Mistress of Mellyn

  Alvean and I had supper together that evening. She obviously could not dine with her father in the small dining room, as he would be busy with his guests.

  “Miss,” she said, “I’ve put a new riding habit for you in your cupboard.”

  “Thank you,” I said; “that was thoughtful of you.”

  “Well, you couldn’t go riding in that!” cried Alvean, pointing derisively at my lavender gown.

  So it was only that I might not miss a riding lesson for want of the clothes that she had taken such trouble on my behalf! I should have known that.

  I asked myself in that moment whether I was not being rather foolish. Did I expect more than people were prepared to give? I was nothing to Alvean except when I could help her to attain what she wanted. It was as well to remember that.

  I looked down distastefully at my lavender cotton gown. It was the favorite of the two which had been specially made for me by Aunt Adelaide’s dressmaker when I had obtained this post. One was of gray—a most unbecoming color to me—but I fancied I looked a little less prim, a little less of a governess in the lavender. But how unbecoming it seemed, with its bodice buttoned high at the neck and the cream lace collar and the cream lace cuffs to match. I realized I was comparing it with the dresses of Connan TreMellyn’s guests.

  Alvean said: “Hurry and finish, miss. Don’t forget we’re going to the solarium.”

  “I suppose you have your father’s permission …” I began.

  “Miss, I always peep from the solarium. Everybody knows I do. My mother used to look up and wave to me.” Her face puckered a little. “Tonight,” she went on, as though she were speaking to herself, “I’m going to imagine that she’s down there, after all … dancing there. Miss, do you think people come back after they’re dead?”

  “What an extraordinary question! Of course not.”

  “You don’t believe in ghosts then. Some people do. They say they’ve seen them. Do you think they lie when they say they see ghosts, miss?”

  “I think that people who say such things are the victims of their own imaginations.”

  “Still,” she went on dreamily, “I shall imagine she is there … dancing there. Perhaps if I imagine hard enough I shall see her. Perhaps I shall be the victim of my imagination.”

  I said nothing because I felt uneasy.

  “If she were coming back,” she mused, “she would come to the ball, because dancing was one of the things she liked doing best.” She seemed to remember me suddenly. “Miss,” she went on, “if you’d rather not come to the solarium with me, I don’t mind going alone.”

  “I’ll come,” I said.

  “Let’s go now.”

  “We will first finish our meal,” I told her.

  The vastness of the house continued to astonish me, as I followed Alvean along the gallery, up stone staircases through several bedrooms, to what she told me was the solarium. The roof was partly of glass and I understood why it had received its name. I thought it must be unbearably warm in the heat of the summer.

  The walls were covered with exquisite tapestries depicting the story of the Great Rebellion and the Restoration. There was the execution of the first Charles, and the second shown in the oak tree, his dark face peering down at the Roundhead soldiers; there were pictures of his arrival in England, of his coronation, and a visit to his shipyards.

  “Never mind those now,” said Alvean. “My mother used to love being here. She said you could see what was going on. There are two peeps up here. Oh, miss, don’t you want to see them?”

  I was looking at the escritoire, at the sofa and the gilt-backed chairs; and I saw her sitting here, talking to her daughter here—dead Alice who seemed to become more and more alive as the days passed.

  There were windows at each end of this long room, high windows curtained with heavy brocade. The same brocade curtains hung before what I presumed to be doors of which there appeared to be four in this room—the one by which we had entered, another at the extreme end of the room, and one on either side. But I was wrong about the last two.

  Alvean had disappeared behind one of these curtains and called to me in a muffled voice, and when I went to her I found we were in an alcove. In the wall was a star-shaped opening, quite large but decorated so that one would not have noticed it unless one had been looking for it.

  I gazed through it and saw that I was looking down into the chapel. I could see clearly all but one side—the small altar with the triptych and the pews.

