Set in Silver Part 38

I wouldn't tell Sir Lionel I was in love with the horrid Boy Detective, and I'm happy--or nearly happy--to say that he refused to give his consent straight out to an engagement. He told d.i.c.k the same thing; so there'll be no leaving us two alone in lovesick corners (can corners be lovesick?), or making announcements, or anything appalling of that sort.

Perhaps it was easier, speaking to Sir Lionel, because he hadn't been kind to me since the last evening in Chester--I can't think why, though I can think why I deserved unkindness. The ring was terribly on my mind; but he can't have found out about that, because the man in the shop promised he wouldn't try to sell it until next day.

I couldn't get quite what Ellaline wanted, though I sold two or three other things--all I could sell; but it came nearly to the right amount; and it went off to her in Scotland, in the form of a post-office order, that same night--a.s.sured instead of registered, as the letter was so valuable.

Sir Lionel being somewhat frigid and remote in his manner, appearing to take no more interest in me than if he were a big star and I a bit chipped off a Leonid, I delivered myself of what I had to say without great difficulty. I had a queer, numbed feeling, as though if it didn't matter to him, it didn't to me, until just at the last, when he said something that nearly made me cry. Luckily I was able to swallow the sob. It felt like a large, hot, crisp baked potato; and my heart felt like a larger, cold-boiled beet soaked in vinegar.

It's all over now, though, and I'm comparatively callous. Maybe the vinegar has pickled me internally?

Bamborough Castle, where we arrived to-day with our kind and delightful hosts of Cragside, is to be the northernmost end of the tour. On leaving, we turn southward; and would make straight for Warwickshire and Graylees, if, in an evil moment, Mrs. Norton and I hadn't for once agreed about a place that we longed to see. It is Haworth, where the Brontes lived, and Sir Lionel said that our wish should be gratified. He planned a day in Yorkshire: Ripon, Fountains Abbey, Haworth, Harrogate (not York, because Emily went there with the late Mr. Norton, and has sad marital memories); and the plan still stands. I have an idea that Sir Lionel is impatient to reach Graylees now, so after the Yorkshire field-day we will push on there; and I shall perhaps hear from Ellaline as to Honore's plans. He ought to be in Scotland by that time. I've written her to wire me at the nearest post-office to Graylees Castle, as I don't like to receive telegrams there. But I see no reason why you shouldn't send a letter to Graylees--the last letter, I hope, which need ever be addressed to me as "Miss Ellaline Lethbridge." It will seem nice to get into my own name again! Rather like putting on comfortable shoes after tight ones that made blisters. And how divine to fly to you--a distracted chicken, battered by a thunderstorm, scuttling back under its mother's downy wing!

Nevertheless, I'm not going to cheat you out of seeing England through my eyes, because my pleasure--just a little of it--is damped by d.i.c.k. I am resigned and calm, and you mustn't think me a martyr. I've told you I hate whiners, and I won't be one. Why, I ought to be thankful for the chance of such a wonderful trip, and not be cowardly enough to spoil it by a few private worries!

c.u.mberland is even lovelier than Wales, though I shouldn't have thought that possible. Sir Lionel went climbing with the nice Welsh guide, whom he invited to Keswick, so he wasn't with us much; and d.i.c.k being in London still, there were only Mrs. Norton, Mrs. Senter, and I to be conducted by Young Nick. It did seem odd being driven by him, and seeing his back look so inexpressive among the most ravishing scenes. I asked if he didn't think c.u.mberland glorious, but he said it was not like India. I suppose that was an answer?

We spun off into the mysterious enchantments of Borrodaile in gusts of rain; but the heavenly valley was the more mystic because of the showers. Huge white clouds walked ahead of us, like ghosts of pre-historic animals; and baby clouds sprawled on the mountain sides, with all their filmy legs in air.

At Lodore the water was "coming down" like a miniature Niagara. Heavy rains had filled the cup of its parent river full, and the waterfall looked as if floods of melted ivory were pouring over ebony boulders.

What a lovely, rushing roar! It was like the father of all sound--as if it might have given the first suggestion of sound to a silent, new-born world.

Windermere and Derwent Water we saw, too, and each was more beautiful than the other. Also I was much excited about the Giant's Grave, near Keswick, which has kept its secret since before history began.

