Set in Silver Part 28

"I sometimes read newspapers," I explained.

"Schoolgirls have no business with newspapers. But hang Bengal! I want to come to an understanding with you. Is it true or is it not that you wanted to go with the Tyndals in their motor to-day?"

"I wanted to, if you wanted me to."

"I didn't. I hated the idea. But, of course, if you----"

"_I_ didn't. I hated the idea. But I thought your motor was too full for such hilly country."

(Dearest, I longed to tell him who had said that _he_ had said, etc., etc.; but I'd promised; and one must keep one's promises even to Cats.)

"My dear child," Sir Lionel burst out, "little girls shouldn't do too much independent thinking. It's bad for their health and their guardians' tempers. If my motor had been too full for hilly country, you wouldn't have been the Jonah to cast into the sea. Nick would have been fed to the whales. But the idea was ridiculous--ridiculous!"

I was so happy, I didn't even want to defend myself. I understood most of the mystery now. I suppose it's a compliment to a girl if a woman of the world wants to get rid of her. Anyhow, I consoled myself for hours of misery by laying that flattering unction to my soul.

If I had liked, I could have unravelled the whole tangle for Sir Lionel's still puzzled mind; but if I had done so, I should have been returning cat-claw for cat-claw; so I pretended to be "lost in it, my lord"; and, indeed, it was true that I couldn't understand why the Tyndals had failed me.

Sir Lionel explained that, just before reaching Bideford the silencer worked loose, and so got upon Mrs. Norton's nerves that Apollo was stopped in the pouring rain for Young Nick to right the wrong. As if to prove the truth of the proverb, "the more haste the less speed," in his hurry poor Buddha burnt his hand. While he was wringing it like a distracted goblin, along came the Tyndal car, which had left Tintagel about half an hour after Apollo. To Sir Lionel's amazement, no me!

Questions on his part; according to him, idiotic answers on the part of the Tyndals. _He_ had thought, of course, I was going with them. _They_ had thought that I'd changed my mind, and gone earlier with him.

Everybody confused, apologetic, repeating the same silly excuses over and over, three or four times. n.o.body showing the slightest sign of having a remnant of common sense.

"By Jove! I could have cheerfully executed the lot of them--all but the boy, who seemed to have some glimmerings of sanity," grumbled Sir Lionel. "He had wanted to run up and knock at your door, to make sure you really had gone; but somebody--he began to say who, when Mrs. Tyndal stepped on his foot--forbade him to do it."

I think I can guess who the somebody was, can't you? Though I don't see what arguments she can have used to persuade the really good-natured Tyndals to abandon me.

The rest of the story is, that when Sir Lionel found I had been left behind, he said he would at once turn back and fetch me. Judging from one or two things he let slip inadvertently, I fancy he wanted Emily to come with him, but she drew the line at chaperoning in wet weather, and missing her tea. She proposed telegraphing for me to come on by rail.

Sir Lionel wouldn't hear of my making such a journey unaccompanied--me, a simple little French schoolgirl who had never travelled alone in her life! Then Mrs. Senter, kind creature, volunteered to be his companion, if he must return; but Sir Lionel firmly refused the unselfish offer, saying he wouldn't for the world put her to so much unnecessary trouble.

Nick he would have brought, but the unfortunate brown image was suffering so much pain from his burnt hand, that the only humane thing to do was to drive him to a doctor's--which was exactly what Sir Lionel did. Rooms were already engaged at the Royal Hotel; he dumped out Emily, Mrs. Senter, and the luggage there; left Young Nick having his hand treated; and without so much as crossing the threshold of the hotel, turned Apollo's bright bonnet toward Tintagel and me. Rain was coming down in floods. He said nothing about that, but I knew. The storm drew down twilight like the lid of a box; the road was deep in mud; everything that could happen to delay the car did happen; once Sir Lionel had to mend a tire himself, and almost wished he hadn't made Young Nick disgorge the stolen tool; he ought to have arrived at Tintagel an hour before he did; but here he was at last. And would I have a sandwich, and then start, or would I prefer to wait for dinner?

I s.n.a.t.c.hed at the sandwich idea, and his eye brightened. He said he only _looked_ wet, for everything was waterproof, and he was "right as rain"--which sounded too appropriate to be comfortable.

