Set in Silver
private park, a tremendous bulk of stone looming at me made me jump, and
cry out, "Oh!"
Sir Lionel turned his head long enough for half a smile. "Arundel
Castle," he said.
It's lucky for me that Mrs. Norton doesn't know much about any part of
England except her own home, and the homes of her particular friends, or
else she would always be explaining things to me, and I should hate
that. It would be like having purple hot-house grapes handed out to one
impaled on the prongs of a plated silver fork. I should have wanted to
slap her, if _she_ had told me I was looking at Arundel Castle, but I
was grateful to her brother for the information. This was a wickedness
in me; but if you knew how I felt, having started out from the Ritz
expecting a quiet day's run through one or two of the garden counties of
England, to come like this, bang into the midst of Roman villas, and
under the shadow of a tenth-century castle-keep, maybe you'd excuse my
morals for being upset.
You can't have centuries roll away, like a mere cloud of dust raised by
your motor, and be perfectly normal, can you? I tried to seem calm,
because I hate to be gushing and school-girlish (for Ellaline's sake, I
_suppose_, as it can't make any difference what her Dragon thinks of
me), but I'm pretty sure he saw that I was rather "out of myself" over
all his surprises.
He stopped the motor, and we sat for a long time gazing up at the towers
beyond the green and silver beeches--a pile of battlemented stone,
looking like the Middle Ages carved in granite, yet more habitable
to-day than ever before.
We had lunched early, and had plenty of time, so we walked through the
park, which made me feel that England must be rather big, after all, to
have room for thousands of such parks--even much larger ones--and all
its great cities--and miles and miles of farms and common land, and mere
"country."
When we lived in New York, you and Dad and I, we used to joke about the
way we should feel in England if we should ever go to visit Dad's
ancestral Devonshire. We used to pretend that, after being accustomed to
the vast distances of America, we should be afraid of tumbling off the
edge of England; but so far I find that I don't dread that imminent
peril. Just now England seems so vast that my only fear is I mayn't have
time to reach the Roman Wall.
The Duke's midges bit us a good deal, in the park, so we didn't linger,
but went back to Apollo, where Young Nick's remarkable appearance had
attracted a crowd of boys and girls from Arundel town. They stood in the
road gaping at him, with that steady, unblinking stare English children
and French grown-ups have, while the brown image sat motionless in the
car, as scornfully oblivious of his critics as if he'd been the idol he
looked.
Poor Sir Lionel hates the attention his extraordinary little chauffeur
excites, for, in spite of his long expatriation, he loathes being
conspicuous in any way as heartily as other Englishmen do. But (Mrs.
Norton has told me) he saved Young Nick from being murdered by someone
who was a "family enemy." Since then--it was when Nick was scarcely more
than a child--the brown image has worshipped the Dragon, and refused to
be separated from him. When Sir Lionel proposed providing for him well,
and leaving him behind, Nick made no complaints, but began industriously
to starve himself to death. So, of course, he had to be brought to
England, and his master just makes the best of him, costume, features,
broomstick legs, and all.
We had tea in a picture of Turner's: for Littlehampton, with its tidal
river, its harbour and pier, its fishing boats and shining sails, its
windmill, its goldy-brown sands, and its banked violet clouds, was a
genuine Turner. Of course, he wouldn't have painted the Beach Hotel, in
spite of its nice balconies, but we were glad it was there, and it
didn't spoil the picture.
By that time, it was nearly half-past five, but we had hours of daylight
before us, so we stopped for a look at Climping Church (don't you love
the "ing" that shows a place has kept its Saxon name?) with its splendid
Norman doorway and queer, long windows, shaped like open pods of peas
beautifully ornamented round their edges. Thank goodness, there was
nothing "perp" about it! I get so tired of "perp" things in guide books.
Slinden we glanced at, too, a most idyllic village, garrisoned with the
noblest beeches I ever saw. Hilaire Belloc, whose "Path to Rome" we
liked so much, stayed at Slinden, writing delightful things about
Sussex. I mean to get and read all I can, because, even in the glimpse
I've had, I can see that Sussex has a character, as well as a charm,
individually its own. The Downs give it, and make you feel that a true
man of Sussex would be frank, warm-hearted, simple and brave, with
old-fashioned ways which, with a pleasant obstinacy, he would be loath
to change. I heard Mrs. Tupper quote two or three quaint proverbs which
were new to me, but Sir Lionel said they were old, almost, as the Sussex
downs, and as racy of the soil. I always associated Brighton with
Sussex, which made it seem a sophisticated county: but you see, _true_
Sussex--the Downs--stands all independent and sturdy, between the
pleasure-places by the sea and the snug Weald.
The faces we passed didn't look like faces descended from smugglers,
they seemed so kind and good; but then, of course, smuggling was quite a
respectable industry in Sussex, where the secretive formation of the
coast clearly showed that Providence had meant it to epict. I love the
Sussex downs, I like the Sussex faces, and I admire the Sussex church
spires--tall and pointed, covered with lichened shingles.
