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

"Oh, 'tis a secret, I do know, but it must mean the master be fond of 'ee. That's why he have brought you here and set you above the servants like. No governess was ever treated like you have been, Mamazel. So now we do know, we don't mind like . . . being so fond of you."

This was too much to happen in a short hour. To know that Leon, who had declared he could not swim, could do so and might have saved Raoul's life; and to learn that Sir Charles was, in reality, her father.

She tried not to let Peg see how agitated she had become. She thanked Peg for her kindness in trying to comfort her. Then she turned to her tray and Peg went out.

She did not attempt to eat. She went straight to Sir Charles's study.

She knocked and was thankful to find that he had not yet gone to the dining-room.

He was startled by the way in which she stared at him.

She burst out: "I have just heard an extraordinary thing. Is it true that I am your daughter?"

She watched the colour drain away from his face. "Who told you that?"

"One of the maids,"

He repeated blankly: "One of the maids. Which one?"

"They all know, apparently. It seems that everyone knows . . . except myself.'*

"This is absurd."

"Then it is not true?"

She noticed that he hesitated and great sorrow filled her. She was his daughter and he was ashamed to acknowledge her. He was alarmed because his secret had been discovered.

Fermor she knew for a bad man; Leon, of whom she had been fond, was now proved to be a coward or worse; and Sir Charles, the man to whom she had looked with admiration, was weak and could not acknowledge his own daughter because he feared the damage to his reputation.

The nuns were right. The world of men was an evil one. No wonder they had retired from that world; no wonder they averted their eyes from men.

Now she felt that she too wanted to escape from all men, to shut herself in, to readjust her ideas. They all had feet of clay, every one of them, and she was not sure that Fermor—so blatantly wicked— was any worse than the others.

Sir Charles was recovering from his shock. She saw now that her fallen idol's one idea was to protect his reputation.

He said: "This is absurd and ridiculous. It must go no farther."

"You will have to deny it," she said, and there was a faint smile about her lips. "There is so much that makes a scandal," she went on fiercely, maliciously. "You came to the Convent, you brought me here. You have not treated me entirely as a servant, not entirely as a member of your family. This is a foolishness, a carelessness, and so there is scandal."

He did not see the scorn in her eyes. He was too concerned with his predicament. "To deny it," he said, "would be to admit such a thing could be. No. There is only one solution. You will have to go away from here at once."

"Yes," she said, "I thought that."

He came over to her. The old kindness showed in his face. He was oblivious of the disappointment that was edged with contempt in hers. "Don't worry. I will arrange something. I have friends. I will see that everything is conducted as ... it should be. I will see that you are well cared for." He smiled, rather cunningly, she feared. He went on: "This engagement of yours . . . and the death of the child ... I am afraid it is rather unfortunate."

She said: "So you have heard. ..."

"Mr. Holland has told me, and it has been confirmed by the servants, that Monsieur de la Roche was seen swimming only a short while after the accident, so . . ."

"I have heard," she said.

"So much scandal. So much gossip . . ." he said. "It is so unfortunate. And you?"

She cried out: "I want to go away. I want to go away from everything . . . everyone. I want to hide myself where no one can find me."

He laid a hand on her shoulder. "I understand. You shall go away from here. I shall not tell . . . him where you are ... if that is your wish. It is as well for you to go away. You will want to think of so much, and it is always possible to see things clearer when one is a long way from them."

She smiled. "It is convenient . . . these two things together," she said.

He answered her: "I will arrange everything. You need have no fears of the future. I will see that you are well-cared for. You may leave everything to me."

"You are very kind," she said, "to one who is . . . not your daughter."

She could bear no more and, turning, she ran out of the room.

She, who wanted to love all the world, despised too many people in it. There were three men whom she had wanted to love: Sir Charles, the rescuer, the man of dignity, the man of honour who trembled for his reputation; Leon who acted a part, gentle Leon, such a contrast to Fermor, sinister Leon who said he could not swim and had allowed a little boy to die when his death would enrich him and bring him all his desires—that dignity of which he had talked with passion, that security, that plantation in New Orleans; and Fermor, who had no sense of honour, who had nothing but his own violent appetites, who would stoop to any meanness, any unkindness to satisfy his carnal desires.

Yes, she wished to get away, to shut herself in with herself, to understand more, to leave this world where men looked like heroes and, beneath their shining armour, were cowards or brutes.

She lay on her bed for a long while. Caroline came to comfort her —Caroline her sister. Poor Caroline, who was as defenceless as herself in this wicked world of men.

PART THREE

FENELLA'S SALON

Wh

hen Fenella Cardingly received the letter from her old friend Charles Trevenning she lay back in bed gently fanning herself with it and smiling as she did so.

Polly Kendrick, her personal maid and constant adorer, came and sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her expectantly, like a spaniel hoping for a walk or a titbit. Polly's treats were the pieces of gossip Fenella threw to her from time to time. Polly was good-hearted and grateful, but Fenella knew that not even her private affairs were held sacred by Polly. Polly must know everything; she gave faithful service in exchange for her share in her mistress's confidences.

Fenella, mischievous by nature, liked to keep Polly in suspense, so she continued to look round the ostentatiously luxurious bedroom, still smiling, still fanning herself with the letter.

The bed was a large one; Fenella herself was large and she liked her possessions to be in proportion. It was a modern bed; Fenella was modern. The back piece was inlaid with mother of pearl designs. In these could be seen nymphs—large nymphs of the same proportions as Fenella's own—and gods who bore a striking resemblance to some of the famous figures of the day; no shepherds these, but fine handsome gentlemen of dignity and poise. The sheets were of silk—pale blues or pale mauves; the quilt was of the same blue and mauve decorated with gold thread. The bed itself was set upon a dais and the steps which led up to this were carpeted in blue; there were heavy blue curtains which could be drawn, shutting off the steps and dais from the rest of the room. The walls about that alcove in which the bed was placed were covered with tapestry in which nymphs and gods, similar to those on the bed-back, were depicted. Once there had been mirrors where the tapestries now hung, but Fenella had had these taken away some years ago. She had told Polly—to whom she told most things—that when gentlemen came into the sanctum she could delude them into believing that they resembled the figures on the bed-back. They took on greater stature, she had declared, new virility; but the mirrors had lately proved a deterrent and the tapestries were so much more effective. "You go on," said Polly at that, for her devoted affection made up for her lack of respect, "it's your own figure that's made you take the mirrors away, Madam dear." Fenella had laughed and not denied it. She was growing old; but there was still much in life