, and I call you a coward. You are not afraid to face any man single-handed; you are not afraid of an angry mob. That is because you are big and strong ... in your body. But in your mind you are not strong; and it is in your mind that you are afraid. You are afraid of what people may say and do; you are afraid they will not help you to the position you want. That is a fear. It is a worse fear than being afraid because the body is not strong enough to fight."

"You mistake wisdom for fear."

"Do I? Then please go on being wise ... and so will I!"

He said: "I've hurt you. I've been too frank. In other words, I've been a fool. I've shown you too much of myself. I don't know why I did it. I ought to have waited ... to have caught you unaware."

"You are too interested in yourself, Monsieur. You think yourself irresistible. That is not the case as far as I am concerned."

He caught her angrily and kissed her. She could not hold him off, but she knew that she did not want to. She was shaken at having to admit to herself that, if he had made his proposals at a time other than when he was planning marriage to Caroline, she might have been unable to resist them.

She must fight him. He must never know how near she was to submission. She must continually see him as he really was, not as she was trying to believe he must be.

"Do you think I don't understand you?" he said as though reading her thoughts.

"You are clever at self-deception, I do not doubt."

"You attack me with your tongue, but you betray yourself in other ways."

"You have a high opinion of yourself. If it pleases you, keep it, Monsieur."

"Do not call me Monsieur as though I am one of your prinking Frenchmen."

"If I were so misguided as to do as you wish, we should spend our lives in quarrelling."

"Our sort of quarrels can be more stimulating than agreement."

"I do not find them stimulating ... only an irritation."

"That is why your cheeks grow scarlet, your eyes blaze and you are a hundred times more attractive when you are with me than with anyone else."

"I must return. Caroline will wonder what has happened to me. I should not take all day to visit Miss Pennifield and ask her to make dresses for Caroline's marriage to you." She hurried on.

"Melisande!" he called. "Don't go yet."

She answered over her shoulder: "You had better not come any farther with me. You would not wish Caroline to see you with me, you brave man."

She heard herself laugh, but it was shrill laughter. She hoped he did not notice that there was a note of hysteria in it.

"Melisande," he repeated. "Melisande."

But he did not follow her now. We are too near the house, she thought; and he has too much wisdom. Poor Caroline! And poor Melisande!

Fermor had gone to London and Trevenning was a different place without him. It is as though an evil spirit has departed, thought Melisande; but how dull was the place without him!

Life had become more simple, it seemed. Everybody appeared to be happy. Caroline spent hours with Miss Pennifield, trying on the garments for her trousseau. They had discovered that Melisande, whilst being a poor needlewoman, could made suggestions about dresses, add an ornament—or take one away—so that the effect was transformed.

"It is your French blood," said Caroline, now sweet and friendly. "The French are wonderfully clever at such things."

"Mamazel certainly has the touch!" cried Miss Pennifield. "Why, Miss Caroline, when you are married you will be wanting her with you to help you with your clothes."

Poor blind Miss Pennifield! thought Melisande. Unwittingly she had shattered the peace.

But the gloom quickly passed and Caroline forgot her fears, and when Miss Pennifield retired to the sewing-room and Caroline suggested that she and Melisande should read together from a French book, she said: "By the way, I hear there are some French people in the neighbourhood. Everyone is agog. They find them amusing."

"I know," said Melisande; "we have met."

"Really?"

"Yes. It was when I went to Miss Pennifield's cottage last week. I tried to get down the cliffs but it was very steep; the little boy was playing there and he guided me down. His guardian, who is also his cousin, was on the beach. The little boy introduced us."

"That must have been fun."

"Yes, it was fun. They were very pleased to speak French. They said they could not understand the English of the people here and I explained they were Cornish ... not English."

"It must be pleasant to meet people from your own country."

"It was a ... niceness."

"I expect you all chattered away in great excitement."

"Perhaps. I have met them since. They were lonely and, as you say, it was good to speak French. I have seen them once or twice since."

"You must know more about them than anyone else." Caroline smiled. "I have heard that the boy is rich and used to having his own way with everyone. He's the master of the household and knows it. Mrs. Clark is quite a gossip. They say here that she is a regular Sherborne."

"A Sherborne? I do not know that."

"Oh, it's an old saying that goes back to the days when there was only one newspaper which came all the way from Sherborne. It was the Sherborne Mercury, I believe. They say here, when anyone is a bit of a gossip, that he or she is a regular Sherborne."

Melisande laughed. She had never been on such happy terms with Caroline.

"Well," went on Caroline, "Mrs. Clark says they belong to an old French family—aristocrats. One branch lost its possessions in the revolution; the other survived and escaped. The boy belongs to the rich de la Roches and the man to the poor branch of the family; but if the boy should die the fortune will go to the man. Mrs. Clark is full of sympathy for the man; she says the boy is a handful."

"The regular Sherborne is, I should say, quite right. The boy is amusing but it is not good for one so young to know his power. The man is very kind and tolerant."

"Have you met them often?"

"Once or twice."

Caroline smiled to herself. She was very interested in the foreigners and particularly in the man. It pleased her that he and Melisande had become friends. It seemed to her that this man might provide a solution which would prove satisfactory to everyone concerned.

This was a great occasion. Everyone in the house was talking about it. Sir Charles, Miss Caroline and the Mamazel had all been invited to dine at the rectory with the Danesboroughs.

" 'Tis the first time," said Mr. Meaker, "that I ever heard of a companion going out to visit social like with the family ... unless, of course she was a poor relation."

Mrs. Soady sat at the head of the table cutting up the pasties so that the savour of onions made everyone's mouth water. She said nothing, but the curve of her lips told them all clearly that if she had chosen to speak she could have startled them.

Mr. Meaker seemed slightly irritated. If she knew something it was a matter of servants' hall etiquette to impart it—at least to Mr. Meaker.

"Well, Mrs. Soady," he said, "you don't think it be strange then?"

Mrs. Soady paused with the knife and fork gracefully poised above the pasty. "Mr. Meaker, I can't say. I be as surprised as you, and that's all I'm in a position to say."

"I've been in some big houses," said Mr. Meaker, "and I repeat: I've never seen it before unless it was a poor relation."

"As a regular thing you be right, Mr. Meaker."

"Of course," said Peg, "she's very pretty."

"And educated better than a lady," put in Bet; "though that might go against her—some holding that education ain't all that ladylike."

"Mr. Danesborough," said the footman, "is never one to stand on ceremony ... parson though he may be."

"And related to a lord," added Mr. Meaker.

Everyone was looking at Mrs. Soady who, as she served up the pasties, was smiling knowingly at her secret.

"It do make you think," said Peg, "that this Mamazel ... be somebody."

That made Mrs. Soady dimple.

She do know something! thought Mr. Meaker. 'Tis something about the Mamazel.

From now on it was going to be Mr. Meaker's special task to prise that secret out of Mrs. Soady.

To Melisande it was a great occasion. It was to be the first time she wore the dress bought in Paris for such an occasion, the dress with the frilled skirt and its accompanying sousjupe crinoline. She had cleverly made a rose from pieces of silk and velvet which Miss Pennifield had given her. This she tucked into her corsage, and it gave a youthfulness to the Paris gown, and the green of the rose's stalk and leaf matched her eyes.

Caroline came into the room. She was wearing a blue silk dress, a charming dress she had thought it and one of her most becoming, but as soon as she looked at Melisande she felt it to be dowdy. How could Melisande afford such a dress? And why should a simple gown look so much more becoming than all the blue silk frills and tucks which had taken so many of Miss Pennifield's hours to create?

Caroline felt that if Fermor had been in the house she would have hated Melisande.

"What a lovely dress!" said she. "It's quite plain ... apart from the flower. Oh, it is a lovely flower!"

"You have it," said Melisande.

"No, no. It is for your dress. I can see that." Caroline forced herself to smile. "Mr. Danesborough has a special reason for asking you."

"A special reason?"

"Wait and see. A surprise. A rather nice one, I think."

Melisande looked very excited and Caroline thought: She is so young, so fresh and charming. No wonder she attracts him. But for him I should have enjoyed keeping her as my companion.

Melisande was thinking: What a pity! It is Fermor who makes the trouble. She is pleased because there is to be a nice surprise for me. And what is it ? What can it be ? What a nice quiet happiness there is without him!

Later, riding in the carriage with Sir Charles and Caroline, she felt that she belonged to them, and that was what she could only call a great pleasantness.

Sir Charles talked to them both. He was eager to know how Caroline was progressing with her French lessons.

"She progresses well," said Melisande.

"And you are enjoying your riding?"

"That has been a great enjoyment," she told him.

Melisande waited eagerly. Perhaps now he would tell her that soon she must go. Surely they must tell her soon and, now that they were here talking so intimately, that would be a good time?

But neither he nor Caroline said anything about her leaving them.

"I daresay Caroline keeps you and Miss Pennifield busy with the sewing for her wedding."

"Yes, Papa. Mademoiselle St. Martin has very good taste."

"Undoubtedly she has."

He closed his eyes to indicate that he did not wish for more conversation. He was disturbed to be travelling with them both like this. They brought back such memories to him of Maud and Millie, for each was sufficiently like her mother to remind him. He was greatly disturbed by this beautiful young girl. He was wondering what he was going to do with her when Caroline went away. He had a daring scheme. He was thinking of installing her as housekeeper. What would the servants have to say to that! She was popular with them, but to set a young girl in such a position, so that she was the equal of Mrs. Soady and Mr. Meaker! It might cause trouble. It might even do worse. It might cause conjecture. He was terrified of that.

He had hoped in the first place that Caroline would take her away with her when she married. That would have been the best solution. Eventually he might have found a suitable husband for her. But, of course, she could not go with Caroline. He had reckoned without Fermor.

It was a very daring proposition this—to keep her in the house, to create a position for her. He would have to proceed very warily, for there was one thing he could not endure: scandal which might result in exposure.

He was glad that Wenna would leave with Caroline. He would certainly be glad to see the back of that woman.

Caroline had told him of Melisande's encounter with the Frenchman. Danesborough had, in his usual manner, quickly made the acquaintance of the young man and his precious charge. It was Sir Charles who had suggested that Caroline's companion should be invited to meet the young Frenchman; and Danesborough, who had asked de la Roche for dinner extended the invitation to Melisande without hesitation.

Danesborough was a broad-minded man; and Sir Charles had pointed out that, although she was in poor circumstances, Melisande was a girl of education.

They had arrived at the Danesboroughs' and in the drawing-room, Mr. Danesborough with his sister, who was the chatelaine of the household since the death of Mrs. Danesborough, greeted them warmly.