We stopped at Boxgrove, too, a church adored by architects; and as we
went our way to Goodwood the sea was a torn sheet of silver seen behind
great downs which the afternoon sun was gilding. Oh, the Lebanon cedars
and the views of Goodwood! If I were there for the races, I think not
even the finest horses, the most beautiful women, and the prettiest
frocks in England could hold my eyes long from that view. I can shut my
eyes now--the day after--and see those Lebanon cedars black against an
opal sky. Another picture I can see, too, is Bosham Church, standing up
tall and pure as a gray nun singing an _Ave Maria_ beside the clear
water. It comes back to me from my studies of English history that
Vespasian had a villa there, and that Harold sailed from Bosham. Do you
know, he's in the act of doing it on the Bayeux tapestry? Once, the
Danes stole the Bosham church bells, and the dear things still ring at
the bottom of the sea, because the robber ship was wrecked, and went
down with the chime, in mid channel. I like that story. It matches the
picture and the tapestry.
Our day stopped at Chichester, and my letter must stop, too, for all
this I tell you of was only yesterday. We arrived last evening, and now
it's nearly midnight of the next day. I began to write just after
dinner, sitting in my dear old-fashioned room, and if I don't soon say
good-night I shan't get much beauty sleep. To-morrow morning, at
half-past nine, we're going on; but before we start I'll scribble a
Chichester postscript. So you see, I must be up bright and early,
especially as I mean to fly out for one more glimpse of the
cathedral--though I spent most of this afternoon in it.
I wonder if you are sparing a few minutes to-night to dream of
Your Audrie?
P. S.--Eight-twenty in the morning, and I've been up for two hours.
You'd like Chichester immensely. I don't say "love," for it hasn't
engaged my affections, somehow; but I do love the beautiful jewel of a
market cross, and some of the tombs in the cathedral. The cross is quite
a baby compared with lots of others, it seems, being only just born at
the time Henry VIII. was cutting off pretty ladies' heads when he had
tired of their hearts. Several tombs are so lovely, you almost want to
be dead, and have one as like as possible; but, though part of the
cathedral is satisfyingly old (eleventh century), its new spire reminds
one of a badly chosen hat, and the whole building somehow looks cold and
dull, like a person with a magnificent profile who never says anything
illuminating.
As for Chichester itself, except the market cross, the only thing that
has touched my heart was St. Mary's Hospital, surely the quaintest old
almshouse on earth. The town has rather a self-conceited air to me, and
unless one were wise, one mightn't realize without being informed that
it's immemorably old. Of course, though, if one _were_ wise, one would
know the Romans had had a hand in the making or re-making of it, because
of the geometric, regular way in which it's built. Sir Lionel Pendragon
told me that. He seems to remember all he ever learned, whereas ever so
many little bundles are already knocking about in dusty corners of my
brain, with their labels lost.
There couldn't be a more thrilling road than the road along which we
came to Chichester, and by which we will leave it in a few minutes now.
Think of Roman Stane Street, and listen for the rumble of ghostly
chariot wheels! Then--if you've not come this way for Goodwood
races--you can throw your mind a little further ahead to the days of the
crusaders and the pilgrims; and to kings' processions glittering with
gold and glossy with velvets; to armies on their way to fight; and
further ahead, to coaches plying along the Portsmouth road. I wonder how
many people in the hundreds of motors that flash back and forth each day
do think of it all? I pity those who don't, because they lose a thought
that might embroider their world with rich colours.
P.P.S.--I met Sir Lionel, accidentally, of course, in the cathedral this
morning, where he, too, was saying good-bye to the most fascinating of
the old tombs. And wasn't it odd, we had the same favourites? They
looked even nicer and queerer than yesterday, with no Mrs. Norton to
spatter inappropriate remarks about.
We walked back to the hotel together, and he asked me, just as we were
coming in, whether my allowance was enough, or would I like to have
more?
I had burst out that it was heaps, before I stopped to realize that he
was asking that question really of Ellaline, not of me. Perhaps I ought
to have temporized, and said I would make up my mind in a few
days--meanwhile writing to her. I suppose she must be quite an heiress;
but he can't be as mercenary as she thinks, or he wouldn't have made
such a suggestion.
I'm called! The motor's ready. I'll post this from the hotel.
IX
AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER
_Southsea_,
_July 19th_
Dearest: This address isn't part of our plan of campaign. We'd
meant to pass through, after pausing on the way just long enough to see
Portsmouth Harbour, and Dickens's birthplace; but we've stopped here on
my account, and now I wish we hadn't. I'll tell you why, in a minute;
but if I don't mention a few other things first, they'll be crowded out,
and I shall forget them.
After we'd seen the birthplace, and were seeing the harbour, Sir Lionel
asked if I'd care to go on board a man-o'-war. Of course, my answer was
"Yes"; and he said there was an old friend of his whom he would like to
see, Captain Starlin, of the _Thunderer_, so he'd ask for an invitation.
He scribbled things in pencil on a visiting-card, and sent it on board
the big gray monster, by a nice low-necked sailor. Of course, the
invitation which came back was most cordial, and even Mrs. Norton
appeared pleased with the idea of going over the ship. We were received
by the Captain himself--rather a young-looking man, whose complexion
seemed to have slipped down, like Sir Lionel's, both their foreheads