Set in Silver Part 36

Soon we had to turn our backs upon a mystic mountain-land that ringed us in, and face the sea once more--a wide water-horizon whose line was broken with great ships steaming from all parts of the world to Liverpool.

Apollo had seemed a little faint before luncheon, because of some inner disturbance, but he was flying fast as a saint on his way to Paradise as we crossed the Dee, into England out of Wales, and sprang into Gladstone country.

When people are obliged to reach a town by rail, there must be disappointments to lovers of the picturesque, as you and I know by experience. It's like arriving at a house by the tradesmen's entrance; but with a motor one sails up to the front door through the park.

Of all the towns to which Apollo has brought us, the entrance to Chester to-day was the best. The first effect of colour left on my eyes the impression of sunset-red, warm as copper beeches. The place seemed to be lit with fading firelight, and I wondered at the soft glow everywhere, until I realized that the big buildings--the Cathedral, the great houses and the old city wall--were all made of rosy sandstone.

You can't imagine how a large town which has lived as long as Chester has, and gone on growing, could have contrived to remain so satisfyingly beautiful, or keep such an air of old-time completeness. But the secret is, I suppose, that Chester is "canny" as well as "bonny," and, being wise, she refused to throw away her precious antique garments for glaring new ones. When she had to add houses, or even shops, wherever possible she reproduced the charm and quaintness of the black and white Tudor or Stuart buildings which are Chester's intimate treasures.

Of course, I've seen little of the place yet; but after I had been to the post-office, I strolled about before coming back to the hotel, partly to recover from my disappointment in not hearing from you, partly because I was so bewitched with my first glimpse that I couldn't bear to come indoors still a stranger to the town. Hovering in front of the Cathedral (a curious building, black in its oldest parts, bright pink where it has been renovated) I saw Sir Lionel and Mrs. Norton coming.

That was awkward, because I had said I wanted to "settle in" before sight-seeing, but I explained vaguely that I'd changed my mind, and was invited to go into the Cathedral with them. Perhaps it was because Emily was with us that nothing seemed very wonderful in the interior--unless the carved oak in the choir--but the cloisters are beautiful, and I liked the chapter house.

After "doing" the Cathedral, Mrs. Norton was tired, so Sir Lionel and I had a walk alone, an adventure Mrs. Senter would never have allowed if she'd guessed I was out of my room. She is a dog in the manger about walks. She hates them herself, but she won't let other people take them without her if she can help it.

We dropped Emily at the hotel, and had a delicious ramble (speaking for myself!) through the four extraordinary streets which stand for much in Chester's peculiar fame. Wandering there, it was easy to believe what the guide-books say: that nowhere in Great Britain does a town exist which so preserves the ancient character of all its architecture. I don't know if there are British relics; but the city wall and gates are Roman, part of the castle, too; and since mediaeval days nothing seems to have lost in picturesqueness. People come from all over the world to see the Rows: streets dug out below the rock-surface on which the town was originally built, having shops and even warehouses on their level, with galleries above, open fronted, stone-paved, bal.u.s.traded with black oak, so that these "Rows" all look as if the houses were wide open, communicating with one another. The carved oak fronts of the houses and shops, done ingeniously with strange pargetting, and adorned with wondrous windows, are so adorably queer, with their stagey effects, that I don't wonder Chester has become a kind of Mecca for travellers from my native land, where most things are new.

When we had thus skimmed a little of the cream from the town itself, we had a walk on the old wall, while church bells, near and distant, chimed; but still I don't feel I've more than glanced at the place.

To-morrow we plan to run out to Knutsford, which is Mrs. Gaskell's Cranford really, and I have begged to start early, because if we do (though naturally I don't allege this reason) we can get off before d.i.c.k arrives. Then, when we come back, we can do more sight-seeing, and maybe be out when he turns up at the hotel. After that event, unless you save me to-night with some miraculous suggestion, all pleasure will be over.

And at best, I'm not looking forward with undiluted joy to to-morrow, because I must not only decide what to do for Ellaline, but do it.

While I was walking on the wall with Sir Lionel just now, gazing up at watch-towers, or down over the town, and dodging seedy amateur guides whom we nicknamed "Wallers," I kept thinking, thinking, about what to sell. The only thing Sir Lionel has given me of really great value, which could be easily disposed of, is the ruby and diamond ring. But how it would hurt me to give it up in such a sordid way! It was my birthday present from him, and it's a.s.sociated in my mind with that night of moonlight in the New Forest when I first knew I _cared_. But I'm sorely afraid it must be the thing to go. There are several important-looking antique shops here, and I noticed, when casting my eye about, one where they make a speciality of curious and rare jewellery. I shall look at it again more carefully when I run out to the post-office, in a few minutes, and perhaps I may have courage to try and strike a bargain, so as to send the money off in the morning before Knutsford--if I get it----

_An hour later._

Dearest, I've got your wire, now, having retrieved it from the Poste Restante, and I'm thankful for it--thankful that you're well, thankful that you don't blame me for anything I've done, faults committed or mistakes made. But--alas, I don't think the advice, good as it is, will be of any use to me. You see, you don't know Mrs. Senter. It would be hopeless for me to try and force her to exert authority over d.i.c.k Burden.

