Set in Silver
making love to his girl. That's the brutal truth; and he's haggling and
putting off the evil day as long as he can. He wanted to ask me what my
feeling was in the matter; whether _you_ would be pleased, and so on.
Ellaline might not be rich, he explained, but she would have enough for
her own wants as a married woman. He thought her husband, when she had
one, ought to wish to do the rest; and though Dick considered his own
prospects good, a partnership in a detective agency hardly seemed
ideal.
I told him I couldn't quite answer for you, as you had always hoped your
one boy might fall in love with a rich girl; but that I was sure Dick
adored Ellaline. I asked if I should write to you, when Dick did; and he
said, half reluctantly, perhaps I had better. Poor wretch, he was afraid
I might succeed in persuading you!
I was pathetic on the subject of Dick, and our comradeship, which must
be broken by the dear boy's marriage, and as Sir L. was suffering
himself, he was in just the right mood to sympathize with me. I
snivelled a little; and at last, emboldened by success, I allowed him to
gather that there was someone I'd cared for a long, long time--someone
who didn't care for me. At that he was so nice, that I liked him better
than I ever thought I could; and since then I feel I really can't and
shan't lose him.
No sooner had he given my hand a warm yet disappointing "kind friend"
squeeze, at parting, than I routed out Dick in his own room. I promised
him that I would induce you to write a nice letter about the proposed
engagement to Sir Lionel if he in his turn would persuade Ellaline to
put in a good word for _me_ with Sir L., to tell him that she believed I
cared for him a good deal, and was unhappy.
When I said "persuade" to Dick, I meant use his unknown power to
command; for if the girl would say that to her guardian, her words would
be the one stone capable of killing two birds. It would prove to him
that of which I don't think he is perfectly sure at present: her love
for Dick, or, at worst, her complete indifference to himself; and it
would pop into his head the idea I want to put there, though I have done
all it's safe to do openly toward inserting it.
I saw when I softly hinted at a hopeless affection which had spoiled
years of my life, that he didn't think of himself. Somehow, he must be
_made_ to think; and now is the right time, for his heart is sore, and
needs balm. He would be so sorry for me that, in the state he is in, he
couldn't be hard. He would argue that, as he was bound to be unhappy
anyway, he might as well try to make others happy. I feel that
everything would happen exactly as I want it to happen if Ellaline
Lethbridge could be depended upon to say the right thing.
Of course, there lies the danger: that she won't. But Dick boasts that
she'll have to do as he tells her. It's worth risking; but he won't give
the word unless he thinks that I've coaxed you 'round.
That's the favour I ask. Will you, when you get this, wire to me at
once, "Writing according to your request to Sir L."? I can then show
your telegram to Dick (you must address it to me at Bamborough Castle,
where we are to spend a night, after staying one at Cragside) and he
will put pressure to bear on Ellaline Lethbridge.
You can be absolutely certain that no harm will come of this. That Dick
and she will never be married; whereas, when I am married to Sir Lionel,
I'll give you a present of five hundred pounds, within the first year,
to do with as you like. I'd even be willing to sign a paper to that
effect.
Your anxious, yet hopeful
Gwen.
XXXVI
AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER
_Bamborough Castle_,
_September 9th_
Dear: I know you are miserable about me, but don't be it,
because I'm not miserable about myself. Honour bright!
I've done the hateful deed. It was at Newcastle: and I knew I was in for
it, the minute I saw Dick. He's got his partnership, and thinks he's got
me. But there's many a slip 'twixt Dick Burden and Audrie Brendon.
I wouldn't tell Sir Lionel I was in love with the horrid Boy Detective,
and I'm happy--or nearly happy--to say that he refused to give his
consent straight out to an engagement. He told Dick the same thing; so
there'll be no leaving us two alone in lovesick corners (can corners be
lovesick?), or making announcements, or anything appalling of that sort.
Perhaps it was easier, speaking to Sir Lionel, because he hadn't been
kind to me since the last evening in Chester--I can't think why, though
I can think why I deserved unkindness. The ring was terribly on my mind;
but he can't have found out about that, because the man in the shop
promised he wouldn't try to sell it until next day.
I couldn't get quite what Ellaline wanted, though I sold two or three
other things--all I could sell; but it came nearly to the right amount;
and it went off to her in Scotland, in the form of a post-office order,
that same night--assured instead of registered, as the letter was so
valuable.
Sir Lionel being somewhat frigid and remote in his manner, appearing to
take no more interest in me than if he were a big star and I a bit
chipped off a Leonid, I delivered myself of what I had to say without
great difficulty. I had a queer, numbed feeling, as though if it didn't
matter to him, it didn't to me, until just at the last, when he said
something that nearly made me cry. Luckily I was able to swallow the
sob. It felt like a large, hot, crisp baked potato; and my heart felt
like a larger, cold-boiled beet soaked in vinegar.
It's all over now, though, and I'm comparatively callous. Maybe the
vinegar has pickled me internally?
