Set in Silver Part 33

Doesn't this account for everything that looked strange, and for all that appeared cold-hearted, almost cruel, in Sir Lionel to Ellaline, who had heard the wrong side of the story, certainly from Madame de Blanchemain--a silly woman, I fancy--and perhaps even from Madame de Maluet, whose favourite pupil Ellaline the First was?

No wonder Sir Lionel didn't write to the child, or want her to write to him, or send her photograph, or anything! And no wonder he dreaded having her society thrust on him when Madame de Maluet hinted that it was hardly decent to keep his ward at school any longer. I even understand now why, when I show the slightest sign of flirtatiousness or skittishness, he stiffens up, and draws into his sh.e.l.l.

I very politely let Mrs. Senter see that I appreciated her true disinterestedness in repeating to me this tragic family history; and of course she was a cat twice over to do it. At the same time, I never liked her so much in my life, because it was so splendid to have Sir Lionel not only justified (he hardly needed that with me, at this stage) but haloed. I think he has behaved like a saint on a stained-gla.s.s window, don't you?

I have interrupted my letter about places and things tremendously, to tell you the story as it was told to me; but it seemed to come in appropriately, and I wanted you to know it, so that you might begin to appreciate Sir Lionel at his true worth in case you have been doubting him a little up to now.

Everyone has gone down to dinner, I'm afraid, and I must go, too, because of the Abbey afterward, and not keeping them waiting; but perhaps, if I skip soup and fish, I may stop long enough to add that after Gloucester we went to quaint old Ross, sacred to the memory of "The Man of Ross," who was so revered that a most lovely view over the River Wye has been named for him. We had lunch there, at a hotel where I should love to stay, and then pa.s.sed on, along a perfect road, down the Wye, till we came to Kerne Bridge, near Goodrich Castle. There we got out, leaving Buddha as the G.o.d in the car, and walked for half a mile along a romantic path to the ruined castle. It was one of the first built in England, and there are early Norman parts of it still intact, and incredibly strong looking, as if they meant to last another thousand years. I was so interested in it, and wish whoever it may concern would leave the castle to me in his will. I would fix up a room or two and bring you there, and we'd have that exquisite view always under our eyes. As for servants, we could employ ghosts.

The Wye is even more charming as a river and as a valley than we used to imagine when we wanted to "do" England, before it burst upon us that most of the wherewithal was used up. Nothing could be more dreamy and daintily pretty than landscape and waterscape, though here and there is a bit which might be gray and grim if the beetling rocks weren't hatted with moss and mantled with delicate green trees. Wherever there is a boulder in the river, the bright water laughs and plays round it, as if forbidding it to look stern.

The real way to see the Wye isn't by motor, but by boat, I am sure, even though that may sound treacherous to Apollo and disloyal to my petrol; but we did the best we could, and went out of our way some miles to see Symond's Yat, a queer, delightful, white village on a part of the river which is particularly divine. There's a splendid rock, and the Yat is the rock, as well as the village. Also there's a cave; but I wasn't sorry not to stop and go in, lest Mrs. Senter might seize the opportunity of telling me some other fearsome tale, less welcome than the last.

In old days it used to take a week by coach from London to Monmouth.

Now, with a motor, I dare say we could do it in one long, long day, if we tried. Only it would be silly to try, because one wouldn't see anything, and would make oneself a nuisance as a "road hog" to everybody one met or pa.s.sed. It was Monmouth we came to next, after "digressing"

to Symond's Yat, and as it was nearly evening by that time, Sir Lionel decided to stay the night. He meant to start again in the morning; but Monmouth Castle, towering out of the river, was so fine that it was a pity to leave it unvisited, particularly as Henry V., a special hero of Sir Lionel's (mine, too!) was born there. Then we took an unplanned eight-mile run to Raglan Castle, a magnificently impressive ruin; and that is why we arrived so late to-day at Tintern.

This letter has grown like Jack's beanstalk, until I think I'd better post it on my way to dinner, instead of adding rhapsodies about moonlight in the Abbey. I won't forget to put them in though, next time I write, which will be almost immediately--if not sooner.

Your even more loving than loquacious

Audrie.

XXVIII

MRS. SENTER TO HER SISTER, MRS. BURDEN

_Tintern Abbey_

My Dear Sis: He came, the moon saw, and I--didn't conquer!

You know what I mean? I'm sure you remember what I hoped to do at Tintern Abbey by the light of the moon; and if you are the good elder sister I think you are, I trust you prayed for my success. If you did, don't mind too much about the prayer not being answered, but try again, and give Sir Lionel "absent treatments," and all that sort of thing, because, if the moon had been properly turned on, he might have been brought to the point. For I look my best by moonlight, and have a great gift of pathos in a white light--like heroines of melodrama who always have themselves followed about by it on purpose--or else by a patch of snow. But the moon was only on at half-c.o.c.k, and didn't work well, and after we had stubbed our toes on several things in dark shadows among the ruins, I just folded up my plan of campaign, and put it into my pocket until next time.

The pity of it!--when I had been at a lot of trouble to persuade Mrs.

Norton that it would be damp in the Abbey, and that there exists a special kind of bat which haunts ruins and is consumed by an invincible desire to nest in the front hair. So she stopped in the hotel; and as for Miss Lethbridge, I knew I could trust d.i.c.k to look after her.

