book in which Sir Lionel is much interested, called "Famous Houses of

Bath," and as it seems he knows more about the place as it was in old

days and as it is now than any other living person, he has been going

round with us, showing us those "features" I mentioned. He appears to

have architecture of all kinds at his finger tips, and not only points

out here and there what "Wood the elder and Wood the younger" did, under

patronage of Ralph Allen, but knows which architect's work was good,

which bad, which indifferent; and that really is beyond me! I suppose

one can't have a soul for Paris fashions and English architecture too? I

prefer to be a judge of the former, thanks! It's of much more use in

life.

I should think there can hardly be a street, court, or even alley of Old

Bath into which we haven't been led by our clever cicerone, to see a

"bit" which oughtn't on any account to be missed. Here, the remains of

the Roman wall, crowded in among mere, middle-aged things; there the

place where Queen Elizabeth stayed, or Queen Anne; where "Catherine

Morland" lodged, or "General Tilney"; where "Miss Elliot" and "Captain

Wentworth" met; where John Hales was born, and Terry, the actor; where

Sir Sidney Smith and De Quincey went to school; the house whence

Elizabeth Linley eloped with Sheridan; the place where the "King of

Bath," poor old Nash, died poor and neglected; and so on, ad infinitum,

all the way to Prior Park, where Pope stayed with Ralph Allen,

rancorously reviling the town and its sulphur-laden air. So now you can

imagine that my "walking and standing" muscles are becoming abnormally

developed, to the detriment of the sitting-down ones, which I fear may

be atrophied or something before we return to motor life.

Sir Lionel has remarked that Bath is a "microcosm of England," and I

hastened to say "Yes, it is." Do you happen to know what a microcosm

means? Dick says it's a conglomeration of microbes, but he is always

wrong about abstract things unconnected with Sherlock Holmes.

By this time you will be as tired of Bath as if you had pottered about

in it as much as I have, and won't care whether it had two great

periods--Roman and eighteenth century--or twenty, inextricably entangled

with the South Pole and Kamchatka. _More_ tired than I, even, for I have

got a certain amount of satisfaction to the eye from the agreeable,

classic-looking terraces and crescents, and the pure white stone

buildings that glitter on the hillsides overlooking the Avon. That is

the sort of background which is becoming to me, and as I had all my

luggage meet me in Bath, I have been able to dress for it; whereas Miss

Lethbridge has done most of her exploring in blue serge.

In a day or two we are off again--Wales sooner or later, I believe,

though I ask no questions, as I don't care to draw attention to my own

future plans. We were asked for a fortnight, and I am not troubling my

memory to count by how many days we have overstayed--not our welcome, I

hope--but our invitation. You will wonder perhaps why I "overstay,"

since I frankly admit that I'm "fed up" with too much scenery and too

much information. Yet no, you are far too clever to wonder, dear Sis.

You will see for yourself that I must go on, like "the brook," until Sir

Lionel asks me to go on--as Lady Pendragon. Or else until I have to

abandon hope. But I won't think of that. And I am being so nice to Mrs.

Norton (whenever necessary) that I think she has forgiven me the colour

of my hair, and will advise her brother to invite me to make a little

visit at Graylees Castle, where it is understood the tour eventually

comes to an end. When this end may arrive the god of automobiles knows.

A chauffeur proposes; the motor-car disposes. And the Woman-in-the-Car

never reposes--when there's another woman and a man in the case.

Your-enduring-to-the-end,

Gwen.

P. S.--That was an inspiration of mine about the Cheddar Cavern, wasn't

it? I have another now, and will make a note of it. N.B.--Get Sir L. to

take me to see the ruins of Tintern Abbey by moonlight (if any) and

while there induce him to propose, or think he has done so. I have a

white dress which would just suit.

XXVII

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

_Tintern Abbey_,

_August 27th_

Dearest Saint: We're not exactly living in Tintern Abbey; that

would be too good to be true, and would also annoy the rooks which cry

and cry always in the ruins, as if they were ghosts of the dead

Cistercian monks, clothed not in white, but in decent black, ever

mourning their lost glory. But we are in a perfect duck of a hotel,

covered with Virginia creeper, and as close by as can be. We arrived

this afternoon, and have had an hour or two of delightful dawdling in

the Abbey. Soon we are to have an early dinner, which we shall bolt if

necessary, so that we may go in again by moonlight, before the moon

escapes. I have dressed quickly, because I wanted to begin a letter to

you. I shan't have time to finish it, but I'll do that when we've come

back from the heavenly ruins, with moonlight in my pores and romance in

my soul. I ought to write a better letter in such a mood, oughtn't I?

And I do try to write nice letters to my Angel, because she says such

dear, kind things about them, and also because I love her better every

day.

We've seen quantities of beautiful things and places since I wrote you

last, darling. To think them over is like drawing a long gold chain,

strewn at intervals with different precious stones, through the fingers,

slowly, jewel by jewel. The gold chain is our road and the beautiful

beads are the places, of course. I can say "draw them slowly through the

fingers," because we don't scorch. We are out to see the "fair face of

England," not to scurry over it like distracted flies.

I don't remember many "jewels" on the way to Gloucester from Bath

through Cold Aston and Stroud; but if I were properly up in history, no

doubt I should have noted more than I did; yet Gloucester itself was a

diamond of the first water. I feared to be disappointed in the

Cathedral, so soon after exquisite Wells and the Abbey at Bath, which I

loved. But as soon as I got inside it was quite otherwise, especially as

I had Sir Lionel to show me things, and he knew Gloucester of old. To

me, the interior was almost as interesting as Winchester itself (which,

so far, has outranked all), for the transition from one period to

another is so clearly and strangely marked, and it's the actual

birthplace of Perpendicular architecture. The Cloisters must be among

the loveliest in the world; and there's a great, jewelled window which

leaves a gorgeous scintillating circle in my mind's eye, just as the sun

does on your body's eye, when you have looked in the face of its glory.

Oh, and the extraordinary stone veil, with its gilded ornamentation! I

shan't forget that, but shall think of it when I am old. There is an

effect as of tall rows of ripe wheat bending toward one another,

gleaming as wheat does when the breeze blows and the sun shines.

We heard the choir singing, an unseen choir of boys and men; and the

voices were like shafts of crystal, rising, rising, rising, up as far as

heaven, for all I know.

Don't you feel that the voice of a boy is purer, more impersonal and

sexless, somehow, than the clearest soprano of a woman, therefore

exactly fulfilling our idea of an angel singing?

Think of Gloucester having been laid out on the same plan as the

prætorian camp at Rome! They've proved it by a sketch map of Viollet le

Duc's; and under the city of the Saxons, and mediæval Gloucester, lies

Gloucestra--"Fair City"--of the Romans. You can dig bits of its walls

and temples up almost anywhere if you go deep enough, people say. It

must have been an exciting place to live in when Rome ruled Britain,

because the fierce tribes from Southern Wales, just across the Severn,

were always spoiling for a fight. But now one can't imagine being

excited to any evil passion in this shrine of the great "Abbey of the

Severn Lands." The one passion I dared feel was admiration; admiration

everywhere, all the way through from the tomb of Osric the Woden who

founded the abbey, to the New Inn (which is very old, and perfectly

beautiful); in the ancient streets, at the abbot's gateway, all round the

Cathedral, inside and out, pausing at the tombs (especially that of poor

murdered King Edward II., who was killed at Berkeley Castle only a few

miles away), and so on and on, even into the modern town which is

inextricably tangled with the old.

There are quantities of interesting and lovely places, according to Sir

Lionel, where one ought to go from Gloucester, especially with a motor,

which makes seeing things easier than not seeing them; there's

Cheltenham, with a run which gives glorious views over the Severn

Valley; and Stonebench, where you can best see the foaming Severn Bore;

and Tewkesbury, which you'll be interested to know is the Nortonbury of

an old book you love--"John Halifax, Gentleman"; and Malvern; and

there's even Stratford-on-Avon, not too far away for a day's run. But

Sir Lionel has news that the workmen will be out of Graylees Castle

before long, and he says we must leave some of the best things for

another time; Oxford and Cambridge, for instance; and Graylees is so

near Warwick and Kenilworth and Stratford-on-Avon that it will be best

to save them for separate short trips after we have "settled down at

home."

How little he guesses that there'll be no settling down for me--that

already I have been with him longer than I expected! Whenever he speaks

of "getting home," and what "we" will do after that, it gives me a

horrid, choky feeling; and I'm afraid he thinks me unresponsive on the

subject of the beautiful old place which he apparently longs to have me

see, because my throat is always too shut up, when it is mentioned, to

talk about it. I can't do much more than say "Yes" and "No," in the

absolutely necessary places, and generally show symptoms of cold in the

head, if there's a hanky handy.

Of course, I am dying to see you, dearest. You know that, without my

telling, and you are everything to me--my whole world. Yet it hurts me

dreadfully to know that, when Sir Lionel Pendragon is at home, instead

of carrying out the nice plans he makes each day for "us" in the future,

he will be despising me heartily, and thinking me the very worst girl,

without exception, who ever lived. I believe he now dislikes Bloody

Queen Mary more than any other woman who ever spoiled the earth with her

offensive presence; but probably she will go up one when he gets to know

about me.

I don't doubt that he'll be angry with the real Ellaline as well, but

not absolutely disgusted with her, as he will be with me. Besides,

whatever he feels, it won't matter to her very much, except where money

is concerned, because she will be married before he knows the truth. She

won't have to live in his house, or even in the same country with him,

for her home will be in France with her soldier-husband. Unfortunately,

I'm afraid his opinion of her may matter in a mercenary way, for I have

heard the whole story--I believe the _true_ story--of Ellaline's mother

and father, as connected with Sir Lionel's past.

Mrs. Senter told it, and enjoyed telling it, because she thought it

would depress and take the spirit out of me. She hoped, I'm sure, that

it would make me shrink from Sir Lionel's society in shame and

mortification; also she very likely fancied that I might consider myself

an unfit bride for her nephew, whose attentions to me are extremely

convenient for her; but she would prefer not to have them end in

matrimony.

If I were Ellaline Lethbridge, with the feelings of Audrie Brendon, I

should have taken the recital precisely as she expected; though really I

don't think Ellaline herself, as she is, would have minded desperately,

except about the money. But being Audrie Brendon, and not Ellaline, I

could have shouted for joy at almost every word that woman said, if it

hadn't been in a cave where shouting would have made awful echoes.

You know, dear, how I have been puzzling over Sir Lionel the Noble, as

he appears to me, and Sir Lionel the Dragon, as painted by Ellaline, and

how I've vainly tried to match the pieces together. Well, thanks to Mrs.

