Set in Silver
gray-green, save for a patch of purple heather here and there, like the
stain of a new wound.
We were under Cadir Idris, mounting the pass high above a deep ravine;
yet the blowing rain hid the mountain from our eyes as if he were the
veiled prophet. The sound of the wind, which seemed to come from all
quarters at once, was like the mysterious music of a great AEolian harp,
as it mingled with the song of ghostly cascades that veined the dark
rocks with marble. Mountain sheep sprang from crag to crag as Apollo
rounded a corner and broke into their tranquil lives, now and then
loosening a stone as they jumped. One good-sized rock would have bounced
down on the roof of our car if Sir Lionel hadn't seen it coming, and put
on such a spurt of speed that Apollo leaped ahead of the danger. But he
always does see things in time. You wouldn't think sheep could have as
much expression as those sheep had, when they saw us and weren't sure
which way to run. Of course they needn't have run at all; but whichever
way they decided, it was certain to be wrong!
I was sorry to leave that pass behind, and have its door shut after us,
for we came out into a pastoral landscape, where the only wild things
were the grazing black cattle. It was charming country, though; and in
less than a mile we had reached a famous spot known as the Tourist Walk.
The rain was pelting down harder than ever, so we could not get out and
take the walk; but soon after we had abandoned it the deluge suddenly
turned from lead to a thick spray of diamonds, mixed with sparkling
gold-dust. Our road glittered ahead of us like a wide silver ribbon
unrolled, as we sailed into the little gray town of Dolgelly on its
torrent river; and beyond, in a fresh-washed radiance of sunlight, the
way was one long enchantment, the sweet world of green hills and musical
waters looking as young as if God had made it that day. The graceful
mountains which pressed round the valley had the air of waiting each her
turn to stoop and drink a life-giving draught from the river, which, as
we neared Barmouth, opened to the sea, gleaming like a vast sheet of
quicksilver. Further on, travelling through woods where young green
trees shot up from gilded rocks, glimpses of the estuary came to us like
a vision of some Italian lake.
Just before Harlech, the wild yet nymph-like beauty of the world changed
to an almost startling grandeur, for the coast moved back from the sea
with a noble sweep, magnificent mountains towered along the shore, and
line after line of beryl waves shattered into pearl upon a beach of
darkened gold.
Harlech Castle was an event in my life. I thought I had begun to take
ruined castles for granted in Wales, as you do sea-shells on the shore;
but Harlech is a castle that you couldn't take for granted. It was a
shock at first to find that a hotel had been built in the very face of
it, as if bearding it in its den; yet it is a nice hotel; and when we
had lunched there agreeably, I not only forgave it for existing, but
began to like and thank it for having thoughtfully placed itself on that
admirable height.
From here our eyes ought to have been smitten with the sight of Snowdon;
but the Grand Old Mountain was asleep, his head buried in white
cloud-pillows which alone betrayed his whereabouts; so we had to be
content with the castle. And I was content. To see the splendid ruin
reared on its great rock, dark against sea and sky, was thrilling as a
vision of an old wounded knight girding his strength for a last stand.
History says that Harlech Castle is no older than Edward I.; but story
says (which is more important, because more romantic) that in the dim
dawn while History still dozed, here rose the Tower of Twr Brauwen,
white-bosomed sister of Bran the Blessed. Also, it came into the
possession of Hawis Gadern, a great beauty and heiress, whose uncles
tried to wrest it from her, but were defeated and imprisoned in the
castle. Anyway, however that may be, Owen Glendower came and conquered,
in the beginning of the fifteenth century, when he was forging a chain
of wonderful deeds which made him the hero of Wales. Never mind if he
was driven away a few years after by Prince Henry. That's another story.
The way from Harlech by Portmadoc to exquisite Pont Aberglaslyn and
Beddgelert is very Arthurian; that is, it suggests pre-mediaeval
backgrounds, and at every turn I caught myself expecting to come upon
Camelot, unspoiled, unchanged. The high mountains still wore their
invisibility masks, but the lower mountains, not too proud to show
themselves to motoring mortals, grouped as graciously together as if
they were lovely ladies and gay knights, turned to stone just when they
had assembled to tread a minuet. And the fair Glaslyn flowed past their
feet with a swing and sweep, as though the crystal flood kept time to
dance music which our ears were not attuned to catch.
Quickly we flashed by more than one beautiful lake, too; a jewel hidden
among mountains, found by our eyes unexpectedly, only to be lost again.
And all the while Cader Idris and Snowdon drew hoods of mist over their
heads, pulling them down tightly and firmly. Not once had we caught a
glimpse of either mountain, though we were almost near enough to knock
our noses or Apollo's bonnet against their sharp elbows; but we were too
happy to care much--at least, one of us was!--and we cared even less
when rain came on again. I still kept my place beside Sir Lionel, who
was repentant for having made me cry over the dreadful, agonizing,
too-tragic story of Gelert. I won't repeat it to you, because it's
wickedly sad, and grayhound Gelert was so much nobler than most people.
Sheets of spun glass shimmered and waved before us, as we rushed on
through the mountains, past the beautiful place of Gelert's grave, up
toward Pen-y-gwrd. And the tinkling swish of the rain on the glass
sounded to me as the Welsh names had begun to sound. I wish you could
hear them spoken, for the spelling gives no idea of their pronunciation,
or the pleasant, muffled music of them. But all I can tell you is, that
when you come into Wales you will feel they are characteristic of the
country; mysterious, sympathetic, rather secretive.
