Set in Silver
We climbed up, up above the village, in the motor-car, on the steepest,
twistingest road I've seen yet in England, though Sir Lionel says I'll
think nothing of it when we get into Devonshire; up, up to a high place
where they've built a restaurant. Near by we left the motor (and Emily,
who never walks for pleasure), and ho, for the caves! It was a scramble
among dark cliffs of Purbeck limestone. The caves are delightfully
weird, and of course there are smuggling stories about them. A strange
wind blew through their labyrinths, ceaselessly, like the breathings of
a hidden giant, betrayed by sleep. It was heavenly cool in that dim
twilight that never knew sun, but oh, it was hot coming out into the
afternoon glare, and climbing the steep path to where the motor waited!
I think Mrs. Senter was sorry she hadn't stopped with Emily. She got a
horrid headache, and felt so ill that Sir Lionel asked if she would care
to stop all night at Swanage, and she said she would.
Fortunately, it turned out that there were good hotels, and Sir Lionel
took rooms at the one we liked the best--old-fashioned in an agreeable
way. Mrs. Senter went to bed, but the rest of us strolled out after
dinner; and Mrs. Norton began talking to Dick about his mother, which
threw Sir Lionel and me together.
We sat on the pier, where the moon turned bright pink as she dipped down
into a bank of clouds like a rose-garden growing out of the sea. And
even when it was dark, the sea kept its colour, the deep blue of
sapphires, where, at a distance, little white yachts and sailboats
looked like a company of crescent moons floating in an azure sky. I felt
in the sweetest mood, kind toward all the world, and particularly to Sir
Lionel. I couldn't bear to remember that I'd ever had bad thoughts, and
doubts, so I was half sub-consciously nicer to him than I ever was
before. Dick kept glaring at me, from his seat beside Mrs. Norton, and
drawing his eyebrows together when he thought Sir Lionel wasn't looking.
Going home, he got a chance for a few words, when Emily was speaking to
her brother about Mrs. Senter's headache. He said that there was
something he must say to me, alone, and he wanted me to come out into
the garden behind the hotel, to talk to him when the others had gone to
bed, but of course I refused. Then he said, would I manage to give him a
few minutes next day, and intimated, gently, that I'd be sorry if I
didn't. I told him that "I'd see"; which is always a safe answer; but I
haven't "managed" yet.
When I got back to my room at the hotel I noticed that some of my things
weren't in the places where I'd left them; and the writing portfolio in
a dressing-case which Sir Lionel _thinks_ is mine, but is really
Ellaline's (one of the Bond Street purchases), had my papers changed
about in it. The servants in the house seemed so respectable and nice, I
can't think that one of them would have pried. And yet--well, the truth
is, I'm afraid of being catty, but I can't help putting Mrs. Senter's
headache and my disturbed papers together in my mind. Two and two when
put together, make four, you know. And her room in the Swanage hotel was
next to mine. She might have been sure that we'd all go out after dinner
on such a perfect night. But why should she bother? Unless Dick has told
her something, after all? I suppose I shall never know whether it was
she or someone else who meddled. I looked through all the papers and
other things, but could find nothing "compromising," as the
adventuresses say. However, I can't quite remember what I had. Some
letter may have been taken. I have been a tiny bit worried since, for
you know Ellaline would never forgive me if anything should go wrong
now. And I've been thinking that, though Sir Lionel is no dragon, there
may be something about Honore du Guesclin which he wouldn't approve.
Ellaline may even have her own reasons for thinking he wouldn't approve,
dragon or no dragon. Very likely she didn't tell me everything--she was
so anxious to have her own way.
But to go back to the journey here. Almost each mile we travelled gave
us some thought of Hardy, and acquainted me with the character of
Dorset, which is just what I expected from his books: giant trees; tall,
secretive hedges; high brick walls, mellow with age and curtained with
ivy; stone cottages, solid and prosperous and old, with queer little
bay-windows, diamond-paned; Purbeck granite bursting through the grass
of meadows, and making a grave background for brilliant flowers; heaths
that Hardy wrote about in the "Return of the Native"--heaths, heaths,
and rolling downs.
We took the way from Swanage to West Lulworth, and had an adventure on a
hill. Sir Lionel is very strict with his little Buddha about examining
everything that could possibly go wrong with the motor, and just before
we started, I heard him ask Young Nick if he had looked at the brakes
after our descent from Tilly Whim. "Oh, yes, sahib," said the brown
image. "Oh, no!" said the brakes themselves, on a big hill, as far from
the madding crowd as "Gabriel" and "Bathsheba" ever lived. We'd got
lost, and that was the way the car punished us. First of all, the motor
refused to work. That made Apollo feel faint, so that he began to run
backward down the hill instead of going up; and when Sir Lionel put on
the brakes, they wouldn't act.
It was the first time anything really bad had happened, and my heart
gave a jump, but somehow I wasn't frightened. With Sir Lionel driving,
it seemed as if no harm could come; and it didn't, for he steered to the
side of the road, and brought the car up short against a great hummock
of grass. All the same, we nearly tipped over, and Sir Lionel told us to
jump. I shouldn't have stirred if he hadn't spoken. I should have
awaited orders; but the others were moving before we stopped, and Mrs.