There were other guests and among them Melisande saw, with surprise and pleasure, Leon de la Roche.

"Ah, Mademoiselle St. Martin!" cried the jovial Mr. Danesborough, "I am so glad you have come. Monsieur de la Roche has been telling me how you and he were introduced by young Raoul "

"It is so," said Melisande. "He rescued me and introduced me. It was a double kindness."

Mr. Danesborough was clearly enchanted with her. Sir Charles, he said, had told him of her learning but had not prepared him for her beauty. He had promised Monsieur de la Roche that he should take her in to dinner; Mr. Danesborough implied that he envied Monsieur de la Roche.

And here was Leon de la Roche himself. To Melisande he looked different in this new setting—remote, less friendly, a pale stranger; but there was no doubt of his pleasure in seeing her.

"I am delighted," he said in his own tongue.

She answered in French: "I had no idea that you would be here. You must be the surprise. Caroline told me there was a surprise. A rather nice one, she said." She laughed. She felt young and carefree. This house held no memories of Fermor, and chatting with Leon she could forget all about him. She began to chatter of how excited she was to come out to dinner. "I have never before been out to dinner. It is my first dinner party. Of course, I have had supper with the servants in the servants' hall. Such things there are to eat! And that is great fun. But this is grand ... and how different you look! And I too, I daresay."

"You look charming. You always look charming. But to-night you are very beautiful."

"It is the dress. It is beautiful. I longed to wear it, but this is the only suitable occasion there has been. I hope there will be other suitable occasions ... many, many of them."

"So do I. It is a delightful dress."

"It is French. That is why you like it. The flower is English though. Made with these hands from cuttings given by Miss Pennifield. So perhaps it is half French ? She gave the material; I made the flower. I have been wondering if I can earn my living making flowers."

"You go too fast. Why should you earn your living making flowers?"

"If it should be necessary," she said. "Who knows? It would be a little accomplishment."

"But you have many accomplishments."

"I do not know them. You are to take me in to dinner. Mr. Danesborough told me."

"I am delighted."

"Isn't it fun ... meeting properly like this ... not just a chance encounter on the seashore, and I promise to be there if we can arrange it and it does not rain!"

"It is. But it was also fun on the seashore ... the greatest fun."

"And fun to be talking French as loudly as we like. Few, if any of them, know what we are saying."

"It makes us seem apart. I can't tell you how glad I am to find you here. Mr. Danesborough is an interesting man. He called on us and told me a good deal about the neighbourhood ... past and present. Raoul has taken a fancy to his son Frith who came with him."

"His son?"

"He's not here to-night. He's home for the holidays, I think. Too young for dinner parties. Although I doubt whether he is much younger than you are."

"It is an advantage to be out in the world. Then you come to dinner parties and renew acquaintance with interesting people whom you meet on the beach."

They went in to dinner together. It was delightful, thought Melisande, to walk in a sort of crocodile, your hand resting lightly on the arm of a gentleman. It reminded her of another crocodile— by its very difference.

The table was a magnificent sight to Melisande, with its flower centre-piece and cutlery. Everything was wonderful to-night, she decided. She refused to think of Fermor; she refused to think beyond to-night. She found herself between Leon and Sir Charles, and felt immediately at home.

Sir Charles was talking to a lady on his right, but she could not but be aware that he was listening to what she and Leon were saying, although she doubted whether he could follow their rapid French.

"How is Raoul?" she asked.

"Quite well. This place suits him. He likes it, so we shall stay here."

She smiled. "It seems strange ... a small boy to make the decisions."

"It is an unusual position. Sometimes I think he would be better surrounded by children of his own age."

"Those who did not let him have so much of his own way perhaps. Has he been long in your charge?"

"Since he was five years old. That was when his mother died. Poor Raoul! He belongs to a tragic family. His grandmother was a young woman at the time of the revolution. She was at the court— a close friend of Marie Antoinette. She was imprisoned and suffered much hardship. It undermined her health. But by some extraordinary good fortune she was released. She was one of those who escaped the guillotine. But there were many who lived and suffered through the revolution."

His expression was mournful, and she thought: What a sad face he has! She longed to make him smile. The smile of a sad person, she decided, was a charming thing, because it came so rarely. She was again thinking of Fermor with his brash gaiety How different was this man! His gentle melancholy appealed to her the more because she had known Fermor.

"Raoul is yet another victim,'' he said.

"Raoul! After all these years!"

"His grandmother escaped, but months in the Conciergerie had ruined her health. She was only seventeen when she was freed, and then she married. She died just after her daughter was born. That daughter was Raoul's mother. She too was fragile. You see, the same disease, the disease of the Conciergerie, was passed on to her. She married. Raoul was born; she died as her mother had, and her sickness began to show itself in Raoul."

"That is terrible!" said Melisande. "To pass on a weakness so. It seems as if a bad thing will live for ever."

"There is hope for Raoul. More is known of these things now. When his father—my cousin—died, he left Raoul in my charge. He asked me to look after him, to educate him, to watch over his health. I have done so for four years."

"That is good of you."

"I don't want to masquerade under false colours. I was poor ... very poor. My family, you see, lost everything during the Terror. Estates ... fortune ... everything gone. I had nothing. My wealthy cousin, in leaving me in charge of his son, was also providing for me."

"Well, perhaps you are fortunate. You have the little boy and your good health."

"You are a comforter," he said, smiling his gentle melancholy smile.

"You have a longing for a different life?"

"We lost much. As you so properly remind me, I have good health, and that is the most important of all possessions. The canaille left my family that—which is more than they did poor Raoul's. You are not eating. I distract you from your food."

She smiled. "And it is all so good! This delicious fish! This sparkling wine! How I love it! But your story is more exciting than fish or wine. To-morrow and the next day ... food and drink are forgotten. But I shall remember your story as long as I live."

"Do you remember other people's stories so vividly then?"

"Yes."

"I wonder why?"

"Is it because so little has happened to me? Perhaps. I still remember old Therese, at the Convent, who used to peer at everyone, and how it was said in the town that she was really looking for her Jean-Pierre whom she had loved so long ago. ... I remember Anne-Marie who went away with a rich woman in a carriage. Yes, I think I remember every little detail of what happened to other people. Perhaps it is because, when I hear these stories, I feel that I am the person to whom they are happening. I was old Therese, peering about for her Jean-Pierre; and I was Anne-Marie going away in a carriage. I was poor Raoul's grandmother growing ill in the Conciergerie. When things like that happen you cannot forget ... even if they only happen in your mind."

"You are interested in other people's lives because you have a sympathetic nature."

"That is flattery perhaps. Sister Therese said I was inquisitive ... the most inquisitive child she ever knew, and inquisitiveness is a sin"

"I think that in you it is a charming sin."

"How can a sin be charming?"

"Most sins charm, don't they? Is that not why people find them difficult to resist?"

Fleetingly she thought of that charming sinner whom she was trying in vain to banish from her mind. But there he was—recalled by a few words.

"I think," she said, "that this is becoming an irreligious conversation." She laughed. The wine had made her eyes sparkle and Sir Charles, turning to her, looked into her animated face and said: "May I know the joke?"

"I was saying to Monsieur de la Roche that I am very inquisitive, and that is a sin or a near-sin; and he says that sins usually charm and that is why they are difficult to resist."

"And are you so very inquisitive?"

"I fear so."

There was a lull in the conversation during which Mr. Danes-borough was heard to refer to Joseph Smith, the founder of that strange sect called the Mormons, who had been murdered that year.

They all found the Mormons a fascinating topic, and the subject was taken up with animation round the table.

"Of what do they speak?" asked Leon de la Roche.

"Oh, the Mormons—a religious sect of America. I know little of them except that their religion allows them to have many wives."

"I have no doubt," Mr. Danesborough was saying, "that Mr. Brigham Young will follow in Smith's footsteps."

"They say he already has ten wives," said the lady on Mr. Danesborough's right.

"Disgusting!" said Miss Danesborough.

Mr. Danesborough said that he was not sure that a thing could be condemned until all the facts were known, whereupon everyone looked at the parson with mild exasperation and affection. He was the most extraordinary of clergymen; and it was doubtful whether his queer views would not have landed him in trouble, but for his wealth and family connections.

"But surely," protested the lady on his right, "it says in the Bible somewhere that a man should only have one wife."

Sir Charles said unexpectedly: "Solomon had a good many; and hadn't David?"

The young man next to Caroline said: "Men have murdered their wives because they wanted another. Now if, like the followers of Brigham Young, they could have as many as they could afford, such murders might be avoided."

Melisande caught Caroline's eye then and she knew that the conversation had set them both thinking of Fermor. Were they both thinking that if they were Mormons they might both be preparing for marriage?

Melisande spoke her thoughts aloud. "But I suppose even Mormons only marry one woman at a time."

She had spoken in English and shocked glances were cast in her direction. This was a most improper conversation to be carried on at the table of a clergyman, and Mr. Danesborough was as guilty as anyone; but even if the men liked to make bold comments, it was not expected that ladies should do so.

Miss Danesborough hastily changed the conversation, and Leon de la Roche bent towards Melisande and said: "Now that we have met formally, you must visit us. Mrs. Clark would be pleased to give you luncheon or dinner. If you came to luncheon Raoul would be delighted, I am sure."

"Thank you. I will ask Caroline. If she can spare me, I should very much like to come."

"We will invite Miss Trevenning too. Perhaps then there will be more hope of your coming."

"I shall look forward to that."

When they were in the drawing-room and the men were still at the dinner table, Melisande told Caroline that Leon proposed asking them to luncheon. "Would you wish to go?"

"Why, of course," said Caroline.

"I am glad."

"I am to come as a sort of chaperone?" said Caroline with a friendly grimace.

"He did not say that."

"Well, I have no objection. You can't, you know, go calling on gentlemen alone."

How charming she is! thought Melisande. How friendly! It is because Fermor is not here.

And later during the evening the invitation was given and accepted. Caroline and Melisande were to have luncheon with the de la Roches in two days' time.

They were silent riding back in the carriage, and when they returned to the house, Caroline said to Melisande: "Come and help me. I don't want to wake Wenna at this hour."

So Melisande went to Caroline's bedroom and unhooked her gown and brushed her hair for her.

"It was a successful party," said Caroline, looking at Melisande's reflection in the mirror. "Everyone was admiring you. Did you know that ... Melisande?"

Melisande blushed with pleasure, not because of Caroline's remark but because for the first time she had used her Christian name.

"No," she said.

"Please call me Caroline now. We don't want to stand on too much ceremony, do we? They were admiring you, Melisande. I believe everybody thought you were a connection of the family."

