Текст книги "It Began in Vauxhall Gardens"
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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She took a quick glance at him. He was not in the least disturbed. She felt inexperienced and afraid. To whom could she go for advice? To Caroline? Impossible. To Sir Charles? He had been kind—he was still kind, yet he seemed remote. During those occasions when they were in each other's company she sensed in him an uneasiness. She believed that he avoided her; that he was anxious to prevent their ever being alone together. No, she could not ask him for advice. What of her friends in the servants' hall ? They were too garrulous, too fond of gossip. This was not only her trouble; it was also Caroline's.
She thought of the nun, as she had thought of her so many times before. She saw the nun as herself, the lover as Fermor. She feared that she was as weak as the nun; and surely the lover must have been very like Fermor.
She ought to go away—not only for her own sake but for thai of Caroline. But where could she go?
He was watching her, she knew; and he was laughing at her. She believed he was clever enough to read her thoughts, evil enough to laugh at them. He was a bad man. He represented Men as the nuns
thought of them. It was because of men like this one that they wished to shut themselves away from the world.
They left the high road and were within a mile of Trevenning. He broke into another of his songs.
"Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair?"
She tried to urge her horse to go ahead of his, but he would not have it so; he kept level with her and went on with his song.
"If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go; For if she be not for me, What care I how fair she be?"
And so they came to Trevenning.
Wenna was sitting by Caroline's bed; she was stroking the girl's forehead with her cool fingers.
"What is it, my queen? Tell Wenna."
She was different from Miss Maud. She frightened Wenna. Miss Maud had tears for all occasions. Caroline hardly ever wept. There were times when Wenna thought there could have been comfort in tears.
Wenna could only guess what had happened. The four of them had set off together. Caroline and John Collings had come home first; after that Fermor had arrived with Melisande.
Caroline had seemed to wear a mask to hide her suffering, but no mask could deceive Wenna. God curse all men! thought Wenna. Oh, if only my little queen would have none of them! If only she'd throw his ring in his face, and tell her father she'd rather die than marry him! And what was he doing here! He ought to have gone back to London weeks ago. It was clear what he was doing. Thoughts danced in and out of Wenna's mind. She would like to see them both ridden out of the place. She'd play a whistle herself and dance to their riding; she would be the first to call obscenities after them.
When they had returned—those shameless ones—he had been blithe and gay, but she was afraid. She was not one to be able to
hide her feelings. Her cheeks were scarlet, her eyes a more brilliant green than ever. Something had happened. Wenna could guess what. Oh shameful, shameful! In the open country, most like. There, soiling the good green earth, there among the flowers and grasses. It was doubly wicked that way.
Caroline had dressed herself in one of her loveliest dresses that evening. She had laughed and joked with her father—that old sinner—and the man she was to marry, that even greater young sinner. Oh, brave Miss Caroline, laughing with her heart breaking!
That imp of Satan had been put out of countenance though. She had had a tray sent to her room, and Wenna had seen Peg come out when she went to take it away, her lips greasy, still chewing. It looked as if Peg had had to finish her food for her. She had them all dancing to her tune. Mrs. Soady, Mr. Meaker, Peg and the rest. . . every fool of them.
I'd like to ill-wish her. I wish she was dead. Pd go along to a witch if I knew of one that did such things now, and I'd get a wax image of her and I'd stick pins in it every night, that I would. And I hope she finds trouble and he swears it weren't him. That I do. And I hope she dies. . . .
"Tell, my handsome. Tell Wenna. Caroline, my darling, tell Wenna."
"You know everything, Wenna, don't you?" said Caroline.
"Everything that concerns my lamb."
"Wenna, there's no one else I could talk to about this."
"Course there ain't. But there's Wenna. There's always Wenna. You'll be happier telling. What happened, dearie ? What happened, my queen?"
"She wants him, you see, Wenna. She's doing all she can to get him, and he . . ."
"Well, my little queen, there's things I could say about him, but let's admit betwixt ourselves he's like all the men . . . perhaps no better . . . perhaps no worse."
"And she, Wenna, she's very pretty. She's more than pretty."
"There's the devil in her."
"Let's be fair. I don't think she means ..."
"Not mean! She's been working for it. She looks at any, who'll be duped, with those great big eyes of hers. I never did like green ones. There's something of the devil in green eyes. I never yet knew any green-eyed person that hadn't got wickedness in them ..."
"No, Wenna. That's not true."
"You're too soft, my precious. You're too good and kind. You're like your mother."
