CHAPTER XXXIV
RED GODWYN
Stornham Court had taken its proper position in the county
as a place which was equal to social exchange in the matter
of entertainment. Sir Nigel and Lady Anstruthers had given
a garden party, according to the decrees of the law obtaining
in country neighbourhoods. The curiosity to behold Miss
Vanderpoel, and the change which had been worked in the well-
known desolation and disrepair, precluded the possibility of the
refusal of any invitations sent, the recipient being in his or
her right mind, and sound in wind and limb. That astonishing
things had been accomplished, and that the party was a
successful affair, could not but be accepted as truths. Garden
parties had been heard of, were a trifle repetitional, and
even dull, but at this one there was real music and real dancing,
and clever entertainments were given at intervals in a
green-embowered little theatre, erected for the occasion. These
were agreeable additions to mere food and conversation, which
were capable of palling.
To the garden party the Anstruthers did not confine
themselves. There were dinner parties at Stornham, and they also
were successful functions. The guests were of those who
make for the success of such entertainments.
"I called upon Mount Dunstan this afternoon," Sir Nigel
said one evening, before the first of these dinners. "He might
expect it, as one is asking him to dine. I wish him to be asked.
The Dunholms have taken him up so tremendously that no
festivity seems complete without him."
He had been invited to the garden party, and had appeared, but
Betty had seen little of him. It is easy to see little of a
guest at an out-of-door festivity. In assisting Rosalie to
attend to her visitors she had been much occupied, but she had
known that she might have seen more of him, if he had intended
that it should be so. He did not--for reasons of his own--intend
that it should be so, and this she became aware of. So she
walked, played in the bowling green, danced and talked with
Westholt, Tommy Alanby and others.
"He does not want to talk to me. He will not, if he can
avoid it," was what she said to herself.
She saw that he rather sought out Mary Lithcom, who was not
accustomed to receiving special attention. The two walked
together, danced together, and in adjoining chairs watched the
performance in the embowered theatre. Lady Mary enjoyed her
companion very much, but she wondered why he had
attached himself to her.
Betty Vanderpoel asked herself what they talked to each
other about, and did not suspect the truth, which was that
they talked a good deal of herself.
"Have you seen much of Miss Vanderpoel?" Lady Mary had begun by
asking.
"I have SEEN her a good deal, as no doubt you have."
Lady Mary's plain face expressed a somewhat touched
reflectiveness.
"Do you know," she said, "that the garden parties have
been a different thing this whole summer, just because one
always knew one would see her at them?"
A short laugh from Mount Dunstan.
"Jane and I have gone to every garden party within twenty
miles, ever since we left the schoolroom. And we are very
tired of them. But this year we have quite cheered up. When
we are dressing to go to something dull, we say to each other,
`Well, at any rate, Miss Vanderpoel will be there, and we
shall see what she has on, and how her things are made,' and
that's something--besides the fun of watching people make
up to her, and hearing them talk about the men who want to
marry her, and wonder which one she will take. She will not
take anyone in this place," the nice turned-up nose slightly
suggesting a derisive sniff. "Who is there who is suitable?"
Mount Dunstan laughed shortly again.
"How do you know I am not an aspirant myself?" he said.
He had a mirthless sense of enjoyment in his own brazenness.
Only he himself knew how brazen the speech was.
Lady Mary looked at him with entire composure.
"I am quite sure you are not an aspirant for anybody. And I
happen to know that you dislike moneyed international marriages.
You are so obviously British that, even if I had not been
told that, I should know it was true. Miss Vanderpoel herself
knows it is true."
"Does she?"
"Lady Alanby spoke of it to Sir Nigel, and I heard Sir Nigel
tell her."
"Exactly the kind of unnecessary thing he would be likely
to repeat." He cast the subject aside as if it were a worthless
superfluity and went on: "When you say there is no one suitable,
you surely forget Lord Westholt."
"Yes, it's true I forgot him for the moment. But--" with
a laugh--"one rather feels as if she would require a royal duke
or something of that sort."
"You think she expects that kind of thing?" rather indifferently.
