"There is no Inn in Snowden which is not awful dear,Excepting Pen-y-gwrd (you can't pronounce it, dear)Which standeth in the meeting of noble valleys three;One is the Vale of Gwynant, so well beloved by me;One goes to Capel Curig, and I can't mind its name;And one, it is Llanberis Pass, which all men knew the same."
"There is no Inn in Snowden which is not awful dear,Excepting Pen-y-gwrd (you can't pronounce it, dear)Which standeth in the meeting of noble valleys three;One is the Vale of Gwynant, so well beloved by me;One goes to Capel Curig, and I can't mind its name;And one, it is Llanberis Pass, which all men knew the same."
"There is no Inn in Snowden which is not awful dear,
Excepting Pen-y-gwrd (you can't pronounce it, dear)
Which standeth in the meeting of noble valleys three;
One is the Vale of Gwynant, so well beloved by me;
One goes to Capel Curig, and I can't mind its name;
And one, it is Llanberis Pass, which all men knew the same."
Never did any gesture give a better welcome than the opening of that door! We'd been too happy to know we were cold with the chill of the mountains—half-seen shapes that hovered close, with white cascades like ghosts flitting ever across their dimness; but when a glow of firelight streamed out to greet us, suddenly we realized that we were shivering.
In the square hall, several men were talking together, men with Oxford voices and open-air faces. In their midst was one man, much older, grizzled and weather-beaten, not a gentleman in the conventional sense, yet in listening to him the others had an air of deference, as if he were a hero to the group. The four or five figures stood out like a virile, impressionist sketch in black and brown on a red background; but as we entered, welcomed by some pink-cheeked young hostess, the ruddy light danced into our eyes. The men in front of the fire moved a little as if to give place, and glances were thrown at us, while for an instant the conversation flagged. Then the group was about to return to its own interests, when suddenly, out from among the rest stepped the grizzled man. He hesitated, as if uncertain whether or no to obey an impulse, then came forward with a modest yet eager air.
"I can't be mistaken, sir, can I?" he asked. "It must be Mr. Pendragon—I beg your pardon, Sir Li——"
"Why, Penrhyn!" cried Sir Lionel, not giving him time to finish; and seizing one of the gnarled brown hands, he shook it as if he never meant to stop. Both their faces had lighted up, and were beaming with joy. The grizzled man seemed to have thrown off fifteen years in a minute, and Sir Lionel looked like a boy of twenty-two. By this time everyone was gazing—staring is too rude a word—and the other faces were beaming as well, as if the most delightful thing had happened. I am sure that Sir Lionel had forgotten the existence of us three females, and had rushed back to the bright dawn of his youth. It was the light of that dawn I saw on his face; and I found my heart beating with excitement, though I didn't know why, or what it was all about.
"By Jove, Penrhyn, to think of your being the first man to greet me on our old stamping-ground!" Sir Lionel exclaimed. "It seems too good to be true. I've been thinking about you all day, and your face is a sight for sore eyes."
"I'd rather see you, sir, than have a thousand pounds drop down on me through the ceiling," retorted the mysterious hero. (I should think so, indeed.)
They shook hands, and beamed on each other a little more, and then Sir Lionel remembered his flock. Turning to us, he introduced the grizzled man.
"This is my old friend and guide, Owen Penrhyn," said he, as if he were drawing us into the circle of a prince. "There never was a guide like him in the Welsh mountains, and never will be again. Jove! it's glorious to find him at the old business still! Though, in our day together, we didn't carry this, eh?"
Then I saw that an Alpine rope was coiled across one of the strong shoulders clad in rough tweed, and that the great stout boots were strikingly trimmed with huge bright nails.
"It's like Sir Lionel to put the praise on me," protested the dear old thing, flushing up like a boy. "Why, he was the best amateur" (he pronounced the word quaintly and I loved him for it) "I ever see, or ever expect to see. If he'd gone on as he began, he'd a' broken the noses of some of us guides. Pity he had to go to furrin' parts! And I'll be bound he never told you, ladies, of his first ascent of Twll Ddu, or how he pulled me up out of the torrent by sheer strength, when my fingers were that cold I couldn't grip the hand-holds? I'd 'a' fallen clear to the bottom of the Devil's Kitchen if't hadn't been for Mr. Pendragon, as he was then. And what d' you think, ladies, he says, when I accused him o' savin' my life?"
"What?" I begged to know, forgetting to give my elders a chance to speak first.
"'Tommy rot.' That's his very words. I've never forgot 'em. 'Tommy rot.'"