We ate as the Israelites of old in Pa.s.sover days, figuratively with our staves in our hands; at least, I had a bag in mine, and Sir Lionel a road book, because he'd lost his way once in his haste, and didn't want to make further mistakes.

By the time we were ready to start, it was as if Merlin had woven an enchantment of invisibility, not only over the castle ruins, but over the whole landscape, which was blotted out behind a white avalanche of rain. The wind howled, mingling with the boom of the sea; and altogether it was such a bewitched, Walpurgis world that I tingled with excitement.

Sir Lionel wanted to put me inside the car, but I pleaded that I had been so lonely and sad all day, I must be close to someone now. This plea instantly broke down his determination, which had been very square-chinned and firm till I happened to think of that argument.

He knew my coat to be waterproof, because he chose it himself in London, and I tied on a perfectly sweet rain-hood, which I'd never needed before, because this was the only real storm we'd had. It is a crimson hood, and I knew I was nice in it, from the look of Sir Lionel's eyes.

This was my first night run in the car, and the first time since starting on the tour that I'd sat on the front seat by his side. Early as it was, it "made night," and Sir Lionel lit the great lamps.

Instantly it was as if a curtain of darkness unrolled on either side, leaving only the road clear and pale, spouting mud, and the rain in front like a silver veil floating across black velvet. I sat close to Sir Lionel. I can't tell you how good the sense of his nearness and protection was, and how glad I felt to know that he hadn't really wanted to send me away from him. I would have given up anything--no, _everything_ else in the world just then, for the sake of that knowledge--except, of course, your dear love. We didn't talk much, but he is one of those men to whom you don't need to talk. The silence was like that unerring kind of speech when you can't say the wrong thing if you try; and if Sir Lionel had said in the wind and darkness: "I have got to drive the car into the sea, and you and I must die together in five minutes," I should have answered: "Very well. With you I'm not afraid." And it would have been true.

The hills looked stupendous before we quite came to them; great bunchy black humps of night; but they seemed to kneel like docile elephants as we drew near, to let Apollo mount upon their backs. We pa.s.sed lovely old cottages, which in the strange white light of our Bleriots looked flat, as stage scenery, against that wide-stretched "back-cloth" of inky velvet. It was like motoring in a dream--one of those dreams born before you've quite dropped asleep, while your eyes are still open. We tore through Boscastle, and on to Bude, along an empty road, with the trees flying by like torn black flags, and the rain giving a glimpse now and then of tall cliffs, as its veil blew aside. I was never so happy in my life, and when I just couldn't help saying so to Sir Lionel, what do you suppose he answered? "That's exactly what I was thinking." And then he added: "Good girl! Grand little sportswoman! I'm proud of you!"

Presently, once in a while the dazzling radiance of our lamps would die down and threaten to fail. At last it did fail altogether, and we were blotted out in the night, as if we had suddenly ceased to exist.

"Carbide all used up," explained Sir Lionel. By this time we were near Hartland Point (the promontory of Hercules for the ancients) and Sir Lionel said that the best thing to do was to crawl on slowly until we should come to Clovelly. There we could leave the car at the top of the hill, go down to the village, rouse someone at a hotel, get hot coffee, and wait until dawn, when the lamps would no longer be needed.

We could distinguish nothing in the night, except a glimmer of road between dark banks, until suddenly, looking far down toward the moaning sea, we caught sight of a few lights like yellow stars which seemed to have been tossed over a precipice, and to have caught on a steep hillside, as they rolled. "That's Clovelly," said Sir Lionel. He stopped the car on a kind of natural plateau and lifted me lightly down, so that I shouldn't splash into unseen abysses of mud. Apollo would be safe there, he said, though in old days the folk of Clovelly used to be not only desperate smugglers, but wreckers, and would entice ships upon the rocks by means of lure-lights. They were very different now, and as honest and kind-hearted as any people in the world.

There was no dawn yet, but the wind had dropped a little, and the long crystal spears of rain seemed to bring with them an evanescent, ethereal glitter, reflected from unseen stars above the clouds. The trembling silver haze dimly showed us how to pick our way down a steep, narrow street of steps, over which fountains of water played and swirled. There were lights of boats in a little harbour, far, far below, and the extraordinary village of tiny white houses appeared to have tumbled down hill, like a broken string of pearls fallen from a G.o.ddess's neck.

