Set in Silver
on account of a million church clocks and bells which were deadly busy
all night, and I felt I should be no better until I'd had it out with
the enemy.
Sir Lionel, as you know, can be a pleasant companion when he chooses,
and he's so good-looking in his soldier way that I can't help admiring
him when I'm not hating him, but it is a strain on the nerves, headache
or no headache, sitting next a man and trying every minute to make him
like you better than he does the woman he wants to be with, who is
sitting behind him. It means that you must be amusing and witty and
interested in everything he says. But how can you be witty when the only
thing you want to say is "devil and damn," of which he would violently
disapprove from a lady's lips (or pen)? And how can you be interested in
all he says when he discourses about mouldy old saints, and legends, and
history, and things over and done with long ago, like that? What do I
care if St. Dunstan--of whom I heard too much at Glastonbury--saved King
Edmund, hunting in the Mendips, from falling over Cheddar Cliff, horse
and man? Why, I don't even know who Edmund was, or when he happened.
Celtic relics, found in caves, are less than nothing to me, and Roman
coins are a mere aggravation when one is bothered how to get current
coin of the realm. Botany bores me, too, though I have been studying it,
together with many other dull things which, unfortunately for me, Sir
Lionel likes.
Well, we went up the Mendip Hills by way of an obscure little village
called Priddy, which seemed important to Sir L. because they found some
lead pigs in a mine there marked Imp. Vespasianus, and a few old Roman
dice, and brooches like safety-pins. It would be much more to the point
if he would take an interest in what _I_ wear, rather than concentrating
his attention on the way b. c. Roman miners or soldiers
contrived to fasten their rags together. It would console one for
invariably losing one's pins and hatpins when one wants them most, if
one could think future generations would grow emotional over them. Yet,
on the whole, I should prefer it done by a certain man in my own
generation.
The moment we got away from Priddy, where a lot of starfish roads come
together, my spirits rose. The country began to look theatrical, which
was a pleasant change after Wells, and all my native dramaticness began
to surge in me. I felt on my mettle; and when Sir Lionel talked about
visiting the Cheddar Caverns I said to myself: "My name isn't Gwen
Senter if I don't get hold of the girl in a cave, and tell her a thing
or two." It can't be easy to escape from people in caves, I thought; and
so it proved. But I haven't come to that, yet.
I really enjoyed the Cheddar Ravine. It is the sort of scenery that
appeals to me. Hills rose, wild and rocky, shutting in our road, and
brigands would have been appropriate, as in some mountain pass of Spain.
There were sheer gray cliffs like castles and burnt-out churches, and
watch-towers.
Said Sir Lionel: "Here we come, straight from one of the finest
cathedrals made by man, to see what Nature can do in the way of
ecclesiastical architecture; facades here as fine as any west front, and
vaguely rich with decoration." I purred, of course, agreeing, and
pointing out graceful spires, empty niches for saints, tombs for
cardinals, and statues of kings and bishops with crowned and mitred
heads, babbling on thus with hurried intelligence, lest Ellaline should
jump in ahead.
It's the kind of place--this weird alley of colourful rock--where you
feel things must happen, and I determined they _should_ happen; a hidden
place you are surprised at being able to enter, as if the door had been
shut by enchantment a few million years, and then forcibly opened for
modern motorists. I used this idea on Sir Lionel, in a form too
elaborate to waste on a sister, and made a distinct hit. But Ellaline
got in a little deadly work at the first cave. She began talking fairy
talk with Sir Lionel, and that not being my style, I had to let her have
her head.
Fancy _my_ pretending to be a child who, having lost itself, suddenly
sees a hole in a rock, crawls in for shelter from beasts of the forest,
and finds that by accident it has stumbled on the entrance to fairyland!
But Miss Lethbridge had quite a fairy game with Sir Lionel, who, she
played, was his ancestor King Arthur, carried to this strange place by
the four queens who rowed his body across the lake. "You can be one of
the queens, if you like," she graciously said to me. "And dear Mrs.
Norton another?" I suggested. That turned the budding drama into farce,
as I meant it should.
It was a weird cave, and would have served excellently for my purpose;
but when I heard there was another to follow--as servants say of the
next course for dinner--I thought it would be an anti-climax to use this
one. Besides, there were a good many people in it. There were tricky
illuminations to show off the best formations, one of which was King
Solomon's Temple, King S. sitting with folded arms at the entrance, his
knees up as if he had a pain; but being only a pink stalagmite, he
couldn't be expected to behave.
Having done justice to Gough's Cavern, we returned to the car, and
skimmed along the splendid, rock-walled road to the next cave, which, it
appears, is a deadly rival of the first. One advertises visits of
Martel, the explorer; the other boasts the approval of royalty. I'm sure
they would love to have a notice up: "By appointment to the King," as if
they were tailors. But what could a king do with a cave nowadays? At one
time, it might have been handy to hide in, but those days and those
kings are changed. I believe, by the way, Britons did hide in one or two
of the Cheddar Caverns, when the Saxons were uncomfortably interested in
their whereabouts, and there are bones, but I'm glad to say we didn't
see them. I hate to be reminded of what I'm built on, and can't bear to
look in the glass after seeing a skull, with or without cross-bones.
