thought you had gone with your own party. I was surprised to meet you
here just now. I'm afraid there must have been some misunderstanding,
for certainly Mr. and Mrs. Tyndal and their young cousin have really
gone, because they bade me good-bye here in the hall, and said they
hoped to come back some day."
She looked at me pityingly, and I felt exactly like Robinson Crusoe
before he knew there was going to be a Friday; but, like him, I kept a
stiff upper lip. I am happy to say I even laughed. "Well, that's very
funny," said I, as if being pigeon-holed by Sir Lionel and marooned by
the Tyndals was the most amusing experience in the world, and I simply
delighted in it. "Of course, somebody or other will count noses and miss
me after a while. Then they'll have to come back and fetch me, I
suppose."
"You could go on to Bideford by rail, if you liked," the landlady
informed me gratuitously. "There is a train early this afternoon,
and----"
"Oh, I think I'd better wait here," I said. "If they came back and found
me gone, it would be too complicated."
She agreed; but she little guessed how much more complicated it would be
to take a train for anywhere without any pennies. If I had money, I
would go to _you_, and not to Bideford. At least, that is the way I feel
now; but I suppose I wouldn't, for my obligations to Ellaline haven't
snapped with the strain of the situation, although just at this moment
they don't seem to matter. It's only deep down in my heart that I know
they do matter.
There is my scrape, dearest of women, and mamma whom I would select if I
were able to choose among all eligible mothers since Eve, up to date.
The situation hasn't changed in the least, to the time of writing,
except that it has lasted longer, and got frayed round the edges.
I was paid for, including food and lodging, until after breakfast. It is
now half-past five o'clock P.M., pouring with rain, howling
with wind, and not only has nobody come back to collect me, but nobody
has telephoned or telegraphed. I have eaten, or pretended to eat, a
luncheon, for which I have no money to pay. I refused tea, but was so
kindly urged that I had to reconsider; and the buttered toast of
servitude is at this moment sticking in my throat, lodged on the sharp
edge of an unuttered sob. Your poor, forlorn little daughter! What is to
become of her? Will she have to go to the place of unclaimed parcels? Or
will she be sold as bankrupt stock? Or will she become a kitchen-maid or
"tweeny" in King Arthur's Castle? But don't worry, darling. I won't be
such a beast as to post this letter till something is settled, somehow,
even if I have to rob the hotel till.
There is nothing to do except write, for I can't compose my mind to
read; so I will continue recording my emotions, as French criminals do
when condemned to death, or lovesick ladies when they have swallowed
slow poison.
5.50.--Rain worse. Wind yelling imprecations. I sit in the hall, as I
can't call my room my own. New people are arriving. They look Cook-ey,
but are probably Countesses. I gaze at them haughtily, and try to appear
prosperous. I hope they think my mother, the Duchess, is taking a nap in
our magnificent suite upstairs, while I write a letter to my godfather,
the Prince, to thank him for his birthday gift of a rope of pearls which
reaches to my knees.
6.15.--The landlady has just been sympathizing with me. She says there
is a night train to Bideford. I have poured cold water upon the night
train to Bideford, and came near pouring some hot tears on the timetable
she kindly brought me.
6.25.--People are going up to dress for dinner. They are God's
creatures, but I do not love them.
6.40.--The head-waiter has just fluttered up to ask if I would like a
smaller table for dinner. No table would be too small for my appetite. I
said----
7.10.--Darling, Sir Lionel has come back for me, alone, dripping wet,
and it was all a mistake, and he did want me, and he's furious with
everybody in the world except me, to whom he is perfectly adorable. And
I'm afraid I adore him. And we're starting at once, when we've had a
sandwich and coffee--can't wait for dinner. Everything is _too_ nice.
I'll explain as soon as I've time to write.
Your Radiant Transformation Scene,
A. B.
XXIV
AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER
_The Luttrell Arms, Dunster_,
_Aug. 18th_
Duck of the Universe: Five days since I wrote, and it seems
five minutes. But I did telegraph--with my last shilling; and even that
would be rightfully Ellaline's, if the labourer weren't worthy of his
hire.
You see, after the letter I had from her in Torquay, when she wanted
money to go to Scotland with her new friends, the McNamaras, I very
reluctantly screwed my courage to the asking point, and got more out of
Sir Lionel. If he weren't the most generous man in the world he would
have privately dubbed me "Oliver Twist" by this time. Perhaps he has!