Senter's revelations, the puzzle no longer exists. Of course, long ago,

I made up my mind that there was a mistake somewhere, and that it wasn't

on my side; still, I couldn't understand certain things. Now, there

_isn't one detail_ which I can't understand very well; and that's why

I'm so ready to believe Mrs. Senter's story to be true. Most

disagreeable things are; and this is certainly as disagreeable for poor

little Ellaline as it was meant to be disagreeable for me.

Mrs. Senter excused herself for telling me horrid tales about my people

by saying that my ignorance gave me the air of being ungrateful to Sir

Lionel, and unappreciative of all he had done for me. That he, being a

man, was likely to blame me for extravagance and indifference to

benefits received, although aware, when he actually reflected on the

subject, that I sinned through ignorance. She thought (said she) that it

would be only fair to tell me the whole truth, as I could then change my

line of conduct accordingly; but she hoped I wouldn't give her away to

Sir Lionel or Dick, as she was speaking for my sake.

When I had promised, she informed me that "my mother," Ellaline de

Nesville, a distant cousin of Lionel Pendragon's, was engaged to him

when they were both very young. There was a lawsuit going on at the time

about some tin mines in Cornwall, from which most of his money came, for

the property was claimed by a man from another branch of the family, who

suddenly appeared waving a marriage certificate or a will, or something

melodramatic. Well, the lawsuit was decided for the other man, just

about the time that Sir Lionel (who wasn't Sir Lionel then) got shot in

the arm and seemed likely to be a cripple for life. Both blows coming

together were too much for Mademoiselle de Nesville, who was fascinating

and pretty, but apparently a frightful little cat as well as flirt, so

she promptly bolted with an intimate friend of her fiancé, a Mr.

Frederic Lethbridge, rich and "well connected." They ran off and were

married in Scotland, as Ellaline the second expects to be. (Odd how even

profane history repeats itself!) And this though Mr. Lethbridge knew his

friend was desperately in love with the girl.

What happened immediately after I don't know, except that Mrs. Senter

says Sir Lionel was horribly cut up, and lost his interest in life. But

anyhow, sooner or later, the lawsuit, which had gone to a higher court,

was, after all, decided in his favour. The other man turned out to be a

fraud, and retired into oblivion with his wills and marriage

certificates. Meanwhile, Ellaline Number One awoke to the fact that her

husband wasn't as rich as he was painted, or as nice as she had fancied.

Some of his people were millionaires, but he had run through a good deal

of his fortune because he was mad about gambling. At first, when the

bride supposed that there was heaps of money, she enjoyed gambling, too,

and they were always at Longchamps, or Chantilly, or the English

race-courses, or at Aix or Monte Carlo. By and by, though, when she

found that they were being ruined, she tried to pull her husband up--but

it was too late; or else he was the sort of person who can't be stopped

when he's begun running down hill.

Probably she regretted her cousin by that time, as he was rich again,

and likely to be richer, as well as very distinguished. And when a few

years later (while our Ellaline was a baby) Frederic Lethbridge forged a

millionaire uncle's name, and had to go to prison, she must have

regretted Sir Lionel still more, for she was a little creature who loved

pleasure, and hardly knew how to bear trouble.

Mrs. Senter said that Mr. Lethbridge had been sure the uncle would

shield him rather than have a scandal in the family, and so it was a

great surprise to him to be treated like an ordinary criminal. When he

was sentenced to several years in prison, after a sensational trial, he

contrived to hang himself, and was found stone-dead in his cell. His

widow had to go and live with some dull, disagreeable relations in the

country, who thought it their duty to take her and the baby for a

consideration, and there she died of disappointment and galloping

consumption, leaving a letter for her jilted cousin Lionel, in Bengal,

which begged him to act as guardian for her child. All the money she had

at her death was a few thousand pounds, of which she had never been able

to touch anything but the income, about two hundred pounds a year; and

that sum, Mrs. Senter gave me to understand, constituted my sole right

to consider myself an heiress.

Despite the shameful way in which she had behaved to him, Sir Lionel

accepted the charge, eventually took his cousin's little girl away from

the disagreeable relatives, and put her at Madame de Maluet's, where

Mother Ellaline was educated and particularly desired her daughter to be

educated. Not only did he pay for her keep at one of the most expensive

schools in France (Madame's is that, and she prides herself on the

fact), but gave her an allowance "far too large for a schoolgirl" in the

opinion of Mrs. Senter's unknown (to me) informant.

Doesn't this account for everything that looked strange, and for all

that appeared cold-hearted, almost cruel, in Sir Lionel to Ellaline, who

had heard the wrong side of the story, certainly from Madame de

Blanchemain--a silly woman, I fancy--and perhaps even from Madame de

Maluet, whose favourite pupil Ellaline the First was?

No wonder Sir Lionel didn't write to the child, or want her to write to

him, or send her photograph, or anything! And no wonder he dreaded

having her society thrust on him when Madame de Maluet hinted that it

was hardly decent to keep his ward at school any longer. I even

understand now why, when I show the slightest sign of flirtatiousness or

skittishness, he stiffens up, and draws into his shell.

I very politely let Mrs. Senter see that I appreciated her true

disinterestedness in repeating to me this tragic family history; and of

course she was a cat twice over to do it. At the same time, I never

liked her so much in my life, because it was so splendid to have Sir

Lionel not only justified (he hardly needed that with me, at this stage)

but haloed. I think he has behaved like a saint on a stained-glass

window, don't you?

I have interrupted my letter about places and things tremendously, to

tell you the story as it was told to me; but it seemed to come in

appropriately, and I wanted you to know it, so that you might begin to

appreciate Sir Lionel at his true worth in case you have been doubting

him a little up to now.

Everyone has gone down to dinner, I'm afraid, and I must go, too,

because of the Abbey afterward, and not keeping them waiting; but

perhaps, if I skip soup and fish, I may stop long enough to add that

after Gloucester we went to quaint old Ross, sacred to the memory of

"The Man of Ross," who was so revered that a most lovely view over the

River Wye has been named for him. We had lunch there, at a hotel where I

should love to stay, and then passed on, along a perfect road, down the

Wye, till we came to Kerne Bridge, near Goodrich Castle. There we got

out, leaving Buddha as the god in the car, and walked for half a mile

along a romantic path to the ruined castle. It was one of the first

built in England, and there are early Norman parts of it still intact,

and incredibly strong looking, as if they meant to last another thousand

years. I was so interested in it, and wish whoever it may concern would

leave the castle to me in his will. I would fix up a room or two and

bring you there, and we'd have that exquisite view always under our

eyes. As for servants, we could employ ghosts.

The Wye is even more charming as a river and as a valley than we used to

imagine when we wanted to "do" England, before it burst upon us that

most of the wherewithal was used up. Nothing could be more dreamy and

daintily pretty than landscape and waterscape, though here and there is

a bit which might be gray and grim if the beetling rocks weren't hatted

with moss and mantled with delicate green trees. Wherever there is a

boulder in the river, the bright water laughs and plays round it, as if

forbidding it to look stern.

The real way to see the Wye isn't by motor, but by boat, I am sure, even

though that may sound treacherous to Apollo and disloyal to my petrol;

but we did the best we could, and went out of our way some miles to see

Symond's Yat, a queer, delightful, white village on a part of the river

which is particularly divine. There's a splendid rock, and the Yat is

the rock, as well as the village. Also there's a cave; but I wasn't

sorry not to stop and go in, lest Mrs. Senter might seize the

opportunity of telling me some other fearsome tale, less welcome than

the last.

In old days it used to take a week by coach from London to Monmouth.

Now, with a motor, I dare say we could do it in one long, long day, if

we tried. Only it would be silly to try, because one wouldn't see

anything, and would make oneself a nuisance as a "road hog" to everybody

one met or passed. It was Monmouth we came to next, after "digressing"

to Symond's Yat, and as it was nearly evening by that time, Sir Lionel

decided to stay the night. He meant to start again in the morning; but

Monmouth Castle, towering out of the river, was so fine that it was a

pity to leave it unvisited, particularly as Henry V., a special hero of

Sir Lionel's (mine, too!) was born there. Then we took an unplanned

eight-mile run to Raglan Castle, a magnificently impressive ruin; and

that is why we arrived so late to-day at Tintern.

This letter has grown like Jack's beanstalk, until I think I'd better

post it on my way to dinner, instead of adding rhapsodies about

moonlight in the Abbey. I won't forget to put them in though, next time

I write, which will be almost immediately--if not sooner.

Your even more loving than loquacious

Audrie.

XXVIII

MRS. SENTER TO HER SISTER, MRS. BURDEN

_Tintern Abbey_

My Dear Sis: He came, the moon saw, and I--didn't conquer!

You know what I mean? I'm sure you remember what I hoped to do at

Tintern Abbey by the light of the moon; and if you are the good elder

sister I think you are, I trust you prayed for my success. If you did,

don't mind too much about the prayer not being answered, but try again,

and give Sir Lionel "absent treatments," and all that sort of thing,

because, if the moon had been properly turned on, he might have been

brought to the point. For I look my best by moonlight, and have a great

gift of pathos in a white light--like heroines of melodrama who always

have themselves followed about by it on purpose--or else by a patch of

snow. But the moon was only on at half-cock, and didn't work well, and

after we had stubbed our toes on several things in dark shadows among

the ruins, I just folded up my plan of campaign, and put it into my

pocket until next time.

The pity of it!--when I had been at a lot of trouble to persuade Mrs.

Norton that it would be damp in the Abbey, and that there exists a

special kind of bat which haunts ruins and is consumed by an invincible

desire to nest in the front hair. So she stopped in the hotel; and as

for Miss Lethbridge, I knew I could trust Dick to look after her.

But--well, it can't be helped, and the moon is growing bigger and

brighter every night. I don't know whether there were any toe-stubbing

incidents in the ranks of the rear-guard; but something must have

happened, for mademoiselle has come home looking _stricken_. I'm dying

to hear what's the matter, but Dick won't tell. Perhaps she swallowed a

bat!

Yours (would that I could say Sir L.'s) ever lovingly,

Gwen.

XXIX

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

_Tintern Abbey_,

_Same night_

After all, I'm writing again, darling mother. I do think that Dick is an

unmitigated cad. I told him so, and he said it was only because I was so

unkind to him, and he was determined I shouldn't "chuck" him. He is

hateful! It's too horrid to be obliged to obey Dick Burden's orders,

just for Ellaline's sake, when if it weren't for her I could not only

tell him what I think of him, but have him sent away in disgrace. Sir

Lionel would thrash him, I believe, if he knew--but it's useless to talk

about that. And as Dick gracefully reminds me, the pot can't call the

kettle black. I am the pot. Oh!

I was in such a happy mood when we went into the Abbey, and so delighted

that we were able to be there by moonlight, dreaming as little of what

would happen as Red Riding Hood did before she met the wolf.

Sir Lionel and I started together, somehow, but the minute we were in

the ruins Mrs. Senter called him to ask a question about the tombs that

break the soft green carpet of grass in the long aisles. Instantly Dick

pounced on me, just as his aunt did in the cave the other day, and I

could only have got away from him by showing that I'd rather be with Sir

Lionel--which, of course, I wouldn't do.