All the way to Carlisle the country was very fair to see, scarcely flagging in charm to the end; and Carlisle itself was packed with interest, from its old cathedral to the castle where David I. of Scotland died and Mary Queen of Scots lodged.

Now our thoughts were turned toward the Roman Wall, and I thrilled a little, despite the forbidding stiffness of Sir Lionel's disapproving back as he drove. Because of Kipling's splendid story of the Roman soldier in "Puck of Pook's Hill," I knew that for me the Great Wall (all that's left of it) would be one of the best things. Parnesius, the young centurion, told Una and Dan that "old men who have followed the Eagles since boyhood say nothing is more wonderful than the first sight of the Wall." And also that there were no real adventures south of it. It was disappointing to think that nowadays, on our way there, we couldn't expect to meet "hunters and trappers for the circuses, prodding along chained bears and muzzled wolves" for the amus.e.m.e.nt of the soldiers in the far northern camps; or that when we should come to the Wall, we'd find no helmeted men with glittering shields walking three abreast on the narrowest part, screened from Picts by a little curtain-wall at the top, as high as their necks; no roaring, gambling, c.o.c.k-fighting, wolf-baiting, horse-racing soldier town on one side, and heather wastes full of hiding, arrow-shooting Picts on the other; yet I heard Sir Lionel say we could still trace the guard-houses and small towers, and see how the great camp of Cilurnum was laid out.

We had left the mountains before we came into Carlisle, but not the hills; and after one of grandiose size, which an old Northumbrian we met called "a fair stiff bank," we were on the Roman road; the long, long, straight road forging uncompromisingly, grimly up and down, ever on, scorning to turn aside for difficulties; the road where the Legions paced with the brave Roman step--"Rome's race, Rome's pace," twenty-four miles in eight hours.

Kipling illuminated the way through Haltwhistle and Chollerford to the Chesters, a private park which is a big out-of-doors museum, for it has in its midst the remains of old Cilurnum. We got out at the gates, and wandered among the ruins that have been reverently excavated; a gray and faded scene, like a kind of skeleton Pompeii with dead bones rattling; entrance gateways; ghost-haunted guard-houses; stone rings which were towers; many short, straight streets whose half-buried pavements once rang under soldiers' heels; the Forum; all the camp-city plan; a map with outlines roughly sketched in stone on faded gra.s.s. We had had our first sight of the Wall of which centurions in Britain bragged when they went back to Rome. Then it was a Living Wall; but it is very wonderful still, where its skeleton lies in state.

We had started so early from Keswick, that it wasn't two o'clock when we left the Chesters; and I was surprised when, instead of drawing up before some country inn for lunch, we skimmed through a gate only a mile or two away, and stopped under the shadowy frown of an imposing mediaeval stronghold. It was Haughton Castle, whose towers and keep are crowded with stories of the past, and the visit was to be a surprise for us. Sir Lionel knew the owner, who had asked us all to lunch, for the "dragon's"

sake; and it looked quite an appropriate resting-place for a dragon of elegant leisure. It was as interesting within as without; and after luncheon they took us over the castle; best of all, down in the deep dungeon where Archie Armstrong, a chief of moss-troopers, was forgotten and starved to death by his captor, Sir Thomas Swinburne, a stout knight of Henry the Eighth's day.

There is a long story about Archie, too long to tell you here; but each castle of Northumberland (the county of castles, not of collieries) has dozens of wonderful old stories, warlike, ghostlike, tragic, and romantic. I have been reading a book about some of them, which I will bring you. It's more interesting than any novel. And King Arthur legends are scattered broadcast over Northumberland, as in Cornwall. Also the "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled" did much of their bleeding and fighting here. There's history of "every sort, to please every taste," from Celtic times on; but I'm not sure that the troublous days of the great feudal barons weren't the most pa.s.sionately thrilling of all.

If the first sight of the Wall was wonderful to the Roman soldiers, so must have been the first sight of the wide Tyne. I know it was so to me, as we flashed upon it at the first important twist of the straight Roman road, and crossed it on a n.o.ble bridge.

