twistingest road I've seen yet in England, though Sir Lionel says I'll
think nothing of it when we get into Devonshire; up, up to a high place
where they've built a restaurant. Near by we left the motor (and Emily,
who never walks for pleasure), and ho, for the caves! It was a scramble
among dark cliffs of Purbeck limestone. The caves are delightfully
weird, and of course there are smuggling stories about them. A strange
wind blew through their labyrinths, ceaselessly, like the breathings of
a hidden giant, betrayed by sleep. It was heavenly cool in that dim
twilight that never knew sun, but oh, it was hot coming out into the
afternoon glare, and climbing the steep path to where the motor waited!
I think Mrs. Senter was sorry she hadn't stopped with Emily. She got a
horrid headache, and felt so ill that Sir Lionel asked if she would care
to stop all night at Swanage, and she said she would.
Fortunately, it turned out that there were good hotels, and Sir Lionel
took rooms at the one we liked the best--old-fashioned in an agreeable
way. Mrs. Senter went to bed, but the rest of us strolled out after
dinner; and Mrs. Norton began talking to Dick about his mother, which
threw Sir Lionel and me together.
We sat on the pier, where the moon turned bright pink as she dipped down
into a bank of clouds like a rose-garden growing out of the sea. And
even when it was dark, the sea kept its colour, the deep blue of
sapphires, where, at a distance, little white yachts and sailboats
looked like a company of crescent moons floating in an azure sky. I felt
in the sweetest mood, kind toward all the world, and particularly to Sir
Lionel. I couldn't bear to remember that I'd ever had bad thoughts, and
doubts, so I was half sub-consciously nicer to him than I ever was
before. Dick kept glaring at me, from his seat beside Mrs. Norton, and
drawing his eyebrows together when he thought Sir Lionel wasn't looking.
Going home, he got a chance for a few words, when Emily was speaking to
her brother about Mrs. Senter's headache. He said that there was
something he must say to me, alone, and he wanted me to come out into
the garden behind the hotel, to talk to him when the others had gone to
bed, but of course I refused. Then he said, would I manage to give him a
few minutes next day, and intimated, gently, that I'd be sorry if I
didn't. I told him that "I'd see"; which is always a safe answer; but I
haven't "managed" yet.
When I got back to my room at the hotel I noticed that some of my things
weren't in the places where I'd left them; and the writing portfolio in
a dressing-case which Sir Lionel _thinks_ is mine, but is really
Ellaline's (one of the Bond Street purchases), had my papers changed
about in it. The servants in the house seemed so respectable and nice, I
can't think that one of them would have pried. And yet--well, the truth
is, I'm afraid of being catty, but I can't help putting Mrs. Senter's
headache and my disturbed papers together in my mind. Two and two when
put together, make four, you know. And her room in the Swanage hotel was
next to mine. She might have been sure that we'd all go out after dinner
on such a perfect night. But why should she bother? Unless Dick has told
her something, after all? I suppose I shall never know whether it was
she or someone else who meddled. I looked through all the papers and
other things, but could find nothing "compromising," as the
adventuresses say. However, I can't quite remember what I had. Some
letter may have been taken. I have been a tiny bit worried since, for
you know Ellaline would never forgive me if anything should go wrong
now. And I've been thinking that, though Sir Lionel is no dragon, there
may be something about Honoré du Guesclin which he wouldn't approve.
Ellaline may even have her own reasons for thinking he wouldn't approve,
dragon or no dragon. Very likely she didn't tell me everything--she was
so anxious to have her own way.
But to go back to the journey here. Almost each mile we travelled gave
us some thought of Hardy, and acquainted me with the character of
Dorset, which is just what I expected from his books: giant trees; tall,
secretive hedges; high brick walls, mellow with age and curtained with
ivy; stone cottages, solid and prosperous and old, with queer little
bay-windows, diamond-paned; Purbeck granite bursting through the grass
of meadows, and making a grave background for brilliant flowers; heaths
that Hardy wrote about in the "Return of the Native"--heaths, heaths,
and rolling downs.
We took the way from Swanage to West Lulworth, and had an adventure on a
hill. Sir Lionel is very strict with his little Buddha about examining
everything that could possibly go wrong with the motor, and just before
we started, I heard him ask Young Nick if he had looked at the brakes
after our descent from Tilly Whim. "Oh, yes, sahib," said the brown
image. "Oh, no!" said the brakes themselves, on a big hill, as far from
the madding crowd as "Gabriel" and "Bathsheba" ever lived. We'd got
lost, and that was the way the car punished us. First of all, the motor
refused to work. That made Apollo feel faint, so that he began to run
backward down the hill instead of going up; and when Sir Lionel put on
the brakes, they wouldn't act.
