Set in Silver
stood in the shadow, not daring to sit down again, because the seat
squeaked.
"Aren't you cold?" he asked.
I answered that I was quite warm.
Then he said that it was a nice night, and we talked about the weather,
and all that idiotic sort of thing, which means empty brains or hearts
too full.
By and by, when I was beginning to feel as though I should scream if it
went on much longer, he stopped suddenly, in a conversation about fresh
fish, and said: "Ellaline, I think I must speak of something that's been
on my mind for some days."
He'd never called me "Ellaline" before, but only "you," and this gave me
rather a start, to begin with, so I said nothing. And, as it turned out,
that was probably the best thing I could have done. If I'd said
anything, it would have been the wrong thing, and then, perhaps, we
should have started off with a misunderstanding.
"I should hate to have you think me unsympathetic," he went on. "I'm
not. But--do you want to marry Dick Burden, some day?"
If he'd put it differently I might have hesitated what to answer, for I
_am_ afraid of Dick, there's no use denying it--of course, mostly on
Ellaline's account, but a little on my own too, because I'm a coward,
and don't want to be disgraced. As it was, I _couldn't_ hesitate, for
the thought of marrying Dick Burden would have been insupportable if it
hadn't been ridiculous. So you see, I forgot to dread what Dick might do
if he heard, and just blurted out the truth.
"I'd sooner go into a convent," said I.
"You mean that?" Sir Lionel pinned me down.
"I do," I repeated. "Could you imagine a girl wanting to marry Dick
Burden?"
"No, _I_ couldn't," said Sir Lionel. And then he laughed--such a nice,
happy laugh, like a boy's, quite different from the way I have heard him
laugh lately--though at first, in London, he seemed young and
light-hearted. "But I'm no judge of the men--or boys--a girl might want
to marry. Dick's good-looking, or near it."
"Yes," I admitted. "So is your little chauffeur. But I don't want to
marry it."
"Are you flirting with Dick, then?" Sir Lionel asked, not sharply, but
almost wistfully.
I couldn't stand that. I had to tell the truth, no matter for to-morrow!
"I'm not flirting with him, either," I said.
"What then?"
"Nothing."
"But he seems to think there is something--something to hope."
"Did he tell you so?"
"No. He sent me word."
"Oh! Words get mixed, when they're sent. He _knows_ I'm not flirting
with him."
"Does he know--forgive me--does he know that you don't love him--a
little?"
"He knows I don't love him at all."
"Then I--can't understand," said Sir Lionel.
"Would you like me to love him?" I couldn't help asking.
"No," he began, and stopped. "I should like you to be happy, in your own
way," he went on more slowly. "I've been at a loss, because a little
while ago you said you didn't like Burden, and then you seemed to change
your mind----"
"It was only seeming," I continued on my reckless course. "My mind
toward him stands where it did."
"If that is so, what have you done to him, to give him hope?"
"Nothing I could help," I said.
"There's a strange misunderstanding somewhere, apparently," Sir Lionel
reflected aloud.
"Oh, don't let there be one between us!" I begged, looking up at him
suddenly.
He put his hand out as suddenly, and grabbed--literally grabbed--mine. I
was so happy! Isn't it nice that men are so much stronger than women,
and that we're meant to like them to be? It can make life so
interesting.
As his fingers pressed mine, I let mine press his too, and felt we were
friends. "By Jove, no, we won't," he said. And though it wasn't much to
say, nothing could have pleased me better. The words and the tone seemed
to match the close clasp of our hands.
"Would you be willing to trust me?" I asked.
"Of course. But in what way do you mean?"
"About Dick Burden. He _doesn't_ think I'm flirting, and he doesn't
think I care for him. Yet I want you to trust me, and not say anything
to him or to his aunt. Let Dick and me fight it out between us."
He laughed again. "With all my heart, if you want to fight. But I won't
have you annoyed. If he annoys you he must go. I will get rid of him."
"Dick can't annoy me if he doesn't make trouble for me with you, Sir
Lionel," I said. (And that was the truth.) "Only, if you'll just trust
me to manage him?"
"You're very young to undertake the management of a man."
"Dick isn't a man. He's a boy."
"And you--are a child."
"I may seem a child to you," I said, "but I'm not. I'll be so happy, and
I'll thank you so much, if you'll just let things go on as they are for
a little while. You'll be glad afterward if you do."
And he will, when I've gone and Ellaline has come. He will be glad he
didn't give himself too much trouble on my account. But I'm not going to
think now of what his opinion of me may be _then_. At present he has a
very good, kind opinion. Even though I am a child in his eyes, I am a
dear child; and though it can't last, it does make me happy to be dear
to him, in any way at all--this terrible Dragon of Ellaline's.
But that isn't the end of our conversation. The real end was an
anti-climax, perhaps, but I liked it. For that matter, the tail of a
comet's an anti-climax.
It was only that, when we'd talked on, and he'd promised to trust me,
and leave the reins in my hands, while he attended solely to the
steering of his motor-car, I said: "Now we must go in. Mrs. Senter will
be wanting to finish her rubber." (I forgot to tell you that he
explained she'd had a telegram, and had been obliged to hurry and write
a letter, to catch the last post. That had stopped a game in the
middle.)