Of course, Newcastle has a castle; and it was "new" when William the Conqueror was new to his kingdom. Now that I've seen this great, rich, gay, busy city, ancient and modern, I realize how stupid I was to a.s.sociate it with mere coal, as strangers have a way of doing, because of the trite remark about "taking coals to Newcastle." Why, the very names of the streets in the old part chime bell-like with the romance of history! And I like the people of Northumberland--those I have met; the shrewd, kindly townsfolk, and the country folk living in gray villages, who love old, old ways, and emit quaint wit with a strong, rough "burr."

They have the look in their eyes that Northern people have, all the world over; a look that can be hard, yet can be kinder than the soft look of more melting Southern eyes. Sir Lionel is of the South--born in Cornwall; yet his eyes have this Northern glint in them--as if he knew and understood mountains. Just now they are terribly wintry, and when they rest coldly on me I feel as if I were lost in a snowstorm without hat or coat. But no matter!

Now, what shall I say to you of Bamborough Castle, which is the crown of our whole tour?

I wish I were clever enough to make the splendour of it burst upon you, as it did upon me.

Imagine us motoring over from Cragside (a very beautiful and famous modern house, with marvellous gardens and enchanting views) which belongs to these kind, delightful friends of Sir Lionel's who own Bamborough Castle. There was a house-party at Cragside, and there were twelve or fifteen of us who left there in a drove of automobiles.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "_There were twelve or fifteen of us who left Cragside_"]

Down the beautiful winding avenue; then out upon a hump-backed, switchback road, a dozen miles and more, past great Alnwick, on, on, until suddenly a vast, dark shape loomed against the sky; a stone silhouette, not of a giant's profile, but of a whole vast family of giants grouped together, to face the sea.

To _own_ a Thing like that must feel like owning Niagara Falls, or the marble range of the Sierra Nevada, or biting off a whole end of England and digesting it. Yet these charming people take their ownership quite calmly; and by filling the huge castle from keep to farthest tower with their beautiful possessions, seem to have tamed the splendid monster, making it legitimately theirs.

I thought Alnwick grand, as we pa.s.sed, but its position is insignificant compared with Bamborough, which has the wide North Sea for a background.

On a craggy platform of black rock like a petrified cushion for a royal crown, it rises above the sea, a few low foothills of golden sand drifting toward it ahead of the tide. The grandeur of the vast pile is almost overwhelming to one who, like me, has never until now seen any of these mighty fortress-castles of the North; but a great historian says that the site of Bamborough surpa.s.ses the sites of all other Northumbrian castles in ancient and abiding historic interest; so even if I had been introduced to dozens, my impression must remain the same.

"Round Bamborough, and its founder, Ida (the Flame-Bearer), all Northumbrian history gathers"; and it is "one of the great cradles of national life."

Bamborough village, close by, was once the royal city of Bernicia, and the "Laidly Worm" was there to give it fame, even if there had never been a Grizel Cochrane or Grace Darling; but the history of the hamlet that once was great, and the castle that will always be great, are virtually one. I shall bring you Besant's "Dorothy Foster," and lots of fascinating photographs which our hostess has given me. (I don't think I need leave them for Ellaline, as she wouldn't care.) But you know the story of the Laidly Worm, because Dad used to tell it to me when I was small. The wicked stepmother who turned her beautiful stepdaughter into the fearsome Worm used to live at the bottom of a deep, deep well that opens in the stone floor of the castle keep; and there, in the rock-depths, a hundred and fifty feet below, she still lurks, in the form of a gigantic toad. I have been allowed to peep down, and I'm sure I caught the jewelled sparkle of her wicked eye in the gloom. But even if she'd turned me into a Laidly Worm, I couldn't be more repulsive than I probably am at present to Sir Lionel; besides, I could crawl away into a neighbouring cave with modern improvements, and console myself with a good cry--which I can't do now, for fear of getting a red nose. I should hate that, because Mrs. Senter's nose is so magnolia-white, and the background of a magnificent feudal castle sets off her golden hair and brown eyes so pa.s.sing well.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "_Bamborough surpa.s.ses all Northumbrian castles_"]

There might be volumes of history, as well as romances, written about Bamborough Castle--as Sir Walter Scott, and Harrison Ainsworth, and Sir Walter Besant knew. Why, the thrill of unwritten stories and untold legends is in the air! From the moment I pa.s.sed through the jaws of outer and inner gateways, I seemed to hear whispers from lips that had laughed or cursed in the days of barbaric grandeur, when Bamborough was the king of all Northumbrian castles. There are queer echoes everywhere, in the vast rooms whose outer walls are twelve feet thick; but more deliciously "creepy" than any other place is the keep, I think--even more thrilling than the dungeons. Yet the castle, as it is now, is far from gloomy, I can tell you. Not only are there banqueting-halls and ball-rooms, and drawing-rooms and vast galleries which royalties might covet, but there are quant.i.ties of charming bedrooms, gay and bright enough for debutante princesses. My bedroom, where I am writing, is in a turret; quaintly furnished, with tapestry on the wall which might have suggested to Browning his "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came."

