Текст книги "It Began in Vauxhall Gardens"
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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"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.
164 IT BEGAN IN VAUXHALL GARDENS
"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 lcng, 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 L6on.
"Indeed yes. We all know the bridegroom."
Fermor said: "I heard that you and Mademoiselle St. Martin are delighted to speak French together. How pleasant to meet compatriots in a foreign country!"
"It has been most pleasant."
"I really came to ask Mademoiselle to join in the dance. It is not right that young ladies should hold aloof from the festivities. I have hardly had a word with her since my arrival yesterday. I have to apologise for my neglect and to beg her forgiveness."
"Not only do I forgive," said Melisande, "I applaud. It is fitting, is it not, Monsieur de la Roche, that a bridegroom should neglect all but his bride?"
"It is an accepted rule of conduct, I believe."
"You have been a bridegroom?" asked Fermor; and Melisande fancied she detected the faintest streak of insolence.
"I have not; but I understand."
"Trust a Frenchman! But I won't be forgiven as easily as that. Every man—married or bachelor—has a duty to the community. Toujours la politesse, I believe you say in your country."
"In France," said Melisande, "la politesse always stands aside for Vamour. Thank you for asking me. Thank you for apologising. Please go back to your wife with a clear conscience. That is what all expect."
"Oh, but I must look after our guests, you know."
"Monsieur de la Roche looks after me and I after him."
He looked at her sardonically. "I guessed it, but I don't intend him to keep that pleasure all to himself. Come . . . dance with me."
He would have drawn her into the centre of the hall where the couples were forming for a barn dance, but at that moment there
was a knocking at the door, a shouting from without, and in the next few seconds the guise dancers were trooping into the hall.
Fermor said: "Another old custom! Who are these people?"
Jane Collings, who heard his remark, called out that they were the guise dancers who always came to the big houses at Christmas time.
"So it is another old custom!"
"Very ancient. Older than Christianity!" said Jane.
The guisards were unrecognizable, for most of them wore masks, and those who did not had blackened their faces in order to hide their identity. Some were dressed up to represent characters for whom the Cornish had a special sympathy. There were two as Sir Jonathan Trelawny as well as a Charles the First and a Monmouth. They acted their parts to the amusement of the guests, and after that they danced the ancient dances which they had been practising for weeks before Christmas.
Before they had finished their performance the wassaillers arrived, and with them the curl singers. The hall was full now; and there was general singing and dancing and drinking of dash-an-darras to the health of the bride and groom.
It was necessary for this last ceremony that Fermor should stand beside Caroline. As he did so he looked towards Melisande, and it was not easy to know what he was thinking. Melisande shivered. The scene seemed to her a strange one. The black faces of the dancers made them grotesque, and the masks worn by some of them were ugly, almost menacing. Yet she knew that beneath them were the faces of kindly simple people. There was the bridegroom, elegant in his wedding clothes from London, the handsomest man in the room, over six feet in height, an ideal bridegroom as she had heard him called; yet, thought Melisande, that handsome face was a mask more misleading than any worn by the revellers.
She turned suddenly to Leon.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I will marry you. I think ... we shall be happy together."
"Melisande . . ."
"Yes, if you still wish it, I will."
He gripped her hand. "I do not know what to say. I am overwhelmed with happiness."
"I believe it is the right thing for us," she said. "If I should wish to tell anyone that we are to marry, may I do so?"
"I want them all to know. Shall we announce it now?"
"Not here. They would not be interested. It would be an anticlimax. Who are we? Just consider– our betrothal announced at such a grand wedding!"
"When shall it be?"
"Not for a little while. There will have to be many arrangements, won't there."
"I will break the news gently to Raoul. Will you mind his being with us?"
"/shall not mind, but what of him? How will he like the idea?"
"He'll get used to it. Perhaps we could get married here . . . before we leave. Then we could all go away together. So, my dear sweet Melisande, we shall not be parted after all . . . never again."
Fermor's eyes were on them. "It is a great comfort for me to know that you are near," she said.
"I wish we could be alone somewhere."
"We shall meet to-morrow perhaps."
"At the usual tryst. Our own spot. In the years to come we shall visit it often. I shall always remember your coming down the cliffs with Raoul. . . down to where I stood on the sand."
"It was like coming down to safety."
They could no longer talk. As was the custom Caroline was about to sing for the guests.
She was flushed, shining with an inner happiness. Wenna watched her.
She's happy to-day, thought Wenna. But is one day's happiness worth a life-time's misery?
Caroline was saying: "I haven't much of a voice, as you know, but I will do my best, and here is a song you all know and perhaps you'll help me by joining in."
