Part 48

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 Faggus, 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 noble 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.

When I wrote you last, I was in the dumps. It was a dull world, and all the tigers I had ever shot were mounted on sackcloth, or stuffed with ashes. Sounds disgusting, doesn't it? But suddenly, the sun broke out, and dulness and tigers fled together. I suppose I must always have been a creature of moods, and didn't know it; for all it took to change gray Purgatorio to blue Paradiso was a few words from a girl. She said she didn't love Dick, and would as soon marry my chauffeur--or words to that effect. Explained everything--or, if she didn't explain, looked at me, and I thought she had explained. I forget now whether she did explain or not, rationally and satisfactorily, but it doesn't matter. There is no one like her, and I have reached a stage of idiocy concerning her which I would blush to describe. I see now that the feeling which a very young man, hardly out of boyhood, dignified with the name of love, is merely a kind of foundation that, when fallen into picturesque ruin, makes a good firm flooring of experience to build second, or real, love, upon. I don't know whether that's well or badly said, but it expresses my state of mind.

If only this second true love of mine were not the daughter of the first and false!

Even now, when I frankly acknowledge to myself that she can make the light of the world for me, there are black moments when I distrust her--distrust my impressions of her; and hate myself for doing both. I used to believe so firmly in heredity that I can't throw aside my old theories in a moment, even for her sake. How comes Ellaline de Nesville's and Fred Lethbridge's daughter to be what this girl seems? That's what I ask myself; but there again your letter helps. You remind me that "our parents are not our only ancestors."

But enough of all this rhapsodizing and doubting. There's nothing definite to tell you, except that she has said she doesn't care for Dick Burden, and that, generally speaking, if appearances are against her, I must kindly not judge by them.

"Give her the benefit of the doubt as long as you can," you say. But, thank heaven I can do more. I give her the benefit of not doubting at all, except in those black moments I have confessed to you.

We have had some good road adventures together, and she has proved herself a thorough sportswoman, as well as a jewel of a companion; but, of course, I haven't had her often to myself. Mrs. Senter and Dick Burden are still of the party, and say nothing about future plans, though there was a vague understanding when they first came that they were asked for a fortnight. They seem to be enjoying themselves, so I suppose I ought to be pleased; and Mrs. Senter is agreeable to everybody, though sometimes it has occurred to me that she and Ellaline don't hit it off invariably. Still, I may be mistaken. She praises Ellaline, and seems anxious to throw her into Dick's society, which presumably she wouldn't do if she didn't like the girl.

Dick did run up to Scotland to see his mother for a few days, and I thought, as Mrs. Burden sent for him on account of her health, he might have to stay on. But no such luck. He was back almost indecently soon--pounced down upon us at Bideford, just in time, perhaps, to prevent my taking your advice before I got it.

The fact is, there was a queer misunderstanding with which I won't bore you, but by which Ellaline was left behind at Tintagel, and I went back alone to fetch her, with the car. She was adorable, even unusually adorable, and I loved her horribly. Yes, that's the only word for it, because it hurt; it hurt so much that next day I felt I couldn't go on bearing the pain, and that I should have to find a chance to tell her. I was pretty sure she would think me a middle-aged and several other kinds of a fool, even though she were polite in words; nevertheless, I might have run the risk, even unspurred by your letter, if Dick hadn't come back looking extremely young and attractively impertinent. She mayn't care a rap for him; she says she doesn't, so I suppose she knows her own mind; still, the contrast between our years is in his favour, and with him under my nose as well as continuously underfoot, I see myself as (I fear) others see me. Yet I may not be able to keep my head if a chance should come. And if I lose it--my head, I mean--that's the time to take your advice.

We have been seeing some fine country of late; Dunster was one of the best bits, also grand old Luttrell Castle, which, by the way, is Hardy's Stancy Castle in "The Laodicean." There are some rare old buildings in Dunster which reek history. The church has a noble rood screen; and the Yarn Market is unique in England; so is the queer old "Nunnery," so-called, and the ancient inn where we stayed.

