"The old France is gone," he said. "There is a King on the throne, but what a King! The son of Egalite, a man who gave up his titles to join the National Guard. What could be expected of such a King? No! It shall not be France for me."
"Tell me about the plantation you would have. Let us pretend that the climate would be good for Raoul, and that you are now making plans for leaving."
"The climate could never be good for Raoul."
"But I said, pretend it would. You say you are melancholy and I am gay. When I am sad, I pretend. I have always pretended. It is the next best thing to reality. It is better to imagine something good is happening than to brood on what is bad and cannot be altered. Now . . . how should we leave?"
"First we should cross the Atlantic. Are you a good sailor?"
"I am the best of sailors."
"I knew you would be. I have some friends in New Orleans. We should make for them. You would have to look after Raoul while I worked hard, learning all I had to learn about managing the plantation."
"That would be easy. I daresay there would be much to entertain us, and Raoul is interested in everything."
"We should employ negroes to work for us; and I think that, once I was proficient, the thing would be to get the plantation going and then . . . build the house."
She was smiling dreamily, seeing not the sea and rocks, but a plantation of her imagining. It was a sugar plantation. She did not know what a sugar plantation looked like, but she imagined rows and rows of canes and laughing people in gay colours with dark shining faces. She saw them all dancing at the Mardi Gras.
He broke in on her dreams. "If ever I go, will you really come with me? Would you marry me, Melisande?"
"But . . ."
"Forget I asked it. It was too soon. I see that. It is a mistake. I was carried away by your enthusiasm."
There was a short silence before he said: "I am right? It is too soon?"
"Yes," she answered, "I think it is too soon."
"What do you mean, Melisande?"
"That as yet you are my friend and I have been happy . . . and very comfortable . . . knowing you. It is too soon for big decisions. We do not, as yet, know each other very well."
"I know enough."
"You do not even know who my parents were."
"I did not think of knowing them. It is of knowing you that I am sure."
"You are a great comfort to me and that is a very good thing to be."
"I'll comfort you all the days of your life."
"I believe you would. You are gentle, and only sad when you look backwards."
"If you married me there would be so much to look forward to that I should no longer want to look back."
"A new life," she said dreamily, "in a new world."
"That would not be for years. You forget . . . Raoul."
"How would Raoul feel if you married me?"
"A bit hurt at first perhaps. He has had my undivided attention for so long. But he is fond of you and would grow fonder. You have charmed him as you have charmed all others. At present he is too self-centred to see anyone very clearly apart from himself; but we should soon overcome any opposition."
"Leon, he is not a bad little boy. It is just that he has too much power . . . and he is too young to handle it. He could change, I think."
"It would be so good for him to have us both. More . . . normal. We could both be parents to him. It is so difficult ... a man all alone."
"Yes, I see that. But it is not Raoul we are discussing, Leon. It is ourselves."
"And I have spoken too soon."
"Yes, that is it. You have spoken too soon. Could we put this aside . . . until later on ? Leave it for a few weeks, Leon. That is best. Let us talk of other things and suddenly . . . soon ... I shall know. I feel it. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Melisande, I understand."
She jumped up. "It will soon be dark and I am late. Please . . . I must go at once."
They walked back to Trevenning, but they did not talk any more of marriage. But when he left her he said: "We must meet often . . . every day. We must get through this business of knowing each other 'as soon as possible. You are very beautiful and T am very impatient.''
"Good night," she said.
He took her hands and kissed them.
"I am very fond of you," she said, "and a little of Raoul. I think it could be a happy thing if we were all together."
He would have put his arms about her but she held him off. "Please ... we must wait. It is too important and, as yet, we cannot be sure."
She left him and, as she did so, she seemed to hear Fermor's mocking laughter. Two proposals—and how different!
"Life is a strangeness," she murmured in English.
Three ways were open to her now. Which should she choose?
Take the one you long for! she seemed to hear a voice urging her. Be bold. Say goodbye to the dull life. Live gaily and recklessly. That is the way. She could imagine the tuneful tenor voice:
"I would love you all the day, Every night would kiss and play, If with me you'd fondly stray Over the hills and far away ..."
Over the hills and far away to a sinful life ... to adventure. She thought: Clearly if I were wise I should marry Leon.
It was Christmas Day.
Melisande lay awake, though it was early and the house not yet astir.
Caroline's wedding day had come.
Fermor had returned only yesterday, having been, he said, delayed in London. As soon as she heard his voice she felt excitement rising within her; as soon as she looked from her window and saw him laughing as he was greeted by the grooms and servants, she knew great disquiet.
Now on this early morning she would look facts in the face and see
them as they really were. She had dreamed—she who lived so much in dreams—that something would happen before this day was reached. Her romantic thoughts, winding along pleasantly to a happy ending, had given John Collings to Caroline, and had found a charming girl for Leon; that left Melisande and Fermor who, by a miraculous stroke of good fortune, had changed his nature; he became serious-minded without losing any of his gaiety; he became tender without losing any of his passion; he became loving instead of lustful.
In her dreams Melisande lived in a perfect world.
But now—on Caroline's wedding day—reality had risen indisputably over fantasy, and ruthlessly was preparing to stamp it out.
In the wardrobe was the dress of green silk, made to her own design, which Miss Pennifield had helped her to sew; at the neck were little bows of black velvet, and there was a big rose of black silk and velvet to wear at the waist. "Black!" Miss Pennifield had cried. "Why, it looks like mourning. Black is for funerals, not for weddings. Why don't you make a nice pink one? Roses are pink, not black, my dear. And I'll find 'ee some lovely pieces." "There can only be black," she had said. "It is a need ... for a green gown." And she thought: For me too.
She was not quite seventeen, and that was young to despair. She wondered how old the nun had been at the time of her incarceration. She, Melisande, would this day be walled in—walled in by the death of hope.
She had not seen him alone since his return. He had not sought her, she knew, for had he wished to see her he would have found some means of doing so. He had come with wedding presents . . . for Caroline. He talked with Caroline; he rode with Caroline; and that was fitting.