Set in Silver
before some country inn for lunch, we skimmed through a gate only a mile
or two away, and stopped under the shadowy frown of an imposing mediaeval
stronghold. It was Haughton Castle, whose towers and keep are crowded
with stories of the past, and the visit was to be a surprise for us. Sir
Lionel knew the owner, who had asked us all to lunch, for the "dragon's"
sake; and it looked quite an appropriate resting-place for a dragon of
elegant leisure. It was as interesting within as without; and after
luncheon they took us over the castle; best of all, down in the deep
dungeon where Archie Armstrong, a chief of moss-troopers, was forgotten
and starved to death by his captor, Sir Thomas Swinburne, a stout knight
of Henry the Eighth's day.
There is a long story about Archie, too long to tell you here; but each
castle of Northumberland (the county of castles, not of collieries) has
dozens of wonderful old stories, warlike, ghostlike, tragic, and
romantic. I have been reading a book about some of them, which I will
bring you. It's more interesting than any novel. And King Arthur legends
are scattered broadcast over Northumberland, as in Cornwall. Also the
"Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled" did much of their bleeding and fighting
here. There's history of "every sort, to please every taste," from
Celtic times on; but I'm not sure that the troublous days of the great
feudal barons weren't the most passionately thrilling of all.
If the first sight of the Wall was wonderful to the Roman soldiers, so
must have been the first sight of the wide Tyne. I know it was so to me,
as we flashed upon it at the first important twist of the straight Roman
road, and crossed it on a noble bridge.
Of course, Newcastle has a castle; and it was "new" when William the
Conqueror was new to his kingdom. Now that I've seen this great, rich,
gay, busy city, ancient and modern, I realize how stupid I was to
associate it with mere coal, as strangers have a way of doing, because
of the trite remark about "taking coals to Newcastle." Why, the very
names of the streets in the old part chime bell-like with the romance of
history! And I like the people of Northumberland--those I have met; the
shrewd, kindly townsfolk, and the country folk living in gray villages,
who love old, old ways, and emit quaint wit with a strong, rough "burr."
They have the look in their eyes that Northern people have, all the
world over; a look that can be hard, yet can be kinder than the soft
look of more melting Southern eyes. Sir Lionel is of the South--born in
Cornwall; yet his eyes have this Northern glint in them--as if he knew
and understood mountains. Just now they are terribly wintry, and when
they rest coldly on me I feel as if I were lost in a snowstorm without
hat or coat. But no matter!
Now, what shall I say to you of Bamborough Castle, which is the crown of
our whole tour?
I wish I were clever enough to make the splendour of it burst upon you,
as it did upon me.
Imagine us motoring over from Cragside (a very beautiful and famous
modern house, with marvellous gardens and enchanting views) which
belongs to these kind, delightful friends of Sir Lionel's who own
Bamborough Castle. There was a house-party at Cragside, and there were
twelve or fifteen of us who left there in a drove of automobiles.
Down the beautiful winding avenue; then out upon a hump-backed,
switchback road, a dozen miles and more, past great Alnwick, on, on,
until suddenly a vast, dark shape loomed against the sky; a stone
silhouette, not of a giant's profile, but of a whole vast family of
giants grouped together, to face the sea.
To _own_ a Thing like that must feel like owning Niagara Falls, or the
marble range of the Sierra Nevada, or biting off a whole end of England
and digesting it. Yet these charming people take their ownership quite
calmly; and by filling the huge castle from keep to farthest tower with
their beautiful possessions, seem to have tamed the splendid monster,
making it legitimately theirs.
I thought Alnwick grand, as we passed, but its position is insignificant
compared with Bamborough, which has the wide North Sea for a background.
On a craggy platform of black rock like a petrified cushion for a royal
crown, it rises above the sea, a few low foothills of golden sand
drifting toward it ahead of the tide. The grandeur of the vast pile is
almost overwhelming to one who, like me, has never until now seen any of
these mighty fortress-castles of the North; but a great historian says
that the site of Bamborough surpasses the sites of all other
Northumbrian castles in ancient and abiding historic interest; so even
if I had been introduced to dozens, my impression must remain the same.
"Round Bamborough, and its founder, Ida (the Flame-Bearer), all
Northumbrian history gathers"; and it is "one of the great cradles of
national life."
Bamborough village, close by, was once the royal city of Bernicia, and
the "Laidly Worm" was there to give it fame, even if there had never
been a Grizel Cochrane or Grace Darling; but the history of the hamlet
that once was great, and the castle that will always be great, are
virtually one. I shall bring you Besant's "Dorothy Foster," and lots of
fascinating photographs which our hostess has given me. (I don't think I
need leave them for Ellaline, as she wouldn't care.) But you know the
story of the Laidly Worm, because Dad used to tell it to me when I was
small. The wicked stepmother who turned her beautiful stepdaughter into
the fearsome Worm used to live at the bottom of a deep, deep well that
opens in the stone floor of the castle keep; and there, in the
rock-depths, a hundred and fifty feet below, she still lurks, in the
form of a gigantic toad. I have been allowed to peep down, and I'm sure
I caught the jewelled sparkle of her wicked eye in the gloom. But even
if she'd turned me into a Laidly Worm, I couldn't be more repulsive than
I probably am at present to Sir Lionel; besides, I could crawl away into
a neighbouring cave with modern improvements, and console myself with a
good cry--which I can't do now, for fear of getting a red nose. I should
hate that, because Mrs. Senter's nose is so magnolia-white, and the
background of a magnificent feudal castle sets off her golden hair and
brown eyes so passing well.
