Set in Silver
extraordinary village of tiny white houses appeared to have tumbled down
hill, like a broken string of pearls fallen from a goddess's neck.
Sir Lionel held my arm to keep me from tripping, and we descended the
steps slowly, the rain that sprayed against our faces smelling salt as
the sea, its briny "tang" mingling with the fragrance of honeysuckle and
fuchsias. The combination, distilled by the night, was intoxicating; and
if I ever smell it again, even at the other end of the world, my
thoughts will run back to Sir Lionel and the fairy village of Clovelly.
Half-way down the cleft in the cliff, which is Clovelly's one street, we
stopped at a house where a faint light burned sleepily. It was the New
Inn, and when Sir Lionel knocked loudly, I was doubtful as to the
reception we were likely to have at such an hour. But I needn't have
worried--in Devon! Even if you wake people out of pleasant dreams to
disagreeable realities, and demand coffee, and trail wet marks over
their clean floors, they are kind and friendly. A delightful man let us
in, and instead of scolding, pitied us--a great deal more than I, at any
rate, needed to be pitied. He lit lights, and we saw a quaint room,
whose shadows threw out unexpected gleams of polished brass, and blues
and pinks of old china.
Though the calendar said August 13th, the temperature talked it down,
and insisted on November, so an invitation into a clean, warm kitchen
was acceptable. The nice man poked up the dying fire, put on wood and
coals, and soon got a kettle of water to boiling. We should have some
good hot coffee, he cheerily promised, before we could say "Jack
Robinson." But when it leaked out that we had had no dinner except a
sandwich at Tintagel, and nothing since, his warm Devonshire heart
yearned over us; and to the hot coffee he added eggs and bacon.
While the dear things fizzled and bubbled, we were allowed to sit by the
stove and toast our feet; and if anything could have smelled more
heavenly than the salt rain and sweet honeysuckle out of doors, it would
have been the eggs and bacon in the New Inn kitchen.
We begged to eat in the kitchen, too, and even that was permitted us, at
a table spread with a clean cloth which must have been put away in a
lavender cupboard. By the time the coffee, with foaming hot milk, and
the sizzling eggs and bacon were ready, the early daylight was blue on
the window panes. The rain had stopped with the first hint of sunrise,
and in Clovelly at least (Clovelly means "shut in valley," a name not
worthy of its elfin charm) the wind had gone to sleep.
I don't know how much Sir Lionel suggested paying for that breakfast,
but it must have been something out of the way, for our Devonshire
benefactor protested that it was far too much. He would accept the
regular price, and no more. Why, we had only got him up an hour before
his usual time. That was nothing. It would do him good; and he would
have no extra pay.
Warm, comfortable, and refreshed, Sir Lionel and I bade our host
good-bye, meaning to continue our journey to Bideford; but what we saw
outside was too beautiful to turn our backs upon in that unappreciative,
summary fashion. It was not sunrise yet, but was just going to be
sunrise, and the world seemed to be waiting for it, hushed and
expectant.
The white village glimmered in the pearly light, like a waterfall
arrested in its rush down a cleft in a hill. Not having seen Clovelly,
you may think that a far-fetched simile; but really it isn't. If a young
cataract could be turned into a village, that would be Clovelly. The
marvellous little place is absolutely unique; yet if one could liken it
to anything else on earth, it might be to a corner of Mont St. Michel,
or a bit of old Bellagio, going down to the sea; and certainly it is
more Italian than English in atmosphere and colouring, only it is
perfectly clean, as clean as a toy, or a Dutch village; so _that_ part
of the "atmosphere" isn't entirely Italian! I even saw waste-paper pots;
and if that isn't like Broek in Waterland, what is? Down in the harbour,
the fishing boats lay like a flock of resting birds; and as we descended
the cobbled steps of the street, to go to the shore, the early morning
donkeys began to come up, laden with heavy bags and panniers, just as
you and I saw them in Italy, and driven by just such boys and old men as
I remember there, dark-eyed, picturesque, one or two with red caps. The
doors of the little low-browed houses huddled on either side opened here
and there, up and down the path, giving glimpses of pretty, neat
interiors; bits of old furniture, the glint of a copper kettle, a brass
jug, or a bit of mended blue china. A gossipy Devonshire cat came out
and begged for caresses, mewing the news of the night--such a chatty
creature!--and down on the beach, we made friends with the oldest man of
the village, born in 1816. He was a handsome old fellow, with pathetic,
faded eyes in a tanned, ruddy face; and the queer little harbour
(everything is little at Clovelly, except the inhabitants) with its
rustic sort of pier, and red-sailed fishing boats, looked as if it had
been designed entirely as a background for him. However, it's much more
antique even than he--six hundred years old, instead of something short
of a hundred, and made by the famous Carey family. We stopped there
talking to the ancient sailor-man, hearing how the Clovelly fishermen go
out with black nets by day in good weather, and at night with white
ones, to "attract the fish." "That is trew, Miss," said he, when I
laughed, thinking it a joke. I love the Devonshire way of saying "true,"
and other words that rhyme. Their soft voices are as gentle, as kindly,
as the murmur of their own blue sea.
