Inheritance Feud

Chapter 23

Chapter 23

He'd flushed up, poor boy, as he said it; it wasn't often, Kitty knew well, that he made any positive statement of the kind. Even at that, he'd qualified the matter to happen only if Annabel should wish it; but Kitty and Mrs. Retford had soon settled that. The girl did wish it, of course; she'd passed her little white hand lovingly over the pony's mouth and muzzle, and soothed him, for he'd grown wild meantime out in the field, with nobody to saddle and manage him, and he'd bolted grass. Annabel had got him to come to her, and trust her, and presently Kitty had made it clear she must ride him, and have him meantime in a present, and that the present was Godfrey's. The poor child had crimsoned with embarrass ment then, and had glanced at her aunt, as if fearful of a rebuke, the way she often did. But Mrs. Retford had only said affably that was very good of Mr. Devenham and his mother. She hadn't left Kitty out; and then there was the matter of the habit.

"She hasn't got out," said Clairette, in her blurting way. "She might as well use mine, Mama; I shall never wear it again, I assure you," and the child had turned away, as if that matter was finished with. Miss Annabel hadn't wanted to accept the habit, which was a very pretty one, made of dark Melton cloth with a tall hat, bearing a plume at its narrow brim. It had become her vastly, everyone said, when they made her try it on; it would hardly need any fitting. Annabel wore it, for her aunt saw that she wore it, next time she went out with Godfrey to the shore; after that, the girl on her pony, and the stout invalid form in the light carriage, would go down together, and hunt for shells and weeds all afternoon, coming home sun-filled and happy. That Godfrey was happy induced the necessity, in Kitty, of stating that Annabel was so also; in fact, she had never considered the girl as a separ ate person. Godfrey wanted Annabel; she must, accordingly, be acquired, as the pony and the harp had been; as Malvie had been, for Godfrey. Kitty by now had persuaded herself of this.

Annabel was not without perceptions of her own; and she felt herself thrust too openly into Godfrey's company

It was not, she told herself, that she disliked poor Godfrey; on the contrary, sometimes when they were alone together, on the shore among the rock pools, and he was telling her inter esting things he'd found out about the habits of shellfish and the slow, bright wavering anemones which would, at a touch, whisk back again to formless jelly-sometimes, then, she could forget herself and him, and learn and listen; it was all new to her, this love of the different kinds of life, this know ledge that there were other kinds at all; in the existence with aunt Retford, one had tended to think of oneself, of correct behaviour, as solely important, and now, hearing of a time when there hadn't been any air to breathe or life upon the earth, only strange gases, till life came and they still didn't know how ... God, the Bible and aunt Retford would say, had breathed upon the waters. It was impossible, according to Godfrey, that that was the way it had happened; it had tak en millions upon millions of years, not six days. And the water snails, which often as a child she'd shuddered from, for she'd always had a dislike for slimy creatures, had once been kings, ruling the world like uncounted giants from the sea.

"You know a great deal," she had said to him once. "How did you start to find out about it, Godfrey?" And he had looked at her with great kindness, and had said, in his shy quiet voice, that it had happened gradually, he hadn't been much in the way of meeting people, and so he grew interested in things instead. "They're always there," he said, "if other matters go wrong," and then he'd gone on looking at her with an expression, now, in his eyes that made her feel un comfortable, and ungenerous for feeling uncomfortable, when he'd been so kind and thoughtful about the pony, and had told her about shells and snails. Once after that she'd begged Clairette to come out with them, but the younger girl had shrugged and had said, with an unpleasant expression in her eyes which didn't belong to a child,

"That would spoil things. Besides, I don't like being near the pony," and she had gone off on her own concerns, refusing to come. Annabel tried to forget it, and told herself she'd sooner have the pony, whose name was Beau, as a companion than Clairette, who was both rough and sly, and said un accountable things which made everyone feel awkward. The girl wasn't happy, no doubt; she felt no one liked her, which was probably true, and Cecily was busy preparing for her wedding and had no time for her younger sister. They were both, Annabel and Clairette, to be bridal attendants, for Cecily when she should marry Uncle Hubert in a few weeks' time, and their gowns were to be buttercup yellow and edged with sable fur. They had cost a great deal; Annabel had never had a gown in her life that would cost half as much; and they had been made by the mantua-maker to the late Dowager Princess in London; the measurements had been sent by post.