In the first place, she has no real authority, as apparently he has no expectations from her; and in the second place, though I'm almost sure she doesn't know the truth about me and Ellaline, she suspects that d.i.c.k has a hold over me; and after all I've submitted to from him already it would be impossible to "bluff" her into the belief that I'd dare ask Sir Lionel to send them both away. No, my dear one, there's little hope for me in that scheme. I allowed Ellaline to make my bed for me, and I must lie in it, although it has proved to be one of those nasty folding ones that will shut and swallow me up in a trap.

No, it's cowardly to whine like that. It won't be pleasant to keep my promise to d.i.c.k; but there have been worse things; and I shall probably be able to escape before long. Anyhow it will all be the same a hundred years hence. As soon as I am with you again it will be as if nothing had happened; and meanwhile I am going to keep a "stiff upper lip." It mayn't be becoming, but that won't matter, as Sir Lionel will never look at me; and you will see by my letters in future how well I am getting on.

Best love to my best loved,

From

Audrie.

x.x.xIII

SIR LIONEL PENDRAGON TO COLONEL PATRICK O'HAGAN

_Keswick Hotel_, _September 3rd_

My Dear Pat: Here we are, you see, in the "happy hunting ground" where you and I used to hunt such shy game as chimneys, needles, crevices, etc., etc.; and if I'm not as happy in it now as I ought to be, that isn't the fault of the country, which is as fair as it ever was--the fairest in England, perhaps.

It just happens, unfortunately, that I've been rubbed up the wrong way before coming to the places I'd looked forward to revisiting more than any other, except Cornwall; and if I hadn't invited dear old Penrhyn from Pen-y-gwrd to meet me here, and have a climb, I'm not sure I should have stopped. However, I have enjoyed the beauty of the run. I must have been as blind as a mole, and as earthy, if I hadn't.

Fine road from Chester to Liverpool, which city had an air of opulent magnificence seen from the ferry, as we neared her--rather like a huge, modern Venice. Lunched there, at the Adelphi, on the fat of the land, and had some trouble finding the way out of town. Liverpool welcomes the coming, but doesn't speed the parting guest; not a sign-post in sight anywhere. Bad pave till Ormskirk, when things improved, growing better and better; but no scenery to speak of until near Preston. Villages all along the line, stone-paved; struck me as being characteristic of that stern North Country which we approached. "Road too good not to mean police-traps," said I to myself; and an A. A. scout warned me that they swarmed; but luckily we were not held up. I wasn't in a temper to have taken any nonsense lying down, I'm afraid.

Ran straight through Lancaster, which was almost a pity, as John o'

Gaunt's Castle is a brave old fortress, whether or no he really built the famous tower; and at the King's Arms we might have got some genuine oat-cakes, which would have given a taste of c.u.mberland to the strangers. As it was, the first truly characteristic things we came upon were the stout stone walls, on which we happened a little short of Kendal. Down to Windermere, a steep but beautiful run; Mrs. Senter by my side, and very enthusiastic. She seems to take an unaffected interest in scenery, with which you would hardly have credited her in old times. She was entranced by her first sight of the lake, which is not surprising, for to one who has never seen them the lakes must be a revelation.

d.i.c.k Burden, by the way, was not with us on this run, nor was he at Chester. He had business in London, which kept him longer than he expected when he left our party at Tintern. I can't say I regret him, though others may. I understand that there has been some telegraphing between him and his aunt, and that his present intention is to rejoin us at Newcastle. Rather wish he would put off his return a little longer, as it is arranged that we go out to Cragside and Bamborough Castle; and one doesn't like to abuse such delightful hospitality as we have been offered there. d.i.c.k's presence does not add to the gaiety of nations, it seems to me, and I am not keen on taking him.