"Do you think so ... Caroline?"

"I am sure of it. I wonder if Monsieur de la Roche thinks it."

"No. I told him I came from the Convent."

"Well, it clearly made no difference to him. He is rather interesting, don't you think?"

"Very interesting."

"And certainly taken with you!" Caroline laughed lightly and Melisande knew that even now she was thinking of Fermor. She wished Leon to be interested in Melisande and Melisande in Leon ... and it was because of Fermor.

The door opened and Wenna looked in.

"Why didn't you call?" she began, and stopped, seeing Melisande.

"Oh, Wenna, I didn't want to disturb you. Mademoiselle is helping."

Wenna said: "You should have called. Wouldn't you like me to ..."

"No, no," said Caroline impatiently. "Go back to bed at once, Wenna."

"All right, all right. Goodnight then."

Both girls said goodnight and the door was closed in silence.

Then Melisande said: "She does not like me. I wish it were not so. She watches me ... sometimes there is a hatred."

"That's Wenna's way, and of course it is not really hatred."

"That way is, for me."

"Melisande ... don't worry about Wenna. Everything will be all right."

Caroline, smiling into the mirror, saw two weddings—her own with rermor and Melisande's with Leon de la Roche. After the wedding she and Fermor would never see Melisande again.

"Yes," she repeated, "everything will be all right."

At the supper table in the servants' hall the relationship between the French Mamazel and the French Mounseer was being discussed with eagerness. Mrs. Soady sat, lips pursed, as she always did when this subject was under discussion, smiling to herself as she listened to the chatter about her.

Every now and then Mr. Meaker would dart a look at her.

It was not like her to keep a secret for so long. It must be a very special secret; she must have been warned; the need for silence must indeed have been deeply impressed upon her.

"It's a clear-cut case of romance," said the footman.

"It's a lovely story," said Peg. "And Mamazel's so pretty she might be a princess in disguise."

That remark made Mrs. Soady's lips twitch. This secret, Mr. Meaker had already guessed, had something to do with the Mamazel.

"Though," said Bet, "you'd hardly call that mounseer a prince, would you?"

"Well," admitted Peg, thinking fondly of her fisherman, "he might not be everybody's fancy, but by all accounts he's a very nice gentleman."

Bet said that when she thought of a prince in disguise she thought of someone like Mr. Fermor. "You know," said Bet, "always singing and laughing, and big and strong and ever so goodlooking."

"Good looks," declared the footman earnestly—he had no pretensions to them himself—"are a matter of opinion... . To snails other snails are good looking. There's no accounting for tastes."

"But they're not snails!" pointed out Peg. "And Mr. Fermor's so very goodlooking. He makes most others seem plain ... terrible plain."

"Yet," said the parlourmaid, "if two snails do find each other handsome, perhaps two French people do. I reckon 'tis because she's a mamazel and he's a mounseer that they like each other all that much."

Mr. Meaker said, as he passed his plate up for a helping of nattlin pie: "I hear the boy's not all that pleased about this friendship between our Mamazel and his uncle."

All eyes were on Mr. Meaker who slowly piled cream on to his nattlin.

He filled his mouth and masticated slowly. "These painted ladies," he said, studying the potatoes on his plate, "ain't all that much better than painted lords."

"Oh, yes they be," said Mrs. Soady sharply. "Painted ladies be the best sort of 'taters I ever knew. And how did you get to hear about the little 'un and our Mamazel, Mr. Meaker?"

"Well, I had cause to go into the town, and while I was refreshing myself at the Jolly Sailor who should come in but Mr. Fitt, him that is coachman to the Mounseer ... or I should say to the little 'un. That's a strange household, seeing that this boy is the master, having all the money, and Mounseer nothing more than one of these tutors, though he be a relation. The little 'un is a Duke or a Count or something ... though that may be different in French. This Mounseer is his guardian, but he has little of his own, so I did understand."

"And what did Mr. Fitt say about the little boy and our Mamazel?" persisted Mrs. Soady.

"Well," said Mr. Meaker, picking up his glass of mead and taking a gulp before proceeding, "it seems that the boy is spoilt ... very spoilt. It seems that though he first found our Mamazel and took quite a liking to her, he don't like any to have the stage but himself —so to speak. And the Mounseer has been spending too much time with Mamazel for the liking of his little lordship."

"Spoilt brat he be!" said Mrs. Soady. "Who do he think he is? Why, 'tis a beautiful romance, I'll swear, and no more than Mamazel deserves."

"Why yes, Mrs. Soady, 'tis rightly so, but you see the boy be the master ... or so Mr. Fitt tells me. If he lives till he's twenty-one he'll have a fortune, and the Mounseer will be left a little money. If the little 'un dies, 'tis the Mounseer that the fortune goes to."

Bet said with a giggle: " 'Tis a wonder he do take such care of the little 'un!"

"Now, Bet!" said Mrs. Soady sharply.

"That's foreigners for you!" said the footman.

"The things they be up to!" said Mrs. Soady. "The idea of leaving a fortune to a little 'un like that."

"'Tis a queer set-up," admitted Mr. Meaker. "It was a very interesting conversation I had with Mr. Fitt."

Mrs. Soady was watching Mr. Meaker. There he was, enjoying all the attention that was focussed on him and thinking himself so clever, so full of knowledge.

If he did know what I do know! thought Mrs. Soady. Him and his Mr. Fitt!

And when they were alone together she said to him: "You and your Mr. Fitt!"

Then she sat down in a chair and laughed.

"What's so funny about Mr. Fitt?"

"I could tell you something, Mr. Meaker, that would make your eyes pop out of your head."

"Reckon you could, Mrs. Soady."

"It 'ud startle 'ee more than anything Mr. Fitt could tell 'ee."

"Reckon it would, Mrs. Soady."

Mrs. Soady, tempted, trembled on the brink of disclosure. Mr. Meaker bent towards her, his eyes beaming, flattering, begging for the secret.

"Oh well," said Mrs. Soady, "reckon you ought to know. You're the head of the men servants, and 'tain't right you shouldn't know. But, mind 'ee, Mr. Meaker, 'tis between us two."

"Why, yes, Mrs. Soady. Won't get no farther than me."

"You've been wondering why Mamazel is treated as she is. You've been asking yourself why she's been treated like one of the family. Well, I'll tell 'ee. She is one of the family."

"One of the family, Mrs. Soady?"

Mrs. Soady chuckled. "A member of the family all right. She's the master's own daughter."

Mr. Meaker's eyes were round with wonder and appreciation.

"Though," said Mrs. Soady, "what they do call illegitimate. In other words ..."

"A bastard!" whispered Mr. Meaker.

The weather was mild all through November and into December. There was great activity in the house. The preparations for the wedding on Christmas Day went on and, although they had first decided that it must be a quiet wedding, the original plans grew and so many guests were asked that it would be quite a grand occasion after all.

Letters came from Fermor to Caroline. Melisande would watch her receive them, take them to her room and emerge starry-eyed.

He must be a good letter-writer. He would be. But nothing he would say could be trusted. Melisande had gathered that only once did he refer to her in those letters. Caroline had read out to her what he had said: "Felicitations to your father, old Wenna, and all men and maidens who inhabit Trevenning—not forgetting the 'little Mamazel!" That was all.

Sometimes it was more than a pleasure, it was a necessity to escape from the house and the bustle of preparation. How shall I feel when he comes back again ? wondered Melisande. How shall I feel on the day he marries Caroline?

It was a comfort to find Leon waiting for her on the shore at that spot where they had first met and which had now become an accepted meeting place. If there was nothing to detain her in the house, she would often make her way there. If the boy was inclined to come out, they would both be there; if not, Leon would come alone. Melisande could not help feeling relieved when Raoul did not come; he was bright and intelligent, often amusing, but every now and then a certain resentment would leap into his manner. He liked Melisande but he did not care to see her take too much of Leon's attention; when he thought this was happening, his manner would become a little overbearing. Leon was, she was sure, the most patient man in the world. Raoul was avid for information, and often she was able to turn that resentment into interest for small creatures they found in the rock pools. By giving him her attention she could soothe his vanity and his arrogance, and she spent hours in the library at Trevenning trying to discover interesting facts which she could impart to the boy. He might have been a charming child, she often thought, but the vast fortune which was to be his and the power it gave him over the people about him had completely spoiled him.

Melisande was glad therefore one day during the second week of December to arrive on the shore and find Leon alone. He was stretched out on the sand, his back propped up against a rock; and when he saw her he leaped to his feet. There was no mistaking the pleasure in his face.

"I was so hoping you'd come," he said.

"It is just for half an hour. I must not stay longer. It gets dark so early."

"I'll walk back with you, so you needn't fear the dark."

"Thanks. But I shall be expected back soon. There is a good deal to do. Do you realize that it is only two weeks to Christmas?"

"And the wedding. I suppose the bridgroom will soon be coming."

"We don't expect him until a day or so before Christmas."

"Melisande... . May I call you that? It is what I call you in my thoughts."

"Please do."

"Then to you I may be Leon?"

"Yes, when we are together like this. I think when others are present it should be Monsieur de la Roche and Mademoiselle St. Martin."

"Very well. That shall be our rule. What will you do after the wedding, Melisande?"

"Sir Charles has spoken to me. He has suggested I might stay."

"After Miss Trevenning has gone?"

"Yes. I can make myself useful in the house. There is much I can do, he says. His daughter will be gone and she will take Wenna— one of the servants—with her; the house will be depleted, Sir Charles says, for Caroline and Wenna had certain duties. He suggests that I take over those duties. I think I shall enjoy this, and it is great good fortune."

"He seems a very kind man."

"He is a kind man. Few know how kind. But I know. I have seen that kindness. He says that there will be duties for me, and that I seem to be making a home there. He says the Danesboroughs like me ... and others. He mentioned you. He said that now I have friends here, I would not wish to leave."

"It's the best news I've heard for a long time."

"For you?"

"For me. I have wondered what it would be like here if you left."

"Don't you like this place?"

"I have liked it very much since we met. Our friendship has made a great difference to me." He picked up a stone and threw it into the sea. They watched it hit the water, rise and fall again. "Well, now our friendship goes on."

"I hope it will go on for a long time. But you will not stay here for the summer."

"In the summer I suppose we must go to a different climate. We should go to Switzerland ... high in the mountains."

"That sounds very pleasant."

He smiled his melancholy smile. "I am ungrateful, you are thinking. I am disgruntled. Sometimes I rail against fate. I say, 'Why should some be born to riches, others to poverty?' "

"I am surprised that you should have such thoughts."

