Set in Silver
Kingsley wrote is the best. It's sad that the oak panelling should be
ruined with paint and varnish; but nothing short of an earthquake could
spoil the ceiling, which is the famous feature. The merchant prince
hired two Italians to come to England and make the wonderful mouldings
by hand. That was long before the days of cement, so the fantastic
shapes had to be fastened to each other and the ceiling with copper
wire. When the skilled workmen had finished their fruits and flowers and
leaves, and all the weird fancies which signified the evolution of Man,
the canny merchant prince promptly packed the Italians back again to
their native land, lest other merchant princes should employ them to
repeat the marvellous ceiling for their houses! By this thoughtful act,
he secured for himself the one and only specimen of the kind; and to
this day nobody has ever been able to copy it, though the attempt has
often been made. The marvellous part is the startlingly high relief of
the mouldings, and the quaintness of the evolutionary ideas, all those
centuries before Darwin.
It was rather disappointing to find out that the beautiful ceiling had
nothing to do with Charles Kingsley's wish to use the room as a study.
It was in the time of the present landlord's grandfather, who owned a
quantity of rare old books, records of Bideford's past, and Mr. Kingsley
wanted to refer to them. But their owner valued them too much to lend,
even to such a man as Charles Kingsley. "You must come and write in the
room," said he. So Kingsley came and wrote in the room, and liked it and
the books so much that he gave a glowing account of both to Froude, who
presently arrived and used the remarkable room for _his_ study, too.
The books are there still, carefully put away; and a portrait of the
good Mayor of Westward Ho! (the novel, not its namesake town) which was
found in the cellar with Vandyck's name faintly traced on it, hangs
opposite the fireplace. The great treasure of the room, though, after
the ceiling, is a letter from Kingsley, framed, protected with glass,
and lying on a table.
Mrs. Senter looked almost green, when she beheld me, the picture of
health and joy, and saw on what good terms I was with Sir Lionel. I am
certain, dear, that she wants to marry him, and I can't think she's
capable of appreciating such a man, so it must be for his money. A
"sportin', huntin', don't-you-know--what?" sort of fellow would please
her better, if all else were suitable, because she could turn him round
her finger; and that neither she nor anybody else can ever do with Sir
Lionel--though he is pathetically chivalrous where women are concerned,
and still more pathetically credulous.
I remember so well your reading "Westward Ho!" aloud to me when I was
about ten, and had been ill. I associate it with the joy of getting
well. It made me feel proud of my Devonshire ancestors, even then, and
it makes me more proud now, for I've been reading the book for the
second time, in Kingsley-land. It's like the Bible almost, in Bideford.
I should pity the person who dared pick a flaw in the story, in the
hearing of a Bideford man, woman, or child. Why, I believe even a
Bideford dog would understand the insult, and snap!
It's a great, and rather original compliment to name a town in honour of
a book; but "Westward Ho!" the novel, is worthy of a finer namesake. Of
course, Rudyard Kipling having been to school in Westward Ho! makes the
place more interesting than it ever could have been of itself, in spite
of its glorious neighbour, the sea. But Bideford is a delightful place.
Dad used to say that no men in the world could beat the men of Devon for
courage; and that Bideford men were amongst the bravest of all, as you
and I would have known from "Westward Ho!" even if we'd never read
history. It looks an old-world town, almost unspoiled, even now, with
its far-famed bridge on twenty-four arches, its steeply sloping streets,
its quay, and its quaint pink and green houses by the river. In the Old
Ship Tavern "The Brotherhood of the Rose" was founded (you remember),
and Sir Richard Grenville--dear Sir Richard!--had his house where the
Castle Inn stands now. I took a long walk with Sir Lionel and (I am
sorry to say) Mrs. Senter, on the Quay along the riverside; and there
are some guns there, which they say were lost from the Spanish Armada.
While we were walking, who should join us but Dick Burden, back from
Scotland! It appears that he arrived at Tintagel last night, only a
little while after Sir Lionel and I had left in the car. He expected to
be earlier, but he took cross-country trains which looked promising on
time-tables, and missed connection. I can't be thankful enough he didn't
arrive before we started, instead of after, for, of course, Sir Lionel
would have had to ask him to come with us, and that would have spoiled
everything. There would have been no beautiful "memory island" in my
sea! Do you know, I had almost forgotten Dick for two or three days? He
seemed to have gone out of my life, as if he had never been in, and it
was quite a mental shock to meet him on the quay at Bideford. He didn't
seem to be in the picture at all, whereas Sir Lionel is always in it,
whatever or whenever it may be.
We (Sir Lionel and I) asked politely for his mother's health, and he
answered, apparently without thinking, "Mother?--oh, she's all right."
Then he evidently remembered that he'd been sent for because she was
ill, and had the grace to look ashamed of his hard-heartedness. He
explained that when he arrived, he found her already better, though
nervous, and that she was "practically cured." But I saw him and his
aunt exchange a look. I wonder if it meant that the mother has any weird
sort of disease--contagious, perhaps? I do hope it isn't anything I
haven't had. It would be so awkward to come down with it now; though the
sight of Dick with mumps, for instance, would repay me for a good deal.