But I trust not. Anyhow, I shall get on without more requests, I hope,
until the next "allowance" day comes round; or until every pin is lost
and every hairpin has dropped out.
Because in the telegram I was forced to be economical, and ran only to
"All well. Love" ("much" scratched out as an extravagance), I must now
go back to the moment of Sir Lionel's unexpected, almost miraculous,
appearance at Tintagel.
There I was in the hall, scribbling dolefully about my symptoms. "Teuf,
teuf, teuf!" heard outside, between screeches of wind. In bounces Sir
Lionel, wet as a merman, dripping rivulets at every step, splashing,
swashing in his boots, drops dripping from his eyelashes; glares around,
looking ready to bite someone's head off without salt or sauce; sees me;
brightens with a watery gleam; comes toward me, rather shy and stiff,
yet evidently under the influence of--emotion of some sort. I didn't
know whether to expect a scolding or a blessing, so waited speechless.
"What a brute you must think me," was his first remark. I drank it as a
thirsty traveller lost on the Sahara would bolt a pint of dew.
"I didn't know what to think," I replied conservatively. "But you are
wet, aren't you?"
"Am I?" he asked, mildly surprised. "I hadn't noticed. I suppose I am.
It's raining."
"I should think it was," said I. And then we both laughed. It is the
nicest thing, to laugh with Sir Lionel! Whatever he might have done
against me, I forgave him all instantly.
"Never mind whether I'm wet or dry," he went on. "Whichever I am, it
won't hurt me. The only thing that has hurt was thinking of you being
here--abandoned. By Jove!--I've been in a murderous mood!"
"A good thing you weren't back in Bengal," said I, mildly.
He looked at me with a sharp look. "Who has been telling you tales about
me in Bengal?"
"I sometimes read newspapers," I explained.
"Schoolgirls have no business with newspapers. But hang Bengal! I want
to come to an understanding with you. Is it true or is it not that you
wanted to go with the Tyndals in their motor to-day?"
"I wanted to, if you wanted me to."
"I didn't. I hated the idea. But, of course, if you----"
"_I_ didn't. I hated the idea. But I thought your motor was too full for
such hilly country."
(Dearest, I longed to tell him who had said that _he_ had said, etc.,
etc.; but I'd promised; and one must keep one's promises even to Cats.)
"My dear child," Sir Lionel burst out, "little girls shouldn't do too
much independent thinking. It's bad for their health and their
guardians' tempers. If my motor had been too full for hilly country, you
wouldn't have been the Jonah to cast into the sea. Nick would have been
fed to the whales. But the idea was ridiculous--ridiculous!"
I was so happy, I didn't even want to defend myself. I understood most
of the mystery now. I suppose it's a compliment to a girl if a woman of
the world wants to get rid of her. Anyhow, I consoled myself for hours
of misery by laying that flattering unction to my soul.
If I had liked, I could have unravelled the whole tangle for Sir
Lionel's still puzzled mind; but if I had done so, I should have been
returning cat-claw for cat-claw; so I pretended to be "lost in it, my
lord"; and, indeed, it was true that I couldn't understand why the
Tyndals had failed me.
Sir Lionel explained that, just before reaching Bideford the silencer
worked loose, and so got upon Mrs. Norton's nerves that Apollo was
stopped in the pouring rain for Young Nick to right the wrong. As if to
prove the truth of the proverb, "the more haste the less speed," in his
hurry poor Buddha burnt his hand. While he was wringing it like a
distracted goblin, along came the Tyndal car, which had left Tintagel
about half an hour after Apollo. To Sir Lionel's amazement, no me!
Questions on his part; according to him, idiotic answers on the part of
the Tyndals. _He_ had thought, of course, I was going with them. _They_
had thought that I'd changed my mind, and gone earlier with him.
Everybody confused, apologetic, repeating the same silly excuses over
and over, three or four times. Nobody showing the slightest sign of
having a remnant of common sense.
"By Jove! I could have cheerfully executed the lot of them--all but the
boy, who seemed to have some glimmerings of sanity," grumbled Sir
Lionel. "He had wanted to run up and knock at your door, to make sure
you really had gone; but somebody--he began to say who, when Mrs. Tyndal
stepped on his foot--forbade him to do it."
I think I can guess who the somebody was, can't you? Though I don't see
what arguments she can have used to persuade the really good-natured
Tyndals to abandon me.
