tea in the garden, where old-fashioned flowers were sweet; plenty of
roses, stocks, and pansies. (I had an old Scottish nurse when I was a
foot or two high, and I've never forgotten what she said about pansies.
"They have aye the face of a smacked cat!" It's true, isn't it? A cat
glares and puts its ears back when it's smacked. Not that I ever smacked
one to see.)
Afterward, I was not of a mind to propose anything. I thought each had
better follow his or her inclination for what was left of the day; and
mine was to stroll out and review old memories. I should have liked to
take Ellaline, but fancied she might prefer society nearer her own age.
However, I came across her in the High Street, alone, gazing fascinated
at the window of an antique shop. There are some attractive ones in
Winchester.
I wasn't sure if she weren't waiting for Dick, who might have strolled
away from her for a minute, so I would have passed on if she hadn't
turned.
"Did you ever see anything so beautiful?" she asked me.
I had, but I didn't say so. I liked her to like everything in my
Winchester, so I inquired what she admired most in the shop window. She
hardly knew. But there was some wonderful old jewellery.
The girl was right. The antique jewellery was particularly good. There
were some admirable necklaces and rings, with fine stones.
"What's your birth month?" I asked, on a sudden thought.
"July," said she.
"What--this very month? I hope the birthday hasn't passed."
"No-o, not yet," she answered reluctantly. She saw by now what was in
the wind, and didn't want to seem greedy.
I persisted. "Tell me when."
"The twenty-fifth. But you are _not_ to."
"Not to--what?"
"You know."
"Yes, I will. It's a guardian's duty to his ward, and in this case a
pleasure."
"I'd much rather you didn't, really." And she looked as grave as a
statue of Justice. "Some day you'll know why."
I waived the subject at this point, for I felt obstinate, and wanted to
give her a present. There was, and is, no doubt in my mind that her
reason is a schoolgirl reason. Madame de Maluet has probably brought her
up to believe it is not _comme il faut_ for a _jeune fille_ to accept a
present from a _monsieur_. Still, her voice and expression were so
serious, even worried, that I'm wondering if it could be anything else.
Anyhow, I have bought the present, and intend to give it her on the
25th. It is a quaint old marquise ring, with a cabuchon ruby surrounded
by very good diamonds. I think she will like it, and I don't see why she
shouldn't have it--from me. I feel as if I would like to make up to her
for the injustice I've been doing her in my mind all these years since
she was a little child, left to me--poor, lonely baby. Only I don't
quite know how to make up. I don't even dare to confess myself, and say
I am sorry I never seemed to take any interest in her as she grew up.
She must have wondered why I never asked to have her picture sent me, or
wanted her to write--or wrote; and she must have felt the cold neglect
of the only person (except an old French lady, her godmother) who had
any rights over her. Beast that I was! And I can't explain why I was a
beast. No doubt she adores the legend (it can't be a memory) of her
mother, and I would have it always so. She need never know any of the
truth, though of course, when she marries I shall have to tell the man
one or two things, I suppose.
I'll let you know next time I write how the ring is received.
This morning, after breakfast, we all walked about the streets of
Winchester, and, of course, went to the cathedral, where we stopped till
nearly two o'clock.
The town and the place have all their old charm, and even more for me;
the "Piazza"; the huddled, narrow streets full of mystery, the Cathedral
Close with its crowded entrance, its tall trees that try to hide
cathedral glories from common eyes; its mellow Queen Anne and Georgian
houses which group round in a pleasant, self-satisfied way, as if they
alone were worthy of standing-room in that sacred precinct.
To me, there's no cathedral in England that means as much of the past as
Winchester. You know how, in the nave, you see so plainly the transition
from one architectural period to another? And then, there are those
splendid Mortuary Chests. Think of old Kynegils, and the other Saxon
kings lying inside, little heaps of haunted dust.
I was silly enough to be immensely pleased that the child picked out
those Mortuary Chests in their high resting place, and the gorgeous
alleged tomb of William Rufus, as the most unforgettable among the
smaller interests of Winchester Cathedral, for they are the same with
me; and it's human to like our tastes shared by (a few) others. She was
so enchanted to hear how William the Red was brought by a carter to be
buried in Winchester, and about the great turquoise and the broken shaft
of wood found in the tomb, that I hadn't the heart to tell her it
probably wasn't his burial place, but that of Henri de Blois.