Bamborough Castle, where we arrived to-day with our kind and delightful
hosts of Cragside, is to be the northernmost end of the tour. On
leaving, we turn southward; and would make straight for Warwickshire and
Graylees, if, in an evil moment, Mrs. Norton and I hadn't for once
agreed about a place that we longed to see. It is Haworth, where the
Brontes lived, and Sir Lionel said that our wish should be gratified. He
planned a day in Yorkshire: Ripon, Fountains Abbey, Haworth, Harrogate
(not York, because Emily went there with the late Mr. Norton, and has
sad marital memories); and the plan still stands. I have an idea that
Sir Lionel is impatient to reach Graylees now, so after the Yorkshire
field-day we will push on there; and I shall perhaps hear from Ellaline
as to Honore's plans. He ought to be in Scotland by that time. I've
written her to wire me at the nearest post-office to Graylees Castle, as
I don't like to receive telegrams there. But I see no reason why you
shouldn't send a letter to Graylees--the last letter, I hope, which need
ever be addressed to me as "Miss Ellaline Lethbridge." It will seem nice
to get into my own name again! Rather like putting on comfortable shoes
after tight ones that made blisters. And how divine to fly to you--a
distracted chicken, battered by a thunderstorm, scuttling back under its
mother's downy wing!
Nevertheless, I'm not going to cheat you out of seeing England through
my eyes, because my pleasure--just a little of it--is damped by Dick. I
am resigned and calm, and you mustn't think me a martyr. I've told you I
hate whiners, and I won't be one. Why, I ought to be thankful for the
chance of such a wonderful trip, and not be cowardly enough to spoil it
by a few private worries!
Cumberland is even lovelier than Wales, though I shouldn't have thought
that possible. Sir Lionel went climbing with the nice Welsh guide, whom
he invited to Keswick, so he wasn't with us much; and Dick being in
London still, there were only Mrs. Norton, Mrs. Senter, and I to be
conducted by Young Nick. It did seem odd being driven by him, and seeing
his back look so inexpressive among the most ravishing scenes. I asked
if he didn't think Cumberland glorious, but he said it was not like
India. I suppose that was an answer?
We spun off into the mysterious enchantments of Borrodaile in gusts of
rain; but the heavenly valley was the more mystic because of the
showers. Huge white clouds walked ahead of us, like ghosts of
pre-historic animals; and baby clouds sprawled on the mountain sides,
with all their filmy legs in air.
At Lodore the water was "coming down" like a miniature Niagara. Heavy
rains had filled the cup of its parent river full, and the waterfall
looked as if floods of melted ivory were pouring over ebony boulders.
What a lovely, rushing roar! It was like the father of all sound--as if
it might have given the first suggestion of sound to a silent, new-born
world.
Windermere and Derwent Water we saw, too, and each was more beautiful
than the other. Also I was much excited about the Giant's Grave, near
Keswick, which has kept its secret since before history began.
All the way to Carlisle the country was very fair to see, scarcely
flagging in charm to the end; and Carlisle itself was packed with
interest, from its old cathedral to the castle where David I. of
Scotland died and Mary Queen of Scots lodged.
Now our thoughts were turned toward the Roman Wall, and I thrilled a
little, despite the forbidding stiffness of Sir Lionel's disapproving
back as he drove. Because of Kipling's splendid story of the Roman
soldier in "Puck of Pook's Hill," I knew that for me the Great Wall (all
that's left of it) would be one of the best things. Parnesius, the young
centurion, told Una and Dan that "old men who have followed the Eagles
since boyhood say nothing is more wonderful than the first sight of the
Wall." And also that there were no real adventures south of it. It was
disappointing to think that nowadays, on our way there, we couldn't
expect to meet "hunters and trappers for the circuses, prodding along
chained bears and muzzled wolves" for the amusement of the soldiers in
the far northern camps; or that when we should come to the Wall, we'd
find no helmeted men with glittering shields walking three abreast on
the narrowest part, screened from Picts by a little curtain-wall at the
top, as high as their necks; no roaring, gambling, cock-fighting,
wolf-baiting, horse-racing soldier town on one side, and heather wastes
full of hiding, arrow-shooting Picts on the other; yet I heard Sir
Lionel say we could still trace the guard-houses and small towers, and
see how the great camp of Cilurnum was laid out.
We had left the mountains before we came into Carlisle, but not the
hills; and after one of grandiose size, which an old Northumbrian we met
called "a fair stiff bank," we were on the Roman road; the long, long,
straight road forging uncompromisingly, grimly up and down, ever on,
scorning to turn aside for difficulties; the road where the Legions
paced with the brave Roman step--"Rome's race, Rome's pace," twenty-four
miles in eight hours.
Kipling illuminated the way through Haltwhistle and Chollerford to the
Chesters, a private park which is a big out-of-doors museum, for it has
in its midst the remains of old Cilurnum. We got out at the gates, and
wandered among the ruins that have been reverently excavated; a gray and
faded scene, like a kind of skeleton Pompeii with dead bones rattling;
entrance gateways; ghost-haunted guard-houses; stone rings which were
towers; many short, straight streets whose half-buried pavements once
rang under soldiers' heels; the Forum; all the camp-city plan; a map
with outlines roughly sketched in stone on faded grass. We had had our
first sight of the Wall of which centurions in Britain bragged when they
went back to Rome. Then it was a Living Wall; but it is very wonderful
still, where its skeleton lies in state.
We had started so early from Keswick, that it wasn't two o'clock when we
left the Chesters; and I was surprised when, instead of drawing up