"She? She doesn't think of the subject. She simply thinks
of other things--of Lady Anstruthers and Ughtred, of the work
at Stornham and the village life, which gives her new emotions
and interest. She also thinks about being nice to people. She
is nicer than any girl I know."
"You feel, however, she has a right to expect it?" still
without more than a casual air of interest.
"Well, what do you feel yourself?" said Lady Mary. "Women who
look like that--even when they are not millionairesses--
usually marry whom they choose. I do not believe
that the two beautiful Miss Gunnings rolled into one would
have made anything as undeniable as she is. One has seen
portraits of them. Look at her as she stands there talking to
Tommy and Lord Dunholm!"
Internally Mount Dunstan was saying: "I am looking at
her, thank you," and setting his teeth a little.
But Lady Mary was launched upon a subject which swept
her along with it, and she--so to speak--ground the thing in.
"Look at the turn of her head! Look at her mouth and chin, and
her eyes with the lashes sweeping over them when she looks down!
You must have noticed the effect when she lifts them suddenly to
look at you. It's so odd and lovely that it--it almost----"
"Almost makes you jump," ended Mount Dunstan drily.
She did not laugh and, in fact, her expression became rather
sympathetically serious.
"Ah," she said, "I believe you feel a sort of rebellion
against the unfairness of the way things are dealt out. It does
seem unfair, of course. It would be perfectly disgraceful--if
she were different. I had moments of almost hating her until
one day not long ago she did something so bewitchingly kind
and understanding of other people's feelings that I gave up. It
was clever, too," with a laugh, "clever and daring. If she
were a young man she would make a dashing soldier."
She did not give him the details of the story, but went on
to say in effect what she had said to Betty herself of the
inevitable incidentalness of her stay in the country. If she had
not evidently come to Stornham this year with a purpose, she
would have spent the season in London and done the usual thing.
Americans were generally presented promptly, if they had any
position--sometimes when they had not. Lady Alanby had
heard that the fact that she was with her sister had awakened
curiosity and people were talking about her.
"Lady Alanby said in that dry way of hers that the arrival
of an unmarried American fortune in England was becoming
rather like the visit of an unmarried royalty. People ask each
other what it means and begin to arrange for it. So far, only
the women have come, but Lady Alanby says that is because the
men have had no time to do anything but stay at home and
make the fortunes. She believes that in another generation
there will be a male leisure class, and then it will swoop down
too, and marry people. She was very sharp and amusing about
it. She said it would help them to rid themselves of a plethora
of wealth and keep them from bursting."
She was an amiable, if unsentimental person, Mary Lithcom
--and was, quite without ill nature, expressing the consensus
of public opinion. These young women came to the country
with something practical to exchange in these days, and as
there were men who had certain equivalents to offer, so also
there were men who had none, and whom decency should cause
to stand aside. Mount Dunstan knew that when she had said,
"Who is there who is suitable?" any shadow of a thought of
himself as being in the running had not crossed her mind.
And this was not only for the reasons she had had the ready
composure to name, but for one less conquerable.
Later, having left Mary Lithcom, he decided to take a turn
by himself. He had done his duty as a masculine guest. He
had conversed with young women and old ones, had danced, visited
gardens and greenhouses, and taken his part in all things.
Also he had, in fact, reached a point when a few minutes of
solitude seemed a good thing. He found himself turning into
the clipped laurel walk, where Tommy Alanby had stood with
Jane Lithcom, and he went to the end of it and stood looking
out on the view.
"Look at the turn of her head," Lady Mary had said.
"Look at her mouth and chin." And he had been looking at
them the whole afternoon, not because he had intended to do
so, but because it was not possible to prevent himself from
doing it.
This was one of the ironies of fate. Orthodox doctrine might
suggest that it was to teach him that his past rebellion had
been undue. Orthodox doctrine was ever ready with these
soothing little explanations. He had raged and sulked at
Destiny, and now he had been given something to rage for.