Sir Lionel was happy in the thought of Pen-y-gwrd, because some of the
best memories of his boyhood are associated with that little spot in the
mountain-land of Wales. He used to come, and climb with an old friend a
few years older than himself, a Colonel O'Hagan, who is in Bengal now,
and who--he thinks--will like me. Not much chance of our ever meeting!
Just as Sir Lionel finished quoting Charles Kingsley on Pen-y-gwrd, we
drew up in front of a low gray stone building; and Kingsley's merry
words rang in my ears as the door of the hotel opened. You know I can
always remember a verse after having once heard it.
"There is no Inn in Snowden which is not awful dear,
Excepting Pen-y-gwrd (you can't pronounce it, dear)
Which standeth in the meeting of noble valleys three;
One is the Vale of Gwynant, so well beloved by me;
One goes to Capel Curig, and I can't mind its name;
And one, it is Llanberis Pass, which all men knew the same."
Never did any gesture give a better welcome than the opening of that
door! We'd been too happy to know we were cold with the chill of the
mountains--half-seen shapes that hovered close, with white cascades like
ghosts flitting ever across their dimness; but when a glow of firelight
streamed out to greet us, suddenly we realized that we were shivering.
In the square hall, several men were talking together, men with Oxford
voices and open-air faces. In their midst was one man, much older,
grizzled and weather-beaten, not a gentleman in the conventional sense,
yet in listening to him the others had an air of deference, as if he
were a hero to the group. The four or five figures stood out like a
virile, impressionist sketch in black and brown on a red background; but
as we entered, welcomed by some pink-cheeked young hostess, the ruddy
light danced into our eyes. The men in front of the fire moved a little
as if to give place, and glances were thrown at us, while for an instant
the conversation flagged. Then the group was about to return to its own
interests, when suddenly, out from among the rest stepped the grizzled
man. He hesitated, as if uncertain whether or no to obey an impulse,
then came forward with a modest yet eager air.
"I can't be mistaken, sir, can I?" he asked. "It must be Mr. Pendragon--I
beg your pardon, Sir Li----"
"Why, Penrhyn!" cried Sir Lionel, not giving him time to finish; and
seizing one of the gnarled brown hands, he shook it as if he never meant
to stop. Both their faces had lighted up, and were beaming with joy. The
grizzled man seemed to have thrown off fifteen years in a minute, and
Sir Lionel looked like a boy of twenty-two. By this time everyone was
gazing--staring is too rude a word--and the other faces were beaming as
well, as if the most delightful thing had happened. I am sure that Sir
Lionel had forgotten the existence of us three females, and had rushed
back to the bright dawn of his youth. It was the light of that dawn I
saw on his face; and I found my heart beating with excitement, though I
didn't know why, or what it was all about.
"By Jove, Penrhyn, to think of your being the first man to greet me on
our old stamping-ground!" Sir Lionel exclaimed. "It seems too good to be
true. I've been thinking about you all day, and your face is a sight for
sore eyes."
"I'd rather see you, sir, than have a thousand pounds drop down on me
through the ceiling," retorted the mysterious hero. (I should think so,
indeed.)
They shook hands, and beamed on each other a little more, and then Sir
Lionel remembered his flock. Turning to us, he introduced the grizzled
man.
"This is my old friend and guide, Owen Penrhyn," said he, as if he were
drawing us into the circle of a prince. "There never was a guide like
him in the Welsh mountains, and never will be again. Jove! it's glorious
to find him at the old business still! Though, in our day together, we
didn't carry this, eh?"
Then I saw that an Alpine rope was coiled across one of the strong
shoulders clad in rough tweed, and that the great stout boots were
strikingly trimmed with huge bright nails.
"It's like Sir Lionel to put the praise on me," protested the dear old
thing, flushing up like a boy. "Why, he was the best amateur" (he
pronounced the word quaintly and I loved him for it) "I ever see, or
ever expect to see. If he'd gone on as he began, he'd a' broken the
noses of some of us guides. Pity he had to go to furrin' parts! And I'll
be bound he never told you, ladies, of his first ascent of Twll Ddu, or
how he pulled me up out of the torrent by sheer strength, when my
fingers were that cold I couldn't grip the hand-holds? I'd 'a' fallen
clear to the bottom of the Devil's Kitchen if't hadn't been for Mr.
Pendragon, as he was then. And what d' you think, ladies, he says, when
I accused him o' savin' my life?"
"What?" I begged to know, forgetting to give my elders a chance to speak
first.
"'Tommy rot.' That's his very words. I've never forgot 'em. 'Tommy
rot.'"
He beamed on us, and every one in the hall laughed, except perhaps
Emily, who smiled doubtfully, not sure whether or no it was to her
brother's credit to have remarked "Tommy rot" in such a crisis. But
after that, we were all friends, we, and Owen Penrhyn, and the other
men, too; for though we didn't really talk to them till dinner, I knew
by their eyes that they admired Sir Lionel immensely, and wanted to know
us all.
At dinner there was splendid climbing talk, and we heard further tales