kind to me since the last evening in Chester--I can't think why, though
I can think why I deserved unkindness. The ring was terribly on my mind;
but he can't have found out about that, because the man in the shop
promised he wouldn't try to sell it until next day.
I couldn't get quite what Ellaline wanted, though I sold two or three
other things--all I could sell; but it came nearly to the right amount;
and it went off to her in Scotland, in the form of a post-office order,
that same night--assured instead of registered, as the letter was so
valuable.
Sir Lionel being somewhat frigid and remote in his manner, appearing to
take no more interest in me than if he were a big star and I a bit
chipped off a Leonid, I delivered myself of what I had to say without
great difficulty. I had a queer, numbed feeling, as though if it didn't
matter to him, it didn't to me, until just at the last, when he said
something that nearly made me cry. Luckily I was able to swallow the
sob. It felt like a large, hot, crisp baked potato; and my heart felt
like a larger, cold-boiled beet soaked in vinegar.
It's all over now, though, and I'm comparatively callous. Maybe the
vinegar has pickled me internally?
Bamborough Castle, where we arrived to-day with our kind and delightful
hosts of Cragside, is to be the northernmost end of the tour. On
leaving, we turn southward; and would make straight for Warwickshire and
Graylees, if, in an evil moment, Mrs. Norton and I hadn't for once
agreed about a place that we longed to see. It is Haworth, where the
Brontës lived, and Sir Lionel said that our wish should be gratified. He
planned a day in Yorkshire: Ripon, Fountains Abbey, Haworth, Harrogate
(not York, because Emily went there with the late Mr. Norton, and has
sad marital memories); and the plan still stands. I have an idea that
Sir Lionel is impatient to reach Graylees now, so after the Yorkshire
field-day we will push on there; and I shall perhaps hear from Ellaline
as to Honoré's plans. He ought to be in Scotland by that time. I've
written her to wire me at the nearest post-office to Graylees Castle, as
I don't like to receive telegrams there. But I see no reason why you
shouldn't send a letter to Graylees--the last letter, I hope, which need
ever be addressed to me as "Miss Ellaline Lethbridge." It will seem nice
to get into my own name again! Rather like putting on comfortable shoes
after tight ones that made blisters. And how divine to fly to you--a
distracted chicken, battered by a thunderstorm, scuttling back under its
mother's downy wing!
Nevertheless, I'm not going to cheat you out of seeing England through
my eyes, because my pleasure--just a little of it--is damped by Dick. I
am resigned and calm, and you mustn't think me a martyr. I've told you I
hate whiners, and I won't be one. Why, I ought to be thankful for the
chance of such a wonderful trip, and not be cowardly enough to spoil it
by a few private worries!
Cumberland is even lovelier than Wales, though I shouldn't have thought
that possible. Sir Lionel went climbing with the nice Welsh guide, whom
he invited to Keswick, so he wasn't with us much; and Dick being in
London still, there were only Mrs. Norton, Mrs. Senter, and I to be
conducted by Young Nick. It did seem odd being driven by him, and seeing
his back look so inexpressive among the most ravishing scenes. I asked
if he didn't think Cumberland glorious, but he said it was not like
India. I suppose that was an answer?
We spun off into the mysterious enchantments of Borrodaile in gusts of
rain; but the heavenly valley was the more mystic because of the
showers. Huge white clouds walked ahead of us, like ghosts of
pre-historic animals; and baby clouds sprawled on the mountain sides,
with all their filmy legs in air.
At Lodore the water was "coming down" like a miniature Niagara. Heavy
rains had filled the cup of its parent river full, and the waterfall
looked as if floods of melted ivory were pouring over ebony boulders.
What a lovely, rushing roar! It was like the father of all sound--as if
it might have given the first suggestion of sound to a silent, new-born
world.
Windermere and Derwent Water we saw, too, and each was more beautiful
than the other. Also I was much excited about the Giant's Grave, near
Keswick, which has kept its secret since before history began.
All the way to Carlisle the country was very fair to see, scarcely
flagging in charm to the end; and Carlisle itself was packed with
interest, from its old cathedral to the castle where David I. of
Scotland died and Mary Queen of Scots lodged.
