Mistress of Mellyn Read online

  That was morbid. No, Gilly had gone wandering and had fallen asleep somewhere. I remembered that I had seen her of ten in the woods. But she would not be lost if she were in the woods. She knew every inch of them.

  I nevertheless made my way to the woods, calling “Gilly! Gilly!” as I went; and the mist, which was rising again with the coming of evening, seem to catch my voice and muffle it as though it were in cotton wool.

  I searched those woods thoroughly because my intuition told me that she was there, and that she was not lost but hiding.

  I was right. I came across her lying in a clearing surrounded by small conifers.

  I had seen her in this spot once or twice and I guessed it was a haven to her.

  “Gilly!” I called. “Gilly!” And as soon as she heard my voice she sprang to her feet. She was poised to run but she hesitated when I called to her: “Gilly, it’s all right. I’m here all alone and I won’t hurt you.”

  She looked like a wild fairy child, her extraordinary white hair hanging damply about her shoulders.

  “Why, Gilly,” I said, “you’ll catch cold, lying on that damp grass. Why are you hiding, Gilly?”

  Her big eyes watched my face, and I knew that it was fear of something which had driven her to this refuge in the woods.

  If only she would talk to me! If only she would explain.

  “Gilly,” I said, “we’re friends, aren’t we? You know that. I’m your friend—as Madam was.”

  She nodded and the fear slipped from her face. I thought: She has seen me in Alice’s riding clothes and I believe, in her confused little mind, she has bracketed us together in some way.

  I put my arm about her; her dress was damp and I could see the mist on her pale brows and lashes.

  “Why, Gilly, you are cold.”

  She allowed me to cuddle her. I said: “Come on, Gilly, we’re going back. Your grandmamma is very anxious. She is wondering what has become of you.”

  She allowed me to lead her from the clearing, but I was aware of the reluctant drag of her feet.

  I kept my arm firmly about her, and I said: “You were at the horse show this afternoon.”

  She turned to me and as she buried her face against me, her little hands gripped the cloth of my dress. I was conscious of her trembling.

  Then in a flash of understanding I began to see what had happened. This child, like Alvean, was terrified of horses. Of course she was. Had she not been almost trampled to death by one?

  I believed that as Alvean had been suffering from temporary shock, so was this child; but the shock which had come to her was of longer duration, and she had never known anyone who had been able to help her fight the darkness which had descended upon her.

  In that misty wood I felt like a woman who has a mission. I was not going to turn my face from a poor child who needed help.

  She was suffering from a return of that earlier shock. This afternoon she had seen Alvean beneath a horse’s hoofs as she herself had been—after all, it had happened only four years ago.

  At that moment I heard the sound of horse’s hoofs in the wood, and I shouted: “Hello, I’ve found her.”

  “Hello! Coming, Miss Leigh.” And I was exhilarated—almost unbearably so—because that was Connan’s voice.

  I guessed that he had returned from Mount Widden to discover that Gilly was lost and that he had joined the search party. Perhaps he knew that I had come to the woods and had decided to join me.

  He came into sight and Gilly shrank closer to me, keeping her face hidden.

  “She’s here,” I called. He came close to us and I went on: “She is exhausted, poor child. Take her up with you.”

  He leaned forward to take her, but she cried out: “No! No!”

  He was astonished to hear her speak, but I was not. I had already discovered that in moments of stress she did so.

  I said: “Gilly. Go up there with the master. I’ll walk beside you and hold your hand.”

  She shook her head.

  I went on: “Look! This is May Morning. She wants to carry you because she knows you’re tired.”

  Gilly’s eyes turned to look at May Morning, and, in the fear I saw there, was the clue.

  “Take her,” I said to Connan, and he stooped and swung her up in his arms and set her in front of him.

  She tried to fight, but I kept talking to her soothingly. “You’re safe up there. And we’ll get back more quickly. You’ll find a nice bowl of bread and milk waiting for you, and then there’ll be your warm cosy bed. I’ll hold your hand all the time and walk beside you.”

