Set in Silver Part 29

Dad used to say that no men in the world could beat the men of Devon for courage; and that Bideford men were amongst the bravest of all, as you and I would have known from "Westward Ho!" even if we'd never read history. It looks an old-world town, almost unspoiled, even now, with its far-famed bridge on twenty-four arches, its steeply sloping streets, its quay, and its quaint pink and green houses by the river. In the Old Ship Tavern "The Brotherhood of the Rose" was founded (you remember), and Sir Richard Grenville--dear Sir Richard!--had his house where the Castle Inn stands now. I took a long walk with Sir Lionel and (I am sorry to say) Mrs. Senter, on the Quay along the riverside; and there are some guns there, which they say were lost from the Spanish Armada.

While we were walking, who should join us but d.i.c.k Burden, back from Scotland! It appears that he arrived at Tintagel last night, only a little while after Sir Lionel and I had left in the car. He expected to be earlier, but he took cross-country trains which looked promising on time-tables, and missed connection. I can't be thankful enough he didn't arrive before we started, instead of after, for, of course, Sir Lionel would have had to ask him to come with us, and that would have spoiled everything. There would have been no beautiful "memory island" in my sea! Do you know, I had almost forgotten d.i.c.k for two or three days? He seemed to have gone out of my life, as if he had never been in, and it was quite a mental shock to meet him on the quay at Bideford. He didn't seem to be in the picture at all, whereas Sir Lionel is always in it, whatever or whenever it may be.

We (Sir Lionel and I) asked politely for his mother's health, and he answered, apparently without thinking, "Mother?--oh, she's all right."

Then he evidently remembered that he'd been sent for because she was ill, and had the grace to look ashamed of his hard-heartedness. He explained that when he arrived, he found her already better, though nervous, and that she was "practically cured." But I saw him and his aunt exchange a look. I wonder if it meant that the mother has any weird sort of disease--contagious, perhaps? I do hope it isn't anything I haven't had. It would be so awkward to come down with it now; though the sight of d.i.c.k with mumps, for instance, would repay me for a good deal.

Mrs. Senter's room at Bideford adjoined mine, with a (locked) door between; and that night, for half an hour after I'd gone to bed I heard a murmur of voices, hers and d.i.c.k's. They seemed to be tremendously in earnest about something. Luckily, I couldn't hear a word they said; otherwise I should have had the bother of stopping my ears; but I couldn't help knowing that there was a heated argument, Aunt Gwen protesting, Nephew d.i.c.k insisting; and, after stress and storm, a final understanding arrived at which apparently satisfied both.

Such a splendid road it was, going out of Bideford, with views of sea and river, the distant sh.o.r.e levels indigo, and a fiery golden light, like spilt sherry, on the livid green of the salt-paled gra.s.s. The sails of fishing boats from Instow rose from dark, ruffled waters, white as lily petals; and out of heavy purple clouds, poured streams of flaming light, as if bags loaded with gold dust had burst with their own weight.

Long sand flats gleamed red as coral with some low-growing sea plant; and the backs of wind-blown leaves on bush and hedge were all dull silver, under the shadows of racing clouds, that tore at thousand horse-power speed over golden meadows. It was an extraordinary, but thoroughly English effect; and isn't it sad, the grazing cows and sheep we pa.s.sed never once looked up or cared!

But the people--the charming peasants of Devon--cared. They looked up, and smiled at their sky, as if it gave them good thoughts; and everyone on foot or in wagon was so polite to us, flashing such kind looks from beautiful eyes, that we had the sensation of tasting honey. It kept us busy, returning the bows of the handsome, courteous people, and, altogether, it was like a royal progress. Poor Apollo isn't used to such treatment, out of Devonshire and Cornwall, I can tell you! He always does his best to be considerate, yet he is often misunderstood, being nothing but a motor-car, whom n.o.body loves! It was a joy to see merry Devonshire children flinging themselves into our dust, as if it were perfumed spray, and playing that they, too, were motor-cars. Such a nice change after some counties where we had behaved beautifully without any appreciation, to feel that for once we gave pleasure to some one, as we pa.s.sed in and out of their obscure little lives!

The wind was laden with the scent of honeysuckle, and the sweet, yellow hay, which blew out of high-piled carts to twine like gold webbing on flowery hedges and on the crimson hollyhocks that rose like straight, tall flames against whitewashed walls.

