Later he felt that he would have been perfectly happy as a country squire, arbitrating in village disputes, adjusting differences between vicar and school-master, sorting fishing-tackle, mending broken furniture, doctoring the dogs, re-arranging his collection of stamps; instead of which fate had cast him for the centre front of the world’s most brilliant social stage.
Undoubtedly his mother had been a great help. She enjoyed equally the hard work and the pompous ceremonial incumbent on conscientious Dukes; and the poor young Duke was incorrigibly conscientious. But his conscience could not compel him to accept a marriage arranged by his mother. That part of his life he intended to arrange for himself. His departure for Tintagel was an oblique reply to the Duchess’s challenge. She had told him to go to Scotland, and he was going to Cornwall instead. The mere fact of being seated in a train which was hurrying westward was a declaration of independence. The Duke longed above all to be free, to decide for himself; and though he was ostensibly going to Tintagel on estate business, his real purpose was to think over his future in solitude.
If only he might have remained unmarried! Not that he was without the feelings natural to young men; but the kind of marriage he was expected to make took no account of such feelings. “I won’t be hunted—I won’t!” the Duke muttered as the train rushed westward, seeing himself as a panting quarry pursued by an implacable pack of would-be Duchesses. Was there no escape? Yes. He would dedicate his public life entirely to his country, but in private he would do as he chose. Valiant words, and easy to speak when no one was listening; but with his mother’s small hard eyes on him, his resolves had a way of melting. Was it true that if he did not offer himself to Jean Hopeleigh the world might accuse him of trifling with her? If so, the sooner he married some one else the better. The chief difficulty was that he had not yet met any one whom he really wanted to marry.
Well, he would give himself at least three days in which to think it all over, out of reach of the Duchess’s eyes…
A salt mist was drifting to and fro down the coast as the Duke, the next afternoon, walked along the cliffs toward the ruins of the old Tintagel. Since early morning he had been at work with Mr. Blair, the agent, going into the laborious question of reducing the bills for the roof of the new castle, and examining the other problems presented by the administration of his great domain. After that, with agent and housekeeper, he had inspected every room in the castle, carefully examining floors and ceilings, and seeing to it that Mr. Blair recorded the repairs to be made, but firmly hurrying past the innumerable clocks, large and small, loud and soft, which, from writing-table and mantel-shelf and cabinet-top, cried out to him for attention. “Have you a good man for the clocks?” he had merely asked, with an affectation of indifference; and when the housekeeper replied: “Oh, yes, your Grace. Mr. Trelly from Wadebridge comes once a week, the same that his late Grace always employed,” he had passed on with a distinct feeling of disappointment; for probably a man of that sort would resent any one else’s winding the clocks—a sentiment the Duke could perfectly appreciate.
Finally, wearied by these labours, which were as much out of scale with his real tastes as the immense building itself, he had lunched late and hastily on bread and cheese, to the despair of the housekeeper, who had despatched a groom before daybreak to scour Wadebridge for delicacies.
The Duke’s afternoon was his own, and his meagre repast over he set out for a tramp. The troublesome question of his marriage was still foremost in his mind; for after inspecting the castle he felt more than ever the impossibility of escaping from his ducal burdens. Yet how could the simple-hearted girl of whom he was in search be induced to share the weight of these great establishments? It was unlikely that a young woman too ignorant of worldly advantages to covet his title would be attracted by his responsibilities. Why not remain unmarried, as he had threatened, and let the title and the splendours go to the elderly clergyman who was his heir presumptive? But no—that would be a still worse failure in duty. He must marry, have children, play the great part assigned to him.
As he walked along the coast toward the ruined Tintagel he shook off his momentary cowardice. The westerly wind blew great trails of fog in from the sea, and now and then, between them, showed a mass of molten silver, swaying heavily, as though exhausted by a distant gale. The Duke thought of the stuffy heat of London, and the currents of his blood ran less sedately. He would marry, yes; but he would choose his own wife, and choose her away from the world, in some still backwater of rural England. But here another difficulty lurked. He had once, before his father’s death, lit on a girl who fitted ideally into his plan: the daughter of a naval officer’s widow, brought up in a remote Norfolk village. The Duke had found a friend to introduce him, had called, had talked happily with the widow of parochial matters, had shown her what was wrong with her clock, and had even contrived to be left alone with the young lady. But the young lady could say no more than “Yes” and “No”, and she placed even these monosyllables with so little relevance that face to face with her he was struck dumb also. He did not return, and the young lady married a curate.