Aunt Retford somehow heard of Annabel's attempt to per suade Clairette to accompany her and Godfrey, and scolded her. One never knew nowadays what was the correct thing to do. Once, she'd been told that on no account was she ever to be left alone in the company of a man; although, no doubt, poor Godfrey didn't count in that way. But a rejoinder in such fashion did not please aunt Retford either; she rapped Annabel's fingers smartly with her closed fan, which she carried for an evening-visit up to Malvie. Their life now con sisted of daily visits, sometimes twice daily; they were hardly ever at home. "Do not answer me with opinions, miss, but do as you are bid!" she snapped, and Annabel folded her bruised fingers behind her back, bit her lip to keep the tears in their place, and said nothing. She knew, for they had at some time spoken of it openly together, that her aunt expec ted her to marry for money. The prospect and fact of mar riage seemed in any case unknown and vague; she could never, as it happened, remember knowing any married couple well. Mama had died early and had left Papa a widower, and Uncle Hubert likewise; and aunt Retford's husband was back in the shadows and never spoken of, and Mrs. Bowes's hus band had not come north; one understood he was dead, and had not been satisfactory. What was a satisfactory husband? Once, daring, she had even asked her aunt. "It is a young lady's duty to settle herself in life, as advantageously as this may be done, and her best course is to fol low the advice of her parents or guardian in such a matter," replied that lady evasively.

This was no help. Marriage, to Godfrey-and Annabel now knew well enough this was being considered for her-would be more than appearing daily, correctly dressed, for a canter down to the shore by his side on the fine little Welsh pony. It would be much more, even, than making her own home again at Malvie instead of at the Mains, having rich clothes to wear, two carriages, leisure to receive and visit whom she chose; to do what she liked, instead of sitting all day at aunt Retford's prescribed embroidery-tasks. It meant-she knew this children; how they came Annabel was not quite certain, but the thought of Godfrey's flabby invalid body, his fish-fin hands, his mouth, touching her was unpleasant. It didn't tally with her everyday opinion of Godfrey as a delightful and instructive friend, once his shyness had been overcome. He wasn't shy with her now, except-except when he looked at her in that way which caused her discomfort. There was nobody she knew well enough to ask about all of this, except perhaps Livia Mary; and the latter was a servant, and one didn't discuss such things. In any case, Livia Mary herself was unmarried. There was nobody suitable to ask.

At times, particularly when she was alone, Annabel's thoughts flew to Morven. It seemed so long since they'd been together; that last, brief time in the dark outside Mains, when he'd been angry, had been almost a year ago. Then there had been the other time he had appeared, still angry and scowling at first, but pleased later on, at Malvie the day Godfrey and the others had arrived. She'd hoped that, perhaps, Morven would be able to visit frequently at Malvie now that Mrs. Bowes, who seemed kind, and Godfrey were living there; but there had only been that one visit she'd ever heard of. Morven hadn't time, she knew, for sick people.

There had however been a subsequent visit of Morven's, of which Annabel was not informed.

Godfrey himself had accepted few social engagements since coming to take up residence at Malvie. There had been one rout-party given by his mother, about the time of the Melrose betrothal, which he had only briefly attended, having one of his frequent migraines. His shyness, in addition, prevented him from improving on many acquaintances, already made; he was, accordingly, often left alone when his mother and sisters were elsewhere.

This happened the day Morven came. Godfrey had not for gotten Morven Doon, or the story of lost inheritance. He had himself been aware, beyond the enchantment of Annabel's presence seated nearby him that first day, of the advent of that other, and of the watchful, resentful quality of a pair of blazing pale-green eyes. Godfrey's own sensitiveness made him aware that young Morven must in fact resent him fiercely; as he himself grew better acquainted with Malvie, where he intended to start a garden, he could understand this situation very well. To have lost such a paradise through no fault of one's own, when one's ancestors had walked here for cen turies, must be bitter. Godfrey thought about it, and con quered his own shyness sufficiently to send an invitation to Morven to come and dine, one day when his own mother and sisters were absent; this would, he thought, be easier for them both.

He spent the time after the invitation had been sent in doubt, half expectation, and some agony of spirit. Perhaps, he thought, Morven loved Annabel and wanted her for his wife. The cousins had known one another from childhood; to have grown up side by side with such an angel would make it impossible not to love her; had not he himself done so in the first moment his eyes lighted on her bright hair, slender body and sweet heart-shaped face? But to ask Morven about that would be impossible; to converse at all with strangers, leav ing aside Annabel nowadays, was a task which took all God frey's fortitude. He could never forget how ugly they must think him; and Morven Doon was straight as a young tree. If Annabel should look at Morven, and then at him! His mind glanced away; he couldn't endure even the thought that she might never love him. He awaited Morven's reply, and ordered dinner.