He beamed on us, and every one in the hall laughed, except perhaps Emily, who smiled doubtfully, not sure whether or no it was to her brother's credit to have remarked "Tommy rot" in such a crisis. But after that, we were all friends, we, and Owen Penrhyn, and the other men, too; for though we didn't really talk to them till dinner, I knew by their eyes that they admired Sir Lionel immensely, and wanted to know us all.
At dinner there was splendid climbing talk, and we heard further tales of Sir Lionel's prowess; among others of a great jump he had made from one rock of Trifaen to the other, with only a little square of rock to light upon, just on the edge of a sheer precipice; a record feat, according to the old guide. And while the men and we women listened, the wind outside raged so wildly that now and then it seemed as if a giant fell against the house and afterward dashed pebbles against it in his fury. Then again the wind-giant would rush by the hotel in his hundred-horse-power motor-car, tooting his horn as he went. It was nice sitting there in the comfortable dining-room, listening to the climbing stories, while the wind roared and couldn't get at us, and the whole valley was full of marching rain!
Now I am writing in my bedroom, close to a gossipy little fire, which is a delightful companion, although August has still a day to run. Mrs. Senter is having her beauty sleep, I suppose; and I should think Mrs. Norton is reading Young's "Night Thoughts." I know she takes the book about with her. The men are still in the hall downstairs, very happy, if one can judge by the laughter that breaks out often; and I am as happy as I can be with the thought of Dick probably appearing at Chester day after to-morrow night. But I won't let myself think of that too much, because it isn't certain that he will get back then, and itiscertain that there will be some word from you, which may change everything. You see what faith your girl has in you! But wouldn't she be ungrateful if she hadn't?
There is one other thing which has been bothering me in odd moments, though, and I wish I had asked your advice about that, too, in the letter to be answered at Chester; but the idea hadn't occurred to me then. It suddenly sprang into my mind last night when I was lying in bed, not able to go to sleep.
Ought I to repeat to Ellaline what Mrs. Senter told me about the money? I don't mean the part about the poor child's father and mother. No one but a thorough Pig of the Universe would tell a daughter perfectly unnecessary horrors, like those; but about her not being an heiress in her own right, and depending on Sir Lionel for everything except two hundred a year?
If I were really in her place, instead of pretending to be, I should want to know, and shouldn't thank anyone for keeping the truth from me. It would be unbearable to accept generosity from a man, thinking I might be as extravagant as I liked, with my own money. But it is difficult to make up my mind, on account of thefiancé. You, being French yourself, know how it is with French officers who fall in love with a girl who has nodot, or only a small one. Most of them, if poor themselves, would slap their foreheads and despair, but think it their duty to their country to forget the girl.
I'm afraid the adorable Honoré is rather poor; and though no normal young man, especially a Frenchman, could help being fascinated by Ellaline if thrown in her society, many normal young men would be more ready to let themselves go, believing her to be an heiress. Perhaps Honoré wouldn't have proposed if he hadn't thought Ellaline a very rich as well as a very pretty girl. Perhaps if he found out even now, at the eleventh hour, that she depends upon a person whom she has just slighted and deceived, he might desert her.
Wouldn't that be awful? Not that I think Ellaline would tell him, if I wrote to her exactly what I've heard from Mrs. Senter. Fascinating as she is, it isn't in her to be frank. I'm sure she would keep the secret until after her lover was safely her husband; but she would be upset and even more anxious about the future than she is.
I don't know what to do. And in the last letter I had from her she scolded me for continually praising Sir Lionel. She is sure I am mistaken about him, and that, if I can see any good under the dragon's scales the evil monster must have hypnotized me. She really seemed quite vexed. Maybe I shall hear from her at Chester. I hope so, as I'm rather worried because she didn't write to the last address I was able to give.
Whatever message your expected letter or telegram has for me, I will answer it at once.
Good night, dearest little Dame Wisdom, with more love than ever from
Your
Your
Audrie.
Audrie.
I'm so glad we are staying here all day to-morrow and to-morrow night. There are dozens of beautiful things to see; and besides, it is as safe as the inmost circle of a labyrinth from Dick, who has no clue.
XXXII
AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER
Queen's Hotel, Chester,September 1st
Queen's Hotel, Chester,
September 1st
We've been in Chester for several hours, my Angel; and not only is there no Dick (for which heaven be praised), but no word from you, which worries me. Still, I shan't be really anxious unless on my second call at the post-office (to be made by and by) I draw a blank again. At least, I didn't draw a blank exactly when I went there before. I drew a letter from Ellaline, with vexing news. Honoré de Guesclin is in a scrape. He could get leave now, and come to her, but he and some of his brother officers have been amusing themselves by learning to play bridge. Naturally, those who played best came off best, and Honoré wasn't one of them. He has borrowed of a money-lender, and is in a hole, because the fellow won't let him have more, and is bothering for a settlement. Also, Honoré owes some of his friends, and hasn't a penny to pay up or start on a journey. Ellaline doesn't seem to think much about the moral aspect of her Honoré's affairs (you see, she knows nothing of what her mother must have suffered from her father'spenchant), but she is in a great state of nerves about the delay. She has always been told it was bad luck to put off a wedding, and besides, she finds Scotlandtriste, and wants to be married.