Now our thoughts were turned toward the Roman Wall, and I thrilled a
little, despite the forbidding stiffness of Sir Lionel's disapproving
back as he drove. Because of Kipling's splendid story of the Roman
soldier in "Puck of Pook's Hill," I knew that for me the Great Wall (all
that's left of it) would be one of the best things. Parnesius, the young
centurion, told Una and Dan that "old men who have followed the Eagles
since boyhood say nothing is more wonderful than the first sight of the
Wall." And also that there were no real adventures south of it. It was
disappointing to think that nowadays, on our way there, we couldn't
expect to meet "hunters and trappers for the circuses, prodding along
chained bears and muzzled wolves" for the amusement of the soldiers in
the far northern camps; or that when we should come to the Wall, we'd
find no helmeted men with glittering shields walking three abreast on
the narrowest part, screened from Picts by a little curtain-wall at the
top, as high as their necks; no roaring, gambling, cock-fighting,
wolf-baiting, horse-racing soldier town on one side, and heather wastes
full of hiding, arrow-shooting Picts on the other; yet I heard Sir
Lionel say we could still trace the guard-houses and small towers, and
see how the great camp of Cilurnum was laid out.
We had left the mountains before we came into Carlisle, but not the
hills; and after one of grandiose size, which an old Northumbrian we met
called "a fair stiff bank," we were on the Roman road; the long, long,
straight road forging uncompromisingly, grimly up and down, ever on,
scorning to turn aside for difficulties; the road where the Legions
paced with the brave Roman step--"Rome's race, Rome's pace," twenty-four
miles in eight hours.
Kipling illuminated the way through Haltwhistle and Chollerford to the
Chesters, a private park which is a big out-of-doors museum, for it has
in its midst the remains of old Cilurnum. We got out at the gates, and
wandered among the ruins that have been reverently excavated; a gray and
faded scene, like a kind of skeleton Pompeii with dead bones rattling;
entrance gateways; ghost-haunted guard-houses; stone rings which were
towers; many short, straight streets whose half-buried pavements once
rang under soldiers' heels; the Forum; all the camp-city plan; a map
with outlines roughly sketched in stone on faded grass. We had had our
first sight of the Wall of which centurions in Britain bragged when they
went back to Rome. Then it was a Living Wall; but it is very wonderful
still, where its skeleton lies in state.
We had started so early from Keswick, that it wasn't two o'clock when we
left the Chesters; and I was surprised when, instead of drawing up
before some country inn for lunch, we skimmed through a gate only a mile
or two away, and stopped under the shadowy frown of an imposing mediæval
stronghold. It was Haughton Castle, whose towers and keep are crowded
with stories of the past, and the visit was to be a surprise for us. Sir
Lionel knew the owner, who had asked us all to lunch, for the "dragon's"
sake; and it looked quite an appropriate resting-place for a dragon of
elegant leisure. It was as interesting within as without; and after
luncheon they took us over the castle; best of all, down in the deep
dungeon where Archie Armstrong, a chief of moss-troopers, was forgotten
and starved to death by his captor, Sir Thomas Swinburne, a stout knight
of Henry the Eighth's day.
There is a long story about Archie, too long to tell you here; but each
castle of Northumberland (the county of castles, not of collieries) has
dozens of wonderful old stories, warlike, ghostlike, tragic, and
romantic. I have been reading a book about some of them, which I will
bring you. It's more interesting than any novel. And King Arthur legends
are scattered broadcast over Northumberland, as in Cornwall. Also the
"Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled" did much of their bleeding and fighting
here. There's history of "every sort, to please every taste," from
Celtic times on; but I'm not sure that the troublous days of the great
feudal barons weren't the most passionately thrilling of all.
If the first sight of the Wall was wonderful to the Roman soldiers, so
must have been the first sight of the wide Tyne. I know it was so to me,
as we flashed upon it at the first important twist of the straight Roman
road, and crossed it on a noble bridge.
Of course, Newcastle has a castle; and it was "new" when William the
Conqueror was new to his kingdom. Now that I've seen this great, rich,
gay, busy city, ancient and modern, I realize how stupid I was to
associate it with mere coal, as strangers have a way of doing, because
of the trite remark about "taking coals to Newcastle." Why, the very
names of the streets in the old part chime bell-like with the romance of
history! And I like the people of Northumberland--those I have met; the
shrewd, kindly townsfolk, and the country folk living in gray villages,
who love old, old ways, and emit quaint wit with a strong, rough "burr."