The memory tormented him now. Perhaps, if he had been patient, had given her time—but no, he recalled her blank bewildered face, and thought what a depressing sight it would be every morning behind the tea-urn. Though he sought simplicity he dreaded dulness. Dimly conscious that he was dull himself, he craved the stimulus of a quicker mind; yet he feared a dull wife less than a brilliant one, for with the latter how could he maintain his superiority? He remembered his discomfort among those loud rattling young women whom his cousin Seadown had taken him to see at Runnymede. Very handsome they were, each in her own way; nor was the Duke insensible to beauty. One especially, the fair one, had attracted him. She was less noisy than the others, and would have been an agreeable sight at the breakfast-table; and she carried her head in a way to show off the Tintagel jewels. But marry an American—? The thought was inconceivable. Besides, supposing she should want to surround herself with all those screaming people, and supposing he had to invite the mother—he wasn’t sure which of the two elderly ladies with dyed fringes was the mother—to Longlands or Tintagel whenever a child was born? From this glimpse into an alien world the Duke’s orderly imagination recoiled. What he wanted was an English bride of ancient lineage and Arcadian innocence; and somewhere in the British Isles there must be one awaiting him…
XV.
After their early swim the morning had turned so damp and foggy that Miss Testvalley said to Nan: “I believe this would be a good day for me to drive over to Polwhelly and call at the vicarage. You can sit in the garden a little while if the sun comes out.”
The vicarage at Polwhelly had been Miss Testvalley’s chief refuge during her long lonely months at Tintagel with her Folyat pupils, and Nan knew that she wished to visit her old friends. As for Nan herself, after the swim and the morning walk, she preferred to sit in the inn garden, sheltered by a tall fuchsia hedge, and gazing out over the headlands and the sea. She had not even expressed the wish to take the short walk along the cliffs to the ruins of Tintagel; and she had apparently forgotten Miss Testvalley’s offer to show her the modern castle of the same name. She seemed neither listless nor unwell, the governess thought, but lulled by the strong air, and steeped in a lazy beatitude; and this was the very mood Miss Testvalley had sought to create in her.
But an hour or two after Trevennick’s only fly had carried off Miss Testvalley, the corner where Nan sat became a balcony above a great sea-drama. A twist of the wind had whirled away the fog, and there of a sudden lay the sea in a metallic glitter, with white clouds storming over it, hiding and then revealing the fiery blue sky between. Sit in the shelter of the fuchsia hedge on such a day? Not Nan! Her feet were already dancing on the sunbeams, and in another minute the gate had swung behind her, and she was away to meet the gale on the downs above the village.
When the Duke of Tintagel reached the famous ruin from whi
ch he took his name, another freak of the wind had swept the fog in again. The sea was no more than a hoarse sound on an invisible shore, and he climbed the slopes through a cloud filled with the stormy clash of sea-birds. To some minds the change might have seemed to befit the desolate place; but the Duke, being a good landlord, thought only: “More rain, I suppose; and that is certain to mean a loss on the crops.”
But the walk had been exhilarating, and when he reached the upper platform of the castle, and looked down through a break in the fog at the savage coast-line, a feeling of pride and satisfaction crept through him. He liked the idea that a place so ancient and renowned belonged to him, was a mere milestone in his race’s long descent; and he said to himself: “I owe everything to England. Perhaps after all I ought to marry as my mother wishes…”
He had thought he had the wild place to himself, but as he advanced toward the edge of the platform he perceived that his solitude was shared by a young lady who, as yet unaware of his presence, stood wedged in a coign of the ramparts, absorbed in the struggle between wind and sea.
The Duke gave an embarrassed cough; but between the waves and the gulls the sound did not carry far. The girl remained motionless, her profile turned seaward, and the Duke was near enough to study it in detail.
She had not the kind of beauty to whirl a man off his feet, and his eye was free to note that her complexion, though now warmed by the wind, was naturally pale, that her nose was a trifle too small, and her hair a tawny uncertain mixture of dark and fair. Nothing overpowering in all this; but being overpowered was what the Duke most dreaded. He went in fear of the terrible beauty that is born and bred for the strawberry leaves, and the face he was studying was so grave yet so happy that he felt somehow re-assured and safe. This girl, at any rate, was certainly not thinking of Dukes; and in the eyes she presently turned to him he saw not himself but the sea.
He raised his hat, and she looked at him, surprised but not disturbed. “I didn’t know you were there,” she said simply.
“The grass deadens one’s steps…” the Duke apologized.
“Yes. And the birds scream so—and the wind.”
“I’m afraid I startled you.”
“Oh, no. I didn’t suppose the place belonged to me…” She continued to scrutinize him gravely, and he wondered whether a certain fearless gravity were not what he liked best in woman. Then suddenly she smiled, and he changed his mind.
“But I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?” she exclaimed. “I’m sure I have. Wasn’t it at Runnymede?”
“At Runnymede?” he stammered, his heart sinking. The smile, then, had after all been for the Duke!
“Yes. I’m Nan St George. My mother and Mrs. Elmsworth have taken a little cottage there—Lady Churt’s cottage. A lot of people come down from London to see my sister Virginia and Liz Elmsworth, and I have an idea you came one day—didn’t you? There are so many of them—crowds of young men; and always changing. I’m afraid I can’t remember all their names. But didn’t Teddy de Santos-Dios bring you down the day we had that awful pillow-fight? I know—you’re a Mr. Robinson.”