"No one knows anything about it until it takes him by
the throat," he was thinking, "and until it happens to a man
he has no right to complain. I was not starving before. I was
not hungering and thirsting--in sight of food and water. I
suppose one of the most awful things in the world is to feel this
and know it is no use."
He was not in the condition to reason calmly enough to see
that there might be one chance in a thousand that it was of
use. At such times the most intelligent of men and women lose
balance and mental perspicacity. A certain degree of unreasoning
madness possesses them. They see too much and too little.
There were, it was true, a thousand chances against him, but
there was one for him--the chance that selection might be on
his side. He had not that balance of thought left which might
have suggested to him that he was a man young and powerful,
and filled with an immense passion which might count for
something. All he saw was that he was notably in the position
of the men whom he had privately disdained when they helped
themselves by marriage. Such marriages he had held were
insults to the manhood of any man and the womanhood of any
woman. In such unions neither party could respect himself or
his companion. They must always in secret doubt each other,
fret at themselves, feel distaste for the whole thing. Even if a
man loved such a woman, and the feeling was mutual, to whom
would it occur to believe it--to see that they were not gross
and contemptible? To no one. Would it have occurred to
himself that such an extenuating circumstance was possible?
Certainly it would not. Pig-headed pride and obstinacy it
might be, but he could not yet face even the mere thought of
it--even if his whole position had not been grotesque. Because,
after all, it was grotesque that he should even argue with
himself. She--before his eyes and the eyes of all others--the
most desirable of women; people dinning it in one's ears that she
was surrounded by besiegers who waited for her to hold out
her sceptre, and he--well, what was he! Not that his mental
attitude was that of a meek and humble lover who felt himself
unworthy and prostrated himself before her shrine with prayers
--he was, on the contrary, a stout and obstinate Briton finding
his stubbornly-held beliefs made as naught by a certain obsession
--an intolerable longing which wakened with him in the morning,
which sank into troubled sleep with him at night--the longing to
see her, to speak to her, to stand near her, to breathe
the air of her. And possessed by this--full of the overpowering
strength of it--was a man likely to go to a woman and say,
"Give your life and desirableness to me; and incidentally support
me, feed me, clothe me, keep the roof over my head, as if
I were an impotent beggar"?
"No, by God!" he said. "If she thinks of me at all it
shall be as a man. No, by God, I will not sink to that!"
. . . . .
A moving touch of colour caught his eye. It was the rose of
a parasol seen above the laurel hedge, as someone turned into
the walk. He knew the colour of it and expected to see other
parasols and hear voices. But there was no sound, and
unaccompanied, the wonderful rose-thing moved towards him.
"The usual things are happening to me," was his thought
as it advanced. "I am hot and cold, and just now my heart
leaped like a rabbit. It would be wise to walk off, but I shall
not do it. I shall stay here, because I am no longer a reasoning
being. I suppose that a horse who refuses to back out of his
stall when his stable is on fire feels something of the same
thing."
When she saw him she made an involuntary-looking pause,
and then recovering herself, came forward.
"I seem to have come in search of you," she said. "You
ought to be showing someone the view really--and so ought I."
"Shall we show it to each other?" was his reply.
"Yes." And she sat down on the stone seat which had been
placed for the comfort of view lovers. "I am a little tired--
just enough to feel that to slink away for a moment alone
would be agreeable. It IS slinking to leave Rosalie to battle
with half the county. But I shall only stay a few minutes."
She sat still and gazed at the beautiful lands spread before
her, but there was no stillness in her mind, neither was there
stillness in his. He did not look at the view, but at her, and
he was asking himself what he should be saying to her if he
were such a man as Westholt. Though he had boldness enough,
he knew that no man--even though he is free to speak the best
and most passionate thoughts of his soul--could be sure that
he would gain what he desired. The good fortune of Westholt,
or of any other, could but give him one man's fair chance.
But having that chance, he knew he should not relinquish it
soon. There swept back into his mind the story of the marriage
of his ancestor, Red Godwyn, and he laughed low in spite
of himself.
Miss Vanderpoel looked up at him quickly.
"Please tell me about it, if it is very amusing," she said.
