Set in Silver 25From Sir Lionel Pendragon to Colonel Patrick O'Hagan
18
Literature · Romance
Set in Silver 25
From Sir Lionel Pendragon to Colonel Patrick O'Hagan
WilliamsonEnglish
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 archæologists--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.
We came to Glastonbury in the afternoon, having lunched at a nice old coaching house in Bridgewater, and after pausing for a look at the Abbot's kitchen, I drove straight to the George, which I had heard of as being the Pilgrim's Inn of ancient times, and the best bit of domestic architecture in the town. The idea was to have tea there--an indulgence for which Emily clamoured, being half choked with chalky dust; but the house was so singularly beautiful and interesting that it seemed a crime not to sleep in it. The front is a gorgeous mass of carved panelling; in the middle rises a four-centred gateway, and on the left is a marvel of a bow window, with a bay for every story. We went up a newel stairway to look at rooms, and one in which Henry VIII. slept a night fell to my share--not because I was selfishly ready to take the best, however, for there were several others more curious, if not more interesting.
Our quarters for the night selected, we went out sight-seeing, on foot, first taking the Abbey and Chapel of the Blessed Virgin, corruptly known as St. Joseph's. It's a good thing, Pat, that you didn't get your youthful way, and annex Emily, because you have, or had, a "strong weakness" for ruins, and she doesn't appreciate them in any form. The difference between her expression and Ellaline's while gazing at what is left of Glastonbury's glory was a study. Emily's bored, yet conscientiously desiring to be interested; the girl's rapt, radiant. And, indeed, these remnants of beauty are pathetically fair enough to draw tears to such young eyes as hers. They are even more majestic in ruin than they could have been in noblest prime, I think, because those broken arches have the splendour of classic tragedy. They are like a poem of which a few immortal lines are lost.
In the warm light of the August afternoon the old stones, pillars, and arches of Glastonbury Abbey seemed to be carved in stained ivory, a bas relief on lapis lazuli. We lingered until our pretty Mrs. Senter got the look in her eyes of one who has stood too long in high-heeled boots, and Emily asked plaintively whether we were not going to see the Glastonbury Thorn. It appeared that she had promised to write her tame parson about it, and send him a sprig for planting; and she was much disappointed when she heard that the "original thorn," Joseph of Arimathea's blossoming staff, had been destroyed centuries ago on Weary-All Hill, where the saintly band rested on the way to Glastonbury. One trunk of the famous tree was hewed down by a Puritan in Elizabeth's day (I'm happy to tell you he lost a leg and an eye in the act), while the second and only remaining one was destroyed by a "military saint" in the great rebellion. "What disagreeable things saints have done!" exclaimed Ellaline, which shocked Emily. "There have been very few military ones, anyhow," my sister returned, mildly, with a slightly reproachful glance at me, aimed at my spiritual failures. I cheered her up by promising that I would get her a sprig of thorn at Wells, and telling her how all the transplanted slips have the habit of blossoming on Christmas Day, old style--January 6th, isn't it?
Our next "sight" was the museum in the Market Place; and you may take my word for it, Pat, there's nothing much more interesting to be found the world over, if you're interested in antiquities, as you and I are. There's the Alfred jewel, which, of course, the women liked best; and next in their estimation came the bronze mirrors, the queer pins and big needles, the rouge pots and the hair curlers (which Emily gravely pronounced to be curiously like Hinde's) of the Celtic beauties who lived before the visits of those clever commercial travellers, the Phoenicians. These relics were taken from the prehistoric village at Godnet Marsh, discovered only about sixteen years ago, and they were found with others far more important; for instance, a big, clumsy canoe of black oak, which was soft as soap when it first came up out of its hiding-place in the thick peat bog, but was hardened afterward by various scientific tricks. I confess to more interest in the dice boxes and dice, some of which the sly old Celtic foxes had loaded. Cheating isn't precisely a modern device, it seems!
After the museum, I took the party to a jeweller's I'd heard of, and bought some copies of the sacred treasures: a replica of the Alfred jewel; a silver bowl, exactly imitating a bronze one from the lake village--probably of Greek manufacture, brought over by Phoenicians--and other quaint and interesting things. Ellaline is to have the jewel; the silver bowl is to be a "sop" to Mrs. Senter; and for Emily is a tiny model oven, such as the Phoenicians taught the Celts to make and Cornish cottagers bake their bread in to this day.