I found Penrhyn waiting for me here, the good fellow, delighted at the prospect of his short visit, and to-morrow he and I will have some small climb. I shall send the car, with Young Nick to drive all who care to go, to a few of the beauty spots, while I am otherwise occupied. They must penetrate the cloistered charms of exquisite Borrodaile, and of course see Lodore, which ought to be at its best now, as there have been heavy rains. Jove! How the c.u.mberland names ring on the ear, like the "horns of elfland"! Helvelyn; Rydal; Ennerdale; Derwent Water; Glaramara! Aren't they all as crystal as the depths of mountain tarns, or that amethystine colour of the sky behind the clear profiles of high peaks?

I'm sorry we're too late for the Grasmere Sports; but the fact is we have lingered by the way longer than I planned for this trip; and now, as things are turning out I'm inclined to cut the end of the tour short.

Graylees is practically ready for occupation, and I feel as if I ought to be there.

No! That isn't good enough for you, old chap. It's true, as far as it goes; but you have begun to read between the lines by this time, I know, and I may as well speak out. I should be an ostrich if I weren't sure that you've been saying to yourself: "Why doesn't this fellow refer to the girl he has spent so much pen and paper on? Why does he go out of his way to avoid mentioning her name?"

Well, she hasn't eloped, or done anything culpable. But there is no use concealing from you, as I have told you so much, that she has hurt me to the quick. Not that she has been unkind, or rude, or disagreeable. Quite the contrary. And that's the worst of it, for I prayed to heaven that there might be nothing of her mother in this young soul. At first, as you know, I could hardly believe the girl to be all she seemed, but soon she won me to thinking her perfection--a lily, grown by some miracle of Nature in a soil where weeds had flourished hitherto. I would have given my right hand rather than have to admit a flaw in her--that is, the one fatal flaw: slyness hidden under apparent frankness, which means an inherited tendency to deceit.

This may sound as if I had found the poor child out in a lie. But there has been no spoken lie. She has only done the sort of thing I might have expected Ellaline de Nesville's daughter to do.

I told you about the ring I bought her at Winchester, and gave her on her birthday; how prettily she received it; how she seemed to treasure it more because of the thought and the a.s.sociation than the intrinsic value of the ruby and the brilliants.

At Chester, the night before we left, I thought I'd try to pick up some little souvenir of the town for her, as she was delighted with the place. Of course I wanted something small, as our luggage isn't of the expanding order, so I had the idea of jewellery; a little antique pendant, or a few old paste b.u.t.tons. There is a certain shop in the "Rows" where one looks for such things, and expects to find them good, if highly priced. In the window of that shop I saw displayed for sale the ring I had given to Ellaline!

The sight of it there was a blow; but I persuaded myself I might be mistaken; that it wasn't the same ring, but another, almost a duplicate.

I went in and asked to look at it. The shopman mentioned that it was something quite unusually good, and had "only come in" that afternoon.

Inside I found the date which I had had engraved on the ring; the date of Ellaline's birthday. I bought it back--for a good deal more than I paid in Winchester, as this chap knew his business thoroughly; but that is a detail. It was merely to satisfy a kind of sentimental vanity that I wanted to get the thing out of the window and into my own hands; for, needless to say, I don't intend to speak of the matter at all to Ellaline. It would humiliate me more than it would her, to let her see that I know what she did with her birthday present; for partly, I blame myself. I supposed that I was fairly free-handed with money, and had no idea that the girl could possibly want more than she had. Still, I told her to let me know in case she found me thoughtless, and not to hesitate to ask for anything she wanted. She could have had as much as she chose, and I would have put no questions. If I'd been surprised with the largeness of the sums, I should have believed that she had some pensioners to whom she wished to be charitable; for I had begun to believe that she could do no wrong.

As I said, there was nothing culpable in selling the ring. It was hers.

She had a right to do as she liked with it. But that she should like to part with it; that she should do so, knowing I would hate it if I knew; that she should be exactly the same with me as if she hadn't done a thing which she was aware would distress me; that she hadn't the courage and frankness to come to me and say----

Oh, hang it all, I'm grumbling and complaining like an old prig! Perhaps I am one. I know d.i.c.k Burden thinks so. We'll let it go at that. I don't need to explain to you a matter which outwardly is insignificant, and is significant to me only for reasons which the past will account for to you better than my explanations.

The salt has gone out of life a bit, and I think it will do me good to get to Graylees, where I shall find a thousand things to interest me. I daresay Ellaline will be glad to settle down, though she is too polite to show it; and I'm sure Emily will.

After a look at the Roman Wall, and a sight of Bamborough, we shall run to Warwickshire with few detours or pauses.

You see, by the way, that you were wrong in thinking she could care. If there had been the least warmth in her heart for me she couldn't have sold my ring. I'm glad I didn't make a fool of myself.

Penrhyn wants to be remembered to you.

Yours ever,

Pen.

x.x.xIV