As we mounted the ladder-like path to the top of Clovelly, to go back to
Apollo again, the sun came up out of the sea, where the blue line of
water marked the edge of the world, and spilt floods of gold over it,
like a tilted christening cup. We turned and stood still to watch the
day born of dawn; and I feel sure that if we had come to Clovelly to
spend several weeks, I could never have learned to know the place as I
had divined it, in this adventure. You seem to learn more about a flower
by inhaling its perfume after rain, don't you think, than by dissecting
it, petal by petal? I fancy there is something like that in getting the
feeling and impression of places at their best, by sudden revelations.
Of course, I want to go back to Clovelly, but not with any of the Mrs.
Nortons of the world. I couldn't bear to do that, after being alone
there with Sir Lionel. While one's heart is thrilled by exquisite
sights, and the ineffable thoughts born of them, one knows poor Emily is
wondering whether the servants are looking after things properly at
home; and that very knowledge is apt to slam down an iron shutter in
one's soul.
It must have been about five o'clock when we took our places in the car
again. We had only eleven miles' run to Bideford, and I wished them
twice eleven, for surely they are among the most beautiful miles in
England. No wonder people believe in fairies in this part of the world!
It would be ungrateful if they didn't. As the sun climbed, the brown
wood roads were inlaid with gold in wavy patterns. From our heights, now
and again we caught glimpses of Clovelly, down its deep ravines. The
Hobby Drive, which belongs to Clovelly Court, is almost more exquisite
than Buckland Chase, on the way to Dartmoor; if you had been there with
me, you would know I couldn't give it higher praise. And how I wish you
_had_ been! How I wish you could see these English woods! They have such
an air of dainty gaiety, very different from Austrian or German or
French forests; and though their elms and oaks and beeches are often
giants, they seem dedicated to the spirit of youth. Their shadows are
never black, but only a darker green, or translucent gray; and part of
their charm is a nymph-like frivolousness which comes, I think, from
their ruffly green _dessous_. Other woods have no _dessous_. Their
ankles are mournfully bare, and their stockings dark.
In the woods of the Hobby Drive, the bracken was like elfin plumes; each
stone, wrapped in moss, was a lump of silver coated with verdigris;
distant cliffs seen between the trees were cut out of gray-green jade,
against a sea of changing opal; and in the high minstrel-galleries of
the latticed beeches a concert of birds was fluting.
Isn't Gallantry Bower a fine name? At first thought it would appear an
inappropriate one, for it's a sheer cliff overlooking the sea on one
side and a vast sweep of woodland on the other; but I can make it seem
appropriate, by picturing some wild brave sailor making love to his
sweetheart there, and telling her about the sea, her only rival in his
love. No doubt it's a corruption of some old Cornish name, and I refuse
to accept it as a Lover's Leap, though such a legend has grown up around
it. I'm tired of Lover's Leaps.
The whole coast, as we swept round, was a vast golden sickle in the
early morning light; and everything was so beautiful that the door of my
heart swung wide open. No arm would have been strong enough to push it
shut, not even Mrs. Senter's. Instead of feeling angry with her, as we
drew near Bideford, I was grateful for the adventure she had
(indirectly) given me.
The servants of the Royal Hotel were just waking up, but, of course,
being Devonshire people, instead of being cross they were delightfully
good-natured and smiling. I was shown to a pleasant room, and provided
with a hot bath which (with nearly a whole bottle of eau de Cologne
extravagantly emptied into it) made me feel as if I had had a refreshing
eight hours' sleep. Already it seemed as if the night's experience had
been a dream, dreamed in that sleep. But I was glad, glad it was real,
and not a dream; something I had lived through, by Sir Lionel's side; a
clear memory to remain like a happy island in the sea of life whatever
the future weather.
I dressed slowly, not wanting even "forty winks"; and about eight
o'clock Emily knocked at my door. She had been worried, she said, and
not able to sleep, fearing accidents, waking now and then, to listen for
the sound of a car. Poor dear, she wouldn't know Apollo's noble voice
from the threepenny thrum of a motor bicycle! But she was kind and
solicitous, though I think a little shocked to find my vitality in such
a state of effervescence. She would have approved of me if I had been a
draggled wreck; but even as it was, she felt it worth while to explain
why she hadn't accompanied her brother. She would have proposed doing
so, she assured me, but her neuralgia had been very trying yesterday,
owing to the bad weather and east wind. She feared to be more trouble
than assistance to Sir Lionel, and as he was my guardian, I was
sufficiently chaperoned by him; any expert in etiquette would confirm
her in that opinion, she anxiously added. Nevertheless, when I told her
about our stop at Clovelly, she shook her head, and intimated that
perhaps it had better not be referred to in public. I suppose by "in
public," she meant before the Tyndals and Mrs. Senter.
At nine I had the pleasure of meeting the fair Gwendolen again, in one
of the most remarkable rooms you can imagine. Sir Lionel had engaged it
in advance, to be our private sitting-room, but it is as celebrated as
it is interesting. Only think, Charles Kingsley wrote "Westward Ho!" in
it, and it is such a quaint and beautiful room, it must have given him
inspiration. You see, the hotel used to be the house of a merchant
prince who was a great importer of tobacco in Queen Elizabeth's days; so
it isn't strange that it should have many fine rooms; but the one where