Chapter 20

At Camylott

A month later the flag floated from Camylott Tower and the village was
all alive with rustic excitement, much ale being drunk at the Plough
Horse and much eager gossip going on between the women, who had been
running in and out of each other's cottages for three days to talk over
each item of news as it reached them. Since the new Duke had taken
possession of his inheritance there had been no rejoicing or company at
the Tower, all the entertaining rooms having been kept closed, and the
great house seeming grievously quiet even when his Grace came down to
spend a few weeks in it. To himself the silence had been a sorrowful
thing, but he had no desire to break it by filling the room with
guests, and had indeed resolved in private thought not to throw open
its doors until he brought to it a mistress. The lovely presence of the
last mistress it had known had been so brightly illuminating a thing,
filling its rooms and galleries and the very park and terraces and
gardens themselves with sunshine and joyousness. In those happy days no
apartment had seemed huge and empty, no space too great to warm and
light with homely pleasure. But this fair torch extinguished,
apartments large enough for royal banquets, labyrinths of corridors and
galleries leading to chambers enough to serve a garrison, seemed all
the more desolate for their size and splendour, and in them their owner
had suffered a sort of homesickness. 'Twas a strange thing to pass
through the beautiful familiar places now that they were all thrown
open and adorned for the coming guests, reflecting that the gala air
was worn for her who should, Fate willing, have made her first visit as
mistress, and realising that Fate had not been willing and that she
came but as a guest and Countess of Dunstanwolde. Oh, it was a bitter,
relentless thing; and why should it have been--for what wise purpose or
what cruel one? And with a maddening clutch about his heart he saw
again the tragic searching in her eyes when she had said, "Then you
have known me long, your Grace," and afterwards, so soft and strangely
slow, "Then you might have been one of those who came to my birthnight
feast, and saw my life begin."

He might have been, Heaven knew. Good God, why had he not? Why had he
gone back to Flanders? Now it seemed to his mind the folly of a madman,
and yet at the time he had felt his duty to his house commanded that he
should not give way to the rising tempest of his passion, but should
at least wait a space that time might prove that he could justly trust
the honour of his name and the fortune of his peoples into this wild,
lovely being's hands. Had he been free from all responsibilities, free
enough to feel that he risked no