Set in Silver
forwarded here, has been like for me a draught from the "cup which
cheers but not----" No, on second thoughts I can't go on with the
quotation "but not inebriates." I rather think the cup has inebriated me
a little. Anyhow, it has made me a bit conceited. I say to myself,
"Well, if this is his opinion of me, why not believe there's something
in it, and do as other men have done before me? He ought to be a judge
of men, and know enough of women to have some idea of the sort of person
it would be possible for one of them to love." That is the state of mind
to which you have brought me, with a little ink and a little paper, and
plenty of good intentions. It would take about a magnum of champagne to
exhilarate some men as your praise and your advice have exhilarated me.
When I wrote you last, I was in the dumps. It was a dull world, and all
the tigers I had ever shot were mounted on sackcloth, or stuffed with
ashes. Sounds disgusting, doesn't it? But suddenly, the sun broke out,
and dulness and tigers fled together. I suppose I must always have been
a creature of moods, and didn't know it; for all it took to change gray
Purgatorio to blue Paradiso was a few words from a girl. She said she
didn't love Dick, and would as soon marry my chauffeur--or words to that
effect. Explained everything--or, if she didn't explain, looked at me,
and I thought she had explained. I forget now whether she did explain or
not, rationally and satisfactorily, but it doesn't matter. There is no
one like her, and I have reached a stage of idiocy concerning her which
I would blush to describe. I see now that the feeling which a very young
man, hardly out of boyhood, dignified with the name of love, is merely a
kind of foundation that, when fallen into picturesque ruin, makes a good
firm flooring of experience to build second, or real, love, upon. I
don't know whether that's well or badly said, but it expresses my state
of mind.
If only this second true love of mine were not the daughter of the first
and false!
Even now, when I frankly acknowledge to myself that she can make the
light of the world for me, there are black moments when I distrust
her--distrust my impressions of her; and hate myself for doing both. I
used to believe so firmly in heredity that I can't throw aside my old
theories in a moment, even for her sake. How comes Ellaline de
Nesville's and Fred Lethbridge's daughter to be what this girl seems?
That's what I ask myself; but there again your letter helps. You remind
me that "our parents are not our only ancestors."
But enough of all this rhapsodizing and doubting. There's nothing
definite to tell you, except that she has said she doesn't care for Dick
Burden, and that, generally speaking, if appearances are against her, I
must kindly not judge by them.
"Give her the benefit of the doubt as long as you can," you say. But,
thank heaven I can do more. I give her the benefit of not doubting at
all, except in those black moments I have confessed to you.
We have had some good road adventures together, and she has proved
herself a thorough sportswoman, as well as a jewel of a companion; but,
of course, I haven't had her often to myself. Mrs. Senter and Dick
Burden are still of the party, and say nothing about future plans,
though there was a vague understanding when they first came that they
were asked for a fortnight. They seem to be enjoying themselves, so I
suppose I ought to be pleased; and Mrs. Senter is agreeable to
everybody, though sometimes it has occurred to me that she and Ellaline
don't hit it off invariably. Still, I may be mistaken. She praises
Ellaline, and seems anxious to throw her into Dick's society, which
presumably she wouldn't do if she didn't like the girl.
Dick did run up to Scotland to see his mother for a few days, and I
thought, as Mrs. Burden sent for him on account of her health, he might
have to stay on. But no such luck. He was back almost indecently
soon--pounced down upon us at Bideford, just in time, perhaps, to
prevent my _taking your advice before I got it_.
The fact is, there was a queer misunderstanding with which I won't bore
you, but by which Ellaline was left behind at Tintagel, and I went back
alone to fetch her, with the car. She was adorable, even unusually
adorable, and I loved her horribly. Yes, that's the only word for it,
because it hurt; it hurt so much that next day I felt I couldn't go on
bearing the pain, and that I should have to find a chance to tell her. I
was pretty sure she would think me a middle-aged and several other kinds
of a fool, even though she were polite in words; nevertheless, I might
have run the risk, even unspurred by your letter, if Dick hadn't come
back looking extremely young and attractively impertinent. She mayn't
care a rap for him; she says she doesn't, so I suppose she knows her own
mind; still, the contrast between our years is in his favour, and with
him under my nose as well as continuously underfoot, I see myself as (I
fear) others see me. Yet I may not be able to keep my head if a chance
should come. And if I lose it--my head, I mean--that's the time to take
your advice.
We have been seeing some fine country of late; Dunster was one of the
best bits, also grand old Luttrell Castle, which, by the way, is Hardy's
Stancy Castle in "The Laodicean." There are some rare old buildings in
Dunster which reek history. The church has a noble rood screen; and the
Yarn Market is unique in England; so is the queer old "Nunnery,"
so-called, and the ancient inn where we stayed.
Cleve Abbey is only a few miles away, and I was surprised at the
magnificence of the ruin, which was used as a farmhouse for years, and
would be thus degraded still if it weren't for Mr. Luttrell, the owner
of Dunster Castle, who has bought and restored it. Cistercian, and as
old as the tenth century, with a gatehouse of Richard the Second's day;
bits of exquisite encaustic tiling from the demolished church, preserved
religiously under glass; and a refectory roof to enchant artists and
archaeologists--beautiful hammer-beams and carved angels of Spanish
walnut wood, fifteenth century, I think; and some shadowy ghosts of
frescoes.
