" 'St. Keyne,' quoth the Cornishman, 'many a time Drank of the crystal well, And before the angel summoned her, She laid on the water a spell.
'If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he For he shall be master for life.' "
Fermor had sidled over to Melisande and Leon. He whispered: "We're foreigners ... all of us. These Cornish are a bit overpowering.'*
"I wish," said L£on, "that I could understand the words. It is so difficult to follow . . . for one with my not very excellent English."
"Mademoiselle will doubtless explain. She understands, I am sure. She has become so proficient with our English that there is little she does not understand."
"Listen to the last verses," said Melisande; and they all turned to look at Caroline.
" 'You drank of the well I warrant betimes ?' He to the Cornishman said; But the Cornishman smiled as the stranger spake And sheepishly shook his head.
'I hastened as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch; But i' faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church.' "
There was a burst of applause. Many of the Cornish began to chant the last words again, looking slyly from Caroline to Fermor as though they wondered which of them would drink first of the waters of the well.
"The song is . . . what you call an appropriate one?" said Melisande.
"I suppose you would say so," said Fermor.
"And you have drunk of this water? Or do you intend to?"
"Dear Mademoiselle, do you think I need the help of this St. Keyne or whatever her name is? No. I rely on myself. Have no fears that I shall be unable to look after myself."
Melisande thought he was like a satyr, mocking her, assuring her that he had vowed to bring her to surrender; and that he could be thus on the day of his wedding seemed to her the depth of infamy.
There was a sudden silence all about them. The guests had finished with St. Keyne. It was the bridegroom's turn, they were declaring.
"First the bride . . . then the groom. 'Tis an old Cornish custom.'*
He sauntered towards the musicians.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "how can I follow such a spirited rendering as we have just heard, with one of my little songs? You will excuse me ..."
"No, no!" they cried. "You must sing. The bride has sung. The groom must sing too."
His reluctance was feigned, Melisande knew. Everything about him is false, she thought. He wants to sing. He wants them to admire his voice. He is all conceit, all arrogance. Now that she knew him, she knew him for the devil, as Therese and the Sisters thought of the devil.
He sang to them in his powerful voice and there was immediate silence in the hall; and only Melisande knew that the song was for her.
"Go, lovely rose! Tell her, that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired;
And not blush so to be admired.
Then die! that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee:
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair."
Listening Melisande felt that he was luring her—in spite of all she knew of him—to some fate which must be avoided and which she yet feared would overtake her.
She turned to Leon at her side.
She was relying on him to help her withdraw from that quicksand into which she had already taken a step.
In the servants' hall the Christmas bush hung suspended from the ceiling; every servant had gathered some of the evergreen leaves with which to decorate the woooden hoops. The walls were adorned as lavishly as were those of the great hall itself with holly, mistletoe and evergreen leaves wherever it was possible to put them.
Mrs. Soady sat at the head of the table, a contented woman. It was near midnight; the guests were growing weary, and the servants were free now to settle themselves about the table. Now and then, of course, one or the other of them would be called to the guests, but the calls were less frequent.
Mrs. Soady, who had had her fill not only of her favourite foods but of her favourite wines, was saying it was a Christmas they would all remember as long as they lived, when Peg came in to announce that Mamazel and the Frenchman were still together and that she had seen them holding hands.
Mrs. Soady nodded. Metheglin made her very sleepy—the nicest possible sleepiness that made her love all the world, that made her want to share her pleasures with all.
" 'Twouldn't surprise me," said Bet, "if there was to be another wedding hereabouts."
"Oh, I don't know about that," said the footman. "This Frenchman he looks after the little boy, and the little boy be a duke or something—though only a French one. Well, this Mounseer ... if he be a relation—though a poor one—he'd be close to dukes, you do see."
"And what's that got to do with it?" asked Mrs. Soady, faintly truculent. The footman was bringing discord into happiness. Mrs. Soady was as fond of the little Mamazel as though she were one of the children she herself had never had. Mrs. Soady wanted the Mounseer to marry the Mamazel. She liked weddings. Look what a Christmas they had had through this one!
"Well, Mrs. Soady," pleaded the footman, "you do know these families be terrible particular."
172 IT BEGAN IN VAUXHALL GARDENS
"I can tell you," said Mrs. Soady, "that Mamazel have come from as good a family as any French mounseer, and be fit to marry with dukes . . . French ones leastways."
Mr. Meaker was alert. He was flashing warning glances. It was all very well to impart such weighty secrets to the senior member of the male staff, but to announce it to housemaids, parlourmaids and such chattering maidens, that would be folly such as even Mrs. Soady would not indulge in except under the influence of Christmas feasting and good metheglin.
Mrs. Soady intercepted Mr. Meaker's glances. She brushed them aside. She was excited now.
"You little know who Mamazel be," she said to the footman.
"Who then, Mrs. Soady?"
Many pairs of alert eyes were fixed on Mrs. Soady.
Mr. Meaker groaned inwardly. He knew Mrs. Soady could not resist the temptation. She was leaning back in her chair smiling.
"Well then, this be all between ourselves. 'Tis a secret as must never be mentioned outside these walls. Now, I'll tell 'ee . . ."
And she did.
It was early morning before the celebrations ended.
Melisande went to her room. She felt very tired. Pictures of the evening kept flitting through her mind. She saw herself standing beside Leon, heard his whispered words and herself giving the promise to marry him; she saw herself out in the cold night air waving as his carriage drove away. But most vivid of all were the pictures of the bride and bridegroom standing side by side acknowledging the toast, of Fermor strolling over to speak to her, of Fermor standing smiling at her as he sang for her.
Her head was aching, and as she was about to snuff out the candles panic seized her. On impulse she ran to the door and turned the key in the lock. She left the candies burning and getting into bed lay, looking at the door.