Of course she liked Bloody Mary's faldstool--the one Mary sat in for her
marriage with Philip of Spain; and the MSS. signed by Ælfred the Great
as a child, with his father.
Women are caught by the personal element, I think, more than we are. And
so interested was she in Jane Austen's memorial tablet, that she
wouldn't be satisfied without going to see the house where Jane died.
There were so many other things to see, that Emily and Mrs. Senter would
have left that out, but I wanted the girl to have her way.
Poor little, sweet-hearted Jane! She was only forty-one when she
finished with this world--a year older than I. But doubtless that was
almost old for a woman of her day, when girls married at sixteen, and
took to middle-aged caps at twenty-five. Now, I notice, half the mothers
look younger than their daughters--younger than any daughter would dare
to look after she was "out."
A good many interesting persons seem to have died in Winchester, if they
weren't clever enough to be born in the town. Earl Godwin set an early
example in that respect. Died, eating with Edward the Confessor--probably
too much, as his death was caused by apoplexy, and might not have happened
if Edward hadn't been too polite to advise him not to stuff.
Of course, the cathedral is the great jewel; but for me the old city is
an ancient, kingly crown set full of jewels. There's the West Gate, for
instance. You know how we said it alone would be worth walking many
miles to see. And the old castle. I'm not sure that isn't one of the
best sights of all. I took the party there after luncheon, and the same
delightful fellow showed us round. He hadn't changed since our time,
unless he is more mellow.
He was quite angry to-day with a German-American woman--the type, as
Ellaline murmured to me, that alone is capable of a plaid blouse. The
lady inquired nasally of our old friend, "Is this hall mod-ern; what you
call mod-ern?"
We were at the moment gazing up at King Arthur's Round Table, which
Henry VIII. hung on the wall to save it further vicissitudes, after
Henry VII. had it daubed with colours and Tudor roses, to furnish forth
some silly feast.
The dear old chap raised his eyebrows at the question, and glanced round
as if apologizing to each massive pillar in turn. Well, he said, he
would hardly call the hall modern, as it had been built by William the
Conqueror, but perhaps the lady _might_ be used to older things at home.
With that, he turned on an indignant heel, and led us out to the
courtyard where wretched Edward II.'s brother, the Duke of Kent, was
executed. He has the same old trick of being "sorry to say" whenever he
has anything tragic or gruesome to relate, passing lightly over details
of oubliettes, and skeletons found without their heads--as so many were
on grim St. Giles's Hill.
Of course we went and had a look at St. Cross and Henri de Blois's old
hospital almshouse. We would have stopped there yesterday, if Emily
hadn't so ardently desired tea. But, if I'd thought to tell her about
the Dole of bread and beer, she might have been persuaded, though my
description of the exquisite windows in the courtyard, and the quaint
houses of the black and white brethren, left her cold. We all had some
of the Dole to-day at the portal; and Mrs. Senter took it as a
compliment that each one was given so little. Tourists get tiny bits,
you know, and beggars big ones; so she thought it would have been a sign
that they disparaged the ladies' hats and frocks if they had been more
generous. It would be difficult to disapprove of hers. She understands
the art of dress to perfection.
A pity we couldn't have been here earlier in the year, isn't it? For
among the nicest new things in old Winchester are the Winchester
schoolboys. How they spurn the ordinary tourist they meet in the street,
and how scornfully polite they are to any unfortunate straying beast who
asks them a question, making him feel meaner than any worm! A foreigner
must long to ask the consequential youths to "kindly excuse him while he
continues to breathe"; for few strangers can sympathize with the
contempt we English have, while still in callow youth, for everyone we
don't know. But, let a newcomer blossom into an acquaintance, or mention
a relative at Eton, and all is changed. The Winchester boys turn into
the most delightful chaps in the world.
I dare say I shall think Dick Burden a delightful chap when I know him
better. At present, it's all I can do to put up with him for the sake of
his aunt. And the fellow has such an ostentatiously frank way of looking
one straight in the eyes, that I'm hanged if I'd trust him to go as
straight.
Talking of going straight, to-morrow morning early we leave for
Salisbury, and when we feel like moving shall pass on toward the New
Forest.
Ever yours,
Pen.
XI
AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER
_White Hart Hotel, Salisbury_,
_July 24th_
Dearest: I am particularly homesick for you to-night, because
it's my birthday eve. Twenty-one to-morrow, but passing for nineteen.
