for we came out into a pastoral landscape, where the only wild things
were the grazing black cattle. It was charming country, though; and in
less than a mile we had reached a famous spot known as the Tourist Walk.
The rain was pelting down harder than ever, so we could not get out and
take the walk; but soon after we had abandoned it the deluge suddenly
turned from lead to a thick spray of diamonds, mixed with sparkling
gold-dust. Our road glittered ahead of us like a wide silver ribbon
unrolled, as we sailed into the little gray town of Dolgelly on its
torrent river; and beyond, in a fresh-washed radiance of sunlight, the
way was one long enchantment, the sweet world of green hills and musical
waters looking as young as if God had made it that day. The graceful
mountains which pressed round the valley had the air of waiting each her
turn to stoop and drink a life-giving draught from the river, which, as
we neared Barmouth, opened to the sea, gleaming like a vast sheet of
quicksilver. Further on, travelling through woods where young green
trees shot up from gilded rocks, glimpses of the estuary came to us like
a vision of some Italian lake.
Just before Harlech, the wild yet nymph-like beauty of the world changed
to an almost startling grandeur, for the coast moved back from the sea
with a noble sweep, magnificent mountains towered along the shore, and
line after line of beryl waves shattered into pearl upon a beach of
darkened gold.
Harlech Castle was an event in my life. I thought I had begun to take
ruined castles for granted in Wales, as you do sea-shells on the shore;
but Harlech is a castle that you couldn't take for granted. It was a
shock at first to find that a hotel had been built in the very face of
it, as if bearding it in its den; yet it is a nice hotel; and when we
had lunched there agreeably, I not only forgave it for existing, but
began to like and thank it for having thoughtfully placed itself on that
admirable height.
From here our eyes ought to have been smitten with the sight of Snowdon;
but the Grand Old Mountain was asleep, his head buried in white
cloud-pillows which alone betrayed his whereabouts; so we had to be
content with the castle. And I was content. To see the splendid ruin
reared on its great rock, dark against sea and sky, was thrilling as a
vision of an old wounded knight girding his strength for a last stand.
[Illustration: "_The splendid ruin, reared on its great rock_"]
History says that Harlech Castle is no older than Edward I.; but story
says (which is more important, because more romantic) that in the dim
dawn while History still dozed, here rose the Tower of Twr Brauwen,
white-bosomed sister of Bran the Blessed. Also, it came into the
possession of Hawis Gadern, a great beauty and heiress, whose uncles
tried to wrest it from her, but were defeated and imprisoned in the
castle. Anyway, however that may be, Owen Glendower came and conquered,
in the beginning of the fifteenth century, when he was forging a chain
of wonderful deeds which made him the hero of Wales. Never mind if he
was driven away a few years after by Prince Henry. That's another story.
The way from Harlech by Portmadoc to exquisite Pont Aberglaslyn and
Beddgelert is very Arthurian; that is, it suggests pre-mediæval
backgrounds, and at every turn I caught myself expecting to come upon
Camelot, unspoiled, unchanged. The high mountains still wore their
invisibility masks, but the lower mountains, not too proud to show
themselves to motoring mortals, grouped as graciously together as if
they were lovely ladies and gay knights, turned to stone just when they
had assembled to tread a minuet. And the fair Glaslyn flowed past their
feet with a swing and sweep, as though the crystal flood kept time to
dance music which our ears were not attuned to catch.
Quickly we flashed by more than one beautiful lake, too; a jewel hidden
among mountains, found by our eyes unexpectedly, only to be lost again.
And all the while Cader Idris and Snowdon drew hoods of mist over their
heads, pulling them down tightly and firmly. Not once had we caught a
glimpse of either mountain, though we were almost near enough to knock
our noses or Apollo's bonnet against their sharp elbows; but we were too
happy to care much--at least, one of us was!--and we cared even less
when rain came on again. I still kept my place beside Sir Lionel, who
was repentant for having made me cry over the dreadful, agonizing,
too-tragic story of Gelert. I won't repeat it to you, because it's
wickedly sad, and grayhound Gelert was so much nobler than most people.
Sheets of spun glass shimmered and waved before us, as we rushed on
through the mountains, past the beautiful place of Gelert's grave, up
toward Pen-y-gwrd. And the tinkling swish of the rain on the glass
sounded to me as the Welsh names had begun to sound. I wish you could
hear them spoken, for the spelling gives no idea of their pronunciation,
or the pleasant, muffled music of them. But all I can tell you is, that
when you come into Wales you will feel they are characteristic of the
country; mysterious, sympathetic, rather secretive.
