I was not surprised that Godwine, Lord Tarlton, had sired two beautiful daughters and that neither of them looked like him in any perceptible degree or hardly like each other. In contemplating and in observing him, I could never feel that he loved woman—that would have stood between him and evil—and the few he had ever pursued since his affair with the Countess Isabel had been great rareties whose conquest fed his vanity. Sophia's mother had been of the ancient house of Linden, Eliza's mother Elspeth had come from the isle of Jersey, had been poor and of obscure family, yet had dazzled everyone, a tremendous prize. He had won her in his custom of winning prizes, but not cheaply: he had given her his great name. To her babe he had given the name of largest bearing upon his soul of any in the world with the possible exception of his own. The first ship over which he held absolute command, whereby his devouring lust for power was first relieved—a ship that made the winds of heaven serve his will, that buffeted great gales and soared across the vast, dark, fearsome, unplumbable deeps of ocean —was named Our Eliza. The baby was My Eliza.
The wild moors about Celtburrow served her as they had served Sophia. But a great difference had lain between their conditions of confinement. Sophia had been kept there so that Lord Tarlton could be rid of her, Eliza so that he could keep her for his own. He almost lost her once, I thought. Proud and unmasterable Elspeth had determined to leave him and take her daughter with her when the sea took her instead. The sea had taken another who had balked him, the Saratoga—again, just in time. It must seem to him that he were god of the sea.
My mind had been groping for the basic bond between Eliza and Isabel Gazelle. Both had been given grace, elegance, honesty-, and the great manner which is natural when it is not consciously ceremonial. Isabel Gazelle was of ancient lineage. Eliza was not so on her mother's side, and a train of thought had set me to doubting whether her father's descent was as high as he believed, but that made little difference if one were raised in a royal environment and had not the least self-doubt. For the rest, she had long, clean lines—in this like Isabel, too—was yare like her, wide and childish of smile, blithe of voice, beautifully muscled and boned, and superbly alive.
Thus endowed, it was almost inevitable that she would spring off her horse and walk beside me down the road.
"The country people still talk about your fete," she was saying. "I think that giving thousands of people such a wonderful day was almost as important as giving forty people a decent home."
"That's an interesting viewpoint."
"You remember how they cheered youl"
"I haven't forgotten it."
She gave me a quick glance. "I wish I could say something—"
"Please say anything you like."
"That last cheer. Lord Bray—I was visiting his daughter—is a kind man and was afraid it would hurt your feelings. I didn't think so— but if it did, you took it wrongly. They were trying to put out their hands to you. It was so beautiful I almost cried."
"I didn't take it wrongly, Eliza, I took it rightly."
"I'm so glad. And I like to have you call me by my first name. You wouldn't if I weren't welcome. Aren't given names the important ones, instead of last names? A whole clan may bear the same last name—all are born with it, and that's that. But those who love you give you a first name for your very own."
"I never thought of it that way."
"I am Eliza. As much as I love Papa, I don't want to be Papa, I want to be me. When anyone calls me Miss Tarlton, I feel more his daughter than I feel myself."
"Kings and queens are of similar mind. They are Charles or Elizabeth, maybe with a numeral, but nothing about Stuart or Tudor. I knew a princess in Africa who had no last name."
"A black princess?"
"A brown one, and you remind me of her."
"What was her first name?"
"Isabel."
"Isn't that strange?"
"I think so."
"I want to hear all about her when we have time. Would you like to have me call you Holgar? I knew you before any of the others—at least, I was your guest. It would sort of break the ice—"
I was afraid she would go into complicated explanations and embarrass herself.
"I'd be greatly pleased."
"I'm so glad. And it will give Dick a jar! Papa, too, may be taken aback—although I never know how the cat will jump, as we say in the West Country." Her brow clouded a little, and she went on in a voice not as glowing as before. "After having that wonderful time at Tavistock, of course I couldn't bear to miss this affair, and there was another reason I wanted to come. I've been a little worried about Papa."
"Is that possible?"
"It doesn't seem possible, does it? He's so—infallible. But in the last few days—specially since Lydia White's rout—he hasn't been himself. He paces the floor at night or sits very still for an hour or more and has even spoken sharply to me, an unheard of thing. I wanted to be with him and see that he doesn't overdo. I do hope he won't be angry—"
"I'm afraid you won't find him in an amiable mood. There was a little accident today that upset him."
"What was it?"
She had spoken quickly and off guard.
"A fowling piece went off by accident."
"Did the charge almost hit him? I pity the poor oaf who did it!"
"No, it would have hit me if I hadn't knocked aside the barrel."
The free swing of her stride was briefly broken. "Whose gun was it?"
"Lord Tarlton's, but Pike was holding it."
"Pike was holding it," she echoed, not knowing she had spoken.
"He was loading for his master and turned to me to borrow a knife. One hand must have touched the trigger."
She stopped and appeared to be looking at the butts, only a hundred yards distant now. The shooters had gathered about the refreshment wagon and had not noticed us yet.
"I can't read your face, but there's something in your voice," she said in great strain. "I'm going to ask you a strange question, and it's necessary you give me a straight answer. Did you suspect he did it on purpose?"
"Why should he?"
"That wasn't what I asked. Oh, please tell me."
"The question rose in my mind, of course."
"Had you done anything to make him angry? I'll tell you the kind of thing I mean—won a great deal of money off Papa or made Papa trouble or even said something to him that Pike might think was insulting. Pike is a terribly dangerous man. He worships Papa like a dog—more like a tamed wolf—and of course Papa has no right to have him around, but won't get rid of him. I know that once he had to keep him from killing someone—a drunken fool who slapped Papa's face. If you're the one who's causing him this trouble—and I just now thought you might be—well, you'd better stop or keep out of Pike's way."
The threat came suddenly, unpremeditated and passionate. As she gave it, she looked full into my face.
"I think you may misjudge Pike—in a curious way."
"What do you mean?"
"I think he may be capable of murder. But he had nothing to do with my being behind him and in easy reach."
"If you happened by and he saw his chance—"
"I didn't happen by. Lord Tarlton said he's been flinching and asked me to sit there, to help him correct it. He said to sit ten feet behind Pike. Happily, I sat only six feet behind him—otherwise I couldn't have knocked aside his gun barrel."
Eliza uttered one little "Oh!" as though I had struck her, then walked rapidly toward her people. When they saw her come into the open field and turned and stared, she waved in well-feigned gaiety.