Set in Silver
"Do you insinuate that marrying my aunt would make him miserable?" Dick
wanted to know.
"I don't insinuate. I assert," said I. And by that time I was in such a
temper, and my nerves had so gone to bits that I didn't know, and cared
less, what I was saying. I went on and told Dick exactly what I thought
of Mrs. Senter, and that for a loyal, true sort of man like Sir Lionel
it would be better to die at once than have her for his wife--for that
would be death, too, only slow and lingering. Dick was white with fury,
but I hardly noticed then, for I was seeing red.
"If you call her deceitful, what are you?" he sputtered.
"I'm neither here nor there," said I.
"Certainly you won't be here long, or where Pendragon is," said he. "I
wouldn't marry you now, if you'd have me. You're nothing more or less
than an adventuress."
"And you're a blackmailer," I mentioned, because I'd gone back to
primitive passions, like Eve's, or a Brittany fishwife's.
"That's a lie," he answered politely, "because blackmailers only
threaten; I'm going to perform. It's all up with you."
"I don't care for myself," said I. But, as you know, that was only
partly true.
Then for a minute Dick seemed to repent. "No good losing our tempers
like this," he said. "Take back your insults to my aunt, who is the best
pal I ever had--though that's not saying much--and speak a good word for
her to Sir Lionel, whom she really loves, and I'll let you off."
"I'd have my tongue cut out first," I answered.
"Is that your last word?" he persisted.
"Yes," said I.
"Very well, then," said he, "you'll be sorrier for this than you ever
were for anything in your life." And he stamped away, leaving me alone.
I flew up to my room, because I wasn't going to run the risk of his
bringing Sir Lionel in and telling him everything before me. So here I
am, and that's all; except that Emily has come to my door to say her
brother wants to know if I can be ready to start in twenty minutes.
_Newcastle, Night_
We're back in our rooms at the County Hotel, and I am dazed with the
mystery of what is going on. I _was_ ready in twenty minutes; and all
the automobiles that brought us yesterday were waiting to take us away
again. When I came down, Mrs. Norton and Mrs. Senter were in our car;
Sir Lionel, cool but polite, prepared to help me in, standing by. He has
great control over his features, but I didn't think, if he had heard
Dick's story, and intended to shed me at the nearest railway station
(not to make a scandal at Bamborough), he could be looking as unmoved as
that.
No Dick was in sight. Naturally, I didn't ask for him, but perhaps my
eye moved wildly round, for Mrs. Senter read its question, and answered
it in a voice like insufficiently sweetened lemonade:
"Your Dick, dear child, has had another urgent summons to his mother's
side, and won't be with us to-day. His last words were that you would
understand, so I suppose he explained more to you than to me. But you
are privileged."
I could have boxed her ears, _hard_.
Emily went on, in her fussy way, to make things clear to my intellect by
adding that our host had kindly sent Mr. Burden to the nearest railway
station in his own fastest motor, as it seemed he had just time to catch
a train leaving almost immediately.
I didn't know what to make of it all, and don't now. Whether a telegram
from the invalid mother did really come in the nick of time to save me,
like Abraham's ram that caught in the bushes at the last minute; or
whether this sudden dash to Scotland is a deep-dyed plot; or whether he
isn't going, really, but means to stop and spy on me disguised as a
chauffeur or a performing bear--or _what_, I can't guess.
All I do know is that, so far, Sir Lionel's manner is unchanged. Perhaps
Dick left a note with Mrs. Senter, which she is to put into Sir L.'s
hand at an appropriate moment? He may seem altered at dinner, to which I
must go down soon; or he may send for me and have it out during the
evening. I'll add a line before we get off to-morrow morning.
_September 10th. 8.45 A.M._
We're just going. He seems the same as ever. I'm lost in it! I'll post
this downstairs. Please write at once to Graylees; for if I am sent away
before, I'll ask to have letters forwarded to my own address.
Your
Audrie.
XXXVII
MRS. SENTER TO HER NEPHEW, DICK BURDEN, AT GLEN LACHLAN, N. B.
_Newcastle_,
_September 10th_
_8 A.M._
You might have told me what was up. Is your mother really ill? Am
anxious and puzzled. Don't think you play fair. Wire, Midland Hotel,
Bradford.
Gwen.
XXXVIII
DICK BURDEN TO HIS AUNT, MRS. SENTER, MIDLAND HOTEL, BRADFORD
_Glenlachlan,_
_September 10th_
_8 P.M._
Mother not ill. You will know everything to-morrow or day after.
Dick.
XXXIX
AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER
_Midland Hotel, Bradford_,
_September 11th_
Beloved One: Situation unchanged. I know now how you felt when
you had nervous prostration. However, I'm not going to have it, so don't
worry.
If I had been in a state of mind to enjoy it fully, this would have been
a wonderful day. But I don't suppose Damocles enjoyed himself much, even
if they brought him delicious things to eat and drink, and rich jewels,
and the kind of cigarettes he'd always longed for, yet never could
afford to buy--knowing that any instant it might be the hair's time to
break.