And isn't it annoying, I went and blurted out in Winchester two days ago
that I had a birthday hanging over me. I'm awfully afraid Sir Lionel
thinks himself bound to give me a present. If he does, and I can't get
out of taking it, I shall have to pass it on to Ellaline, of course,
when I'm passing everything else on--including myself.
I know you're thinking of me to-night, as you walk after dinner under
the glorious chestnut trees you describe in the park at
Champel-les-Bains. I wish you had an astral body! It wouldn't take up
any room, or have to pay railway fares, or wait for invitations to
visit, and it could easily be one of the party in Sir Lionel's car. So
nice to have it sitting between me and Dick Burden!
I wanted you dreadfully at Winchester, as I wrote you in the note I
scribbled after seeing the cathedral. I wish I'd told you more about
Winchester then, for now it's too late. All Stonehenge is lying on top
of my Winchester impressions, and it will take them a little time to
squeeze from underneath. They will come out, though, I know, none the
worse for wear. And how I shall talk this trip over with you, when we're
together again, and I know the end that's hiding behind the motor-veil
of the future!
Mother, dear, when I shut my eyes to-night, I see Barrows, billowing
prehistorically along the horizon, and I see Stonehenge, black against a
red sunset, and silver in the moonlight. Also, I have begun to _think_
architecturally, I find, through seeing so much architecture, and trying
to talk about it intelligently, as Mrs. Senter contrives to do. (I
believe she fags it up at night, with a wet towel over her hair wavers!)
Do you know what it is to think architecturally? Well, for me (not
apropos of Mrs. S. at all), a made-up woman is "well restored," or
"repaired." An intellectual-looking man, with a fine head, has Norman
bumps and Gothic ears. A puppy with big feet is an early Perp., with
Norman foundations, and so on. It gives a new interest to life and the
creatures we meet. Emily is late Georgian, with Victorian elevations.
I hated leaving Winchester; but oh, those Barrows we saw, when we were
coming away! They made most antique things seem as new as a china cup
with "For a Good Girl" outlined on it in gold letters. So many
stupendous events have scattered themselves along this road of ours, as
the centuries rolled, that it makes the brain reel, trying to gather
them up, and sort them into some kind of sequence. Often I wish I could
sit and admire calmly, as Mrs. Senter can, and not get boiling with
excitement over the past. But one is so uncomfortably intelligent, one
can't stop thinking, thinking every minute. Every tiny thing I see has
its little "thought sting," ready like a mosquito; and a fancy that has
lately stabbed me is the striking resemblance between English scenery,
or its features, and English character. The best bits in both are shy of
showing themselves, and never flaunt. They are so reserved that to find
them out you must search. All the loveliest nooks in English country and
in English souls are hidden from strangers. Why, the very cottages try
to hide under veils of clematis and roses, as the cottage children hide
their thoughts behind long eyelashes.
We came to Salisbury by way of Romsey, and got out to see the splendid
old church which almost ranks with Winchester Cathedral as a monument of
England. And Romsey Abbey, too, very beautiful, even thrilling; still
more ancient Hursley, with its earthworks, about which, for once, Sir
Lionel and Dick Burden were congenial. Of course, men who have been
soldiers like Sir Lionel, or tried to be soldiers and couldn't, like
Dick, must know something about the formation of such things; but anyone
may be interested--except a Mrs. Norton.
You and I had no motoring when we were travellers, so we didn't see
Europe as I am seeing England; still, I don't believe any other country
has this individuality of vast, billowing downs. As you bowl smoothly
from one to another, over perfect roads, you have a series of surprises,
new beauties opening suddenly to your eyes. It is exciting, yet
soothing; and that mingling of emotions is part of the joy of the car.
For motorists, the downs of Hampshire and Wiltshire are like a goddess's
beautiful breasts; and Nature is a goddess, isn't she?--the greatest of
all, combining all their best qualities.
This White Hart was a nice hotel, but I rather resent the foreign
waiters, as out of the picture, in such an essentially old-fashioned,
English place. I like the animal names of the hotels in England. Already
we have seen a lot; and they form into a quaint, colourful, Noah's Ark
and heraldic procession across the country. The Black Bull; The Golden
Unicorn; The Blue Boar; The Red Lion; The Piebald Horse; The Green
Dragon; The White Hart. I am still longing for a Purple Bear.
