Set in Silver
mother, and I would have it always so. She need never know any of the
truth, though of course, when she marries I shall have to tell the man
one or two things, I suppose.
I'll let you know next time I write how the ring is received.
This morning, after breakfast, we all walked about the streets of
Winchester, and, of course, went to the cathedral, where we stopped till
nearly two o'clock.
The town and the place have all their old charm, and even more for me;
the "Piazza"; the huddled, narrow streets full of mystery, the Cathedral
Close with its crowded entrance, its tall trees that try to hide
cathedral glories from common eyes; its mellow Queen Anne and Georgian
houses which group round in a pleasant, self-satisfied way, as if they
alone were worthy of standing-room in that sacred precinct.
To me, there's no cathedral in England that means as much of the past as
Winchester. You know how, in the nave, you see so plainly the transition
from one architectural period to another? And then, there are those
splendid Mortuary Chests. Think of old Kynegils, and the other Saxon
kings lying inside, little heaps of haunted dust.
I was silly enough to be immensely pleased that the child picked out
those Mortuary Chests in their high resting place, and the gorgeous
alleged tomb of William Rufus, as the most unforgettable among the
smaller interests of Winchester Cathedral, for they are the same with
me; and it's human to like our tastes shared by (a few) others. She was
so enchanted to hear how William the Red was brought by a carter to be
buried in Winchester, and about the great turquoise and the broken shaft
of wood found in the tomb, that I hadn't the heart to tell her it
probably wasn't his burial place, but that of Henri de Blois.
Of course she liked Bloody Mary's faldstool--the one Mary sat in for her
marriage with Philip of Spain; and the MSS. signed by AElfred the Great
as a child, with his father.
Women are caught by the personal element, I think, more than we are. And
so interested was she in Jane Austen's memorial tablet, that she
wouldn't be satisfied without going to see the house where Jane died.
There were so many other things to see, that Emily and Mrs. Senter would
have left that out, but I wanted the girl to have her way.
Poor little, sweet-hearted Jane! She was only forty-one when she
finished with this world--a year older than I. But doubtless that was
almost old for a woman of her day, when girls married at sixteen, and
took to middle-aged caps at twenty-five. Now, I notice, half the mothers
look younger than their daughters--younger than any daughter would dare
to look after she was "out."
A good many interesting persons seem to have died in Winchester, if they
weren't clever enough to be born in the town. Earl Godwin set an early
example in that respect. Died, eating with Edward the Confessor--probably
too much, as his death was caused by apoplexy, and might not have happened
if Edward hadn't been too polite to advise him not to stuff.
Of course, the cathedral is the great jewel; but for me the old city is
an ancient, kingly crown set full of jewels. There's the West Gate, for
instance. You know how we said it alone would be worth walking many
miles to see. And the old castle. I'm not sure that isn't one of the
best sights of all. I took the party there after luncheon, and the same
delightful fellow showed us round. He hadn't changed since our time,
unless he is more mellow.
He was quite angry to-day with a German-American woman--the type, as
Ellaline murmured to me, that alone is capable of a plaid blouse. The
lady inquired nasally of our old friend, "Is this hall mod-ern; what you
call mod-ern?"
We were at the moment gazing up at King Arthur's Round Table, which
Henry VIII. hung on the wall to save it further vicissitudes, after
Henry VII. had it daubed with colours and Tudor roses, to furnish forth
some silly feast.
The dear old chap raised his eyebrows at the question, and glanced round
as if apologizing to each massive pillar in turn. Well, he said, he
would hardly call the hall modern, as it had been built by William the
Conqueror, but perhaps the lady _might_ be used to older things at home.
With that, he turned on an indignant heel, and led us out to the
courtyard where wretched Edward II.'s brother, the Duke of Kent, was
executed. He has the same old trick of being "sorry to say" whenever he
has anything tragic or gruesome to relate, passing lightly over details
of oubliettes, and skeletons found without their heads--as so many were
on grim St. Giles's Hill.
Of course we went and had a look at St. Cross and Henri de Blois's old
hospital almshouse. We would have stopped there yesterday, if Emily
hadn't so ardently desired tea. But, if I'd thought to tell her about
the Dole of bread and beer, she might have been persuaded, though my
description of the exquisite windows in the courtyard, and the quaint
houses of the black and white brethren, left her cold. We all had some
of the Dole to-day at the portal; and Mrs. Senter took it as a
compliment that each one was given so little. Tourists get tiny bits,
you know, and beggars big ones; so she thought it would have been a sign
that they disparaged the ladies' hats and frocks if they had been more
generous. It would be difficult to disapprove of hers. She understands
the art of dress to perfection.
A pity we couldn't have been here earlier in the year, isn't it? For
among the nicest new things in old Winchester are the Winchester
schoolboys. How they spurn the ordinary tourist they meet in the street,
and how scornfully polite they are to any unfortunate straying beast who
asks them a question, making him feel meaner than any worm! A foreigner
must long to ask the consequential youths to "kindly excuse him while he
continues to breathe"; for few strangers can sympathize with the
contempt we English have, while still in callow youth, for everyone we
don't know. But, let a newcomer blossom into an acquaintance, or mention
a relative at Eton, and all is changed. The Winchester boys turn into
the most delightful chaps in the world.
