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The ceremony was over and there was gaiety in the house. How could it be otherwise? It was true that not a year had elapsed since the death of the mistress, and everyone knew that a year was the shortest period which should elapse between a funeral and a wedding in the same house—but it had pleased the guests to forget this.
The infectiously gay bridegroom banished all gloom. Handsome, dashing, he seemed all that a bridegroom should be.
As for Caroline, she was subdued, pale and obviously nervous, which, said the guests, was all that a bride should be.
Sir Charles was grave and clearly delighted with his daughter's marriage; the bridegroom's parents, rich and fashionable from London, were equally pleased with the match. From the surrounding county all the best families had come as guests to Treve
On the great table were bowls of punch; there was metheglin, mead, dash-an-darras, and shenegrum—that concoction of boiled beer, Jamaica rum, lemon, brown sugar and nutmeg—without which no Cornish Christmas was complete.
The table was loaded with Mrs. Soady's greatest masterpieces.
There were boars* heads, and every sort of pie that could be made; besides the usual meat pies there were fish pies containing mackerel, bream and pilchards. There were pilchards offered in every way known to Cornish co
Harassed serving men and maids scurried about the house; from the kitchen came the last minute cakes and pies which Mrs. Soady felt must be made in case they should be short.
And after the banquet, the servants descended on the hall like a swarm of locusts and cleared everything away that the guests might dance and disport themselves as was fitting for a wedding in the family on Christmas Day.
The old dances were danced and all the company, led by the bride and groom, joined in the Quadrille and Sir Roger de Coverley; and the Cornish guests, at the request for Cornish dances, formed up and showed the foreigners the furry dance to the accompaniment provided by musicians specially engaged to play for the company.
It was a merry party.
Leon had been invited; he stayed close to Melisande and it was clear that he was enjoying the spectacle of a Cornish Christmas and wedding party.
"If you married me," he said, "there would not be such a grand occasion as this, alas."
"The grandeur would be of no importance," she told him.
"You are a little sad to-day."
"Sad? On such a day! Why should I be?"
"Perhaps because Miss Treve
"Apprehensive when she is in love? That is clear. Don't you agree?"
"Yes, I agree."
"And so is he. Can you see that?"
"He? Oh, he is in love with himself."
She looked at him sharply.
"I am envious perhaps," he said. "Not of him as he is . . . oh no! I do not envy him his wealth or his bride. But I wish that I had that assurance which wealth gives. I wish I had a bride who was in love with me as his is with him."
"Be careful!" she warned. "This is Cornwall where strange things happen. Piskies and fairies lurk unseen. It may be that your wishes will be granted. You may have his wealth and you may—as you say he has—fall in love with yourself."
"No doubt he found that easier than I should. For one thing
he is so handsome; and for another he is so pleased with himself."
"Anyone truly in love is pleased with the object of that love, and whatever it may seem to others it is handsome to the lover. I hope Caroline will be happy."
"You speak as though you think she will not."
"I am being foolish then."
Fermor seemed to sense that they were talking of him. He smiled in their direction and then came over.
"Are you enjoying the wedding feast, Mademoiselle St. Martin?" he asked.
"Very much. I don't believe you have met Monsieur de la Roche?"
"I have seen him."
"I do not remember seeing you," said Leon.
"I was at the top of the cliff; you were below. But I recognized you. I have, they say, hawk's eyes. They see a good deal."
"This is Mr. Holland, as you know," said Melisande to L6on.
"Indeed yes. We all know the bridegroom."
Fermor said: "I heard that you and Mademoiselle St. Martin are delighted to speak French together. How pleasant to meet compatriots in a foreign country!"
"It has been most pleasant."
"I really came to ask Mademoiselle to join in the dance. It is not right that young ladies should hold aloof from the festivities. I have hardly had a word with her since my arrival yesterday. I have to apologise for my neglect and to beg her forgiveness."
"Not only do I forgive," said Melisande, "I applaud. It is fitting, is it not, Monsieur de la Roche, that a bridegroom should neglect all but his bride?"
"It is an accepted rule of conduct, I believe."
"You have been a bridegroom?" asked Fermor; and Melisande fancied she detected the faintest streak of insolence.
"I have not; but I understand."
"Trust a Frenchman! But I won't be forgiven as easily as that. Every man—married or bachelor—has a duty to the community. Toujours la politesse, I believe you say in your country."
"In France," said Melisande, "la politesse always stands aside for Vamour. Thank you for asking me. Thank you for apologising. Please go back to your wife with a clear conscience. That is what all expect."
"Oh, but I must look after our guests, you know."
"Monsieur de la Roche looks after me and I after him."
He looked at her sardonically. "I guessed it, but I don't intend him to keep that pleasure all to himself. Come . . . dance with me."
He would have drawn her into the centre of the hall where the couples were forming for a barn dance, but at that moment there
was a knocking at the door, a shouting from without, and in the next few seconds the guise dancers were trooping into the hall.
Fermor said: "Another old custom! Who are these people?"
Jane Collings, who heard his remark, called out that they were the guise dancers who always came to the big houses at Christmas time.
"So it is another old custom!"
"Very ancient. Older than Christianity!" said Jane.
The guisards were unrecognizable, for most of them wore masks, and those who did not had blackened their faces in order to hide their identity. Some were dressed up to represent characters for whom the Cornish had a special sympathy. There were two as Sir Jonathan Trelawny as well as a Charles the First and a Monmouth. They acted their parts to the amusement of the guests, and after that they danced the ancient dances which they had been practising for weeks before Christmas.