Mrs. Senter's room at Bideford adjoined mine, with a (locked) door
between; and that night, for half an hour after I'd gone to bed I heard
a murmur of voices, hers and Dick's. They seemed to be tremendously in
earnest about something. Luckily, I couldn't hear a word they said;
otherwise I should have had the bother of stopping my ears; but I
couldn't help knowing that there was a heated argument, Aunt Gwen
protesting, Nephew Dick insisting; and, after stress and storm, a final
understanding arrived at which apparently satisfied both.
Such a splendid road it was, going out of Bideford, with views of sea
and river, the distant shore levels indigo, and a fiery golden light,
like spilt sherry, on the livid green of the salt-paled grass. The sails
of fishing boats from Instow rose from dark, ruffled waters, white as
lily petals; and out of heavy purple clouds, poured streams of flaming
light, as if bags loaded with gold dust had burst with their own weight.
Long sand flats gleamed red as coral with some low-growing sea plant;
and the backs of wind-blown leaves on bush and hedge were all dull
silver, under the shadows of racing clouds, that tore at thousand
horse-power speed over golden meadows. It was an extraordinary, but
thoroughly English effect; and isn't it sad, the grazing cows and sheep
we passed never once looked up or cared!
But the people--the charming peasants of Devon--cared. They looked up,
and smiled at their sky, as if it gave them good thoughts; and everyone
on foot or in wagon was so polite to us, flashing such kind looks from
beautiful eyes, that we had the sensation of tasting honey. It kept us
busy, returning the bows of the handsome, courteous people, and,
altogether, it was like a royal progress. Poor Apollo isn't used to such
treatment, out of Devonshire and Cornwall, I can tell you! He always
does his best to be considerate, yet he is often misunderstood, being
nothing but a motor-car, whom nobody loves! It was a joy to see merry
Devonshire children flinging themselves into our dust, as if it were
perfumed spray, and playing that they, too, were motor-cars. Such a nice
change after some counties where we had behaved beautifully without any
appreciation, to feel that for once we gave pleasure to some one, as we
passed in and out of their obscure little lives!
The wind was laden with the scent of honeysuckle, and the sweet, yellow
hay, which blew out of high-piled carts to twine like gold webbing on
flowery hedges and on the crimson hollyhocks that rose like straight,
tall flames against whitewashed walls.
Even the droves of sheep we met were more polite than non-Devonshire
sheep, for instead of blocking our way obstinately, keeping just in
front so that we could pass on neither side, they thoughtfully charged
into village inns and cottage gardens. But, of course, you can't expect
pink sheep to act like ordinary mutton-hood. These Devonshire creatures
look exactly like a lot of pink wool mats blowing away. Probably they
are "pixie led," for Devonshire simply swarms with pixies. If you are a
human being, and happen to put your stockings on wrong side out, they
get power over you at once. But I don't know what the trick is, if you
are a sheep.
We ran above a great ravine at Barnstaple, and the scene was so fine,
that I gave mental thanks to the glaciers which, in the ice age, had so
tastefully scooped out all this down-country into graceful curves and
majestic cliffs. After leaving the sea behind us we were ringed in,
swallowed up among lovely, gracious hills, which hid the world from
us--us from the world. For miles upon miles, a snake-like road writhed
smoothly down the sides of these hills, until at last, after a wildly
exhilarating run we found ourselves in a peaceful green valley. The
Hobby Drive was no more beautiful, and not half so exciting; but by now
we were coming to the Switzerland of England. As we sped on, great downs
rolled up behind us, and towered above our heads like the crests of huge
green waves at breaking point. Even the sky suited itself to the country
here, forming bigger, more tumbled clouds than elsewhere; and to my
surprise I saw American goldenrod, such as I used to gather as a child,
growing, quite at home, among yellow ox-eyed daisies.
There was a tremendous hill, wriggling down with wicked twists to
Lynton, and in the middle we met a car that had torn off all its tires.
Sir Lionel asked if we could do anything, but the chauffeur was so
disgusted with life that, though he snapped out "No, thank you," his
eyes said "Damn!"
At Lynton we stopped at a hotel like an exaggerated, glorified cottage,
with a thatched roof and a veranda running all round. It stands in a
big, perfumed garden, and from the windows and that quaint stone-paved
veranda you can look over the sea to the Welsh coast, whence, at
evening, two blazing eyes of light watch you across the blue water.
Sir Lionel had meant to stay only one night at the Cottage Hotel, but
Lynton was beautiful, with a siren beauty, that would not let us go.
Even his resolution wasn't proof against its witchery. So we stopped two
whole days, going "downstairs" (as I called it) to Lynmouth, to see the
old Shelley Cottage and lots of other things. But oh, what a road from
Lynton! If a young fly, when its mother takes it for its first walk down
a wall, feels as I did, crawling to Lynmouth, both brakes on, I pity it.
I wasn't exactly frightened, for I never could be, quite, with Sir
Lionel driving, but I was prickly with awe. It was a good thing Emily
didn't go with us. I believe her poor little pin-cushion heart would
have burst in sheer fright, and all the sawdust would have trickled out.
I laughed hysterically, when I saw a motor garage at the bottom. It
ought to be a motor hospital, for few cars can get down unscathed, I