It was the first time anything really bad had happened, and my heart
gave a jump, but somehow I wasn't frightened. With Sir Lionel driving,
it seemed as if no harm could come; and it didn't, for he steered to the
side of the road, and brought the car up short against a great hummock
of grass. All the same, we nearly tipped over, and Sir Lionel told us to
jump. I shouldn't have stirred if he hadn't spoken. I should have
awaited orders; but the others were moving before we stopped, and Mrs.
Senter fell down and bumped her knee. That made her hair come partly
undone, and, to my horror, a bunch of the dearest little curls, which I
always thought lived there, were loosened. There was a great wind
blowing, and in a second more the curls would have been on the horizon,
if I hadn't seized them just as they were about to take flight. If
they'd gone, they must have passed almost in front of Sir Lionel's nose,
on their way. Wouldn't that have been dreadful? I should think she could
never have looked him in the face again, for her hair's her greatest
beauty, and she's continually saying things about its being all her own,
and having more than she knows what to do with.
But luckily his back was turned when I caught the curls, and stuffed
them hastily into her hand before she was on her feet, nobody seeing
except Dick. I suppose a nephew doesn't count! But do you know, dear, if
they'd been my curls, I believe she'd have loved Sir Lionel to see them.
I don't like her a bit, but all the more I couldn't be mean. I reserve
all my cattyness toward her for my letters to you, when I let myself go,
and stretch my little nails in my velvet paw.
I was sorry for Young Nick! He was miserably sheepish, and vowed that he
really had examined the brakes. Sir Lionel just looked at him, and
raised his eyebrows; that was all, because he wouldn't scold the poor
little wretch before us.
It was as much as the three men could do to get Apollo down on his four
tires again, for, though he seemed as lightly balanced as an eccentric
dancer trying to touch one eyelid to the floor, he was partly embedded
in the bank by the roadside. Then we all sat gracefully about, while Sir
Lionel and the chauffeur worked--Young Nick under the car, looking
sometimes like a contortionist tying himself into lover's knots,
sometimes like a miniature Michelangelo lying on his back to paint a
fresco. I hope, though, that Michael never had half the trouble finding
his paints and brushes that Nick had to get at his tommies and jemmies,
and dozens of strange little instruments. He lay with his mouth
bristling with giant pins, and had the air of a conscientious dentist
filling a difficult tooth.
It was a long time before the brakes were properly tightened up and the
four cylinders breathing freely again; but it would have been ungracious
to be bored in such a glorious wild place, in such glorious weather.
There was a kind of Walt Whitman feeling in the air that made me want to
sing; and finally I could resist no longer. I burst out with those
verses of his which you set to music for me. At least, I sang a few
bars; and you ought to have seen Sir Lionel wheel round and look at me
when he heard my voice. I never said anything to him about knowing how
to sing, so he was surprised.
"Why, you have quite a pretty voice, Ellaline!" said Mrs. Norton.
"'Quite a pretty voice!' I should say she had!" remarked Sir Lionel. He
didn't say any more. But I never had a compliment I liked better; and I
didn't mind a bit when Mrs. Senter remarked that anyone would fancy I
was a professional.
I was almost sorry to go on at last, though Emily was worrying lest we
should get no lunch. But we saw beautiful things as we spun toward
Lulworth, rushing so swiftly along an empty road that the hedges roared
past us like dark cataracts. It was thrilling, and showed what Apollo
could do when he chose. If there had been a soul on the road, of course
we wouldn't have done such deeds; though I must say, from what I've
seen, if you creep along so as not to kick up a dust and annoy people,
they aren't at all grateful, but only scorn instead of hating you, and
think you can't go faster, or you would. Still, you have the
consciousness of innocence. One thing we saw was a delightful Tudor
house, called Creech Grange; and the ancestor of the man who owns it
built Bond Street. I'm sure I don't know why, but I'm glad he did. We
took the valley way on purpose to see the Grange, instead of going over
Ring Hill and other windy heights, but it was worth the sacrifice.
Lulworth Castle, which we passed, is rather like Graylees, Sir Lionel
said; so now I wish more than ever that I could see Graylees, for
Lulworth is fine and feudal. But I shall have burst like a bubble before
the time comes for Graylees.
