us to see of the Doone Valley, and then our way led us back to Lynmouth,
by the appalling Countisbury Hill; on to Parracombe, Blackmore Gate,
Challacombe, romantic little Simonsbath (sacred to the memory of Sigmund
the dragon-slayer, and two outlaws, of whom Tom Faggus, of the
"Strawberry horse," was one), and pretty, historic Exford, and so to
Dunster. A beautiful road it was to the eye, but not always to the tire,
and half the hills of England seemed to have lined up in a procession.
But Apollo smiled in his bonnet at them all, and appeared rather pleased
than otherwise to show what he could do.
When we came into Dunster it was almost dark--just the beautiful hour
when the air seems to have turned blue, a deep, clear azure; and of all
the quaintly picturesque places we have seen, I know at first glimpse
that Dunster would turn out to be the best. Some towns, like some
people, introduce themselves to you in a friendly, charming way, with no
chill reserve, as if they were sure you deserved to see their best side.
It's like that with Dunster, anyhow when you arrive in a motor, and the
first thing you see is the ancient Yarn Market, wooden, octagonal,
perfect. Then before you have recovered from the effect of that, and the
general unspoiledness of everything, you come to the stone porch of the
Luttrell Arms Inn; old and grim, with openings for crossbows with which
I suppose the Abbots of Cleve must have had to defend themselves,
because the house once belonged to them.
If you could see no other town but Dunster, it would be worth while
coming across seas to England. But I suppose I've said that about other
places, haven't I? Well, I can't help it if I have. Dunster is
absolutely perfect--not one false note struck in the quaint music of its
antiquity.
Our sitting room was the Abbot's refectory, splendid with black oak
beams, and a noble ceiling. Its diamond-paned windows look into a
wonderful courtyard, where you expect to see monks walking, or perhaps
cavaliers; and on the hill above the garden, there are earthworks thrown
up by Oliver Cromwell's army during the siege of Dunster Castle--the
"Alnwick of the West." To-morrow, we are to be allowed, as a special
favour, to see the inside of the Castle which towers up so grandly
against the sky. It isn't open to the public; but Sir Lionel knows some
relatives of the owners, so we are to be shown round.
"To-morrow," I say. But if I don't stop at once, and go to bed, it will
be "to-day."
Ever your
Audrie.
XXV
FROM SIR LIONEL PENDRAGON TO COLONEL PATRICK O'HAGAN
_Swan Hotel, Wells_,
_Aug. 20th_
My Dear Pat: What a good fellow you are! Your letter, just
forwarded here, has been like for me a draught from the "cup which
cheers but not----" No, on second thoughts I can't go on with the
quotation "but not inebriates." I rather think the cup has inebriated me
a little. Anyhow, it has made me a bit conceited. I say to myself,
"Well, if this is his opinion of me, why not believe there's something
in it, and do as other men have done before me? He ought to be a judge
of men, and know enough of women to have some idea of the sort of person
it would be possible for one of them to love." That is the state of mind
to which you have brought me, with a little ink and a little paper, and
plenty of good intentions. It would take about a magnum of champagne to
exhilarate some men as your praise and your advice have exhilarated me.
When I wrote you last, I was in the dumps. It was a dull world, and all
the tigers I had ever shot were mounted on sackcloth, or stuffed with
ashes. Sounds disgusting, doesn't it? But suddenly, the sun broke out,
and dulness and tigers fled together. I suppose I must always have been
a creature of moods, and didn't know it; for all it took to change gray
Purgatorio to blue Paradiso was a few words from a girl. She said she
didn't love Dick, and would as soon marry my chauffeur--or words to that
effect. Explained everything--or, if she didn't explain, looked at me,
and I thought she had explained. I forget now whether she did explain or
not, rationally and satisfactorily, but it doesn't matter. There is no
one like her, and I have reached a stage of idiocy concerning her which
I would blush to describe. I see now that the feeling which a very young
man, hardly out of boyhood, dignified with the name of love, is merely a
kind of foundation that, when fallen into picturesque ruin, makes a good
firm flooring of experience to build second, or real, love, upon. I
don't know whether that's well or badly said, but it expresses my state
of mind.
If only this second true love of mine were not the daughter of the first
and false!
