Mistress of Mellyn

  I walked swiftly on and after a while the trees grew less dense and through them I saw the road; then I realized that I was on the slope which led up to the plateau and the lodge gates.

  Mrs. Soady was sitting at the door of the lodge as she had been when I arrived, her knitting in her hands.

  “Why, miss,” she called. “So you’ve been out walking then?”

  “I went for a walk with Miss Alvean. We lost each other in the woods.”

  “Ah yes. So her run away, did her.” Mrs. Soady shook her head as she came to the gate trailing her ball of wool behind her.

  “I expect she’ll find her way home,” I said.

  “My dear life, yes. There ain’t an inch of them woods Miss Alvean don’t know. Oh, I see you’ve got yourself a piece of betony. Like as not ’tis as well.”

  “Miss Alvean picked it and insisted on putting it in my buttonhole.”

  “There now! You be friends already.”

  “I heard the little girl Gilly, singing in the woods,” I said.

  “I don’t doubt ’ee. Her’s always singing in the woods.”

  “I called to her but she didn’t come.”

  “Timid as a doe, she be.”

  “Well, I think I’ll be getting along. Good-by, Mrs. Soady.”

  “Good day to ’ee, miss.”

  I went up the drive, past the hydrangeas and the fuchsias. I realized I was straining my ears for the sound of singing, but there was no sound except that of an occasional small animal in the undergrowth.

  I was hot and tired when I reached the house. I went straight up to my room and rang for water and, when I had washed and brushed my hair, went into the schoolroom where tea was waiting for me.

  Alvean sat at the table; she looked demure and made no reference to our afternoon’s adventure, nor did I.

  After tea I said to her: “I don’t know what rules your other governesses made, but I propose we do our lessons in the morning, have a break between luncheon and tea, and then start again from five o’clock until six, when we will read together.”

  Alvean did not answer; she was studying me intently.

  Then suddenly she said: “Miss, do you like my name? Have you ever known anyone else called Alvean?”

  I said I liked the name and had never heard it before.

  “It’s Cornish. Do you know what it means?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Then I will tell you. My father can speak and write Cornish.” She looked wistful when she spoke of her father, and I thought: He at least is one person she admires and for whose approval she is eager. She went on: “In Cornish, Alvean means Little Alice.”

  “Oh!” I said, and my voice shook a little.

  She came to me and placed her hands on my knees; she looked up into my face and said solemnly: “You see, miss, my mother was Alice. She isn’t here any more. But I was called after her. That’s why I am little Alice.”

  I stood up because I could no longer bear the scrutiny of the child. I went to the window.

  “Look,” I said, “two of the peacocks are on the lawn.”

  She was standing at my elbow. “They’ve come to be fed. Greedy things! Daisy will soon be coming with their peas. They know it.”

  I was not seeing the peacocks on the lawn. I was remembering the mocking eyes of the man on the train, the man who had warned me that I should have to beware of Alice.

  TWO

  Three days after my arrival at Mount Mellyn, the master of the house returned.

  I had slipped into a routine as far as my duties were concerned. Alvean and I did lessons each morning after breakfast, and apart from an ever-present desire to disconcert me by asking questions which, I knew, she hoped I should not be able to answer, I found her a good pupil. It was not that she meant to please me; it was merely that her desire for knowledge was so acute that she could not deny it. I believe there was some plot in her head that if she could learn all I knew, she could then confront her father with the question: Since there is no more miss can teach me, is there any point in her remaining here?

  I often thought of tales I had heard of governesses whose declining years were made happy by those whom they had taught as children. No such happy fate would be mine—at least as far as Alvean was concerned.

  I had been shocked when I first heard the name of Alice mentioned, and after the daylight had passed I would consequently feel that the house was full of eerie shadows. That was pure fancy of course. It had been a bad beginning, meeting that man in the train with his talk of second sight.

  I did wonder, when I was alone in my room and the house was quiet, of what Alice had died. She must have been quite a young woman. It was, I told myself, because she was so recently dead—for after all a year was not a very long time—that her presence seemed to haunt the place.

  I would wake in the night to hear what I thought were voices, and they seemed to be moaning: “Alice. Alice. Where is Alice?”

  I went to my window and listened, and the whispering voices seemed to be carried on the air.

  Daisy, who like her sister, was by no means a fanciful person, explained away my fancies the very next morning when she brought my hot water.

  “Did ’ee hear the sea last night, miss, in old Mellyn Cove? Sis … sis … sis … woa … woa … woa … all night long. Just like two old biddies having a good gossip down there.”

  “Why yes, I heard it.”

  “’Tis like that on certain nights when the sea be high and the wind in a certain direction.”

  I laughed at myself. There was an explanation to everything.