The rest of the story is, that when Sir Lionel found I had been left
behind, he said he would at once turn back and fetch me. Judging from
one or two things he let slip inadvertently, I fancy he wanted Emily to
come with him, but she drew the line at chaperoning in wet weather, and
missing her tea. She proposed telegraphing for me to come on by rail.
Sir Lionel wouldn't hear of my making such a journey unaccompanied--me,
a simple little French schoolgirl who had never travelled alone in her
life! Then Mrs. Senter, kind creature, volunteered to be his companion,
if he must return; but Sir Lionel firmly refused the unselfish offer,
saying he wouldn't for the world put her to so much unnecessary trouble.
Nick he would have brought, but the unfortunate brown image was
suffering so much pain from his burnt hand, that the only humane thing
to do was to drive him to a doctor's--which was exactly what Sir Lionel
did. Rooms were already engaged at the Royal Hotel; he dumped out Emily,
Mrs. Senter, and the luggage there; left Young Nick having his hand
treated; and without so much as crossing the threshold of the hotel,
turned Apollo's bright bonnet toward Tintagel and me. Rain was coming
down in floods. He said nothing about that, but I knew. The storm drew
down twilight like the lid of a box; the road was deep in mud;
everything that could happen to delay the car did happen; once Sir
Lionel had to mend a tire himself, and almost wished he hadn't made
Young Nick disgorge the stolen tool; he ought to have arrived at
Tintagel an hour before he did; but here he was at last. And would I
have a sandwich, and then start, or would I prefer to wait for dinner?
I snatched at the sandwich idea, and his eye brightened. He said he only
_looked_ wet, for everything was waterproof, and he was "right as
rain"--which sounded too appropriate to be comfortable.
We ate as the Israelites of old in Passover days, figuratively with our
staves in our hands; at least, I had a bag in mine, and Sir Lionel a
road book, because he'd lost his way once in his haste, and didn't want
to make further mistakes.
By the time we were ready to start, it was as if Merlin had woven an
enchantment of invisibility, not only over the castle ruins, but over
the whole landscape, which was blotted out behind a white avalanche of
rain. The wind howled, mingling with the boom of the sea; and altogether
it was such a bewitched, Walpurgis world that I tingled with excitement.
Sir Lionel wanted to put me inside the car, but I pleaded that I had
been so lonely and sad all day, I must be close to someone now. This
plea instantly broke down his determination, which had been very
square-chinned and firm till I happened to think of that argument.
He knew my coat to be waterproof, because he chose it himself in London,
and I tied on a perfectly sweet rain-hood, which I'd never needed
before, because this was the only real storm we'd had. It is a crimson
hood, and I knew I was nice in it, from the look of Sir Lionel's eyes.
This was my first night run in the car, and the first time since
starting on the tour that I'd sat on the front seat by his side. Early
as it was, it "made night," and Sir Lionel lit the great lamps.
Instantly it was as if a curtain of darkness unrolled on either side,
leaving only the road clear and pale, spouting mud, and the rain in
front like a silver veil floating across black velvet. I sat close to
Sir Lionel. I can't tell you how good the sense of his nearness and
protection was, and how glad I felt to know that he hadn't really wanted
to send me away from him. I would have given up anything--no,
_everything_ else in the world just then, for the sake of that
knowledge--except, of course, your dear love. We didn't talk much, but
he is one of those men to whom you don't need to talk. The silence was
like that unerring kind of speech when you can't say the wrong thing if
you try; and if Sir Lionel had said in the wind and darkness: "I have
got to drive the car into the sea, and you and I must die together in
five minutes," I should have answered: "Very well. With you I'm not
afraid." And it would have been true.
The hills looked stupendous before we quite came to them; great bunchy
black humps of night; but they seemed to kneel like docile elephants as
we drew near, to let Apollo mount upon their backs. We passed lovely old
cottages, which in the strange white light of our Bleriots looked flat,
as stage scenery, against that wide-stretched "back-cloth" of inky
velvet. It was like motoring in a dream--one of those dreams born before
you've quite dropped asleep, while your eyes are still open. We tore
through Boscastle, and on to Bude, along an empty road, with the trees
flying by like torn black flags, and the rain giving a glimpse now and
then of tall cliffs, as its veil blew aside. I was never so happy in my
life, and when I just couldn't help saying so to Sir Lionel, what do you
suppose he answered? "That's exactly what I was thinking." And then he
added: "Good girl! Grand little sportswoman! I'm proud of you!"