Even now, when I frankly acknowledge to myself that she can make the
light of the world for me, there are black moments when I distrust
her--distrust my impressions of her; and hate myself for doing both. I
used to believe so firmly in heredity that I can't throw aside my old
theories in a moment, even for her sake. How comes Ellaline de
Nesville's and Fred Lethbridge's daughter to be what this girl seems?
That's what I ask myself; but there again your letter helps. You remind
me that "our parents are not our only ancestors."
But enough of all this rhapsodizing and doubting. There's nothing
definite to tell you, except that she has said she doesn't care for Dick
Burden, and that, generally speaking, if appearances are against her, I
must kindly not judge by them.
"Give her the benefit of the doubt as long as you can," you say. But,
thank heaven I can do more. I give her the benefit of not doubting at
all, except in those black moments I have confessed to you.
We have had some good road adventures together, and she has proved
herself a thorough sportswoman, as well as a jewel of a companion; but,
of course, I haven't had her often to myself. Mrs. Senter and Dick
Burden are still of the party, and say nothing about future plans,
though there was a vague understanding when they first came that they
were asked for a fortnight. They seem to be enjoying themselves, so I
suppose I ought to be pleased; and Mrs. Senter is agreeable to
everybody, though sometimes it has occurred to me that she and Ellaline
don't hit it off invariably. Still, I may be mistaken. She praises
Ellaline, and seems anxious to throw her into Dick's society, which
presumably she wouldn't do if she didn't like the girl.
Dick did run up to Scotland to see his mother for a few days, and I
thought, as Mrs. Burden sent for him on account of her health, he might
have to stay on. But no such luck. He was back almost indecently
soon--pounced down upon us at Bideford, just in time, perhaps, to
prevent my _taking your advice before I got it_.
The fact is, there was a queer misunderstanding with which I won't bore
you, but by which Ellaline was left behind at Tintagel, and I went back
alone to fetch her, with the car. She was adorable, even unusually
adorable, and I loved her horribly. Yes, that's the only word for it,
because it hurt; it hurt so much that next day I felt I couldn't go on
bearing the pain, and that I should have to find a chance to tell her. I
was pretty sure she would think me a middle-aged and several other kinds
of a fool, even though she were polite in words; nevertheless, I might
have run the risk, even unspurred by your letter, if Dick hadn't come
back looking extremely young and attractively impertinent. She mayn't
care a rap for him; she says she doesn't, so I suppose she knows her own
mind; still, the contrast between our years is in his favour, and with
him under my nose as well as continuously underfoot, I see myself as (I
fear) others see me. Yet I may not be able to keep my head if a chance
should come. And if I lose it--my head, I mean--that's the time to take
your advice.
We have been seeing some fine country of late; Dunster was one of the
best bits, also grand old Luttrell Castle, which, by the way, is Hardy's
Stancy Castle in "The Laodicean." There are some rare old buildings in
Dunster which reek history. The church has a noble rood screen; and the
Yarn Market is unique in England; so is the queer old "Nunnery,"
so-called, and the ancient inn where we stayed.
[Illustration: "_The Yarn Market is unique in England_"]
Cleve Abbey is only a few miles away, and I was surprised at the
magnificence of the ruin, which was used as a farmhouse for years, and
would be thus degraded still if it weren't for Mr. Luttrell, the owner
of Dunster Castle, who has bought and restored it. Cistercian, and as
old as the tenth century, with a gatehouse of Richard the Second's day;
bits of exquisite encaustic tiling from the demolished church, preserved
religiously under glass; and a refectory roof to enchant artists and
archæologists--beautiful hammer-beams and carved angels of Spanish
walnut wood, fifteenth century, I think; and some shadowy ghosts of
frescoes.
Ellaline was enchanted with the old custodian, who talked much about
"heart of oak," and when she ventured to remark that he "looked as if he
were made of it," she and the old fellow himself both blushed amusingly.
We came on through pretty, respectable-looking Williton, where lived
Reginald Fitz Urse who helped murder St. Thomas of Canterbury, and where
everything is extraordinarily ancient except the motor garage.
By this we were among the Quantock Hills; and the differences between
Devonshire and Somerset scenery were beginning to be very marked. It's
difficult to define such differences; but they're visible in every
feature; the shape of the downs; the trees, standing up tall and
isolated in "Zummerzet," like landmarks; even the conformation of
roads--which, by the way, are extremely good in these regions, a
pleasant change for the car after some of her wild hill-climbing and
tobogganning feats in North Devon.