Cleve Abbey is only a few miles away, and I was surprised at the magnificence of the ruin, which was used as a farmhouse for years, and would be thus degraded still if it weren't for Mr. Luttrell, the owner of Dunster Castle, who has bought and restored it. Cistercian, and as old as the tenth century, with a gatehouse of Richard the Second's day; bits of exquisite encaustic tiling from the demolished church, preserved religiously under glass; and a refectory roof to enchant artists and archaeologists--beautiful hammer-beams and carved angels of Spanish walnut wood, fifteenth century, I think; and some shadowy ghosts of frescoes.

Ellaline was enchanted with the old custodian, who talked much about "heart of oak," and when she ventured to remark that he "looked as if he were made of it," she and the old fellow himself both blushed amusingly.

We came on through pretty, respectable-looking Williton, where lived Reginald Fitz Urse who helped murder St. Thomas of Canterbury, and where everything is extraordinarily ancient except the motor garage.

By this we were among the Quantock Hills; and the differences between Devonshire and Somerset scenery were beginning to be very marked. It's difficult to define such differences; but they're visible in every feature; the shape of the downs; the trees, standing up tall and isolated in "Zummerzet," like landmarks; even the conformation of roads--which, by the way, are extremely good in these regions, a pleasant change for the car after some of her wild hill-climbing and tobogganning feats in North Devon.

Do you remember how, when we were boys, we discussed favourite names, and placed Audrey high in the list among those of women? Here, in the Quantock Hills, they spell it "Audrie," for the saint who patronizes West Quantoxhead; and I have learned that it was the name which the outlawed Doone tribe best loved to give their girl children. I think I used to say I should like to marry a girl named Audrey, but never heard of such a person in real life, until Ellaline informed me, on seeing St. Audrie's, that it's the name of her most intimate friend. I responded by confessing my boyish resolve, and to amuse myself, asked if she would some day introduce me to her friend. "Not for the world!" said she, and blushed. I wish I could make myself believe her jealous. You would probably encourage me to think it!

Wordsworth loved the pleasant region of the Quantock hills, you know, and wrote some charming poems while he and Coleridge lived at Nether Stowey and Alforden; but just to see, in passing, Nether Stowey looks unattractive; and as for Bridgewater, not much farther on (where a red road has turned pink, then pale, then white with chalk), it is as commercial to look at as it is historical to read of. When a boy, in bloodthirsty moods, I used to pore over that history; read how Judge Jeffreys lodged at Bridgewater during the Bloody Assizes (the house is gone now, washed away like an old blood stain); how the moor between Weston and Bridgewater (in these days lined with motors) was lined with Feversham's gibbets after Sedgemoor. Doesn't Macaulay refer to that as "the last fight deserving the name of battle, fought on English soil"? Then there was the story of "Swayne's Jumps," which one connected with Bridgewater. He made his famous escape in Toxley Wood, close by, and to this day the place is marked with three stones. That sort of thing rushes you back in a minute over long distances in time, doesn't it?--as motors rush you forward in a minute over long distances of space.

So to Glastonbury, by way of Poland Hill, looking down over the Sedgemoor plain, Chedzoy Church, on whose southern buttress the battle axes were sharpened, and Weston Zoyland, with its Dutch-sounding name, and Dutch-looking dykes.

I never saw Glastonbury until now, and I'm not sure that, having seen it, I shan't be obliged to hook it on top of Winchester, on my bump of reverence. Not that one can compare its ruined grandeur with well-preserved Winchester, the comparison lies in the oldness and the early beginnings of religion. I believe Glastonbury is the one religious institution in which Briton, Saxon, and Norman all share and share alike; so the place seems to bind our race to a race supplanted. St. Dunstan is the "great man" of the place, because he it was who restored the monastery after Danish wars; but he is a modern celebrity beside Joseph of Arimathea, the founder, who came with eleven companions to bring the Holy Word to Britain. It was the Archangel Gabriel who bade him found a church in honour of the Virgin; and it was a real inspiration of the archangel's; for what one can see of the chapel of St. Joseph is absolutely perfect--a gem of beauty.