Reluctant and bewildered Andrew Beddoes went away.
There was yet another visitor.
It was no use trying to hide from the world now. All London . . . all England knew that Melisande St. Martin was a prisoner and that she was to face her trial for the murder of Thorold Randall.
So . . . was it surprising that Leon should find her?
He came to tell her that he had never forgotten her, that he had begged Sir Charles and others at Trevenning to tell him where she was. He had put notices in papers begging her to let him know where she was.
"At first I was hurt by your desertion," he said, "and I felt that, since you did not trust me, we were better apart, for I could never convince you of the truth. But after a while I wanted above all things to make you understand."
"The truth, Leon?"
"It was an accident, Melisande. I swear it was an accident. He was wilful; he would go out on that day. I warned him not to venture on to the jetty. But you know how headstrong he was. He never could forget that he was in a way the master; I was the paid companion. I shall always remember that moment of horror, the realization that I was powerless, that if I plunged in I could do nothing. All I could do was run for help . . . and that I did. After that I knew there would be no rest for me until I learned to swim. I wanted to be ready in case I should be in a similar position. I used to think that if I could save a person from drowning I would rid myself of the terrible feeling of guilt which obsessed me. That was why I had to learn . . . immediately. I could not bring myself to ask someone to teach me, so I went to the quietest cove and threw myself into the sea. I was determined to swim and ... I found it
easy enough. Every day I did that. Someone saw me, I suppose, told someone else . . . and soon many had seen me. They talked of me; they suspected me. . . . How they love a dramatic story, even if it is not true!"
"Leon, Leon, I misjudged you so. How you must despise me!"
"It was natural to distrust. And then . . . you did not love me, did you, Melisande ? Perhaps it would have been different if you had."
"I do not know. It is so hard to know. Leon, what tragic people we are, you and I!"
"And I talk of my troubles now! Do you know why I have come to see you? It is for this: I am going to save you. It must be possible. I am going to engage the best lawyers and we will fight this. And I will wait, Melisande, however long. You will know that I shall be waiting for you." He took her hands and kissed them. "Who knows, this may be a blessing in disguise, for through it I have found you."
"Leon, I shall not forget what you have said. I shall remember it on the morning I die."
"Don't speak of death like that."
"How did I speak of it?"
"Finally. As though it were settled."
"Leon, I believe it is settled."
"No, no! Anyone looking at you can see that you are no murderess."
"But I am. I shot him, Leon. I killed him."
"He had treated you badly. I have already been talking to a lawyer. We can appeal to the pity of the judge, of the jury and the public. He ill-treated you."
She was silent.
"I know it," he said. "He deserved to die. Your case must be presented to the jury with all the sympathy you deserve. You are so young and beautiful, and anyone, by looking at you, can see that there is no evil in you. This man deserved to die. Melisande, you only have to tell why, and you will be saved. Oh, my dearest, how wonderful it is to find you again! There may be a wait of. . . perhaps some years . . . but I shall be waiting. I shall make your stay in . . . wherever they send you ... as comfortable as possible. I shall come to see you, write to you, make our plans. You remember we were going to New Orleans? That is where we will go, Melisande. The time will pass; then we'll marry and we'll go away to a new life."
"You must go without me, Leon."
"Without you! How could I! I had always planned to take you with me."
"You believe in me! You believe in me though I did not believe in you!"
308 IT BEGAN IN VAUXHALL GARDENS
"I love you, remember. Meeting you changed my life. I had forgotten how happy I could be, until I met you; and when you went away, distrusting me ... I knew that I had never been miserable before, such was the depth of my suffering.''
"And I was to blame! I am to blame for everything. I have been foolish and I do not deserve kindness. Leon, go away and forget me."
"Now that I have found you! I shall never go away from you again!"
"Go to New Orleans. Build a new life for yourself there. I cannot help you, Leon, because I have killed a man. I must pay the penalty for that."
"No, no! You despair too easily. Tell me the truth. Tell me what he did to deserve what you did to him. You only have to tell me and, I know, you will be safe."
Was it true ? she wondered. Would people understand if she said to them: "He was about to blackmail my father, and I could not endure it because it was through me that he was in a position to do so?"
They would be sorry for her if he had jilted her. What if they knew she had killed him to save her father's good name ?
They would be sorry still. They would punish her, but mildly, because Leon and Fermor would have the best men to defend her.
But how could she say this without divulging her father's name! And if she did that it would seem that she had killed Thorold Randall in vain.
"Melisande," Leon was saying, "you must not despair. We will fight this together, and I shall be waiting for you ... no matter how long."
She wanted to live, how desperately she wanted to live; yet she was firm in her determination. She would not tell the truth. She would not mention her father's name. And how could they—all the best lawyers in the land—work for her if she would not help them ? How could they arouse the public's pity, how could they plead with the jury, how could they influence the judge, when she would not tell them why she had killed Thorold Randall?
She lay in her cell—her own cell. Fermor had arranged that. Leon had wanted to, but Fermor had forestalled him.
There were letters from Fermor and Leon. There were more visits.
They were right when they said that money could do most things. It bought them many interviews with her.
They pleaded with her; they stormed at her; they cajoled and they grew exasperated.
"This silence is madness!" cried Fermor.
He came with his lawyer, the best he could find.
"We must have a sympathetic case," said the lawyer. "If you plead guilty and offer no defence, the verdict is a foregone conclusion."
"Don't be an idiot!" stormed Fermor. "Speak . . . speak . . . you little fool! What did he do to you? Why did you shoot him?"
She often thought of those little scraps of paper which had fluttered away on the breeze. If someone could have found them and pieced them together, they would have the answer to the mystery.
She would never give it.
There came that day which she had dreaded and for which she yet longed. It was the beginning of the end.