Set in Silver
his old grandfather tell of the days of the wicked, illegal
timber-selling in the forest for the building of warships. Just think,
grand oaks, ash and thorn, trees stanch as English hearts, sold for the
price of firewood!
I sat at the table, watching the firelight play on my ring, which I
hadn't seen till we got into the hut; and it is beautiful. I shall enjoy
having it, though only for a little while, and shall regard it as a
trust for Ellaline.
The charcoal-burner assured us we needn't worry; he would put us on the
way home, and give us landmarks which, after he'd guided us a certain
distance, we couldn't miss even at night.
When we'd finished our eggs and bacon, our tea and chunks of dry bread,
Sir Lionel laid a gold piece on the table. Blind as he was, the old man
wasn't too blind to see _that_, and he simply beamed.
"Bless you all the days of your life, sir, and your good, pretty lady!"
he cackled.
That's the third time I've been taken for Sir Lionel's wife. The other
times I didn't care, but this time, though I laughed, it was a _put on_
laugh, because of those dim questionings about myself floating in the
background of my mind.
The descendant of poachers knew the forest, as he said, "with his eyes
shut." He limped before us for nearly half a mile, along what he called
a "walk"--a New Forest word--and then abandoned us to our fate, after
describing the profile of each important tree which we must pass, and
pointing out a few stars as guides. Then we bade each other good-bye for
ever. He went back to gloat over his gold piece, and Sir Lionel and I
went on together.
Somehow, we fell to talking of our favourite virtues, and without
thinking, I said, "My mother's is gratitude."
"Gratitude," he repeated, as if in surprise, but he didn't seem to
notice that I'd used the present tense. To make him forget my slip, I
hurried on to say I thought mine was courage, in a man, anyhow. What
was his, in a woman?
"Truth," he answered, with an instant's hesitation.
Luckily he couldn't see me blush in the dark. But the real Audrie was
always decently truthful, wasn't she? It's only this Ellaline-Audrie
that isn't free to be true.
"Only in women?" I asked, uncomfortably.
"Truth goes without saying in men--the sort of men one knows," said he.
"Don't you think women love the truth as much as men?" I persisted.
"No, I don't," he answered abruptly. Then qualified his "no," as if he
ought to apologize for it. "But I haven't had much experience," he
finished, a heavy, dull sound coming into his voice.
Well, dearest, that's all I have to tell you on this, my birthday night,
except that we found our way back to the hotel safely, arriving about
half-past ten, and only Emily was anxious about us. The other two were
inclined to be frivolous; and Mrs. Senter noticed the new ring, which I
had forgotten to take off my finger. Nothing ever escapes her eyes! I
saw them light, and linger, but of course she didn't refer to the ring,
and naturally I didn't.
I hadn't quite decided whether or not I should wear it "for every day,"
and had been inclined to think it would be better not, even at the risk
of disappointing the giver. But I made up my mind, when Mrs. Senter
looked so peculiarly at it, that I would brazen the thing out, and so I
will.
"I envy you your adventure," she said, in what _I_ felt was a meaning
voice, though Sir Lionel didn't appear to read under the commonplace
surface.
I don't care if she does choose to be horrid. I don't see how she can
hurt me. And as for Dick, he has done his worst. He has made me get them
both asked for the tour. I should think that's enough.
We are going to stop at the Compton Arms for two or three days, running
about in the car to see different parts of the forest, and coming "home"
at night. I love that way!
The only thing I don't like in going from one hotel to another, is
having all sorts of queer little birthmarks on my hankies and other
things in the wash. Good-bye, Angel Duck.
Your Grown-up
Daughter.
Only think, I am now of age!
By the way, Sir Lionel, who expected his ward to be a little girl
(thoughtless of him!), said to-night: "You're so old, I can't get used
to you."
And I retorted, "You're so young, I can't get used to _you_."
I hope it didn't sound pert, to answer like that?
XIII
AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER
_Lulworth Cove_,
_July 30th_
Why aren't you with me, dearest, seeing what I am seeing?
It's all very well for you to write that my letters make a panorama pass
before your eyes, and I'm flattered, but I want you. Although I am
enjoying life, I'm more excited than happy, and I don't sleep well. I
dream horrid dreams about Mrs. Senter and Dick Burden, and about
Ellaline, too, but I always laugh when I wake up.
Thank you so much for telling me that you think I'm behaving pretty
well, considering. But I wonder what you'll say in your next, after my
last?
Every day since then I've been meaning to write, if only a short note,
but we've had early starts and late stops; and then, from not sleeping
at night, I'm often so tired when the end of the day comes that I feel
too stupid to try and earn your compliments.
It is morning, and I'm writing out of doors, sitting on a rock, close by
the sea. But before I begin to describe Lulworth, I must tell you a
little about the glorious things of which I've had flying glimpses since
the letter dated Compton Arms. This is our first all-night stopping
place since we left Stony Cross "for good," but I've picked up many a
marvellous memory by the way.
People who haven't seen the New Forest haven't seen England.
I had no idea what it was like till we stayed there. I knew from
guide-books that there were thousands of acres of woodland still, though
much had been "deforested"; but I didn't know it hid many beautiful
villages, and even towns. It's a heavenly place for motoring, but I'm
not sure it wouldn't be even better to walk, because you could eke out
the joy of it longer. I should like a walking honeymoon (a whole round
moon) in the New Forest--if it were with just the right man.