"I don't know whether she planned it, but he did . . . from the moment he saw that they could get away."
112 IT BEGAN IN VAUXHALL GARDENS
"What did happen? Tell Wenna."
"There was trouble in Liskeard. It was outside Anna Quale's cottage. The mob was there and she took it upon herself to interfere with them."
"She would!"
"They didn't like it, Wenna, she being a foreigner."
"The impudence! I wonder they didn't tear her limb from limb."
"They might have done. But he was watching her and I was watching him. He was off his horse before any of us could do anything . . . and he looked as if he would have killed anyone who laid a hand on her. He got her on to her horse and they galloped away. It seemed some time before John and I realized what had happened. It could only have been for a second or two though. Then John said: 'We'd better go. . . .' And the people just parted and made way for us ... looking ashamed of themselves. It was because they knew who we were, I suppose. In any case, there was never any question of their touching us. We couldn't find those two, Wenna. We didn't know where they'd gone."
"They gave 'ee the slip then. They gave 'ee the slip on purpose."
"That was his intention."
"Hers too. Depend upon it."
"Then we came home and they came home. At least they came home not much more than half an hour after us."
"Half an hour be long enough for mischief, and they wouldn't want to call attention to themselves."
"Oh, Wenna, I'm so unhappy."
"There, there, my dearie. Why don't 'ee tell him you've done with him?"
"I can't, Wenna. I'll never be done with him."
"Why, you could stay here and there'd be Wenna always to look after and comfort 'ee."
"Wherever I go you'll be there to look after and comfort me."
"I know. Bless 'ee for that. We'll never be parted, my little love. But he's not the one for you."
"He is, Wenna. He is. There's one thing that frightens me. What if he is so much in love with her that he wants to marry her!"
"Not he! Who be she then? Somebody's bastard! Oh yes, you can be shocked, my pretty, but that's what she be. I know it. Some light o' love had a baby she didn't want, and she be it. Master Fermor's a proud man. So be his family. They don't marry the likes of her, no matter how green their eyes be."
"That sort of marriage has happened."
"She'd need the devil and all his spells to bring it off. He ain't given no sign that he's thinking of backing out of marriage with you?"
"No, Wenna."
"Well, don't 'ee fret about that. You'll marry him, my love; and to my way of thinking, one man ain't much worse than another. You'll have trouble with him . . . like this day. You'll always have that sort of trouble. But we'll fight trouble when it comes. We'll fight it together. Wenna would die for you, my precious. Wenna would kill for you. If I had her here now I'd take her throat in my two hands and wring it like I would the neck of a chicken for the boiling pot."
*'Oh, Wenna, you're a comfort to me."
"Don't 'ee fret, my dear. Wenna's beside 'ee."
Caroline was quiet then. She lay still with her eyes closed while Wenna thought of the slender neck in her strong hands, and the green eyes, wide with horror, staring dumbly, asking for mercy which should not be given.
There was quietness throughout the house. In half an hour it would be midnight.
In her room, Melisande waited, her cloak wrapped about her, her shoes in her hand.
A board in the corridor creaked. Melisande was tense, listening.
Cautiously she opened her door and a small plump figure glided in.
Peg said: "Be you ready then, Mamazel?"
"Yes, Peg."
Peg whispered: "The back door be unbolted. Mrs. Soady said not to forget to bolt it when we did come in. We'll pick up– the food as we go out. 'Tis all ready. Come."
They tiptoed downstairs, every now and then pausing to make sure that no one in the house was stirring; down the back staircase, through to the servants' hall, where they could breathe more freely, for if they awakened any of the servants that would be of no great importance as the adventure had the blessing of Mrs. Soady.
Into the great stone kitchen they went, where two neat packages lay on the table.
" 'Tis roast fowl," whispered Peg. "Tamson Trequint be terrible partial to roast fowl. Mrs. Soady said she'd give a beautiful spell for a wing or a bit of the breast. Now then ... be you ready?"
"Yes," said Melisande.
1(14 IT BEGAN IN VAUXHALL GARDENS
"Then come on."
Out through the back door they went.
"Keep close to the house," whispered Peg, "just in case someone has heard and looks from the windows."
But they had to cross the park.
"Hurry," said Peg. "We must be there by midnight. That be terrible important. A midnight spell be the best you can have. More like to work ... so says Mrs. Soady; and her'd know, being a pellar."
When they reached the high road, Melisande turned to look about her. The country was touched with the white magic of the moon; it cast a light path on the waters. The rocks looked like crouching giants; on the water there gleamed an occasional phosphorescent light, ghostly and fascinating.