Even the droves of sheep we met were more polite than non-Devonshire sheep, for instead of blocking our way obstinately, keeping just in front so that we could pa.s.s on neither side, they thoughtfully charged into village inns and cottage gardens. But, of course, you can't expect pink sheep to act like ordinary mutton-hood. These Devonshire creatures look exactly like a lot of pink wool mats blowing away. Probably they are "pixie led," for Devonshire simply swarms with pixies. If you are a human being, and happen to put your stockings on wrong side out, they get power over you at once. But I don't know what the trick is, if you are a sheep.

We ran above a great ravine at Barnstaple, and the scene was so fine, that I gave mental thanks to the glaciers which, in the ice age, had so tastefully scooped out all this down-country into graceful curves and majestic cliffs. After leaving the sea behind us we were ringed in, swallowed up among lovely, gracious hills, which hid the world from us--us from the world. For miles upon miles, a snake-like road writhed smoothly down the sides of these hills, until at last, after a wildly exhilarating run we found ourselves in a peaceful green valley. The Hobby Drive was no more beautiful, and not half so exciting; but by now we were coming to the Switzerland of England. As we sped on, great downs rolled up behind us, and towered above our heads like the crests of huge green waves at breaking point. Even the sky suited itself to the country here, forming bigger, more tumbled clouds than elsewhere; and to my surprise I saw American goldenrod, such as I used to gather as a child, growing, quite at home, among yellow ox-eyed daisies.

There was a tremendous hill, wriggling down with wicked twists to Lynton, and in the middle we met a car that had torn off all its tires.

Sir Lionel asked if we could do anything, but the chauffeur was so disgusted with life that, though he snapped out "No, thank you," his eyes said "d.a.m.n!"

At Lynton we stopped at a hotel like an exaggerated, glorified cottage, with a thatched roof and a veranda running all round. It stands in a big, perfumed garden, and from the windows and that quaint stone-paved veranda you can look over the sea to the Welsh coast, whence, at evening, two blazing eyes of light watch you across the blue water.

Sir Lionel had meant to stay only one night at the Cottage Hotel, but Lynton was beautiful, with a siren beauty, that would not let us go.

Even his resolution wasn't proof against its witchery. So we stopped two whole days, going "downstairs" (as I called it) to Lynmouth, to see the old Sh.e.l.ley Cottage and lots of other things. But oh, what a road from Lynton! If a young fly, when its mother takes it for its first walk down a wall, feels as I did, crawling to Lynmouth, both brakes on, I pity it.

I wasn't exactly frightened, for I never could be, quite, with Sir Lionel driving, but I was p.r.i.c.kly with awe. It was a good thing Emily didn't go with us. I believe her poor little pin-cushion heart would have burst in sheer fright, and all the sawdust would have trickled out.

I laughed hysterically, when I saw a motor garage at the bottom. It ought to be a motor hospital, for few cars can get down unscathed, I should think. Afterward, when we were safely up again, Sir Lionel said that, if he had known what it was really like he wouldn't have taken Mrs. Senter and me in the car, but would have had us go in Sir George Newnes's lift. Not that he didn't trust Apollo, but he confessed to being uncomfortable for us. I will say that Mrs. Senter behaved well, however, and never emitted one squeak, though her complexion looked when we arrived at Lynmouth as if she had been on a tossing ship for weeks.

Up at Lynton, the great thing to do, is to walk along the edge of the sea cliff to the Valley of Rocks (a kind of nature museum for statues and busts of t.i.tans), locked in between Castle Rock and the Devil's Cheesewring. It is a startlingly magnificent walk, but when you are actually in the Valley of Rocks, it isn't quite so wonderful as when seen from a distance; the arena itself is rather like the backyard of the G.o.ds, where they threw their broken mead-cups. I had a queer feeling of having been there before, which I couldn't understand for a minute, until a scene in "Lorna Doone" flashed back to me. And a young maid in the hotel firmly believes that many of the fantastic shapes of rock were once people who (according to an old story), were turned into stone for behaving irreligiously on Sundays.

Yesterday morning we said good-bye to Lynton, and Sir Lionel, d.i.c.k, Mrs.

Senter, and I walked to Watersmeet, Emily going along the upper road in the car with Young Nick, whose hand was well enough to drive. I don't know whether Dad ever talked to you about Watersmeet; but I'm surprised if he didn't, because not only is it one of the very most beautiful beauty spots of Devon, but not far beyond, on the way to Exmoor, is Brendon, our name place.

You can guess without my telling, why Watersmeet is called Watersmeet: and it is the most musical meeting you can imagine; rocks on one side, a wooded hill on the other, and down below, the singing river. We walked along an exquisite low-lying path from Watersmeet, and all about I saw the name of Brendon: Brendon village; Brendon forge, and other Brendons.