Do you remember how, when we were boys, we discussed favourite names,
and placed Audrey high in the list among those of women? Here, in the
Quantock Hills, they spell it "Audrie," for the saint who patronizes
West Quantoxhead; and I have learned that it was the name which the
outlawed Doone tribe best loved to give their girl children. I think I
used to say I should like to marry a girl named Audrey, but never heard
of such a person in real life, until Ellaline informed me, on seeing St.
Audrie's, that it's the name of her most intimate friend. I responded by
confessing my boyish resolve, and to amuse myself, asked if she would
some day introduce me to her friend. "Not for the world!" said she, and
blushed. I wish I could make myself believe her jealous. You would
probably encourage me to think it!
Wordsworth loved the pleasant region of the Quantock hills, you know,
and wrote some charming poems while he and Coleridge lived at Nether
Stowey and Alforden; but just to see, in passing, Nether Stowey looks
unattractive; and as for Bridgewater, not much farther on (where a red
road has turned pink, then pale, then white with chalk), it is as
commercial to look at as it is historical to read of. When a boy, in
bloodthirsty moods, I used to pore over that history; read how Judge
Jeffreys lodged at Bridgewater during the Bloody Assizes (the house is
gone now, washed away like an old blood stain); how the moor between
Weston and Bridgewater (in these days lined with motors) was lined with
Feversham's gibbets after Sedgemoor. Doesn't Macaulay refer to that as
"the last fight deserving the name of battle, fought on English soil"?
Then there was the story of "Swayne's Jumps," which one connected with
Bridgewater. He made his famous escape in Toxley Wood, close by, and to
this day the place is marked with three stones. That sort of thing
rushes you back in a minute over long distances in time, doesn't it?--as
motors rush you forward in a minute over long distances of space.
So to Glastonbury, by way of Poland Hill, looking down over the
Sedgemoor plain, Chedzoy Church, on whose southern buttress the battle
axes were sharpened, and Weston Zoyland, with its Dutch-sounding name,
and Dutch-looking dykes.
I never saw Glastonbury until now, and I'm not sure that, having seen
it, I shan't be obliged to hook it on top of Winchester, on my bump of
reverence. Not that one can compare its ruined grandeur with
well-preserved Winchester, the comparison lies in the oldness and the
early beginnings of religion. I believe Glastonbury is the one religious
institution in which Briton, Saxon, and Norman all share and share
alike; so the place seems to bind our race to a race supplanted. St.
Dunstan is the "great man" of the place, because he it was who restored
the monastery after Danish wars; but he is a modern celebrity beside
Joseph of Arimathea, the founder, who came with eleven companions to
bring the Holy Word to Britain. It was the Archangel Gabriel who bade
him found a church in honour of the Virgin; and it was a real
inspiration of the archangel's; for what one can see of the chapel of
St. Joseph is absolutely perfect--a gem of beauty.
We came to Glastonbury in the afternoon, having lunched at a nice old
coaching house in Bridgewater, and after pausing for a look at the
Abbot's kitchen, I drove straight to the George, which I had heard of as
being the Pilgrim's Inn of ancient times, and the best bit of domestic
architecture in the town. The idea was to have tea there--an indulgence
for which Emily clamoured, being half choked with chalky dust; but the
house was so singularly beautiful and interesting that it seemed a crime
not to sleep in it. The front is a gorgeous mass of carved panelling; in
the middle rises a four-centred gateway, and on the left is a marvel of
a bow window, with a bay for every story. We went up a newel stairway to
look at rooms, and one in which Henry VIII. slept a night fell to my
share--not because I was selfishly ready to take the best, however, for
there were several others more curious, if not more interesting.
Our quarters for the night selected, we went out sight-seeing, on foot,
first taking the Abbey and Chapel of the Blessed Virgin, corruptly known
as St. Joseph's. It's a good thing, Pat, that you didn't get your
youthful way, and annex Emily, because you have, or had, a "strong
weakness" for ruins, and she doesn't appreciate them in any form. The
difference between her expression and Ellaline's while gazing at what is
left of Glastonbury's glory was a study. Emily's bored, yet
conscientiously desiring to be interested; the girl's rapt, radiant.