The first thing we did after getting settled (which I always like, as I
haven't enough luggage to make much bother) was to walk out and see the
town. I kept Dick with me, not because I wanted him, you may be sure,
but because I can see he is a blot on the 'scutcheon for Sir Lionel, and
I feel so guilty, having forced him into the party, that I try to
attract the Blot to myself. If I mention the Blot in future, you'll know
what it is. When I'm very desperate, I may just fling a drop of ink on
the paper to relieve my feelings, and that will mean the same thing. The
Blot puts on an air of the most exaggerated respect for Sir Lionel.
You'd fancy he was talking to a centenarian. Horrid, pert little pig! (I
think pigs run in their family.) I know he does it on purpose to be
nasty, and make Sir Lionel feel an old stager. Do you remember the
pig-baby in "Alice's Adventures"?
He only does it to annoy,
Because he knows it teases.
Not that it need, for Sir Lionel looks about thirty-four. Nobody would
give him forty unless they saw it in books; and he is like a knight of
romance. There! Now you have the opinion I have come to hold of
Ellaline's dragon. For me, the Dragon has turned into a Knight. But, of
course, I may be mistaken. Mrs. Senter says that no girl can ever
possibly understand a man, and that a man is really much more
complicated than a woman, though the novelists tell you it's the other
way round.
We started out, all of us, except Emily, who lies down after tea, to
walk to John Halle's Hall, a most interesting banqueting room, which is
now a china-shop, but was built by a rich wool-stapler (such a nice
word!) in 1470, as you can see on the oak carvings. But there was so
much to do on the way, that we saw the Hall, and the old George
Inn--where Pepys lay "in a silk bed and had very good diet"--last of
all.
The antique furniture shops were simply enthralling, and I wanted nearly
everything I saw. Travelling is good for the mind, but it develops one
or two of the worst passions, such as Greed of Possession. We went into
several shops, and I could have purred with joy when Sir Lionel asked me
to help him choose several things for Graylees, which he would have sent
on there, direct. He seemed to care more for my advice than for Mrs.
Senter's, and I don't think she quite liked that, for she really knows a
good deal about old English furniture, whereas I know nothing--only a
little about French and Italian things.
The streets of Salisbury, with their mediæval houses, look exactly as if
they had been originally planned to give the most delightful effects
possible when their pictures were taken. Every corner is a gem; and Sir
Lionel told us that the old rectangular part of the town _was_ planned
more or less at one time. Of course, the people who did the planning had
plenty of time to think it all over, before moving down from Old Sarum,
which was so high and bleak they couldn't hear the priest saying mass in
the cathedral, because of the wind. Fancy! Salisbury used to be called
the "Venice of England"; but I must say, if one can judge now, the
simile was far-fetched.
Lots of martyrs were burnt in Salisbury, it seems, when that sort of
thing was in fashion, so no wonder they have to keep Bloody Queen Mary's
chair in Winchester instead of Salisbury, where they've a right to feel
a grudge against the wretched little, bilious bigot of a lovesick woman.
Sir Lionel has several well-known martyrs on his family tree, Mrs.
Norton says; and she is as proud of them as most people are of royal
bar-sinisters. I never thought martyrs particularly interesting myself,
though perhaps that's an uneasy jealousy, as we've none in our family
that I know of--only a witch or so on father's side. Poor dears, what a
pity they couldn't have waited till now to be born, when, instead of
burning or drowning them, people would have paid them to tell nice
things about the past and predict lovers for the future!
Witches were fascinating; but many martyrs probably marted out of sheer
obstinacy, don't you think? Of course, it was different when they
executed you without giving you a chance to recant, as they did with
political prisoners; and do you know, they cut off poor witty
Buckingham's head in Salisbury market-place? "So much for Buckingham!"
Where it came off, there's an inn, now, called the Saracen's Head. I
wonder if _it_ was chopped off in the neighbourhood, too, or if it's
only a pleasant fancy, to cover up the Buckingham stain in the yard?
Anyhow, they tell you there that in 1838 Buckingham's skeleton was dug
up under the kitchen of what used to be the Blue Boar Inn. But even that
isn't as ghastly a tale as another one of Salisbury: how one of Jack
Cade's "quarters" was sent to the town when he'd been executed. I should
have liked to know if it's still to be seen, but I thought it would be
hardly nice to ask.
