Set in Silver
should think. Afterward, when we were safely up again, Sir Lionel said
that, if he had known what it was really like he wouldn't have taken
Mrs. Senter and me in the car, but would have had us go in Sir George
Newnes's lift. Not that he didn't trust Apollo, but he confessed to
being uncomfortable for us. I will say that Mrs. Senter behaved well,
however, and never emitted one squeak, though her complexion looked when
we arrived at Lynmouth as if she had been on a tossing ship for weeks.
Up at Lynton, the great thing to do, is to walk along the edge of the
sea cliff to the Valley of Rocks (a kind of nature museum for statues
and busts of Titans), locked in between Castle Rock and the Devil's
Cheesewring. It is a startlingly magnificent walk, but when you are
actually in the Valley of Rocks, it isn't quite so wonderful as when
seen from a distance; the arena itself is rather like the backyard of
the gods, where they threw their broken mead-cups. I had a queer feeling
of having been there before, which I couldn't understand for a minute,
until a scene in "Lorna Doone" flashed back to me. And a young maid in
the hotel firmly believes that many of the fantastic shapes of rock were
once people who (according to an old story), were turned into stone for
behaving irreligiously on Sundays.
Yesterday morning we said good-bye to Lynton, and Sir Lionel, Dick, Mrs.
Senter, and I walked to Watersmeet, Emily going along the upper road in
the car with Young Nick, whose hand was well enough to drive. I don't
know whether Dad ever talked to you about Watersmeet; but I'm surprised
if he didn't, because not only is it one of the very most beautiful
beauty spots of Devon, but not far beyond, on the way to Exmoor, is
Brendon, our name place.
You can guess without my telling, why Watersmeet is called Watersmeet:
and it is the most musical meeting you can imagine; rocks on one side, a
wooded hill on the other, and down below, the singing river. We walked
along an exquisite low-lying path from Watersmeet, and all about I saw
the name of Brendon: Brendon village; Brendon forge, and other Brendons.
I was so excited that I forgot the Lethbridge episode, and was on the
point of exclaiming to Sir Lionel "How interesting to come on father's
ancestral home!" I wonder what would have happened if I had? I should
have had to try and blunder out of the scrape somehow, with Dick's eyes
on me, sparkling with mischief, and Mrs. Senter critical.
I forgot to tell you that the Tyndals left us at Bideford, having no
excuse to cling, even if they wanted to, because they had "done" Exmoor
already; but since the evening when Mrs. Tyndal tried to pump me about
Venice, dear Gwendolen has been restless and suspicious. She can't
suspect the truth, of course, unless Dick has told her, which I'm sure
he hasn't (for his own sake), but she suspects something. She has a
common enough mind to spring to some horrid conclusion, such as my
having been secretly in Venice with objectionable people. Perhaps she
thinks me privately married! I'm sure she'd be delighted if that were
the truth, because then Dick and Sir Lionel would both be safe.
As we walked, Dick kept trying to get me far enough away from the others
to tell me some news, which he hurriedly whispered was important. But
even if I'd wanted to give him a chance, which I didn't, fate would have
denied it to him.
At Rockford Inn we took to the motor again, finding Emily limp after
what she considered appalling hills; but I'm sure they were nothing to
the Lynton-Lynmouth one, as this time Apollo himself had been sent down
in the big lift.
Now we were coming to Doone-land; and I was all eagerness to see it,
because of "Lorna Doone," and because of things I'd heard from Sir
Lionel, as we walked side by side for a few minutes after Watersmeet. I
had supposed that if there were any foundation for the Doone story, it
was as slight as the "fabric of a dream"; but he told me of a pamphlet
he had read, "A Short History of the Original Doones," by a Miss Ida or
Audrie Browne, only about eight or nine years ago. She said it was
extraordinary how well the author of "Lorna" had known all the
traditions of her family--for she was one of the Doones; and that there
really was a Sir Ensor, a wild rebellious son of an Earl of Moray, who
travelled with his wife to Exmoor, and settled there, in a rage because
the king would give him no redress against his elder brother.
"How does she spell her name of Audrie?" I asked, trying to look more
good and innocent than Eve could possibly have been even in
pre-serpentine days.
"A-u-d-r-i-e," he answered, and I trusted that Dick was too far behind
to hear what we were saying. "That was the favourite name for girls in
the Doone family," Sir Lionel went on. "Miss Browne thinks Sir Ensor and
his wife must have crossed the Quantocks coming here, and have taken a
fancy to the name of West Quantoxhead's patron saint, Audrie, also
spelled that way."
"It's rather a pretty name," I ventured, feeling pink.
"One of the prettiest in the world," said Sir Lionel. I was
pleased--though I ought to have been bowed down with the burden of
borrowed guilt.
There was a bad motor road from Oare to the gateway of the moor, but
Apollo didn't mind, though I think he was glad to stop outside Malmsmead
Farm, where we had lunch. I suppose you can't expect such modern
creatures as motors and chauffeurs, especially Bengali ones, to
appreciate farmhouses seven hundred years old! I loved the place,
though, and so did Sir Lionel. Nothing ever tasted better than the rosy
ham, the crisp cottage bread, the thick cream, and wild honey the farm
people gave us. And the honey smelt like the moor, which has just as
individual and haunting a fragrance as Dartmoor, though different.