They have the look in their eyes that Northern people have, all the
world over; a look that can be hard, yet can be kinder than the soft
look of more melting Southern eyes. Sir Lionel is of the South--born in
Cornwall; yet his eyes have this Northern glint in them--as if he knew
and understood mountains. Just now they are terribly wintry, and when
they rest coldly on me I feel as if I were lost in a snowstorm without
hat or coat. But no matter!
Now, what shall I say to you of Bamborough Castle, which is the crown of
our whole tour?
I wish I were clever enough to make the splendour of it burst upon you,
as it did upon me.
Imagine us motoring over from Cragside (a very beautiful and famous
modern house, with marvellous gardens and enchanting views) which
belongs to these kind, delightful friends of Sir Lionel's who own
Bamborough Castle. There was a house-party at Cragside, and there were
twelve or fifteen of us who left there in a drove of automobiles.
[Illustration: "_There were twelve or fifteen of us who left Cragside_"]
Down the beautiful winding avenue; then out upon a hump-backed,
switchback road, a dozen miles and more, past great Alnwick, on, on,
until suddenly a vast, dark shape loomed against the sky; a stone
silhouette, not of a giant's profile, but of a whole vast family of
giants grouped together, to face the sea.
To _own_ a Thing like that must feel like owning Niagara Falls, or the
marble range of the Sierra Nevada, or biting off a whole end of England
and digesting it. Yet these charming people take their ownership quite
calmly; and by filling the huge castle from keep to farthest tower with
their beautiful possessions, seem to have tamed the splendid monster,
making it legitimately theirs.
I thought Alnwick grand, as we passed, but its position is insignificant
compared with Bamborough, which has the wide North Sea for a background.
On a craggy platform of black rock like a petrified cushion for a royal
crown, it rises above the sea, a few low foothills of golden sand
drifting toward it ahead of the tide. The grandeur of the vast pile is
almost overwhelming to one who, like me, has never until now seen any of
these mighty fortress-castles of the North; but a great historian says
that the site of Bamborough surpasses the sites of all other
Northumbrian castles in ancient and abiding historic interest; so even
if I had been introduced to dozens, my impression must remain the same.
"Round Bamborough, and its founder, Ida (the Flame-Bearer), all
Northumbrian history gathers"; and it is "one of the great cradles of
national life."
Bamborough village, close by, was once the royal city of Bernicia, and
the "Laidly Worm" was there to give it fame, even if there had never
been a Grizel Cochrane or Grace Darling; but the history of the hamlet
that once was great, and the castle that will always be great, are
virtually one. I shall bring you Besant's "Dorothy Foster," and lots of
fascinating photographs which our hostess has given me. (I don't think I
need leave them for Ellaline, as she wouldn't care.) But you know the
story of the Laidly Worm, because Dad used to tell it to me when I was
small. The wicked stepmother who turned her beautiful stepdaughter into
the fearsome Worm used to live at the bottom of a deep, deep well that
opens in the stone floor of the castle keep; and there, in the
rock-depths, a hundred and fifty feet below, she still lurks, in the
form of a gigantic toad. I have been allowed to peep down, and I'm sure
I caught the jewelled sparkle of her wicked eye in the gloom. But even
if she'd turned me into a Laidly Worm, I couldn't be more repulsive than
I probably am at present to Sir Lionel; besides, I could crawl away into
a neighbouring cave with modern improvements, and console myself with a
good cry--which I can't do now, for fear of getting a red nose. I should
hate that, because Mrs. Senter's nose is so magnolia-white, and the
background of a magnificent feudal castle sets off her golden hair and
brown eyes so passing well.
[Illustration: "_Bamborough surpasses all Northumbrian castles_"]
There might be volumes of history, as well as romances, written about
Bamborough Castle--as Sir Walter Scott, and Harrison Ainsworth, and Sir
Walter Besant knew. Why, the thrill of unwritten stories and untold
legends is in the air! From the moment I passed through the jaws of
outer and inner gateways, I seemed to hear whispers from lips that had
laughed or cursed in the days of barbaric grandeur, when Bamborough was
the king of all Northumbrian castles. There are queer echoes everywhere,
in the vast rooms whose outer walls are twelve feet thick; but more
deliciously "creepy" than any other place is the keep, I think--even
more thrilling than the dungeons. Yet the castle, as it is now, is far
from gloomy, I can tell you. Not only are there banqueting-halls and
ball-rooms, and drawing-rooms and vast galleries which royalties might
covet, but there are quantities of charming bedrooms, gay and bright
enough for débutante princesses. My bedroom, where I am writing, is in a
turret; quaintly furnished, with tapestry on the wall which might have
suggested to Browning his "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came."