"I wonder if it will amuse you," was his answer. "Do you
like savage romance?"
"Very much."
It might seem a propos de rien, but he did not care in the
least. He wanted to hear what she would say.
"An ancestor of mine--a certain Red Godwyn--was a barbarian
immensely to my taste. He became enamoured of rumours of the
beauty of the daughter and heiress of his bitterest
enemy. In his day, when one wanted a thing, one rode forth
with axe and spear to fight for it."
"A simple and alluring method," commented Betty. "What
was her name?"
She leaned in light ease against the stone back of her seat,
the rose light cast by her parasol faintly flushed her. The
silence of their retreat seemed accentuated by its background
of music from the gardens. They smiled a second bravely into
each other's eyes, then their glances became entangled, as they
had done for a moment when they had stood together in Mount
Dunstan park. For one moment each had been held prisoner
then--now it was for longer.
"Alys of the Sea-Blue Eyes."
Betty tried to release herself, but could not.
"Sometimes the sea is grey," she said.
His own eyes were still in hers.
"Hers were the colour of the sea on a day when the sun shines on
it, and there are large fleece-white clouds floating in the blue
above. They sparkled and were often like bluebells under water."
"Bluebells under water sounds entrancing," said Betty.
He caught his breath slightly.
"They were--entrancing," he said. "That was evidently
the devil of it--saving your presence."
"I have never objected to the devil," said Betty. "He is
an energetic, hard-working creature and paints himself an
honest black. Please tell me the rest."
"Red Godwyn went forth, and after a bloody fight took his
enemy's castle. If we still lived in like simple, honest times,
I should take Dunholm Castle in the same way. He also took
Alys of the Eyes and bore her away captive."
"From such incidents developed the germs of the desire for
female suffrage," Miss Vanderpoel observed gently.
"The interest of the story lies in the fact that apparently
the savage was either epicure or sentimentalist, or both. He
did not treat the lady ill. He shut her in a tower chamber
overlooking his courtyard, and after allowing her three days to
weep, he began his barbarian wooing. Arraying himself in
splendour he ordered her to appear before him. He sat upon
the dais in his banquet hall, his retainers gathered about him--
a great feast spread. In archaic English we are told that the
board groaned beneath the weight of golden trenchers and
flagons. Minstrels played and sang, while he displayed all
his splendour."
"They do it yet," said Miss Vanderpoel, "in London and
New York and other places."
"The next day, attended by his followers, he took her with
him to ride over his lands. When she returned to her tower
chamber she had learned how powerful and great a chieftain
he was. She `laye softely' and was attended by many maidens,
but she had no entertainment but to look out upon the great
green court. There he arranged games and trials of strength
and skill, and she saw him bigger, stronger, and more splendid
than any other man. He did not even lift his eyes to her
window. He also sent her daily a rich gift."
"How long did this go on?"
"Three months. At the end of that time he commanded
her presence again in his banquet hall. He told her the gates
were opened, the drawbridge down and an escort waiting to take
her back to her father's lands, if she would."
"What did she do?"
"She looked at him long--and long. She turned proudly away--in
the sea-blue eyes were heavy and stormy tears, which seeing----"
"Ah, he saw them?" from Miss Vanderpoel.
"Yes. And seizing her in his arms caught her to his breast,
calling for a priest to make them one within the hour. I am
quoting the chronicle. I was fifteen when I read it first."
"It is spirited," said Betty, "and Red Godwyn was almost
modern in his methods."
While professing composure and lightness of mood, the spell
which works between two creatures of opposite sex when in
such case wrought in them and made them feel awkward and
stiff. When each is held apart from the other by fate, or will,
or circumstance, the spell is a stupefying thing, deadening even
the clearness of sight and wit.
"I must slink back now," Betty said, rising. "Will you
slink back with me to give me countenance? I have greatly
liked Red Godwyn."
So it occurred that when Nigel Anstruthers saw them again
it was as they crossed the lawn together, and people looked up
from ices and cups of tea to follow their slow progress with
questioning or approving eyes.