There! I have brought you with us to Lulworth Cove, at last--the
adorable little place where, at this moment, as I told you at the
beginning of my letter, I'm sitting on the beach among red and green
fishing boats.
You wouldn't dream of Lulworth's existence until it suddenly breaks on
you, and you see the blue bay lying asleep in the arms of giant rocks,
which appear to have had a violent convulsion without disturbing the
baby sheet of water. I suppose they were angry with the world for
finding out their secret; for it has found out, and loves to come to
Lulworth Cove. However, the place contrives to _look_ as unknown as
ever, as if only some lazy gulls and a few fishermen mending
lobster-pots had ever heard a hint of it. There's a narrow street; a few
pretty old cottages; a comfortable hotel where we had crabs, divine
though devilled, and _omelette au rhum_ floating in flames of the blue I
should like my eyes to be when angry; there's a post-office,
and--nothing else that I can think of, except circling hills, a golden
sweep of beach, and sea of ethereal azure creaming against contorted
rocks. That's all; but it's a little Paradise, and----
_Night, of the same day._
Just there I was interrupted. Dick Burden came, and I had to listen to
him, unless I wanted a scene. I couldn't appeal to any nice brown
fisherman to please feed him to the lobsters, so I sat still and let him
talk. He said that he was awfully in love with me. A charming fashion
he's taken to show it, hasn't he? As I remarked to him.
He replied in the old, old way, about all being fair, etc., etc. I asked
him which it was, love or war, and he said it was both. He knew I wasn't
in love (I should think not, indeed!), but he wanted me to promise to be
engaged to him from now on.
"I won't," said I--short and sudden, like that.
"You'll jolly well have to," said he. Then he proceeded to warn me that
if I didn't, my friend Miss Ellaline Lethbridge must look out for
herself, because I would no longer be in a position to guard her
interests.
I mentioned that he was a perfect beast, and he said it might be true,
but I was a deceiver, and it was not good taste for the pot to call the
kettle black.
"I'd rather go into the kind of convent where one's not allowed to speak
a word all one's life, except '_Memento mori_,' than marry you," said I,
politely.
But it seemed that he wasn't thinking so much about being married, as
just being engaged. As to marrying, we were both very young, and he
would wait for me till we could afford to marry, which mightn't be for
some time yet, he explained. What he was keen on beginning at once, was
being engaged.
"Why?" I asked, savagely.
"Because I don't want anyone else to think he has a chance. That's the
plain truth," said Dick, in the most brazen way.
That staggered me; for he was glaring straight into my eyes in such a
meaning way I couldn't help understanding _who_ was in his mind. So
utterly _ridiculous_! As if the person he meant would ever think of me!
And Dick used to say himself that Sir Lionel Pendragon took no interest
in girls, or any women except Mrs. Senter. I'd have liked to remind him
of this, only I wouldn't let him see that I read his thoughts.
"I believe you must be mad," said I.
"I shouldn't wonder," said he. "Anyhow, I'm mad enough to go straight to
Sir Lionel with the whole story the minute he comes back from his walk
with his sister and my aunt, unless you do what I want."
"That won't be very nice for Mrs. Senter," I temporized, "if she's
enjoying this trip she was so anxious to take; for if Sir Lionel knows
about Ellaline the tour will probably break up, and he'll rush over to
France."
"On the contrary, it will be nice for her," Dick returned, "because many
a heart is caught in the rebound."
I said that this argument was too intricate for me, but it wasn't
really. I knew quite well what he meant, though of course he is
absolutely mistaken, as far as Sir Lionel's feelings toward me are
concerned. But I had to think quickly, and I thought maybe he was right
about his aunt. She would be a woman who would make _any_ use of an
emergency. And once she had compromised poor Sir Lionel, it would be too
late, for I have an idea he'd be exaggeratedly honourable.
You may smile at my saying she'd compromise him. But you know what I
mean. I'm not sure _I_ do--but anyhow, I couldn't bear to have her do
it, especially if it could be prevented by me. I sat still a minute,
reflecting, and then asked Dick what he meant by "being engaged."
He replied that he meant the usual thing; and I replied to this that
nothing could tempt me. He saw I wouldn't go back from my word, so he
promised, if I _would_ be engaged, that he'd not try even to hold my
hand until I should be willing. All he would ask was, that he might tell
his aunt we had a "kind of a, sort of an understanding," which might
develop into an engagement, and let _her_ tell Sir Lionel. Nothing more
than that; and why should I mind, when in any case there could never
have been a question of my marrying Sir L.?
