Part 39

You ask me how I endure Emily Norton. Well, as I sit beside Sir Lionel in the car, I don't need to bother with her much in the daytime. She hates bridge, and thinks playing for money wrong in most circumstances, but considers it her duty to please her brother's guests; and as she never wins, anyhow, it needn't affect her conscience. I tell her that I always give my winnings to charity, and didn't think it necessary to add that, to my idea, charity should not only begin at home, but end there, unless its resources were unlimited. The poor, dull thing has that kind of self-conscious religion that sends her soul trotting every other minute to look in the glass, and see that it hasn't smudged itself. So trying! Once she asked me what I did for my soul? I longed to tell her I took cod-liver oil, or Somebody's Fruit Salt, but didn't dare, on account of Sir Lionel. And she has such a conceited way of saying, when speaking of the future: "If the Lord spares me till next year, I will do so and so." As if He were in immediate need of her, but might be induced to get on without her for a short time!

One would know, by the way she screws up her hair, that she could never have felt a temptation. But I shall not let myself be troubled much with her if I marry Sir Lionel. She can go back to her doctor and her curates, and be invited for Christmas to Graylees, which, by the way, I hope to inspect when we have finished this tour.

I am looking quite lovely in my motoring things, and enjoying myself very much, on the whole.

Devonshire I found too hot for this time of the year, but the scenery is pretty. I had no idea what a jolly little river the Dart is; and Dartmouth is rather quaint. For those who are keen on old things, I suppose the Butter Market would be interesting; but I can't really see why, because things happened in certain places hundreds of years ago, one should stand and stare at walls or windows, or fireplaces. The things must have happened somewhere! Although Charles the Second, for instance, may have been great fun to know, and one would have enjoyed flirting with him, now that he's been dead and out of reach for ages, he's of no importance to me.

We left Torquay yesterday, and arrived here in the evening, after a hilly but nice run, and lunching at Plymouth. Of course, a lot of nonsense was talked about Sir Francis Drake. One almost forgets what the old boy did, except to play bowls or something; but I have a way of seeming to know things, for which I deserve more credit than anyone (save you) would guess. When they were not jabbering about him at lunch, it was about the Mayflower, which apparently sailed from Plymouth for the purpose of supplying Americans with ancestors. I never met any Americans yet, except the kind who boast of having begun as shoeblacks, whose great-great-grand-parents didn't cross in the Mayflower. It must have been a huge ship, or else a lot of the ancestors went in the steerage, or were stewards or stowaways.

There was a ferry, getting from Devonshire into Cornwall, so of course we just missed a boat and had to wait half an hour. I was dying to go to sleep, but the others were as chirpy as possible, gabbling Cornish legends. When I say the "others," I mean Sir Lionel and Ellaline Lethbridge. I didn't know any legends, but I made up several on the spur of the moment, much more exciting than theirs, and that pleased Sir Lionel, as he is a Cornishman. Heavens, how I did take it out of myself admiring his native land when we'd got across that ferry! Said the scenery was quite different from that of Devonshire, at the first go off; and I'm not sure there weren't differences. The road coming toward Launceston really was romantic; rock-walled part of the way, with a lot of pink and yellow lichen; and again, fine open spaces with distant blue downs against a sky which looked, as I remarked to Sir Lionel, as if the gods had poured a libation of golden wine over it. Not bad, that, was it? I believe we passed an Arthurian battle-field, which naturally interested him immensely, therefore had to interest poor me! He seems to think there actually was an Arthur, and was quite pleased with me for saying that all the Cornish names of places rang with romance like fairy bells sounding from under the sea--perhaps from Atlantis. Anyhow, they're a relief after such Devonshire horrors as Meavy and Hoo Meavy, which are like the lisping of babies. Sir Lionel thought the "derivations" of such names an absorbing subject! But living in the East so long has made him quixotically patriotic.

Here and there we passed a whole villageful of white-washed cottages, with purplish-brown moss covering their roofs--rather picturesque; and some of the slate-roofed, stone houses are nice in their way, too; I suppose distinctively Cornish. Not that I care! I'm glad Graylees Castle isn't in Cornwall, which is much too far from town.

There were some mine-shafts about, to mar the scenery, toward the end of the journey, and the road surface was bad compared to what we've had. If the car weren't a very good one, we should have suffered from the bumps. Ellaline Lethbridge, by the way, said something about Cornwall which puzzled me. Suddenly she exclaimed: "Why, the atmosphere here is like Spain! Everything swims in a sea of coloured lights!" I thought she'd spent all her life at school in France, and I mentioned the impression, upon which she replied, with an air of being taken aback: "I mean, from what I have heard of Spain." Can she have had an escapade, I wonder? But that is Dick's business, not mine--at present.