Presently, once in a while the dazzling radiance of our lamps would die
down and threaten to fail. At last it did fail altogether, and we were
blotted out in the night, as if we had suddenly ceased to exist.
"Carbide all used up," explained Sir Lionel. By this time we were near
Hartland Point (the promontory of Hercules for the ancients) and Sir
Lionel said that the best thing to do was to crawl on slowly until we
should come to Clovelly. There we could leave the car at the top of the
hill, go down to the village, rouse someone at a hotel, get hot coffee,
and wait until dawn, when the lamps would no longer be needed.
We could distinguish nothing in the night, except a glimmer of road
between dark banks, until suddenly, looking far down toward the moaning
sea, we caught sight of a few lights like yellow stars which seemed to
have been tossed over a precipice, and to have caught on a steep
hillside, as they rolled. "That's Clovelly," said Sir Lionel. He stopped
the car on a kind of natural plateau and lifted me lightly down, so that
I shouldn't splash into unseen abysses of mud. Apollo would be safe
there, he said, though in old days the folk of Clovelly used to be not
only desperate smugglers, but wreckers, and would entice ships upon the
rocks by means of lure-lights. They were very different now, and as
honest and kind-hearted as any people in the world.
There was no dawn yet, but the wind had dropped a little, and the long
crystal spears of rain seemed to bring with them an evanescent, ethereal
glitter, reflected from unseen stars above the clouds. The trembling
silver haze dimly showed us how to pick our way down a steep, narrow
street of steps, over which fountains of water played and swirled. There
were lights of boats in a little harbour, far, far below, and the
extraordinary village of tiny white houses appeared to have tumbled down
hill, like a broken string of pearls fallen from a goddess's neck.
Sir Lionel held my arm to keep me from tripping, and we descended the
steps slowly, the rain that sprayed against our faces smelling salt as
the sea, its briny "tang" mingling with the fragrance of honeysuckle and
fuchsias. The combination, distilled by the night, was intoxicating; and
if I ever smell it again, even at the other end of the world, my
thoughts will run back to Sir Lionel and the fairy village of Clovelly.
Half-way down the cleft in the cliff, which is Clovelly's one street, we
stopped at a house where a faint light burned sleepily. It was the New
Inn, and when Sir Lionel knocked loudly, I was doubtful as to the
reception we were likely to have at such an hour. But I needn't have
worried--in Devon! Even if you wake people out of pleasant dreams to
disagreeable realities, and demand coffee, and trail wet marks over
their clean floors, they are kind and friendly. A delightful man let us
in, and instead of scolding, pitied us--a great deal more than I, at any
rate, needed to be pitied. He lit lights, and we saw a quaint room,
whose shadows threw out unexpected gleams of polished brass, and blues
and pinks of old china.
Though the calendar said August 13th, the temperature talked it down,
and insisted on November, so an invitation into a clean, warm kitchen
was acceptable. The nice man poked up the dying fire, put on wood and
coals, and soon got a kettle of water to boiling. We should have some
good hot coffee, he cheerily promised, before we could say "Jack
Robinson." But when it leaked out that we had had no dinner except a
sandwich at Tintagel, and nothing since, his warm Devonshire heart
yearned over us; and to the hot coffee he added eggs and bacon.
While the dear things fizzled and bubbled, we were allowed to sit by the
stove and toast our feet; and if anything could have smelled more
heavenly than the salt rain and sweet honeysuckle out of doors, it would
have been the eggs and bacon in the New Inn kitchen.
We begged to eat in the kitchen, too, and even that was permitted us, at
a table spread with a clean cloth which must have been put away in a
lavender cupboard. By the time the coffee, with foaming hot milk, and
the sizzling eggs and bacon were ready, the early daylight was blue on
the window panes. The rain had stopped with the first hint of sunrise,
and in Clovelly at least (Clovelly means "shut in valley," a name not
worthy of its elfin charm) the wind had gone to sleep.
I don't know how much Sir Lionel suggested paying for that breakfast,
but it must have been something out of the way, for our Devonshire
benefactor protested that it was far too much. He would accept the
regular price, and no more. Why, we had only got him up an hour before
his usual time. That was nothing. It would do him good; and he would
have no extra pay.