I was so excited that I forgot the Lethbridge episode, and was on the point of exclaiming to Sir Lionel "How interesting to come on father's ancestral home!" I wonder what would have happened if I had? I should have had to try and blunder out of the sc.r.a.pe somehow, with d.i.c.k's eyes on me, sparkling with mischief, and Mrs. Senter critical.

I forgot to tell you that the Tyndals left us at Bideford, having no excuse to cling, even if they wanted to, because they had "done" Exmoor already; but since the evening when Mrs. Tyndal tried to pump me about Venice, dear Gwendolen has been restless and suspicious. She can't suspect the truth, of course, unless d.i.c.k has told her, which I'm sure he hasn't (for his own sake), but she suspects something. She has a common enough mind to spring to some horrid conclusion, such as my having been secretly in Venice with objectionable people. Perhaps she thinks me privately married! I'm sure she'd be delighted if that were the truth, because then d.i.c.k and Sir Lionel would both be safe.

As we walked, d.i.c.k kept trying to get me far enough away from the others to tell me some news, which he hurriedly whispered was important. But even if I'd wanted to give him a chance, which I didn't, fate would have denied it to him.

At Rockford Inn we took to the motor again, finding Emily limp after what she considered appalling hills; but I'm sure they were nothing to the Lynton-Lynmouth one, as this time Apollo himself had been sent down in the big lift.

Now we were coming to Doone-land; and I was all eagerness to see it, because of "Lorna Doone," and because of things I'd heard from Sir Lionel, as we walked side by side for a few minutes after Watersmeet. I had supposed that if there were any foundation for the Doone story, it was as slight as the "fabric of a dream"; but he told me of a pamphlet he had read, "A Short History of the Original Doones," by a Miss Ida or Audrie Browne, only about eight or nine years ago. She said it was extraordinary how well the author of "Lorna" had known all the traditions of her family--for she was one of the Doones; and that there really was a Sir Ensor, a wild rebellious son of an Earl of Moray, who travelled with his wife to Exmoor, and settled there, in a rage because the king would give him no redress against his elder brother.

"How does she spell her name of Audrie?" I asked, trying to look more good and innocent than Eve could possibly have been even in pre-serpentine days.

"A-u-d-r-i-e," he answered, and I trusted that d.i.c.k was too far behind to hear what we were saying. "That was the favourite name for girls in the Doone family," Sir Lionel went on. "Miss Browne thinks Sir Ensor and his wife must have crossed the Quantocks coming here, and have taken a fancy to the name of West Quantoxhead's patron saint, Audrie, also spelled that way."

"It's rather a pretty name," I ventured, feeling pink.

"One of the prettiest in the world," said Sir Lionel. I was pleased--though I ought to have been bowed down with the burden of borrowed guilt.

There was a bad motor road from Oare to the gateway of the moor, but Apollo didn't mind, though I think he was glad to stop outside Malmsmead Farm, where we had lunch. I suppose you can't expect such modern creatures as motors and chauffeurs, especially Bengali ones, to appreciate farmhouses seven hundred years old! I loved the place, though, and so did Sir Lionel. Nothing ever tasted better than the rosy ham, the crisp cottage bread, the thick cream, and wild honey the farm people gave us. And the honey smelt like the moor, which has just as individual and haunting a fragrance as Dartmoor, though different.

After lunch I wanted to see the Doone Valley, and the ruins of the Doone houses (which, by the way, my namesake Miss Browne says were not the Doone houses, but only the huts where the brigand-band used to keep stolen cattle), so Sir Lionel said I must have a pony. I wasn't tired, though he thought I ought to be, after our walk; but the idea of riding a rough Exmoor pony was great fun, and I didn't object. Sir Lionel asked Mrs. Senter (who had been making fun of the Doone story at lunch) rather coolly if she would care to go, too; and to his evident surprise, though not at all to mine, she instantly said she would.

They have several ponies at the farm, and Sir Lionel hired two, he and d.i.c.k meaning to walk, and Emily intending to stop in the farm sitting room nodding over the visitors' book, full of interesting names, no doubt.

No sooner had our dear, roughly fringed little beasts been saddled, and we swung on to their backs, than there arose a great hue and cry in the farmyard. The stag hunt was pa.s.sing!

Such an excitement you never saw. n.o.body would have thought the same thing had happened many times a year, for generations. The big, good-natured farmer raced about, waving his arms, and adjuring us to "Coom on!" The postman darted by on his bicycle, forgetful of letters, thinking only of the stag; pretty girls from the neighbouring Badgeworthy Farm, and Lorna Doone Farm tore up a hill, laughing and screaming. "They'm found! They'm found!" yelled the farm hands.