You can guess to what all this is leading up! I must get money, somehow, anyhow, but a great deal, and immediately. I must send her at least four thousand francs by return of post; five thousand, if possible; but if "Monsieur le Dragon is too stingy to give more, at all events nothing less will be of the least use."
It's easy for her to dictate terms. She hasn't got to face the very upright and honourable gentleman whom, she calls the Dragon, whereas I have; and I've already shamed myself by asking for large sums at short intervals. I simply can't go to him here and "hold him up" for four thousand francs. It would be monstrous, and if he asked what I wanted to do with it (as it seems to me it would be only his duty to ask the young schoolgirl he thinks me) I should be able to find no decent excuse, as I have no expenses beyond those he pays. However, I shall have to do something desperate, I don't know yet what. He has given me some pretty things, and though I hate the thought of parting with them in such a way, as they're Ellaline's by rights, it's no more than fair she should benefit by them in the hour of her need. Poor girl! Of course there's nothing for it but she must marry the young man now, yet it seems a poor outlook, doesn't it?
She explains in a P. S. that she was too upset to write me to the last place, as she hadn't heard from Honoré when she expected; but now, if the money is forthcoming all right he will start for Scotland as soon as possible after receiving it from her, and settling up. I have calculated times as well as I could, and fancy that if I can in any way send her a post-office order from Chester to-morrow, she and Honoré may be able to marry in a week. Once I shouldn't have believed I could be sorry to have my "principal" arrive and take back her own part; but now, if it weren't for Dick Burden, it would actually be a temptation to me to delay Ellaline's appearance on the scene. Of course, I wouldn't be such a wicked wretch as to yield to the temptation, but I should feel it.
Ellaline promises to telegraph the moment Honoré arrives, and again when they're safely married, so as to give the understudy plenty of time to scuttle off the stage, before the guardian is informed that his charge has been taken off his hands. She doesn't want to see Sir Lionel, she says, but she and Honoré will write him unless, when Honoré has consulted a Scottish solicitor (if that's what they're called), it's considered wiser for the lawyer himself to write. So you see, this makes it harder for me to know what to do about repeating Mrs. Senter's story. If Ellaline understood her position she would, perhaps, think it better to come with her bridegroom and throw herself at her injured guardian's feet.
What a nice world this would be if your affairs didn't get so hopelessly tangled up with other people's that you can hardly call your conscience your own! And never have I realized the niceness of the world more fully than in the last few days.
Yesterday I had a little easy climb with Sir Lionel and the old guide, and saw the glory of Llanberis Pass. To-day, on the wings of Apollo, we have flown through amazingly interesting country. It really did seem like flying, because the road surface was so like velvet stretched over elastic steel that eyesight alone told us we touched earth.
Miles aren't tyrants any more, but slaves to the mastery of good motor-cars; and any motoring Monte Cristo can fairly exclaim, "The world is mine!" (N. B. This isn't original. Sir Lionel said it at lunch.) From North Wales to Cheshire looks a long run on the map, but motors are made to live down maps; and we arrived in this astonishingly perfect old town early in the afternoon, coming by way of Capel Curig (whence we saw Snowdon crowned with a double rainbow), sweet Bettws-y-coed, or "station in the wood," and so down the river valley in a bird swoop, to noble Conway, with its castle that was once a famous Welsh fortress. Now, in piping days of peace, its towers and turrets still dominate bridge and river, and the great pile is as fine, in its way, as Carcassone. Don't you remember, it was from Conway Castle that Richard the Second started out to meet Bolingbroke?
Its twenty-one towers and turrets still dominate bridge and river
"Its twenty-one towers and turrets still dominate bridge and river"
We stopped to take photographs and buy a few small pearls from the "pearl-breeding river"; and while we gazed our fill at the mighty monument, we learned from a guardian that in old days a certain Lady Erskine hired the castle for six shillings and eightpence a year, in addition to a "dish of fish for the Queen," when her majesty chanced to pass!
At Colwyn Bay we lunched early, at a charming hotel in a garden above a sea of Mediterranean blue; and the red-roofed town along the shore reminded me of Dinard. After that, coming by Abergele and Rhuddlan to Chester, the way was no longer through a region of romance and untouched beauty. There were quarries, which politely though firmly announced their hours of blasting, and road users accommodated themselves to the rules as best they might. But there were castles on the heights, as well as quarries in the depths; and though Sir Lionel says that inhabitants of Wales never think of turning to look at such a "common object of the seashore" as a mere castle, I haven't come to that state of mind yet.