Dick began at once accusing me of avoiding him, and keeping out of his

way on purpose when he tried to speak with me alone, ever since he came

back from Scotland; and I retorted flippantly: "Oh, have you only

noticed that since then?"

But in a minute I wished I hadn't defied him. He said, if I wanted him

to be considerate, making him angry wasn't the right way to set about

it; and that, if I had been in his power before, I was a good deal

deeper in now.

Still, I wasn't so very frightened, because I'm used to his threats, and

I thought he was only "bluffing"; so I bluffed back, and laughed, saying

that it didn't suit his style to be melodramatic.

"You make me want to shake you," he said, crossly.

"I know that," said I. And then he burst like a thunder-cloud--at least,

his news did; the news he had been wanting to tell me since Bideford.

When he was in Scotland, _he saw Ellaline_. She had arrived with those

McNamarras I told you about, and their place must be near the one where

Dick's mother is visiting. He recognized her from that photograph of the

school garden-party (where he saw my picture, too, you know, and was

able to find out my name, and where we live in Versailles). That is, he

thought he couldn't be mistaken, but made sure by inquiring, until he

hit upon someone who could tell him that a Mademoiselle de Nesville had

come to stay with Mrs. and Miss McNamarra. Of course, he couldn't have

known that Ellaline had taken the name of de Nesville, but as he had

heard that de Nesville was her mother's maiden name, it wasn't difficult

for a budding Sherlock Holmes to put two and two together.

You see how much worse the position is now, both for Ellaline and me,

and that the little wretch didn't exaggerate when he boasted that I'm

more "in his power" than ever. What a misfortune that Ellaline should

have come to Scotland--so near where we shall be, too, if we go to the

Roman Wall! He has only to tell the whole thing to Sir Lionel, and say:

"If you don't believe it, run up to such and such a place, and there you

will see the real Ellaline Lethbridge, whom perhaps you may recognize

from her likeness to your cousin, her dead French mother."

If only Ellaline were safely married! But she can't be yet, for days and

days, I'm afraid. She was to have written or telegraphed me at

Gloucester, if there were any chance of her soldier lover getting away

sooner than last expected; but I had no word from her at all, at the

Poste Restante there.

All that sounds bad enough for me, doesn't it? But there's worse to

come. The wretch swears he will (as he calls it), "give the show away"

to Sir Lionel to-morrow if I don't tell Sir L. myself that I have fallen

in love with Dick.

I said that Sir Lionel wouldn't believe me if I did, because I'd told

him at Torquay I wasn't in love with Dick. That admission slipped out,

and Sherlock Holmes caught at it. "Ah, I thought you'd done something to

put him off the scent!" he flashed out. "I call that downright

treacherous of you; and all the more I'll hold you down to your bargain

this time. I said I'd speak to-morrow unless you did what I told you to

do, but now I say I'll speak this minute, if you don't promise by all

that's sacred to ask him for his consent to-morrow. I'll shout to him

now. One--two--three!"

"Yes, yes, I will!" I cried--because Dick had worked himself up to such

a fury that I saw that he meant what he said.

"I shall know fast enough whether you keep your word or not," he

growled. "And if you don't, you understand just what you have to

expect."

If I hadn't given in to Ellaline! I ought to have known that nothing but

trouble could come of it. Yet no--I won't wish it undone. I can't! No

matter what happens, I shall never really regret what gave me the chance

of meeting a man like Sir Lionel. I don't think there is another in the

world. And to-morrow I am to have the honour of informing him that I'm

in love with that little worm, Dick Burden. Having seen the sun, I love

a flicker of phosphorus on a sulphur match.

Do write me the minute you get this, won't you? No, telegraph if you can

think of anything consoling to say. Poste Restante, Chester.

Your frightened and loving

Audrie.

XXX

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

_Aberystwith_,

_August 29th_

Brightest and Best: I have a short reprieve, because Dick has

had to go away again; not to his mother, this time, but to London. A

telegram was forwarded to him from Gloucester, where he had left

sending-on instructions; and he knocked at my door early yesterday

morning (at Tintern) to say he must leave immediately by the first

train. He was excited, because the telegram came from the head of a firm

of well-known private detectives with whom he had been in correspondence

for some time, trying to buy a junior partnership for a few hundreds

left him by his grandmother. There's a chance now that he may get the

partnership, only he must be on the spot, as another man is making an

offer "more advantageous--in some ways." Dick is wild to get in, and

regards this as the opportunity of a lifetime. Doesn't that prove the

type of mind he has? Actually yearning to be in business as a detective!

Well, he's had good practice lately, and I must say he has made the most

of it.

"This call couldn't have come at a worse time, but I must obey it," he

pronounced solemnly, while I peeped through my half-open door, in my

prettiest Ellaline dressing-gown--far too nice to waste on Dick.

Disgusted with life, as I was, I nearly laughed in his face, and _at_

his face; but dared not quite, for fear of enraging him again just when

he appeared to be in a comparatively lenient mood.

He had come to explain and apologize, and in his perky conceit really

seemed to fancy that I might be hurt at his desertion. So when he asked

if I would "bid him good-bye pleasantly, and remember to keep my

promise," I had a small inspiration. I would bid him good-bye

pleasantly, I bargained, provided he let me off keeping the promise

until he should come back; because, I said, it would be humiliating to

plead with Sir Lionel on the very day my _fiancé_ turned his back upon

me in order to attend to mere business.

"You call this _mere_ business?" sputtered Dick; and I soothed him, but

persisted firmly, gently, until at last he agreed to grant the reprieve.

I think his own vanity, not my eloquence, obtained the concession,

because it pleased him to believe that I leaned upon him in this crisis.

And of course I had to promise over again, more earnestly than ever,

"not to back out, but to stick to my word."

I must still stick to it, of course (unless a wire or letter from you

meanwhile suggests some miraculous, agreeable, honourable alternative);

but sufficient for the day is the evil thereof--and the Dick thereof.

This day and several days to come are free from both; for my albatross

can't arrange the details of its partnership, sell out some investments

in order to pay the money down, and join us again before Chester. There

I shall certainly hear from you; and I have such infinite faith in your

dove-like serpentineness, that I let myself cling to the ragged edge of

hope. Meanwhile, I shall enjoy myself as much as I possibly can, so

that, at worst, I shall have more good days to remember when bad days

come. For the days will be very bad indeed if I have to bear Sir

Lionel's silent scorn, and still remain with him, awaiting release from

Ellaline.

I felt like a different human being after Dick had gone, and would have

written you at once, but he had delayed me so long that I had to finish

dressing at top speed, because we were to make an earlier start than

usual. There was Chepstow Castle to see (quite near, and a shame to have

missed it), as well as a hundred-and-fifty-mile run to Tenby.

Chepstow was splendidly picturesque and striking; but the country

through which we had to pass on the way to Tenby would not have been

particularly interesting if it weren't for the legends and history with

which it is as full as it is of ruined castles. It is largely coal

country now, and after the lovely, winding Wye, playing hide-and-seek

with its guardian hills, we might have found the road unattractive as we

ran through Newport, Cardiff, Neath, Swansea, and Carmarthen. But it

made all the difference in the world to know that Carmarthen was

Merlin's birthplace; that stories of Arthur's exploits and knightly

deeds leave golden landmarks everywhere; and that it seems quite an

ordinary, reasonable thing to the people to name railway engines after

Sir Lancelot. Isn't it charming of them? Yet what would Elaine, the Lily

Maid of Astolat, say to such a liberty, I wonder?

We arrived in Tenby too late for anything save an impression, last

evening; but it was one of those enchanting, mysterious impressions

which one can only have after dusk, when each old ivied wall is purple

with romance, and each lamp in a high window is a lovelight.

My first thought as we came in and found Tenby on fire with sunset, was

that the place looked like a foreign town set down in England; and so of

course it is, for it was founded by a band of Flemish people, who fled

from persecution. The huge old city walls and quaint gates put me in

mind of a glorified Boulogne, or a bit of old Dinan, under the castle.

And the way the town lies, with its beautiful harbour far below, its

gray rocks and broken walls by the sea, in golden sands, is like

Turner's ideas of historic French fortresses. The Benedictine monks,

too, who come across the gleaming stretch of water from Caldy Island in

a green-and-red steam yacht, add one more foreign note. And I'm

delighted to tell you that the hotel where we stayed is built upon the

city wall of which nobody seems to know the date--not even the

guide-books. The people we asked rather apologized for having to confess

that probably it was no earlier than the twelfth century; for the

twelfth century is considered crudely modern for Welsh things.

In front of my bedroom window an old lookout tower, darkly veined with

ivy, stood up from the vast foundation of the stone wall; and at night I

could gaze down, down, over what seemed in the moon-mist to be a mile of

depth, to an almost tropical garden laid out on the wall itself. When

the tide comes in and drowns the gold of the sands, the sea breaks

against the buttress of rock and stone, and the hotel seems all

surrounded with the wash and foam of waters, like a fortified castle of

long-ago.

We ought to have stopped more than one night and part of a next day, but

there is so much, so much to do; and, as I told you, Sir Lionel's

thoughts are already marching on toward home. There are all the beauty

spots of Wales before us; and the Lake Country, and the North by the

Roman Wall, before we turn south again for Graylees. I say "we"--but you

know what I mean.

The run we had to-day, coming through Cardigan to Aberystwith, has begun

to show me what Wales can do in the way of beauty when she really puts

her soul to it; but Sir Lionel says it is nothing to what we shall see

to-morrow. What joy that I have still a to-morrow--and a day after

to-morrow--empty of Dick! Do you suppose a condemned person finds his

last sip of life the sweetest in the cup? I can imagine it might be so.

You'll be glad to get this, I'm sure, dearest, so I'll send it at once,

with loads and loads of love from,

Your Criminal Child.

P. S. I forgot to tell you that Aberystwith isn't nearly as beautiful as

Tenby, but it has a castle towering over the sea, built by no one less

than Gilbert Strongbow the Cruel, who grabbed all Cardiganshire for

himself, and dotted castles about everywhere--or else stole other

people's, which saved trouble. I know you like to picture me wherever I

am, so I must tell you at least that about Aberystwith, though

describing places seems irrelevant in my present mood. I am keyed to the

"top notch," and don't feel able to do anything leisurely. I do not

expect to sleep to-night, and shall get up as soon as it's light, and

dart down to the beach to look for amber, or carnelian, or onyx, which

they say can be found here. I asked a chambermaid of the hotel, after we

arrived this evening, what all the mysterious, stooping people were

doing on the sands, and she said searching for amber, to bring them

luck. I hope I may come across a bit--even a tiny bit. I am needing a

luck-bringer.