In this second cave, when Mrs. Norton was putting an appropriate
prehistoric question I'd coached her up to ask her brother, I linked a
friendly arm in Ellaline's, and bore her off under convoy.
"What a sweet, illuminated stalactite curtain!" said I, rapturously.
"Doesn't it look like translucent coral, and wouldn't you like to have a
dress exactly that colour?"
Thus I managed to keep her with me, and fall behind the others, glaring
at Dick so meaningly as to frighten him away when he showed signs of
lingering.
My scene thus effectively set, and the two leading characters on the
stage together, I lost no time in beginning to recite my lines. It was
in a dark sort of rock-parlour, with some kind of an illuminated
witches' kitchen or devil's cauldron to look at, and give us an excuse
to pause--all very effective.
"Miss Lethbridge," I said, "I have rather a disagreeable duty to
perform."
"When people tell you they have a duty to perform, it goes without
saying that it's disagreeable," she replied, with a flippancy on which I
consider I have the patent.
"Have I a black on my nose, or is my dress undone at the back?"
"There is a black," said I, "but it's not on your nose."
"On my character, perhaps?" she insinuated.
"Not exactly," said I. "But it will be on my conscience if I don't get
it off. You see, you ought to know. If you don't know, you're
handicapped, and it isn't fair that a girl like you should be
handicapped. I've been trying for days to screw up my courage to speak.
In this queer place, I feel suddenly as if I could. Shall we talk here,
while we have the chance?"
"You talk, please," said she. "I will do the rest." (Pert thing.)
However, I took her at her word, and did what I had to do, with neatness
and dispatch, as an executioner should. But the odd part was, that when
I had chopped off her head with the axe you sharpened for me and posted
from Scotland, registered and expressed, she hardly seemed to know it
was off. She did look a little pale, though that might have been the
effect of the strange light, but she thanked me pleasantly for telling
her the truth, and said she quite appreciated my motive.
"I was prompted entirely by my interest in you, and because of my
nephew's friendship," I said.
"Oh, yes," said she, in a voice like cream. "What else _could_ it be?"
"It could be nothing else," I replied emphatically. "I'm sure I hated
distressing you, but it was that good might come. I do hope it hasn't
upset you too much?"
"No, not too much," said she. "But it has made me horribly--hungry!"
Really, that did stagger me! I must confess I can't tell what to make of
the girl. Anyhow, she _knows_, which is the principal thing, and no
matter how remarkable an actress she may be for her age, she must care.
It wouldn't be human not to care for such a story about her own mother
and father. Yet she took it so impersonally! I can't get over that. And
she actually ate a good luncheon! I wonder she could swallow. But, of
course, I'd put everything as politely as I could put such things,
because I didn't want her to scream or faint. Well, I needn't have
worried!
We had lunch at an inn near Cox's Cavern, with two cascades in the back
garden, which is shut in by quite a private and special gorge of its
own. I watched the girl as much as I dared, but she looked about as
usual so far as I could make out. The only noticeable effect of our
conversation was that she seemed somewhat suppressed, sat silent and
thoughtful, and attempted no sallies.
Dozens of motors arrived while we were eating, gorgeous cars with
resplendent chauffeurs, but there wasn't one to put the bonnet of
"Apollo" (as someone has named ours) out of joint; and not one chauffeur
as striking as our extraordinary Bengali in his native dress.
I forgot to mention that I bound Ellaline to secrecy before I began my
tale, saying that I'd had the information in confidence. She has her
faults, but I don't think she'd break her word. She is one of those
tall, upstanding, head-in-the-air creatures who pride themselves on
keeping a promise till it's mouldy.
My headache was better, after relieving my mind, and I enjoyed the run
to Clifton and Bristol. We had to go through the queer old gray village
of Cheddar, which was as cheesy looking as one would expect it to be;
and I suppose the Market Cross we passed must have been good, as Sir
Lionel would stop and take a photograph. As we turned out of the place
for Axbridge, I threw a glance over my shoulder, back at the exit of the
queer valley, and a carved bronze screen seemed already to have been
drawn across it.
It was a fine road; Axbridge a sort of toy village whose houses might
have been made for good little girls to play with; and to avoid the
traffic in the main road we went by way of Congresbury, where the
Milford-Joneses live. I was glad we didn't meet them driving their old
pony-chaise. I should have been ashamed to bow. There was a turn which
led us into a charming road, winding high among woods, then coming out
where the gorge of the Avon burst upon our view. It always pleases Sir
Lionel if one is enthusiastic over scenery, so I was, though I really
hated going over that awfully high suspension bridge, as I detest
looking down from heights. So does Mrs. Norton; but I can't afford to be
classed with her, therefore I joined Ellaline in exclaiming that the
bridge was glorious. I suppose it is fine, if one could only look
without fear of being seasick.
We stopped all night in Clifton, in which Miss Lethbridge was
interested, largely because of "Evelina," who stopped at the Hot Wells,
in the "most romantic part of the story." I couldn't for my life
remember who wrote "Evelina"--which was awkward; and it hasn't come back