There's a castle in Launceston, which has kept us over to-day, as Sir Lionel has been in these parts before, and can't rest unless we see everything he admired in his youth. I wish he hadn't seen so much, there'd be less for us to do. I hate pottering about, seeing sights in the rain, and it has been trying to rain all day. It's well enough to say that the rain rains alike on the just and the unjust, but that is not true, as some women's hair curls naturally. Ellaline's does, and mine doesn't--except the part I owe for at Truefitt's.

It's an old hotel that we're in, quite pleased to show its age; and I have made rather a beast of myself with some sort of Cornish pasty, which, it seems, is a local favourite, and spoils the peasants' teeth. Cornish cream is good, and, I understand from Sir Lionel, was invented by the Phoenicians. I suppose they drowned their sorrows in it while working in the tin mines one always associates with them.

We go to Tintagel to-morrow, and do some other Cornish things, I don't know what. But write to me at Bideford, as we shall be back in Devonshire in a few days on our way--I fancy--toward Wales. I long to hear what you or Lady Mac may have up your sleeves about the dear Ellaline's papa.

Ever your affectionate

Gwen.

Dick sends his love, and will write.

XVIII

MRS. SENTER TO HER SISTER, MRS. BURDEN

King Arthur's Castle, Tintagel, Aug. 12th

My Dear Sis: I'm sorry I told you to write to Bideford, as we're stopping at this place several days, and I might have had your answer here. However, it's too late now, as by this time your letter is in the post, perhaps, and we may or may not leave to-morrow. I think I can be pretty sure your wire to Dick means that you'd heard from me, and that the news for him is not favourable. If he guessed that I'd been questioning you about the eligibility of his girl, frankly I doubt if he'd have swallowed the bait of your telegram. Even as it was he seemed restive, and didn't yearn to be packed off to Scotland, even for a few days. However, he'd committed himself by reading your message aloud, before he stopped to think; and when Sir Lionel and Ellaline had learned that you were ill, and wanted him, they would have been shocked if he'd refused to go. I comforted him by promising to sow strife between ward and guardian, as often and diligently as possible, until he can get back to look after his own interests, and I shall do my best to keep the promise--not for Dick's sake alone.

He was off within an hour after the telegram, a little sulky, but not too worried, as he has the faith engendered by experience in your recuperative powers. I, naturally, worry still less, as I have a clue to the mystery of your attack which Dick doesn't possess. I quite believe that by the time he reaches your side it will no longer be a bedside, but a sofaside; that you'll be able to smile, hold Dick's hand, and replace Benger's Food with slices of partridge and sips of champagne. By the way, this is the glorious Twelfth. It does seem odd and frumpish not to be in Scotland, but motoring covers a multitude of social sins. Not a word has been said about birds. Our sporting talk is of mufflers, pinions, water-cooled brakes, and chainless drives.

The Tyndals have turned up at this hotel, more gorgeous and more bored than ever, but they have taken a fancy to Ellaline Lethbridge, and I am playing it for all it's worth. It comes in handy at the moment, and I have no conscientious scruples against using millionaires for pawns. They have an impossibly luxurious motorcar. Sir Lionel thinks it vulgar, but they are pleased with it, as it's still a new toy. I have been making a nice little plan for them, which concerns Ellaline. None of them know it yet, but they will soon, and if it had been invented to please Dick (which it wasn't entirely) it couldn't suit him better. You may tell him that, if by any chance he's with you still when you get this.

My mind is busy working the plan out, so that there may be no hitch, but a few unoccupied corners of my brain are wondering what you have discovered about Miss Lethbridge's prospects and antecedents; how, if both are very undesirable, you intend to persuade Dick to let her drop. If I were you I wouldn't waste arguments. Retain him a few days if you can, though I fear the only way to do so is to have a fit. I believe that can be arranged by eating soap and frothing at the mouth, which produces a striking effect, and, though slightly disagreeable, isn't dangerous. But seriously, if he refuses to hear reason, don't worry. I am on the spot to snatch him at the last moment from the mouth of the lionness, provided she opens it wide enough to swallow him.

Your ever useful and affectionate sister,

Gwen.

P. S. The Tyndals have got a cousin of George's with them, a budding millionaire from Eton, who has fallen in love at sight with the Lethbridge. But even Dick can't be jealous of childhood, and it may be helpful.

Taking everything together, I am enjoying myself here, though I'm impatient to get your letter. Cornwall agrees with Sir Lionel's disposition, and he is being delightful to everyone. I think while he is in the right mood I shall repeat to him what a sad failure my marriage was, and how little I really care for gaiety; "Society my lover, solitude my husband," sort of thing. He is the kind of man to like that, and the sweet, soft air of Cornwall is conducive to credulity.

XIX

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

King Arthur's Castle, Tintagel, August 12th