I don't believe he could have done justice to beautiful Durham Cathedral
and the famous bridge; or splendid Richmond Castle on its height above
the Swale; or the exhilarating North Road; or charming Ripon; or even
the exquisite, almost heart-breaking beauty of ruined Fountains Abbey,
by the little river that sings its dirge in music sweeter than harp or
violin. No, he couldn't have put his soul into his eyes for them, and I
didn't. I was almost sorry that we were to go on and see Harrogate and
the Strid and Bolton Abbey, because in my restlessness I didn't feel
intelligent enough to appreciate anything. I could only be dully
thankful that the sword hadn't pierced me yet; but I wanted to be alone,
and shut my eyes, and not have to talk, especially to Mrs. Norton.
Dimly I realized that Harrogate seemed a very pretty place, where it
might be amusing to stay, and take baths and nice walks, and listen to
music; and my bodily eyes saw well enough how lovely was the way through
Niddersdale and Ilkley to Pately Bridge, where we had to get out and
walk through enchanted woods to the foaming cauldron of the Strid. The
water, swollen by rain, raced over its rocks below the crags of the
tragic jump, like a white horse running away, mad with unreasoning
terror. Nevertheless, my bodily eyes were only glass windows which my
spirit had deserted. It left them blank still, at Bolton Abbey, which is
poetically beautiful (though not as lovable as Fountains), on, up the
great brown hill of Barden Moor, through Skipton, where, in the castle,
legend says Fair Rosamond lived; until--Haworth. There--before we came
to the steep, straight hill leading up to the bleak and huddled townlet
bitten out of the moor, my spirit rushed to the windows. The voices of
Charlotte Bronte and her sister Emily called it back, and it obeyed at a
word, though all the beauty of wooded hills and fleeting streams had
vanished, as if frightened by the cold, relentless winds of the high
moorland.
Rain had begun to fall. The sky was leaden, the sharp hill muddy;
everything seemed to combine in giving an effect of grimness, as the car
forged steadily up, up toward the poor home the Brontes loved.
Isn't it a beautiful miracle, the banishing of black darkness by the
clear light of genius? It was that light which had lured us away from
all the charms of nature to a region of ugliness, even of squalor. The
Brontes had lived there. They had pined for Haworth when away. Emily had
written about the "spot 'mid barren hills, where winter howls, and
driving rain." They had thought there, worked there, the wondrous
sisters; they had illuminated the mean place, and made it a lodestar for
the world.
When we reached the top of the hill (which was almost like reaching a
ceiling after climbing the side of a hideous brown-painted wall), I
forgot my own troubles in thinking of the Brontes' tragedy of poverty,
disappointment, and death.
We were in a poor street of a peculiarly depressing village, and could
not even see the moor that had given the Bronte girls inspiration,
though we knew it must stretch beyond. Even in bright sunshine there
could be no beauty in Haworth; but under that leaden sky, in the thick
mist of rain, the poor stone houses lining the way, the sordid,
unattractive shops were positively repellent. All that was not so dark a
gray as to look black was dull brown; and not a single window-pane had a
gleam of intelligence for the unwelcome strangers. I could imagine no
merriment in Haworth, nor any sound of laughter; yet the Brontes were
happy when they were children--at least, they thought they were; but it
would be too tragic if children didn't _think_ themselves happy.
There was the Black Bull Inn, where wretched Bramwell Bronte used to
carouse. Poor, weak vain-glorious fellow! I never pitied him till I saw
that gloomy stone box which meant "seeing life" to him. There was the
museum where the Bronte relics are kept--but we delayed going in that we
might see the old parsonage first, the shrine where the preserved relics
had once made "home." Oh, mother, the sadness of it, tucked away among
the crowding tombstones, all gray-brown together, among weeds and early
falling leaves! Here already it was autumn; and though I could fancy a
pale, frosty spring, and a white, ice-bound winter, my imagination could
conjure up no richness of summer.
The gravestones crowding the gray old house in the churchyard, pushing
it back toward the moor, were thick as an army on parade--a sad, starved
army, where dying soldiers lean on each other for support; and the
parsonage, shadowed by dripping trees, was plain and uncompromising as a
sermon that warns you not to love the world or you will spend eternity
in hell. But behind--just beyond the wall--billowed the moor, monotonous
yet majestic, the scene that called to Emily and Charlotte Bronte's
hearts, always, when they were far away.
My heart contracted as I thought of them there; and when we'd walked
back to the village street, and been admitted to the museum, I was on
the point of crying--not for myself, but with the choked grief one might
have on opening a box of old letters from a loved, dead friend. It is
the most intimate, touching little jumble of pathetic souvenirs you ever
saw in a museum; more like treasures guarded by near relations than a
collection for public eyes to see; but that makes the poignant charm of
it. I could have sobbed on a pink print frock with a cape, such as Jane
Eyre might have worn at Thornfield, and on bits of unfinished
needlework, simple lace collars, and water-colour sketches with which
Charlotte tried to brighten the walls of her austere home. There was the
poor dear's wedding shawl, and a little checked silk dress of which I'm
sure she was innocently proud; a few fantastic drawings of Bramwell's; a
letter or two from the sisters; and a picture of the Reverend Carus
Wilson, who was supposed to be Mr. Brocklehurst; just the rather
handsome, well-fed, self-satisfied man you would expect him to be.
I think, dear, that Haworth has done me good, and helped me to be brave.
Again and again I turned, when we'd left, to look back at the church
tower, and try to gather some of the Bronte courage before we slipped