Near Rhuddlan there was a tremendous battle at the end of the seventh century, out of which so many fine songs have been made that the Welsh princes and nobles who were slain have never lost their glory. There's a castle, too (of course), but the best thing that happened for us was a gloriously straight road like a road of France, and as nobody was on it save ourselves at that moment, we did about six miles before the next moment, when others might claim a share. I believe the Holyhead road is very celebrated.
Soon we had to turn our backs upon a mystic mountain-land that ringed us in, and face the sea once more—a wide water-horizon whose line was broken with great ships steaming from all parts of the world to Liverpool.
Apollo had seemed a little faint before luncheon, because of some inner disturbance, but he was flying fast as a saint on his way to Paradise as we crossed the Dee, into England out of Wales, and sprang into Gladstone country.
When people are obliged to reach a town by rail, there must be disappointments to lovers of the picturesque, as you and I know by experience. It's like arriving at a house by the tradesmen's entrance; but with a motor one sails up to the front door through the park.
Of all the towns to which Apollo has brought us, the entrance to Chester to-day was the best. The first effect of colour left on my eyes the impression of sunset-red, warm as copper beeches. The place seemed to be lit with fading firelight, and I wondered at the soft glow everywhere, until I realized that the big buildings—the Cathedral, the great houses and the old city wall—were all made of rosy sandstone.
You can't imagine how a large town which has lived as long as Chester has, and gone on growing, could have contrived to remain so satisfyingly beautiful, or keep such an air of old-time completeness. But the secret is, I suppose, that Chester is "canny" as well as "bonny," and, being wise, she refused to throw away her precious antique garments for glaring new ones. When she had to add houses, or even shops, wherever possible she reproduced the charm and quaintness of the black and white Tudor or Stuart buildings which are Chester's intimate treasures.
Of course, I've seen little of the place yet; but after I had been to the post-office, I strolled about before coming back to the hotel, partly to recover from my disappointment in not hearing from you, partly because I was so bewitched with my first glimpse that I couldn't bear to come indoors still a stranger to the town. Hovering in front of the Cathedral (a curious building, black in its oldest parts, bright pink where it has been renovated) I saw Sir Lionel and Mrs. Norton coming. That was awkward, because I had said I wanted to "settle in" before sight-seeing, but I explained vaguely that I'd changed my mind, and was invited to go into the Cathedral with them. Perhaps it was because Emily was with us that nothing seemed very wonderful in the interior—unless the carved oak in the choir—but the cloisters are beautiful, and I liked the chapter house.
After "doing" the Cathedral, Mrs. Norton was tired, so Sir Lionel and I had a walk alone, an adventure Mrs. Senter would never have allowed if she'd guessed I was out of my room. She is a dog in the manger about walks. She hates them herself, but she won't let other people take them without her if she can help it.
We dropped Emily at the hotel, and had a delicious ramble (speaking for myself!) through the four extraordinary streets which stand for much in Chester's peculiar fame. Wandering there, it was easy to believe what the guide-books say: that nowhere in Great Britain does a town exist which so preserves the ancient character of all its architecture. I don't know if there are British relics; but the city wall and gates are Roman, part of the castle, too; and since mediæval days nothing seems to have lost in picturesqueness. People come from all over the world to see the Rows: streets dug out below the rock-surface on which the town was originally built, having shops and even warehouses on their level, with galleries above, open fronted, stone-paved, balustraded with black oak, so that these "Rows" all look as if the houses were wide open, communicating with one another. The carved oak fronts of the houses and shops, done ingeniously with strange pargetting, and adorned with wondrous windows, are so adorably queer, with their stagey effects, that I don't wonder Chester has become a kind of Mecca for travellers from my native land, where most things are new.
When we had thus skimmed a little of the cream from the town itself, we had a walk on the old wall, while church bells, near and distant, chimed; but still I don't feel I've more than glanced at the place. To-morrow we plan to run out to Knutsford, which is Mrs. Gaskell's Cranford really, and I have begged to start early, because if we do (though naturally I don't allege this reason) we can get off before Dick arrives. Then, when we come back, we can do more sight-seeing, and maybe be out when he turns up at the hotel. After that event, unless you save me to-night with some miraculous suggestion, all pleasure will be over. And at best, I'm not looking forward with undiluted joy to to-morrow, because I must not only decide what to do for Ellaline, but do it.