There was the old Red Lion Inn to see, too, where Abbot Whiting lay the night before his execution, which was a murder; and the Women's Almshouses, and a dozen other things which tourists are expected to see besides many dozen which they are not; and it is for the latter that Ellaline and I have a predilection. She and I are also fond of believing any story which is interesting, therefore we are both invaluable victims to the custodians of museums and other show places. The nice old fellow in the Glastonbury museum was delighted with our faith, which would not only have moved mountains, but transported to such mountains any historic celebrity necessary to impress the picture. We believed in the burying of the original Chalice, from which to this hour flows a pure spring, the Holy, or Blood Spring. We believe that St. Patrick was born, and died on the Isle of Avalon; and more firmly than all, that both Arthur and Guinevere were buried under St. Mary's (or St. Joseph's) Chapel. Why, didn't the custodian point out to us, in the picture of an ancient plan of the chapel, the actual spot where their bodies lay? What could we ask more than that? But if we go to Scotland next year, we shall doubtless believe just as firmly that Arthur rests there, in spite of the record at Glastonbury, in spite even of Tennyson:
"... the island valley of Avilon;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."
Does that come back to you, from Arthur's speech to Bedévere? but he died of the "grievous wound" after all; and the custodian goes so far as to assert, solemnly, that when the coffins were opened in the days of Henry II. the bodies of the king and queen were "very beautiful to see, for a moment, untouched by time; but that in a second, as the people looked, their dust crumbled away, all except the splendid golden hair of Guinevere, which remained to tell of her glory, for many a long year, until it was stolen, and disappeared forever."
That is a good story, anyhow, and adds to the curious, almost magical enchantment of Glastonbury. Ellaline says that the very name of Glastonbury will after this ring in her ears like the sound of fairy bells, chiming over the lost lake that ringed the Isle of Avalon. You know, I dare say, that Glastonbury is supposed to have its derivation from British "Ynyswytryn," "Inis vitrea," the "Island of Glass," because the water surrounding it was blue and clear as crystal. So many golden apples grew in the island orchards, that it became also the Isle of Avalon, from "Avalla" an apple.
Even now, the queer conical, isolated hills of the neighbourhood are called islands, and it is easy to picture Glastonbury as an isle rising among lesser ones out of a bright, azure estuary stretching away and away to the Bristol Channel. The Saxon king, Edgar, whose royal castle has given the name to the town of Edgarly, must have had a fine view in his day. And now you have only to go up Tor Hill (a landmark for miles round, with its tower of St. Michael on top like the watch-dog of a dead king) to see Wells Cathedral to the north, the blue Mendips east and west, and cutting the range, a mysterious break, like a door, which means the wild pass of Cheddar; far in the west, a gleam of the Bristol Channel; south, the Polden Hills, the Dorset heights beyond, and the Quantocks overtopped by the peak of Dunkery Beacon. I think one would have to go far to see more of England in one sweep of the eye. Indeed, foreigners might come, make a hasty ascent of Tor Hill, and take the next boat back to their own country, telling their friends not untruthfully that they had "seen England."
At night, in the room of Henry VIII., I dreamed I saw Anne Boleyn, with Ellaline's face, which smiled at me, the lips saying: "I'll forgive you, if you'll forgive me." I hope that's a good omen?
We gave ourselves twenty-four hours in Glastonbury and the neighbourhood, running out to the prehistoric village at Godney Marsh, to see the excavations, and to Meare (by the by, the very causeway over which our motor spun was built of stones from the Abbey!) then on, toward evening, to Wells. There have been surprisingly blue evenings lately, to which Ellaline has drawn my attention; and her simile on the way to Wells, that we seemed to be driving through a pelting rain of violets, I thought rather pretty. What shall I do, I wonder, if I have to part with her--give her to some other man, perhaps? It hardly bears thinking of. And yet it may easily happen. It seems to me that every man who sees her must want her; and the feeling doesn't make for peace or comfort. I suppose I might be different, and less the brute, if I hadn't lived so long in the East, growing used to Eastern customs; but as it is, when I see some man's eyes light upon her face and rest there in surprised admiration, I want to snatch her up, wrap her in a veil, and run off with her in my arms. Beastly, isn't it? I have no such feeling, however, in connection with Mrs. Senter, although she is very striking, and excites a good deal of attention wherever we go.
I haven't seen Emily so happy since we have been motoring as she is at Wells, and it seems almost criminal to tear her away, though I fear I shall have to do so to-morrow. She says that, except at home, she has never felt such "an air of religious calm" as at Wells; and there's something in the feeling which I can understand, though I must admit I don't go about the world searching for religious calm.
Certainly one can't imagine a crime being committed at Wells, and a wicked thought would be rather wickeder here than elsewhere. Not that the Cathedral is to me alluringly beautiful (I believe it ranks high, and is even exalted as the "best secular church" to be found the world over, the west front being glorified as a masterpiece beyond all others in England); at first sight it vaguely disappointed me. I am no expert judge of architecture, and don't pretend to be; still, I dare to have my likes and dislikes; and it was not until I'd walked round the cathedral many times, stood and stared at it, and gone up heights to survey it from different points of view, that I began to warm toward it mightily. Now, I find it eminently noble, yet not so lovable as some which my memory cherishes, some not perhaps as architecturally or artistically perfect. But you know what individuality buildings have, especially those which are vast and dominating; and Wells is unique. As the common people say, it "wants knowing."