Sir Lionel was happy in the thought of Pen-y-gwrd, because some of the
best memories of his boyhood are associated with that little spot in the
mountain-land of Wales. He used to come, and climb with an old friend a
few years older than himself, a Colonel O'Hagan, who is in Bengal now,
and who--he thinks--will like me. Not much chance of our ever meeting!
Just as Sir Lionel finished quoting Charles Kingsley on Pen-y-gwrd, we
drew up in front of a low gray stone building; and Kingsley's merry
words rang in my ears as the door of the hotel opened. You know I can
always remember a verse after having once heard it.
"There is no Inn in Snowden which is not awful dear,
Excepting Pen-y-gwrd (you can't pronounce it, dear)
Which standeth in the meeting of noble valleys three;
One is the Vale of Gwynant, so well beloved by me;
One goes to Capel Curig, and I can't mind its name;
And one, it is Llanberis Pass, which all men knew the same."
Never did any gesture give a better welcome than the opening of that
door! We'd been too happy to know we were cold with the chill of the
mountains--half-seen shapes that hovered close, with white cascades like
ghosts flitting ever across their dimness; but when a glow of firelight
streamed out to greet us, suddenly we realized that we were shivering.
In the square hall, several men were talking together, men with Oxford
voices and open-air faces. In their midst was one man, much older,
grizzled and weather-beaten, not a gentleman in the conventional sense,
yet in listening to him the others had an air of deference, as if he
were a hero to the group. The four or five figures stood out like a
virile, impressionist sketch in black and brown on a red background; but
as we entered, welcomed by some pink-cheeked young hostess, the ruddy
light danced into our eyes. The men in front of the fire moved a little
as if to give place, and glances were thrown at us, while for an instant
the conversation flagged. Then the group was about to return to its own
interests, when suddenly, out from among the rest stepped the grizzled
man. He hesitated, as if uncertain whether or no to obey an impulse,
then came forward with a modest yet eager air.
"I can't be mistaken, sir, can I?" he asked. "It must be Mr. Pendragon--I
beg your pardon, Sir Li----"
"Why, Penrhyn!" cried Sir Lionel, not giving him time to finish; and
seizing one of the gnarled brown hands, he shook it as if he never meant
to stop. Both their faces had lighted up, and were beaming with joy. The
grizzled man seemed to have thrown off fifteen years in a minute, and
Sir Lionel looked like a boy of twenty-two. By this time everyone was
gazing--staring is too rude a word--and the other faces were beaming as
well, as if the most delightful thing had happened. I am sure that Sir
Lionel had forgotten the existence of us three females, and had rushed
back to the bright dawn of his youth. It was the light of that dawn I
saw on his face; and I found my heart beating with excitement, though I
didn't know why, or what it was all about.
"By Jove, Penrhyn, to think of your being the first man to greet me on
our old stamping-ground!" Sir Lionel exclaimed. "It seems too good to be
true. I've been thinking about you all day, and your face is a sight for
sore eyes."
"I'd rather see you, sir, than have a thousand pounds drop down on me
through the ceiling," retorted the mysterious hero. (I should think so,
indeed.)
They shook hands, and beamed on each other a little more, and then Sir
Lionel remembered his flock. Turning to us, he introduced the grizzled
man.
"This is my old friend and guide, Owen Penrhyn," said he, as if he were
drawing us into the circle of a prince. "There never was a guide like
him in the Welsh mountains, and never will be again. Jove! it's glorious
to find him at the old business still! Though, in our day together, we
didn't carry this, eh?"
Then I saw that an Alpine rope was coiled across one of the strong
shoulders clad in rough tweed, and that the great stout boots were
strikingly trimmed with huge bright nails.
"It's like Sir Lionel to put the praise on me," protested the dear old
thing, flushing up like a boy. "Why, he was the best amateur" (he
pronounced the word quaintly and I loved him for it) "I ever see, or
ever expect to see. If he'd gone on as he began, he'd a' broken the
noses of some of us guides. Pity he had to go to furrin' parts! And I'll
be bound he never told you, ladies, of his first ascent of Twll Ddu, or
how he pulled me up out of the torrent by sheer strength, when my
fingers were that cold I couldn't grip the hand-holds? I'd 'a' fallen
clear to the bottom of the Devil's Kitchen if't hadn't been for Mr.