While I was walking on the wall with Sir Lionel just now, gazing up at watch-towers, or down over the town, and dodging seedy amateur guides whom we nicknamed "Wallers," I kept thinking, thinking, about what to sell. The only thing Sir Lionel has given me of really great value, which could be easily disposed of, is the ruby and diamond ring. But how it would hurt me to give it up in such a sordid way! It was my birthday present from him, and it's associated in my mind with that night of moonlight in the New Forest when I first knew Icared. But I'm sorely afraid it must be the thing to go. There are several important-looking antique shops here, and I noticed, when casting my eye about, one where they make a speciality of curious and rare jewellery. I shall look at it again more carefully when I run out to the post-office, in a few minutes, and perhaps I may have courage to try and strike a bargain, so as to send the money off in the morning before Knutsford—if I get it——
An hour later.
An hour later.
Dearest, I've got your wire, now, having retrieved it from the Poste Restante, and I'm thankful for it—thankful that you're well, thankful that you don't blame me for anything I've done, faults committed or mistakes made. But—alas, I don't think the advice, good as it is, will be of any use to me. You see, you don't know Mrs. Senter. It would be hopeless for me to try and force her to exert authority over Dick Burden.
In the first place, she has no real authority, as apparently he has no expectations from her; and in the second place, though I'm almost sure she doesn't know the truth about me and Ellaline, she suspects that Dick has a hold over me; and after all I've submitted to from him already it would be impossible to "bluff" her into the belief that I'd dare ask Sir Lionel to send them both away. No, my dear one, there's little hope for me in that scheme. I allowed Ellaline to make my bed for me, and I must lie in it, although it has proved to be one of those nasty folding ones that will shut and swallow me up in a trap.
No, it's cowardly to whine like that. It won't be pleasant to keep my promise to Dick; but there have been worse things; and I shall probably be able to escape before long. Anyhow it will all be the same a hundred years hence. As soon as I am with you again it will be as if nothing had happened; and meanwhile I am going to keep a "stiff upper lip." It mayn't be becoming, but that won't matter, as Sir Lionel will never look at me; and you will see by my letters in future how well I am getting on.
Best love to my best loved,
From
From
Audrie.
Audrie.
XXXIII
SIR LIONEL PENDRAGON TOCOLONEL PATRICK O'HAGAN
Keswick Hotel,September 3rd
Keswick Hotel,
September 3rd
My Dear Pat: Here we are, you see, in the "happy hunting ground" where you and I used to hunt such shy game as chimneys, needles, crevices, etc., etc.; and if I'm not as happy in it now as I ought to be, that isn't the fault of the country, which is as fair as it ever was—the fairest in England, perhaps.
It just happens, unfortunately, that I've been rubbed up the wrong way before coming to the places I'd looked forward to revisiting more than any other, except Cornwall; and if I hadn't invited dear old Penrhyn from Pen-y-gwrd to meet me here, and have a climb, I'm not sure I should have stopped. However, I have enjoyed the beauty of the run. I must have been as blind as a mole, and as earthy, if I hadn't.
Fine road from Chester to Liverpool, which city had an air of opulent magnificence seen from the ferry, as we neared her—rather like a huge, modern Venice. Lunched there, at the Adelphi, on the fat of the land, and had some trouble finding the way out of town. Liverpool welcomes the coming, but doesn't speed the parting guest; not a sign-post in sight anywhere. Bad pavé till Ormskirk, when things improved, growing better and better; but no scenery to speak of until near Preston. Villages all along the line, stone-paved; struck me as being characteristic of that stern North Country which we approached. "Road too good not to mean police-traps," said I to myself; and an A. A. scout warned me that they swarmed; but luckily we were not held up. I wasn't in a temper to have taken any nonsense lying down, I'm afraid.
Ran straight through Lancaster, which was almost a pity, as John o' Gaunt's Castle is a brave old fortress, whether or no he really built the famous tower; and at the King's Arms we might have got some genuine oat-cakes, which would have given a taste of Cumberland to the strangers. As it was, the first truly characteristic things we came upon were the stout stone walls, on which we happened a little short of Kendal. Down to Windermere, a steep but beautiful run; Mrs. Senter by my side, and very enthusiastic. She seems to take an unaffected interest in scenery, with which you would hardly have credited her in old times. She was entranced by her first sight of the lake, which is not surprising, for to one who has never seen them the lakes must be a revelation.
Dick Burden, by the way, was not with us on this run, nor was he at Chester. He had business in London, which kept him longer than he expected when he left our party at Tintern. I can't say I regret him, though others may. I understand that there has been some telegraphing between him and his aunt, and that his present intention is to rejoin us at Newcastle. Rather wish he would put off his return a little longer, as it is arranged that we go out to Cragside and Bamborough Castle; and one doesn't like to abuse such delightful hospitality as we have been offered there. Dick's presence does not add to the gaiety of nations, it seems to me, and I am not keen on taking him.