It's very late, but I don't like to go to bed, partly because I can't
keep jumping up and down to look out of my window at wild crags and
moonlit sea when I'm asleep; partly because I have such silly, miserable
dreams about Sir Lionel hating me, that I wake up snivelling; and to
write to you when I'm a tiny bit _triste_ is always like warming my
hands at a rainbow-tinted fire of ship's logs.
To-morrow afternoon we are going back to Newcastle, where we will "lie"
one night, as old books say, and then make a very _matinal_ start to do
our great day in Yorkshire, passing first through Durham, with just a
glance at the great cathedral. Once upon a time we would have given more
than a glance. But, as I told you, Sir Lionel seems to have lost heart
for the "long trail."
I never saw him so interested in Mrs. Senter as he has appeared to be
these last two nights at Cragside and here. Certainly she is looking her
very, very best; and in her manner with him there is a gentleness and
womanliness only just developed. One would fancy that a sympathetic
understanding had established itself between them, as it might if she
told him some piteous story about herself which roused all his chivalry.
Well, if she has told him any such story, I'm sure it is a "story" in
every sense of the word. And I don't know how I should bear it if she
cajoled him into believing her an injured innocent who needed the
shelter of a (rich and titled) man's arm.
Perhaps it is a little sad wind that cries at my window like a baby
begging to come in; perhaps it is just foolishness; but I have a
presentiment that something will happen here to make me remember
Bamborough Castle forever, not for itself alone.
_Afternoon of next day_
It _has_ happened. Best One, I don't quite know what is going to become
of me. There has been the most awful row. It was with Dick, and Sir
Lionel doesn't know about it yet, and we are supposed to be going away
in a few minutes; but maybe Dick is talking to Sir Lionel now, and if he
is, I don't suppose I shall be allowed to proceed in the company of
virtuous Emily and (comparatively) innocent Gwendolen. I shall probably
be given a third-class ticket back to Paris, and ordered to "git."
It's rather hard that, having sacrificed so much, large chunks of
self-respect among other things, it should all come to nothing in the
end. Ellaline will want to kill me, for I have thrown her to the lions.
It won't be my fault if they don't eat her up.
Oh, darling, I do feel horribly about it, and really and truly, without
exaggeration, I would have died sooner than repay her kindness to me by
giving her away like this. An ancestress of yours in the Revolution ran
up the steps of the guillotine laughing and kissing her hands to the
friends she left in the tumbril, and I could have been almost half as
brave if by so doing I might have avoided this dreadful abandoning of
Ellaline's interests, trusted to me. But what can you do between two
evils? Isn't it a law of nature, or something, to choose the lesser?
Dick went just the one step too far, and pulled the chain too tight. He
had begun to think he could make me do anything.
A little while ago, I was alone in the armoury, absorbed in looking at a
wonderful engraving of the tragic last Earl of Derwentwater, when
suddenly Dick came up behind me. I wanted to go, and made excuses to
escape, but he wouldn't let me; and rather than have a scene--in case
anyone might come--I let him walk me about, and point out strange old
weapons on the wall. That was only a blind, however. He had something
particular to say, and said it. There was another thing I must do for
him: find a way of informing Sir Lionel, prettily and nicely, that Mrs.
Senter cared for him, and was very unhappy.
I flew out in an instant, and said that I'd do no such thing.
"You must," said he.
"I won't," said I. "Nobody can make me."
"Oh, can't they?" said he. "I can, then, and I mean to. If you refuse to
do it, I shall believe you're in love with Sir Lionel yourself."
"I don't care what you believe," I flung at him. "There's no shame in
saying I like Sir Lionel too well and respect him too much to have any
hand in making him miserable all the rest of his life."
"Do you insinuate that marrying my aunt would make him miserable?" Dick
wanted to know.
"I don't insinuate. I assert," said I. And by that time I was in such a
temper, and my nerves had so gone to bits that I didn't know, and cared
less, what I was saying. I went on and told Dick exactly what I thought
of Mrs. Senter, and that for a loyal, true sort of man like Sir Lionel
it would be better to die at once than have her for his wife--for that
would be death, too, only slow and lingering. Dick was white with fury,
but I hardly noticed then, for I was seeing red.
"If you call her deceitful, what are you?" he sputtered.
"I'm neither here nor there," said I.