It's very late, but I don't like to go to bed, partly because I can't keep jumping up and down to look out of my window at wild crags and moonlit sea when I'm asleep; partly because I have such silly, miserable dreams about Sir Lionel hating me, that I wake up snivelling; and to write to you when I'm a tiny bit _triste_ is always like warming my hands at a rainbow-tinted fire of ship's logs.

To-morrow afternoon we are going back to Newcastle, where we will "lie"

one night, as old books say, and then make a very _matinal_ start to do our great day in Yorkshire, pa.s.sing first through Durham, with just a glance at the great cathedral. Once upon a time we would have given more than a glance. But, as I told you, Sir Lionel seems to have lost heart for the "long trail."

I never saw him so interested in Mrs. Senter as he has appeared to be these last two nights at Cragside and here. Certainly she is looking her very, very best; and in her manner with him there is a gentleness and womanliness only just developed. One would fancy that a sympathetic understanding had established itself between them, as it might if she told him some piteous story about herself which roused all his chivalry.

Well, if she has told him any such story, I'm sure it is a "story" in every sense of the word. And I don't know how I should bear it if she cajoled him into believing her an injured innocent who needed the shelter of a (rich and t.i.tled) man's arm.

Perhaps it is a little sad wind that cries at my window like a baby begging to come in; perhaps it is just foolishness; but I have a presentiment that something will happen here to make me remember Bamborough Castle forever, not for itself alone.

_Afternoon of next day_

It _has_ happened. Best One, I don't quite know what is going to become of me. There has been the most awful row. It was with d.i.c.k, and Sir Lionel doesn't know about it yet, and we are supposed to be going away in a few minutes; but maybe d.i.c.k is talking to Sir Lionel now, and if he is, I don't suppose I shall be allowed to proceed in the company of virtuous Emily and (comparatively) innocent Gwendolen. I shall probably be given a third-cla.s.s ticket back to Paris, and ordered to "git."

It's rather hard that, having sacrificed so much, large chunks of self-respect among other things, it should all come to nothing in the end. Ellaline will want to kill me, for I have thrown her to the lions.

It won't be my fault if they don't eat her up.

Oh, darling, I do feel horribly about it, and really and truly, without exaggeration, I would have died sooner than repay her kindness to me by giving her away like this. An ancestress of yours in the Revolution ran up the steps of the guillotine laughing and kissing her hands to the friends she left in the tumbril, and I could have been almost half as brave if by so doing I might have avoided this dreadful abandoning of Ellaline's interests, trusted to me. But what can you do between two evils? Isn't it a law of nature, or something, to choose the lesser?

d.i.c.k went just the one step too far, and pulled the chain too tight. He had begun to think he could make me do anything.

A little while ago, I was alone in the armoury, absorbed in looking at a wonderful engraving of the tragic last Earl of Derwent.w.a.ter, when suddenly d.i.c.k came up behind me. I wanted to go, and made excuses to escape, but he wouldn't let me; and rather than have a scene--in case anyone might come--I let him walk me about, and point out strange old weapons on the wall. That was only a blind, however. He had something particular to say, and said it. There was another thing I must do for him: find a way of informing Sir Lionel, prettily and nicely, that Mrs.

Senter cared for him, and was very unhappy.

I flew out in an instant, and said that I'd do no such thing.

"You must," said he.

"I won't," said I. "n.o.body can make me."

"Oh, can't they?" said he. "I can, then, and I mean to. If you refuse to do it, I shall believe you're in love with Sir Lionel yourself."

"I don't care what you believe," I flung at him. "There's no shame in saying I like Sir Lionel too well and respect him too much to have any hand in making him miserable all the rest of his life."