Before they had finished their performance the wassaillers arrived, and with them the curl singers. The hall was full now; and there was general singing and dancing and drinking of dash-an-darras to the health of the bride and groom.

It was necessary for this last ceremony that Fermor should stand beside Caroline. As he did so he looked towards Melisande, and it was not easy to know what he was thinking. Melisande shivered. The scene seemed to her a strange one. The black faces of the dancers made them grotesque, and the masks worn by some of them were ugly, almost menacing. Yet she knew that beneath them were the faces of kindly simple people. There was the bridegroom, elegant in his wedding clothes from London, the handsomest man in the room, over six feet in height, an ideal bridegroom as she had heard him called; yet, thought Melisande, that handsome face was a mask more misleading than any worn by the revellers.

She turned suddenly to Leon.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I will marry you. I think ... we shall be happy together."

"Melisande . . ."

"Yes, if you still wish it, I will."

He gripped her hand. "I do not know what to say. I am overwhelmed with happiness."

"I believe it is the right thing for us," she said. "If I should wish to tell anyone that we are to marry, may I do so?"

"I want them all to know. Shall we announce it now?"

"Not here. They would not be interested. It would be an anticlimax. Who are we? Just consider— our betrothal announced at such a grand wedding!"

"When shall it be?"

"Not for a little while. There will have to be many arrangements, won't there."

"I will break the news gently to Raoul. Will you mind his being with us?"

"/shall not mind, but what of him? How will he like the idea?"

"He'll get used to it. Perhaps we could get married here . . . before we leave. Then we could all go away together. So, my dear sweet Melisande, we shall not be parted after all . . . never again."

Fermor's eyes were on them. "It is a great comfort for me to know that you are near," she said.

"I wish we could be alone somewhere."

"We shall meet to-morrow perhaps."

"At the usual tryst. Our own spot. In the years to come we shall visit it often. I shall always remember your coming down the cliffs with Raoul. . . down to where I stood on the sand."

"It was like coming down to safety."

They could no longer talk. As was the custom Caroline was about to sing for the guests.

She was flushed, shining with an inner happiness. Wenna watched her.

She's happy to-day, thought Wenna. But is one day's happiness worth a life-time's misery?

Caroline was saying: "I haven't much of a voice, as you know, but I will do my best, and here is a song you all know and perhaps you'll help me by joining in."

Caroline's voice was sweet but weak, so there must be absolute silence for her. She sang:

"A well there is in the West Country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the West Country But has heard of the well of St. Keyne."

Several of the guests sang lustily:

"But has heard of the well of St. Keyne."

And they went on to sing with Caroline of the stranger who came to the well and, being tired out, drank of the waters, and how he heard of the waters' magical power from the old man who had seen him drink.

" 'Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?' quoth he, Tor an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drunk this day That ever thou didst in thy life!'"

Melisande listened intently while Caroline and her helpers continued.

" 'St. Keyne,' quoth the Cornishman, 'many a time Drank of the crystal well, And before the angel summoned her, She laid on the water a spell.

'If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he For he shall be master for life.' "

Fermor had sidled over to Melisande and Leon. He whispered: "We're foreigners ... all of us. These Cornish are a bit overpowering.'*

"I wish," said L£on, "that I could understand the words. It is so difficult to follow . . . for one with my not very excellent English."

"Mademoiselle will doubtless explain. She understands, I am sure. She has become so proficient with our English that there is little she does not understand."

"Listen to the last verses," said Melisande; and they all turned to look at Caroline.

" 'You drank of the well I warrant betimes ?' He to the Cornishman said; But the Cornishman smiled as the stranger spake And sheepishly shook his head.

'I hastened as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch; But i' faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church.' "

There was a burst of applause. Many of the Cornish began to chant the last words again, looking slyly from Caroline to Fermor as though they wondered which of them would drink first of the waters of the well.

"The song is . . . what you call an appropriate one?" said Melisande.

"I suppose you would say so," said Fermor.

"And you have drunk of this water? Or do you intend to?"

"Dear Mademoiselle, do you think I need the help of this St. Keyne or whatever her name is? No. I rely on myself. Have no fears that I shall be unable to look after myself."

Melisande thought he was like a satyr, mocking her, assuring her that he had vowed to bring her to surrender; and that he could be thus on the day of his wedding seemed to her the depth of infamy.

There was a sudden silence all about them. The guests had finished with St. Keyne. It was the bridegroom's turn, they were declaring.

"First the bride . . . then the groom. 'Tis an old Cornish custom.'*

He sauntered towards the musicians.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "how can I follow such a spirited rendering as we have just heard, with one of my little songs? You will excuse me ..."

"No, no!" they cried. "You must sing. The bride has sung. The groom must sing too."

His reluctance was feigned, Melisande knew. Everything about him is false, she thought. He wants to sing. He wants them to admire his voice. He is all conceit, all arrogance. Now that she knew him, she knew him for the devil, as Therese and the Sisters thought of the devil.

He sang to them in his powerful voice and there was immediate silence in the hall; and only Melisande knew that the song was for her.

"Go, lovely rose! Tell her, that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spied,

That hadst thou sprung

In deserts, where no men abide,

Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired;

Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired;

And not blush so to be admired.

Then die! that she

The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee:

How small a part of time they share

That are so wondrous sweet and fair."

Listening Melisande felt that he was luring her—in spite of all she knew of him—to some fate which must be avoided and which she yet feared would overtake her.

She turned to Leon at her side.

She was relying on him to help her withdraw from that quicksand into which she had already taken a step.

In the servants' hall the Christmas bush hung suspended from the ceiling; every servant had gathered some of the evergreen leaves with which to decorate the woooden hoops. The walls were adorned as lavishly as were those of the great hall itself with holly, mistletoe and evergreen leaves wherever it was possible to put them.