There was another mystery which puzzled me here: droves of pretty girls,

between twelve and twenty, flitting past the windows, on "the front,"

every few minutes; sometimes two by two, sometimes four or five

together. I thought I had never seen so many young girls. There were

enough for the girl population of a large city, yet here they were all

crowded together in this small watering-place. But the chambermaid has

swept away the mystery. It's a college, and the girls "live out" in

different houses. At the other end of the town is another college for

young men. That sounds entertaining, doesn't it?

XXXI

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

_Pen-y-gwrd-Hotel_,

_August 30th_

Dear Rose-Without-a-Thorn: I didn't find the amber, but Sir

Lionel found a fat little, round lump, and gave it to me; and that seems

almost more lucky than finding it myself; because it may mean that

something good is to come to me from him.

He was on the Aberystwith beach when I got there, though it was only

half-past six. He hadn't said a word the night before, but he made up

his mind then to find some amber--for me. You see, he knew the

superstition about luck, and how everybody goes hunting for it.

I picked up a pretty piece of carnelian, and gave it to him in exchange,

asking him "to keep it to remember me by."

"I don't want to remember you," he answered. And when, perhaps, I looked

hurt, he went on: "Because I want to keep you in my life. I want you

very much, if----"

But just then Mrs. Senter came behind us, and left that "if" like a key

sticking in a door which couldn't be opened without one more turn. I

should have liked to know what was behind the door; but I daresay there

was nothing much, really.

She, too, had come to look for amber and other things. I don't know

about the other things, but she didn't find the amber.

At eleven o'clock, after seeing something of the place, we slipped away

toward Machynlleth, along a hilly road, which grew lovelier with each of

its many twists among low mountains. Now, said Sir Lionel, we were about

to see the heart of Wales; and I should soon have realized that without

his telling, for as we slowed down to pass through little villages we

heard the children talking Welsh--a soft, pleasant language, which I can

only try to describe by saying that it sounded like whispering out loud.

But that is a very Irish description!

The scenery was so gentle in its beauty that my wild, excited mood was

lulled by its soft influence. The colour of landscape and sky kept the

delicate tints of spring, though we are in full, rich summer; and there

was none of the tropical verdure we saw near Tenby; no crimson fountains

of fuchsias, no billows of blood-red roses, and fierce southern flowers.

Pale honey-suckle draped the gray or whitewashed stone cottages. Rocks

and crannies of walls were daintily fringed with ferns, or cushioned

with the velvet of moss, and crusted with tarnished golden lichen. A

modern-timbered house, rising pertly here and there, looked out of place

among dwellings whose early owners quarried each stone from among their

own mountains.

As we left the fairy glades of those wooded hills for rugged mountains

scantily clad with ragged grass, slate-quarries tried their ugly best to

blotch and spoil the scene, but owing to some strange charm of

atmosphere, like a gauze veil on the stage, they could not quite

succeed. By and by the gauze veil turned to rain, but rain suited the

wild landscape--far better, by the way, than it suited Mrs. Senter,

whose nightly hair-wavers are but a reed to lean upon in wet weather.

She made some excuse to come behind with Emily and me, and before the

car started again I summoned courage to ask if I might take her place,

saying I loved to feel the rain.

So there I was with Sir Lionel once more; and I wondered if he thought

of that night when we rushed through the storm from Tintagel to

Clovelly? Soon this also bade fair to be a storm, for the rain began to

tumble out of the sky, rather than fall, as if an army of people stood

throwing down water by the bucketful. I revelled in it, and in the

sombre scenery, where sharp rocks stood out like bones through the

tattered green coats of soldier-mountains. All the world was gray or

gray-green, save for a patch of purple heather here and there, like the

stain of a new wound.

We were under Cadir Idris, mounting the pass high above a deep ravine;

yet the blowing rain hid the mountain from our eyes as if he were the

veiled prophet. The sound of the wind, which seemed to come from all

quarters at once, was like the mysterious music of a great Æolian harp,

as it mingled with the song of ghostly cascades that veined the dark

rocks with marble. Mountain sheep sprang from crag to crag as Apollo

rounded a corner and broke into their tranquil lives, now and then

loosening a stone as they jumped. One good-sized rock would have bounced

down on the roof of our car if Sir Lionel hadn't seen it coming, and put

on such a spurt of speed that Apollo leaped ahead of the danger. But he

always does see things in time. You wouldn't think sheep could have as

much expression as those sheep had, when they saw us and weren't sure

which way to run. Of course they needn't have run at all; but whichever

way they decided, it was certain to be wrong!

I was sorry to leave that pass behind, and have its door shut after us,

for we came out into a pastoral landscape, where the only wild things

were the grazing black cattle. It was charming country, though; and in

less than a mile we had reached a famous spot known as the Tourist Walk.

The rain was pelting down harder than ever, so we could not get out and

take the walk; but soon after we had abandoned it the deluge suddenly

turned from lead to a thick spray of diamonds, mixed with sparkling

gold-dust. Our road glittered ahead of us like a wide silver ribbon

unrolled, as we sailed into the little gray town of Dolgelly on its

torrent river; and beyond, in a fresh-washed radiance of sunlight, the

way was one long enchantment, the sweet world of green hills and musical

waters looking as young as if God had made it that day. The graceful

mountains which pressed round the valley had the air of waiting each her

turn to stoop and drink a life-giving draught from the river, which, as

we neared Barmouth, opened to the sea, gleaming like a vast sheet of

quicksilver. Further on, travelling through woods where young green

trees shot up from gilded rocks, glimpses of the estuary came to us like

a vision of some Italian lake.

Just before Harlech, the wild yet nymph-like beauty of the world changed

to an almost startling grandeur, for the coast moved back from the sea

with a noble sweep, magnificent mountains towered along the shore, and

line after line of beryl waves shattered into pearl upon a beach of

darkened gold.

Harlech Castle was an event in my life. I thought I had begun to take

ruined castles for granted in Wales, as you do sea-shells on the shore;

but Harlech is a castle that you couldn't take for granted. It was a

shock at first to find that a hotel had been built in the very face of

it, as if bearding it in its den; yet it is a nice hotel; and when we

had lunched there agreeably, I not only forgave it for existing, but

began to like and thank it for having thoughtfully placed itself on that

admirable height.

From here our eyes ought to have been smitten with the sight of Snowdon;

but the Grand Old Mountain was asleep, his head buried in white

cloud-pillows which alone betrayed his whereabouts; so we had to be

content with the castle. And I was content. To see the splendid ruin

reared on its great rock, dark against sea and sky, was thrilling as a

vision of an old wounded knight girding his strength for a last stand.

[Illustration: "_The splendid ruin, reared on its great rock_"]

History says that Harlech Castle is no older than Edward I.; but story

says (which is more important, because more romantic) that in the dim

dawn while History still dozed, here rose the Tower of Twr Brauwen,

white-bosomed sister of Bran the Blessed. Also, it came into the

possession of Hawis Gadern, a great beauty and heiress, whose uncles

tried to wrest it from her, but were defeated and imprisoned in the

castle. Anyway, however that may be, Owen Glendower came and conquered,

in the beginning of the fifteenth century, when he was forging a chain

of wonderful deeds which made him the hero of Wales. Never mind if he

was driven away a few years after by Prince Henry. That's another story.

The way from Harlech by Portmadoc to exquisite Pont Aberglaslyn and

Beddgelert is very Arthurian; that is, it suggests pre-mediæval

backgrounds, and at every turn I caught myself expecting to come upon

Camelot, unspoiled, unchanged. The high mountains still wore their

invisibility masks, but the lower mountains, not too proud to show

themselves to motoring mortals, grouped as graciously together as if

they were lovely ladies and gay knights, turned to stone just when they

had assembled to tread a minuet. And the fair Glaslyn flowed past their

feet with a swing and sweep, as though the crystal flood kept time to

dance music which our ears were not attuned to catch.

Quickly we flashed by more than one beautiful lake, too; a jewel hidden

among mountains, found by our eyes unexpectedly, only to be lost again.

And all the while Cader Idris and Snowdon drew hoods of mist over their

heads, pulling them down tightly and firmly. Not once had we caught a

glimpse of either mountain, though we were almost near enough to knock

our noses or Apollo's bonnet against their sharp elbows; but we were too

happy to care much--at least, one of us was!--and we cared even less

when rain came on again. I still kept my place beside Sir Lionel, who

was repentant for having made me cry over the dreadful, agonizing,

too-tragic story of Gelert. I won't repeat it to you, because it's

wickedly sad, and grayhound Gelert was so much nobler than most people.

Sheets of spun glass shimmered and waved before us, as we rushed on

through the mountains, past the beautiful place of Gelert's grave, up

toward Pen-y-gwrd. And the tinkling swish of the rain on the glass

sounded to me as the Welsh names had begun to sound. I wish you could

hear them spoken, for the spelling gives no idea of their pronunciation,

or the pleasant, muffled music of them. But all I can tell you is, that

when you come into Wales you will feel they are characteristic of the

country; mysterious, sympathetic, rather secretive.

Sir Lionel was happy in the thought of Pen-y-gwrd, because some of the

best memories of his boyhood are associated with that little spot in the

mountain-land of Wales. He used to come, and climb with an old friend a

few years older than himself, a Colonel O'Hagan, who is in Bengal now,

and who--he thinks--will like me. Not much chance of our ever meeting!

Just as Sir Lionel finished quoting Charles Kingsley on Pen-y-gwrd, we

drew up in front of a low gray stone building; and Kingsley's merry

words rang in my ears as the door of the hotel opened. You know I can

always remember a verse after having once heard it.

"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 it _is_ certain

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 the _fiancé_. You, being French yourself,

know how it is with French officers who fall in love with a girl who has

no _dot_, 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

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_

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's _penchant_), 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

Scotland _triste_, 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.

[Illustration: "_Its twenty-one towers and turrets still dominate bridge

and river_"]

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?

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 I _cared_. 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._

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

Audrie.

XXXIII

SIR LIONEL PENDRAGON TO COLONEL PATRICK O'HAGAN

_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,

Pen.

XXXIV

SIR LIONEL PENDRAGON TO COLONEL O'HAGAN

_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,

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_

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

last _coup_ of 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 be _mad_ if 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; whether _you_ would 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 for _me_ with 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 be

_made_ to 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

Gwen.

XXXVI

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

_Bamborough Castle_,

_September 9th_

Dear: I know you are miserable about me, but don't be it,

because I'm not miserable about myself. Honour bright!

I've done the hateful deed. It was at Newcastle: and I knew I was in for

it, the minute I saw Dick. He's got his partnership, and thinks he's got

me. But there's many a slip 'twixt Dick Burden and Audrie Brendon.

I wouldn't tell Sir Lionel I was in love with the horrid Boy Detective,

and I'm happy--or nearly happy--to say that he refused to give his

consent straight out to an engagement. He told Dick the same thing; so

there'll be no leaving us two alone in lovesick corners (can corners be

lovesick?), or making announcements, or anything appalling of that sort.

