stone, wrapped in moss, was a lump of silver coated with verdigris;
distant cliffs seen between the trees were cut out of gray-green jade,
against a sea of changing opal; and in the high minstrel-galleries of
the latticed beeches a concert of birds was fluting.
Isn't Gallantry Bower a fine name? At first thought it would appear an
inappropriate one, for it's a sheer cliff overlooking the sea on one
side and a vast sweep of woodland on the other; but I can make it seem
appropriate, by picturing some wild brave sailor making love to his
sweetheart there, and telling her about the sea, her only rival in his
love. No doubt it's a corruption of some old Cornish name, and I refuse
to accept it as a Lover's Leap, though such a legend has grown up around
it. I'm tired of Lover's Leaps.
The whole coast, as we swept round, was a vast golden sickle in the
early morning light; and everything was so beautiful that the door of my
heart swung wide open. No arm would have been strong enough to push it
shut, not even Mrs. Senter's. Instead of feeling angry with her, as we
drew near Bideford, I was grateful for the adventure she had
(indirectly) given me.
The servants of the Royal Hotel were just waking up, but, of course,
being Devonshire people, instead of being cross they were delightfully
good-natured and smiling. I was shown to a pleasant room, and provided
with a hot bath which (with nearly a whole bottle of eau de Cologne
extravagantly emptied into it) made me feel as if I had had a refreshing
eight hours' sleep. Already it seemed as if the night's experience had
been a dream, dreamed in that sleep. But I was glad, glad it was real,
and not a dream; something I had lived through, by Sir Lionel's side; a
clear memory to remain like a happy island in the sea of life whatever
the future weather.
I dressed slowly, not wanting even "forty winks"; and about eight
o'clock Emily knocked at my door. She had been worried, she said, and
not able to sleep, fearing accidents, waking now and then, to listen for
the sound of a car. Poor dear, she wouldn't know Apollo's noble voice
from the threepenny thrum of a motor bicycle! But she was kind and
solicitous, though I think a little shocked to find my vitality in such
a state of effervescence. She would have approved of me if I had been a
draggled wreck; but even as it was, she felt it worth while to explain
why she hadn't accompanied her brother. She would have proposed doing
so, she assured me, but her neuralgia had been very trying yesterday,
owing to the bad weather and east wind. She feared to be more trouble
than assistance to Sir Lionel, and as he was my guardian, I was
sufficiently chaperoned by him; any expert in etiquette would confirm
her in that opinion, she anxiously added. Nevertheless, when I told her
about our stop at Clovelly, she shook her head, and intimated that
perhaps it had better not be referred to in public. I suppose by "in
public," she meant before the Tyndals and Mrs. Senter.
At nine I had the pleasure of meeting the fair Gwendolen again, in one
of the most remarkable rooms you can imagine. Sir Lionel had engaged it
in advance, to be our private sitting-room, but it is as celebrated as
it is interesting. Only think, Charles Kingsley wrote "Westward Ho!" in
it, and it is such a quaint and beautiful room, it must have given him
inspiration. You see, the hotel used to be the house of a merchant
prince who was a great importer of tobacco in Queen Elizabeth's days; so
it isn't strange that it should have many fine rooms; but the one where
Kingsley wrote is the best. It's sad that the oak panelling should be
ruined with paint and varnish; but nothing short of an earthquake could
spoil the ceiling, which is the famous feature. The merchant prince
hired two Italians to come to England and make the wonderful mouldings
by hand. That was long before the days of cement, so the fantastic
shapes had to be fastened to each other and the ceiling with copper
wire. When the skilled workmen had finished their fruits and flowers and
leaves, and all the weird fancies which signified the evolution of Man,
the canny merchant prince promptly packed the Italians back again to
their native land, lest other merchant princes should employ them to
repeat the marvellous ceiling for their houses! By this thoughtful act,
he secured for himself the one and only specimen of the kind; and to
this day nobody has ever been able to copy it, though the attempt has
often been made. The marvellous part is the startlingly high relief of
the mouldings, and the quaintness of the evolutionary ideas, all those
centuries before Darwin.
It was rather disappointing to find out that the beautiful ceiling had
nothing to do with Charles Kingsley's wish to use the room as a study.