Sir Lionel held my arm to keep me from tripping, and we descended the steps slowly, the rain that sprayed against our faces smelling salt as the sea, its briny "tang" mingling with the fragrance of honeysuckle and fuchsias. The combination, distilled by the night, was intoxicating; and if I ever smell it again, even at the other end of the world, my thoughts will run back to Sir Lionel and the fairy village of Clovelly.

Half-way down the cleft in the cliff, which is Clovelly's one street, we stopped at a house where a faint light burned sleepily. It was the New Inn, and when Sir Lionel knocked loudly, I was doubtful as to the reception we were likely to have at such an hour. But I needn't have worried--in Devon! Even if you wake people out of pleasant dreams to disagreeable realities, and demand coffee, and trail wet marks over their clean floors, they are kind and friendly. A delightful man let us in, and instead of scolding, pitied us--a great deal more than I, at any rate, needed to be pitied. He lit lights, and we saw a quaint room, whose shadows threw out unexpected gleams of polished bra.s.s, and blues and pinks of old china.

Though the calendar said August 13th, the temperature talked it down, and insisted on November, so an invitation into a clean, warm kitchen was acceptable. The nice man poked up the dying fire, put on wood and coals, and soon got a kettle of water to boiling. We should have some good hot coffee, he cheerily promised, before we could say "Jack Robinson." But when it leaked out that we had had no dinner except a sandwich at Tintagel, and nothing since, his warm Devonshire heart yearned over us; and to the hot coffee he added eggs and bacon.

While the dear things fizzled and bubbled, we were allowed to sit by the stove and toast our feet; and if anything could have smelled more heavenly than the salt rain and sweet honeysuckle out of doors, it would have been the eggs and bacon in the New Inn kitchen.

We begged to eat in the kitchen, too, and even that was permitted us, at a table spread with a clean cloth which must have been put away in a lavender cupboard. By the time the coffee, with foaming hot milk, and the sizzling eggs and bacon were ready, the early daylight was blue on the window panes. The rain had stopped with the first hint of sunrise, and in Clovelly at least (Clovelly means "shut in valley," a name not worthy of its elfin charm) the wind had gone to sleep.

I don't know how much Sir Lionel suggested paying for that breakfast, but it must have been something out of the way, for our Devonshire benefactor protested that it was far too much. He would accept the regular price, and no more. Why, we had only got him up an hour before his usual time. That was nothing. It would do him good; and he would have no extra pay.

Warm, comfortable, and refreshed, Sir Lionel and I bade our host good-bye, meaning to continue our journey to Bideford; but what we saw outside was too beautiful to turn our backs upon in that unappreciative, summary fashion. It was not sunrise yet, but was just going to be sunrise, and the world seemed to be waiting for it, hushed and expectant.

The white village glimmered in the pearly light, like a waterfall arrested in its rush down a cleft in a hill. Not having seen Clovelly, you may think that a far-fetched simile; but really it isn't. If a young cataract could be turned into a village, that would be Clovelly. The marvellous little place is absolutely unique; yet if one could liken it to anything else on earth, it might be to a corner of Mont St. Michel, or a bit of old Bellagio, going down to the sea; and certainly it is more Italian than English in atmosphere and colouring, only it is perfectly clean, as clean as a toy, or a Dutch village; so _that_ part of the "atmosphere" isn't entirely Italian! I even saw waste-paper pots; and if that isn't like Broek in Waterland, what is? Down in the harbour, the fishing boats lay like a flock of resting birds; and as we descended the cobbled steps of the street, to go to the sh.o.r.e, the early morning donkeys began to come up, laden with heavy bags and panniers, just as you and I saw them in Italy, and driven by just such boys and old men as I remember there, dark-eyed, picturesque, one or two with red caps. The doors of the little low-browed houses huddled on either side opened here and there, up and down the path, giving glimpses of pretty, neat interiors; bits of old furniture, the glint of a copper kettle, a bra.s.s jug, or a bit of mended blue china. A gossipy Devonshire cat came out and begged for caresses, mewing the news of the night--such a chatty creature!--and down on the beach, we made friends with the oldest man of the village, born in 1816. He was a handsome old fellow, with pathetic, faded eyes in a tanned, ruddy face; and the queer little harbour (everything is little at Clovelly, except the inhabitants) with its rustic sort of pier, and red-sailed fishing boats, looked as if it had been designed entirely as a background for him. However, it's much more antique even than he--six hundred years old, instead of something short of a hundred, and made by the famous Carey family. We stopped there talking to the ancient sailor-man, hearing how the Clovelly fishermen go out with black nets by day in good weather, and at night with white ones, to "attract the fish." "That is trew, Miss," said he, when I laughed, thinking it a joke. I love the Devonshire way of saying "true,"

and other words that rhyme. Their soft voices are as gentle, as kindly, as the murmur of their own blue sea.

