It Began in Vauxhall Gardens - Plaidy Jean - Страница 19

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"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 / 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.

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