"All poor men have them. It is only the poor who worry about inequality and injustice."

"You long to be rich?"

"I long to be free."

"Free? You mean from Raoul?"

"My position is a difficult one. I often ask myself if I am good for the boy. I ask myself, 'Is this living? What are you? A nurse? A tutor? A woman could play the first part better, and there are scholars who could make far better tutors than you could.' "

"But it was the wish of Raoul's parents that you should be the nurse, the tutor. He is of your own blood. No one could love him as you do.'!

"You are right and I am ungrateful, as I said I was. It is because you are so sympathetic that I pour my troubles into your ear."

"What would you do if you were rich and free? Tell me. I should like to hear. You would return to France?"

"To France? No. My old home is a government building now. It is in Orleans, I have been there ... not so long ago, walked through the streets past those old wooden houses, stood on the banks of the Loire and thought: 'If I were rich I would come back to Orleans and build a house, marry, raise a family and live as my people lived before the Terror.' I used to think that. But now I know that I would not go back to Orleans. I would go miles away ... to a new world. Perhaps to New Orleans. The river I should look at would not be the Loire but the Mississippi, and instead of building a great mansion and living like an aristocrat, I should have a plantation and grow cotton or sugar or tobacco. ..."

"That's more exciting than the mansion. For what would you do in the mansion?"

"I should grieve for the past. I should become one of those bores who are always looking backwards."

"And in the New World it is necessary to look forward ... to the next crop of sugar, tobacco or cotton. What do they look like when they are growing, I wonder? Sugar sounds nicest. That's because you can eat it, I suppose."

He laughed suddenly.

"Which would you grow if you could choose?" she asked.

"You have made me think that I should like to grow sugar." He smiled at her. "Melisande, you are so different from me. You are so full of gaiety. I am rather a melancholy person."

"What makes you melancholy?"

"The terrible habit of looking back. I always heard my parents say that the good old days were behind us and that we should never get back to the splendour of those times. They made the past sound wonderful, magnificent, the only life that was worth living. I suppose they heard it from their parents."

"It is an inheritance of melancholy."

He took her hands and said: "I want to escape from it. I long to escape from it."

"You can. This minute. These are the good times. Those were the bad times. Wonderful times are in the future ... waiting for you."

"Are they?"

"I feel sure of it. Wouldn't Raoul like to grow sugar?"

"The climate would kill him."

"I see. So you cannot go until you are no longer needed to look after him."

"No. But when he is twenty-one, I shall come into a little money. Then he will no longer need me. I shall be free."

"That is a long way to look forward. Still, in the meantime you have Raoul to care for, and you know that, although he is sometimes a rather difficult little boy, he is an orphan, and you ... you only ... can love him and help him and look after him as his parents wished."

After a while he began to talk of the New World with an enthusiasm which astonished her, for she had never seen him as animated as this before. He had wanted to go there, he explained, since he had realized that France would never be the France for which his parents had made him yearn.

"The old France is gone," he said. "There is a King on the throne, but what a King! The son of Egalite, a man who gave up his titles to join the National Guard. What could be expected of such a King? No! It shall not be France for me."

"Tell me about the plantation you would have. Let us pretend that the climate would be good for Raoul, and that you are now making plans for leaving."

"The climate could never be good for Raoul."

"But I said, pretend it would. You say you are melancholy and I am gay. When I am sad, I pretend. I have always pretended. It is the next best thing to reality. It is better to imagine something good is happening than to brood on what is bad and cannot be altered. Now ... how should we leave?"

"First we should cross the Atlantic. Are you a good sailor?"

"I am the best of sailors."

"I knew you would be. I have some friends in New Orleans. We should make for them. You would have to look after Raoul while I worked hard, learning all I had to learn about managing the plantation."

"That would be easy. I daresay there would be much to entertain us, and Raoul is interested in everything."

"We should employ negroes to work for us; and I think that, once I was proficient, the thing would be to get the plantation going and then ... build the house."

She was smiling dreamily, seeing not the sea and rocks, but a plantation of her imagining. It was a sugar plantation. She did not know what a sugar plantation looked like, but she imagined rows and rows of canes and laughing people in gay colours with dark shining faces. She saw them all dancing at the Mardi Gras.

He broke in on her dreams. "If ever I go, will you really come with me? Would you marry me, Melisande?"

"But ..."

"Forget I asked it. It was too soon. I see that. It is a mistake. I was carried away by your enthusiasm."

There was a short silence before he said: "I am right? It is too soon?"

"Yes," she answered, "I think it is too soon."

"What do you mean, Melisande?"

"That as yet you are my friend and I have been happy ... and very comfortable ... knowing you. It is too soon for big decisions. We do not, as yet, know each other very well."

"I know enough."

"You do not even know who my parents were."

"I did not think of knowing them. It is of knowing you that I am sure."

"You are a great comfort to me and that is a very good thing to be."

"I'll comfort you all the days of your life."

"I believe you would. You are gentle, and only sad when you look backwards."

"If you married me there would be so much to look forward to that I should no longer want to look back."

"A new life," she said dreamily, "in a new world."

"That would not be for years. You forget ... Raoul."

"How would Raoul feel if you married me?"

"A bit hurt at first perhaps. He has had my undivided attention for so long. But he is fond of you and would grow fonder. You have charmed him as you have charmed all others. At present he is too self-centred to see anyone very clearly apart from himself; but we should soon overcome any opposition."

"Leon, he is not a bad little boy. It is just that he has too much power ... and he is too young to handle it. He could change, I think."

"It would be so good for him to have us both. More ... normal. We could both be parents to him. It is so difficult ... a man all alone."

"Yes, I see that. But it is not Raoul we are discussing, Leon. It is ourselves."

"And I have spoken too soon."

"Yes, that is it. You have spoken too soon. Could we put this aside ... until later on ? Leave it for a few weeks, Leon. That is best. Let us talk of other things and suddenly ... soon ... I shall know. I feel it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Melisande, I understand."

She jumped up. "It will soon be dark and I am late. Please ... I must go at once."

They walked back to Trevenning, but they did not talk any more of marriage. But when he left her he said: "We must meet often ... every day. We must get through this business of knowing each other 'as soon as possible. You are very beautiful and T am very impatient.''

"Good night," she said.

He took her hands and kissed them.

"I am very fond of you," she said, "and a little of Raoul. I think it could be a happy thing if we were all together."

He would have put his arms about her but she held him off. "Please ... we must wait. It is too important and, as yet, we cannot be sure."

She left him and, as she did so, she seemed to hear Fermor's mocking laughter. Two proposals—and how different!

"Life is a strangeness," she murmured in English.

Three ways were open to her now. Which should she choose?

Take the one you long for! she seemed to hear a voice urging her. Be bold. Say goodbye to the dull life. Live gaily and recklessly. That is the way. She could imagine the tuneful tenor voice:

"I would love you all the day, Every night would kiss and play, If with me you'd fondly stray Over the hills and far away ..."

Over the hills and far away to a sinful life ... to adventure. She thought: Clearly if I were wise I should marry Leon.

It was Christmas Day.

Melisande lay awake, though it was early and the house not yet astir.

Caroline's wedding day had come.

Fermor had returned only yesterday, having been, he said, delayed in London. As soon as she heard his voice she felt excitement rising within her; as soon as she looked from her window and saw him laughing as he was greeted by the grooms and servants, she knew great disquiet.

Now on this early morning she would look facts in the face and see them as they really were. She had dreamed—she who lived so much in dreams—that something would happen before this day was reached. Her romantic thoughts, winding along pleasantly to a happy ending, had given John Collings to Caroline, and had found a charming girl for Leon; that left Melisande and Fermor who, by a miraculous stroke of good fortune, had changed his nature; he became serious-minded without losing any of his gaiety; he became tender without losing any of his passion; he became loving instead of lustful.

In her dreams Melisande lived in a perfect world.

But now—on Caroline's wedding day—reality had risen indisputably over fantasy, and ruthlessly was preparing to stamp it out.

In the wardrobe was the dress of green silk, made to her own design, which Miss Pennifield had helped her to sew; at the neck were little bows of black velvet, and there was a big rose of black silk and velvet to wear at the waist. "Black!" Miss Pennifield had cried. "Why, it looks like mourning. Black is for funerals, not for weddings. Why don't you make a nice pink one? Roses are pink, not black, my dear. And I'll find 'ee some lovely pieces."

"There can only be black," she had said. "It is a need ... for a green gown." And she thought: For me too.

She was not quite seventeen, and that was young to despair. She wondered how old the nun had been at the time of her incarceration. She, Melisande, would this day be walled in—walled in by the death of hope.

She had not seen him alone since his return. He had not sought her, she knew, for had he wished to see her he would have found some means of doing so. He had come with wedding presents ... for Caroline. He talked with Caroline; he rode with Caroline; and that was fitting.

So clearly Melisande had meant nothing to him but a possible partner in a light adventure which he thought they might share together; Melisande had turned away and he was shrugging his shoulders as he passed on.

Now she could hear the first stirrings in the house. In the servants' hall they would be up very early. Mrs. Soady, a sedate priestess in her kitchens had been withdrawn and absentminded for days, her mouth watering at the pies and pasties she was making, the cakes, the puddings. There was hardly time to gossip with a wedding so near.

Melisande rose. She must go down to help them. It was better than lying in bed and examining lost dreams.

Caroline lay awake. She had scarcely slept all night.

The day had come—the day she had feared would never come. She had left the wardrobe door open that she might see the white dress which had been the despair of both herself and Miss Pennifield. On the dressing table was the white lace veil which had been worn by her mother and her grandmother.

She was trying to think of the future and she could only think of the past, of seeing him in London when they were children, of his teasing contempt of her, of a housemaid's whispered words on a staircase, of Melisande. But she was foolish to brood on these things. He had scarcely looked at Melisande yesterday.

She had meant to tell him, when they had ridden out alone, of the friendship between Melisande and Leon de la Roche and how it seemed to be moving towards an inevitable conclusion. But she had been afraid, lest it should spoil the happiness of her wedding eve.

She could not lie in bed ... waiting. She wanted the day to come; she wanted the ceremony to be over. For two weeks they were to stay in this house, for they had decided that there should be no honeymoon. That was a concession to convention which they had decided to make. Sir Charles had agreed that they might marry although a year had not elapsed since the death of Caroline's mother, but gaily to go off on a honeymoon was too flippant, too disrespectful. The matter had been talked over with several people, and all had agreed that the married pair should stay quietly at Trevenning for a few weeks, and then leave sedately for London.