It was in the time of the present landlord's grandfather, who owned a
quantity of rare old books, records of Bideford's past, and Mr. Kingsley
wanted to refer to them. But their owner valued them too much to lend,
even to such a man as Charles Kingsley. "You must come and write in the
room," said he. So Kingsley came and wrote in the room, and liked it and
the books so much that he gave a glowing account of both to Froude, who
presently arrived and used the remarkable room for _his_ study, too.
The books are there still, carefully put away; and a portrait of the
good Mayor of Westward Ho! (the novel, not its namesake town) which was
found in the cellar with Vandyck's name faintly traced on it, hangs
opposite the fireplace. The great treasure of the room, though, after
the ceiling, is a letter from Kingsley, framed, protected with glass,
and lying on a table.
Mrs. Senter looked almost green, when she beheld me, the picture of
health and joy, and saw on what good terms I was with Sir Lionel. I am
certain, dear, that she wants to marry him, and I can't think she's
capable of appreciating such a man, so it must be for his money. A
"sportin', huntin', don't-you-know--what?" sort of fellow would please
her better, if all else were suitable, because she could turn him round
her finger; and that neither she nor anybody else can ever do with Sir
Lionel--though he is pathetically chivalrous where women are concerned,
and still more pathetically credulous.
I remember so well your reading "Westward Ho!" aloud to me when I was
about ten, and had been ill. I associate it with the joy of getting
well. It made me feel proud of my Devonshire ancestors, even then, and
it makes me more proud now, for I've been reading the book for the
second time, in Kingsley-land. It's like the Bible almost, in Bideford.
I should pity the person who dared pick a flaw in the story, in the
hearing of a Bideford man, woman, or child. Why, I believe even a
Bideford dog would understand the insult, and snap!
It's a great, and rather original compliment to name a town in honour of
a book; but "Westward Ho!" the novel, is worthy of a finer namesake. Of
course, Rudyard Kipling having been to school in Westward Ho! makes the
place more interesting than it ever could have been of itself, in spite
of its glorious neighbour, the sea. But Bideford is a delightful place.
Dad used to say that no men in the world could beat the men of Devon for
courage; and that Bideford men were amongst the bravest of all, as you
and I would have known from "Westward Ho!" even if we'd never read
history. It looks an old-world town, almost unspoiled, even now, with
its far-famed bridge on twenty-four arches, its steeply sloping streets,
its quay, and its quaint pink and green houses by the river. In the Old
Ship Tavern "The Brotherhood of the Rose" was founded (you remember),
and Sir Richard Grenville--dear Sir Richard!--had his house where the
Castle Inn stands now. I took a long walk with Sir Lionel and (I am
sorry to say) Mrs. Senter, on the Quay along the riverside; and there
are some guns there, which they say were lost from the Spanish Armada.
While we were walking, who should join us but Dick Burden, back from
Scotland! It appears that he arrived at Tintagel last night, only a
little while after Sir Lionel and I had left in the car. He expected to
be earlier, but he took cross-country trains which looked promising on
time-tables, and missed connection. I can't be thankful enough he didn't
arrive before we started, instead of after, for, of course, Sir Lionel
would have had to ask him to come with us, and that would have spoiled
everything. There would have been no beautiful "memory island" in my
sea! Do you know, I had almost forgotten Dick for two or three days? He
seemed to have gone out of my life, as if he had never been in, and it
was quite a mental shock to meet him on the quay at Bideford. He didn't
seem to be in the picture at all, whereas Sir Lionel is always in it,
whatever or whenever it may be.
We (Sir Lionel and I) asked politely for his mother's health, and he
answered, apparently without thinking, "Mother?--oh, she's all right."
Then he evidently remembered that he'd been sent for because she was
ill, and had the grace to look ashamed of his hard-heartedness. He
explained that when he arrived, he found her already better, though
nervous, and that she was "practically cured." But I saw him and his
aunt exchange a look. I wonder if it meant that the mother has any weird
sort of disease--contagious, perhaps? I do hope it isn't anything I
haven't had. It would be so awkward to come down with it now; though the
sight of Dick with mumps, for instance, would repay me for a good deal.
Mrs. Senter's room at Bideford adjoined mine, with a (locked) door
between; and that night, for half an hour after I'd gone to bed I heard
a murmur of voices, hers and Dick's. They seemed to be tremendously in
earnest about something. Luckily, I couldn't hear a word they said;
otherwise I should have had the bother of stopping my ears; but I
couldn't help knowing that there was a heated argument, Aunt Gwen
protesting, Nephew Dick insisting; and, after stress and storm, a final
understanding arrived at which apparently satisfied both.
