She had as many friends in West Looe as in East Looe. People were always glad to see her whom they called the little Mamazel. And although there were some in West Looe who would resent her friendship with the people who lived on the other side of the river, and some in East Looe who thought she owed allegiance to them— for the two towns liked to keep themselves apart—they forgave
in Mamazel that which would have seemed duplicity in others.
Melisande knew of these resentments but she pretended not to. She was not, for the sake of East Looe, going to cut from her list of friends that wonderful old woman, Grandmother Tremorney, any more than she would, for the sake of the West, give up her friendship with old Knacker Poldown. Old Knacker—and he was so small and wizened that it was easy to understand why he had been so named— with his talk of the mines and the adventures he had there until he retired and came to live on the east side in a grand house with a pisky-pow on the roof, was too good to miss; but so w r as old Lil Tremorney sitting outside her cottage, purring at her pipe, with her tales of the lovers she had had.
Melisande had so many friends and she could not bear to leave them. Only yesterday she had been called in to Mrs. Pengelly's to see the new baby and taste a bit of the kimbly which had been saved for friends. It was a delicious cake made especially for the child's christening and she was honoured to receive her share.
How could she give up such things ?
There was something else which she had to give up, and she had to admit to herself that it was what she would miss more than anything.
Fermor had been teaching her to ride for some weeks. Sir Charles had given his permission. He seemed secretly pleased and said he thought it was an excellent idea, and it was a good thing to let Fermor pay for his lessons in French. Fermor had declared that there must be a lesson every day, and he said he would not return to London until he had made Melisande into a proficient horsewoman.
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."