Pendragon, as he was then. And what d' you think, ladies, he says, when
I accused him o' savin' my life?"
"What?" I begged to know, forgetting to give my elders a chance to speak
first.
"'Tommy rot.' That's his very words. I've never forgot 'em. 'Tommy
rot.'"
He beamed on us, and every one in the hall laughed, except perhaps
Emily, who smiled doubtfully, not sure whether or no it was to her
brother's credit to have remarked "Tommy rot" in such a crisis. But
after that, we were all friends, we, and Owen Penrhyn, and the other
men, too; for though we didn't really talk to them till dinner, I knew
by their eyes that they admired Sir Lionel immensely, and wanted to know
us all.
At dinner there was splendid climbing talk, and we heard further tales
of Sir Lionel's prowess; among others of a great jump he had made from
one rock of Trifaen to the other, with only a little square of rock to
light upon, just on the edge of a sheer precipice; a record feat,
according to the old guide. And while the men and we women listened, the
wind outside raged so wildly that now and then it seemed as if a giant
fell against the house and afterward dashed pebbles against it in his
fury. Then again the wind-giant would rush by the hotel in his
hundred-horse-power motor-car, tooting his horn as he went. It was nice
sitting there in the comfortable dining-room, listening to the climbing
stories, while the wind roared and couldn't get at us, and the whole
valley was full of marching rain!
Now I am writing in my bedroom, close to a gossipy little fire, which is
a delightful companion, although August has still a day to run. Mrs.
Senter is having her beauty sleep, I suppose; and I should think Mrs.
Norton is reading Young's "Night Thoughts." I know she takes the book
about with her. The men are still in the hall downstairs, very happy, if
one can judge by the laughter that breaks out often; and I am as happy
as I can be with the thought of Dick probably appearing at Chester day
after to-morrow night. But I won't let myself think of that too much,
because it isn't certain that he will get back then, and it _is_ certain
that there will be some word from you, which may change everything. You
see what faith your girl has in you! But wouldn't she be ungrateful if
she hadn't?
There is one other thing which has been bothering me in odd moments,
though, and I wish I had asked your advice about that, too, in the
letter to be answered at Chester; but the idea hadn't occurred to me
then. It suddenly sprang into my mind last night when I was lying in
bed, not able to go to sleep.
Ought I to repeat to Ellaline what Mrs. Senter told me about the money?
I don't mean the part about the poor child's father and mother. No one
but a thorough Pig of the Universe would tell a daughter perfectly
unnecessary horrors, like those; but about her not being an heiress in
her own right, and depending on Sir Lionel for everything except two
hundred a year?
If I were really in her place, instead of pretending to be, I should
want to know, and shouldn't thank anyone for keeping the truth from me.
It would be unbearable to accept generosity from a man, thinking I might
be as extravagant as I liked, with my own money. But it is difficult to
make up my mind, on account of the _fiancé_. You, being French yourself,
know how it is with French officers who fall in love with a girl who has
no _dot_, or only a small one. Most of them, if poor themselves, would
slap their foreheads and despair, but think it their duty to their
country to forget the girl.
I'm afraid the adorable Honoré is rather poor; and though no normal
young man, especially a Frenchman, could help being fascinated by
Ellaline if thrown in her society, many normal young men would be more
ready to let themselves go, believing her to be an heiress. Perhaps
Honoré wouldn't have proposed if he hadn't thought Ellaline a very rich
as well as a very pretty girl. Perhaps if he found out even now, at the
eleventh hour, that she depends upon a person whom she has just slighted
and deceived, he might desert her.
Wouldn't that be awful? Not that I think Ellaline would tell him, if I
wrote to her exactly what I've heard from Mrs. Senter. Fascinating as
she is, it isn't in her to be frank. I'm sure she would keep the secret
until after her lover was safely her husband; but she would be upset and
even more anxious about the future than she is.
I don't know what to do. And in the last letter I had from her she
scolded me for continually praising Sir Lionel. She is sure I am
mistaken about him, and that, if I can see any good under the dragon's
scales the evil monster must have hypnotized me. She really seemed quite
vexed. Maybe I shall hear from her at Chester. I hope so, as I'm rather
worried because she didn't write to the last address I was able to give.
Whatever message your expected letter or telegram has for me, I will
answer it at once.
Good night, dearest little Dame Wisdom, with more love than ever from
Your
Audrie.
I'm so glad we are staying here all day to-morrow and to-morrow night.
