Part 23

"You know."

"Yes, I will. It's a guardian's duty to his ward, and in this case a pleasure."

"I'd much rather you didn't, really." And she looked as grave as a statue of Justice. "Some day you'll know why."

I waived the subject at this point, for I felt obstinate, and wanted to give her a present. There was, and is, no doubt in my mind that her reason is a schoolgirl reason. Madame de Maluet has probably brought her up to believe it is not comme il faut for a jeune fille to accept a present from a monsieur. Still, her voice and expression were so serious, even worried, that I'm wondering if it could be anything else. Anyhow, I have bought the present, and intend to give it her on the 25th. It is a quaint old marquise ring, with a cabuchon ruby surrounded by very good diamonds. I think she will like it, and I don't see why she shouldn't have it--from me. I feel as if I would like to make up to her for the injustice I've been doing her in my mind all these years since she was a little child, left to me--poor, lonely baby. Only I don't quite know how to make up. I don't even dare to confess myself, and say I am sorry I never seemed to take any interest in her as she grew up. She must have wondered why I never asked to have her picture sent me, or wanted her to write--or wrote; and she must have felt the cold neglect of the only person (except an old French lady, her godmother) who had any rights over her. Beast that I was! And I can't explain why I was a beast. No doubt she adores the legend (it can't be a memory) of her mother, and I would have it always so. She need never know any of the truth, though of course, when she marries I shall have to tell the man one or two things, I suppose.

I'll let you know next time I write how the ring is received.

This morning, after breakfast, we all walked about the streets of Winchester, and, of course, went to the cathedral, where we stopped till nearly two o'clock.

The town and the place have all their old charm, and even more for me; the "Piazza"; the huddled, narrow streets full of mystery, the Cathedral Close with its crowded entrance, its tall trees that try to hide cathedral glories from common eyes; its mellow Queen Anne and Georgian houses which group round in a pleasant, self-satisfied way, as if they alone were worthy of standing-room in that sacred precinct.

To me, there's no cathedral in England that means as much of the past as Winchester. You know how, in the nave, you see so plainly the transition from one architectural period to another? And then, there are those splendid Mortuary Chests. Think of old Kynegils, and the other Saxon kings lying inside, little heaps of haunted dust.

I was silly enough to be immensely pleased that the child picked out those Mortuary Chests in their high resting place, and the gorgeous alleged tomb of William Rufus, as the most unforgettable among the smaller interests of Winchester Cathedral, for they are the same with me; and it's human to like our tastes shared by (a few) others. She was so enchanted to hear how William the Red was brought by a carter to be buried in Winchester, and about the great turquoise and the broken shaft of wood found in the tomb, that I hadn't the heart to tell her it probably wasn't his burial place, but that of Henri de Blois.

Of course she liked Bloody Mary's faldstool--the one Mary sat in for her marriage with Philip of Spain; and the MSS. signed by AElfred the Great as a child, with his father.

Women are caught by the personal element, I think, more than we are. And so interested was she in Jane Austen's memorial tablet, that she wouldn't be satisfied without going to see the house where Jane died. There were so many other things to see, that Emily and Mrs. Senter would have left that out, but I wanted the girl to have her way.

Poor little, sweet-hearted Jane! She was only forty-one when she finished with this world--a year older than I. But doubtless that was almost old for a woman of her day, when girls married at sixteen, and took to middle-aged caps at twenty-five. Now, I notice, half the mothers look younger than their daughters--younger than any daughter would dare to look after she was "out."

A good many interesting persons seem to have died in Winchester, if they weren't clever enough to be born in the town. Earl Godwin set an early example in that respect. Died, eating with Edward the Confessor--probably too much, as his death was caused by apoplexy, and might not have happened if Edward hadn't been too polite to advise him not to stuff.

Of course, the cathedral is the great jewel; but for me the old city is an ancient, kingly crown set full of jewels. There's the West Gate, for instance. You know how we said it alone would be worth walking many miles to see. And the old castle. I'm not sure that isn't one of the best sights of all. I took the party there after luncheon, and the same delightful fellow showed us round. He hadn't changed since our time, unless he is more mellow.