  She no longer struggled but kept her hand in mine.

  And so ended that strange day, with Connan and myself bringing in the lost child.

  When she was lifted from the horse and handed to her grandmother, Connan gave me a smile which I thought was infinitely charming. That was because it held none of the mockery which I had seen hitherto.

  I went up to my room, exultation wrapped about me as the mist wrapped itself about the house. It was tinged with melancholy but the joy was so strong that the mingling of my feelings was difficult to understand.

  I knew of course what had happened to me. Today had made it very clear. I had done a foolish thing—perhaps the most foolish thing I had ever done in my life.

  I had fallen in love for the first time, and with someone who was quite out of my world. I was in love with the master of Mount Mellyn, and I had an uneasy feeling that he might be aware of it.

  On the table by my bed was the draught which Dr. Pengelly had given me.

  I locked my door, undressed, drank the draught, and went to bed.

  But before I got into bed I looked at myself in my pink flannelette nightdress, primly buttoned up to the throat. Then I laughed at the incongruity of my thoughts and said aloud in my best governess’s tones: “In the morning, after the good night’s rest Dr. Pengelly’s potion will give you, you’ll come to your senses.”

  The next few weeks were the happiest I had so far spent in Mount Mellyn. It soon became clear that Alvean had suffered no great harm. I was delighted to find that she had lost none of her keenness for riding and asked eager questions about Black Prince’s slight injuries, taking it for granted that she would soon ride him again.

  We resumed school after the first week; she was pleased to do so. I also taught her to play chess, and she picked up the game with astonishing speed; and if I handicapped myself by playing without my Queen she was even able to checkmate me.

  But it was not only Alvean’s progress which made me so happy. It was the fact that Connan was in the house; and what astonished me was that, although he made no reference to my outburst on the day of the accident, he had clearly noted it and would appear in Alvean’s room with books and puzzles which he thought would be of interest to her.

  In the first days I said to him: “There is one thing that pleases her more than all the presents you bring: that is your own company.”

  He had answered: “What an odd child she must be to prefer me to a book or a game.”

  I smiled at him and he returned my smile; and again I was aware of that change in his expression.

  Sometimes he would sit down and watch our game of chess. Then he would range himself on Alvean’s side against me. I would protest and demand that I be allowed to have my Queen back.

  Alvean would sit smiling, and he would say: “Look, Alvean. We’ll put our bishop there, and that’ll make our dear Miss Leigh look to her defenses.”

  Alvean would giggle and throw me a triumphant glance, and I would be so happy to be with the two of them that I grew almost careless and nearly lost the game. But not quite. I never forgot that between Connan and me there was a certain battle in progress and I always wanted to prove my mettle. Though it was only a game of chess I wanted to show him I was his match.

  He said one day: “When Alvean’s movable we’ll drive over to Fowey and have a picnic.”

  “Why go to Fowey,” I asked, “when we have a perfect
picnic beach here?”

  “My dear Miss Leigh”—he had acquired a habit of calling me his dear Miss Leigh—“do you not know that other people’s beaches are more exciting than one’s own?”

  “Oh yes, Papa,” cried Alvean. “Do let’s have a picnic.”

  She was so eager to get well for the picnic that she ate all the food which was brought to her and talked of the expedition continually. Dr. Pengelly was delighted with her; so were we all.

  I said to Connan one day: “But you are the real cure. You have made her happy because at last you let her see that you are aware of her existence.”

  Then he did a surprising thing. He took my hand and lightly kissed my cheek. It was very different from that kiss which he had given me on the night of the ball. This was swift, friendly, passionless yet affectionate.

  “No,” he said, “it is you who are the real cure, my dear Miss Leigh.”

  I thought he was going to say something more. But he did not do so. Instead, he left me abruptly.