  “They used to sit up here and watch the service if they were too ill to go down, my mother told me. They had a priest in the house in the old days. My mother didn’t tell me that. She didn’t know about the history of the house. Miss Jansen told me. She knew a lot about the house. She loved to come up here and look through the peep. She used to like the chapel too.”

  “You were sorry when she went, Alvean, I believe.”

  “Yes, I was. The other peep’s on the other side. Through that you can see into the hall.”

  She went to the other side of the room and drew back the hangings there. In the wall was a similar star-shaped opening.

  I looked down on the hall and caught my breath, for it was a magnificent sight. Musicians were on the dais and the guests who had not yet begun to dance, stood about talking.

  There were a great many people down there and the sound of the chatter rose clearly up to us. Alvean was breathless beside me, her eyes searching … in a manner which made me shiver slightly. Did she really believe that Alice would come from the tomb because she loved to dance?

  I felt an impulse to put my arms about her and draw her to me. Poor motherless child, I thought. Poor bewildered little creature!

  But of course I overcame that impulse. Alvean had no desire for my sympathy, I well knew.

  I saw Connan TreMellyn in conversation with Celestine Nansellock, and Peter was there too. If Peter was one of the most handsome men I had ever seen, Connan, I told myself, was the most elegant. There were few in that brilliant assembly whose faces were known to me, but I did see Lady Treslyn there. Even among that magnificently brilliant gathering she stood out. She was wearing a gown which seemed to be composed of yards and yards of chiffon, which was the color of flame, and I guessed that she was one of the few who would have dared to wear such a color. Yet had she wanted to attract attention to herself she could not have chosen anything more calculated to bring about this result. Her dark hair looked almost black against the flame; her magnificent bust and shoulders were the whitest I had ever seen. She wore a band of diamonds in her hair, which was like a tiara, and diamonds sparkled about her person.

  Alvean’s attention was caught by her even as mine was and her brows were drawn together in a frown.

  “She is there then,” she murmured.

  I said: “Is her husband present?”

  “Yes, the little old man over there, talking to Colonel Penlands.”

  “And which is Colonel Penlands?” She pointed the colonel out to me, and I saw with him a bent old man, white-haired and wrinkled. It seemed incredible that he should be the husband of that flamboyant creature.

  “Look!” whispered Alvean. “My father is going to open the ball. He used to do it with Aunt Celestine, and at the same time my mother used to do it with Uncle Geoffry. I wonder who he will do it with this time.”

  “With whom he will do it,” I murmured absentmindedly, but my attention, like Alvean’s was entirely on the scene below.

  “The musicians are going to start now,” she said. “They always start with the same tune. Do you know what it is? It’s the ‘Furry Dance.’ Some of our ancestors came from Helston way and it was played then and it always has been since. You watch! Papa and Mamma used to dance the first bar or so with their partners, and all the others fell in behind.”

  The musicians had begun, and I saw Connan take Celestine by the hand and lead her into the center of the hall; Peter Nansellock followed, and he had chosen Lady Treslyn to be his partner.


  I watched the four of them dance the first steps of the traditional dance, and I thought: Poor Celestine! Even gowned as she was in blue satin she looked ill at ease in that quartet. She lacked the elegance and nonchalance of Connan, the beauty of Lady Treslyn, and the dash of her brother.

  I thought it was a pity that he had to choose Celestine to open the ball. But that was tradition. This house was filled with tradition. Such and such was done because it always had been done, and often for no other reason. Well, that was the way in great houses.

  Neither Alvean nor I seemed to tire of watching the dancers. An hour passed and we were still there. I fancied that Connan glanced up once or twice. Did he know of his daughter’s habit of watching? I thought that it must be Alvean’s bedtime, but that perhaps on such an occasion a little leniency would be permissible.

  I was fascinated by the way she watched the dancers tirelessly, fervently, as though she were certain that if she looked long enough she would see that face there which she longed to see.