There might be volumes of history, as well as romances, written about
Bamborough Castle--as Sir Walter Scott, and Harrison Ainsworth, and Sir
Walter Besant knew. Why, the thrill of unwritten stories and untold
legends is in the air! From the moment I passed through the jaws of
outer and inner gateways, I seemed to hear whispers from lips that had
laughed or cursed in the days of barbaric grandeur, when Bamborough was
the king of all Northumbrian castles. There are queer echoes everywhere,
in the vast rooms whose outer walls are twelve feet thick; but more
deliciously "creepy" than any other place is the keep, I think--even
more thrilling than the dungeons. Yet the castle, as it is now, is far
from gloomy, I can tell you. Not only are there banqueting-halls and
ball-rooms, and drawing-rooms and vast galleries which royalties might
covet, but there are quantities of charming bedrooms, gay and bright
enough for debutante princesses. My bedroom, where I am writing, is in a
turret; quaintly furnished, with tapestry on the wall which might have
suggested to Browning his "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came."
It's very late, but I don't like to go to bed, partly because I can't
keep jumping up and down to look out of my window at wild crags and
moonlit sea when I'm asleep; partly because I have such silly, miserable
dreams about Sir Lionel hating me, that I wake up snivelling; and to
write to you when I'm a tiny bit _triste_ is always like warming my
hands at a rainbow-tinted fire of ship's logs.
To-morrow afternoon we are going back to Newcastle, where we will "lie"
one night, as old books say, and then make a very _matinal_ start to do
our great day in Yorkshire, passing first through Durham, with just a
glance at the great cathedral. Once upon a time we would have given more
than a glance. But, as I told you, Sir Lionel seems to have lost heart
for the "long trail."
I never saw him so interested in Mrs. Senter as he has appeared to be
these last two nights at Cragside and here. Certainly she is looking her
very, very best; and in her manner with him there is a gentleness and
womanliness only just developed. One would fancy that a sympathetic
understanding had established itself between them, as it might if she
told him some piteous story about herself which roused all his chivalry.
Well, if she has told him any such story, I'm sure it is a "story" in
every sense of the word. And I don't know how I should bear it if she
cajoled him into believing her an injured innocent who needed the
shelter of a (rich and titled) man's arm.
Perhaps it is a little sad wind that cries at my window like a baby
begging to come in; perhaps it is just foolishness; but I have a
presentiment that something will happen here to make me remember
Bamborough Castle forever, not for itself alone.
_Afternoon of next day_
It _has_ happened. Best One, I don't quite know what is going to become
of me. There has been the most awful row. It was with Dick, and Sir
Lionel doesn't know about it yet, and we are supposed to be going away
in a few minutes; but maybe Dick is talking to Sir Lionel now, and if he
is, I don't suppose I shall be allowed to proceed in the company of
virtuous Emily and (comparatively) innocent Gwendolen. I shall probably
be given a third-class ticket back to Paris, and ordered to "git."
It's rather hard that, having sacrificed so much, large chunks of
self-respect among other things, it should all come to nothing in the
end. Ellaline will want to kill me, for I have thrown her to the lions.
It won't be my fault if they don't eat her up.
Oh, darling, I do feel horribly about it, and really and truly, without
exaggeration, I would have died sooner than repay her kindness to me by
giving her away like this. An ancestress of yours in the Revolution ran
up the steps of the guillotine laughing and kissing her hands to the
friends she left in the tumbril, and I could have been almost half as
brave if by so doing I might have avoided this dreadful abandoning of
Ellaline's interests, trusted to me. But what can you do between two
evils? Isn't it a law of nature, or something, to choose the lesser?
Dick went just the one step too far, and pulled the chain too tight. He
had begun to think he could make me do anything.
A little while ago, I was alone in the armoury, absorbed in looking at a
wonderful engraving of the tragic last Earl of Derwentwater, when
suddenly Dick came up behind me. I wanted to go, and made excuses to
escape, but he wouldn't let me; and rather than have a scene--in case
anyone might come--I let him walk me about, and point out strange old
weapons on the wall. That was only a blind, however. He had something
particular to say, and said it. There was another thing I must do for
him: find a way of informing Sir Lionel, prettily and nicely, that Mrs.
Senter cared for him, and was very unhappy.
I flew out in an instant, and said that I'd do no such thing.
"You must," said he.
"I won't," said I. "Nobody can make me."
"Oh, can't they?" said he. "I can, then, and I mean to. If you refuse to
do it, I shall believe you're in love with Sir Lionel yourself."
"I don't care what you believe," I flung at him. "There's no shame in
saying I like Sir Lionel too well and respect him too much to have any
hand in making him miserable all the rest of his life."