Perhaps it was easier, speaking to Sir Lionel, because he hadn't been

kind to me since the last evening in Chester--I can't think why, though

I can think why I deserved unkindness. The ring was terribly on my mind;

but he can't have found out about that, because the man in the shop

promised he wouldn't try to sell it until next day.

I couldn't get quite what Ellaline wanted, though I sold two or three

other things--all I could sell; but it came nearly to the right amount;

and it went off to her in Scotland, in the form of a post-office order,

that same night--assured instead of registered, as the letter was so

valuable.

Sir Lionel being somewhat frigid and remote in his manner, appearing to

take no more interest in me than if he were a big star and I a bit

chipped off a Leonid, I delivered myself of what I had to say without

great difficulty. I had a queer, numbed feeling, as though if it didn't

matter to him, it didn't to me, until just at the last, when he said

something that nearly made me cry. Luckily I was able to swallow the

sob. It felt like a large, hot, crisp baked potato; and my heart felt

like a larger, cold-boiled beet soaked in vinegar.

It's all over now, though, and I'm comparatively callous. Maybe the

vinegar has pickled me internally?

Bamborough Castle, where we arrived to-day with our kind and delightful

hosts of Cragside, is to be the northernmost end of the tour. On

leaving, we turn southward; and would make straight for Warwickshire and

Graylees, if, in an evil moment, Mrs. Norton and I hadn't for once

agreed about a place that we longed to see. It is Haworth, where the

Brontës lived, and Sir Lionel said that our wish should be gratified. He

planned a day in Yorkshire: Ripon, Fountains Abbey, Haworth, Harrogate

(not York, because Emily went there with the late Mr. Norton, and has

sad marital memories); and the plan still stands. I have an idea that

Sir Lionel is impatient to reach Graylees now, so after the Yorkshire

field-day we will push on there; and I shall perhaps hear from Ellaline

as to Honoré's plans. He ought to be in Scotland by that time. I've

written her to wire me at the nearest post-office to Graylees Castle, as

I don't like to receive telegrams there. But I see no reason why you

shouldn't send a letter to Graylees--the last letter, I hope, which need

ever be addressed to me as "Miss Ellaline Lethbridge." It will seem nice

to get into my own name again! Rather like putting on comfortable shoes

after tight ones that made blisters. And how divine to fly to you--a

distracted chicken, battered by a thunderstorm, scuttling back under its

mother's downy wing!

Nevertheless, I'm not going to cheat you out of seeing England through

my eyes, because my pleasure--just a little of it--is damped by Dick. I

am resigned and calm, and you mustn't think me a martyr. I've told you I

hate whiners, and I won't be one. Why, I ought to be thankful for the

chance of such a wonderful trip, and not be cowardly enough to spoil it

by a few private worries!

Cumberland is even lovelier than Wales, though I shouldn't have thought

that possible. Sir Lionel went climbing with the nice Welsh guide, whom

he invited to Keswick, so he wasn't with us much; and Dick being in

London still, there were only Mrs. Norton, Mrs. Senter, and I to be

conducted by Young Nick. It did seem odd being driven by him, and seeing

his back look so inexpressive among the most ravishing scenes. I asked

if he didn't think Cumberland glorious, but he said it was not like

India. I suppose that was an answer?

We spun off into the mysterious enchantments of Borrodaile in gusts of

rain; but the heavenly valley was the more mystic because of the

showers. Huge white clouds walked ahead of us, like ghosts of

pre-historic animals; and baby clouds sprawled on the mountain sides,

with all their filmy legs in air.

At Lodore the water was "coming down" like a miniature Niagara. Heavy

rains had filled the cup of its parent river full, and the waterfall

looked as if floods of melted ivory were pouring over ebony boulders.

What a lovely, rushing roar! It was like the father of all sound--as if

it might have given the first suggestion of sound to a silent, new-born

world.

Windermere and Derwent Water we saw, too, and each was more beautiful

than the other. Also I was much excited about the Giant's Grave, near

Keswick, which has kept its secret since before history began.

All the way to Carlisle the country was very fair to see, scarcely

flagging in charm to the end; and Carlisle itself was packed with

interest, from its old cathedral to the castle where David I. of

Scotland died and Mary Queen of Scots lodged.

Now our thoughts were turned toward the Roman Wall, and I thrilled a

little, despite the forbidding stiffness of Sir Lionel's disapproving

back as he drove. Because of Kipling's splendid story of the Roman

soldier in "Puck of Pook's Hill," I knew that for me the Great Wall (all

that's left of it) would be one of the best things. Parnesius, the young

centurion, told Una and Dan that "old men who have followed the Eagles

since boyhood say nothing is more wonderful than the first sight of the

Wall." And also that there were no real adventures south of it. It was

disappointing to think that nowadays, on our way there, we couldn't

expect to meet "hunters and trappers for the circuses, prodding along

chained bears and muzzled wolves" for the amusement of the soldiers in

the far northern camps; or that when we should come to the Wall, we'd

find no helmeted men with glittering shields walking three abreast on

the narrowest part, screened from Picts by a little curtain-wall at the

top, as high as their necks; no roaring, gambling, cock-fighting,

wolf-baiting, horse-racing soldier town on one side, and heather wastes

full of hiding, arrow-shooting Picts on the other; yet I heard Sir

Lionel say we could still trace the guard-houses and small towers, and

see how the great camp of Cilurnum was laid out.

We had left the mountains before we came into Carlisle, but not the

hills; and after one of grandiose size, which an old Northumbrian we met

called "a fair stiff bank," we were on the Roman road; the long, long,

straight road forging uncompromisingly, grimly up and down, ever on,

scorning to turn aside for difficulties; the road where the Legions

paced with the brave Roman step--"Rome's race, Rome's pace," twenty-four

miles in eight hours.

Kipling illuminated the way through Haltwhistle and Chollerford to the

Chesters, a private park which is a big out-of-doors museum, for it has

in its midst the remains of old Cilurnum. We got out at the gates, and

wandered among the ruins that have been reverently excavated; a gray and

faded scene, like a kind of skeleton Pompeii with dead bones rattling;

entrance gateways; ghost-haunted guard-houses; stone rings which were

towers; many short, straight streets whose half-buried pavements once

rang under soldiers' heels; the Forum; all the camp-city plan; a map

with outlines roughly sketched in stone on faded grass. We had had our

first sight of the Wall of which centurions in Britain bragged when they

went back to Rome. Then it was a Living Wall; but it is very wonderful

still, where its skeleton lies in state.

We had started so early from Keswick, that it wasn't two o'clock when we

left the Chesters; and I was surprised when, instead of drawing up

before some country inn for lunch, we skimmed through a gate only a mile

or two away, and stopped under the shadowy frown of an imposing mediæval

stronghold. It was Haughton Castle, whose towers and keep are crowded

with stories of the past, and the visit was to be a surprise for us. Sir

Lionel knew the owner, who had asked us all to lunch, for the "dragon's"

sake; and it looked quite an appropriate resting-place for a dragon of

elegant leisure. It was as interesting within as without; and after

luncheon they took us over the castle; best of all, down in the deep

dungeon where Archie Armstrong, a chief of moss-troopers, was forgotten

and starved to death by his captor, Sir Thomas Swinburne, a stout knight

of Henry the Eighth's day.

There is a long story about Archie, too long to tell you here; but each

castle of Northumberland (the county of castles, not of collieries) has

dozens of wonderful old stories, warlike, ghostlike, tragic, and

romantic. I have been reading a book about some of them, which I will

bring you. It's more interesting than any novel. And King Arthur legends

are scattered broadcast over Northumberland, as in Cornwall. Also the

"Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled" did much of their bleeding and fighting

here. There's history of "every sort, to please every taste," from

Celtic times on; but I'm not sure that the troublous days of the great

feudal barons weren't the most passionately thrilling of all.

If the first sight of the Wall was wonderful to the Roman soldiers, so

must have been the first sight of the wide Tyne. I know it was so to me,

as we flashed upon it at the first important twist of the straight Roman

road, and crossed it on a noble bridge.

Of course, Newcastle has a castle; and it was "new" when William the

Conqueror was new to his kingdom. Now that I've seen this great, rich,

gay, busy city, ancient and modern, I realize how stupid I was to

associate it with mere coal, as strangers have a way of doing, because

of the trite remark about "taking coals to Newcastle." Why, the very

names of the streets in the old part chime bell-like with the romance of

history! And I like the people of Northumberland--those I have met; the

shrewd, kindly townsfolk, and the country folk living in gray villages,

who love old, old ways, and emit quaint wit with a strong, rough "burr."

They have the look in their eyes that Northern people have, all the

world over; a look that can be hard, yet can be kinder than the soft

look of more melting Southern eyes. Sir Lionel is of the South--born in

Cornwall; yet his eyes have this Northern glint in them--as if he knew

and understood mountains. Just now they are terribly wintry, and when

they rest coldly on me I feel as if I were lost in a snowstorm without

hat or coat. But no matter!

Now, what shall I say to you of Bamborough Castle, which is the crown of

our whole tour?

I wish I were clever enough to make the splendour of it burst upon you,

as it did upon me.

Imagine us motoring over from Cragside (a very beautiful and famous

modern house, with marvellous gardens and enchanting views) which

belongs to these kind, delightful friends of Sir Lionel's who own

Bamborough Castle. There was a house-party at Cragside, and there were

twelve or fifteen of us who left there in a drove of automobiles.

[Illustration: "_There were twelve or fifteen of us who left Cragside_"]

Down the beautiful winding avenue; then out upon a hump-backed,

switchback road, a dozen miles and more, past great Alnwick, on, on,

until suddenly a vast, dark shape loomed against the sky; a stone

silhouette, not of a giant's profile, but of a whole vast family of

giants grouped together, to face the sea.

To _own_ a Thing like that must feel like owning Niagara Falls, or the

marble range of the Sierra Nevada, or biting off a whole end of England

and digesting it. Yet these charming people take their ownership quite

calmly; and by filling the huge castle from keep to farthest tower with

their beautiful possessions, seem to have tamed the splendid monster,

making it legitimately theirs.

I thought Alnwick grand, as we passed, but its position is insignificant

compared with Bamborough, which has the wide North Sea for a background.

On a craggy platform of black rock like a petrified cushion for a royal

crown, it rises above the sea, a few low foothills of golden sand

drifting toward it ahead of the tide. The grandeur of the vast pile is

almost overwhelming to one who, like me, has never until now seen any of

these mighty fortress-castles of the North; but a great historian says

that the site of Bamborough surpasses the sites of all other

Northumbrian castles in ancient and abiding historic interest; so even

if I had been introduced to dozens, my impression must remain the same.

"Round Bamborough, and its founder, Ida (the Flame-Bearer), all

Northumbrian history gathers"; and it is "one of the great cradles of

national life."