  It was now dark, but the moon had risen. I turned my eyes from the dance floor to look through the glass roof at that great gibbous moon which seemed to be smiling down on us. No candles for you, it seemed to say; you are banished from the gaiety and the glitter, but I will give you my soft and tender light instead.

  The room, touched by moonlight, had a supernatural character all its own. I felt in such a room anything might happen.

  I turned my attention back to the dancers. They were waltzing down there and I felt myself swaying to the rhythm. No one had been more astonished than I when I had proved to be a good dancer. It had brought me partners at the dances to which Aunt Adelaide had taken me in those days when she had thought it possible to find a husband for me; alas for Aunt Adelaide, those invitations to the dances had not been extended to other pursuits.

  And as I listened entranced I felt a hand touch mine and I was so startled that I gave an audible gasp.

  I looked down. Standing beside me was a small figure, and I was relieved to see that it was only Gillyflower.

  “You have come to see the dancers?” I said.

  She nodded.

  She was not quite so tall as Alvean and could not reach the star-shaped peep, so I lifted her in my arms and held her up. I could not see very clearly in the moonlight but I was sure the blankness had left her eyes.

  I said to Alvean: “Bring a stool and Gillyflower can stand on it; then she will be able to see quite easily.”

  Alvean said: “Let her get it herself.”

  Gilly nodded and I put her on the floor; she ran to the stool and brought it with her. I thought, since she understands, why can she not talk with the rest of us?

  Alvean did not seem to want to look now that Gilly had come. She moved away from the peep and as the musicians below began the opening bars of that waltz which always enchanted me—I refer to Mr. Strauss’s “Blue Danube” waltz—Alvean began to dance across the floor of the solarium.

  The music seemed to have affected my feet. I don’t know what came over me that night. It was as though some spirit of daring had entered into my body, but I could not resist the strains of “The Blue Danube.” I danced toward Alvean. I waltzed as I used to in those ballrooms to which I went accompanied by Aunt Adelaide, but I was sure that I never danced as I did that night in the solarium.

  Alvean cried out with pleasure; I heard Gilly laugh too.

  Alvean cried: “Go on, miss. Don’t stop, miss. You do it well.”

  So I went on dancing with an imaginary partner, dancing down the moonlit solarium with the lopsided moon smiling in at me. And when I reached the end of the room a figure moved toward me and I was no longer dancing alone.

  “You’re exquisite,” said a voice, and there was Peter Nansellock in his elegant evening dress, and he was holding me as it was the custom to hold a partner in the waltz.

  My feet faltered. He said: “No … no. Listen, the children are protesting. You must dance with me, Miss Leigh, as you were meant to dance with me.”

  We went on dancing. It was as though my feet, having begun, would not stop.

  But I said: “This is most unorthodox.”

  “It is most delightful,” he answered.

  “You should be with the guests.”

  “It is more fun to be with you.”

  “You forget …”

  “That you are a governess? I could, if you would allow me to.”

  “There is no earthly reason why you should forget.”

  “Only that I think you would be happier if we could all forget it. How exquisitely you dance!”

  “It is my only drawing-room accomplishment.”

  “I am sure it is one of many that you are forced to squander on this empty room.”

  “Mr. Nansellock, do you not think this little jest has been played out?”

  “It is no jest.”

  “I shall now rejoin the children.” We had come close to them and I saw little Gilly’s face enrapt, and I saw the admiration in Alvean’s. If I stopped dancing I should revert to my old position; while I went on dancing I was an exalted being.

  I thought how ridiculous were the thoughts I was entertaining; but tonight I wanted to be ridiculous, I wanted to be frivolous.

  “So here he is.”

  To my horror I saw that several people had come into the solarium, and my apprehension did not lessen when I saw the flame-colored gown of Lady Treslyn among them, for I was sure that wherever that flame-colored dress was, there Connan TreMellyn would be.

  Somebody started to clap; others took it up. Then “The Blue Danube” ended.