As we mounted the ladder-like path to the top of Clovelly, to go back to Apollo again, the sun came up out of the sea, where the blue line of water marked the edge of the world, and spilt floods of gold over it, like a tilted christening cup. We turned and stood still to watch the day born of dawn; and I feel sure that if we had come to Clovelly to spend several weeks, I could never have learned to know the place as I had divined it, in this adventure. You seem to learn more about a flower by inhaling its perfume after rain, don't you think, than by dissecting it, petal by petal? I fancy there is something like that in getting the feeling and impression of places at their best, by sudden revelations.

Of course, I want to go back to Clovelly, but not with any of the Mrs.

Nortons of the world. I couldn't bear to do that, after being alone there with Sir Lionel. While one's heart is thrilled by exquisite sights, and the ineffable thoughts born of them, one knows poor Emily is wondering whether the servants are looking after things properly at home; and that very knowledge is apt to slam down an iron shutter in one's soul.

It must have been about five o'clock when we took our places in the car again. We had only eleven miles' run to Bideford, and I wished them twice eleven, for surely they are among the most beautiful miles in England. No wonder people believe in fairies in this part of the world!

It would be ungrateful if they didn't. As the sun climbed, the brown wood roads were inlaid with gold in wavy patterns. From our heights, now and again we caught glimpses of Clovelly, down its deep ravines. The Hobby Drive, which belongs to Clovelly Court, is almost more exquisite than Buckland Chase, on the way to Dartmoor; if you had been there with me, you would know I couldn't give it higher praise. And how I wish you _had_ been! How I wish you could see these English woods! They have such an air of dainty gaiety, very different from Austrian or German or French forests; and though their elms and oaks and beeches are often giants, they seem dedicated to the spirit of youth. Their shadows are never black, but only a darker green, or translucent gray; and part of their charm is a nymph-like frivolousness which comes, I think, from their ruffly green _dessous_. Other woods have no _dessous_. Their ankles are mournfully bare, and their stockings dark.

In the woods of the Hobby Drive, the bracken was like elfin plumes; each stone, wrapped in moss, was a lump of silver coated with verdigris; distant cliffs seen between the trees were cut out of gray-green jade, against a sea of changing opal; and in the high minstrel-galleries of the latticed beeches a concert of birds was fluting.

Isn't Gallantry Bower a fine name? At first thought it would appear an inappropriate one, for it's a sheer cliff overlooking the sea on one side and a vast sweep of woodland on the other; but I can make it seem appropriate, by picturing some wild brave sailor making love to his sweetheart there, and telling her about the sea, her only rival in his love. No doubt it's a corruption of some old Cornish name, and I refuse to accept it as a Lover's Leap, though such a legend has grown up around it. I'm tired of Lover's Leaps.

The whole coast, as we swept round, was a vast golden sickle in the early morning light; and everything was so beautiful that the door of my heart swung wide open. No arm would have been strong enough to push it shut, not even Mrs. Senter's. Instead of feeling angry with her, as we drew near Bideford, I was grateful for the adventure she had (indirectly) given me.

The servants of the Royal Hotel were just waking up, but, of course, being Devonshire people, instead of being cross they were delightfully good-natured and smiling. I was shown to a pleasant room, and provided with a hot bath which (with nearly a whole bottle of eau de Cologne extravagantly emptied into it) made me feel as if I had had a refreshing eight hours' sleep. Already it seemed as if the night's experience had been a dream, dreamed in that sleep. But I was glad, glad it was real, and not a dream; something I had lived through, by Sir Lionel's side; a clear memory to remain like a happy island in the sea of life whatever the future weather.