"Certainly you won't be here long, or where Pendragon is," said he. "I
wouldn't marry you now, if you'd have me. You're nothing more or less
than an adventuress."
"And you're a blackmailer," I mentioned, because I'd gone back to
primitive passions, like Eve's, or a Brittany fishwife's.
"That's a lie," he answered politely, "because blackmailers only
threaten; I'm going to perform. It's all up with you."
"I don't care for myself," said I. But, as you know, that was only
partly true.
Then for a minute Dick seemed to repent. "No good losing our tempers
like this," he said. "Take back your insults to my aunt, who is the best
pal I ever had--though that's not saying much--and speak a good word for
her to Sir Lionel, whom she really loves, and I'll let you off."
"I'd have my tongue cut out first," I answered.
"Is that your last word?" he persisted.
"Yes," said I.
"Very well, then," said he, "you'll be sorrier for this than you ever
were for anything in your life." And he stamped away, leaving me alone.
I flew up to my room, because I wasn't going to run the risk of his
bringing Sir Lionel in and telling him everything before me. So here I
am, and that's all; except that Emily has come to my door to say her
brother wants to know if I can be ready to start in twenty minutes.
_Newcastle, Night_
We're back in our rooms at the County Hotel, and I am dazed with the
mystery of what is going on. I _was_ ready in twenty minutes; and all
the automobiles that brought us yesterday were waiting to take us away
again. When I came down, Mrs. Norton and Mrs. Senter were in our car;
Sir Lionel, cool but polite, prepared to help me in, standing by. He has
great control over his features, but I didn't think, if he had heard
Dick's story, and intended to shed me at the nearest railway station
(not to make a scandal at Bamborough), he could be looking as unmoved as
that.
No Dick was in sight. Naturally, I didn't ask for him, but perhaps my
eye moved wildly round, for Mrs. Senter read its question, and answered
it in a voice like insufficiently sweetened lemonade:
"Your Dick, dear child, has had another urgent summons to his mother's
side, and won't be with us to-day. His last words were that you would
understand, so I suppose he explained more to you than to me. But you
are privileged."
I could have boxed her ears, _hard_.
Emily went on, in her fussy way, to make things clear to my intellect by
adding that our host had kindly sent Mr. Burden to the nearest railway
station in his own fastest motor, as it seemed he had just time to catch
a train leaving almost immediately.
I didn't know what to make of it all, and don't now. Whether a telegram
from the invalid mother did really come in the nick of time to save me,
like Abraham's ram that caught in the bushes at the last minute; or
whether this sudden dash to Scotland is a deep-dyed plot; or whether he
isn't going, really, but means to stop and spy on me disguised as a
chauffeur or a performing bear--or _what_, I can't guess.
All I do know is that, so far, Sir Lionel's manner is unchanged. Perhaps
Dick left a note with Mrs. Senter, which she is to put into Sir L.'s
hand at an appropriate moment? He may seem altered at dinner, to which I
must go down soon; or he may send for me and have it out during the
evening. I'll add a line before we get off to-morrow morning.
_September 10th. 8.45 A.M._
We're just going. He seems the same as ever. I'm lost in it! I'll post
this downstairs. Please write at once to Graylees; for if I am sent away
before, I'll ask to have letters forwarded to my own address.
Your
Audrie.
XXXVII
MRS. SENTER TO HER NEPHEW, DICK BURDEN, AT GLEN LACHLAN, N. B.
_Newcastle_,
_September 10th_
_8 A.M._
You might have told me what was up. Is your mother really ill? Am
anxious and puzzled. Don't think you play fair. Wire, Midland Hotel,
Bradford.
Gwen.
XXXVIII
DICK BURDEN TO HIS AUNT, MRS. SENTER, MIDLAND HOTEL, BRADFORD
_Glenlachlan,_
_September 10th_
_8 P.M._
Mother not ill. You will know everything to-morrow or day after.
Dick.
XXXIX
AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER
_Midland Hotel, Bradford_,
_September 11th_
Beloved One: Situation unchanged. I know now how you felt when
you had nervous prostration. However, I'm not going to have it, so don't
worry.
If I had been in a state of mind to enjoy it fully, this would have been
a wonderful day. But I don't suppose Damocles enjoyed himself much, even
if they brought him delicious things to eat and drink, and rich jewels,
and the kind of cigarettes he'd always longed for, yet never could
afford to buy--knowing that any instant it might be the hair's time to
break.