  I did not forget Gilly. I determined to fight for her as I had for Alvean, and I thought the best way of doing so was to speak to Connan about it. He was in that mood, I believed, to grant me what I asked. I should not have been surprised if, when Alvean was about again, he had changed to his old self—forgetful of her, full of mockery for me. So I decided to strike my blow for Gilly while I had a chance of success.

  I boldly went down to the punch room, when I knew he was there one morning, and asked if I might speak to him.

  “But of course, Miss Leigh,” he replied. “It is always a pleasure to speak with you.”

  I came straight to the point. “I want to do something for Gilly.”

  “Yes?”

  “I do not believe she is half-witted. I think that no one has made any attempt to help her. I have heard about her accident. Before that, I understand, she was quite a normal little girl. Don’t you see that it might be possible to make her normal once again?”

  I saw a return of that mockery to his eyes as he said lightly: “I believe that as with God, so with Miss Leigh, all things are possible.”

  I ignored the flippancy. “I am asking your permission to give her lessons.”

  “My dear Miss Leigh, does not the pupil you came here to teach take up all your time?”

  “I have a little spare time, Mr. TreMellyn. Even governesses have that. I would be ready to teach Gilly in my own time, providing of course you do not expressly forbid it.”

  “If I forbade you I am sure you would find some way of doing it, so I think it would be simpler if I say: Go ahead with your plans for Gilly. I wish you all success.”

  “Thank you,” I said; and turned to go.

  “Miss Leigh,” he called. I stood waiting.

  “Let us go on that picnic soon. I could carry Alvean, if necessary, to and from the carriage.”

  “That would be excellent, Mr. TreMellyn. I’ll tell her at once. I know it will delight her.”

  “And you, Miss Leigh, does it delight you?”

  For a moment I thought he was coming toward me and I started back. I was suddenly afraid that he would place his hands on my shoulders and that at his touch I might betray myself.

  I said coolly: “Anything which is going to be so good for Alvean delights me, Mr. TreMellyn.”

  And I hurried back to Alvean to tell her the good news.

  So the weeks passed—pleasurable, wonderful weeks which I sometimes felt could never be repeated.

  I had taken Gilly to the schoolroom and had even managed to teach her a few letters. She delighted in pictures and quickly became absorbed in them. I really believed she enjoyed our lessons, for she would present herself at the schoolroom each day at the appointed time.

  She had been heard to speak a few words now and then, and I knew that the whole household was watching the experiment with amusement and interest.

  When Alvean was well enough to take lessons in the schoolroom I should have to be prepared for opposition. Alvean’s aversion to Gilly was apparent. I had brought the child into the sick room on one occasion and Alvean had immediately become sulky. I thought: When she is quite well I shall have to reconcile her to Gilly. But that was one of the problems of the future. I knew very well that when life returned to normal I could not expect these days of pleasure to continue.

  There were plenty of visitors for Alvean. Celestine was there every day. She brought fruit and other presents for her. Peter came and she was always pleased to see him.

  Once he said to her: “Do you not think I am a devoted uncle to call and see you so often, Alvean?”

  She had retorted: “Oh, but you don’t come to see me only, do you, Uncle Peter. You come mainly for miss.”

  He had replied in characteristic style: “I come to see you both. How fortunate I am to have two such charming ladies on whom to call.”

  Lady Treslyn called with expensive books and flowers for Alvean, but Alvean received her sullenly and would scarcely speak to her.

  “She is an invalid still, Lady Treslyn,” I explained; and the smile which was flashed upon me almost took my breath away, so beautiful was it.

  “Of course I understand,” Lady Treslyn told me. “Poor child! Mr. TreMellyn tells me that she has been brave and you have been wonderful. I tell him how lucky he is to have found such a treasure. ‘They are not easy to come by,’ I said. I reminded him of how my last cook walked out in the middle of a dinner party. She was another such treasure.”