There are dozens of beautiful things to see; and besides, it is as safe
as the inmost circle of a labyrinth from Dick, who has no clue.
XXXII
AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER
_Queen's Hotel, Chester_,
_September 1st_
We've been in Chester for several hours, my Angel; and not only is there
no Dick (for which heaven be praised), but no word from you, which
worries me. Still, I shan't be really anxious unless on my second call
at the post-office (to be made by and by) I draw a blank again. At
least, I didn't draw a blank exactly when I went there before. I drew a
letter from Ellaline, with vexing news. Honoré de Guesclin is in a
scrape. He could get leave now, and come to her, but he and some of his
brother officers have been amusing themselves by learning to play
bridge. Naturally, those who played best came off best, and Honoré
wasn't one of them. He has borrowed of a money-lender, and is in a hole,
because the fellow won't let him have more, and is bothering for a
settlement. Also, Honoré owes some of his friends, and hasn't a penny to
pay up or start on a journey. Ellaline doesn't seem to think much about
the moral aspect of her Honoré's affairs (you see, she knows nothing of
what her mother must have suffered from her father's _penchant_), but
she is in a great state of nerves about the delay. She has always been
told it was bad luck to put off a wedding, and besides, she finds
Scotland _triste_, and wants to be married.
You can guess to what all this is leading up! I must get money, somehow,
anyhow, but a great deal, and immediately. I must send her at least four
thousand francs by return of post; five thousand, if possible; but if
"Monsieur le Dragon is too stingy to give more, at all events nothing
less will be of the least use."
It's easy for her to dictate terms. She hasn't got to face the very
upright and honourable gentleman whom, she calls the Dragon, whereas I
have; and I've already shamed myself by asking for large sums at short
intervals. I simply can't go to him here and "hold him up" for four
thousand francs. It would be monstrous, and if he asked what I wanted to
do with it (as it seems to me it would be only his duty to ask the young
schoolgirl he thinks me) I should be able to find no decent excuse, as I
have no expenses beyond those he pays. However, I shall have to do
something desperate, I don't know yet what. He has given me some pretty
things, and though I hate the thought of parting with them in such a
way, as they're Ellaline's by rights, it's no more than fair she should
benefit by them in the hour of her need. Poor girl! Of course there's
nothing for it but she must marry the young man now, yet it seems a poor
outlook, doesn't it?
She explains in a P. S. that she was too upset to write me to the last
place, as she hadn't heard from Honoré when she expected; but now, if
the money is forthcoming all right he will start for Scotland as soon as
possible after receiving it from her, and settling up. I have
calculated times as well as I could, and fancy that if I can in any way
send her a post-office order from Chester to-morrow, she and Honoré may
be able to marry in a week. Once I shouldn't have believed I could be
sorry to have my "principal" arrive and take back her own part; but now,
if it weren't for Dick Burden, it would actually be a temptation to me
to delay Ellaline's appearance on the scene. Of course, I wouldn't be
such a wicked wretch as to yield to the temptation, but I should feel
it.
Ellaline promises to telegraph the moment Honoré arrives, and again when
they're safely married, so as to give the understudy plenty of time to
scuttle off the stage, before the guardian is informed that his charge
has been taken off his hands. She doesn't want to see Sir Lionel, she
says, but she and Honoré will write him unless, when Honoré has
consulted a Scottish solicitor (if that's what they're called), it's
considered wiser for the lawyer himself to write. So you see, this makes
it harder for me to know what to do about repeating Mrs. Senter's story.
If Ellaline understood her position she would, perhaps, think it better
to come with her bridegroom and throw herself at her injured guardian's
feet.
What a nice world this would be if your affairs didn't get so hopelessly
tangled up with other people's that you can hardly call your conscience
your own! And never have I realized the niceness of the world more fully
than in the last few days.
[Illustration: "_Its twenty-one towers and turrets still dominate bridge
and river_"]
Yesterday I had a little easy climb with Sir Lionel and the old guide,
and saw the glory of Llanberis Pass. To-day, on the wings of Apollo, we
have flown through amazingly interesting country. It really did seem
like flying, because the road surface was so like velvet stretched over
elastic steel that eyesight alone told us we touched earth.