He was quite angry to-day with a German-American woman--the type, as Ellaline murmured to me, that alone is capable of a plaid blouse. The lady inquired nasally of our old friend, "Is this hall mod-ern; what you call mod-ern?"

We were at the moment gazing up at King Arthur's Round Table, which Henry VIII. hung on the wall to save it further vicissitudes, after Henry VII. had it daubed with colours and Tudor roses, to furnish forth some silly feast.

The dear old chap raised his eyebrows at the question, and glanced round as if apologizing to each massive pillar in turn. Well, he said, he would hardly call the hall modern, as it had been built by William the Conqueror, but perhaps the lady might be used to older things at home. With that, he turned on an indignant heel, and led us out to the courtyard where wretched Edward II.'s brother, the Duke of Kent, was executed. He has the same old trick of being "sorry to say" whenever he has anything tragic or gruesome to relate, passing lightly over details of oubliettes, and skeletons found without their heads--as so many were on grim St. Giles's Hill.

Of course we went and had a look at St. Cross and Henri de Blois's old hospital almshouse. We would have stopped there yesterday, if Emily hadn't so ardently desired tea. But, if I'd thought to tell her about the Dole of bread and beer, she might have been persuaded, though my description of the exquisite windows in the courtyard, and the quaint houses of the black and white brethren, left her cold. We all had some of the Dole to-day at the portal; and Mrs. Senter took it as a compliment that each one was given so little. Tourists get tiny bits, you know, and beggars big ones; so she thought it would have been a sign that they disparaged the ladies' hats and frocks if they had been more generous. It would be difficult to disapprove of hers. She understands the art of dress to perfection.

A pity we couldn't have been here earlier in the year, isn't it? For among the nicest new things in old Winchester are the Winchester schoolboys. How they spurn the ordinary tourist they meet in the street, and how scornfully polite they are to any unfortunate straying beast who asks them a question, making him feel meaner than any worm! A foreigner must long to ask the consequential youths to "kindly excuse him while he continues to breathe"; for few strangers can sympathize with the contempt we English have, while still in callow youth, for everyone we don't know. But, let a newcomer blossom into an acquaintance, or mention a relative at Eton, and all is changed. The Winchester boys turn into the most delightful chaps in the world.

I dare say I shall think Dick Burden a delightful chap when I know him better. At present, it's all I can do to put up with him for the sake of his aunt. And the fellow has such an ostentatiously frank way of looking one straight in the eyes, that I'm hanged if I'd trust him to go as straight.

Talking of going straight, to-morrow morning early we leave for Salisbury, and when we feel like moving shall pass on toward the New Forest.

Ever yours,

Pen.

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

White Hart Hotel, Salisbury, July 24th

Dearest: I am particularly homesick for you to-night, because it's my birthday eve. Twenty-one to-morrow, but passing for nineteen. And isn't it annoying, I went and blurted out in Winchester two days ago that I had a birthday hanging over me. I'm awfully afraid Sir Lionel thinks himself bound to give me a present. If he does, and I can't get out of taking it, I shall have to pass it on to Ellaline, of course, when I'm passing everything else on--including myself.

I know you're thinking of me to-night, as you walk after dinner under the glorious chestnut trees you describe in the park at Champel-les-Bains. I wish you had an astral body! It wouldn't take up any room, or have to pay railway fares, or wait for invitations to visit, and it could easily be one of the party in Sir Lionel's car. So nice to have it sitting between me and Dick Burden!

I wanted you dreadfully at Winchester, as I wrote you in the note I scribbled after seeing the cathedral. I wish I'd told you more about Winchester then, for now it's too late. All Stonehenge is lying on top of my Winchester impressions, and it will take them a little time to squeeze from underneath. They will come out, though, I know, none the worse for wear. And how I shall talk this trip over with you, when we're together again, and I know the end that's hiding behind the motor-veil of the future!