Everybody shouted. Everybody ran, or at least danced up and down; and wilder than all was the joy of our Exmoor ponies, Mrs. Senter's and mine.

They didn't intend to let the hunt go by without them, the stanch little sporting beasts! We hadn't the least idea what they meant to do, or perhaps--just perhaps!--we might have stopped them; but before Mrs.

Senter and I knew what was happening to us, off we dashed on pony-back after the hunt.

I laughed so much I could hardly keep my seat, but I did somehow, though not very gracefully, and in about five minutes Sir Lionel's long legs had enabled him to catch my little monster, which he grabbed by the reins and stopped, before we'd got mixed up with the staghounds. d.i.c.k was slower about rescuing his aunt, because his legs are shorter than Sir Lionel's; and her pony had not the pleasant disposition of mine.

d.i.c.k vowed afterward that it spit at him.

After reading "Lorna" the Doone Valley looked rather too gentle, with its gra.s.sy slopes, to be satisfactory to my brigand-whetted mind; and the ruins of the Doone houses would have been disappointing, too, if it hadn't been for Miss Audrie Browne's tale of the distant dwellings, in the Weir Water Valley; but I liked hearing that all the hills have names of their own, and that you can be sure you are not going to fall into a treacherous bog, if only you see a sprig of purple heather--a good, honest plant, which hates anything secret. Our ponies didn't need the heather signal, though; they shied away from bogs as if by instinct, they knew the moor so well. If we had stumbled into a pitfall, our only hope would have been to lie quite flat, and crawl along the surface with the same motion that you make in swimming.

It was late afternoon by the time we had seen all that the ponies wanted us to see of the Doone Valley, and then our way led us back to Lynmouth, by the appalling Countisbury Hill; on to Parracombe, Blackmore Gate, Challacombe, romantic little Simonsbath (sacred to the memory of Sigmund the dragon-slayer, and two outlaws, of whom Tom f.a.ggus, of the "Strawberry horse," was one), and pretty, historic Exford, and so to Dunster. A beautiful road it was to the eye, but not always to the tire, and half the hills of England seemed to have lined up in a procession.

But Apollo smiled in his bonnet at them all, and appeared rather pleased than otherwise to show what he could do.

When we came into Dunster it was almost dark--just the beautiful hour when the air seems to have turned blue, a deep, clear azure; and of all the quaintly picturesque places we have seen, I know at first glimpse that Dunster would turn out to be the best. Some towns, like some people, introduce themselves to you in a friendly, charming way, with no chill reserve, as if they were sure you deserved to see their best side.

It's like that with Dunster, anyhow when you arrive in a motor, and the first thing you see is the ancient Yarn Market, wooden, octagonal, perfect. Then before you have recovered from the effect of that, and the general unspoiledness of everything, you come to the stone porch of the Luttrell Arms Inn; old and grim, with openings for crossbows with which I suppose the Abbots of Cleve must have had to defend themselves, because the house once belonged to them.

If you could see no other town but Dunster, it would be worth while coming across seas to England. But I suppose I've said that about other places, haven't I? Well, I can't help it if I have. Dunster is absolutely perfect--not one false note struck in the quaint music of its antiquity.

Our sitting room was the Abbot's refectory, splendid with black oak beams, and a n.o.ble ceiling. Its diamond-paned windows look into a wonderful courtyard, where you expect to see monks walking, or perhaps cavaliers; and on the hill above the garden, there are earthworks thrown up by Oliver Cromwell's army during the siege of Dunster Castle--the "Alnwick of the West." To-morrow, we are to be allowed, as a special favour, to see the inside of the Castle which towers up so grandly against the sky. It isn't open to the public; but Sir Lionel knows some relatives of the owners, so we are to be shown round.

"To-morrow," I say. But if I don't stop at once, and go to bed, it will be "to-day."

Ever your

Audrie.

XXV

FROM SIR LIONEL PENDRAGON TO COLONEL PATRICK O'HAGAN

_Swan Hotel, Wells_, _Aug. 20th_

My Dear Pat: What a good fellow you are! Your letter, just forwarded here, has been like for me a draught from the "cup which cheers but not----" No, on second thoughts I can't go on with the quotation "but not inebriates." I rather think the cup has inebriated me a little. Anyhow, it has made me a bit conceited. I say to myself, "Well, if this is his opinion of me, why not believe there's something in it, and do as other men have done before me? He ought to be a judge of men, and know enough of women to have some idea of the sort of person it would be possible for one of them to love." That is the state of mind to which you have brought me, with a little ink and a little paper, and plenty of good intentions. It would take about a magnum of champagne to exhilarate some men as your praise and your advice have exhilarated me.