After lunch I wanted to see the Doone Valley, and the ruins of the Doone
houses (which, by the way, my namesake Miss Browne says were not the
Doone houses, but only the huts where the brigand-band used to keep
stolen cattle), so Sir Lionel said I must have a pony. I wasn't tired,
though he thought I ought to be, after our walk; but the idea of riding
a rough Exmoor pony was great fun, and I didn't object. Sir Lionel asked
Mrs. Senter (who had been making fun of the Doone story at lunch) rather
coolly if she would care to go, too; and to his evident surprise, though
not at all to mine, she instantly said she would.
They have several ponies at the farm, and Sir Lionel hired two, he and
Dick meaning to walk, and Emily intending to stop in the farm sitting
room nodding over the visitors' book, full of interesting names, no
doubt.
No sooner had our dear, roughly fringed little beasts been saddled, and
we swung on to their backs, than there arose a great hue and cry in the
farmyard. The stag hunt was passing!
Such an excitement you never saw. Nobody would have thought the same
thing had happened many times a year, for generations. The big,
good-natured farmer raced about, waving his arms, and adjuring us to
"Coom on!" The postman darted by on his bicycle, forgetful of letters,
thinking only of the stag; pretty girls from the neighbouring
Badgeworthy Farm, and Lorna Doone Farm tore up a hill, laughing and
screaming. "They'm found! They'm found!" yelled the farm hands.
Everybody shouted. Everybody ran, or at least danced up and down; and
wilder than all was the joy of our Exmoor ponies, Mrs. Senter's and
mine.
They didn't intend to let the hunt go by without them, the stanch little
sporting beasts! We hadn't the least idea what they meant to do, or
perhaps--just perhaps!--we might have stopped them; but before Mrs.
Senter and I knew what was happening to us, off we dashed on pony-back
after the hunt.
I laughed so much I could hardly keep my seat, but I did somehow, though
not very gracefully, and in about five minutes Sir Lionel's long legs
had enabled him to catch my little monster, which he grabbed by the
reins and stopped, before we'd got mixed up with the staghounds. Dick
was slower about rescuing his aunt, because his legs are shorter than
Sir Lionel's; and her pony had not the pleasant disposition of mine.
Dick vowed afterward that it spit at him.
After reading "Lorna" the Doone Valley looked rather too gentle, with
its grassy slopes, to be satisfactory to my brigand-whetted mind; and
the ruins of the Doone houses would have been disappointing, too, if it
hadn't been for Miss Audrie Browne's tale of the distant dwellings, in
the Weir Water Valley; but I liked hearing that all the hills have names
of their own, and that you can be sure you are not going to fall into a
treacherous bog, if only you see a sprig of purple heather--a good,
honest plant, which hates anything secret. Our ponies didn't need the
heather signal, though; they shied away from bogs as if by instinct,
they knew the moor so well. If we had stumbled into a pitfall, our only
hope would have been to lie quite flat, and crawl along the surface with
the same motion that you make in swimming.
It was late afternoon by the time we had seen all that the ponies wanted
us to see of the Doone Valley, and then our way led us back to Lynmouth,
by the appalling Countisbury Hill; on to Parracombe, Blackmore Gate,
Challacombe, romantic little Simonsbath (sacred to the memory of Sigmund
the dragon-slayer, and two outlaws, of whom Tom Faggus, of the
"Strawberry horse," was one), and pretty, historic Exford, and so to
Dunster. A beautiful road it was to the eye, but not always to the tire,
and half the hills of England seemed to have lined up in a procession.
But Apollo smiled in his bonnet at them all, and appeared rather pleased
than otherwise to show what he could do.
When we came into Dunster it was almost dark--just the beautiful hour
when the air seems to have turned blue, a deep, clear azure; and of all
the quaintly picturesque places we have seen, I know at first glimpse
that Dunster would turn out to be the best. Some towns, like some
people, introduce themselves to you in a friendly, charming way, with no
chill reserve, as if they were sure you deserved to see their best side.
It's like that with Dunster, anyhow when you arrive in a motor, and the
first thing you see is the ancient Yarn Market, wooden, octagonal,
perfect. Then before you have recovered from the effect of that, and the
general unspoiledness of everything, you come to the stone porch of the
Luttrell Arms Inn; old and grim, with openings for crossbows with which
I suppose the Abbots of Cleve must have had to defend themselves,
because the house once belonged to them.
If you could see no other town but Dunster, it would be worth while
coming across seas to England. But I suppose I've said that about other
places, haven't I? Well, I can't help it if I have. Dunster is
absolutely perfect--not one false note struck in the quaint music of its
antiquity.
Our sitting room was the Abbot's refectory, splendid with black oak
beams, and a noble ceiling. Its diamond-paned windows look into a
wonderful courtyard, where you expect to see monks walking, or perhaps
cavaliers; and on the hill above the garden, there are earthworks thrown
up by Oliver Cromwell's army during the siege of Dunster Castle--the
"Alnwick of the West." To-morrow, we are to be allowed, as a special
favour, to see the inside of the Castle which towers up so grandly
against the sky. It isn't open to the public; but Sir Lionel knows some
relatives of the owners, so we are to be shown round.
"To-morrow," I say. But if I don't stop at once, and go to bed, it will
be "to-day."
Ever your
Audrie.
XXV
FROM SIR LIONEL PENDRAGON TO COLONEL PATRICK O'HAGAN
_Swan Hotel, Wells_,
_Aug. 20th_
My Dear Pat: What a good fellow you are! Your letter, just