  I bowed my head and hated her—not because she had linked me in her mind with her cook, but because she was so beautiful, and I knew that rumors persisted about her and Connan and I feared that there was truth in them.

  Connan seemed different when this woman was in the house. I felt that he scarcely saw me. I heard the sounds of their laughter and I wondered sadly what they said to each other. I saw them in the gardens and I told myself there was an unmistakable intimacy in the very way they walked together.

  Then I realized what a fool I had been, for I had been harboring thoughts which I would not dare express, even to myself. I tried to pretend they did not exist. But they did—and in spite of my better sense they kept intruding.

  I dared not look into the future.

  Celestine one day suggested that she should take Alvean over to Mount Widden for the day and look after her there.

  “It would be a change,” she said.

  “Connan,” she added, “you shall come to dinner, and you can bring her back afterward.”

  He agreed to do so. I was disappointed not to be included in the invitation; which showed what a false picture I had allowed myself to make of the situation during these incredible weeks. Imagine me—the governess—invited to dine at Mount Widden!

  I laughed at my own foolishness, but there was a note of bitterness and sadness. It was like waking up to a chilly morning after weeks of sunshine so brilliant that you thought it was going to last for ever; it was like the first gathering of storm clouds in a summer sky.

  Connan drove Alvean over in the carriage and I was left alone without any definite duties for the first time since I arrived here.

  I gave Gilly her lesson but I did not believe in taxing the child too much, and when I had returned her to her grandmother I wondered what I was going to do.

  Then an idea struck me. Why should I not go for a ride, a long ride? Perhaps on the moors.

  I immediately remembered that day when Alvean and I had ridden to her Great-aunt Clara. I began to feel rather excited. I was remembering the mystery of Alice again, which I had forgotten during those halcyon weeks of Alvean’s convalescence. I began to wonder whether I had been so interested in Alice’s story because I needed some interest to prevent me from brooding on my own.

  I thought to myself, Great-aunt Clara will want to hear how Alvean is getting on. In any case she had treated me with the utmost friendliness and had made it clear that I should be welcomed any time I called. Of course it would be different, calling without Alve
an; but then I believed that she had been more interested in talking to me than to the child.

  So I made up my mind.

  I went to Mrs. Polgrey and said: “Alvean will be away all day. I propose to take a day’s holiday.”

  Mrs. Polgrey had become very fond of me since I had taken such an interest in Gilly. She really did love the child, I believed. It was merely because she had assumed that Gilly’s strangeness had been the price which had to be paid for her parents’ sins that she had accepted her as non compos mentis.

  “And none deserves a holiday more, miss,” she said to me. “Where are you going?”

  “I think I’ll go on to the moors. I’ll take luncheon at an inn.”

  “Do you think you should, miss, by yourself?”

  I smiled at her. “I am very well able to take care of myself, Mrs. Polgrey.”

  “Well, there be bogs on the moor and mists and the Little People, some say.”

  “Little People indeed!”

  “Ah, don’t ‘ee laugh at ’em, miss. They don’t like people to laugh at ‘em. There’s some as say they’ve seen ’em. Little gnomelike men in sugar-loaf hats. If they don’t like ‘ee they’ll lead ’ee astray with their fairy lanterns, and afore you knows where you be, you’m in the middle of a bog that sucks ’ee down and won’t let ’ee go however much you do struggle.”

  I gave a shiver. “I’ll be careful, and I wouldn’t dream of of fending the Little People. If I meet any I’ll be very polite.”

  “You’m mocking, miss, I do believe.”

  “I’ll be all right, Mrs. Polgrey. Don’t have any fears about me.”

  I went to the stables and asked Tapperty which horse I could have today.

  “There’s May Morning if you’d like her. She be free.”

  I told him I was going to the moors. “A good chance to see the country,” I added.

  “Trust you, miss. Bain’t much you miss.” And he laughed to himself as though enjoying some private joke.

  “You be going with a companion, miss?” he asked slyly.