I dare say I shall think Dick Burden a delightful chap when I know him
better. At present, it's all I can do to put up with him for the sake of
his aunt. And the fellow has such an ostentatiously frank way of looking
one straight in the eyes, that I'm hanged if I'd trust him to go as
straight.
Talking of going straight, to-morrow morning early we leave for
Salisbury, and when we feel like moving shall pass on toward the New
Forest.
Ever yours,
Pen.
XI
AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER
_White Hart Hotel, Salisbury_,
_July 24th_
Dearest: I am particularly homesick for you to-night, because
it's my birthday eve. Twenty-one to-morrow, but passing for nineteen.
And isn't it annoying, I went and blurted out in Winchester two days ago
that I had a birthday hanging over me. I'm awfully afraid Sir Lionel
thinks himself bound to give me a present. If he does, and I can't get
out of taking it, I shall have to pass it on to Ellaline, of course,
when I'm passing everything else on--including myself.
I know you're thinking of me to-night, as you walk after dinner under
the glorious chestnut trees you describe in the park at
Champel-les-Bains. I wish you had an astral body! It wouldn't take up
any room, or have to pay railway fares, or wait for invitations to
visit, and it could easily be one of the party in Sir Lionel's car. So
nice to have it sitting between me and Dick Burden!
I wanted you dreadfully at Winchester, as I wrote you in the note I
scribbled after seeing the cathedral. I wish I'd told you more about
Winchester then, for now it's too late. All Stonehenge is lying on top
of my Winchester impressions, and it will take them a little time to
squeeze from underneath. They will come out, though, I know, none the
worse for wear. And how I shall talk this trip over with you, when we're
together again, and I know the end that's hiding behind the motor-veil
of the future!
Mother, dear, when I shut my eyes to-night, I see Barrows, billowing
prehistorically along the horizon, and I see Stonehenge, black against a
red sunset, and silver in the moonlight. Also, I have begun to _think_
architecturally, I find, through seeing so much architecture, and trying
to talk about it intelligently, as Mrs. Senter contrives to do. (I
believe she fags it up at night, with a wet towel over her hair wavers!)
Do you know what it is to think architecturally? Well, for me (not
apropos of Mrs. S. at all), a made-up woman is "well restored," or
"repaired." An intellectual-looking man, with a fine head, has Norman
bumps and Gothic ears. A puppy with big feet is an early Perp., with
Norman foundations, and so on. It gives a new interest to life and the
creatures we meet. Emily is late Georgian, with Victorian elevations.
I hated leaving Winchester; but oh, those Barrows we saw, when we were
coming away! They made most antique things seem as new as a china cup
with "For a Good Girl" outlined on it in gold letters. So many
stupendous events have scattered themselves along this road of ours, as
the centuries rolled, that it makes the brain reel, trying to gather
them up, and sort them into some kind of sequence. Often I wish I could
sit and admire calmly, as Mrs. Senter can, and not get boiling with
excitement over the past. But one is so uncomfortably intelligent, one
can't stop thinking, thinking every minute. Every tiny thing I see has
its little "thought sting," ready like a mosquito; and a fancy that has
lately stabbed me is the striking resemblance between English scenery,
or its features, and English character. The best bits in both are shy of
showing themselves, and never flaunt. They are so reserved that to find
them out you must search. All the loveliest nooks in English country and
in English souls are hidden from strangers. Why, the very cottages try
to hide under veils of clematis and roses, as the cottage children hide
their thoughts behind long eyelashes.
We came to Salisbury by way of Romsey, and got out to see the splendid
old church which almost ranks with Winchester Cathedral as a monument of
England. And Romsey Abbey, too, very beautiful, even thrilling; still
more ancient Hursley, with its earthworks, about which, for once, Sir
Lionel and Dick Burden were congenial. Of course, men who have been
soldiers like Sir Lionel, or tried to be soldiers and couldn't, like
Dick, must know something about the formation of such things; but anyone
may be interested--except a Mrs. Norton.
You and I had no motoring when we were travellers, so we didn't see
Europe as I am seeing England; still, I don't believe any other country
has this individuality of vast, billowing downs. As you bowl smoothly
from one to another, over perfect roads, you have a series of surprises,
new beauties opening suddenly to your eyes. It is exciting, yet
soothing; and that mingling of emotions is part of the joy of the car.
For motorists, the downs of Hampshire and Wiltshire are like a goddess's
beautiful breasts; and Nature is a goddess, isn't she?--the greatest of
all, combining all their best qualities.
This White Hart was a nice hotel, but I rather resent the foreign
waiters, as out of the picture, in such an essentially old-fashioned,
English place. I like the animal names of the hotels in England. Already
we have seen a lot; and they form into a quaint, colourful, Noah's Ark
and heraldic procession across the country. The Black Bull; The Golden
Unicorn; The Blue Boar; The Red Lion; The Piebald Horse; The Green
Dragon; The White Hart. I am still longing for a Purple Bear.
The first thing we did after getting settled (which I always like, as I