Senter fell down and bumped her knee. That made her hair come partly
undone, and, to my horror, a bunch of the dearest little curls, which I
always thought lived there, were loosened. There was a great wind
blowing, and in a second more the curls would have been on the horizon,
if I hadn't seized them just as they were about to take flight. If
they'd gone, they must have passed almost in front of Sir Lionel's nose,
on their way. Wouldn't that have been dreadful? I should think she could
never have looked him in the face again, for her hair's her greatest
beauty, and she's continually saying things about its being all her own,
and having more than she knows what to do with.
But luckily his back was turned when I caught the curls, and stuffed
them hastily into her hand before she was on her feet, nobody seeing
except Dick. I suppose a nephew doesn't count! But do you know, dear, if
they'd been my curls, I believe she'd have loved Sir Lionel to see them.
I don't like her a bit, but all the more I couldn't be mean. I reserve
all my cattyness toward her for my letters to you, when I let myself go,
and stretch my little nails in my velvet paw.
I was sorry for Young Nick! He was miserably sheepish, and vowed that he
really had examined the brakes. Sir Lionel just looked at him, and
raised his eyebrows; that was all, because he wouldn't scold the poor
little wretch before us.
It was as much as the three men could do to get Apollo down on his four
tires again, for, though he seemed as lightly balanced as an eccentric
dancer trying to touch one eyelid to the floor, he was partly embedded
in the bank by the roadside. Then we all sat gracefully about, while Sir
Lionel and the chauffeur worked--Young Nick under the car, looking
sometimes like a contortionist tying himself into lover's knots,
sometimes like a miniature Michelangelo lying on his back to paint a
fresco. I hope, though, that Michael never had half the trouble finding
his paints and brushes that Nick had to get at his tommies and jemmies,
and dozens of strange little instruments. He lay with his mouth
bristling with giant pins, and had the air of a conscientious dentist
filling a difficult tooth.
It was a long time before the brakes were properly tightened up and the
four cylinders breathing freely again; but it would have been ungracious
to be bored in such a glorious wild place, in such glorious weather.
There was a kind of Walt Whitman feeling in the air that made me want to
sing; and finally I could resist no longer. I burst out with those
verses of his which you set to music for me. At least, I sang a few
bars; and you ought to have seen Sir Lionel wheel round and look at me
when he heard my voice. I never said anything to him about knowing how
to sing, so he was surprised.
"Why, you have quite a pretty voice, Ellaline!" said Mrs. Norton.
"'Quite a pretty voice!' I should say she had!" remarked Sir Lionel. He
didn't say any more. But I never had a compliment I liked better; and I
didn't mind a bit when Mrs. Senter remarked that anyone would fancy I
was a professional.
I was almost sorry to go on at last, though Emily was worrying lest we
should get no lunch. But we saw beautiful things as we spun toward
Lulworth, rushing so swiftly along an empty road that the hedges roared
past us like dark cataracts. It was thrilling, and showed what Apollo
could do when he chose. If there had been a soul on the road, of course
we wouldn't have done such deeds; though I must say, from what I've
seen, if you creep along so as not to kick up a dust and annoy people,
they aren't at all grateful, but only scorn instead of hating you, and
think you can't go faster, or you would. Still, you have the
consciousness of innocence. One thing we saw was a delightful Tudor
house, called Creech Grange; and the ancestor of the man who owns it
built Bond Street. I'm sure I don't know why, but I'm glad he did. We
took the valley way on purpose to see the Grange, instead of going over
Ring Hill and other windy heights, but it was worth the sacrifice.
Lulworth Castle, which we passed, is rather like Graylees, Sir Lionel
said; so now I wish more than ever that I could see Graylees, for
Lulworth is fine and feudal. But I shall have burst like a bubble before
the time comes for Graylees.
There! I have brought you with us to Lulworth Cove, at last--the
adorable little place where, at this moment, as I told you at the
beginning of my letter, I'm sitting on the beach among red and green
fishing boats.
You wouldn't dream of Lulworth's existence until it suddenly breaks on
you, and you see the blue bay lying asleep in the arms of giant rocks,
which appear to have had a violent convulsion without disturbing the
baby sheet of water. I suppose they were angry with the world for
finding out their secret; for it has found out, and loves to come to
Lulworth Cove. However, the place contrives to _look_ as unknown as
ever, as if only some lazy gulls and a few fishermen mending
lobster-pots had ever heard a hint of it. There's a narrow street; a few
pretty old cottages; a comfortable hotel where we had crabs, divine
though devilled, and _omelette au rhum_ floating in flames of the blue I
should like my eyes to be when angry; there's a post-office,
and--nothing else that I can think of, except circling hills, a golden
sweep of beach, and sea of ethereal azure creaming against contorted
rocks. That's all; but it's a little Paradise, and----
_Night, of the same day._
Just there I was interrupted. Dick Burden came, and I had to listen to
him, unless I wanted a scene. I couldn't appeal to any nice brown
fisherman to please feed him to the lobsters, so I sat still and let him
talk. He said that he was awfully in love with me. A charming fashion
he's taken to show it, hasn't he? As I remarked to him.
He replied in the old, old way, about all being fair, etc., etc. I asked
him which it was, love or war, and he said it was both. He knew I wasn't