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?”