"Oh, hang it all, I suppose she will!" he grumbled, more to himself than
to me, because, if he'd paused to think, he would have been too polite
to express himself so about a guest, whatever his feelings were. But
that's why I was pleased. He spoke impulsively, without thinking. Wasn't
it a triumph, that he would rather have stayed there in the garden, even
with a "child," than hurry back to that radiant white-and-gold (and
black) vision?
Now you know why I am so pleased with life.
All that happened last night, and to-day we have had "excursions," but
no "alarums." We (every one, not just he and I) have been to Kent's
Cavern, where prehistoric tigers' teeth grinned at us from the walls,
and have taken a walk to Babbicombe Bay, where we had tea. I think it
was the loveliest path I ever saw, that cliff way, with the gray rocks,
and the blue sea into which the sky had emptied itself, like a cup with
a silver rim. And the wild flowers--the little, dainty, pink-tipped
daisies, which I couldn't bear to crush--and the larks that sprang out
of the grass! There are things that make you feel so at _home_ in
England, dear. I think it is like no other country for that.
To-morrow we are to motor to Princetown, on Dartmoor--Eden Phillpotts
land--and are coming back to Torquay at night. If I have time I'll write
you a special Dartmoor letter, for I have an idea that I shall find the
moor wonderfully impressive. But we mayn't get back till late; and the
day after we are to start early in the morning for Sir Lionel's county,
Cornwall. Afterward we shall come back into another part of Devonshire,
and see Bideford and Exmoor. That's why I've been able to forget some of
my worries in "Westward Ho!" and "Lorna Doone" lately. But Sir Lionel
can't wait longer for Cornwall, and, so day-after-to-morrow night my
eyes shall look upon--only think of it--"dark Tintagel by the Cornish
sea." That is, we shall see it, Apollo permitting, for motors and men
gang aft aglee.
This isn't apropos of Apollo's usual behaviour, but of the stories we've
been told concerning Dartmoor roads. They say--well, there's nothing to
worry about with Sir Lionel at the helm; but I shouldn't wonder if
to-morrow will be an adventure.
There, now, I'm sorry I said that. You may be anxious; but I can't
scratch it out, and it's nearly at the bottom of _such_ a big sheet. So
I'll wire to-morrow night, when we get back, and you'll have the
telegram before you have this letter.
Your how-to-be-happy-though-undeserving,
But ever loving,
Audrie.
XVI
AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER
_Still Torquay, Ten Thirty_,
_August 7th_
Dearest: I thought the moor would be impressive. It is
overwhelming. Oh, this Devonshire of my father's people is far from
being all a land of cream and roses!
Dartmoor has given me so many emotions that I am tired, but I must tell
you about it and them. When I shut my eyes, I see tors, like ruined
watch-towers, against the sky. And I see Princetown, grim and terrible.
No country can look its best on a map, no matter what colour be chosen
to express it; but I did like Dartmoor's rich brown, which set it apart
from the green parts of Devonshire. It took some time, though, even in a
motor, to come to the brown; for our road was fairy-like as far as Holne,
Charles Kingsley's birthplace. We got out there, of course, and looked
at his memorial window in the charming village church. At Holne Bridge
I thought of the beautiful way to the Grande Chartreuse; so you can
imagine it was far from sterile, although we were on the fringe of the
moor. And ah, what a lovely green fringe the brown moor wears! It is all
trimmed round the edge with woods, and glens, where the baby River Dart
goes laughing by. And there's a most romantic Lover's Leap, of course.
Strange how so many lovers, though of different countries, have all that
same wild desire to jump off something! If I were a lover I should much
rather die a flat, neat death.
We saw this Lover's Leap only at a distance when going toward the moor,
but coming back--however, I will tell you about it afterward, when I
come to Buckland Chase, on the way home.
It was at Holne that the big hills, of which we'd been warned, began;
but Apollo merely sniffs at gradients that make smaller, meaner motors
grunt with rage. We had a car behind us (which had started ahead), but
it was rather an ominous sign to see no "pneu" tracks in the white dust
of the road as we travelled. Other days, we have always had them to
follow; and it makes a motor feel at home to know that his brethren have
come and gone that way. This must have seemed to Apollo like isolation;
and as if to emphasize the sensation which we all shared, suddenly we
began to _smell_ the moor.
I can't describe to you exactly what that smell was like, but we _knew_
it was the moor. The air became alive and life-giving. It tingled with a
cold breath of the north, and one thought of granite with the sun on it,
and broom in blossom, and coarse grass such as mountain-sheep love,
though one saw none of those things yet. The scenery was still gentle
and friendly, and the baby Dart was singing at the top of its voice.
Really, it was almost a tune. I felt, as I listened, that it would be
easy to set it to music. The moss-covered stones round which purled the
clear water looked like the whole notes and half notes, all ready to be
pushed into place, so that the tune might "arrange itself." And the
amber brown of the stream was mottled with gold under the surface, as if
a sack full of sovereigns had been emptied into the river.
The first tor on our horizon was Sharp Tor, which the Dart evidently
feared. The poor little river disappeared at sight of it, hurrying away
from its frown, and as the stream vanished all the dainty charm of the
landscape fled, too. We saw the moor towering toward us, stern and
barren, with that great watch-tower of Nature's pinning it to the sky.
Moorland ponies raced to and fro, mad with the joy of some game they
were playing, and they were not afraid of us. I should think the live