"What be looking at?" demanded Peg. "What be over there by the sea?"
"It's so beautiful."
"Oh, 'tis only the old sea."
"But look at the shadows there."
"Only they old rocks."
"And the lights! Look! They come and go."
"'Tis mackerel . . . nothing more. Them lights do mean we'll have mackerel the next few days . . . like as not. Come on. Do 'ee want a midnight spell, Mamazel, or did 'ee come out to look for mackerel?"
It was eerie in the woods. Some of the trees gleamed silver like ghosts from another world, others were black and menacing like grotesque human shapes. Now and then there would be a movement in the undergrowth.
"What be that?" cried Peg.
"A rat? A rabbit?"
"I've heard of people what comes out alone at night being carried off."
"We're not alone."
"No! I wouldn't have come out alone . . . not for a farm . . . not for roast fowl every day of my life. That I wouldn't. The Little People don't carry 'ee off in twos, so 'tis said. All the same, I be scared. Better say Jack o' lantern."
Peg began in a trembling voice:
"Jack o' Lantern, Joan the Wad, Who tickled the maid and made her mad, Light me home; the weather's bad ..."
"But we do not want to be lighted home and the weather is not bad," pointed out Melisande.
"Well, we dursen't say 'Light me to the witch's cave.' I don't know that piskies be terrible fond of witches. I do reckon we might get pisky-led if we was alone. I'm terrible glad we'm not."
They pushed on, and Peg screamed when a low branch caught her hair and she could not immediately extricate herself. They both felt that at any moment they would see hundreds of little figures making a ring round them, tickling them until they were mad, leading them away to regions below the earth. But Melisande was able to release Peg, and after that, they took to running; and they did not stop until they reached Tamson's hut.
Wenna had heard the creaking of the stairs. Wenna slept lightly.
Someone was creeping about the house, she decided.
Wenna had her own ideas. She thought she knew. Wouldn't it be just like him? She reckoned that the wicked Mamazel, the daughter of Babylon, was creeping up to his room. She pictured the terrible deeds they would perform.
What if she caught them together? That wouldn't do though. It would only bring sorrow to Miss Caroline. No! But she could go to the master with her tales.
She went to the door of her room. She slept in the room next to Caroline's.
Pray God, Miss Caroline don't wake, the poor lamb! she thought,
She waited. There was no sound now. Had she been mistaken? Had she been dreaming? But she would keep a sharp look out, she would. One little slip and she'd be off to the master. He couldn't keep a harlot in his house . . . not one who was going to rob his legitimate daughter of a husband. But perhaps he was shameful enough for that! Hadn't he brought that woman's daughter into the house to live alongside Miss Caroline?
She went back to her room, but as she was about to get into her bed she heard a sound from without. So, they were meeting out of doors. Why hadn't she thought of that!
She was at her window. The lawn was bright with moonlight. She listened. Yes. Surely footsteps. If only she were down there! But they were keeping close to the house. Where were they off to to do their wickedness ? On the sweet pure grass! Let them catch their deaths and die.
Now she saw them—two figures; one was Mamazel, the other was short and squat. Peg!
And what were they doing, and where were they going? They were making their way towards the woods.
Suddenly she knew, and the thought filled her with misgiving.
She knew why girls went out in pairs round about midnight. She knew why they made their way to the hut in the woods.
She sat at the window, waiting.
Melisande shuddered as they stepped into the hut. It was dimly lighted by a lamp which hung from the ceiling and smelt strongly of the oil. A fire was burning in a hollow in one corner of the hut. Two black cats lay stretched on the earthen floor. One rose and arched his back at the sight of the visitors; the other lay still, watching them with alert green eyes.
"Be still, Samuel," said a gentle voice. " 'Tis only two young ladies come to see us."
The black cat settled down on the floor and watched them.
On a table several objects lay in some disorder. There were pieces of wax, wooden hearts and bottles of red liquid which had the appearance of blood. There were charms made of wood and metal, a chart of the sky and a great crystal globe.
About the clay walls herbs were hung. There was a wooden beam across the ceiling of the hut and from this hung dark objects in various stages of decomposition. Two live toads were near the fire; a pot was simmering there; the steam which rose from it smelt of earth and decaying vegetables.
Tamson Trequint had risen. She was a very old woman whose untidy grey hair fell about her shoulders; her skin was burned brown by the sun and wind and she was very thin. Her eyes were black and brilliant and her heavy lids suggested an eagle.