I found Penrhyn waiting for me here, the good fellow, delighted at the prospect of his short visit, and to-morrow he and I will have some small climb. I shall send the car, with Young Nick to drive all who care to go, to a few of the beauty spots, while I am otherwise occupied. They must penetrate the cloistered charms of exquisite Borrodaile, and of course see Lodore, which ought to be at its best now, as there have been heavy rains. Jove! How the Cumberland names ring on the ear, like the "horns of elfland"! Helvelyn; Rydal; Ennerdale; Derwent Water; Glaramara! Aren't they all as crystal as the depths of mountain tarns, or that amethystine colour of the sky behind the clear profiles of high peaks?
I'm sorry we're too late for the Grasmere Sports; but the fact is we have lingered by the way longer than I planned for this trip; and now, as things are turning out I'm inclined to cut the end of the tour short. Graylees is practically ready for occupation, and I feel as if I ought to be there.
No! That isn't good enough for you, old chap. It's true, as far as it goes; but you have begun to read between the lines by this time, I know, and I may as well speak out. I should be an ostrich if I weren't sure that you've been saying to yourself: "Why doesn't this fellow refer to the girl he has spent so much pen and paper on? Why does he go out of his way to avoid mentioning her name?"
Well, she hasn't eloped, or done anything culpable. But there is no use concealing from you, as I have told you so much, that she has hurt me to the quick. Not that she has been unkind, or rude, or disagreeable. Quite the contrary. And that's the worst of it, for I prayed to heaven that there might be nothing of her mother in this young soul. At first, as you know, I could hardly believe the girl to be all she seemed, but soon she won me to thinking her perfection—a lily, grown by some miracle of Nature in a soil where weeds had flourished hitherto. I would have given my right hand rather than have to admit a flaw in her—that is, the one fatal flaw: slyness hidden under apparent frankness, which means an inherited tendency to deceit.
This may sound as if I had found the poor child out in a lie. But there has been no spoken lie. She has only done the sort of thing I might have expected Ellaline de Nesville's daughter to do.
I told you about the ring I bought her at Winchester, and gave her on her birthday; how prettily she received it; how she seemed to treasure it more because of the thought and the association than the intrinsic value of the ruby and the brilliants.
At Chester, the night before we left, I thought I'd try to pick up some little souvenir of the town for her, as she was delighted with the place. Of course I wanted something small, as our luggage isn't of the expanding order, so I had the idea of jewellery; a little antique pendant, or a few old paste buttons. There is a certain shop in the "Rows" where one looks for such things, and expects to find them good, if highly priced. In the window of that shop I saw displayed for sale the ring I had given to Ellaline!
The sight of it there was a blow; but I persuaded myself I might be mistaken; that it wasn't the same ring, but another, almost a duplicate. I went in and asked to look at it. The shopman mentioned that it was something quite unusually good, and had "only come in" that afternoon. Inside I found the date which I had had engraved on the ring; the date of Ellaline's birthday. I bought it back—for a good deal more than I paid in Winchester, as this chap knew his business thoroughly; but that is a detail. It was merely to satisfy a kind of sentimental vanity that I wanted to get the thing out of the window and into my own hands; for, needless to say, I don't intend to speak of the matter at all to Ellaline. It would humiliate me more than it would her, to let her see that I know what she did with her birthday present; for partly, I blame myself. I supposed that I was fairly free-handed with money, and had no idea that the girl could possibly want more than she had. Still, I told her to let me know in case she found me thoughtless, and not to hesitate to ask for anything she wanted. She could have had as much as she chose, and I would have put no questions. If I'd been surprised with the largeness of the sums, I should have believed that she had some pensioners to whom she wished to be charitable; for I had begun to believe that she could do no wrong.
As I said, there was nothing culpable in selling the ring. It was hers. She had a right to do as she liked with it. But that she should like to part with it; that she should do so, knowing I would hate it if I knew; that she should be exactly the same with me as if she hadn't done a thing which she was aware would distress me; that she hadn't the courage and frankness to come to me and say——
Oh, hang it all, I'm grumbling and complaining like an old prig! Perhaps I am one. I know Dick Burden thinks so. We'll let it go at that. I don't need to explain to you a matter which outwardly is insignificant, and is significant to me only for reasons which the past will account for to you better than my explanations.
The salt has gone out of life a bit, and I think it will do me good to get to Graylees, where I shall find a thousand things to interest me. I daresay Ellaline will be glad to settle down, though she is too polite to show it; and I'm sure Emily will.
After a look at the Roman Wall, and a sight of Bamborough, we shall run to Warwickshire with few détours or pauses.
