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

"Why does one work? Perhaps there is a vocation, and that is one answer. Perhaps one wants to eat, and that is another. Tell me, Mr. Randall, do you work, and for which reason?"

"A little of both. I too must eat. My income is too small for my needs. I am in the Guards. You can call it a vocation."

"So you are a soldier! I must walk this way. I am going to visit a friend who lives near the Strand."

"Then I will walk that way too."

"So you wish to be a soldier and you wish to earn money. You are one of the lucky ones. You do the work you like and by doing it you earn money."

"I hadn't thought of it like that until now. Thanks for pointing it out, Miss Martin."

"My name is St. Martin. Mrs. Lavender calls me Martin because my Christian name is too long and unsuitable; and no lady's maid could be called 'Saint' by her employer."

"Miss St. Martin. And may I know your Christian name?"

"It is Melisande."

"It's beautiful and it suits you. Melisande St. Martin. We have a St. Martin in the regiment. I wonder if you are related to him. His people have an estate in Berkshire."

"Oh, no, no, no! St. Martin is not the name of my family. I was an orphan . . . left in a convent, you see. I think neither the name of my father nor my mother is St. Martin."

"I see. What a mysterious person you are! May I call you Melisande? Oh, believe me, that is not meant to be impertinent. It is

just that St. Martin seems so remote. Melisande—that is entirely yours, and so charming."

"Then do—providing you do not address me so if there should be another whist party, and I am called up to make a fourth."

"I promise, Melisande."

"I turn off here ... I am going to visit a friend."

"Let me accompany you."

"Her name is Mrs. Chubb, and I had a room in her house. She is so kind. And so is her daughter Ellen who is all-powerful in the the world of cooks and ladies' maids. She found me my post with Mrs. Lavender."

"Would you think it impertinent if I asked what you were doing before that?"

"No. I should not think it impertinent, but I might not wish to answer. Here is Mrs. Chubb's house, and I will say goodbye."

"May I wait for you?"

"Oh, but you must not."

"I should like to. Then I could escort you back."

"It is not necessary."

"Please . •. . as a pleasure, not as a necessity."

"But I may be a very long time."

Mrs. Chubb, who had been watching through the curtains, opened the door.

"Why, here you are then. I thought I heard footsteps. Oh . . . and not alone!"

"Mrs. Chubb, Mr. Randall. This is Mrs. Chubb, Mr. Randall— my very good friend who has been so kind to me."

Mr. Randall bowed, and Mrs. Chubb summoned her instinct and, obeying its commands, took a liking to him on the spot.

"Well, you'll come in, won't you?" she said.

Thorold Randall said he would be delighted.

Mrs. Chubb bustled them into her parlour. She glanced quickly at the daguerrotype as though she were asking Mr. Chubb to take note of her visitors.

"It is so kind of you," murmured Mr. Randall. "Such hospitality ... to a stranger ..."

Mrs. Chubb went to the kitchen to fetch the refreshments she had prepared.

He was a gentleman. Trust her to know that. A handsome gentleman, too; and he could provide the right ending for her favourite lodger. Mrs. Chubb's instinct had always told her what was what; and right from the beginning it had told her Melisande was not cut out for servitude. Here was the answer; a handsome man who was already half in love with her and would very soon be completely so, who would offer her a devotion rivalled only by that which Mr.

Chubb had given his wife, and a great deal more in worldly goods besides, Mrs. Chubb was sure.

Mrs. Chubb felt like a fairy godmother. She had done this—she and Ellen between them.

Following that afternoon there were other meetings.

The Gunters knew of them, and they smiled delightedly. Sarah said it was lovely, and that it made her cry every time she thought of it. Mrs. Lavender was unaware of what was happening, because she was aware of little except her own affairs; but Mr. Lavender continued to watch his wife's lady's maid with an ever-increasing attention.

Thorold Randall had become a more frequent caller at the house; it seemed as if he had discovered a bond between himself and the Lavenders. He could compliment Mrs. Lavender as she liked to be complimented, and he was knowledgeable about Mr. Lavender's favourite topic—horses and their chances.

But always he was alert for the appearance of Melisande; and whenever he came to the house he found some means of speaking to her.

Melisande's half-day came round again. She knew that when she left the house she would find Thorold Randall waiting for her. She enjoyed his company; it seemed to her that he was growing more and more like that picture she had built up of that man who was a little like Fermor, a little like Leon, and a little like himself.

For instance, there were times when there seemed to be a certain boldness in him—and that was Fermor. At others he would talk of the lonely life he led, for he was an orphan and had been brought up by an aunt and uncle who had had little time to spare for him, and he would then remind her of Leon. And then he was himself— courteous, almost humble in his desire to please. She was very happy to have him as her friend.

He was waiting for her when she left the house.

"It's a lovely day," she said. "Let us walk in the Park."

She did not often walk there now. She remembered drives with Genevra, Clotilde and Lucie, and she could not enter the Park without fearing to meet them. Moreover young ladies did not walk in the Park alone—that was asking for trouble. But now she was no longer afraid; it was as though she were tempting adventure. If she

met anyone from Fenella's house she would feel safe, for she was becoming firmly settled in her new life.

It was pleasant to walk along by the Serpentine chatting with Thorold. He took her arm and led the conversation—as he did so often—away from himself to her.

She said: "You are unusual. Most people wish to talk of their affairs, not to hear about those of other people."

"Perhaps when I am with others, I talk of myself. But you interest me so much ... far more than myself."

"Nobody is quite as interested in others as in themselves surely.'*

"Here is one who is so interested in another person that everything else now seems unimportant."

"Ah! You would flatter me. What is it you wish to know of me?"

"I should like to look into your mind and see everything that is there, to know your thoughts. What do you think of me, for instance ?"

"I think that you are most kind and courteous to me always, as you were from the beginning."

"Would you like to hear what I think of you?"

"No. It is enough that you give me your company on these half-days."

"It is not enough for me. Tell me why you are here?"

"It is because I like to be here."

"No, no. I mean, why a young lady like yourself is working for a woman like Mrs. Lavender."

"It is so simple. She needs a maid. I need to be a maid. That fits . . . perfectly, you see."

"It does not fit."

Melisande had stood still where she was on the grass. Across the gravel path a woman was wheeling a bath chair and in the bath-chair was a young woman.