"Come in. Come in. Don't 'ee be scared," she said. "Samuel won't hurt 'ee. Nor will Joshua. What have you brought me?"
Peg was too frightened to speak. Melisande forced herself to say: "We have brought roast fowl for you."
"So you be the pretty foreign one. Come here, my dear, that I may look at 'ee. You b'ain't frightened, be you? 'Tis the same with all these servant girls. They want my charms; they want their plough-boys and their fishermen. But they'm scared of coming to me
to ask my help. What do you want, my dear? Speak up. You don't altogether believe in our ways, do 'ee? But you've come all the same."
"Is it true that you can give charms and potions to make people love," asked Melisande. "Can you make people love those it is good for them to love . . . even though they do not do so?"
"I can give a charm as will put a bloom on a young girl, my dear. I can smear her with jam like ... so that the wasps come a-buzzing round. Are there witches where you do come from? Are there black witches like some . . . and white witches like old Tammy Trequint?"
"I do not know of them. I lived in a convent . . . away from such things."
"I understand 'ee, my dear. You be like a bird as is let free. Mind someone don't catch 'ee and clip your pretty wings. Why do you come here?"
"I want a charm ... a spell ... a potion ... if you will be so good as to give me one."
"You want a lover. You should be fair enough without a charm."
Melisande looked into the hooded eyes and saw that they were kindly for all their strangeness. She said quickly: "I am afraid of. . . someone. I wish his attentions to be turned from me. I wish them to go . . . where they belong. Could that be done?"
" 'Tis a love token in reverse, so to speak."
"Can you give me such a one?"
" 'Twill not be easy. There's some who might come and ask such a thing and I'd know it would be no more than breaking a couple of twigs. But 'tis not so with you, my dear. We'll see. What does the other maiden want?"
Peg came forward. Her wants were simple. She wanted a love token to catch the young fisherman whom, try as she might, she could not catch without.
"Let me see what you've brought." She unwrapped the parcel of food. She sniffed it. " 'Tis good," she said. "Mrs. Soady have sent you and Mrs. Soady's my good friend."
She put the food on the table and, picking up a piece of wax, with expert fingers, she forced it into a metal mould. This she put on the fire.
She said to Peg: "Think of his face, my dear. Think of him. Conjure him up. He's there behind you ... a bonny boy. Close your eyes and say his name. Can you see him?" Peg nodded. The mould was drawn from the fire and left to cool.
"Sit you on that stool, my dear. Keep your eyes closed and don't for a minute stop thinking of him. When he's cooled down you shall have him. Just sit 'ee still now."
Peg obeyed.
"Now you, my dear. 'Tis not the same for you. 'Tis a double spell you need. Now first we must turn his affection from you like. I've got an onion here and I want you to pierce it with these pins. In the old days we'd use nothing but a sheep's or bullock's heart. But onions serve, and they be easy to come by. Now, my dear, take these pins and as you stick them in the onion you must conjure up his image. You must see him standing close behind you."
"This will not bring a misfortune to him?" asked Melisande anxiously. "There is no harm for him in this?"
Tamson laughed suddenly. "What be harm? Harm to one be good to another. If he do love you truly he might be happy with you. If he's to love this other, he might find sorrow there. Then that would be harm. So whether harm or good will come of this, I can't tell 'ee. I be a witch but a white witch. And I'll tell 'ee this, because I've took a fancy to 'ee: meddling with fate ain't always a good thing. 'Tis writ in the stars what shall be. Fate's Fate and there's no altering that; and when people come to me for spells they're after altering it. 'Tis devils' work to alter Fate. You got to call in magic. 'Tis more like to be harm that way than good."
"I know I must turn his thoughts from me. I know it would be a goodness to do so."
"Then stick in they pins."
The tears started to Melisande's eyes,
"'Tis that old onion. But tears be good. Tears never done no harm. Is it ready, well riddled with pins? He's there. He's behind you. He's tall and handsome and gay. He loves many, but not one of them as he loves himself. Now we'll roast his heart, and as we roast it, you must say with me:
'It is not this heart I wish to burn, But the person's heart I wish to turn . . .'
"Then, my dear, you whisper to yourself the name of her who should be his love, and you must see them together, and they must be joining hands while you do say those words. Say his name and her name . . . and see them bound together in love."