Caroline's voice was sweet but weak, so there must be absolute silence for her. She sang:
"A well there is in the West Country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the West Country But has heard of the well of St. Keyne."
Several of the guests sang lustily:
"But has heard of the well of St. Keyne."
And they went on to sing with Caroline of the stranger who came to the well and, being tired out, drank of the waters, and how he heard of the waters' magical power from the old man who had seen him drink.
" 'Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?' quoth he, Tor an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drunk this day That ever thou didst in thy life!'"
Melisande listened intently while Caroline and her helpers continued.
" 'St. Keyne,' quoth the Cornishman, 'many a time Drank of the crystal well, And before the angel summoned her, She laid on the water a spell.
'If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he For he shall be master for life.' "
Fermor had sidled over to Melisande and Leon. He whispered: "We're foreigners ... all of us. These Cornish are a bit overpowering.'*
"I wish," said L£on, "that I could understand the words. It is so difficult to follow . . . for one with my not very excellent English."
"Mademoiselle will doubtless explain. She understands, I am sure. She has become so proficient with our English that there is little she does not understand."
"Listen to the last verses," said Melisande; and they all turned to look at Caroline.
" 'You drank of the well I warrant betimes ?' He to the Cornishman said; But the Cornishman smiled as the stranger spake And 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 woooden hoops. The walls were adorned as lavishly as were those of the great hall itself with holly, mistletoe and evergreen leaves wherever it was possible to put them.
Mrs. Soady sat at the head of the table, a contented woman. It was near midnight; the guests were growing weary, and the servants were free now to settle themselves about the table. Now and then, of course, one or the other of them would be called to the guests, but the calls were less frequent.
Mrs. Soady, who had had her fill not only of her favourite foods but of her favourite wines, was saying it was a Christmas they would all remember as long as they lived, when Peg came in to announce that Mamazel and the Frenchman were still together and that she had seen them holding hands.
Mrs. Soady nodded. Metheglin made her very sleepy—the nicest possible sleepiness that made her love all the world, that made her want to share her pleasures with all.
" 'Twouldn't surprise me," said Bet, "if there was to be another wedding hereabouts."
"Oh, I don't know about that," said the footman. "This Frenchman he looks after the little boy, and the little boy be a duke or something—though only a French one. Well, this Mounseer ... if he be a relation—though a poor one—he'd be close to dukes, you do see."
"And what's that got to do with it?" asked Mrs. Soady, faintly truculent. The footman was bringing discord into happiness. Mrs. Soady was as fond of the little Mamazel as though she were one of the children she herself had never had. Mrs. Soady wanted the Mounseer to marry the Mamazel. She liked weddings. Look what a Christmas they had had through this one!
"Well, Mrs. Soady," pleaded the footman, "you do know these families be terrible particular."
172 IT BEGAN IN VAUXHALL GARDENS
"I can tell you," said Mrs. Soady, "that Mamazel have come from as good a family as any French mounseer, and be fit to marry with dukes . . . French ones leastways."
Mr. Meaker was alert. He was flashing warning glances. It was all very well to impart such weighty secrets to the senior member of the male staff, but to announce it to housemaids, parlourmaids and such chattering maidens, that would be folly such as even Mrs. Soady would not indulge in except under the influence of Christmas feasting and good metheglin.
Mrs. Soady intercepted Mr. Meaker's glances. She brushed them aside. She was excited now.
"You little know who Mamazel be," she said to the footman.
"Who then, Mrs. Soady?"
Many pairs of alert eyes were fixed on Mrs. Soady.
Mr. Meaker groaned inwardly. He knew Mrs. Soady could not resist the temptation. She was leaning back in her chair smiling.
"Well then, this be all between ourselves. 'Tis a secret as must never be mentioned outside these walls. Now, I'll tell 'ee . . ."
And she did.
It was early morning before the celebrations ended.
Melisande went to her room. She felt very tired. Pictures of the evening kept flitting through her mind. She saw herself standing beside Leon, heard his whispered words and herself giving the promise to marry him; she saw herself out in the cold night air waving as his carriage drove away. But most vivid of all were the pictures of the bride and bridegroom standing side by side acknowledging the toast, of Fermor strolling over to speak to her, of Fermor standing smiling at her as he sang for her.
Her head was aching, and as she was about to snuff out the candles panic seized her. On impulse she ran to the door and turned the key in the lock. She left the candies burning and getting into bed lay, looking at the door.
And as she lay.there she thought she heard sounds outside—slow stealthy footsteps.