Caroline had not cared about a honeymoon—all that mattered was that she and Fermor should marry—but now she realized she would have felt less apprehension if they could leave the house to-day ... after the ceremony and the reception.

Yet she and Melisande had become friends, and she knew that Melisande was no scheming woman. She was an impulsive girl, eager to please—a friendly, charming girl. But how much happier Caroline would be if she could say goodbye to her. With Fermor's return her jealousy had come back.

But she must not invent unhappiness. She got out of bed and going to the dressing table put on the veil. She saw from the mirror that she was very pale and there were shadows of sleeplessness under her eyes. She scarcely looked like a happy bride. Yet everything for which she had hoped promised to be hers.

The door had opened and Wenna looked in.

"My dear life! Out of bed! What be doing? Why, my queen, you look so tired. Didn't 'ee sleep then? And trying that thing on. Don't 'ee know 'tis unlucky?"

"Wenna ..."

Wenna ran forward and took Caroline in her arms.

"I'm frightened, Wenna."

"What of, my little one? Tell Wenna what's frightening 'ee? It be he. I do know."

"No. It's the future, Wenna. Everything. Nerves, Wenna ... wedding day nerves. They say people get them."

"It ain't too late, you know, my precious. If you do say the word ..."

"No, Wenna, no! Never!"

Wenna was resigned. "I'll be with 'ee, my precious. All the days of my life I'll be there beside 'ee."

The ceremony was over and there was gaiety in the house. How could it be otherwise? It was true that not a year had elapsed since the death of the mistress, and everyone knew that a year was the shortest period which should elapse between a funeral and a wedding in the same house—but it had pleased the guests to forget this.

The infectiously gay bridegroom banished all gloom. Handsome, dashing, he seemed all that a bridegroom should be.

As for Caroline, she was subdued, pale and obviously nervous, which, said the guests, was all that a bride should be.

Sir Charles was grave and clearly delighted with his daughter's marriage; the bridegroom's parents, rich and fashionable from London, were equally pleased with the match. From the surrounding county all the best families had come as guests to Trevenning; and as the friends of the bridegroom's family were also present, the house was full. Never had there been such a dazzling ceremony in the great hall, decorated as for Christmas, with holly, ivy, box and bay leaves. Christmas Day and the wedding day of the daughter of the house! What could be more demanding of ceremony ? Let gloom be banished! It was so easy to say: "I know her mother has not been gone so very long, but this is what she would have wished." They could be happy, laughing, dancing, singing, as long as they could remind themselves that in doing so they were merely carrying out the wishes of the dear one who had departed.

On the great table were bowls of punch; there was metheglin, mead, dash-an-darras, and shenegrum—that concoction of boiled beer, Jamaica rum, lemon, brown sugar and nutmeg—without which no Cornish Christmas was complete.

The table was loaded with Mrs. Soady's greatest masterpieces.

There were boars* heads, and every sort of pie that could be made; besides the usual meat pies there were fish pies containing mackerel, bream and pilchards. There were pilchards offered in every way known to Cornish connoisseurs. There were sucking pigs—both veers and slips; and of course there was hog's pudding—that Cornish delicacy—of which the Londoners took sparingly.

Harassed serving men and maids scurried about the house; from the kitchen came the last minute cakes and pies which Mrs. Soady felt must be made in case they should be short.

And after the banquet, the servants descended on the hall like a swarm of locusts and cleared everything away that the guests might dance and disport themselves as was fitting for a wedding in the family on Christmas Day.

The old dances were danced and all the company, led by the bride and groom, joined in the Quadrille and Sir Roger de Coverley; and the Cornish guests, at the request for Cornish dances, formed up and showed the foreigners the furry dance to the accompaniment provided by musicians specially engaged to play for the company.

It was a merry party.

Leon had been invited; he stayed close to Melisande and it was clear that he was enjoying the spectacle of a Cornish Christmas and wedding party.

"If you married me," he said, "there would not be such a grand occasion as this, alas."

"The grandeur would be of no importance," she told him.

"You are a little sad to-day."

"Sad? On such a day! Why should I be?"

"Perhaps because Miss Trevenning will go away now that she is married. Are you apprehensive too ... on her account?"

"Apprehensive when she is in love? That is clear. Don't you agree?"

"Yes, I agree."

"And so is he. Can you see that?"

"He? Oh, he is in love with himself."

She looked at him sharply.

"I am envious perhaps," he said. "Not of him as he is ... oh no! I do not envy him his wealth or his bride. But I wish that I had that assurance which wealth gives. I wish I had a bride who was in love with me as his is with him."

"Be careful!" she warned. "This is Cornwall where strange things happen. Piskies and fairies lurk unseen. It may be that your wishes will be granted. You may have his wealth and you may—as you say he has—fall in love with yourself."

"No doubt he found that easier than I should. For one thing he is so handsome; and for another he is so pleased with himself."

"Anyone truly in love is pleased with the object of that love, and whatever it may seem to others it is handsome to the lover. I hope Caroline will be happy."

"You speak as though you think she will not."

"I am being foolish then."

Fermor seemed to sense that they were talking of him. He smiled in their direction and then came over.

"Are you enjoying the wedding feast, Mademoiselle St. Martin?" he asked.

"Very much. I don't believe you have met Monsieur de la Roche?"

"I have seen him."

"I do not remember seeing you," said Leon.

"I was at the top of the cliff; you were below. But I recognized you. I have, they say, hawk's eyes. They see a good deal."

"This is Mr. Holland, as you know," said Melisande to Leon.

"Indeed yes. We all know the bridegroom."

Fermor said: "I heard that you and Mademoiselle St. Martin are delighted to speak French together. How pleasant to meet compatriots in a foreign country!"

"It has been most pleasant."

"I really came to ask Mademoiselle to join in the dance. It is not right that young ladies should hold aloof from the festivities. I have hardly had a word with her since my arrival yesterday. I have to apologise for my neglect and to beg her forgiveness."

"Not only do I forgive," said Melisande, "I applaud. It is fitting, is it not, Monsieur de la Roche, that a bridegroom should neglect all but his bride?"

"It is an accepted rule of conduct, I believe."

"You have been a bridegroom?" asked Fermor; and Melisande fancied she detected the faintest streak of insolence.

"I have not; but I understand."

"Trust a Frenchman! But I won't be forgiven as easily as that. Every man—married or bachelor—has a duty to the community. Toujours la politesse, I believe you say in your country."

"In France," said Melisande, "la politesse always stands aside for Vamour. Thank you for asking me. Thank you for apologising. Please go back to your wife with a clear conscience. That is what all expect."

"Oh, but I must look after our guests, you know."

"Monsieur de la Roche looks after me and I after him."

He looked at her sardonically. "I guessed it, but I don't intend him to keep that pleasure all to himself. Come ... dance with me."

He would have drawn her into the centre of the hall where the couples were forming for a barn dance, but at that moment there was a knocking at the door, a shouting from without, and in the next few seconds the guise dancers were trooping into the hall.

Fermor said: "Another old custom! Who are these people?"

Jane Collings, who heard his remark, called out that they were the guise dancers who always came to the big houses at Christmas time.

"So it is another old custom!"

"Very ancient. Older than Christianity!" said Jane.

The guisards were unrecognizable, for most of them wore masks, and those who did not had blackened their faces in order to hide their identity. Some were dressed up to represent characters for whom the Cornish had a special sympathy. There were two as Sir Jonathan Trelawny as well as a Charles the First and a Monmouth. They acted their parts to the amusement of the guests, and after that they danced the ancient dances which they had been practising for weeks before Christmas.

Before they had finished their performance the wassaillers arrived, and with them the curl singers. The hall was full now; and there was general singing and dancing and drinking of dash-an-darras to the health of the bride and groom.

It was necessary for this last ceremony that Fermor should stand beside Caroline. As he did so he looked towards Melisande, and it was not easy to know what he was thinking. Melisande shivered. The scene seemed to her a strange one. The black faces of the dancers made them grotesque, and the masks worn by some of them were ugly, almost menacing. Yet she knew that beneath them were the faces of kindly simple people. There was the bridegroom, elegant in his wedding clothes from London, the handsomest man in the room, over six feet in height, an ideal bridegroom as she had heard him called; yet, thought Melisande, that handsome face was a mask more misleading than any worn by the revellers.

She turned suddenly to Leon.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I will marry you. I think ... we shall be happy together."

"Melisande ..."

"Yes, if you still wish it, I will."

He gripped her hand. "I do not know what to say. I am overwhelmed with happiness."

"I believe it is the right thing for us," she said. "If I should wish to tell anyone that we are to marry, may I do so?"

"I want them all to know. Shall we announce it now?"

"Not here. They would not be interested. It would be an anticlimax. Who are we? Just consider— our betrothal announced at such a grand wedding!"

"When shall it be?"

"Not for a little while. There will have to be many arrangements, won't there."

"I will break the news gently to Raoul. Will you mind his being with us?"

"I shall not mind, but what of him? How will he like the idea?"

"He'll get used to it. Perhaps we could get married here ... before we leave. Then we could all go away together. So, my dear sweet Melisande, we shall not be parted after all ... never again."

Fermor's eyes were on them. "It is a great comfort for me to know that you are near," she said.

"I wish we could be alone somewhere."

"We shall meet to-morrow perhaps."

"At the usual tryst. Our own spot. In the years to come we shall visit it often. I shall always remember your coming down the cliffs with Raoul... down to where I stood on the sand."

"It was like coming down to safety."

They could no longer talk. As was the custom Caroline was about to sing for the guests.

She was flushed, shining with an inner happiness. Wenna watched her.

She's happy to-day, thought Wenna. But is one day's happiness worth a life-time's misery?

Caroline was saying: "I haven't much of a voice, as you know, but I will do my best, and here is a song you all know and perhaps you'll help me by joining in."

Caroline's voice was sweet but weak, so there must be absolute silence for her. She sang:

"A well there is in the West Country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the West Country But has heard of the well of St. Keyne."

Several of the guests sang lustily:

"But has heard of the well of St. Keyne."

And they went on to sing with Caroline of the stranger who came to the well and, being tired out, drank of the waters, and how he heard of the waters' magical power from the old man who had seen him drink.

" 'Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?' quoth he, Tor an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drunk this day That ever thou didst in thy life!'"

Melisande listened intently while Caroline and her helpers continued.

" 'St. Keyne,' quoth the Cornishman, 'many a time Drank of the crystal well, And before the angel summoned her, She laid on the water a spell.

'If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he For he shall be master for life.' "

Fermor had sidled over to Melisande and Leon. He whispered: "We're foreigners ... all of us. These Cornish are a bit overpowering."