Warm, comfortable, and refreshed, Sir Lionel and I bade our host
good-bye, meaning to continue our journey to Bideford; but what we saw
outside was too beautiful to turn our backs upon in that unappreciative,
summary fashion. It was not sunrise yet, but was just going to be
sunrise, and the world seemed to be waiting for it, hushed and
expectant.
The white village glimmered in the pearly light, like a waterfall
arrested in its rush down a cleft in a hill. Not having seen Clovelly,
you may think that a far-fetched simile; but really it isn't. If a young
cataract could be turned into a village, that would be Clovelly. The
marvellous little place is absolutely unique; yet if one could liken it
to anything else on earth, it might be to a corner of Mont St. Michel,
or a bit of old Bellagio, going down to the sea; and certainly it is
more Italian than English in atmosphere and colouring, only it is
perfectly clean, as clean as a toy, or a Dutch village; so _that_ part
of the "atmosphere" isn't entirely Italian! I even saw waste-paper pots;
and if that isn't like Broek in Waterland, what is? Down in the harbour,
the fishing boats lay like a flock of resting birds; and as we descended
the cobbled steps of the street, to go to the shore, the early morning
donkeys began to come up, laden with heavy bags and panniers, just as
you and I saw them in Italy, and driven by just such boys and old men as
I remember there, dark-eyed, picturesque, one or two with red caps. The
doors of the little low-browed houses huddled on either side opened here
and there, up and down the path, giving glimpses of pretty, neat
interiors; bits of old furniture, the glint of a copper kettle, a brass
jug, or a bit of mended blue china. A gossipy Devonshire cat came out
and begged for caresses, mewing the news of the night--such a chatty
creature!--and down on the beach, we made friends with the oldest man of
the village, born in 1816. He was a handsome old fellow, with pathetic,
faded eyes in a tanned, ruddy face; and the queer little harbour
(everything is little at Clovelly, except the inhabitants) with its
rustic sort of pier, and red-sailed fishing boats, looked as if it had
been designed entirely as a background for him. However, it's much more
antique even than he--six hundred years old, instead of something short
of a hundred, and made by the famous Carey family. We stopped there
talking to the ancient sailor-man, hearing how the Clovelly fishermen go
out with black nets by day in good weather, and at night with white
ones, to "attract the fish." "That is trew, Miss," said he, when I
laughed, thinking it a joke. I love the Devonshire way of saying "true,"
and other words that rhyme. Their soft voices are as gentle, as kindly,
as the murmur of their own blue sea.
As we mounted the ladder-like path to the top of Clovelly, to go back to
Apollo again, the sun came up out of the sea, where the blue line of
water marked the edge of the world, and spilt floods of gold over it,
like a tilted christening cup. We turned and stood still to watch the
day born of dawn; and I feel sure that if we had come to Clovelly to
spend several weeks, I could never have learned to know the place as I
had divined it, in this adventure. You seem to learn more about a flower
by inhaling its perfume after rain, don't you think, than by dissecting
it, petal by petal? I fancy there is something like that in getting the
feeling and impression of places at their best, by sudden revelations.
Of course, I want to go back to Clovelly, but not with any of the Mrs.
Nortons of the world. I couldn't bear to do that, after being alone
there with Sir Lionel. While one's heart is thrilled by exquisite
sights, and the ineffable thoughts born of them, one knows poor Emily is
wondering whether the servants are looking after things properly at
home; and that very knowledge is apt to slam down an iron shutter in
one's soul.
It must have been about five o'clock when we took our places in the car
again. We had only eleven miles' run to Bideford, and I wished them
twice eleven, for surely they are among the most beautiful miles in
England. No wonder people believe in fairies in this part of the world!
It would be ungrateful if they didn't. As the sun climbed, the brown
wood roads were inlaid with gold in wavy patterns. From our heights, now
and again we caught glimpses of Clovelly, down its deep ravines. The
Hobby Drive, which belongs to Clovelly Court, is almost more exquisite
than Buckland Chase, on the way to Dartmoor; if you had been there with
me, you would know I couldn't give it higher praise. And how I wish you
_had_ been! How I wish you could see these English woods! They have such
an air of dainty gaiety, very different from Austrian or German or
French forests; and though their elms and oaks and beeches are often
giants, they seem dedicated to the spirit of youth. Their shadows are
never black, but only a darker green, or translucent gray; and part of
their charm is a nymph-like frivolousness which comes, I think, from
their ruffly green _dessous_. Other woods have no _dessous_. Their
ankles are mournfully bare, and their stockings dark.