Melisande closed her eyes and repeated the lines after the witch. She tried to see Caroline and Fermor, to see them embrace; but instead she was filled with a passionate wish that she might have been Sir Charles's daughter, that she might have been the one who was chosen for him. Caroline would not stay in the picture. He was there, singing on his horse, leaning over to kiss Melisande, laughing at her, mocking her. And she was there, riding away from him, yet reluctantly, knowing he was gaining on her. Then she thought of the
nun who had broken her vows all those years ago and had died in her granite tomb.
"There!" said Tamson Trequint. "That'll do 'ee both. Now, my dear," she went on, turning to Peg, "here be your image. You stick pins in it every night, just where his heart is, and if you've seen him aright and you've done all I told 'ee, he'll be your lover before the coming of the new moon. Get on with 'ee now."
Peg said breathlessly: "Oh, Mrs. Soady did say she have a stye coming and what should she do?"
"Tell her to touch it with the tail of a cat."
"And Mr. Meaker be feared his asthma's coming back."
"Let him collect spiders' webs, roll them in his hands and swallow them."
"Thank 'ee, Mistress Trequint. Mrs. Soady said as something would be left for 'ee."
"Tell Mrs. Soady her's welcome."
They went out into the woods and the journey back was not so terrifying as the journey to the hut. They were too absorbed in what they had seen to think of the supernatural inhabitants of the wood. Peg was clutching her image and thinking of her fisherman. Melisande was less happy.
They crossed the lawns to the house.
"Quietly now," said Peg.
But Wenna, watching at her window, had already seen them.
Wenna had made up her mind. She would not remain passive any longer, for this was no time for passivity.
That wicked girl had not gone out to meet him; she was too artful for that. Like as not she was holding him off. She was more than wanton; she was cunning.
Wenna imagined her telling him that she was too good a girl to become one of his light o' loves. Clearly she had gone to the witch in the woods for a spell that would make him dance to her piping . . . dance to whatever tune she played; and her tune would be marriage.
So there was no time for delay.
Wenna went down to the kitchen.
Mrs. Soady was sitting at the table treating her eye with the cat's tail. The big tom-cat was on the table and Mrs. Soady was trying
120 IT BEGAN IN VAUXHALL GARDENS
to make him keep still so that she could wipe his tail across her eyelid.
"What be up to?" asked Wenna.
" 'Tis this blessed stye again. My brother be a martyr to 'em, and they do trouble me now and then. I'm trying to cure the thing afore it grows so big as to close up my eye."
"Who told 'ee to do that then?"
" 'Twas old Tammy Trequint. She be very good. I remember how when Jane Pengelly's three had the measles she told her to cut off a cat's left ear and swallow three drops of the blood in a glass of spring water. My dear life, they was all cured by next day. That's Tarn Trequint for 'ee."
Wenna thought: So you knew they was going to see Tamson then? You told 'em to go. You're as thick as smugglers, you two be . . . you and that Mamazel.
She looked at Mrs. Soady who was so fat that she appeared to be sliding off the chair on which she sat. Mrs. Soady's small benevolent eyes smiled at the world through her puffy flesh. There was a lot of Mrs. Soady. It came of feeding herself with titbits all through the day. Not that she'd go short on her meals either! Mrs. Soady loved food. She also loved a bit of gossip—the tastier the better. Which did she love most, hog's pudding or news of the latest seduction, pilchards with cream or what Annie Polgard did to Sam? It was hard to say. Suffice it that both were irresistible.
There was something else about Mrs. Soady. She was the most generous body in the world. She could not enjoy her food completely unless she shared it with others; she could not enjoy her scandals unless she shared them also. It mattered not if it was her master's food she gave; it mattered not if she had sworn to keep the gossip secret. That was how it was with her.
"So you've been a-visiting Tamson then?" said Wenna.
"No, 'tis too far for me and the way through the woods too bony, my dear. I send Tarn a little something now and then. One of the maids takes it for me."
"So they've been to-day, have they?"
"Not so long ago."
"What's the trouble now?"
"Young Peg—she's after one of the fishermen."
"That girl's a bad 'un."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that. She's just what you might call affectionate natured. Some is; some ain't. It turns up in a human being now and then, Wenna, my dear."
"Did young Peg go alone, or did this here affection turn up in someone else?"
Mrs. Soady did not think she ought to tell, but it was going to be very hard not to; and Wenna felt too impatient to get the secret
out of her like a winkle out of a shell. She said bluntly: "I saw them coming in. After midnight. 'Tain't right, you know, Mrs. Soady, young girls going out at midnight."
"My dear, the spell only works at midnight, and going together no harm can come to them."
"So Mamazel had to have a token, eh?"