I said I did mind horribly, but not on that account, and I should never
marry anyone. I was almost ready to cry, I felt so wretched. I don't
think I was ever as miserable in my life, dear; though, when I come to
argue it out with myself, I've pretended so much to please Ellaline, it
oughtn't to matter, pretending a little more.
Just then all three of the others came along, and seeing us on the
beach, joined us. Dick put on a familiar air with me, as if he had
rights, and I saw Sir Lionel glance from me to him, and draw his
eyebrows together.
I came indoors then, to my room, and didn't go out again till dinner
time. I was half afraid Mrs. Senter might already have got in her deadly
work, but if she had, Sir Lionel didn't say anything to me. Only it was
a horrid dinner, in spite of nice, seaside things to eat. Nobody spoke
much, and I felt so choked I could hardly swallow.
Oh, I am homesick for you, dear. I hurried upstairs, as soon as dinner
was over, saying I had letters to write. To-morrow, early, we start for
Sidmouth, in Devonshire, going by way of Weymouth and Dorchester. As I
write, looking from my window, across which I haven't drawn the
curtains, I can see Sir Lionel and Mrs. Senter strolling out of the
hotel, toward the beach. There's a lovely blue dusk, which the sunset
struck into a million glorious sparks, and then let fade again into a
dull glow, like ashes of roses. They look a romantic couple walking
together. I wonder if they are talking about each other, to each other,
or--about _Dick and me_? I feel as if I should have to scream--"Sir
Lionel, don't believe it. It isn't true!" But of course, I can't. I
think I shall go to bed, and then I won't be tempted to look out of the
window.
Always your own loving
Audrie.
Please write at once, and address Poste Restante, Torquay.
XIV
SIR LIONEL PENDRAGON TO COLONEL PATRICK O'HAGAN
_Knoll Park Hotel, Sidmouth, Devon_,
_August 2nd. Evening_
My Dear Pat: I am a fool. By this time you will soon be
receiving my first letter, and saying to yourself, "He is on the way to
being a fool." Well, I am already that fool. I didn't see where I was
drifting, but I see now that it had begun then; and of course you, a
spectator, won't be dense as I was at first. You will know.
I didn't suppose this thing could happen to me again. I thought I was
safe. But at forty, it's worse with me than when I was twenty-one.
I don't need to explain. Yet I will say in self-defence that, fool as I
am, I am not going to let anyone but you know that I'm a fool.
Especially the girl. She would be thunderstruck. Not that girls of
nineteen haven't married men of forty, and perhaps cared for them. But
this girl has been brought up since her babyhood to think of me as her
guardian, and an elderly person beyond the pale where love or even
flirtation is concerned. Imagine a daughter and namesake of Ellaline de
Nesville being in the society of a man, and not trying to flirt with
him! It's almost inconceivable. But Ellaline the second shows not the
slightest inclination to flirt with me. She is gentle, sweet, charming,
even obedient; perhaps I might say daughterly, if I were willing to hurt
my own feelings. Therefore, even without Mr. Dick Burden's oppressive
respect for me, I must suppose that I am regarded as a generation
behind.
By the way, that young beast made me a present of a cane the other day.
Not an ordinary stick, but an old gentleman's cane, with a gold head on
it. He said he saw it in a shop at Weymouth, where we stopped for lunch,
and thought it so handsome, he begged that I would accept it. His aunt
laughed, called him a ridiculous little boy, and advised me to have
"Thou shalt not steal" engraved on a gold band, with my name and
address. This was to soothe my _amour propre_; but, while I wonder
whether the thing really _is_ a gift suitable to my years, I long to lay
it across the giver's back. He gave it to me before Ellaline, too. What
an idiot I am to care! I can laugh, for my sense of humour hasn't yet
jilted me, if my good sense has. But the laugh is on the wrong side of
my mouth.
I feel somewhat better, having confessed my foolishness--which you would
have divined without the confession. The girl doesn't suspect. I enact
the "heavy father" even more ostentatiously than if I weren't ass enough
to prefer a rôle for which time and our relationship have unfitted me.