Ellaline was enchanted with the old custodian, who talked much about
"heart of oak," and when she ventured to remark that he "looked as if he
were made of it," she and the old fellow himself both blushed amusingly.
We came on through pretty, respectable-looking Williton, where lived
Reginald Fitz Urse who helped murder St. Thomas of Canterbury, and where
everything is extraordinarily ancient except the motor garage.
By this we were among the Quantock Hills; and the differences between
Devonshire and Somerset scenery were beginning to be very marked. It's
difficult to define such differences; but they're visible in every
feature; the shape of the downs; the trees, standing up tall and
isolated in "Zummerzet," like landmarks; even the conformation of
roads--which, by the way, are extremely good in these regions, a
pleasant change for the car after some of her wild hill-climbing and
tobogganning feats in North Devon.
Do you remember how, when we were boys, we discussed favourite names,
and placed Audrey high in the list among those of women? Here, in the
Quantock Hills, they spell it "Audrie," for the saint who patronizes
West Quantoxhead; and I have learned that it was the name which the
outlawed Doone tribe best loved to give their girl children. I think I
used to say I should like to marry a girl named Audrey, but never heard
of such a person in real life, until Ellaline informed me, on seeing St.
Audrie's, that it's the name of her most intimate friend. I responded by
confessing my boyish resolve, and to amuse myself, asked if she would
some day introduce me to her friend. "Not for the world!" said she, and
blushed. I wish I could make myself believe her jealous. You would
probably encourage me to think it!
Wordsworth loved the pleasant region of the Quantock hills, you know,
and wrote some charming poems while he and Coleridge lived at Nether
Stowey and Alforden; but just to see, in passing, Nether Stowey looks
unattractive; and as for Bridgewater, not much farther on (where a red
road has turned pink, then pale, then white with chalk), it is as
commercial to look at as it is historical to read of. When a boy, in
bloodthirsty moods, I used to pore over that history; read how Judge
Jeffreys lodged at Bridgewater during the Bloody Assizes (the house is
gone now, washed away like an old blood stain); how the moor between
Weston and Bridgewater (in these days lined with motors) was lined with
Feversham's gibbets after Sedgemoor. Doesn't Macaulay refer to that as
"the last fight deserving the name of battle, fought on English soil"?
Then there was the story of "Swayne's Jumps," which one connected with
Bridgewater. He made his famous escape in Toxley Wood, close by, and to
this day the place is marked with three stones. That sort of thing
rushes you back in a minute over long distances in time, doesn't it?--as
motors rush you forward in a minute over long distances of space.
So to Glastonbury, by way of Poland Hill, looking down over the
Sedgemoor plain, Chedzoy Church, on whose southern buttress the battle
axes were sharpened, and Weston Zoyland, with its Dutch-sounding name,
and Dutch-looking dykes.
I never saw Glastonbury until now, and I'm not sure that, having seen
it, I shan't be obliged to hook it on top of Winchester, on my bump of
reverence. Not that one can compare its ruined grandeur with
well-preserved Winchester, the comparison lies in the oldness and the
early beginnings of religion. I believe Glastonbury is the one religious
institution in which Briton, Saxon, and Norman all share and share
alike; so the place seems to bind our race to a race supplanted. St.
Dunstan is the "great man" of the place, because he it was who restored
the monastery after Danish wars; but he is a modern celebrity beside
Joseph of Arimathea, the founder, who came with eleven companions to
bring the Holy Word to Britain. It was the Archangel Gabriel who bade
him found a church in honour of the Virgin; and it was a real
inspiration of the archangel's; for what one can see of the chapel of
St. Joseph is absolutely perfect--a gem of beauty.
We came to Glastonbury in the afternoon, having lunched at a nice old
coaching house in Bridgewater, and after pausing for a look at the
Abbot's kitchen, I drove straight to the George, which I had heard of as
being the Pilgrim's Inn of ancient times, and the best bit of domestic
architecture in the town. The idea was to have tea there--an indulgence
for which Emily clamoured, being half choked with chalky dust; but the
house was so singularly beautiful and interesting that it seemed a crime
not to sleep in it. The front is a gorgeous mass of carved panelling; in
the middle rises a four-centred gateway, and on the left is a marvel of
a bow window, with a bay for every story. We went up a newel stairway to
look at rooms, and one in which Henry VIII. slept a night fell to my
share--not because I was selfishly ready to take the best, however, for
there were several others more curious, if not more interesting.
Our quarters for the night selected, we went out sight-seeing, on foot,
first taking the Abbey and Chapel of the Blessed Virgin, corruptly known
as St. Joseph's. It's a good thing, Pat, that you didn't get your
youthful way, and annex Emily, because you have, or had, a "strong
weakness" for ruins, and she doesn't appreciate them in any form. The
difference between her expression and Ellaline's while gazing at what is
left of Glastonbury's glory was a study. Emily's bored, yet