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

"I heard the result," he said.

"Well?"

"Fenella, we can't let this happen. Something has to be done."

"Several of those who love her have tried."

"But ... it can't happen. How did it happen?"

"You have been a long time coming. I thought you would have come before."

"I never thought that . . . this would happen. I thought ... as she is so young . . ."

Fenella turned slighdy away from him and said: "I take some blame to myself, but I should not like to be in your shoes."

"She is my daughter," he said, "my own child."

"Your own child . . . and to die on the gallows!"

"Why did she do this! Why did she do such a thing?"

"We don't know and she won't say. But depend upon it, we all have driven her to it in some way. I with my carelessness ... I did not look after her as I should. I, with my salon, which is half fashionable drawing-room, half brothel ... I, who am half mother half procuress ... I have had my share in this. Fermor with his

desire for her . . . that fool Beddoes . . . that Frenchman who has been here talking until I feel I shall go mad . . . they have all played a part in this. But you . . . you are the chief mourner. On you rests the chief blame."

"It began by my meeting Millie there in Vauxhall Gardens. It was wrong. It was wicked. This is my punishment."

"Your punishment! Meeting Millie! What nonsense! Why, you might have had a happy daughter. Poor little Melisande! At first she was the orphan; then she found she had a father who thought so highly of his reputation and his standing that he must send her to a woman like me, because he could think of no other way of ridding himself of her."

"Stop! Stop! I tried to do what I could for her. I tried to arrange a marriage for her ..."

"Yes, yes. And she discovered that a young man was being bribed to take her. That turned her to Fermor. No wonder she was tired of the world. No wonder she will not speak. Oh, Charles, I saw her in the dock. She did not seem to be listening to the judge. She was standing calm and quiet, as though her thoughts were far away and she was waiting almost eagerly for death. It was so pitiable. She . . . so young . . . only eighteen! Oh Charles, so young to die . . . and so tragically to want to die."

"Fenella, there must be something we can do."

"Charles, you go to her. It will comfort her. You are her father. You go to her. I believe she would wish to see you."

He shrank from her and she laughed suddenly in mocking anger.

"That would be tragic, wouldn't it? You might be seen. Why is Sir Charles Trevenning visiting a young girl who has been found guilty of murder and sentenced to death ? Oh no, you must not be seen. There must be no rumours concerning you. Your daughter can hang by the neck until she is dead, but that is of small account as long as no one knows she is your child."

"Fenella, I beg of you, be silent. I will go. Of course I will go."

She stood up and stared at him.

He took a few steps towards her, holding out his arms. She ran to him and threw herself against him. She was crying.

He said: "Melisande . . . Melisande . . . my daughter ... my little girl."

She looked at him, smiling. "We are as we were in Paris. Do you remember ? Then I had to pretend . . . that you were my father. You were bringing me from my finishing school, and we pretended, so that people should not talk."

"It was no pretence," he said.

"No," she said, "it was no pretence."

"I did what I thought would be best for us ... for us both."

She nodded. "Yes. You wanted me to have a husband . . . and a dowry."

"You are trembling."

She answered; "It would have been so much better if you had not talked of a dowry."

She saw how old he had become. Anxiety had put those lines about his face and the shadows under his eyes.

"You should not have come," she said. "So much leaks out. They write in the papers about me."

"It does not matter. It does not matter now."

"But they will wonder why you ... a man in your position . . . should come here."

"Then they must wonder."

"You must not come again."

"I wish I could stay with you all the time."

"Oh, no, no. It would do no good. I am happy because you came. I always wanted to have a parent. Mother . . . father ... it did not matter which. All the children in the Convent were like that. Home! They wanted homes. The nuns were good to us . . . but homes . . . fathers . . . mothers, sisters and brothers . . . they were like water in the desert, warmth in the snow, water to the thirsty, food to the hungry. Do you understand?"

"I understand. And I am sorry . . . deeply sorry."

"Why? You must not be sorry. I was one of the lucky ones. There was a little girl, Anne-Marie. Her rich aunt came for her. But you came for me . . . my own father. That was better than a rich aunt. Yet I did not want you to come here."

"Why not? Why not, Melisande?"

"Because people may say: 'Why did he visit her? What is the relationship between them?' And then everything would have been in vain."

"What do you mean ... in vain?"

"That people must not know. There would be scandal. Think of your life at Trevenning. There you are so respected. Think of your friends . . . your position . . . your relations ... all those things which mean so much to you. It was because of that that I am here now. It was because of that that I killed him."

314 IT BEGAN IN VAUXHALL GARDENS

"You killed him for that ... for me . . .? I don't understand, Melisande."

"It does not matter now, does it? All is over and done. I know now what you have done for me . . . how much. ... I know what it must have cost you to come to the Convent, to sit outside the auberge . . . you, who thought so highly of your position. Yet you came to see me, you ran risks for me. I never forget it. I was hurt when you sent me away from Trevenning. I was hurt because the opinion of the servants meant more to you than my presence there. But now I understand. I understand so much. I have had nothing but kindness from you. I was only your illegitimate daughter, wasn't I? I was not the same as Caroline. And you did so much for me. You were so concerned. You tried to find me a husband and would have given me a dowry. And now you come here and see me, and you risk so much. It grieves me that you should risk so much. It was for you that I killed him. For you . . . and perhaps for myself. . . for my self-respect, I think. Yes, I think that was the main reason. I had betrayed you. I had told him your name and what you were to me . . . and he threatened that he would demand money . . . money from you for the rest of your life."

He was silent, staring at her.

She went on gently: "You must not be upset. It is all over. I do not think I shall mind dying. It is all over very quickly, they say. And I think they will be gentle with me. Oh, don't, I beg of you ... I cannot bear to see you weep. You, who are proud and so full of dignity. Please . . . please ... do not, I beg of you."

But he could not restrain his tears. He put his arms about her and murmured brokenly: "Melisande . . . Melisande . . . my daughter."

It was she who had to comfort him.

They sat round Fenella's table—Fermor, Charles, L6on and Andrew Beddoes.

Fenella looked from one to another, her eyes alert. Charles had come to her from his interview with Melisande, and Fenella had lost no time in summoning the others.