Текст книги "It Began in Vauxhall Gardens"

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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"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 06."

"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 Treven-ning. 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 / 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

108 IT BEGAN IN VAUXHALL GARDENS

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.