We saved the cathedral for the last, and just as we were in the midst of
sight-seeing there, it was time for service, so we sat down and listened
to music which seemed to fall from heaven. There's nothing more glorious
than music in a cathedral, is there? Usually it makes me feel good; but
this time it made me feel so sinful, on account of Ellaline, and Sir
Lionel and Dick, that I almost cried. Do you think, dear, that if I were
in a novel they would have me for a heroine or a wicked adventuress? I
hae me doots; but my one hope is, that you can't be an adventuress if
you really mean well at heart, and are under twenty-two.
Maybe I'd expected too much of Salisbury Cathedral, because I'd always
heard more about it than others in England, but it wasn't quite so
glorious to me as Winchester. It's far more harmonious, because it was
planned all at one time, like the town, and there's singularly little
foreign influence to be traced in the architecture, which makes it
different from most others, and extraordinarily interesting in its way.
It's very, very old, too, but it is so white and clean that it looks
new. And one great beauty it has: its whiteness seems always flooded
with moonlight, even when sunshine is streaming over the noble pillars
and lovely tombs.
This morning I went back, with Emily, to service, and wandered from
chapel to chapel, till nearly luncheon time. Then Sir Lionel came, and
took me up strange, hidden, winding stairs, to the den of the librarian.
It was like stealing into an enchanted castle, where all save the
librarian slept, and had slept for centuries. When it was time to go
away, I was afraid that Sir Lionel might have forgotten the magic spell
which would open the door and let us escape. There were interesting
things there, but we weren't allowed to look at the ones we wanted to
see most, till we were too tired to enjoy them, after seeing the ones we
didn't want to see at all. But you know, in another enchanted castle,
that of the Sleeping Beauty, there was only _one_ lovely princess, and
goodness knows how many snorey bores.
At three, we started to motor out to Stonehenge; and Sir Lionel chose to
be late, because he wanted to be there at sunset, which he knew--from
memory--to be the most thrilling picture for us to carry away in our
heads.
Nobody ever told me what an imposing sight Old Sarum remains, to this
day, so I was surprised and impressed by the giant conical knoll
standing up out of the plain and its own intrenchments. I'd just been
reading about it in the guide-book, how important it used to be to
England, when it was still a city, and how it was a fortress of the
Celts when the Romans came and snatched it from them; but I had no idea
of its appearance. I would have liked to go with Sir Lionel to walk
round the intrenchments, but he asked only Dick. However, Mrs. Senter
volunteered to go, at the last moment, just as they were starting, and
Emily and I were left, flotsam and jetsam, in the car, to wait till they
came back.
I wasn't bored, however, because Emily read a religious novel by Marie
Corelli, and didn't worry to talk. So I could sit in peace, seeing with
my mind's eye the pageant of William the Conqueror reviewing his troops
in the plain over which Old Sarum gloomily towers. Such a lurid plain it
is, this month of poppies, red as if its arid slopes were stained with
the blood of ghostly armies slain in battle.
But it was going back further into history to come to Amesbury. You
know, dear, Queen Guinevere's Amesbury, where she repented in the
nunnery she'd founded, and the little novice sang to her "Too late! Too
late!" When she was buried, King Arthur had "a hundred torches ever
burning about the corpse of the queen." Can't you see the beautiful
picture? And when her nunnery was gone in 980, another queen, far, far
more wicked than Guinevere, built on the same spot a convent to expiate
the murder of her stepson at Corfe Castle. We are going to Corfe, by and
by, so I shall send my thoughts back to Amesbury from there, in spite of
the fact that Elfreda's nuns became so naughty they had to be banished.
Nor shall I forget a lover who loved at Amesbury--Sir George Rodney, who
adored the fascinating Countess of Hertford so desperately, that after
her marriage he composed some verses in her honour, and fell then upon
his sword. Why don't men do such things for us nowadays? Were the "dear,
dead women" so much more desirable than we?
Wasn't Amesbury a beautiful "leading up" to Stonehenge? It's quite near,
you know. It doesn't seem as if anything ought to be near, but a good
many things are--such as farms. Yet they don't spoil it. You never even
think of them, or of anything except Stonehenge itself, once you have
seen the first great, dark finger of stone, pointing mysteriously
skyward out of the vast plain.
That is the way Stonehenge breaks on you, suddenly, startlingly, like a
cry in the night.