Miles aren't tyrants any more, but slaves to the mastery of good
motor-cars; and any motoring Monte Cristo can fairly exclaim, "The world
is mine!" (N. B. This isn't original. Sir Lionel said it at lunch.) From
North Wales to Cheshire looks a long run on the map, but motors are made
to live down maps; and we arrived in this astonishingly perfect old town
early in the afternoon, coming by way of Capel Curig (whence we saw
Snowdon crowned with a double rainbow), sweet Bettws-y-coed, or "station
in the wood," and so down the river valley in a bird swoop, to noble
Conway, with its castle that was once a famous Welsh fortress. Now, in
piping days of peace, its towers and turrets still dominate bridge and
river, and the great pile is as fine, in its way, as Carcassone. Don't
you remember, it was from Conway Castle that Richard the Second started
out to meet Bolingbroke?
We stopped to take photographs and buy a few small pearls from the
"pearl-breeding river"; and while we gazed our fill at the mighty
monument, we learned from a guardian that in old days a certain Lady
Erskine hired the castle for six shillings and eightpence a year, in
addition to a "dish of fish for the Queen," when her majesty chanced to
pass!
At Colwyn Bay we lunched early, at a charming hotel in a garden above a
sea of Mediterranean blue; and the red-roofed town along the shore
reminded me of Dinard. After that, coming by Abergele and Rhuddlan to
Chester, the way was no longer through a region of romance and untouched
beauty. There were quarries, which politely though firmly announced
their hours of blasting, and road users accommodated themselves to the
rules as best they might. But there were castles on the heights, as well
as quarries in the depths; and though Sir Lionel says that inhabitants
of Wales never think of turning to look at such a "common object of the
seashore" as a mere castle, I haven't come to that state of mind yet.
Near Rhuddlan there was a tremendous battle at the end of the seventh
century, out of which so many fine songs have been made that the Welsh
princes and nobles who were slain have never lost their glory. There's a
castle, too (of course), but the best thing that happened for us was a
gloriously straight road like a road of France, and as nobody was on it
save ourselves at that moment, we did about six miles before the next
moment, when others might claim a share. I believe the Holyhead road is
very celebrated.
Soon we had to turn our backs upon a mystic mountain-land that ringed us
in, and face the sea once more--a wide water-horizon whose line was
broken with great ships steaming from all parts of the world to
Liverpool.
Apollo had seemed a little faint before luncheon, because of some inner
disturbance, but he was flying fast as a saint on his way to Paradise as
we crossed the Dee, into England out of Wales, and sprang into Gladstone
country.
When people are obliged to reach a town by rail, there must be
disappointments to lovers of the picturesque, as you and I know by
experience. It's like arriving at a house by the tradesmen's entrance;
but with a motor one sails up to the front door through the park.
Of all the towns to which Apollo has brought us, the entrance to Chester
to-day was the best. The first effect of colour left on my eyes the
impression of sunset-red, warm as copper beeches. The place seemed to be
lit with fading firelight, and I wondered at the soft glow everywhere,
until I realized that the big buildings--the Cathedral, the great houses
and the old city wall--were all made of rosy sandstone.
You can't imagine how a large town which has lived as long as Chester
has, and gone on growing, could have contrived to remain so satisfyingly
beautiful, or keep such an air of old-time completeness. But the secret
is, I suppose, that Chester is "canny" as well as "bonny," and, being
wise, she refused to throw away her precious antique garments for
glaring new ones. When she had to add houses, or even shops, wherever
possible she reproduced the charm and quaintness of the black and white
Tudor or Stuart buildings which are Chester's intimate treasures.
Of course, I've seen little of the place yet; but after I had been to
the post-office, I strolled about before coming back to the hotel,
partly to recover from my disappointment in not hearing from you, partly
because I was so bewitched with my first glimpse that I couldn't bear to
come indoors still a stranger to the town. Hovering in front of the
Cathedral (a curious building, black in its oldest parts, bright pink
where it has been renovated) I saw Sir Lionel and Mrs. Norton coming.
That was awkward, because I had said I wanted to "settle in" before
sight-seeing, but I explained vaguely that I'd changed my mind, and was
invited to go into the Cathedral with them. Perhaps it was because Emily
was with us that nothing seemed very wonderful in the interior--unless
the carved oak in the choir--but the cloisters are beautiful, and I
liked the chapter house.
After "doing" the Cathedral, Mrs. Norton was tired, so Sir Lionel and I
had a walk alone, an adventure Mrs. Senter would never have allowed if
she'd guessed I was out of my room. She is a dog in the manger about
walks. She hates them herself, but she won't let other people take them
without her if she can help it.