Виктория Холт - It began in Vauxhall Gardens

"You fool, Melisande. Did it deceive you then ?"

"I know," she said. "I know. I am going away .. . somewhere ... anywhere ... but not with you."

There was a loud knocking on the front door. Melisande opened it before he could stop her. Wenna stood before her—not the same Wenna who had left them a few minutes ago. This was a broken woman with a haggard face and a terrible fear in her eyes.

She said hoarsely: "There's been an accident."

That was all, and they followed her into the street.

A crowd had gathered. Melisande felt sick. She knew that the figure lying in the road was Caroline, and when she saw the carriage drawn up by the kerbside, and the people about it, she knew what had happened.

"Wenna .. . Wenna ..." she cried, "is she ... badly hurt?"

Wenna turned on her in fury. "She did it on purpose," she said. "I saw her. She went straight under the horse. You did this ... you murderess!"

Melisande did not speak. She felt her limbs trembling. They had reached the edge of the crowd and she heard Wenna say: "This is the lady's husband."

Someone said: "I'm a doctor. We must get her to the nearest hospital."

Even Fermor was shaken now. "How ... how badly hurt ... is she?" he asked.

"As yet I can't say. My carriage is here. We'll go at once. You and the maid come with me."

Fermor turned to Melisande. "Go back to the house," he said, "and wait." Then he followed the doctor.

Melisande stood apart; she could hear the blood drumming in her ears. "Murderess!" it seemed to be saying. "Murderess!"

A woman with a shawl over her head said: "Feeling faint, Miss? It gives you a turn, don't it? The blood and all that. Never could stand the sight of blood, meself."

Melisande wanted to talk to somebody, she felt alone, cut off from all her friends. Fermor was lost to her, Fermor on whom she had been relying.

She said: "Is she badly hurt?"

"Dead as a doornail, they say. It stands to reason ... went right over her. Neck broke, like as not."

"No...nor"

"There, don't you take on. Look! They're getting her into the doctor's carriage. That's her husband, that is. Funny, her running out like that. Quarrel, I reckon it were. Poor fellow! White to the gills, ain't he ? And what a handsome looking gentleman, eh ? Well, she'll be took care of. The likes of her would be. Likes of us has to look after ourselves. And if she's dead it won't be a pauper's funeral for the likes of her."

"Don't say that. She won't die. She can't die."

"She will and she can. Why, Miss, what's the matter with you? Look as if you're the one that's got knocked over. There they go. That's the servant and the doctor. Ah well, that's all over. Another of life's little tragedies, eh?"

A small woman, very neatly dressed, was standing near.

"Such a terrible thing," she said. "I saw it happen. She went straight out in front of the carriage. I can't understand why she didn't see it coming."

"Her husband was there," said the woman with the shawl. "Might be they'd had a quarrel like . .. and she in a fit of passion ..."

"It's a great pity," said the other, "that some of these people haven't more to occupy their minds."

"Like us working folk," said the first woman.

"I'm a lady's maid myself," went on the small woman, "and I know her sort. Spoiled, some of them... ."

They went on to talk of her sort. Melisande moved away. She felt she could bear no more. She watched them aimlessly talking for a few minutes before each went her different way. The crowd was breaking up as there was no more to see, and in a very short time there was only Melisande left. Behind her was the little house. She had never felt so alone, so wretched in the whole of her life.

What now?

She had only one desire at the moment, only one need; and that was to get right away from that house, right away from the old life. She had left that when she had walked out of Fenella's house and she would not go back. She could not go back, now that she knew that the girls were not there to work but to be shown like cattle in a market place—a good bargain with a make-weight dowry. She must never see Fermor again. If Caroline were dead, Wenna was right in saying that, between them, she and Fermor had driven her to her death. If Caroline was alive, she would be between Melisande and Fermor for ever.

She began to walk aimlessly away from the house which was to have been her home with Fermor.

She had brought with her the little money she had. It would help her to live for a short while. She would work ... really work this time at some honest job.

She thought of the lady's maid who had spoken to the woman in the shawl. Perhaps she herself was qualified to become a lady's maid?