Such a splendid road it was, going out of Bideford, with views of sea
and river, the distant shore levels indigo, and a fiery golden light,
like spilt sherry, on the livid green of the salt-paled grass. The sails
of fishing boats from Instow rose from dark, ruffled waters, white as
lily petals; and out of heavy purple clouds, poured streams of flaming
light, as if bags loaded with gold dust had burst with their own weight.
Long sand flats gleamed red as coral with some low-growing sea plant;
and the backs of wind-blown leaves on bush and hedge were all dull
silver, under the shadows of racing clouds, that tore at thousand
horse-power speed over golden meadows. It was an extraordinary, but
thoroughly English effect; and isn't it sad, the grazing cows and sheep
we passed never once looked up or cared!
But the people--the charming peasants of Devon--cared. They looked up,
and smiled at their sky, as if it gave them good thoughts; and everyone
on foot or in wagon was so polite to us, flashing such kind looks from
beautiful eyes, that we had the sensation of tasting honey. It kept us
busy, returning the bows of the handsome, courteous people, and,
altogether, it was like a royal progress. Poor Apollo isn't used to such
treatment, out of Devonshire and Cornwall, I can tell you! He always
does his best to be considerate, yet he is often misunderstood, being
nothing but a motor-car, whom nobody loves! It was a joy to see merry
Devonshire children flinging themselves into our dust, as if it were
perfumed spray, and playing that they, too, were motor-cars. Such a nice
change after some counties where we had behaved beautifully without any
appreciation, to feel that for once we gave pleasure to some one, as we
passed in and out of their obscure little lives!
The wind was laden with the scent of honeysuckle, and the sweet, yellow
hay, which blew out of high-piled carts to twine like gold webbing on
flowery hedges and on the crimson hollyhocks that rose like straight,
tall flames against whitewashed walls.
Even the droves of sheep we met were more polite than non-Devonshire
sheep, for instead of blocking our way obstinately, keeping just in
front so that we could pass on neither side, they thoughtfully charged
into village inns and cottage gardens. But, of course, you can't expect
pink sheep to act like ordinary mutton-hood. These Devonshire creatures
look exactly like a lot of pink wool mats blowing away. Probably they
are "pixie led," for Devonshire simply swarms with pixies. If you are a
human being, and happen to put your stockings on wrong side out, they
get power over you at once. But I don't know what the trick is, if you
are a sheep.
We ran above a great ravine at Barnstaple, and the scene was so fine,
that I gave mental thanks to the glaciers which, in the ice age, had so
tastefully scooped out all this down-country into graceful curves and
majestic cliffs. After leaving the sea behind us we were ringed in,
swallowed up among lovely, gracious hills, which hid the world from
us--us from the world. For miles upon miles, a snake-like road writhed
smoothly down the sides of these hills, until at last, after a wildly
exhilarating run we found ourselves in a peaceful green valley. The
Hobby Drive was no more beautiful, and not half so exciting; but by now
we were coming to the Switzerland of England. As we sped on, great downs
rolled up behind us, and towered above our heads like the crests of huge
green waves at breaking point. Even the sky suited itself to the country
here, forming bigger, more tumbled clouds than elsewhere; and to my
surprise I saw American goldenrod, such as I used to gather as a child,
growing, quite at home, among yellow ox-eyed daisies.
There was a tremendous hill, wriggling down with wicked twists to
Lynton, and in the middle we met a car that had torn off all its tires.
Sir Lionel asked if we could do anything, but the chauffeur was so
disgusted with life that, though he snapped out "No, thank you," his
eyes said "Damn!"
At Lynton we stopped at a hotel like an exaggerated, glorified cottage,
with a thatched roof and a veranda running all round. It stands in a
big, perfumed garden, and from the windows and that quaint stone-paved
veranda you can look over the sea to the Welsh coast, whence, at
evening, two blazing eyes of light watch you across the blue water.
Sir Lionel had meant to stay only one night at the Cottage Hotel, but
Lynton was beautiful, with a siren beauty, that would not let us go.
Even his resolution wasn't proof against its witchery. So we stopped two
whole days, going "downstairs" (as I called it) to Lynmouth, to see the
old Shelley Cottage and lots of other things. But oh, what a road from
Lynton! If a young fly, when its mother takes it for its first walk down
a wall, feels as I did, crawling to Lynmouth, both brakes on, I pity it.