But--well, it can't be helped, and the moon is growing bigger and brighter every night. I don't know whether there were any toe-stubbing incidents in the ranks of the rear-guard; but something must have happened, for mademoiselle has come home looking _stricken_. I'm dying to hear what's the matter, but d.i.c.k won't tell. Perhaps she swallowed a bat!

Yours (would that I could say Sir L.'s) ever lovingly,

Gwen.

XXIX

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

_Tintern Abbey_, _Same night_

After all, I'm writing again, darling mother. I do think that d.i.c.k is an unmitigated cad. I told him so, and he said it was only because I was so unkind to him, and he was determined I shouldn't "chuck" him. He is hateful! It's too horrid to be obliged to obey d.i.c.k Burden's orders, just for Ellaline's sake, when if it weren't for her I could not only tell him what I think of him, but have him sent away in disgrace. Sir Lionel would thrash him, I believe, if he knew--but it's useless to talk about that. And as d.i.c.k gracefully reminds me, the pot can't call the kettle black. I am the pot. Oh!

I was in such a happy mood when we went into the Abbey, and so delighted that we were able to be there by moonlight, dreaming as little of what would happen as Red Riding Hood did before she met the wolf.

Sir Lionel and I started together, somehow, but the minute we were in the ruins Mrs. Senter called him to ask a question about the tombs that break the soft green carpet of gra.s.s in the long aisles. Instantly d.i.c.k pounced on me, just as his aunt did in the cave the other day, and I could only have got away from him by showing that I'd rather be with Sir Lionel--which, of course, I wouldn't do.

d.i.c.k began at once accusing me of avoiding him, and keeping out of his way on purpose when he tried to speak with me alone, ever since he came back from Scotland; and I retorted flippantly: "Oh, have you only noticed that since then?"

But in a minute I wished I hadn't defied him. He said, if I wanted him to be considerate, making him angry wasn't the right way to set about it; and that, if I had been in his power before, I was a good deal deeper in now.

Still, I wasn't so very frightened, because I'm used to his threats, and I thought he was only "bluffing"; so I bluffed back, and laughed, saying that it didn't suit his style to be melodramatic.

"You make me want to shake you," he said, crossly.

"I know that," said I. And then he burst like a thunder-cloud--at least, his news did; the news he had been wanting to tell me since Bideford.

When he was in Scotland, _he saw Ellaline_. She had arrived with those McNamarras I told you about, and their place must be near the one where d.i.c.k's mother is visiting. He recognized her from that photograph of the school garden-party (where he saw my picture, too, you know, and was able to find out my name, and where we live in Versailles). That is, he thought he couldn't be mistaken, but made sure by inquiring, until he hit upon someone who could tell him that a Mademoiselle de Nesville had come to stay with Mrs. and Miss McNamarra. Of course, he couldn't have known that Ellaline had taken the name of de Nesville, but as he had heard that de Nesville was her mother's maiden name, it wasn't difficult for a budding Sherlock Holmes to put two and two together.

You see how much worse the position is now, both for Ellaline and me, and that the little wretch didn't exaggerate when he boasted that I'm more "in his power" than ever. What a misfortune that Ellaline should have come to Scotland--so near where we shall be, too, if we go to the Roman Wall! He has only to tell the whole thing to Sir Lionel, and say: "If you don't believe it, run up to such and such a place, and there you will see the real Ellaline Lethbridge, whom perhaps you may recognize from her likeness to your cousin, her dead French mother."

If only Ellaline were safely married! But she can't be yet, for days and days, I'm afraid. She was to have written or telegraphed me at Gloucester, if there were any chance of her soldier lover getting away sooner than last expected; but I had no word from her at all, at the Poste Restante there.

All that sounds bad enough for me, doesn't it? But there's worse to come. The wretch swears he will (as he calls it), "give the show away"

to Sir Lionel to-morrow if I don't tell Sir L. myself that I have fallen in love with d.i.c.k.

I said that Sir Lionel wouldn't believe me if I did, because I'd told him at Torquay I wasn't in love with d.i.c.k. That admission slipped out, and Sherlock Holmes caught at it. "Ah, I thought you'd done something to put him off the scent!" he flashed out. "I call that downright treacherous of you; and all the more I'll hold you down to your bargain this time. I said I'd speak to-morrow unless you did what I told you to do, but now I say I'll speak this minute, if you don't promise by all that's sacred to ask him for his consent to-morrow. I'll shout to him now. One--two--three!"

"Yes, yes, I will!" I cried--because d.i.c.k had worked himself up to such a fury that I saw that he meant what he said.

"I shall know fast enough whether you keep your word or not," he growled. "And if you don't, you understand just what you have to expect."

If I hadn't given in to Ellaline! I ought to have known that nothing but trouble could come of it. Yet no--I won't wish it undone. I can't! No matter what happens, I shall never really regret what gave me the chance of meeting a man like Sir Lionel. I don't think there is another in the world. And to-morrow I am to have the honour of informing him that I'm in love with that little worm, d.i.c.k Burden. Having seen the sun, I love a flicker of phosphorus on a sulphur match.

Do write me the minute you get this, won't you? No, telegraph if you can think of anything consoling to say. Poste Restante, Chester.

Your frightened and loving

Audrie.

x.x.x