Set in Silver Part 35

Sir Lionel was happy in the thought of Pen-y-gwrd, because some of the best memories of his boyhood are a.s.sociated with that little spot in the mountain-land of Wales. He used to come, and climb with an old friend a few years older than himself, a Colonel O'Hagan, who is in Bengal now, and who--he thinks--will like me. Not much chance of our ever meeting!

Just as Sir Lionel finished quoting Charles Kingsley on Pen-y-gwrd, we drew up in front of a low gray stone building; and Kingsley's merry words rang in my ears as the door of the hotel opened. You know I can always remember a verse after having once heard it.

"There is no Inn in Snowden which is not awful dear, Excepting Pen-y-gwrd (you can't p.r.o.nounce it, dear) Which standeth in the meeting of n.o.ble valleys three; One is the Vale of Gwynant, so well beloved by me; One goes to Capel Curig, and I can't mind its name; And one, it is Llanberis Pa.s.s, which all men knew the same."

Never did any gesture give a better welcome than the opening of that door! We'd been too happy to know we were cold with the chill of the mountains--half-seen shapes that hovered close, with white cascades like ghosts flitting ever across their dimness; but when a glow of firelight streamed out to greet us, suddenly we realized that we were s.h.i.+vering.

In the square hall, several men were talking together, men with Oxford voices and open-air faces. In their midst was one man, much older, grizzled and weather-beaten, not a gentleman in the conventional sense, yet in listening to him the others had an air of deference, as if he were a hero to the group. The four or five figures stood out like a virile, impressionist sketch in black and brown on a red background; but as we entered, welcomed by some pink-cheeked young hostess, the ruddy light danced into our eyes. The men in front of the fire moved a little as if to give place, and glances were thrown at us, while for an instant the conversation flagged. Then the group was about to return to its own interests, when suddenly, out from among the rest stepped the grizzled man. He hesitated, as if uncertain whether or no to obey an impulse, then came forward with a modest yet eager air.

"I can't be mistaken, sir, can I?" he asked. "It must be Mr. Pendragon--I beg your pardon, Sir Li----"

"Why, Penrhyn!" cried Sir Lionel, not giving him time to finish; and seizing one of the gnarled brown hands, he shook it as if he never meant to stop. Both their faces had lighted up, and were beaming with joy. The grizzled man seemed to have thrown off fifteen years in a minute, and Sir Lionel looked like a boy of twenty-two. By this time everyone was gazing--staring is too rude a word--and the other faces were beaming as well, as if the most delightful thing had happened. I am sure that Sir Lionel had forgotten the existence of us three females, and had rushed back to the bright dawn of his youth. It was the light of that dawn I saw on his face; and I found my heart beating with excitement, though I didn't know why, or what it was all about.

"By Jove, Penrhyn, to think of your being the first man to greet me on our old stamping-ground!" Sir Lionel exclaimed. "It seems too good to be true. I've been thinking about you all day, and your face is a sight for sore eyes."

"I'd rather see you, sir, than have a thousand pounds drop down on me through the ceiling," retorted the mysterious hero. (I should think so, indeed.)

They shook hands, and beamed on each other a little more, and then Sir Lionel remembered his flock. Turning to us, he introduced the grizzled man.

"This is my old friend and guide, Owen Penrhyn," said he, as if he were drawing us into the circle of a prince. "There never was a guide like him in the Welsh mountains, and never will be again. Jove! it's glorious to find him at the old business still! Though, in our day together, we didn't carry this, eh?"

Then I saw that an Alpine rope was coiled across one of the strong shoulders clad in rough tweed, and that the great stout boots were strikingly trimmed with huge bright nails.

"It's like Sir Lionel to put the praise on me," protested the dear old thing, flus.h.i.+ng up like a boy. "Why, he was the best amateur" (he p.r.o.nounced the word quaintly and I loved him for it) "I ever see, or ever expect to see. If he'd gone on as he began, he'd a' broken the noses of some of us guides. Pity he had to go to furrin' parts! And I'll be bound he never told you, ladies, of his first ascent of Twll Ddu, or how he pulled me up out of the torrent by sheer strength, when my fingers were that cold I couldn't grip the hand-holds? I'd 'a' fallen clear to the bottom of the Devil's Kitchen if't hadn't been for Mr.

Pendragon, as he was then. And what d' you think, ladies, he says, when I accused him o' savin' my life?"

"What?" I begged to know, forgetting to give my elders a chance to speak first.

"'Tommy rot.' That's his very words. I've never forgot 'em. 'Tommy rot.'"

He beamed on us, and every one in the hall laughed, except perhaps Emily, who smiled doubtfully, not sure whether or no it was to her brother's credit to have remarked "Tommy rot" in such a crisis. But after that, we were all friends, we, and Owen Penrhyn, and the other men, too; for though we didn't really talk to them till dinner, I knew by their eyes that they admired Sir Lionel immensely, and wanted to know us all.