I dressed slowly, not wanting even "forty winks"; and about eight o'clock Emily knocked at my door. She had been worried, she said, and not able to sleep, fearing accidents, waking now and then, to listen for the sound of a car. Poor dear, she wouldn't know Apollo's n.o.ble voice from the threepenny thrum of a motor bicycle! But she was kind and solicitous, though I think a little shocked to find my vitality in such a state of effervescence. She would have approved of me if I had been a draggled wreck; but even as it was, she felt it worth while to explain why she hadn't accompanied her brother. She would have proposed doing so, she a.s.sured me, but her neuralgia had been very trying yesterday, owing to the bad weather and east wind. She feared to be more trouble than a.s.sistance to Sir Lionel, and as he was my guardian, I was sufficiently chaperoned by him; any expert in etiquette would confirm her in that opinion, she anxiously added. Nevertheless, when I told her about our stop at Clovelly, she shook her head, and intimated that perhaps it had better not be referred to in public. I suppose by "in public," she meant before the Tyndals and Mrs. Senter.

At nine I had the pleasure of meeting the fair Gwendolen again, in one of the most remarkable rooms you can imagine. Sir Lionel had engaged it in advance, to be our private sitting-room, but it is as celebrated as it is interesting. Only think, Charles Kingsley wrote "Westward Ho!" in it, and it is such a quaint and beautiful room, it must have given him inspiration. You see, the hotel used to be the house of a merchant prince who was a great importer of tobacco in Queen Elizabeth's days; so it isn't strange that it should have many fine rooms; but the one where Kingsley wrote is the best. It's sad that the oak panelling should be ruined with paint and varnish; but nothing short of an earthquake could spoil the ceiling, which is the famous feature. The merchant prince hired two Italians to come to England and make the wonderful mouldings by hand. That was long before the days of cement, so the fantastic shapes had to be fastened to each other and the ceiling with copper wire. When the skilled workmen had finished their fruits and flowers and leaves, and all the weird fancies which signified the evolution of Man, the canny merchant prince promptly packed the Italians back again to their native land, lest other merchant princes should employ them to repeat the marvellous ceiling for their houses! By this thoughtful act, he secured for himself the one and only specimen of the kind; and to this day n.o.body has ever been able to copy it, though the attempt has often been made. The marvellous part is the startlingly high relief of the mouldings, and the quaintness of the evolutionary ideas, all those centuries before Darwin.

It was rather disappointing to find out that the beautiful ceiling had nothing to do with Charles Kingsley's wish to use the room as a study.

It was in the time of the present landlord's grandfather, who owned a quant.i.ty of rare old books, records of Bideford's past, and Mr. Kingsley wanted to refer to them. But their owner valued them too much to lend, even to such a man as Charles Kingsley. "You must come and write in the room," said he. So Kingsley came and wrote in the room, and liked it and the books so much that he gave a glowing account of both to Froude, who presently arrived and used the remarkable room for _his_ study, too.

The books are there still, carefully put away; and a portrait of the good Mayor of Westward Ho! (the novel, not its namesake town) which was found in the cellar with Vandyck's name faintly traced on it, hangs opposite the fireplace. The great treasure of the room, though, after the ceiling, is a letter from Kingsley, framed, protected with gla.s.s, and lying on a table.

Mrs. Senter looked almost green, when she beheld me, the picture of health and joy, and saw on what good terms I was with Sir Lionel. I am certain, dear, that she wants to marry him, and I can't think she's capable of appreciating such a man, so it must be for his money. A "sportin', huntin', don't-you-know--what?" sort of fellow would please her better, if all else were suitable, because she could turn him round her finger; and that neither she nor anybody else can ever do with Sir Lionel--though he is pathetically chivalrous where women are concerned, and still more pathetically credulous.

I remember so well your reading "Westward Ho!" aloud to me when I was about ten, and had been ill. I a.s.sociate it with the joy of getting well. It made me feel proud of my Devonshire ancestors, even then, and it makes me more proud now, for I've been reading the book for the second time, in Kingsley-land. It's like the Bible almost, in Bideford.

I should pity the person who dared pick a flaw in the story, in the hearing of a Bideford man, woman, or child. Why, I believe even a Bideford dog would understand the insult, and snap!

It's a great, and rather original compliment to name a town in honour of a book; but "Westward Ho!" the novel, is worthy of a finer namesake. Of course, Rudyard Kipling having been to school in Westward Ho! makes the place more interesting than it ever could have been of itself, in spite of its glorious neighbour, the sea. But Bideford is a delightful place.