"I wish," said L£on, "that I could understand the words. It is so difficult to follow ... for one with my not very excellent English."

"Mademoiselle will doubtless explain. She understands, I am sure. She has become so proficient with our English that there is little she does not understand."

"Listen to the last verses," said Melisande; and they all turned to look at Caroline.

" 'You drank of the well I warrant betimes ?' He to the Cornishman said; But the Cornishman smiled as the stranger spake And sheepishly shook his head.

'I hastened as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch; But i' faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church.' "

There was a burst of applause. Many of the Cornish began to chant the last words again, looking slyly from Caroline to Fermor as though they wondered which of them would drink first of the waters of the well.

"The song is ... what you call an appropriate one?" said Melisande.

"I suppose you would say so," said Fermor.

"And you have drunk of this water? Or do you intend to?"

"Dear Mademoiselle, do you think I need the help of this St. Keyne or whatever her name is? No. I rely on myself. Have no fears that I shall be unable to look after myself."

Melisande thought he was like a satyr, mocking her, assuring her that he had vowed to bring her to surrender; and that he could be thus on the day of his wedding seemed to her the depth of infamy.

There was a sudden silence all about them. The guests had finished with St. Keyne. It was the bridegroom's turn, they were declaring.

"First the bride ... then the groom. 'Tis an old Cornish custom."

He sauntered towards the musicians.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "how can I follow such a spirited rendering as we have just heard, with one of my little songs? You will excuse me ..."

"No, no!" they cried. "You must sing. The bride has sung. The groom must sing too."

His reluctance was feigned, Melisande knew. Everything about him is false, she thought. He wants to sing. He wants them to admire his voice. He is all conceit, all arrogance. Now that she knew him, she knew him for the devil, as Therese and the Sisters thought of the devil.

He sang to them in his powerful voice and there was immediate silence in the hall; and only Melisande knew that the song was for her.

"Go, lovely rose!

Tell her, that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spied,

That hadst thou sprung

In deserts, where no men abide,

Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired;

Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired;

And not blush so to be admired.

Then die! that she

The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee:

How small a part of time they share

That are so wondrous sweet and fair."

Listening Melisande felt that he was luring her—in spite of all she knew of him—to some fate which must be avoided and which she yet feared would overtake her.

She turned to Leon at her side.

She was relying on him to help her withdraw from that quicksand into which she had already taken a step.

In the servants' hall the Christmas bush hung suspended from the ceiling; every servant had gathered some of the evergreen leaves with which to decorate the wooden hoops. The walls were adorned as lavishly as were those of the great hall itself with holly, mistletoe and evergreen leaves wherever it was possible to put them.

Mrs. Soady sat at the head of the table, a contented woman. It was near midnight; the guests were growing weary, and the servants were free now to settle themselves about the table. Now and then, of course, one or the other of them would be called to the guests, but the calls were less frequent.

Mrs. Soady, who had had her fill not only of her favourite foods but of her favourite wines, was saying it was a Christmas they would all remember as long as they lived, when Peg came in to announce that Mamazel and the Frenchman were still together and that she had seen them holding hands.

Mrs. Soady nodded. Metheglin made her very sleepy—the nicest possible sleepiness that made her love all the world, that made her want to share her pleasures with all.

" 'Twouldn't surprise me," said Bet, "if there was to be another wedding hereabouts."

"Oh, I don't know about that," said the footman. "This Frenchman he looks after the little boy, and the little boy be a duke or something—though only a French one. Well, this Mounseer ... if he be a relation—though a poor one—he'd be close to dukes, you do see."

"And what's that got to do with it?" asked Mrs. Soady, faintly truculent. The footman was bringing discord into happiness. Mrs. Soady was as fond of the little Mamazel as though she were one of the children she herself had never had. Mrs. Soady wanted the Mounseer to marry the Mamazel. She liked weddings. Look what a Christmas they had had through this one!

"Well, Mrs. Soady," pleaded the footman, "you do know these families be terrible particular."

"I can tell you," said Mrs. Soady, "that Mamazel have come from as good a family as any French mounseer, and be fit to marry with dukes ... French ones leastways."

Mr. Meaker was alert. He was flashing warning glances. It was all very well to impart such weighty secrets to the senior member of the male staff, but to announce it to housemaids, parlourmaids and such chattering maidens, that would be folly such as even Mrs. Soady would not indulge in except under the influence of Christmas feasting and good metheglin.

Mrs. Soady intercepted Mr. Meaker's glances. She brushed them aside. She was excited now.

"You little know who Mamazel be," she said to the footman.

"Who then, Mrs. Soady?"

Many pairs of alert eyes were fixed on Mrs. Soady.

Mr. Meaker groaned inwardly. He knew Mrs. Soady could not resist the temptation. She was leaning back in her chair smiling.

"Well then, this be all between ourselves. 'Tis a secret as must never be mentioned outside these walls. Now, I'll tell 'ee ..."

And she did.

It was early morning before the celebrations ended.

Melisande went to her room. She felt very tired. Pictures of the evening kept flitting through her mind. She saw herself standing beside Leon, heard his whispered words and herself giving the promise to marry him; she saw herself out in the cold night air waving as his carriage drove away. But most vivid of all were the pictures of the bride and bridegroom standing side by side acknowledging the toast, of Fermor strolling over to speak to her, of Fermor standing smiling at her as he sang for her.

Her head was aching, and as she was about to snuff out the candles panic seized her. On impulse she ran to the door and turned the key in the lock. She left the candies burning and getting into bed lay, looking at the door.

And as she lay.there she thought she heard sounds outside—slow stealthy footsteps.

It could not be Fermor. He would not leave Caroline on their wedding night. It was someone going downstairs for something. She must remember that there were many people in the house.

But it seemed to her that the footsteps paused outside her door.

She was trembling and tense, aware of immense relief because she had locked the door.

Then she saw something white lying on the carpet. The faint creaking of boards outside her door told her that whoever had come along the corridor had slipped that note under her door.

She got out of bed and picked it up. A little flower fell from it.

On the paper was scrawled in a bold hand which she knew at once must be his: "They say these flowers cure madness. They bring a state of calm reason. It is only a Christmas rose, but all flowers are the same inasmuch as they share the common fate of all things rare."

She wrapped up the flower in the paper and burned them in the candle flame.

He was callous and brutal. She was thankful that she could turn to L£on and never think of him again.

In the early hours of the next day, the storm began to rise. The rain lashed the windows and the wind moaned and howled about the house.

Melisande was unable to sleep for long; all through the hours of that morning she had dozed and been awakened by the gusts of wind that seemed to shake even Trevenning to its foundations.

Each time she woke it was as though in a panic. Afterwards she thought that the storm had been like a dramatic herald of tragedy.

When she rose from her bed and stood at the window, she could see the roaring raging sea tossing the foam in the air; she could see it frothing about the rocks that looked like angry black guards defending the land against the seething monster.

Everyone was sleepy after the revels of the preceding night. Sir Charles warned his guests that it would be unwise to go near the edge of the cliffs in such weather; in a wind like this one, people had been blown over and into the sea.

No one ventured out of doors, for all through the morning the rain was beating down; but in the afternoon it stopped, though the wind was as furious as ever.

Melisande was about to go out to meet Leon when Sir Charles intercepted her.

"Surely you are not going out in this?"

"Just a little way."

"I shouldn't if I were you ... unless it is very important."

"Well, I suppose it is not really important. It could wait until to-morrow."

He smiled at her in the wistful way he did when they were alone. "Then let it wait. The gusts are terrific on the cliffs. By to-morrow it may have calmed down. Our storms soon tire themselves out."

She thanked him and went back to her room. She stood for some time at the window watching the angry waves. The storm continued and it grew too late to think of going out that day. But how she wished next day that she had gone out to meet Leon. She could not help feeling then that had she gone everything might have turned out differently.

There was more merrymaking in the great hall and in the servants' hall that night, but Melisande joined neither party. She pleaded a headache and stayed in her room. She could not have borne to exchange words with Fermor at that time.

That night she slept well, being tired out; and when she awoke in the morning, the sun was shining and the fields and stubby fir trees were a glistening green; the sea was almost as calm as a lake—a pale blue-green.

When Peg brought her breakfast to the little room in which she had her meals, she knew at once that something had happened. Peg's face expressed that excitement which was in people's faces when they had exciting news to impart, whether the news was pleasant or unpleasant. But as Peg caught her eye she set her face into tragic lines, so Melisande knew that this was tragic news.

Peg burst out: "Oh, Mamazel, there be terrible news. One of the men has come straight back with it. Mrs. Soady said to prepare you gentle like."

"What is it, Peg?"

How long she seemed to take to speak, and why did Melisande immediately think of Fermor and Caroline. Peg's next words dispelled that picture which was forming. "It's the little boy ... the little duke ... the French duke."

"What, Peg?"

"A terrible accident. It were yesterday afternoon when the winds was so fierce. He was out with the Mounseer. They was on the jetty. 'Twas a foolish place to go when all do know it be special dangerous. He were blown into the sea."

"Both... of them?"

"No, only the little one. He were lost... in the sea."

"And Monsieur de la Roche?"

"Well, he could do nothing, you see. It seems he b'ain't no swimmer. Not that he'd have had all that chance if he'd been as fine a life-saver as Jack Pengelly."

"But ... tell me, Peg. Tell me everything."

"The little body was washed up in the night."

"Dead!"

"Couldn't be no other ... seeing as he'd been in the sea nigh on ten hours."

"And ..."

"The Mounseer ... he's heart-broken, they do say. You see, the little 'un was blown over and he not being able to swim could only run for help. He got hold of Jack Pengelly and he dived in twice. 'Twere like a boiling cauldron, they do say. Mark Biddle went in too. 'Twere no good."

"I must go and see him."

"Mrs. Soady said she reckoned that's what you'd want to do."

Melisande picked up her cloak and ran downstairs. She heard Mrs. Soady talking as she came into the servants' hall. Mrs. Soady was saying: "Well, that's what I heard, and 'twould seem to be so. Out on the jetty on an afternoon like that! And the little 'un going in and him just running for help. Of course, there's a fortune in it. So perhaps ..."

No! thought Melisande. No! It's not true.

Mrs. Soady had abruptly stopped talking.

"So, my dear, you have heard the news?"

"Peg told me. You mustn't think ... He wouldn't ..."

"Oh, 'twas a terrible tragedy. They do say the Mounseer be well nigh heart-broken. Where be going, Mamazel?"

"I'm going to see him. I must see him."