Bamborough village, close by, was once the royal city of Bernicia, and

the "Laidly Worm" was there to give it fame, even if there had never

been a Grizel Cochrane or Grace Darling; but the history of the hamlet

that once was great, and the castle that will always be great, are

virtually one. I shall bring you Besant's "Dorothy Foster," and lots of

fascinating photographs which our hostess has given me. (I don't think I

need leave them for Ellaline, as she wouldn't care.) But you know the

story of the Laidly Worm, because Dad used to tell it to me when I was

small. The wicked stepmother who turned her beautiful stepdaughter into

the fearsome Worm used to live at the bottom of a deep, deep well that

opens in the stone floor of the castle keep; and there, in the

rock-depths, a hundred and fifty feet below, she still lurks, in the

form of a gigantic toad. I have been allowed to peep down, and I'm sure

I caught the jewelled sparkle of her wicked eye in the gloom. But even

if she'd turned me into a Laidly Worm, I couldn't be more repulsive than

I probably am at present to Sir Lionel; besides, I could crawl away into

a neighbouring cave with modern improvements, and console myself with a

good cry--which I can't do now, for fear of getting a red nose. I should

hate that, because Mrs. Senter's nose is so magnolia-white, and the

background of a magnificent feudal castle sets off her golden hair and

brown eyes so passing well.

[Illustration: "_Bamborough surpasses all Northumbrian castles_"]

There might be volumes of history, as well as romances, written about

Bamborough Castle--as Sir Walter Scott, and Harrison Ainsworth, and Sir

Walter Besant knew. Why, the thrill of unwritten stories and untold

legends is in the air! From the moment I passed through the jaws of

outer and inner gateways, I seemed to hear whispers from lips that had

laughed or cursed in the days of barbaric grandeur, when Bamborough was

the king of all Northumbrian castles. There are queer echoes everywhere,

in the vast rooms whose outer walls are twelve feet thick; but more

deliciously "creepy" than any other place is the keep, I think--even

more thrilling than the dungeons. Yet the castle, as it is now, is far

from gloomy, I can tell you. Not only are there banqueting-halls and

ball-rooms, and drawing-rooms and vast galleries which royalties might

covet, but there are quantities of charming bedrooms, gay and bright

enough for débutante princesses. My bedroom, where I am writing, is in a

turret; quaintly furnished, with tapestry on the wall which might have

suggested to Browning his "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came."

It's very late, but I don't like to go to bed, partly because I can't

keep jumping up and down to look out of my window at wild crags and

moonlit sea when I'm asleep; partly because I have such silly, miserable

dreams about Sir Lionel hating me, that I wake up snivelling; and to

write to you when I'm a tiny bit _triste_ is always like warming my

hands at a rainbow-tinted fire of ship's logs.

To-morrow afternoon we are going back to Newcastle, where we will "lie"

one night, as old books say, and then make a very _matinal_ start to do

our great day in Yorkshire, passing first through Durham, with just a

glance at the great cathedral. Once upon a time we would have given more

than a glance. But, as I told you, Sir Lionel seems to have lost heart

for the "long trail."

I never saw him so interested in Mrs. Senter as he has appeared to be

these last two nights at Cragside and here. Certainly she is looking her

very, very best; and in her manner with him there is a gentleness and

womanliness only just developed. One would fancy that a sympathetic

understanding had established itself between them, as it might if she

told him some piteous story about herself which roused all his chivalry.

Well, if she has told him any such story, I'm sure it is a "story" in

every sense of the word. And I don't know how I should bear it if she

cajoled him into believing her an injured innocent who needed the

shelter of a (rich and titled) man's arm.

Perhaps it is a little sad wind that cries at my window like a baby

begging to come in; perhaps it is just foolishness; but I have a

presentiment that something will happen here to make me remember

Bamborough Castle forever, not for itself alone.

_Afternoon of next day_

It _has_ happened. Best One, I don't quite know what is going to become

of me. There has been the most awful row. It was with Dick, and Sir

Lionel doesn't know about it yet, and we are supposed to be going away

in a few minutes; but maybe Dick is talking to Sir Lionel now, and if he

is, I don't suppose I shall be allowed to proceed in the company of

virtuous Emily and (comparatively) innocent Gwendolen. I shall probably

be given a third-class ticket back to Paris, and ordered to "git."

It's rather hard that, having sacrificed so much, large chunks of

self-respect among other things, it should all come to nothing in the

end. Ellaline will want to kill me, for I have thrown her to the lions.

It won't be my fault if they don't eat her up.

Oh, darling, I do feel horribly about it, and really and truly, without

exaggeration, I would have died sooner than repay her kindness to me by

giving her away like this. An ancestress of yours in the Revolution ran

up the steps of the guillotine laughing and kissing her hands to the

friends she left in the tumbril, and I could have been almost half as

brave if by so doing I might have avoided this dreadful abandoning of

Ellaline's interests, trusted to me. But what can you do between two

evils? Isn't it a law of nature, or something, to choose the lesser?

Dick went just the one step too far, and pulled the chain too tight. He

had begun to think he could make me do anything.

A little while ago, I was alone in the armoury, absorbed in looking at a

wonderful engraving of the tragic last Earl of Derwentwater, when

suddenly Dick came up behind me. I wanted to go, and made excuses to

escape, but he wouldn't let me; and rather than have a scene--in case

anyone might come--I let him walk me about, and point out strange old

weapons on the wall. That was only a blind, however. He had something

particular to say, and said it. There was another thing I must do for

him: find a way of informing Sir Lionel, prettily and nicely, that Mrs.

Senter cared for him, and was very unhappy.

I flew out in an instant, and said that I'd do no such thing.

"You must," said he.

"I won't," said I. "Nobody can make me."

"Oh, can't they?" said he. "I can, then, and I mean to. If you refuse to

do it, I shall believe you're in love with Sir Lionel yourself."

"I don't care what you believe," I flung at him. "There's no shame in

saying I like Sir Lionel too well and respect him too much to have any

hand in making him miserable all the rest of his life."

"Do you insinuate that marrying my aunt would make him miserable?" Dick

wanted to know.

"I don't insinuate. I assert," said I. And by that time I was in such a

temper, and my nerves had so gone to bits that I didn't know, and cared

less, what I was saying. I went on and told Dick exactly what I thought

of Mrs. Senter, and that for a loyal, true sort of man like Sir Lionel

it would be better to die at once than have her for his wife--for that

would be death, too, only slow and lingering. Dick was white with fury,

but I hardly noticed then, for I was seeing red.

"If you call her deceitful, what are you?" he sputtered.

"I'm neither here nor there," said I.

"Certainly you won't be here long, or where Pendragon is," said he. "I

wouldn't marry you now, if you'd have me. You're nothing more or less

than an adventuress."

"And you're a blackmailer," I mentioned, because I'd gone back to

primitive passions, like Eve's, or a Brittany fishwife's.

"That's a lie," he answered politely, "because blackmailers only

threaten; I'm going to perform. It's all up with you."

"I don't care for myself," said I. But, as you know, that was only

partly true.

Then for a minute Dick seemed to repent. "No good losing our tempers

like this," he said. "Take back your insults to my aunt, who is the best

pal I ever had--though that's not saying much--and speak a good word for

her to Sir Lionel, whom she really loves, and I'll let you off."

"I'd have my tongue cut out first," I answered.

"Is that your last word?" he persisted.

"Yes," said I.

"Very well, then," said he, "you'll be sorrier for this than you ever

were for anything in your life." And he stamped away, leaving me alone.

I flew up to my room, because I wasn't going to run the risk of his

bringing Sir Lionel in and telling him everything before me. So here I

am, and that's all; except that Emily has come to my door to say her

brother wants to know if I can be ready to start in twenty minutes.

_Newcastle, Night_

We're back in our rooms at the County Hotel, and I am dazed with the

mystery of what is going on. I _was_ ready in twenty minutes; and all

the automobiles that brought us yesterday were waiting to take us away

again. When I came down, Mrs. Norton and Mrs. Senter were in our car;

Sir Lionel, cool but polite, prepared to help me in, standing by. He has

great control over his features, but I didn't think, if he had heard

Dick's story, and intended to shed me at the nearest railway station

(not to make a scandal at Bamborough), he could be looking as unmoved as

that.

No Dick was in sight. Naturally, I didn't ask for him, but perhaps my

eye moved wildly round, for Mrs. Senter read its question, and answered

it in a voice like insufficiently sweetened lemonade:

"Your Dick, dear child, has had another urgent summons to his mother's

side, and won't be with us to-day. His last words were that you would

understand, so I suppose he explained more to you than to me. But you

are privileged."

I could have boxed her ears, _hard_.

Emily went on, in her fussy way, to make things clear to my intellect by

adding that our host had kindly sent Mr. Burden to the nearest railway

station in his own fastest motor, as it seemed he had just time to catch

a train leaving almost immediately.

I didn't know what to make of it all, and don't now. Whether a telegram

from the invalid mother did really come in the nick of time to save me,

like Abraham's ram that caught in the bushes at the last minute; or

whether this sudden dash to Scotland is a deep-dyed plot; or whether he

isn't going, really, but means to stop and spy on me disguised as a

chauffeur or a performing bear--or _what_, I can't guess.

All I do know is that, so far, Sir Lionel's manner is unchanged. Perhaps

Dick left a note with Mrs. Senter, which she is to put into Sir L.'s

hand at an appropriate moment? He may seem altered at dinner, to which I

must go down soon; or he may send for me and have it out during the

evening. I'll add a line before we get off to-morrow morning.

_September 10th. 8.45 A.M._

We're just going. He seems the same as ever. I'm lost in it! I'll post

this downstairs. Please write at once to Graylees; for if I am sent away

before, I'll ask to have letters forwarded to my own address.

Your

Audrie.

XXXVII

MRS. SENTER TO HER NEPHEW, DICK BURDEN, AT GLEN LACHLAN, N. B.

_Newcastle_,

_September 10th_

_8 A.M._

You might have told me what was up. Is your mother really ill? Am

anxious and puzzled. Don't think you play fair. Wire, Midland Hotel,

Bradford.

Gwen.

XXXVIII

DICK BURDEN TO HIS AUNT, MRS. SENTER, MIDLAND HOTEL, BRADFORD

_Glenlachlan,_

_September 10th_

_8 P.M._

Mother not ill. You will know everything to-morrow or day after.

Dick.

XXXIX

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

_Midland Hotel, Bradford_,

_September 11th_

Beloved One: Situation unchanged. I know now how you felt when

you had nervous prostration. However, I'm not going to have it, so don't

worry.

If I had been in a state of mind to enjoy it fully, this would have been

a wonderful day. But I don't suppose Damocles enjoyed himself much, even

if they brought him delicious things to eat and drink, and rich jewels,

and the kind of cigarettes he'd always longed for, yet never could

afford to buy--knowing that any instant it might be the hair's time to

break.