Emily, usually sparing of adjectives, pronounces the Lady Chapel "a dream," and I don't think she exaggerates; but for myself, the things least forgettable in the Cathedral will be the Chapter House Stairs and the beautiful fourteenth century glass. The ascent of the staircase is an exquisite experience, and, as Ellaline cried out in her joy, "it must be like going up a snow mountain by moonlight." The old clock in the transept, too, holds one hypnotized, waiting always to see what will happen next. Peter Lightfoot, the Glastonbury monk, who made it in the fourteenth century, must have had a lively imagination, and have loved excitement--"something doing," as Americans say. Ellaline and I are overcome with sympathy for one of four desperately fighting knights who never gets the colours. Hard luck to work like that for hundreds of years, and never succeed!
At last Emily has seen the Glastonbury Thorn, and obtained her slip, as an exceptional favour. She longs for Christmas to come, to know if it will bloom, as it does regularly every year in the gardens of the Bishop's palace.
Until now I couldn't have imagined envying a bishop, but to live in the palace at Wells, and own the palace gardens for life, would be worth a few sacrifices. I should think there could have been never a more poetical or charming garden on earth--not excepting Eden or a few Indian gardens I have admired. It is perfect; as Ellaline says, even pluperfect, in its contrast with the gray ruins, and the mellow, ancient house. There is an embattled wall, which makes a terrace walk, above the fair lawns and jewelled flower beds, and from the top as you walk, the hills girdling the old city go waving in gradations of blue to an opal horizon. There's an old Well House in the garden, which is one of its chief ornaments, and has adorned it since the fifteenth century. Bishop Beckington--the Beckington of the punning rebus (Beacon and Tun) built it to supply water to the city. But there were plenty of other springs, always--seven famous ones--which suggested the name, Wells; and had they not existed, perhaps King Ina (who flourished in the eighth century, and was mixed up in Glastonbury history) would not have founded a cathedral here. Blessed be the seven wells, then, for without them one of the fairest places in England might never have existed.
I had heard of the celebrated swans, and as I knew she would like them, I determined to pay the birds a morning call (the day after we arrived) with Ellaline. From any obtrusion of Emily's I felt safe, for her mind whirls here with old oak carvings, Flaxman sculptures, ancient vestments, carven tombs, and, above all, choral services. Indeed, Emily is never at her best except in a cathedral; and I knew that swans would not be ecclesiastic enough to please her. But of Mrs. Senter and Dick I had to be more wary; for the lady, no doubt because she is my guest, feels it polite to give me a good deal of her society; and Dick naturally considers that Ellaline's time is wasted on me, especially when he isn't by to alleviate the boredom.
My one chance was to lure the girl out early, for neither Mrs. Senter nor Burden loves the first morning hours. With all the guilty tremors of one who cooks an intrigue, I sent a note to Ellaline's room, just after she had gone to bed, asking if she were "sporting enough" to come for a walk at seven-thirty. I thought that way of putting the invitation would fetch her, and it did; but perhaps a card I enclosed had something to do with her prompt acceptance. I printed, in my best imitation of engraved text, "Mr. and Mrs. Swan and the Misses Cygnet, At Home, In the Moat, Bishop's Palace. Ring for Refreshments. R.S.V.P."
Five minutes later came down a scrap of paper (all she had, no doubt) with a little pencil scrawl, saying that Miss Lethbridge was delighted to accept Mr. and Mrs. Swan's kind invitation for seven-thirty, and thanked Sir Lionel Pendragon for obtaining it. I have put this away with my treasures, of course.
I was at the place appointed before the time, and she didn't keep me waiting. As a matter of fact, she's always extraordinarily prompt. Modern school training, I suppose, as Ellaline the First was never known to be in time for anything. And the swans were worth getting up for. They are magnificent creatures; but, unlike many professional beauties, they're as clever as they are handsome. For generations they and their ancestors have been trained to ring a bell when they breakfast; and to see the whole family, mother, babies, and cousins, breasting the clear, lilied water, and waiting in a dignified, not too eager, row while father pulls a bell in the old palace wall, tweaking the string impatiently with his beak, is better than any theatrical performance of this season in London.
Ellaline was entranced, and would have the play played over and over again by the swan actors and the stage manageress, a kindly and polite woman who conducted the entertainment. When we were both ashamed to beg for more, Ellaline suggested a walk round the town, which is of an unspoiled beauty, and you can guess whether or no I was glad to be her guide. I'm certain I should have proposed before breakfast (I wonder if any other man was ever in love enough for that?) if Dick Burden and his aunt hadn't turned a corner at the critical moment. But perhaps it was just as well. In spite of what you say, I am certain she would have refused me.
Nevertheless, for your encouragement, my dear old Pat, I am
