Set in Silver Part 27

That will be delightful for you; and as Sir Lionel is old-fashioned in some of his notions, he may be more inclined to consent to an engagement between you after the sort of journey you and she will have together.

So I think all interests will have been served.

I am writing in the big hall of the hotel, and Sir Lionel is walking up and down, glaring first out of one window, and then out of another, at the rain, which is beginning to come down in drops as large as half-crowns. I only wish _my_ half crowns, or even my shillings, were as plentiful! But perhaps they will be, some day before long--who knows? I do hope Ellaline won't take it into her head to appear at the last minute before we get off, and complicate things. Not that I won't be equal to disposing of her if she does! But no! here is Young Nick, very meek and soapy. He has got his petrol. Emily Norton reluctantly puts down a twenty-year-old volume of Blackwood which she has found in the hotel library. We are off. Good-bye--and good luck.

Gwen.

XXIII

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

_Tintagel_, _August 13th_

Dearest Lodestar: I can feel you drawing me across miles of land and sea, and if only I could travel on a telepathic pa.s.s I would start this minute, Ellaline or no Ellaline. Toward her and Sir Lionel I feel as Mercutio felt toward the Montagus and Capulets: "A plague on both your houses!" n.o.body seems to care what becomes of me. Why should I care what becomes of them?

Everything is too horrid and too extraordinary to-day. I got into the wrong side of bed last night, and got out again on the wrong side this morning. It happened to be the only side there was, as the bed stands against the wall in an alcove, where it can't be pulled out; and n.o.body could expect me to bound like a kangaroo over the foot, could they? But there are times in life when every side of everything is wrong; and this is one of those times with me--has been since dinner last night, when Sir Lionel grinned with joy at the prospect of shunting me upon the Tyndal family for a day. (When you are friends with people they smile; when you are out with them, they grin.)

Well, this morning I thought I wouldn't hurry to get down. I felt, if Mrs. Senter beamed at me from under her becoming motor-hat at starting, I should do her a mischief, and if Emily smirked inoffensively I should throw Murray in her face. As for Sir Lionel--words fail to express what I believed myself capable of doing to him. I could have stolen his car, in which he appeared to grudge me a seat, and have gone off with it into s.p.a.ce to be a motor pirate. Whence can I have inherited these vicious tendencies? Truly, I never supposed I had them before; but you don't know yourself until people have practically accused you of taking up too much room in their old automobiles, although you're perfectly aware that you are less than eighteen inches wide at your broadest part in your thickest frock, and you thought they liked your society and kept your gloves. In that mood I wouldn't have condescended to see Apollo off if he'd been twice a G.o.d, armed with an invitation for me from Juno to a house-party on Olympus.

No sooner, however, did I hear his dear familiar purr as he swept away from the door of the hotel (my balcony is a corner one, and I could just catch the well-known c-r-r-r) when I regretted intensely that I hadn't been _en evidence_, looking indifferent. Suddenly, I suffered pangs of apprehension lest my stopping in my room had seemed like (what it really was) a fit of the sulks; but it was past repentance-time. Apollo was gone, Mrs. Senter doubtless sitting by Sir Lionel's side as usual, and probably commenting wittily on my silly conduct.

The Tyndals told me last night that they meant to start at ten, so I went downstairs five minutes before, too late to have to wait about, too early to be called. I expected to find them in the hall, and when they weren't there, I strolled out to see if the motor had come to the door, thinking they might be watching the loading up of their luggage. As for mine, Apollo had taken it as usual, except a pretty little fitted handbag, small and wonderfully convenient, which Sir Lionel came across in a shop and bought for me (I mean for Ellaline) at Torquay. But there wasn't a Tyndal in sight, and not so much as the smell of a motor-car, so I wandered inside and asked the handsome landlady, whom I met near King Arthur's Round Table, whether she had seen the Tyndal automobile or its owners.

"Why," said she, "they went off about ten minutes ago."

"Went off--where?" I asked blankly.

"To Bideford, I think they were going," she replied.

"That can't be, for I was to have gone with them," said I.

"Indeed?" exclaimed the landlady, polite but puzzled. "I didn't know. I thought you had gone with your own party. I was surprised to meet you here just now. I'm afraid there must have been some misunderstanding, for certainly Mr. and Mrs. Tyndal and their young cousin have really gone, because they bade me good-bye here in the hall, and said they hoped to come back some day."

She looked at me pityingly, and I felt exactly like Robinson Crusoe before he knew there was going to be a Friday; but, like him, I kept a stiff upper lip. I am happy to say I even laughed. "Well, that's very funny," said I, as if being pigeon-holed by Sir Lionel and marooned by the Tyndals was the most amusing experience in the world, and I simply delighted in it. "Of course, somebody or other will count noses and miss me after a while. Then they'll have to come back and fetch me, I suppose."

"You could go on to Bideford by rail, if you liked," the landlady informed me gratuitously. "There is a train early this afternoon, and----"

"Oh, I think I'd better wait here," I said. "If they came back and found me gone, it would be too complicated."