I don't believe he could have done justice to beautiful Durham Cathedral

and the famous bridge; or splendid Richmond Castle on its height above

the Swale; or the exhilarating North Road; or charming Ripon; or even

the exquisite, almost heart-breaking beauty of ruined Fountains Abbey,

by the little river that sings its dirge in music sweeter than harp or

violin. No, he couldn't have put his soul into his eyes for them, and I

didn't. I was almost sorry that we were to go on and see Harrogate and

the Strid and Bolton Abbey, because in my restlessness I didn't feel

intelligent enough to appreciate anything. I could only be dully

thankful that the sword hadn't pierced me yet; but I wanted to be alone,

and shut my eyes, and not have to talk, especially to Mrs. Norton.

[Illustration: "_The exquisite beauty of ruined Fountains Abbey_"]

Dimly I realized that Harrogate seemed a very pretty place, where it

might be amusing to stay, and take baths and nice walks, and listen to

music; and my bodily eyes saw well enough how lovely was the way through

Niddersdale and Ilkley to Pately Bridge, where we had to get out and

walk through enchanted woods to the foaming cauldron of the Strid. The

water, swollen by rain, raced over its rocks below the crags of the

tragic jump, like a white horse running away, mad with unreasoning

terror. Nevertheless, my bodily eyes were only glass windows which my

spirit had deserted. It left them blank still, at Bolton Abbey, which is

poetically beautiful (though not as lovable as Fountains), on, up the

great brown hill of Barden Moor, through Skipton, where, in the castle,

legend says Fair Rosamond lived; until--Haworth. There--before we came

to the steep, straight hill leading up to the bleak and huddled townlet

bitten out of the moor, my spirit rushed to the windows. The voices of

Charlotte Brontë and her sister Emily called it back, and it obeyed at a

word, though all the beauty of wooded hills and fleeting streams had

vanished, as if frightened by the cold, relentless winds of the high

moorland.

Rain had begun to fall. The sky was leaden, the sharp hill muddy;

everything seemed to combine in giving an effect of grimness, as the car

forged steadily up, up toward the poor home the Brontës loved.

Isn't it a beautiful miracle, the banishing of black darkness by the

clear light of genius? It was that light which had lured us away from

all the charms of nature to a region of ugliness, even of squalor. The

Brontës had lived there. They had pined for Haworth when away. Emily had

written about the "spot 'mid barren hills, where winter howls, and

driving rain." They had thought there, worked there, the wondrous

sisters; they had illuminated the mean place, and made it a lodestar for

the world.

When we reached the top of the hill (which was almost like reaching a

ceiling after climbing the side of a hideous brown-painted wall), I

forgot my own troubles in thinking of the Brontës' tragedy of poverty,

disappointment, and death.

We were in a poor street of a peculiarly depressing village, and could

not even see the moor that had given the Brontë girls inspiration,

though we knew it must stretch beyond. Even in bright sunshine there

could be no beauty in Haworth; but under that leaden sky, in the thick

mist of rain, the poor stone houses lining the way, the sordid,

unattractive shops were positively repellent. All that was not so dark a

gray as to look black was dull brown; and not a single window-pane had a

gleam of intelligence for the unwelcome strangers. I could imagine no

merriment in Haworth, nor any sound of laughter; yet the Brontës were

happy when they were children--at least, they thought they were; but it

would be too tragic if children didn't _think_ themselves happy.

There was the Black Bull Inn, where wretched Bramwell Brontë used to

carouse. Poor, weak vain-glorious fellow! I never pitied him till I saw

that gloomy stone box which meant "seeing life" to him. There was the

museum where the Brontë relics are kept--but we delayed going in that we

might see the old parsonage first, the shrine where the preserved relics

had once made "home." Oh, mother, the sadness of it, tucked away among

the crowding tombstones, all gray-brown together, among weeds and early

falling leaves! Here already it was autumn; and though I could fancy a

pale, frosty spring, and a white, ice-bound winter, my imagination could

conjure up no richness of summer.

[Illustration: "_The foaming cauldron of the Strid_"]

The gravestones crowding the gray old house in the churchyard, pushing

it back toward the moor, were thick as an army on parade--a sad, starved

army, where dying soldiers lean on each other for support; and the

parsonage, shadowed by dripping trees, was plain and uncompromising as a

sermon that warns you not to love the world or you will spend eternity

in hell. But behind--just beyond the wall--billowed the moor, monotonous

yet majestic, the scene that called to Emily and Charlotte Brontë's

hearts, always, when they were far away.

My heart contracted as I thought of them there; and when we'd walked

back to the village street, and been admitted to the museum, I was on

the point of crying--not for myself, but with the choked grief one might

have on opening a box of old letters from a loved, dead friend. It is

the most intimate, touching little jumble of pathetic souvenirs you ever

saw in a museum; more like treasures guarded by near relations than a

collection for public eyes to see; but that makes the poignant charm of

it. I could have sobbed on a pink print frock with a cape, such as Jane

Eyre might have worn at Thornfield, and on bits of unfinished

needlework, simple lace collars, and water-colour sketches with which

Charlotte tried to brighten the walls of her austere home. There was the

poor dear's wedding shawl, and a little checked silk dress of which I'm

sure she was innocently proud; a few fantastic drawings of Bramwell's; a

letter or two from the sisters; and a picture of the Reverend Carus

Wilson, who was supposed to be Mr. Brocklehurst; just the rather

handsome, well-fed, self-satisfied man you would expect him to be.

I think, dear, that Haworth has done me good, and helped me to be brave.

Again and again I turned, when we'd left, to look back at the church

tower, and try to gather some of the Brontë courage before we slipped

away down many a dark hill toward Bradford, as night gathered us in.

I may need all the courage that I have borrowed and cashed in advance,

because suspense is worse than the pain of any blow.

We leave here early to-morrow morning for Graylees Castle in

Warwickshire--and the tour is at an end.

Your Audrie, who loves and longs for you.

XL

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

_Graylees Castle_,

_Night of September 12th_

Dearest and Wisest: I remember the first letter I wrote you (on

July Fourth) about the Ellaline business began with expressions

something like this: "Fireworks! Roman Candles!! Rockets!!!"

Well, my last letter about the Ellaline business begins with explosions,

too. A whole gunpowder plot has exploded: Dick's plot.

We got here in the afternoon; an uneventful run, for Sir Lionel was

always the same; cool but kind. I couldn't believe Dick had told him

anything.

Graylees is a place to be proud of, and you would never know there had

been a fire in the castle--but no injury was done to the oldest part.

Mrs. Norton says Graylees is called the "miniature Warwick," but it

doesn't look a miniature anything: it seems enormous. There's a great

hall, with suits of armour scattered about, and weapons of all periods

arranged in intricate patterns on the stone wall; and a minstrels'

gallery, and quantities of grand old Tudor and Stuart furniture; there's

a haunted picture-gallery where a murdered bride walks each Christmas

Eve, beautifully dressed; there's a suite of rooms in which kings and

queens have occasionally slept since the time when Henry Seventh

reigned; there's a priest's "hidie hole," and secret dungeons under the

big dining-hall where people used to revel while their prisoners

writhed; and--but I haven't seen nearly all yet.

The room allotted to me looks down from its high tower on to a mossy

moat choked with pink and white water lilies; on a stone terrace this

side of a sunken garden, a peacock plays sentinel, with his tail spread

like a jewelled shield; and against the sky dark, horizontal branches of

Lebanon cedars stretch, like arms of black-clad priests pronouncing a

blessing. May the blessing rest upon this house forever!

I hardly saw the country through which we came, though it was George

Eliot's country; and I half expected something to happen as soon as we

arrived; Sir Lionel perhaps turning on me at last, and saying icily: "I

know everything, but don't want a scandal. Go quietly, at once."

Nothing of the sort came to pass, however. We had tea in the great hall,

brought by an old butler who had known Sir Lionel when he visited the

uncle who left Graylees to him. Afterward, Mrs. Norton showed me "my

room," where already a maid engaged for "Miss Lethbridge" had unpacked

most of my things, the big luggage having arrived before us. My heart

gave a jump when I saw the drawers, and big cedar-lined wardrobes full

of finery; but settled down again when I remembered that almost

everything belonged to Ellaline, and that my legitimate possessions

could be packed again in about five minutes.

Before the change of friendship's weather at Chester, I think Sir Lionel

would have wanted to take me round his domain, indoors and out, but no

such suggestion was made. I was in my room, and there I stayed; but I

felt too restless to settle down and write to you. I kept waiting for

something, as you do for a clock to strike, when you know it is bound to

strike soon.

By and by it was time to dress for dinner. I couldn't bear to wear one

of the grand Ellaline dresses, so I put on the old black. I did look a

frump in it, in such a place as Graylees Castle, where everything ought

to be beautiful and rich, but I did my hair as nicely as I could, and

from the top of my head to my shoulders I wasn't so bad.

I went downstairs at eight o'clock, and Mrs. Senter was already in the

great hall, standing in front of the splendid stone fireplace, watching

her rings sparkle in the light of the wood fire, and resting one pretty

foot on a paw of the left-hand carved stone wolf that supports a ledge

of the mantelpiece--just as if it belonged to her and she had tamed it.

She glanced up when I appeared, and smiled vaguely, but didn't speak.

She seemed thoughtful.

After awhile, Emily came, swishing silkily. Mrs. Senter began to talk to

her, praising the place; and then, just before the quarter

past--dinner-time--Sir Lionel joined us, looking nice, but tired. Mrs.

Senter gave him a sweet smile, and he smiled back, absent-mindedly. He

gave her his arm in to dinner, and she did clever things with her

eyelashes, which made her seem to blush. She wore a white dress I'd not

seen yet, a simple string of pearls round her neck, and quite a maidenly

or bridal look. I couldn't wonder at Sir Lionel if he admired her! At

the dinner-table (which was beautiful with flowers, lots of silver, and

old crystal--a picture against the dark oak panelling) Mrs. Senter was

on his right hand, I on his left, his sister playing hostess. This was

as usual; but as it was the first time in his own house, somehow it made

Mrs. Senter seem of more importance. He and she talked together a good

deal, and she said some witty things, but spent herself mostly in

drawing him out. He didn't speak to me, except to deign a question about

my room, or ask whether I would have a certain thing to eat. I felt a

dreadful lump, and worth about "thirty cents," as Dad used to say.

After dinner, when Emily took us to a charming drawing-room, all white,

with an old spinet in one corner, Sir Lionel stopped away for a few

minutes; but when he came Mrs. Senter grabbed him immediately. She

wouldn't let him hear, when Emily inquired if I could sing, accompanying

myself on the spinet, but began asking him eagerly about the library,

which it seems is rather famous.

"You shall see it to-morrow, if you like," said he.

"Oh, mayn't I have a peep to-night?" she begged, prettily. "Do take me.