And, indeed, these remnants of beauty are pathetically fair enough to
draw tears to such young eyes as hers. They are even more majestic in
ruin than they could have been in noblest prime, I think, because those
broken arches have the splendour of classic tragedy. They are like a
poem of which a few immortal lines are lost.
In the warm light of the August afternoon the old stones, pillars, and
arches of Glastonbury Abbey seemed to be carved in stained ivory, a bas
relief on lapis lazuli. We lingered until our pretty Mrs. Senter got the
look in her eyes of one who has stood too long in high-heeled boots, and
Emily asked plaintively whether we were not going to see the Glastonbury
Thorn. It appeared that she had promised to write her tame parson about
it, and send him a sprig for planting; and she was much disappointed
when she heard that the "original thorn," Joseph of Arimathea's
blossoming staff, had been destroyed centuries ago on Weary-All Hill,
where the saintly band rested on the way to Glastonbury. One trunk of
the famous tree was hewed down by a Puritan in Elizabeth's day (I'm
happy to tell you he lost a leg and an eye in the act), while the second
and only remaining one was destroyed by a "military saint" in the great
rebellion. "What disagreeable things saints have done!" exclaimed
Ellaline, which shocked Emily. "There have been very few _military_
ones, anyhow," my sister returned, mildly, with a slightly reproachful
glance at me, aimed at my spiritual failures. I cheered her up by
promising that I would get her a sprig of thorn at Wells, and telling
her how all the transplanted slips have the habit of blossoming on
Christmas Day, old style--January 6th, isn't it?
Our next "sight" was the museum in the Market Place; and you may take my
word for it, Pat, there's nothing much more interesting to be found the
world over, if you're interested in antiquities, as you and I are.
There's the Alfred jewel, which, of course, the women liked best; and
next in their estimation came the bronze mirrors, the queer pins and big
needles, the rouge pots and the hair curlers (which Emily gravely
pronounced to be curiously like Hinde's) of the Celtic beauties who
lived before the visits of those clever commercial travellers, the
Phoenicians. These relics were taken from the prehistoric village at
Godnet Marsh, discovered only about sixteen years ago, and they were
found with others far more important; for instance, a big, clumsy canoe
of black oak, which was soft as soap when it first came up out of its
hiding-place in the thick peat bog, but was hardened afterward by
various scientific tricks. I confess to more interest in the dice boxes
and dice, some of which the sly old Celtic foxes had loaded. Cheating
isn't precisely a modern device, it seems!
After the museum, I took the party to a jeweller's I'd heard of, and bought
some copies of the sacred treasures: a replica of the Alfred jewel; a
silver bowl, exactly imitating a bronze one from the lake village--probably
of Greek manufacture, brought over by Phoenicians--and other quaint
and interesting things. Ellaline is to have the jewel; the silver bowl
is to be a "sop" to Mrs. Senter; and for Emily is a tiny model oven,
such as the Phoenicians taught the Celts to make and Cornish cottagers
bake their bread in to this day.
There was the old Red Lion Inn to see, too, where Abbot Whiting lay the
night before his execution, which was a murder; and the Women's
Almshouses, and a dozen other things which tourists are expected to see
besides many dozen which they are not; and it is for the latter that
Ellaline and I have a predilection. She and I are also fond of believing
any story which is interesting, therefore we are both invaluable victims
to the custodians of museums and other show places. The nice old fellow
in the Glastonbury museum was delighted with our faith, which would not
only have moved mountains, but transported to such mountains any
historic celebrity necessary to impress the picture. We believed in the
burying of the original Chalice, from which to this hour flows a pure
spring, the Holy, or Blood Spring. We believe that St. Patrick was born,
and died on the Isle of Avalon; and more firmly than all, that both
Arthur and Guinevere were buried under St. Mary's (or St. Joseph's)
Chapel. Why, didn't the custodian point out to us, in the picture of an
ancient plan of the chapel, the actual spot where their bodies lay? What
could we ask more than that? But if we go to Scotland next year, we
shall doubtless believe just as firmly that Arthur rests there, in spite
of the record at Glastonbury, in spite even of Tennyson:
"... the island valley of Avilon;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."