I wasn't exactly frightened, for I never could be, quite, with Sir
Lionel driving, but I was prickly with awe. It was a good thing Emily
didn't go with us. I believe her poor little pin-cushion heart would
have burst in sheer fright, and all the sawdust would have trickled out.
I laughed hysterically, when I saw a motor garage at the bottom. It
ought to be a motor hospital, for few cars can get down unscathed, I
should think. Afterward, when we were safely up again, Sir Lionel said
that, if he had known what it was really like he wouldn't have taken
Mrs. Senter and me in the car, but would have had us go in Sir George
Newnes's lift. Not that he didn't trust Apollo, but he confessed to
being uncomfortable for us. I will say that Mrs. Senter behaved well,
however, and never emitted one squeak, though her complexion looked when
we arrived at Lynmouth as if she had been on a tossing ship for weeks.
Up at Lynton, the great thing to do, is to walk along the edge of the
sea cliff to the Valley of Rocks (a kind of nature museum for statues
and busts of Titans), locked in between Castle Rock and the Devil's
Cheesewring. It is a startlingly magnificent walk, but when you are
actually in the Valley of Rocks, it isn't quite so wonderful as when
seen from a distance; the arena itself is rather like the backyard of
the gods, where they threw their broken mead-cups. I had a queer feeling
of having been there before, which I couldn't understand for a minute,
until a scene in "Lorna Doone" flashed back to me. And a young maid in
the hotel firmly believes that many of the fantastic shapes of rock were
once people who (according to an old story), were turned into stone for
behaving irreligiously on Sundays.
Yesterday morning we said good-bye to Lynton, and Sir Lionel, Dick, Mrs.
Senter, and I walked to Watersmeet, Emily going along the upper road in
the car with Young Nick, whose hand was well enough to drive. I don't
know whether Dad ever talked to you about Watersmeet; but I'm surprised
if he didn't, because not only is it one of the very most beautiful
beauty spots of Devon, but not far beyond, on the way to Exmoor, is
Brendon, our name place.
You can guess without my telling, why Watersmeet is called Watersmeet:
and it is the most musical meeting you can imagine; rocks on one side, a
wooded hill on the other, and down below, the singing river. We walked
along an exquisite low-lying path from Watersmeet, and all about I saw
the name of Brendon: Brendon village; Brendon forge, and other Brendons.
I was so excited that I forgot the Lethbridge episode, and was on the
point of exclaiming to Sir Lionel "How interesting to come on father's
ancestral home!" I wonder what would have happened if I had? I should
have had to try and blunder out of the scrape somehow, with Dick's eyes
on me, sparkling with mischief, and Mrs. Senter critical.
I forgot to tell you that the Tyndals left us at Bideford, having no
excuse to cling, even if they wanted to, because they had "done" Exmoor
already; but since the evening when Mrs. Tyndal tried to pump me about
Venice, dear Gwendolen has been restless and suspicious. She can't
suspect the truth, of course, unless Dick has told her, which I'm sure
he hasn't (for his own sake), but she suspects something. She has a
common enough mind to spring to some horrid conclusion, such as my
having been secretly in Venice with objectionable people. Perhaps she
thinks me privately married! I'm sure she'd be delighted if that were
the truth, because then Dick and Sir Lionel would both be safe.
As we walked, Dick kept trying to get me far enough away from the others
to tell me some news, which he hurriedly whispered was important. But
even if I'd wanted to give him a chance, which I didn't, fate would have
denied it to him.
At Rockford Inn we took to the motor again, finding Emily limp after
what she considered appalling hills; but I'm sure they were nothing to
the Lynton-Lynmouth one, as this time Apollo himself had been sent down
in the big lift.
Now we were coming to Doone-land; and I was all eagerness to see it,
because of "Lorna Doone," and because of things I'd heard from Sir
Lionel, as we walked side by side for a few minutes after Watersmeet. I
had supposed that if there were any foundation for the Doone story, it
was as slight as the "fabric of a dream"; but he told me of a pamphlet
he had read, "A Short History of the Original Doones," by a Miss Ida or
Audrie Browne, only about eight or nine years ago. She said it was
extraordinary how well the author of "Lorna" had known all the
traditions of her family--for she was one of the Doones; and that there
really was a Sir Ensor, a wild rebellious son of an Earl of Moray, who
travelled with his wife to Exmoor, and settled there, in a rage because
the king would give him no redress against his elder brother.