  I had grown to know the people of the household. Mrs. Tapperty called me in one day for a glass of her parsnip wine. She hoped I was comfortable at the house; then she told me of the trial Tapperty was to her because he couldn’t keep his eyes nor his hands from the maidens—and the younger the better. She feared Kitty and Daisy took after their father. It was a pity, for their mother was, according to herself, a God-fearing body who would be seen in Mellyn Church every Sunday, night and morning. Now the girls were grown up she had to wonder not only whether Joe Tapperty was after Mrs. Tully from the cottages, but what Daisy was doing in the stables with Billy Trehay or Kitty with that houseboy from Mount Widden. It was a hard life for a God-fearing woman who only wanted to do right and see right done.

  I went to see Mrs. Soady at the lodge gates and heard about her three sons and their children. “Never did I see such people for putting their toes through their stockings. It’s one body’s work to keep them in stockings.”

  I was very eager to learn about the house in which I lived, and the intricacies of heel-turning did not greatly excite me; therefore I did not often call on Mrs. Soady.

  I tried on occasions to catch Gilly and talk to her; but although I saw her now and then, I did not succeed. I called her, but that only made her run away more swiftly. I could never hear her soft crooning voice without being deeply disturbed.

  I felt that something should be done for her. I was angry with these country folk who, because she was unlike them, believed her to mad. I wanted to talk to Gilly if that were possible. I wanted to find out what went on behind that blank blue stare.

  I knew she was interested in me, and I believed that in some way she had sensed my interest in her. But she was afraid of me. Something must have happened to frighten her at some time because she was so unnaturally timid. If I could only discover what, if I could teach her that in me at least she had nothing to fear, I believed I could help her to become a normal child.

  During those days I believe I thought more—or at least as much—of Gilly than I did of Alvean. The latter seemed to me to be merely a naughty spoiled child; there were thousands such. I felt that the gentle creature called Gillyflower was unique.

  It was impossible to talk to Mrs. Polgrey about her granddaughter, for she was such a conventional woman. In her mind a person was either mad or sane, and the degree of sanity depended on the conformity with Mrs. Polgrey
’s own character. Since Gilly was as different from her grandmother as anyone could be, Gilly was therefore irremediably crazy.

  So although I did broach the subject with Mrs. Polgrey, she was grimly uncommunicative and told me by her looks alone to remember that I was here to take charge of Miss Alvean, and that Gilly was no concern of mine.

  This was the state of affairs when Connan TreMellyn returned to Mount Mellyn.

  As soon as I set eyes on Connan TreMellyn he aroused deep feelings within me. I was aware of his presence, indeed, before I saw him.

  It was afternoon when he arrived. Alvean had gone off by herself and I had sent for hot water to wash before I went for a stroll. Kitty brought it and I noticed the difference in her from the moment she entered the room. Her black eyes gleamed and her mouth seemed a little slack.

  “Master be home,” she said.

  I tried not to show that I was faintly disturbed; and at that moment Daisy put her head round the door. The sisters looked very much alike just then. There was about them both a certain expectancy which sickened me. I thought I understood the expression in the faces of these lusty girls. I suspected that neither of them was virgin. There was suggestion in their very gestures and I had seen them in scuffling intimacy with Billy Trehay in the stables and with the boys who came in from the village to work about the place. They changed subtly when they were in the presence of the opposite sex and I understood what that meant. Their excitement over the return of the master, of whom I gathered everyone was in awe, led me to one conclusion, and I felt faintly disgusted, not only with them but with myself for entertaining such thoughts.

  Is he that sort of man then? I was asking myself.

  “He came in half an hour ago,” said Kitty.

  They were studying me speculatively and once more I thought I read their thoughts. They were telling themselves that there would be little competition from me.

  My disgust increased and I turned away.

  I said coolly: “Well, I’ll wash my hands and you can take the water away. I am going for a walk.”

  I put on my hat and, even as I went out quickly by way of the back stairs, I sensed the change. Mr. Polgrey was busy in the gardens, and the two boys who came in from the village were working as though their lives depended on it. Tapperty was cleaning out the stables; he was so intent on his work that he did not notice me.

  There was no doubt that the whole household was in awe of the master.

  As I wandered through the woods I told myself that if he did not like me I could leave at any time. I supposed I could stay with Phillida while I looked round. At least I had some relations to whom I could go. I was not entirely alone in the world.

  I called to Alvean, but my voice was lost in the thickness of the trees and there was no response. Then I called: “Gilly! Are you there, Gillyflower? Do come and talk to me if you are. I won’t hurt you.”

  There was no answer.

  At half past three I went back to the house and, as I was mounting the back stairs to my quarters, Daisy came running after me.

  “Master have been asking for you, miss. He do wish to see you. He be waiting in the punch room.”

  I inclined my head and said: “I will take off my things and then go to the punch room.”

  “He have seen you come in, miss, and have said for you to go right away.”

  “I will take off my hat first,” I answered. My heart was beating fast and my color was heightened. I did not know why I felt antagonistic. I believed that I should soon be packing my bags and going back to Phillida; and I decided that if it had to be done it should be done with the utmost dignity.

  In my room I took off my hat and smoothed my hair. My eyes were certainly amber today. They were resentful, which seemed ridiculous before I had met the man. I told myself as I went down to the punch room that I had built up a picture of him because of certain looks I had seen in the faces of those two flighty girls. I had already assured myself that poor Alice had died of a broken heart because she had found herself married to a philanderer.