"William will take 'ee in the carriage. I be sure Sir Charles would not say no to that. Bet, you run and tell William."

"Thank you, Mrs. Soady."

"There, my dear, don't 'ee take on. 'Tis the sort of thing that do happen in these terrible storms. There's been many lost on that jetty. A snare it be, and should by rights be roped off on such days."

"What did you mean when you said there was a fortune in it?"

"My dear life! Did I say that? You must have misunderstood me. I just said what a bit of bad fortune, I reckon, and how the Mounseer was heart-broken at what have happened."

Melisande stared before her. She thought: They will say cruel things about him. Even kind people like Mrs. Soady will believe those cruel things about him.

Mrs. Soady looked at Mr. Meaker and shook her head. There were times, thought Mrs. Soady, when silence was a virtue. Least said was soonest mended. She didn't like this. She didn't like it at all; and she had taken the little Mamazel under her wing and would protect her from the wickedness of the world.

Bet came in to say that the carriage was waiting, and hastily Melisande ran out to it.

The journey seemed to take hours. She pictured it all ... the two of them battling against that violent wind. Had the boy asked to go out on to the jetty ? Or had Leon suggested it ? No, Leon would not suggest it. He would have been persuaded. If I had gone ... if only I had been there, she thought, this might not have happened.

She looked through the carriage windows at the smugly smiling sea. It was like a monster who had had his fill, who had brought tragedy, and having shown his power was content to be still and gentle for a while. The houses looked fresh in the morning light. The well-washed tiles gleamed blue and green in the pale sunlight; the moisture still glistened about the pisky-pows.

When she reached the house, Mrs. Clark took her to Leon's room and left them there. "Comfort him," she whispered; "he's in a sad way."

So, Melisande went to him unceremoniously and, seeing his haggard face, held out her arms to him. He came to her and they embraced. Then he held her at arms' length.

"So you have heard."

"Oh, L£on ... please ... please don't look like that. It's terrible. But we'll grow away from it ... together."

He shook his head. "I can never grow away from it."

"You will. Of course you will. It is because it is so near that it seems overwhelming."

"I was there, Melisande. I was there."

"I know. I have heard."

His face was dark and bitter. "What else have you heard?"

She caught her breath. "What else? Why, nothing. Just what has happened."

"You cannot hide it, Melisande, though it is like you to try. You know what they will say, what they are already saying. You have heard. I see it in your face."

"I have heard nothing," she lied.

"It's a brave lie. But you are brave. At the moment you are sorry for me. Pity overwhelms you. But the brave despise cowards, and you see one before you now."

She took him by the arm and looked up into his face. "It is terrible ... doubly terrible because you were there. But there was nothing you could do, Leon. There was nothing else you could do but what you did."

"I could have plunged in," he said fiercely.

"But you cannot swim."

"I could have tried. Who knows? At such times men can make superhuman efforts, can't they? I might have saved him."

"You couldn't. You did the only thing possible. You brought Jack Pengelly to the spot. Jack knows the coast ... knows the sea. He's a strong swimmer. He has saved lives before. What you did— though it might not have been dramatic—was the wise, the sensible thing."

"You are trying to comfort me."

"Of course I am trying to comfort you. What else could I do? You need comfort. You have lost a dearly beloved child."

He said ironically: "And gained a fortune."

"Don't say that."

"It's the truth. You know the terms of my cousin's will. It seems they are general knowledge. Do you think I don't know from the way people look at me! Raoul is gone ... and they are saying that I killed him."

"That's nonsense. Nobody shall say that. It's a stupid thing to say. Everybody knows how you cared for him, how you spoilt him with your devotion and your care."

"So that I allowed him to go on to the jetty ... and to his death."

"He was so self-willed. He always did what he wanted. I can picture it ... exactly as it happened. You said, Don't go; and he said, I will. I can picture it so clearly. I knew him and I know you, Leon. Leon, if we are going to be happy, there must be no bitterness."

"So we are going to be happy?"

"You asked me to marry you, remember, and I accepted. Do you wish to withdraw that proposal?"

He said quietly: "So ... you would marry me now. You said we did not know each other very well. You said we must get to know each other before we married. I said we must do it quickly. This is the quickest way to improve our knowledge of each other. You have discovered a coward. I have not discovered anything. I always knew that you would be loyal to lost causes. You would give your allegiance to the weak who need you."

"No, Leon, no! You are so unhappy. Of course you are unhappy. Do not let us add to that unhappiness."

"There will always be gossip about me, Melisande. Everywhere I go, those people who know me and my position will wonder. That is how it will be."

"We shall not let it bother us even if it is so."

"Melisande, I could only marry you if you believed in me."

"Of course I believe in you. No one who knew you and saw you with that boy could think for a moment that you could do a cruel thing. If anybody says it, it is because they are evil... ." She thought of Mrs. Soady then, and Mrs. Soady she knew well to be a kindly woman. She was shaken. Kindly people often loved to gossip.

But she was determined to hide these thoughts. She would not believe such ridiculous gossip. Now that she saw how he needed her, she was determined to marry him soon.

"You say that now," he said, "but if others say these things you might begin to believe them. I could not endure that."

Tenderness swept over her. She saw his weakness. There was that in him which would always look to what was bad in life, would always expect the worst. She must, even in this moment, compare him with Fermor. What would Fermor have done? Of course he would have been able to swim. He would have plunged in and saved the child. He would have had a crowd of spectators to applaud and admire. And if he had been unable to swim? If he had—like Leon— found himself in that dreadful position, he would have felt no need to fear. He would have somehow seen himself more than life-size. But it was the very difference between them which had made her turn to Leon.

She loved Leon, she assured herself; she loved him with a newly found tenderness; and because this terrible thing had happened to him she was going to share it with him.

Gently she talked to him, making plans for their future. She was going to take care of him. Soon they would go away from here— but not too soon. It must not seem as if he were running away. If it were true that people said evil things, he must face that evil; they would face it together.

She knew that she had brought a great comfort to him before she left him and the carriage took her back-to Trevenning.

Ten uneasy days followed.

It was known that Melisande was to marry Leon de la Roche. No one said anything derogatory in her presence regarding Leon, but she knew that the gossip was rife.

Mrs. Soady shook her head. She was not pleased with the engagement now. "Murder," she said to Mr. Meaker, "be like shenegrum; and there's nothing like shenegrum to give 'ee a taste for more shenegrum."

Mr. Meaker was grave too. He reckoned that money was often the motive for murder amongst the nobility. The poor had no money to make it worth while. But, said Mr. Meaker, the Mounseer would be rich now and, when a man got rich so quickly through someone's death, you had to look about and into things; and looking about and into things made you start wondering.

No, they did not like the thought of MamazePs marriage at all. It made an exciting topic of conversation; it was the only topic of conversation. They delighted to talk of it; but they could not say they liked the thought of the marriage.

The whole neighbourhood was talking. A death. A Fortune. A man who couldn't swim. The two of them alone on the jetty ... the most dangerous spot they could find.

The nods, the grimaces, the furtive glances betrayed their thoughts to Melisande.

And one day the footman came into the servants' hall with an air of great excitement. He whispered to Mr. Meaker, and Mr. Meaker whispered to Mrs. Soady. All that day they whispered of what the footman had seen. The tension grew when Mr. Meaker on the very next day saw what the footman saw; and later others saw it too. There were conferences round the table. What should be done? "Wait a bit," cautioned Mr. Meaker. So they waited. "But," said Mrs. Soady, "I shall not wait much longer."

Melisande had no idea of these secret matters, there was one thing every person in the servants' hall was agreed upon; the Mamazel was not to be told ... yet. It was something which would have to be broken to her very gently.

Caroline was kind to Melisande, for she too had heard some of the rumours. This was a terrible thing of which Leon de la Roche was accused. Caroline was happy and she wished to see Melisande settled. She was greatly comforted to know that Melisande was betrothed to Leon. It was so suitable; such a neat ending to what had at one time threatened to be a frightening situation.

Preparations were going on for her journey to London. She would be delighted when they left. In the meantime she wanted to be as kind to Melisande as possible.

"I hope you will be happy," she told Melisande, "as happy as I am."

Melisande could not meet her eyes. She kept thinking of Fermor and Caroline together; and she thought of the note she had found under her door on the wedding night, and the Christmas rose which had come with it.

"We are so delighted about your engagement ... Fermor and I. You looked strained, Melisande. Not worried by all this talk? My dear, people always talk. They're envious. Monsieur de la Roche will be a very rich man now. I am glad. It is so comforting not to have to worry about money."

"He would rather not be rich," said Melisande. "We would rather things were as ... they were before."

"I am sure you feel like that. I know he was fond of the little boy ... and you too. But don't worry about the cruel things people say, Melisande."

"You are very kind." Melisande felt the need to explain to someone. She went on hurriedly: "Raoul ... he was so self-willed. You see, he would say 'I want to do this!' and he would do it. Leon was too lenient with him. It was a difficult position. Leon did not wish him to go on to the jetty. But you see, Raoul had been so used to having his own way."

"I have heard he was a very self-willed little boy. But, Melisande, don't concern yourself with silly gossip. I would not if I were in your place. Suppose someone trumped up a silly story about Fermor... . I would not believe it."

Poor Caroline! thought Melisande. Poor Caroline and poor Leon! How cruel the world was to some people.

She hoped that Caroline would never be wise enough to understand what sort of a man she had married.

"We shall not concern ourselves with gossip," said Melisande. "As you say, it is folly. I shall see that we do not."

And at the end of those ten days Leon told her that he had to go to London on business. He expected to be away for a week or more.

Melisande was glad. It would be good for him to get away. In London no one would know what had happened.

After he had gone it was as though a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders.

Was she glad on her own account as well as on Leon's ?

It was three weeks after the wedding—a lovely day, a preview of spring, with the primroses already brightening the hedges; the birds were singing, believing that spring had already come.

The bride and bridegroom had not yet left for London. Their departure had been delayed once or twice. Fermor had seemed in no hurry to go, and Caroline was eager to fall in with his slightest wish.

Melisande went out into the lanes to pick some of the early primroses. Absorbed in her task she did not immediately realize that she was being watched; but, looking up suddenly, she saw that she was near a gap in the hedge where there was a gate leading into a field. Fermor was leaning on the gate.

"Good morning!" he said.

"How long have you been there?" she demanded.

"What a greeting!" he mocked. "What does it matter?"

"I do not like to be watched when I do not know it."

"It was not more than two minutes. Am I forgiven? I saw you come here. You have avoided me constantly so that I have been obliged to creep up on you unawares ... as if you were a wild colt."