"How does she spell her name of Audrie?" I asked, trying to look more
good and innocent than Eve could possibly have been even in
pre-serpentine days.
"A-u-d-r-i-e," he answered, and I trusted that Dick was too far behind
to hear what we were saying. "That was the favourite name for girls in
the Doone family," Sir Lionel went on. "Miss Browne thinks Sir Ensor and
his wife must have crossed the Quantocks coming here, and have taken a
fancy to the name of West Quantoxhead's patron saint, Audrie, also
spelled that way."
"It's rather a pretty name," I ventured, feeling pink.
"One of the prettiest in the world," said Sir Lionel. I was
pleased--though I ought to have been bowed down with the burden of
borrowed guilt.
There was a bad motor road from Oare to the gateway of the moor, but
Apollo didn't mind, though I think he was glad to stop outside Malmsmead
Farm, where we had lunch. I suppose you can't expect such modern
creatures as motors and chauffeurs, especially Bengali ones, to
appreciate farmhouses seven hundred years old! I loved the place,
though, and so did Sir Lionel. Nothing ever tasted better than the rosy
ham, the crisp cottage bread, the thick cream, and wild honey the farm
people gave us. And the honey smelt like the moor, which has just as
individual and haunting a fragrance as Dartmoor, though different.
After lunch I wanted to see the Doone Valley, and the ruins of the Doone
houses (which, by the way, my namesake Miss Browne says were not the
Doone houses, but only the huts where the brigand-band used to keep
stolen cattle), so Sir Lionel said I must have a pony. I wasn't tired,
though he thought I ought to be, after our walk; but the idea of riding
a rough Exmoor pony was great fun, and I didn't object. Sir Lionel asked
Mrs. Senter (who had been making fun of the Doone story at lunch) rather
coolly if she would care to go, too; and to his evident surprise, though
not at all to mine, she instantly said she would.
They have several ponies at the farm, and Sir Lionel hired two, he and
Dick meaning to walk, and Emily intending to stop in the farm sitting
room nodding over the visitors' book, full of interesting names, no
doubt.
No sooner had our dear, roughly fringed little beasts been saddled, and
we swung on to their backs, than there arose a great hue and cry in the
farmyard. The stag hunt was passing!
Such an excitement you never saw. Nobody would have thought the same
thing had happened many times a year, for generations. The big,
good-natured farmer raced about, waving his arms, and adjuring us to
"Coom on!" The postman darted by on his bicycle, forgetful of letters,
thinking only of the stag; pretty girls from the neighbouring
Badgeworthy Farm, and Lorna Doone Farm tore up a hill, laughing and
screaming. "They'm found! They'm found!" yelled the farm hands.
Everybody shouted. Everybody ran, or at least danced up and down; and
wilder than all was the joy of our Exmoor ponies, Mrs. Senter's and
mine.
They didn't intend to let the hunt go by without them, the stanch little
sporting beasts! We hadn't the least idea what they meant to do, or
perhaps--just perhaps!--we might have stopped them; but before Mrs.
Senter and I knew what was happening to us, off we dashed on pony-back
after the hunt.
I laughed so much I could hardly keep my seat, but I did somehow, though
not very gracefully, and in about five minutes Sir Lionel's long legs
had enabled him to catch my little monster, which he grabbed by the
reins and stopped, before we'd got mixed up with the staghounds. Dick
was slower about rescuing his aunt, because his legs are shorter than
Sir Lionel's; and her pony had not the pleasant disposition of mine.
Dick vowed afterward that it spit at him.
After reading "Lorna" the Doone Valley looked rather too gentle, with
its grassy slopes, to be satisfactory to my brigand-whetted mind; and
the ruins of the Doone houses would have been disappointing, too, if it
hadn't been for Miss Audrie Browne's tale of the distant dwellings, in
the Weir Water Valley; but I liked hearing that all the hills have names
of their own, and that you can be sure you are not going to fall into a
treacherous bog, if only you see a sprig of purple heather--a good,
honest plant, which hates anything secret. Our ponies didn't need the
heather signal, though; they shied away from bogs as if by instinct,
they knew the moor so well. If we had stumbled into a pitfall, our only
hope would have been to lie quite flat, and crawl along the surface with
the same motion that you make in swimming.