  I knocked at the door.

  “Come in.” His voice was strong—arrogant, I called it even before I set eyes on him.

  He was standing with his back to the fireplace and I was immediately conscious of his great height; he was well over six feet tall, and the fact that he was so thin—one could almost say gaunt—accentuated this. His hair was black but his eyes were light. His hands were thrust into the pockets of his riding breeches and he wore a dark blue coat with a white cravat. There was an air of careless elegance about him as though he cared nothing for his clothes but could not help looking well in them.

  He gave an impression of both strength and cruelty. There was sensuality in that face, I decided—that came through; but there was much else that was hidden. Even in that moment when I first saw him I knew that there were two men in that body—two distinct personalities—the Connan TreMellyn who faced the world, and the one who remained hidden.

  “So, Miss Leigh, at last we meet.”

  He did not advance to greet me, and his manner seemed insolent as though he were reminding me that I was only a governess.

  “It does not seem a long time,” I answered, “for I have only been in your house a few days.”

  “Well, let us not dwell on the time it has taken us to get together. Now you are here, let that suffice.”

  His light eyes surveyed me mockingly, so that I felt awkward and unattractive, and was aware that I stood before a connoisseur of women when even to the uninitiated I was not a very desirable specimen.

  “Mrs. Polgrey gives me good reports of you.”

  “That is kind of her.”

  “Why should it be kind of her to tell me the truth? I expect that from my employees.”

  “I meant that she has been kind to me and that has helped to make this good report possible.”

  “I see that you are a woman who does not use the ordinary clichés of conversation but means what she says.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Good. I have a feeling that we shall get on well together.”

  His eyes were taking in each detail of my appearance, I knew. He probably was aware that I had been given a London season and what Aunt Adelaide would call “every opportunity,” and had failed to acquire a husband. As a connoisseur of women he would know why.

  I thought: At least I shall be safe from the attentions which I feel sure he tries to bestow on all attractive women with whom he comes into contact.

  “Tell me,” he said, “how do you find my daughter? Backward for her age?”

  “By no means. She is extremely intelligent, but I find her in need of discipline.”

  “I am sure you will be able to supply that lack.”

  “I intend to try.”

  “Of course. That is why you are here.”

  “Please tell me how far I may carry that discipline.”

  “You are thinking of corporal punishment?”

  “Nothing was farther from my thoughts. I mean, have I your permission to apply my own code? To restrict her liberty, shall we say, if I feel she needs such punishment.”

  “Short of murder, Miss Leigh, you have my permission to do what you will. If your methods do not meet with my approval, you will hear.”

  “Very well, I understand.”

  “If you wish to make any alterations in the—curriculum, I think is the word—you must do so.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I believe in experiments. If your methods have not made an improvement in, say, six months … well, then we could review the situation, could we not?”

  His eyes were insolent. I thought: He intends to get rid of me soon. He was hoping I was a silly, pretty creature not averse to carrying on an intrigue with him while pretending to look after his daughter. Very well, the best thing I can do is to get out of this house.

  “I suppose,” he went on, “we should make excuses for Alvean’s lack of good manners. She lost her mother a year ago.?
??

  I looked into his face for a trace of sorrow. I could find none.

  “I had heard that,” I answered.

  “Of course you had heard. I’ll swear there were many ready to tell you. It was doubtless a great shock to the child.”

  “It must have been a great shock,” I agreed.

  “It was sudden.” He was silent for a few seconds and then he continued: “Poor child, she has no mother. And her father … ?” He lifted his shoulders and did not complete his sentence.

  “Even so,” I said, “there are many more unfortunate than she is. All she needs is a firm hand.”

  He leaned forward suddenly and surveyed me ironically.

  “I am sure,” he said, “that you possess that necessary firm hand.”

  I was conscious in that brief moment of the magnetism of the man. The clear-cut features, the cool, light eyes, the mockery behind them—all these I felt were but a mask hiding something which he was determined to keep hidden.

  At that moment there was a knock on the door and Celestine Nansellock came in.

  “I heard you were here, Connan,” she said, and I thought she seemed nervous. So he had that effect even on those of his own station.

  “How news travels!” he murmured. “My dear Celestine, it was good of you to come over. I was just making the acquaintance of our new governess. She tells me that Alvean is intelligent and needs discipline.”

  “Of course she is intelligent!” Celestine spoke indignantly. “I hope Miss Leigh is not planning to be too harsh with her. Alvean is a good child.”

  Connan TreMellyn threw an amused glance in my direction. “I don’t think Miss Leigh entirely agrees with that,” he said. “You see our little goose as a beautiful swan, Celeste my dear.”

  “Perhaps I am overfond …”

  “Would you like me to leave now?” I suggested, for I had a great desire to get away from them.

  “But I am interrupting,” cried Celestine.

  “No,” I assured her. “We had finished our talk, I believe.”