Does that come back to you, from Arthur's speech to Bedévere? but he
died of the "grievous wound" after all; and the custodian goes so far as
to assert, solemnly, that when the coffins were opened in the days of
Henry II. the bodies of the king and queen were "very beautiful to see,
for a moment, untouched by time; but that in a second, as the people
looked, their dust crumbled away, all except the splendid golden hair of
Guinevere, which remained to tell of her glory, for many a long year,
until it was stolen, and disappeared forever."
That is a good story, anyhow, and adds to the curious, almost magical
enchantment of Glastonbury. Ellaline says that the very name of
Glastonbury will after this ring in her ears like the sound of fairy
bells, chiming over the lost lake that ringed the Isle of Avalon. You
know, I dare say, that Glastonbury is supposed to have its derivation
from British "Ynyswytryn," "Inis vitrea," the "Island of Glass," because
the water surrounding it was blue and clear as crystal. So many golden
apples grew in the island orchards, that it became also the Isle of
Avalon, from "Avalla" an apple.
Even now, the queer conical, isolated hills of the neighbourhood are
called islands, and it is easy to picture Glastonbury as an isle rising
among lesser ones out of a bright, azure estuary stretching away and
away to the Bristol Channel. The Saxon king, Edgar, whose royal castle
has given the name to the town of Edgarly, must have had a fine view in
his day. And now you have only to go up Tor Hill (a landmark for miles
round, with its tower of St. Michael on top like the watch-dog of a dead
king) to see Wells Cathedral to the north, the blue Mendips east and
west, and cutting the range, a mysterious break, like a door, which
means the wild pass of Cheddar; far in the west, a gleam of the Bristol
Channel; south, the Polden Hills, the Dorset heights beyond, and the
Quantocks overtopped by the peak of Dunkery Beacon. I think one would
have to go far to see more of England in one sweep of the eye. Indeed,
foreigners might come, make a hasty ascent of Tor Hill, and take the
next boat back to their own country, telling their friends not
untruthfully that they had "seen England."
At night, in the room of Henry VIII., I dreamed I saw Anne Boleyn, with
Ellaline's face, which smiled at me, the lips saying: "I'll forgive you,
if you'll forgive me." I hope that's a good omen?
We gave ourselves twenty-four hours in Glastonbury and the
neighbourhood, running out to the prehistoric village at Godney Marsh,
to see the excavations, and to Meare (by the by, the very causeway over
which our motor spun was built of stones from the Abbey!) then on,
toward evening, to Wells. There have been surprisingly blue evenings
lately, to which Ellaline has drawn my attention; and her simile on the
way to Wells, that we seemed to be driving through a pelting rain of
violets, I thought rather pretty. What shall I do, I wonder, if I have
to part with her--give her to some other man, perhaps? It hardly bears
thinking of. And yet it may easily happen. It seems to me that every man
who sees her must want her; and the feeling doesn't make for peace or
comfort. I suppose I might be different, and less the brute, if I hadn't
lived so long in the East, growing used to Eastern customs; but as it
is, when I see some man's eyes light upon her face and rest there in
surprised admiration, I want to snatch her up, wrap her in a veil, and
run off with her in my arms. Beastly, isn't it? I have no such feeling,
however, in connection with Mrs. Senter, although she is very striking,
and excites a good deal of attention wherever we go.
I haven't seen Emily so happy since we have been motoring as she is at
Wells, and it seems almost criminal to tear her away, though I fear I
shall have to do so to-morrow. She says that, except at home, she has
never felt such "an air of religious calm" as at Wells; and there's
something in the feeling which I can understand, though I must admit I
don't go about the world searching for religious calm.
Certainly one can't imagine a crime being committed at Wells, and a
wicked thought would be rather wickeder here than elsewhere. Not that
the Cathedral is to me alluringly beautiful (I believe it ranks high,
and is even exalted as the "best secular church" to be found the world
over, the west front being glorified as a masterpiece beyond all others
in England); at first sight it vaguely disappointed me. I am no expert
judge of architecture, and don't pretend to be; still, I dare to have my
likes and dislikes; and it was not until I'd walked round the cathedral
many times, stood and stared at it, and gone up heights to survey it
from different points of view, that I began to warm toward it mightily.
Now, I find it eminently noble, yet not so lovable as some which my
memory cherishes, some not perhaps as architecturally or artistically
perfect. But you know what individuality buildings have, especially
those which are vast and dominating; and Wells is unique. As the common
people say, it "wants knowing."