"I must be going," she said quickly.

"So soon?"

"I have much to attend to."

"Really? You cannot visit Monsieur, can you, now that he is away?"

She did not answer.

"So you really are going to marry him?"

She turned and was hurrying away when he leaped over the gate and caught her arm. "Don't do it, Melisande," he said. "Don't do it."

"Don't do what?"

"Marry a murderer."

Flushing scarlet she wrenched her arm away.

"You may hit me if you like," he said. "You think I deserve it, don't you?"

"I am afraid it would give you a great satisfaction to see me lose my temper, and I do not wish to satisfy you in any way."

"That's a pity, for I would do anything in the world to satisfy you. I think of you continually. That is why I risk your displeasure by begging you to have nothing to do with him."

"What do you know of Mm?"

"That he is a murderer."

"And I know that you are a liar. Do you think that anything you said would carry any weight with me?"

"You must forget your resentment. I could not marry you, Melisande. It was impossible. Don't be angry with the inevitable. But I must prevent your marrying him. Your life would be unsafe with such a man. I tell you he deliberately killed the boy."

"I do not want to hear any more."

"I knew you were headstrong. I knew that you were foolish. But I didn't know that you were a coward, afraid to face the truth."

"You forget. I clearly showed you that you are a coward."

"I did not accept that estimation of my character."

"Nor do I accept yours of mine. I don't believe anything you say. I don't trust you. You are cynical and brutal and I despise you."

"I would rather have your fiery scorn than the lukewarm pity which is all you have for him. The feelings you have for me are at least stronger. That is the hope I cling to."

"You are a fool as well as a brute then, if you would cling to any hope as far as I am concerned."

"Wait until I tell you what I know. Melisande, you've got to listen. This man was poor and now he will be rich. That's true ? You agree?"

"I have no wish to discuss this with you."

"You always run away when you are afraid."

"I am not afraid."

"Then listen to what I have to say, and prove it. I know exactly what happened on the jetty. The wind was howling and it had stopped raining. Everything was set fair for him. He said to the boy, 'Let's go for a walk,' and the boy agreed. They went out. 'Come on to the jetty,' he said, 'it'll be fun watching the waves from there.' The boy agreed. How should he know he was going to his death ? And then, how easy it was. ... A little push ... a little wringing of the hands ... and then running for Jack Pengelly. What chance had the child in a sea like that!"

"You were there, I suppose. You saw it all."

"I was not there, but nevertheless I know what happened. If the boy fell in, what would be a man's natural reaction? He would at least attempt to rescue him surely."

"A man who could not swim would be a fool to jump into such a sea. The only sensible thing to do was to run for help, and that is what he did."

"If a man could not swim; that's the point. But, my dear Melisande, Monsieur Leon could swim. He could swim very well."

"It is not true."

"It is true. I have seen him swimming."

"Where?"

"A mile or so along the shore ... in a very quiet cove."

"I don't believe you."

"I thought you wouldn't."

"So there is nothing more to say."

"Yes, there is. The next day I went to the cove again. It was just before midday. He was there again ... swimming. This time I took the precaution of having one of the grooms with me. Jim Stannard. I have asked him to say nothing yet. But you can go along and ask him now. You'll hear what he has to say."

She looked at him incredulously, but a terrible fear was with her.

She said: "Of course I don't believe you."

"And Jim Stannard?"

"I've no doubt you have bribed him to do your will."

With that she turned and left him.

She returned to the house and went straight to her room. Peg brought up her luncheon tray. She did not appear to see her, and Peg, ever curious, loitered.

"Is anything wrong, Mamazel?"

Melisande looked at her and did not speak. She had not heard her. She was thinking: Could it be true ? But how could I trust him ?

Could it be that the whole thing was planned? There was so much money involved. She thought of Leon and his plans for a new life. He could swim—so said Fermor. Then either he was a coward who had been afraid to attempt to save Raoul ... or he was a deliberate murderer.

Peg was watching her.

"Mamazel, you've had a shock. You'm frightened, Mamazel."

"I'm all right, Peg."

Peg stared at the carpet. Peg was fond of Mamazel. It frightened Peg when she thought of all the gossip that was going on in the servants' quarters. Seeing Mamazel in this state she couldn't keep quiet any longer.

"Mamazel," she said, "don't you marry him! Please, Mamazel, it would be wrong."

Melisande stood up and went over to Peg. She said: "Peg, what do you know ? If you know anything, you ought to tell me. You are my friend, Peg. You should not keep me in the dark."

"Mrs. Soady says as you ought to be kept in the dark. It's Mr. Meaker who ain't sure. He says he's going to see Sir Charles. To ask Sir Charles ..."

"Peg, I have a right to know. Is it anything to do with ..."

"It's to do with the French gentleman. Oh, Mamazel, you mustn't marry him. That's what everybody's saying ... because ... you see, Mamazel ... we've seen him. I've seen him myself. Bet and me went one morning. Mr. Meaker, he's seen him and so's the footman. He was swimming in the sea in that quiet cove... . Mr. Meaker said that he might have had a chance to save the boy ... and ... he pretended he couldn't swim. We don't like it, Mamazel. We don't like it."

"So ... many of you have seen. Why did I not see?"

"Well, they didn't tell you, Mamazel. They couldn't very well. But they'll all tell you now. There he was ... swimming in the sea. And only a week or so since he said he couldn't. It's queer. It's frightening, Mamazel. Mrs. Soady's well nigh beside herself. She says foreigners b'ain't like we are. They do terrible things."

"Peg, I know you're my friend."

"We all are, Mamazel. We'd like to see you happy like... . And it's all fixed you should stay here ... we hope you won't marry him. Mr. Meaker says nothing can't be proved ... but he hopes he goes away from here and us never hears no more of him. There'll be a good marriage for 'ee later on. There's as good fish in the sea as ever come out, so Mrs. Soady says. And the master 'ull see you have as good a wedding as Miss Caroline, shouldn't wonder ... you being his own ... his daughter ... same as Miss Caroline, only with a difference like. Mr. Meaker says they don't always make all that difference in the best families. I reckon Sir Charles will do something fine for 'ee. But don't 'ee marry that foreigner ... after what has happened."

"Peg! Peg, what are you saying? I ... I am Sir Charles's daughter?"

"Oh, 'tis a secret, I do know, but it must mean the master be fond of 'ee. That's why he have brought you here and set you above the servants like. No governess was ever treated like you have been, Mamazel. So now we do know, we don't mind like ... being so fond of you."

This was too much to happen in a short hour. To know that Leon, who had declared he could not swim, could do so and might have saved Raoul's life; and to learn that Sir Charles was, in reality, her father.

She tried not to let Peg see how agitated she had become. She thanked Peg for her kindness in trying to comfort her. Then she turned to her tray and Peg went out.

She did not attempt to eat. She went straight to Sir Charles's study.

She knocked and was thankful to find that he had not yet gone to the dining-room.

He was startled by the way in which she stared at him.

She burst out: "I have just heard an extraordinary thing. Is it true that I am your daughter?"

She watched the colour drain away from his face. "Who told you that?"

"One of the maids,"

He repeated blankly: "One of the maids. Which one?"

"They all know, apparently. It seems that everyone knows ... except myself."

"This is absurd."

"Then it is not true?"

She noticed that he hesitated and great sorrow filled her. She was his daughter and he was ashamed to acknowledge her. He was alarmed because his secret had been discovered.

Fermor she knew for a bad man; Leon, of whom she had been fond, was now proved to be a coward or worse; and Sir Charles, the man to whom she had looked with admiration, was weak and could not acknowledge his own daughter because he feared the damage to his reputation.

The nuns were right. The world of men was an evil one. No wonder they had retired from that world; no wonder they averted their eyes from men.

Now she felt that she too wanted to escape from all men, to shut herself in, to readjust her ideas. They all had feet of clay, every one of them, and she was not sure that Fermor—so blatantly wicked— was any worse than the others.

Sir Charles was recovering from his shock. She saw now that her fallen idol's one idea was to protect his reputation.

He said: "This is absurd and ridiculous. It must go no farther."

"You will have to deny it," she said, and there was a faint smile about her lips. "There is so much that makes a scandal," she went on fiercely, maliciously. "You came to the Convent, you brought me here. You have not treated me entirely as a servant, not entirely as a member of your family. This is a foolishness, a carelessness, and so there is scandal."

He did not see the scorn in her eyes. He was too concerned with his predicament. "To deny it," he said, "would be to admit such a thing could be. No. There is only one solution. You will have to go away from here at once."

"Yes," she said, "I thought that."

He came over to her. The old kindness showed in his face. He was oblivious of the disappointment that was edged with contempt in hers. "Don't worry. I will arrange something. I have friends. I will see that everything is conducted as ... it should be. I will see that you are well cared for." He smiled, rather cunningly, she feared. He went on: "This engagement of yours ... and the death of the child ... I am afraid it is rather unfortunate."

She said: "So you have heard. ..."

"Mr. Holland has told me, and it has been confirmed by the servants, that Monsieur de la Roche was seen swimming only a short while after the accident, so ..."

"I have heard," she said.

"So much scandal. So much gossip ..." he said. "It is so unfortunate. And you?"

She cried out: "I want to go away. I want to go away from everything ... everyone. I want to hide myself where no one can find me."

He laid a hand on her shoulder. "I understand. You shall go away from here. I shall not tell ... him where you are ... if that is your wish. It is as well for you to go away. You will want to think of so much, and it is always possible to see things clearer when one is a long way from them."

She smiled. "It is convenient ... these two things together," she said.

He answered her: "I will arrange everything. You need have no fears of the future. I will see that you are well-cared for. You may leave everything to me."

"You are very kind," she said, "to one who is ... not your daughter."

She could bear no more and, turning, she ran out of the room.

She, who wanted to love all the world, despised too many people in it. There were three men whom she had wanted to love: Sir Charles, the rescuer, the man of dignity, the man of honour who trembled for his reputation; Leon who acted a part, gentle Leon, such a contrast to Fermor, sinister Leon who said he could not swim and had allowed a little boy to die when his death would enrich him and bring him all his desires—that dignity of which he had talked with passion, that security, that plantation in New Orleans; and Fermor, who had no sense of honour, who had nothing but his own violent appetites, who would stoop to any meanness, any unkindness to satisfy his carnal desires.

Yes, she wished to get away, to shut herself in with herself, to understand more, to leave this world where men looked like heroes and, beneath their shining armour, were cowards or brutes.

She lay on her bed for a long while. Caroline came to comfort her —Caroline her sister. Poor Caroline, who was as defenceless as herself in this wicked world of men.