"Well, why not? 'Tis a bit of fun. Though as Mr. Meaker said, a pretty girl like she be didn't ought to want a token. That's what he did say."
" 'Tis easy to catch flies, my dear, but you want a net to catch a rare butterfly."
"My dear!" Mrs. Soady was overcome by such cleverness. "Do you think then . . . Oh, I don't know. 'Twas just a bit of fun. I remember what I was like when I was a girl." Mrs. Soady laughed softly at memories.
Wenna clenched her hands together. She thought: She's got to go. She must not stay here. And she did not care how she did it; she was going to drive Melisande from the house.
If she went to the master and told him all she knew of her, he would push aside all she had to say. Of course he would. What did he care if she took Master Fermor and broke the heart of his legitimate daughter? What had he cared for Maud? Hadn't he deliberately let her die because of his absorption with this girl?
Very well then. She knew how to attack where it hurt most. He was a dignified man. He was very proud of his position in the county. He might go off to gaiety in foreign parts and London Town, but no spot must tarnish his reputation here in Cornwall.
She said: "Mrs. Soady, I know something about this Mamazel."
"You know something!" Mrs. Soady's eyes glistened as they did when she chopped up apples, bacon and onions and laid them with mutton over a young and tender pigeon to make a squab pie. They could not have shone more over the drop of pig's blood that went into the making of a hog's or bloody pudding.
"I don't rightly know that I ought to tell."
"Oh, you can trust me, Wenna, my dear."
"Well, don't 'ee say a word then . . . not a word to a soul. Will 'ee swear?"
"I will, my dear. You can trust me."
Wenna drew her chair close to Mrs. Soady. "I happen to know whose daughter she is."
"Oh?"
"The master's."
"JVb/"
"'Tis so There was a woman up to London."
"You don't say!"
"Yes, I do then. He was always going up. Business, he said. Business? says I. I know what sort of business. And there was this girl, and they put her in a French convent; and then when she grew up, he wanted her here. Well, he couldn't very well bring her here while her ladyship lived. He's terrible strict about what's right and wrong . . . when it's going to be found out."
"How did you know all this? Did her ladyship know it, Wenna, my dear?"
"Well, she didn't know all. But I don't mind telling 'ee, Mrs. Soady, that just before Miss Maud died, there was a letter ... a letter from foreign parts. He was worried about it. I saw him with it. He was wondering what he could do. He was afraid to bring her here while Miss Maud was alive. Miss Maud asked him to bring her a wrap. . . . 'Twas on the night the engagement were celebrated. And what did he do ? He went in and read that letter instead. And Miss Maud caught cold and died."
"You mean that was what he wanted ... so he could bring Mamazel here?"
"I didn't say that. 'Twas you who said that, Mrs. Soady."
"My dear soul! I didn't mean it. I know the master to be a good man . . . none better. But you really think this be true?"
"I've every reason to believe it, Mrs. Soady. She's his daughter. She's what they do call his illegitimate daughter."
"That be the same as a bastard," said Mrs. Soady in a hushed voice. "Well, I never did!"
"Now, Mrs. Soady, I have took you into my confidence. You'll not breathe a word of it to a soul. 'Tis our secret."
"Why, Wenna, my dear, you can trust me. Not a word. My dear life! The times we do live in!"
"Don't 'ee forget, Mrs. Soady. What the master would do if this got about, I can't say!"
"My dear life! My dear soul! And here's me forgetting that veer we be having for dinner." She rose from the table. Her little eyes were shining; she was not thinking so much about the young sucking pig she was to prepare, as of the strange goings-on of the master of the house.
She would be absent-minded for a while, and Meaker would know she had something on her mind; and old Meaker was almost as much a gossip as she was. He wouldn't let her keep it on her mind; he'd get her to share it.
It would not be long, Wenna reasoned, before the servants' hall would be in the secret; they would all be whispering of the extraordinary relationship between the master and Mamazel.
And soon it would get to the master's ears.
And then, Mamazel, my pretty dear, if I do know the master, you'll be something that has to be hushed up pretty quick; and things that has to be hushed up is put away where nobody can't see them. I reckon I have got rid of you good and proper, that I do!
TWO
a
'ctober brought the gales. The rain came driving in from the sea, bending the fir trees, beating against the houses, forcing its way through the windows and under the doors; the sea was grey and angry; the fishermen could not fish. They sat disconsolately in the Jolly Sailor, talking, as they talked every year, of the gales that kept a fisherman from his living. The sea mist, like a damp curtain, descended over the land.