Just one peep."

So he took her, of course, and the peep prolonged itself indefinitely. I

had a sinking presentiment that my dreadful flare-up with Dick had been

in vain, and that after all she would inveigle him into proposing to her

this very night. Since I refused to tell him that her damask cheek was

being preyed upon by love of him, she would probably intimate as much

herself, and bury her head between her hands, looking incredibly sad and

lovable. Sir Lionel wouldn't be the man to fight such tactics as those!

I knew he didn't, wouldn't, and couldn't love her one little bit, but he

would be sorry for her, and sacrifice himself rather than she should

suffer for his sake, when he might make her happy.

Emily chatted to me pleasantly about the church, and the vicar at

Graylees, and family tombs, and such cheerful things, to which I said

"Yes" and "No" whenever she stopped; but a cold perspiration was coming

out on my forehead. I was just as sure as that I was alive, that Mrs.

Senter didn't mean to leave the library until Sir Lionel had made her a

present of himself, his books, and his castle. Probably my sub-conscious

self or astral body was there, hearing every word they said. Anyhow, I

_knew_. And I could do nothing. A thumb-screw or a rack would have been

a pleasant relief.

Suddenly we heard the sound of a carriage driving quickly up to the

house.

"Who can that be?" wondered Mrs. Norton. "It's after half-past nine."

"Very likely it's Mr. Burden," said I; the first moderately intelligent

remark I'd made since we were left together.

She agreed with me that this was probable; but when fifteen, twenty,

forty minutes passed by the clock, and Dick did not appear, she changed

her mind. It must have been someone to see Sir Lionel, she thought, on

business that wouldn't wait. I was not convinced of this, and longed for

her to ring and ask a footman who had come; but I couldn't very well

suggest it.

The house did sound so silent, that my ears rang, as they do when one

listens to a shell!

Ten; ten-fifteen; ten-thirty; a Louis Quatorze clock chimed. Hardly had

it got the last two strokes out of its mouth, when Sir Lionel opened the

door. He was pale, in that frightening way that tanned skins do turn

pale, and he didn't seem to see his sister. He looked straight past her

at me, and his eyes shone.

"I want very much to speak to you," he said. His voice shook ever so

slightly, as if he were going into a battle where he knew he would be

killed, and felt solemn about it, but otherwise was rather pleased than

not.

Then I knew my time had come. I almost looked for the steps of the

guillotine, but I was suddenly too blind to see them if they had been

under my nose.

"Very well," I said, and got up from my chair.

"Oh," exclaimed Emily, "don't go. If you have anything to say to

Ellaline, which you'd like to say to her alone, let me go. I am getting

sleepy, and was just thinking about bed. Perhaps I might say good-night

to you both?"

"Good-night, dear," answered Sir Lionel. I had never heard him call her

that before.

"Say good-night to Mrs. Senter for me," went on Emily to us both.

"Yes," said Sir Lionel. But I don't think he had heard.

Mrs. Norton swished silkily out. The door shut. I braced myself, and

looked up at him. His eyes were on my face, and they were full of light.

I supposed it must be righteous anger; but it was a beautiful look--too

good to waste on such a passion, even a righteous form of it.

"You poor child," he said in a low voice, standing quite near me. "You

have gone through a great deal."

I started as if he had shot me--that way of beginning was so different

from anything I had expected.

"Wh-what do you mean?" I stammered.

"That I always knew you were brave, but that you're a hundred times

braver than I thought you. Dick has come back. He has brought with him

a girl and a man from Scotland--bride and groom."

All the strength went out of me. I felt as if my body had turned to

liquid and left only my brain burning, and my heart throbbing. But I

didn't fall. I fancy I caught the back of a tall chair, and held on for

dear life.

"Ellaline," I murmured.

"Yes, Ellaline," he said. "Thank God, you are not Ellaline."

"Thank God?" I echoed in weak wonder.

"I thank God, yes, because it was killing me to believe that you were

Ellaline--to believe you false, and frivolous, and a flirt, just because

of the blood I thought you had in your veins. And I exaggerated

everything you did, till I made a mountain out of each fancied fault.

That fellow Burden brought Ellaline here--just married to her Frenchman

to-day--because he wanted to ruin you. He told me with pride how he'd

ferretted out the whole secret--traced you to your address in

Versailles, learned your real name--told everything, in fact, except

that he'd been blackmailing you, forcing you for your friend's sake to

actions you hated. He didn't tell me that part, naturally, but there was

no need, because I guessed----"

"What--what have you done to him?" The words came limping, because of

the look in his eyes, which shot forth a sword.

"Oh, unluckily it's under my own roof, so I could do no more than bid

him clear out if he didn't want to be kicked out!"

"Gone!" I whispered.

"Yes, gone. And as Mrs. Senter's very loyal to her nephew, she prefers

to leave with him, though she has had nothing to do with his

plottings--didn't even know, and I asked her to stay. She insists on

going to-night when he does. I'm sorry. But it can't be helped. I cannot

think of her now."

"Ellaline----" I began faintly; but he cut me short, with a kind of

generous impatience. "Yes, yes, you shall see her. She wants to see you,

now that she understands, but----"

"Understands?"

"Why, you see, that little beast, Dick Burden--whose mother's staying

near where Ellaline was in Scotland--went there straight from

Bamborough, and put the girl up to believe you'd been playing her

false--prejudicing me against her interests, trying to keep for yourself

things that ought to be hers; so apparently she worked herself into a

hysterical state--must have, or she wouldn't have believed him against

you; and the instant she was married to her Frenchman, who'd come to

claim her, all three dashed off here to 'confront' you, as that cad

Burden explained to me. I couldn't understand what they were all driving

at just at first, but I saw that the girl was the living image of her

mother, consequently the thing didn't need as much explaining in any way

as it might otherwise."

"She was horribly afraid you wouldn't let her marry him," I broke in,

getting breath and voice back at last.

"So she said. Oh, when she knew Burden had lied to her about you, she

repented her disloyalty, and told me how you hated the whole thing. I

don't wonder she thought me a brute, never writing, never seeming to

care whether she was alive or dead; I see now I was a brute; but it's

you who've shown me that, not she. However, she will reap the benefit. I

daresay three months ago I should have growled over such a marriage,

felt inclined to wash my hands of the girl, perhaps, but now--now I'm

delighted to have her married and--_off_ my hands. That sounds callous,

but I can't help it. It's true. The Frenchman seems a gentleman, and

fond of her--trust Ellaline de Nesville's daughter to make men fall in

love!--and I wish them both joy."

"But--but if he's poor?" I dared to question.

"Oh, that'll be all right. I'm so thankful for the way everything has

turned out, I'd give her half my fortune. That would be asinine, of

course; but I shall settle a thousand a year on her for life, and give

her a wedding present of a cheque for twenty thousand, I think. Should

you say that would be enough to satisfy them?"

"They ought to be distracted with joy," I said (though deep in my heart

I knew that Ellaline is never likely to be satisfied with anything done

for her. She always feels it might have been a little more). "But," I

went on, "maybe it's selfish to think of myself now--but I can't help it

for a moment. I have been so ashamed--so humiliated, I could hardly

bear--and yet I know you won't, you can't, see that there's any

excuse----"

"Didn't I tell you that I thought you very brave?" he asked, looking at

me more kindly than I deserved.

"Yes. And I was brave." I took credit to myself. "But brave people can

be wicked. I have hated myself, knowing how you'd hate me when----"

"I don't hate you," he said. "The question is--do you hate me?"

I gasped--because I was so far from hating him; and suddenly I was

afraid he might suspect exactly _how_ far. "No," said I. "But then, that

is different. I never had any reason to hate you."

"Didn't Ellaline warn you I was a regular dragon?"

I couldn't help laughing, because that had been our very name for him.

"Oh, well, she----" I began to apologize.

"You needn't be afraid to confess," said he. "In the exuberance of her

relief at finding all well, and not only being forgiven, but petted, she

told me what a different man I was from the murderous image in her mind;

and that she saw now you were right about me. Is it possible you

defended me to her?"

"But of course," I said.

"In spite of all the injustice I did you--and showed that I did you?"

"I always felt myself to blame, and yet--yet it hurt me when I saw you

disapproved of me. Since Chester----"

"It was that ring stuck in my throat," said he.

"You knew?" I stammered, turning red.

"Saw it in a shop window. And now I know why you did it--why you did

everything, I think. Heavens, what good it would have done me to kick

that little beast Burden all around the park!"

"There wouldn't have been anything left of him, if you had," I giggled,

beginning to feel hysterical. "Oh, I am glad he's gone, though. I shall

be going myself to-morrow, of course, but----"

"No," he said. "No, that must not be. I--Ellaline wants you."

"Hadn't I better see her now?" I asked meekly.

"Not yet. Tell me--did that cad try you too far at Bamborough, and did

you defy him?"

I nodded Yes.

"What did he do?"

"He didn't do anything. He wanted me to promise something."

"To marry him at once?" Sir Lionel was looking dangerous.

"No-o. It wasn't anything about me. I can't tell you, because it

concerns someone else. Please don't ask me."

"I won't. If it concerns someone else, not yourself, I don't care. Yes,

I do, though. Did it concern me? Can you answer me that?"

"I can answer so far, if you don't press me further. It did concern you.

I would not sacrifice you to--but I don't want to go on, please!"

"You shan't. That's enough. You sacrificed yourself rather than

sacrifice me. You----"

"I'd sinned enough against you."

"You gave me back my youth."

"I?"

"Don't you know I love you--worship you--adore you?"

Yes, _he said that_, mother. His lips said it, and his dear, dear eyes.

I looked up to them, and mine overflowed, and he needed no other answer,

for he took me in his arms. I didn't know people could be so happy. I

could have died in that moment, only I would much, much rather live.

In a few minutes we told each other heaps of things about the way we

felt, and the way we _had_ felt, and compared notes; and it was

heavenly. He'd bought back the darling ring in Chester, and now he put

it on my finger again; and I'm sure, dearest, that you won't mind our

being engaged?

He says he has adored me ever since the first day, and will to the last,

then on into the next world, because there can't be a next world that

won't be full of his love for me. And I adore him, ah, _how_ I adore

him--and you will come here to live with us in this beautiful old

castle, where, like the Prince and Princess of the fairy stories, we

will be happy ever after.

I have seen Ellaline, and she is well and hugged me a great deal. Her

Honoré is really very handsome; but I can't write about them now, though

they have been so important in my life; and without them there would

have been no life worth speaking of.

Emily and Lionel (I am to call him that now) will take me to you, and

everything shall be arranged as you wish.

Dear little, wise mother, I wonder if you ever thought it might end like

this? I didn't. But he is the most glorious man who ever happened. Only,

he didn't happen. All the rest of the world--not counting you--happened.

He just had to be.

Your loving, perfectly happy

Audrie.