  I put my hand up to my hair in my acute embarrassment. I knew that dancing had loosened the pins.

  I thought: I shall be dismissed tomorrow for my irresponsibility, and perhaps I deserve it.

  “What an excellent idea,” said someone. “Dancing in moonlight. What could be more agreeable? And one can hear the music up here almost as well as down there.”

  Someone else said: “This is a beautiful ballroom, Connan.”

  “Then let us use it for that purpose,” he answered.

  He went to the peep and shouted through it! “Once more—‘The Blue Danube.’”

  Then the music started.

  I turned to Alvean and I gripped Gilly by the hand. People were already beginning to dance. They were talking together and they did not bother to lower their voices. Why should they? I was only the governess.

  I heard a voice: “The governess. Alvean’s, you know.”

  “Forward creature! I suppose another of Peter’s light ladies.”

  “I’m sorry for the poor things. Life must be dull for them.”

  “But in broad moonlight! What could be more depraved?”

  “The last one had to be dismissed, I believe.”

  “This one’s turn will come.”

  I was blushing hotly. I wanted to face them all, to tell them that my conduct was very likely less depraved than that of some of them.

  I was furiously angry and a little frightened. I was aware of Connan’s face in moonlight for he was standing near me, looking at me, I feared, in a manner signifying the utmost disapproval, which I was sure he was feeling.

  “Alvean,” he said, “go to your room and take Gillyflower with you.”

  She dared not disobey when he spoke in those tones.

  I said as coolly as I could: “Yes, let us go.”

  But as I was about to follow the children I found my arm gripped and Connan had come a little closer to me.

  He said: “You dance extremely well, Miss Leigh. I could never resist a good dancer. Perhaps it is because I scarcely excel in the art myself.”

  “Thank you,” I said. But he still held my arm.

  “I am sure,” he went on, “that ‘The Blue Danube’ is a favorite of yours. You looked … enraptured.” And with that he swung me into his arms and I found that I was dancing with him among his guests … . I in my lavender cotton and my turquoise brooch, t
hey in their chiffons and velvets, their emeralds and diamonds.

  I was glad of the moonlight. I was so overcome with shame, for I believed that he was angry and that his intention was to shame me even further.

  My feet caught the rhythm and I thought to myself: Always in future “The Blue Danube” will mean to me a fantastic dance in the solarium with Connan TreMellyn as my partner.

  “I apologize, Miss Leigh,” he said, “for my guests’ bad manners.”

  “It is what I must expect and no doubt what I deserve.”

  “What nonsense,” he said, and I told myself that I was dreaming, for his voice which was close to my ear sounded tender.

  We had come to the end of the room and, to my complete astonishment, he had whirled me through the curtains and out of the door. We were on a small landing between two flights of stone stairs in a part of the house which I had not seen before.

  We stopped dancing, but he still kept his arms about me. On the wall a paraffin lamp of green jade burned; its light was only enough to show me his face. It looked a little brutal I thought.

  “Miss Leigh,” he said, “you are very charming when you abandon your severity.”

  I caught my breath with dismay, for he was forcing me against the wall and kissing me.

  I was horrified as much by my own emotions as by what was happening. I knew what that kiss meant: You are not averse to a mild flirtation with Peter Nansellock; therefore why not with me?

  My anger was so great that it was beyond my control. With all my might I pushed him from me and he was so taken by surprise that he reeled backward. I lifted my skirts and began to run as fast as I could down the stairs.

  I did not know where I was but I went on running blindly and eventually found the gallery and so made my way back to my own room.

  There I threw myself onto my bed and lay there until I recovered my breath.

  There is only one thing I can do, I told myself, and that is get away from this house with all speed. He has now made his intentions clear to me. I have no doubt at all that Miss Jansen was dismissed because she refused to accept his attentions. The man is a monster. He appeared to think that anyone whom he employed belonged to him completely. Did he imagine he was an eastern pasha? How dared he treat me in such a way!