She agreed; but she little guessed how much more complicated it would be to take a train for anywhere without any pennies. If I had money, I would go to _you_, and not to Bideford. At least, that is the way I feel now; but I suppose I wouldn't, for my obligations to Ellaline haven't snapped with the strain of the situation, although just at this moment they don't seem to matter. It's only deep down in my heart that I know they do matter.

There is my sc.r.a.pe, dearest of women, and mamma whom I would select if I were able to choose among all eligible mothers since Eve, up to date.

The situation hasn't changed in the least, to the time of writing, except that it has lasted longer, and got frayed round the edges.

I was paid for, including food and lodging, until after breakfast. It is now half-past five o'clock P.M., pouring with rain, howling with wind, and not only has n.o.body come back to collect me, but n.o.body has telephoned or telegraphed. I have eaten, or pretended to eat, a luncheon, for which I have no money to pay. I refused tea, but was so kindly urged that I had to reconsider; and the b.u.t.tered toast of servitude is at this moment sticking in my throat, lodged on the sharp edge of an unuttered sob. Your poor, forlorn little daughter! What is to become of her? Will she have to go to the place of unclaimed parcels? Or will she be sold as bankrupt stock? Or will she become a kitchen-maid or "tweeny" in King Arthur's Castle? But don't worry, darling. I won't be such a beast as to post this letter till something is settled, somehow, even if I have to rob the hotel till.

There is nothing to do except write, for I can't compose my mind to read; so I will continue recording my emotions, as French criminals do when condemned to death, or lovesick ladies when they have swallowed slow poison.

5.50.--Rain worse. Wind yelling imprecations. I sit in the hall, as I can't call my room my own. New people are arriving. They look Cook-ey, but are probably Countesses. I gaze at them haughtily, and try to appear prosperous. I hope they think my mother, the d.u.c.h.ess, is taking a nap in our magnificent suite upstairs, while I write a letter to my G.o.dfather, the Prince, to thank him for his birthday gift of a rope of pearls which reaches to my knees.

6.15.--The landlady has just been sympathizing with me. She says there is a night train to Bideford. I have poured cold water upon the night train to Bideford, and came near pouring some hot tears on the timetable she kindly brought me.

6.25.--People are going up to dress for dinner. They are G.o.d's creatures, but I do not love them.

6.40.--The head-waiter has just fluttered up to ask if I would like a smaller table for dinner. No table would be too small for my appet.i.te. I said----

7.10.--Darling, Sir Lionel has come back for me, alone, dripping wet, and it was all a mistake, and he did want me, and he's furious with everybody in the world except me, to whom he is perfectly adorable. And I'm afraid I adore him. And we're starting at once, when we've had a sandwich and coffee--can't wait for dinner. Everything is _too_ nice.

I'll explain as soon as I've time to write.

Your Radiant Transformation Scene,

A. B.

XXIV

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

_The Luttrell Arms, Dunster_, _Aug. 18th_

Duck of the Universe: Five days since I wrote, and it seems five minutes. But I did telegraph--with my last shilling; and even that would be rightfully Ellaline's, if the labourer weren't worthy of his hire.

You see, after the letter I had from her in Torquay, when she wanted money to go to Scotland with her new friends, the McNamaras, I very reluctantly screwed my courage to the asking point, and got more out of Sir Lionel. If he weren't the most generous man in the world he would have privately dubbed me "Oliver Twist" by this time. Perhaps he has!

But I trust not. Anyhow, I shall get on without more requests, I hope, until the next "allowance" day comes round; or until every pin is lost and every hairpin has dropped out.

Because in the telegram I was forced to be economical, and ran only to "All well. Love" ("much" scratched out as an extravagance), I must now go back to the moment of Sir Lionel's unexpected, almost miraculous, appearance at Tintagel.

There I was in the hall, scribbling dolefully about my symptoms. "Teuf, teuf, teuf!" heard outside, between screeches of wind. In bounces Sir Lionel, wet as a merman, dripping rivulets at every step, splashing, swashing in his boots, drops dripping from his eyelashes; glares around, looking ready to bite someone's head off without salt or sauce; sees me; brightens with a watery gleam; comes toward me, rather shy and stiff, yet evidently under the influence of--emotion of some sort. I didn't know whether to expect a scolding or a blessing, so waited speechless.

"What a brute you must think me," was his first remark. I drank it as a thirsty traveller lost on the Sahara would bolt a pint of dew.

"I didn't know what to think," I replied conservatively. "But you are wet, aren't you?"

"Am I?" he asked, mildly surprised. "I hadn't noticed. I suppose I am.

It's raining."

"I should think it was," said I. And then we both laughed. It is the nicest thing, to laugh with Sir Lionel! Whatever he might have done against me, I forgave him all instantly.

"Never mind whether I'm wet or dry," he went on. "Whichever I am, it won't hurt me. The only thing that has hurt was thinking of you being here--abandoned. By Jove!--I've been in a murderous mood!"

"A good thing you weren't back in Bengal," said I, mildly.

He looked at me with a sharp look. "Who has been telling you tales about me in Bengal?"