Oh, I mustn't forget to say I'm glad I didn't see Rufus's Stone by
daylight. Mrs. Senter and Dick went the morning after I wrote to you,
but I wouldn't go again, because I didn't want to lose the enchanted
picture in my mind. She laughed when I refused. I could have slapped
her. But never mind.
When they came back they were disgusted, and said there was a
ginger-beer woman and a man with the game of "Aunt Sally," and a crowd
of cockney excursionists round them and the Stone. Talk of malfays!
Sir Lionel had made out an itinerary for the day, and we were to start
for Lyndhurst, Beaulieu Abbey, Lymington, Brockenhurst, and Mark Ash,
all of which we were to visit before evening, coming back by way of
Lyndhurst again, and stopping there for tea. But before we got off, such
a comic thing happened.
I didn't think to mention it in a letter, but one day we passed a
motor-car that was having tire trouble by the side of the road. The
chauffeur was rolling on a new tire, with a curious-looking machine, in
which Young Nick was passionately interested, as he'd never seen one
before. Sir Lionel explained that it was an American tool, not very long
invented, and said to be good. He added, in an evil moment, that he
wished he'd thought to buy one like it before leaving London, as
probably the thing couldn't be got in the Provinces.
Well, just as we were about to spin away in great style from the Compton
Arms, one of our tires sighed, and settled down for an unearned rest.
But instead of looking black-browed and murderous, as he did when the
same thing occurred before, Nick smiled gleefully. He jumped down, and
without a word produced a machine exactly like the one his master
admired a few days ago.
"Where did you get that?" asked Sir Lionel.
"Last night, sahib," returned Nick, imperturbably. (He can speak quite
good English.)
"What! Since we had our trouble?"
"Yes, sahib." An odd expression now began to play among Nick's brown
features, like a breeze over a field of growing wheat.
"How's that? There's no shop."
"The sahib says true. I found this thing."
"Where?" sharply.
"But a little way from here. In the road."
"You rascal," exclaimed Sir Lionel. "You stole it."
Young Nick made Buddha eyebrows and a Buddha gesture. "The sahib knows
all. But if I did take it? Those men, they were going again to the big
city. We away. They never miss this. They buy another. It is better we
have it."
Trying to look very angry, though I knew he was dying to laugh, Sir
Lionel reproached Nick for breaking a solemn promise. "You swore you'd
never do such a thing in England if I brought you with me. Now you've
begun again, the same old game. I shall have to send you back, that is
all."
"Then I die, and _that_ is all," replied Young Nick, calmly.
The end of the story is, that Sir Lionel found out the names of the men,
who had spent the night at the Compton Arms, and had written their
address in the visitors' book. He sent the tool to them, with an
explanation which I should have loved to read. And it appears that,
though Nick is honest personally, he is a thief for the car, and in
Bengal took anything new and nice which other motors had and his hadn't.
Now, Mrs. Norton is afraid that, if Sir Lionel scolds him much, he will
commit hari-kari on the threshold of the hotel, which would be
embarrassing. And it does no good to tell her that hari-kari is a
Japanese or Chinese trick. She says, if Nick would not do that he might
do something worse.
Gliding over the perfect roads of the Forest, Apollo seemed actually to
float. I never felt anything so delicious, and so like being a goddess
reclining on a wind-blown cloud. No wonder motorists' faces, when you
can see them, almost always look madly happy. So different from "hay
motorists," as The Blot says. _They_ generally look grumpy.
The little wild ponies were one of the Forest's surprises for me. We met
lots of them, mostly miniature mothers giving their innocent-faced,
rough babies an airing; delightful beastkins. And I almost liked Mrs.
Senter for having a cousin who owns one of these ponies as a pet, a
dwarf one, no bigger than a St. Bernard dog. It wears a collar with
silver bells, follows her everywhere, thinks nothing of curling up on a
drawing-room sofa, and once was found on its mistress's bed, asleep on a
new Paris hat.
The enticing rose-bowered cottages we passed ought to have told me that
we were back in Hampshire again, if the New Forest hadn't seemed to a
poor little foreigner like a separate county all by itself. It would be
no credit to a bride to clamour for love in such a cottage, and turn up
her nose at palaces. She might be married at the beautiful church of
Lyndhurst (a most immediate jewel of a church, with an exquisite
altar-piece by Lord Leighton, a Flaxman, and a startlingly fine piece of
sculpture by an artist named Cockerell), then, safely wedded, plunge
with her bridegroom into the Forest, and be perfectly happy without ever
coming out again. I wish I had had the "Forest Lovers" to re-read while
we were there. I think Maurice Hewlett must have got part of his
inspiration in those mysterious green "walks" which lead away into that
land where fairy lore and historic legend go hand in hand.
Lyndhurst, which King George III. loved, is pretty, but we didn't stop
to look at it, because we were coming back that way. After seeing the
church which, though modern, I wouldn't have missed for a great deal, we
spun on to Beaulieu Abbey, the home of a hero of motoring. There we saw
a perfect house, rising among trees, and sharing with the sky a clear