At dinner there was splendid climbing talk, and we heard further tales of Sir Lionel's prowess; among others of a great jump he had made from one rock of Trifaen to the other, with only a little square of rock to light upon, just on the edge of a sheer precipice; a record feat, according to the old guide. And while the men and we women listened, the wind outside raged so wildly that now and then it seemed as if a giant fell against the house and afterward dashed pebbles against it in his fury. Then again the wind-giant would rush by the hotel in his hundred-horse-power motor-car, tooting his horn as he went. It was nice sitting there in the comfortable dining-room, listening to the climbing stories, while the wind roared and couldn't get at us, and the whole valley was full of marching rain!

Now I am writing in my bedroom, close to a gossipy little fire, which is a delightful companion, although August has still a day to run. Mrs.

Senter is having her beauty sleep, I suppose; and I should think Mrs.

Norton is reading Young's "Night Thoughts." I know she takes the book about with her. The men are still in the hall downstairs, very happy, if one can judge by the laughter that breaks out often; and I am as happy as I can be with the thought of d.i.c.k probably appearing at Chester day after to-morrow night. But I won't let myself think of that too much, because it isn't certain that he will get back then, and it _is_ certain that there will be some word from you, which may change everything. You see what faith your girl has in you! But wouldn't she be ungrateful if she hadn't?

There is one other thing which has been bothering me in odd moments, though, and I wish I had asked your advice about that, too, in the letter to be answered at Chester; but the idea hadn't occurred to me then. It suddenly sprang into my mind last night when I was lying in bed, not able to go to sleep.

Ought I to repeat to Ellaline what Mrs. Senter told me about the money?

I don't mean the part about the poor child's father and mother. No one but a thorough Pig of the Universe would tell a daughter perfectly unnecessary horrors, like those; but about her not being an heiress in her own right, and depending on Sir Lionel for everything except two hundred a year?

If I were really in her place, instead of pretending to be, I should want to know, and shouldn't thank anyone for keeping the truth from me.

It would be unbearable to accept generosity from a man, thinking I might be as extravagant as I liked, with my own money. But it is difficult to make up my mind, on account of the _fiance_. You, being French yourself, know how it is with French officers who fall in love with a girl who has no _dot_, or only a small one. Most of them, if poor themselves, would slap their foreheads and despair, but think it their duty to their country to forget the girl.

I'm afraid the adorable Honore is rather poor; and though no normal young man, especially a Frenchman, could help being fascinated by Ellaline if thrown in her society, many normal young men would be more ready to let themselves go, believing her to be an heiress. Perhaps Honore wouldn't have proposed if he hadn't thought Ellaline a very rich as well as a very pretty girl. Perhaps if he found out even now, at the eleventh hour, that she depends upon a person whom she has just slighted and deceived, he might desert her.

Wouldn't that be awful? Not that I think Ellaline would tell him, if I wrote to her exactly what I've heard from Mrs. Senter. Fascinating as she is, it isn't in her to be frank. I'm sure she would keep the secret until after her lover was safely her husband; but she would be upset and even more anxious about the future than she is.

I don't know what to do. And in the last letter I had from her she scolded me for continually praising Sir Lionel. She is sure I am mistaken about him, and that, if I can see any good under the dragon's scales the evil monster must have hypnotized me. She really seemed quite vexed. Maybe I shall hear from her at Chester. I hope so, as I'm rather worried because she didn't write to the last address I was able to give.

Whatever message your expected letter or telegram has for me, I will answer it at once.

Good night, dearest little Dame Wisdom, with more love than ever from

Your

Audrie.

I'm so glad we are staying here all day to-morrow and to-morrow night.

There are dozens of beautiful things to see; and besides, it is as safe as the inmost circle of a labyrinth from d.i.c.k, who has no clue.

x.x.xII

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

_Queen's Hotel, Chester_, _September 1st_

We've been in Chester for several hours, my Angel; and not only is there no d.i.c.k (for which heaven be praised), but no word from you, which worries me. Still, I shan't be really anxious unless on my second call at the post-office (to be made by and by) I draw a blank again. At least, I didn't draw a blank exactly when I went there before. I drew a letter from Ellaline, with vexing news. Honore de Guesclin is in a sc.r.a.pe. He could get leave now, and come to her, but he and some of his brother officers have been amusing themselves by learning to play bridge. Naturally, those who played best came off best, and Honore wasn't one of them. He has borrowed of a money-lender, and is in a hole, because the fellow won't let him have more, and is bothering for a settlement. Also, Honore owes some of his friends, and hasn't a penny to pay up or start on a journey. Ellaline doesn't seem to think much about the moral aspect of her Honore's affairs (you see, she knows nothing of what her mother must have suffered from her father's _penchant_), but she is in a great state of nerves about the delay. She has always been told it was bad luck to put off a wedding, and besides, she finds Scotland _triste_, and wants to be married.

