"You talk too fast. I do not understand."

"Do not cower behind your unfamiliarity with the language. You know very well what I say. You love me and I love you. Why make any bones about that? Life is too complicated to argue about the obvious."

"The obvious?"

"My sweet Melisande, how can you hide it any more than I can?"

"And what of Caroline?"

"I will look after Caroline."

"By . . . hurting her ... as the miller's daughter was hurt? What if she. . .?"

"This is not a song. This is life. Caroline is no miller's daughter. If she were I should not be affianced to her. If Caroline discovers that I love . . . but why should she ? You and I are not so foolish as to wish to make that sort of trouble. You may rest assured that she will not be found in the cold river. Caroline will understand that she

and I must marry for the sake of our families; and all the arrangements for the future have been made for us. As for you and me . . . that is love. That is different."

She drew back, her green eyes blazing. "You are a very wicked man, I think."

"Oh come! You wouldn't like me if I were a saint."

She was thinking: I must get away . . . quickly. He is bad. He is one of those men of whom Therese thought, of whom Sister Emilie and Sister Eugenie thought when they would not look into the faces of men. It would be better if / had never looked into his face. She thought suddenly of the nun who had been walled up in the convent all those years ago; she wondered fleetingly if the man whom that nun had loved had been like this one, and she believed he must have been.

She quickly turned her horse and rode back the way she had come.

She heard him behind her shouting as she broke into a gallop.

"Melisande! You fool! You idiot! Stop! Do you want to break your neck?"

"I hope you break yours," she called over her shoulder. "That would be a goodness ... for Caroline ... for me. ..."

"I shan't break my neck. I can ride."

Soon he was beside her, catching at her bridle and slowing down the horses.

"There, you see. You cannot get away from me. You never will, Melisande. Oh, just at first you will be very virtuous. You will say 'Get you behind me, Satan! I am a virtuous young woman of very high ideals. I have been brought up in a convent and all my opinions are ready-made.' But are you sure they are, Melisande? Are you sure of your virtue?"

"I am sure of one thing. You are despicable. You knew we were not going the right way. Deliberately you brought us here. I am sorry for Caroline."

"That's a lie. You envy her."

"Envy her! Marriage with you!"

"Indeed you do, my dear. A minute ago, when you were full of your convent ideas and you thought I was suggesting a break with Caroline and marriage w ; th you, you could not conceal your delight. But wait . . . wait until you begin to think freely. Wait until you learn to be honest with yourself."

"You ... to talk of honesty! You . . . who have arranged this! Who brought us here?"

"Who started it ? Who had the crowd at her heels ? Do you realize that but for me you would be chained up with a mad woman now?"

"It is not true."

"You've never seen an angry mob before, have you? There is a

108 IT BEGAN IN VAUXHALL GARDENS

lot you have to learn, my dear Mademoiselle. It might have gone very badly for you if I had not been there."

"John Collings would have saved me."

"Well, I at least was the one who prevented disaster, wasn't I."

"It is a truth. I have already thanked you."

"So here is a little gratitude from you at last? Pity is love's sister, I've heard. What is gratitude?"

"I have thanked you for saving me from the crowd. Now let us return."

"Be sensible, Melisande. Be reasonable. What will you do when Caroline no longer needs your services? Have you thought of that?"

"You mean when you marry her?"

"She might even decide before then that she does not need them."

"Yes, that is a truth."

"A truth indeed. You should look to the future. And that, my dear, as you so charmingly say, is another truth."

"Look to the future! A future of sin is your suggestion."

"That's an ugly word. I don't like ugly things."

"But ugly things have ugly words, do they not?"

"You are too serious. Love should give pleasure. People were meant to be happy. Even companions were meant to be happy. I would make you happy. I would never let unhappiness touch you. I will give you a house in London, and there we shall be together. How can you stay here, buried away in the country ... in a position which, to say the best, is uncertain?" He broke into song:

"I would love you all the day . . . Every night would kiss and play, If with me you'd fondly stray Over the hills and far away ..."

"Let us return, please . . . the quickest way."

"Don't you like my singing? You do, I know. It draws you to me. Do you think I do not know?"

"Should you not be thinking of the effect of your singing on Caroline?"

"No. To Caroline I give marriage. I can spare nothing else for her."

"You are cynical."

"You mean I am truthful. Cynicism is a word the sentimental apply to truth. I could have made all sorts of false promises to you ... as the miller's daughter's lover did to her. But I would not. Think how I could have framed my proposal. I could have said: 'Melisande, elope with me to London. I will go off first and a few days later you must follow me.' That would have shifted suspicion

from me, you see. Then I should have met you, gone through a ceremony of marriage—not a real one you understand. There are such things . . . mock marriages. They have been going on for years. Then, you see, all would have been well until I was found out. Then you would have discovered that I was a scoundrel. Of course, I am a scoundrel, but I am an honest scoundrel. So I say to you: I love you. I love everything about you, even your prudery because it gives me something to overcome, and, by God, I will overcome it. I tell you the truth. I will never be a rogue in the guise of a saint. And I'll tell you this, Melisande: Look closely at the saints you meet in life. I'll warrant you'll find a little of the rogue in them. But you see, I'd rather be an honest bad man than a dishonest good one."

"Please to be silent," she said. "I have heard enough . . . too much."

Strangely enough he obeyed her and soon they saw the town stretched out before them.

"Better skirt it," he said. "They would recognize us and we don't want any more unpleasantness, do we? We might not escape so easily this time, and although I'd be ready to tackle any of them single-handed for my lady's sake, I don't fancy facing a mob of hundreds."

She recognized that they were now on the right road. Yet how changed everything seemed. Life had become no longer simple. She had so much to fear; Caroline, Wenna, a cruel and angry mob . . . and Fermor.

She took a quick glance at him. He was not in the least disturbed. She felt inexperienced and afraid. To whom could she go for advice? To Caroline? Impossible. To Sir Charles? He had been kind—he was still kind, yet he seemed remote. During those occasions when they were in each other's company she sensed in him an uneasiness. She believed that he avoided her; that he was anxious to prevent their ever being alone together. No, she could not ask him for advice. What of her friends in the servants' hall ? They were too garrulous, too fond of gossip. This was not only her trouble; it was also Caroline's.