But it's rather curious, isn't it, what power one little woman can wield
over a man's life, even the life of a man who is as far as possible from
being a "woman's man"? Ellaline de Nesville pretty well spoiled my early
youth, or would if I hadn't freed myself to take up other interests. She
burdens the remainder of my young years by making me, willy nilly, the
guardian of her child. And, not content with that, she (indirectly)
destroys what might have been the comfortable contentment of my middle
age.
Women are the devil. All but this one--and she isn't a woman yet.
The dangerous part is that I am not as grimly unhappy as I ought to be.
There are moments, hours, when I forget that there's any obstacle
dividing Ellaline's future from mine. I think of her as belonging to me.
I feel that she is to be a part of my life always, as she is now. And
until I have again drummed it into my rebellious head that she is not
for me, that my business with her is to see that she gets a rich,
well-born, and well-looking young husband, not more than two-thirds of
my age, I enjoy myself hugely in her nearness.
But, why not, after all? Just for the length of this tour in the
motor-car, which throws us so constantly together? As long as I don't
betray myself, why not? Why not revel in borrowed sunshine? At Graylees,
I can turn over a new leaf; I need see very little of her there. She and
Emily will have plenty to do, with their social duties, and I shall have
my own. Let me be a fool in peace till Graylees, then. If I _can_ be a
fool in peace!
Talking of borrowed sunshine, England seems to have borrowed an
inexhaustible supply from some more "favoured clime" this summer. I dare
say we shall have to pay for it later. I shall have to pay for my
private supply, too--but no matter.
Next to my native Cornwall, I think I prefer Devonshire; and Devonshire
is being particularly kind and hospitable, offering us her choicest
gifts.
It's said that the Earth is a host who murders all his guests. But he
certainly gives some of us, for some of the time, glorious innings
during our visit to him. I don't complain, though my stay so far has
been accompanied by a good deal of stormy weather.
I remember your once remarking that Weymouth would be a good place to
hide in, if you wanted to grow a beard or anything lingering and
unbecoming; but you wouldn't make that remark now: there are too many
pretty women in the nice, tranquil old town. Just at this season it's
far from dull, and walking along the Esplanade, while young Nick mended
a tire, I understood something of George the Third's fondness for the
place. Certainly vanity wouldn't permit you to show your nose on parade
or beach, in these times, during the beard-growing process, for there's
apparently no hour of the day when a lively scene isn't being enacted on
both: the sands thickly dotted with tents; charming girls bathing,
chubby children playing, pretty women reading novels under red parasols,
fishermen selling silver-scaled fish, boatmen soliciting custom; the
parade crowded with "trippers," soldiers and sailors; the wide road
noisy with motor-cars and motor-'buses; even the sea gay with boats of
all descriptions, and at least one big war vessel hovering in the
distance. Besides, there is the clock-tower. I don't know why I like it
so much, but I do. I have a feeling that Weymouth would be worth a visit
for the sake of that clock alone; and then there's the extraordinary
historical and geological interest, which no other watering-place has.
Burden was anxious to go over to Portland, lured there, no doubt, by the
incipient detective talent of which he boasts; but the ladies voted it
too sad a place to see, on an excursion of pleasure, and perhaps they
were right. The sort of woman who would like to go and spend a happy
afternoon staring at a lot of unfortunate wretches dressed in a pattern
of broad arrows, would go "slumming" out of idle curiosity; and I have
always thought I could not love a woman who amused herself by slumming,
any more than I could love one who eagerly patronized bull-fights.
Thomas Hardy's work is too near Nature's heart to appeal to Mrs. Senter,
and too clever for my good sister Emily, who will read no author,
willingly, unless he calls a spade a pearl-headed hatpin. But Ellaline,
strange to say, has been allowed to read him. Evidently French schools
are not what they once were; and she and I particularly wanted to go
through Dorchester (his Casterbridge) even though we could see nothing
of Hardy's place, Max Gate, except its tree-tops. A pity more English
towns haven't made boulevards of their earthworks (since there are
plenty that have earthworks), planting them with chestnuts and
sycamores, as Dorchester has cleverly done. It was an idea worthy of a
"Mayor of Casterbridge." We lingered a bit, in the car, picking out
"landmarks" of resemblance to the book, and there were plenty. You know,
there's a magnificent Roman amphitheatre near by; but did we stay to
look at it? My friend, we are motorists! And it happened to be a grand
day with the car, which, though still very new, has "found" itself.
"Apollo" seemed a steed of "pure air and fire; and the dull elements of
earth and water never appear in him." He chafed against stopping, and I
humoured him gladly.