You can guess to what all this is leading up! I must get money, somehow, anyhow, but a great deal, and immediately. I must send her at least four thousand francs by return of post; five thousand, if possible; but if "Monsieur le Dragon is too stingy to give more, at all events nothing less will be of the least use."

It's easy for her to dictate terms. She hasn't got to face the very upright and honourable gentleman whom, she calls the Dragon, whereas I have; and I've already shamed myself by asking for large sums at short intervals. I simply can't go to him here and "hold him up" for four thousand francs. It would be monstrous, and if he asked what I wanted to do with it (as it seems to me it would be only his duty to ask the young schoolgirl he thinks me) I should be able to find no decent excuse, as I have no expenses beyond those he pays. However, I shall have to do something desperate, I don't know yet what. He has given me some pretty things, and though I hate the thought of parting with them in such a way, as they're Ellaline's by rights, it's no more than fair she should benefit by them in the hour of her need. Poor girl! Of course there's nothing for it but she must marry the young man now, yet it seems a poor outlook, doesn't it?

She explains in a P. S. that she was too upset to write me to the last place, as she hadn't heard from Honore when she expected; but now, if the money is forthcoming all right he will start for Scotland as soon as possible after receiving it from her, and settling up. I have calculated times as well as I could, and fancy that if I can in any way send her a post-office order from Chester to-morrow, she and Honore may be able to marry in a week. Once I shouldn't have believed I could be sorry to have my "princ.i.p.al" arrive and take back her own part; but now, if it weren't for d.i.c.k Burden, it would actually be a temptation to me to delay Ellaline's appearance on the scene. Of course, I wouldn't be such a wicked wretch as to yield to the temptation, but I should feel it.

Ellaline promises to telegraph the moment Honore arrives, and again when they're safely married, so as to give the understudy plenty of time to scuttle off the stage, before the guardian is informed that his charge has been taken off his hands. She doesn't want to see Sir Lionel, she says, but she and Honore will write him unless, when Honore has consulted a Scottish solicitor (if that's what they're called), it's considered wiser for the lawyer himself to write. So you see, this makes it harder for me to know what to do about repeating Mrs. Senter's story.

If Ellaline understood her position she would, perhaps, think it better to come with her bridegroom and throw herself at her injured guardian's feet.

What a nice world this would be if your affairs didn't get so hopelessly tangled up with other people's that you can hardly call your conscience your own! And never have I realized the niceness of the world more fully than in the last few days.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "_Its twenty-one towers and turrets still dominate bridge and river_"]

Yesterday I had a little easy climb with Sir Lionel and the old guide, and saw the glory of Llanberis Pa.s.s. To-day, on the wings of Apollo, we have flown through amazingly interesting country. It really did seem like flying, because the road surface was so like velvet stretched over elastic steel that eyesight alone told us we touched earth.

Miles aren't tyrants any more, but slaves to the mastery of good motor-cars; and any motoring Monte Cristo can fairly exclaim, "The world is mine!" (N. B. This isn't original. Sir Lionel said it at lunch.) From North Wales to Ches.h.i.+re looks a long run on the map, but motors are made to live down maps; and we arrived in this astonis.h.i.+ngly perfect old town early in the afternoon, coming by way of Capel Curig (whence we saw Snowdon crowned with a double rainbow), sweet Bettws-y-coed, or "station in the wood," and so down the river valley in a bird swoop, to n.o.ble Conway, with its castle that was once a famous Welsh fortress. Now, in piping days of peace, its towers and turrets still dominate bridge and river, and the great pile is as fine, in its way, as Carca.s.sone. Don't you remember, it was from Conway Castle that Richard the Second started out to meet Bolingbroke?

We stopped to take photographs and buy a few small pearls from the "pearl-breeding river"; and while we gazed our fill at the mighty monument, we learned from a guardian that in old days a certain Lady Erskine hired the castle for six s.h.i.+llings and eightpence a year, in addition to a "dish of fish for the Queen," when her majesty chanced to pa.s.s!

At Colwyn Bay we lunched early, at a charming hotel in a garden above a sea of Mediterranean blue; and the red-roofed town along the sh.o.r.e reminded me of Dinard. After that, coming by Abergele and Rhuddlan to Chester, the way was no longer through a region of romance and untouched beauty. There were quarries, which politely though firmly announced their hours of blasting, and road users accommodated themselves to the rules as best they might. But there were castles on the heights, as well as quarries in the depths; and though Sir Lionel says that inhabitants of Wales never think of turning to look at such a "common object of the seash.o.r.e" as a mere castle, I haven't come to that state of mind yet.

Near Rhuddlan there was a tremendous battle at the end of the seventh century, out of which so many fine songs have been made that the Welsh princes and n.o.bles who were slain have never lost their glory. There's a castle, too (of course), but the best thing that happened for us was a gloriously straight road like a road of France, and as n.o.body was on it save ourselves at that moment, we did about six miles before the next moment, when others might claim a share. I believe the Holyhead road is very celebrated.