It Began in Vauxhall Gardens - Plaidy Jean (бесплатная регистрация книга txt) 📗

"I don't know nothing about that. All I know is that Miss Caroline shouldn't have to treat her . . . like a sister."

The shaft went home. He looked uneasy. Now Wenna had no doubts. She felt like an avenging angel. He should pay for the unhappiness he had brought to her darling Miss Maud ... he should pay for the murder of Miss Maud—for murder it was. If he had been thinking of her getting a chill instead of what was written in foreign letters about this girl, Miss Maud would be here to-day.

The misery of her loss came back to her in all its bitter vividness.

How she hated him and his wickedness! She would not rest until that girl was out of the house. That she should be here was a slight to Miss Maud's memory. Perhaps he had deliberately let her get that chill so that he could bring the girl into the house and no questions be asked by those who had a right to ask them.

No sooner had that thought come to her than she was sure she had hit on the truth.

"I think," he said, after only the briefest pause, "that I am the best judge of what is right for my daughter."

For your daughters, you mean! she thought. Ah, that's what they are, both of them. One of them my dear Miss Maud's child, and the other the spawn of the whore of Babylon.

Oh, Miss Maud, may my right hand forget its cunning if ever I forget the wrong he has done you!

"I think that girl will bring trouble to the house," she said aloud. "I've got a feeling. It's the same sort of feeling I had before Miss Maud passed away. I just know. I've always known such things."

He softened a little, remembering her devotion to Maud. He could be softened by memories of Maud. He felt guilty because he had forgotten to take her the wrap, although he assured himself that that had nothing to do with her death. She had always been ailing and the doctors had been prophesying her death for years.

"Send her away, master," said Wenna. "Send her away before something happens . . . something dreadful."

He was shaken by her intensity. Then he thought: She's a superstitious old woman. Are they not all superstitious in this part of the world? They are always imagining they are ill-wished, always dreaming that the Little People are at their elbows.

He said sharply: "You are talking nonsense, Wenna. Certainly I shall not send the girl away. Don't be so uncharitable. She is young and high-spirited. I am glad she is being taught to ride. She has given Mr. Holland French lessons. It is only fitting that he should reward her in his turn. You are prejudiced against her because Caroline spends so much time with her."

Wenna turned away muttering to herself.

"Wenna!" he said almost pleadingly. "Be kind to this girl. Do not resent her presence because you feel Caroline is growing fond of her. Remember that she would have a poor life if I sent her away from here."

Wenna replied: "I've said my say, master. It's something I feel within me."

Then she went out. She was thinking derisively: Caroline fond of her! Fond of her for trying to take Fermor away from her, as her mother took you from my Miss Maud! There shan't be another robbery like that one if I can stop it. And stop it I will. I'll see her dead first—your daughter though she may be, and the living proof of your sin and shame.

They had ridden into Liskeard. There were four of them: John Collings, son of the M.F.H. who had formed a friendship with Fermor, Fermor himself, Caroline and Melisande.

Caroline was angry. It was absurd, she was thinking, that they should have Melisande with them. Fermor had arranged that. There were two people at Trevenning who were determined, it seemed, to treat Melisande as a daughter of the house—her father and Fermor.

There sat Melisande on her horse—small and piquant. Sir Charles had given her the riding habit she was wearing. If she was to accompany Caroline she must be decently dressed, he had insisted. John Collings—as did so many people in the neighbourhood—thought Melisande was a poor relation, a distant connection of Sir Charles's. How could they think otherwise when the girl was treated as she was ? No ordinary companion would receive such privileges. It seemed wiser to let people believe this was the case. Fortunately, thought Caroline, as she was still in half-mourning for her mother, there were few social occasions. Caroline felt that otherwise Melisande might have received invitations which would have involved awkward explanations.

It was September and there was a mist in the air, which thickened as they climbed to high ground. It hung like diamond drops on the hedges giving a fresh bloom to the wild guelder roses and a velvet coat to the plums of the blackthorn. Spiders' webs were festooned over the bells of the wild fuchsias which flourished in the road-side hedges. The silence was only broken by the clop-clop of their horses'

hoofs or the cries of the gulls, mournful as they always seemed on such days.

Caroline glanced over her shoulder at Melisande who always seemed to enjoy everything more than normal people did. Now she was revelling in the mist which the others would deplore.

They were riding two abreast and Fermor was beside Melisande, John Collings with Caroline. Caroline heard Fermor teasing Melisande, provoking that sudden joyous laugher.

John Collings was saying that he hoped Caroline would soon be able to come to parties again and that he would see her in the hunting field. They missed her.

Caroline angrily felt that he was sorry for her, that he was as aware as she was of the pleasure the two behind found in each other's company. She was not listening to John Collings; her attention was focussed on Melisande and Fermor.

"The mist grows thicker," said Melisande.

"It'll be dense on the moor," said Fermor.

"What if we are lost in it?"

"The piskies will carry you off. They set a ring round you and, hey presto! they appear in their hundreds. Fee-faw-fum! I smell the blood of an English. . . . No, no, of a little Mamazel, as they call her in these here parts ..."

Caroline could not resist breaking in. "He knows nothing about it, Mademoiselle St. Martin. He is not a Cornishman and he makes fun of our legends. And his attempt to imitate the dialect is very poor indeed."

"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.''