In an instant the Duke’s apprehensive mind registered a succession of terrors. First, the dread that he had been recognized and marked down; then the more deadly fear that, though this had actually happened, his quick-witted antagonist was clever enough to affect an impossible ignorance. A Mr. Robinson! For a fleeting second the Duke tried to feel what it would be like to be a Mr. Robinson… a man who might wind his own clocks when he chose. It did not feel as agreeable as the Duke had imagined—and he hastily re-became a Duke.
Yet would it not be safer to accept the proffered alias? He wavered. But no; the idea was absurd. If this girl, though he did not remember ever having seen her, had really been at Runnymede the day he had gone there, it was obvious that, though she might not identify him at the moment (a thought not wholly gratifying to his vanity), she could not long remain in ignorance. His face must have betrayed his embarrassment, for she exclaimed: “Oh, then, you’re not Mr. Robinson? I’m so sorry! Virginia (that’s my sister; I don’t believe you’ve forgotten her)—Virginia says I’m always making stupid mistakes. And I know everybody hates being taken for somebody else; and especially for a Mr. Robinson. But won’t you tell me your name?”
The Duke’s confusion increased. But he was aware that hesitation was ridiculous. There was no help for it; he had to drag himself into the open. “My name’s Tintagel.”
Nan’s eyebrows rose in surprise, and her smile enchanted him again. “Oh, how perfectly splendid! Then of course you know Miss Testvalley?”
The Duke stared. He had never seen exactly that effect produced by the announcement of his name. “Miss Testvalley?”
“Oh, don’t you know her? How funny! But aren’t you the brother of those girls whose governess she was? They used to live at Tintagel. I mean Clara and Ermie and Mina…”
“Their governess?” It suddenly dawned on the Duke how little he knew about his sisters. The fact of being regarded as a mere appendage to these unimportant females was a still sharper blow to his vanity; yet it gave him the re-assurance that even now the speaker did not know she was addressing a Duke. Incredible as such ignorance was, he was constrained to recognize it. “She knows me only as their brother,” he thought. “Or else,” he added, “she knows who I am, and doesn’t care.”
At first neither alternative was wholly pleasing; but after a moment’s reflection he felt a glow of relief. “I remember my sisters had a governess they were devoted to,” he said, with a timid affability.
“I should think so! She’s perfectly splendid. Did you know she was Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s own cousin?” Nan continued, her enthusiasm rising, as it always did when she spoke of Miss Testvalley.
The Duke’s perplexity deepened; and it annoyed him to have to grope for his answers in conversing with this prompt young woman. “I’m afraid I know very few Italians—”
“Oh, well, you wouldn’t know him; he’s very ill, and hardly sees anybody. But don’t you love his poetry? Which sonnet do you like best in The House of Life? I have a friend whose favourite is the one that begins: When do I love thee most, belovèd one?”
“I—the fact is, I’ve very little time to read poetry,” the Duke faltered.
Nan looked at him incredulously. “It doesn’t take much time if you really care for it. But lots of people don’t—Virginia doesn’t… Are you coming down soon to Runnymede? Miss Testvalley and I are going back next week. They just sent me here for a little while to get a change of air and some bathing, but it was really because they thought Runnymede was too exciting for me.”
“Ah,” exclaimed the Duke, his interest growing, “you don’t care for excitement, then?” (The lovely child!)
Nan pondered the question. “Well, it all depends… Everything’s exciting, don’t you think so? I mean sunsets and poetry, and swimming out too far in a rough sea… But I don’t believe I care as much as the others for practical jokes: frightening old ladies by dressing up as burglars with dark lanterns, or putting wooden rattlesnakes in people’s beds—do you?”
It was the Duke’s turn to hesitate. “I—well, I must own that such experiences are unfamiliar to me; but I can hardly imagine being amused by them.”
His mind revolved uneasily between the alternatives of disguising himself as a burglar or listening to a young lady recite poetry; and to bring the talk back to an easier level he said: “You’re staying in the neighbourhood?”
“Yes. At Trevennick, at the inn. I love it here, don’t you? You live somewhere near here, I suppose?”
Yes, the Duke said: his place wasn’t above three miles away. He’d just walked over from there… He broke off, at a loss how to go on; but his interlocutor came to the rescue.
“I suppose you must know the vicar at Polwhelly? Miss Testvalley’s gone to see him this afternoon. That’s why I came up here alone. I promised and swore I wouldn’t stir out of the inn garden—but how could I help
it, when the sun suddenly came out?”
“How indeed?” echoed the Duke, attempting one of his difficult smiles. “Will your governess be very angry, do you think?”
“Oh, fearfully, at first. But afterward she’ll understand. Only I do want to get back before she comes in, or she’ll be worried…” She turned back to the rampart for a last look at the sea; but the deepening fog had blotted out everything. “I must really go,” she said, “or I’ll never find my way down.”
The Duke’s gaze followed her. Was this a tentative invitation to guide her back to the inn? Should he offer to do so? Or would the governess disapprove of this even more than of her charge’s wandering off alone in the fog? “If you’ll allow me—may I see you back to Trevennick?” he suggested.
Edith Wharton - Novel 21 Page 14