On and on she walked, not realizing where she was going until she came to two small houses side by side. They looked neat and cosy and were different from the others in the row; in the window of one of these little houses was a card which bore the words: "Room to Let."

She noticed how clean were the curtains, how bright the brass of the knocker ... as she lifted it.

A woman in a starched apron opened the door.

"You have a room to let," said Melisande.

"Come in, Miss," said the woman.

And Melisande began a new phase of her life.

From the moment Melisande set eyes on the clean little woman and entered her clean little house she had experienced a sense of relief. Mrs. Chubb's house, she felt, as soon as she stood in the narrow hall with the pot of ferns on the table and the homely pictures on the walls, was as unlike Fenella's as any establishment could be; and surely Mrs. Chubb, with her bright hazel eyes and white hair, the picture of an honest hard-working woman whose life was without complications, was herself as unlike Fenella as this cottage was unlike the house in the square.

A young lady, arriving in a somewhat dazed condition and looking for a room which she wanted to occupy immediately, must give cause for some speculation in such an orderly mind as that of Mrs. Chubb; but, as Mrs. Chubb told Melisande afterwards, she took to her in a flash, and she was sure right away that whatever Melisande's reason for coming to her in such a state might be, Melisande herself was All Right.

The room was on the upper floor of the two which comprised Mrs. Chubb's house. It contained a narrow bed, a chest of drawers on which was a swing mirror, a wash-hand-stand, and what Mrs. Chubb called 'appurtenances.'

Melisande asked the price. It seemed reasonable.

"Til take it," she said.

Mrs. Chubb's bright hazel eyes were questioning. "I suppose your trunk 'll be coming, Miss?"

"No ..." said Melisande. "There is no trunk."

"You a foreign lady?"

"Yes ... in a way."

"Ah!" Mrs. Chubb nodded wisely, as though that explained everything. But it did not alter Mrs. Chubb's opinion of her new lodger, for she prided herself on making up her mind about people the instant she saw them, and nothing was going to change her opinion of her powers in that direction.

A bit of trouble, a love affair like as not, or running away from home? Well, well, Mrs. Chubb would see. Mrs. Chubb—again in her own opinion—had a sympathetic way with her, and there was nothing that overcame reserve like sympathy.

"When will you be moving in, Miss?"

"I'll stay now."

"Oh! Would you like me to get you a cup of coffee? If you'll forgive me saying so, Miss, you look as if you've had a bit of a shock."

"Yes," said Melisande, "I have indeed had a bit of a shock. Please, I should like the coffee."

"What about you coming in and having it in my parlour? Then we can talk about the ways of the house."

"Thank you."

The parlour was small and clean. It was rarely used. It was Mrs. Chubb's delight, and she never entered it without looking round with an air of proud possessiveness and a quick glance over her shoulder—if she was not alone—to see the effect of such splendour on others.

There was a blue carpet on the floor; there was a heavy mirror and a mantelpiece crowded with ornaments. There were two whatnots loaded with knick-knacks, every one of which had its significance for Mrs. Chubb. There were chairs and a sofa; and near the window was a table on which stood a fern similar to the one in the hall.

"There! Sit you down!" said Mrs. Chubb. "And I'll bring you the coffee."

Melisande looked round the room when she was alone, at the pictures—most of them in pastel shades depicting groups of plump young women and graceful men—and the daguerrotype showing two people looking rather self-conscious; as one of these was undoubtedly Mrs. Chubb, Melisande supposed the other to be Mr. Chubb.

But her mind was too full of what had happened to allow her to consider Mr. and Mrs. Chubb for long. She had found a haven— if only a temporary one—and she now felt that she had time to think of what she must do.

She must never see Fermor again. She could never be happy with him, for she would never forget Caroline's face as she had stood before her. If Caroline had killed herself, she, Melisande, was to blame. Murderess! Wenna's words would always be with her. She would hear them in her sleep, she fancied; they would break through into every happy moment.

She could not go back to Fenella's. She hated the house now. It seemed sinister with its rich furnishings and air of voluptuousness. She would not allow them to assess her as they had done, to set her up in the market place.