You see, by the way, that you were wrong in thinking she could care. If there had been the least warmth in her heart for me she couldn't have sold my ring. I'm glad I didn't make a fool of myself.
Penrhyn wants to be remembered to you.
Yours ever,
Yours ever,
Pen.
Pen.
XXXIV
SIR LIONEL PENDRAGON TOCOLONEL O'HAGAN
County Hotel, Newcastle,September 5th
County Hotel, Newcastle,
September 5th
My Dear Pat: You'll be surprised to get another letter from me on the tail of the last, but there have been developments in which I think you will be interested.
The sale of the ring was a mere preface to what has followed.
We arrived at Newcastle this afternoon, finding Burden already here. I didn't think the meeting between him and Ellaline particularly cordial, but appearances are deceiving where girls are concerned, as I have lately been reminded in more ways than one. About an hour ago, while I was getting off some letters and telegrams, I received a message from my ward asking if she could see me in the hotel drawing-room—the place is so full I couldn't get a private one.
I went down at once, of course, dimly (and foolishly) hoping that she wanted to "confess" about the ring. But it was quite a different confession she had to make; her desire to be engaged to Mr. Burden!
Naturally, after our last conversation on that subject, I was somewhat surprised, and on the spur of the moment was tempted to remind her that not long ago Young Nick had appeared as suitable in her eyes, as young Dick. However, I stopped in time to save myself from being both bounder and brute. I did inquire whether she were now sure of her own mind; but it was the duty of a guardian and not the malice of a disappointed man which prompted the question.
Her manner was singularly dry and businesslike, and she came as near to looking plain as it is possible for a beautiful girl to come; so love isn't always a beautifier.
"I am sure of my mind for the moment," she replied, with repulsive prudence. "I suppose a girl need never say more."
This answer and her manner puzzled me, so I ventured to ask, in a guardianly way, if she thought she were enough in love with Burden to be happy with him.
"I haven't to think about being with him at all yet," she temporized.
"You seem to have an extraordinary idea of an engagement," I said, perhaps rather sneeringly, for I felt bitter, and had never approved of her less.
"Perhaps I have," she returned, in such an odd, muffled sort of tone that I feared she was going to cry, and glanced at her sharply. But she was looking down and there were no tears visible, so that fear was relieved.
"You do, at all events, wish to be engaged to Burden?" I persisted. "Am I to understand that?"
"I have asked for your consent," she said, with a queer stiffness. And it was on my tongue to say as stiffly, "Very well: you have it. What pleases you should please me." But the words stuck in my throat, as if they'd been lumps of ice; and instead I answered, almost in spite of myself, that I couldn't give my consent unconditionally. I must have another talk with Burden, and whatever my decision might be, I would prefer that she didn't consider herself engaged until after the tour was ended.
"We'll bring it to a close as soon as possible now," I added, trying not to sound as bitter as I felt, "so as not to keep you waiting."
She made no response to this, except to give me a singular look which even now I find it impossible to understand. It was as if she had something to reproach me for, and yet as if she were more pleased than sad.
Girls are very complicated human beings, if indeed they can be classified thus—though perhaps some men's lives would be duller if they were simpler. As for my life, the less girls have to do with it when my ward is off my hands, the better.
Since the above conversation, I have been drawn into a talk with Burden. He appeared anxious to find out exactly what had passed between Ellaline and me, almost as if he suspected her of not "playing straight," but I replied, briefly, that she had asked my permission to be engaged to him, having evidently changed her mind since our last discussion on the subject. This appeared to content him more or less, although I repeated what I'd said to the girl: that I was not prepared to consent officially until I had communicated with his mother, and satisfied myself that my ward would be welcomed in the family. This he evidently thought old-fashioned and over-scrupulous, but when I admitted being both, he ceased to protest, only saying that he wished to write to his mother first. I suggested talking with his aunt, also, and he did not object to the idea, so Mrs. Senter and I have already had a short conversation concerning her nephew's love affair. She cried a little, and said that she would be "horribly alone in the world" when her "only real pal" was married, but that of course she wished for his happiness above everything, and she meant to give him a wedding present worth having, if she beggared herself for years. The poor little woman showed a great deal of heart, and I was touched. I'm afraid she's not too happy, under her air of almost flippant gaiety and "smartness," for she rather hinted that she liked some man who didn't care for her—someone she met in the East. I suppose she can't be cherishing a hidden passion for you? Rather cruel of us, accusing her of being a flirt in those days, if she were in earnest all the time, eh?
In case I "pump" her a little about this mysterious disappointment, and find it's you she's thinking of, I may turn the tables, and give you some good advice—better than you gave me. You might do worse than get leave and have another look at this pretty and agreeable lady before deciding to let her slip.
