Текст книги "It Began in Vauxhall Gardens"

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

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 thqt 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."