Yours always,
Yours always,
Pen.
Pen.
Good old Owen enjoyed his two days in Cumberland. He, too, tried his hand on advising me. Said I ought to marry. Not I!
XXXV
MRS. SENTER TO HER SISTER,MRS. BURDEN
Newcastle,September Something
Newcastle,
September Something
My Dear Sis: This is to ask a great favour of you, and you must be a pet and grant it. There's nothing I won't do for you in return, if you will.
I have just been having a most satisfactory chat with Sir L. It began in reference to Dick. Somehow or other that ingenious darling had forced Ellaline Lethbridge to ask Sir Lionel for his (Dick's) hand! I say "forced," because she is not in the least in love with him, indeed, (strange as it may seem to you) detests the ground he walks on; yet she does things that he tells her to do—things she hates like poison. This lastcoupof Dick's convinces me of what I've often suspected: he knows something about her past which she is deadly afraid he will tell Sir Lionel. It may be connected with that visit to Venice, when the Tyndals saw her; anyhow, whatever the secret may be, it is serious. She is obliged to bribe Dick; but she dislikes him too intensely to marry him ever—even if the way to do so were made easy; so, I reiterate, have no fear on that score.
Sir Lionel fancies himself in love with the girl, but he will get over it, even if he isn't on the way to do so already, pushed roughly onto the right road by her confessed preference for Dick. For the moment, however, I can see he is rather hard hit, though he would bemadif he dreamed I or anyone could read his august feelings. He thinks his hesitation to permit an engagement arises from conscientious scruples, but really it's because he can't bear to have any other man (or boy) making love to his girl. That's the brutal truth; and he's haggling and putting off the evil day as long as he can. He wanted to ask me what my feeling was in the matter; whetheryouwould be pleased, and so on. Ellaline might not be rich, he explained, but she would have enough for her own wants as a married woman. He thought her husband, when she had one, ought to wish to do the rest; and though Dick considered his own prospects good, a partnership in a detective agency hardly seemed ideal.
I told him I couldn't quite answer for you, as you had always hoped your one boy might fall in love with a rich girl; but that I was sure Dick adored Ellaline. I asked if I should write to you, when Dick did; and he said, half reluctantly, perhaps I had better. Poor wretch, he was afraid I might succeed in persuading you!
I was pathetic on the subject of Dick, and our comradeship, which must be broken by the dear boy's marriage, and as Sir L. was suffering himself, he was in just the right mood to sympathize with me. I snivelled a little; and at last, emboldened by success, I allowed him to gather that there was someone I'd cared for a long, long time—someone who didn't care for me. At that he was so nice, that I liked him better than I ever thought I could; and since then I feel I really can't and shan't lose him.
No sooner had he given my hand a warm yet disappointing "kind friend" squeeze, at parting, than I routed out Dick in his own room. I promised him that I would induce you to write a nice letter about the proposed engagement to Sir Lionel if he in his turn would persuade Ellaline to put in a good word formewith Sir L., to tell him that she believed I cared for him a good deal, and was unhappy.
When I said "persuade" to Dick, I meant use his unknown power to command; for if the girl would say that to her guardian, her words would be the one stone capable of killing two birds. It would prove to him that of which I don't think he is perfectly sure at present: her love for Dick, or, at worst, her complete indifference to himself; and it would pop into his head the idea I want to put there, though I have done all it's safe to do openly toward inserting it.
I saw when I softly hinted at a hopeless affection which had spoiled years of my life, that he didn't think of himself. Somehow, he must bemadeto think; and now is the right time, for his heart is sore, and needs balm. He would be so sorry for me that, in the state he is in, he couldn't be hard. He would argue that, as he was bound to be unhappy anyway, he might as well try to make others happy. I feel that everything would happen exactly as I want it to happen if Ellaline Lethbridge could be depended upon to say the right thing.
Of course, there lies the danger: that she won't. But Dick boasts that she'll have to do as he tells her. It's worth risking; but he won't give the word unless he thinks that I've coaxed you 'round.
That's the favour I ask. Will you, when you get this, wire to me at once, "Writing according to your request to Sir L."? I can then show your telegram to Dick (you must address it to me at Bamborough Castle, where we are to spend a night, after staying one at Cragside) and he will put pressure to bear on Ellaline Lethbridge.
You can be absolutely certain that no harm will come of this. That Dick and she will never be married; whereas, when I am married to Sir Lionel, I'll give you a present of five hundred pounds, within the first year, to do with as you like. I'd even be willing to sign a paper to that effect.
Your anxious, yet hopeful
Your anxious, yet hopeful
Gwen.
Gwen.
XXXVI
AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER