Set in Silver Part 9

"That is true, and I only saw them once, even then," he admitted. "But Mrs. Tupper had been here for a good many years, engaged in the most delightful work, which you will hear about by and by; and I'm sure she is here still, and will be for many more years to come, because I don't want to imagine the place without her."

Mrs. Norton said no more, and her brother knocked on the door of the farmhouse, which stood hospitably open. In a minute, a dear old white-haired lady appeared, and instantly her face lighted up.

"Why, if it isn't Mr. Pendragon--I mean Sir Lionel--come back to see us again!" said she.

Sir Lionel grew red with pleasure, at being remembered by her, for apparently he hadn't at all expected it. He seems to forget that he is a celebrity, and generally doesn't like being reminded of the fact, but he was pleased that Mrs. Tupper had read about him in the papers from time to time, and had never forgotten his face.

She said she would be delighted to provide us with lunch, if we didn't mind a simple one; and then she would have gone on to say something which would have given the "surprise" away, if Sir Lionel hadn't stopped her.

We had delicious country things to eat, with real Surrey cream and apple dumplings. They did taste good after the elaborate French cooking in London, by way of contrast! Then, when we had finished, Sir Lionel said, "Now, Mrs. Tupper, can you take us for a stroll round the farm?"

That didn't sound exciting, did it? We walked out, and it seemed a very nice farm, but nothing remarkable. As we wandered toward some sheds, in a field of mangolds, Sir Lionel made us look up at a big hill, and said, "There was a Roman camp there. If you'd stood where you stand now, on a quiet night in those times, you could have heard the clanking of armour or the soldiers quarrelling over their dice. Here Roman Stane Street ran, and chariots used to stop to bring the latest news from Rome to the owner of the villa."

"Was there a villa?" asked Mrs. Norton, who thinks it polite to ask her brother questions, whether she is interested or not.

"Let's take a look into this shed," said he, by way of answer. And, there, protected by that rough roof, was a great stretch of splendid mosaic pavement. It was done in circular compartments of ornamentation, and in one was a beautiful head of Ganymede--in another, Winter. Alas, I shouldn't have known what they were if I hadn't been told, but I would have known that they were rare and wonderful.

This was the "surprise." This was the secret of Bignor; but it wasn't nearly all. There were lovely broken pillars, and lots more pavements, acres of mosaic, it seemed; for the villa had been large and important, and must have been built by a rich man with cultivated taste. He knew how to make exile endurable, did that Roman gentleman! Standing in his dining-hall, I could imagine him and his fair lady-wife sitting at breakfast, looking out from between white, glittering pillars at the Suss.e.x downs, grander than those of Surrey, reminding me of great, brave shoulders raised to protect England. Now we knew what Mrs. Tupper's "delightful work" was! For forty-nine years she has cleaned the mosaic pavement of the vanished Roman villa, all of which were discovered by the grandfather of the present owner of the farm. Never once has she tired of looking at the mosaics, because, as she explained to us, "one doesn't tire of what is beautiful." There speaks true appreciation, doesn't it? Only a born lover of the beautiful could have said that so simply.

There was an Italian, a man from Venice, repairing the mosaic. He could hardly speak a word of English, and beamed with a sudden smile when I asked him some question in his native tongue. We talked awhile, and I translated several things he said to Sir Lionel and his sister. I'm ashamed to confess, dear, that I was pleased to show off my poor little accomplishment, and proud because I knew one thing which our famous man didn't. Wasn't that low of me?

"Well, you weren't disappointed in my surprise, I think?" said Sir Lionel, when we were starting away at last.

I just gave him one look. It really wasn't necessary to answer.

As we flashed on, through country always exquisite, and over perfect roads, I could think of nothing but Bignor, until suddenly, after pa.s.sing through a long aisle of great beeches, like an avenue in a private park, a tremendous bulk of stone looming at me made me jump, and cry out, "Oh!"

Sir Lionel turned his head long enough for half a smile. "Arundel Castle," he said.

It's lucky for me that Mrs. Norton doesn't know much about any part of England except her own home, and the homes of her particular friends, or else she would always be explaining things to me, and I should hate that. It would be like having purple hot-house grapes handed out to one impaled on the p.r.o.ngs of a plated silver fork. I should have wanted to slap her, if _she_ had told me I was looking at Arundel Castle, but I was grateful to her brother for the information. This was a wickedness in me; but if you knew how I felt, having started out from the Ritz expecting a quiet day's run through one or two of the garden counties of England, to come like this, bang into the midst of Roman villas, and under the shadow of a tenth-century castle-keep, maybe you'd excuse my morals for being upset.

You can't have centuries roll away, like a mere cloud of dust raised by your motor, and be perfectly normal, can you? I tried to seem calm, because I hate to be gus.h.i.+ng and school-girlish (for Ellaline's sake, I _suppose_, as it can't make any difference what her Dragon thinks of me), but I'm pretty sure he saw that I was rather "out of myself" over all his surprises.

He stopped the motor, and we sat for a long time gazing up at the towers beyond the green and silver beeches--a pile of battlemented stone, looking like the Middle Ages carved in granite, yet more habitable to-day than ever before.

We had lunched early, and had plenty of time, so we walked through the park, which made me feel that England must be rather big, after all, to have room for thousands of such parks--even much larger ones--and all its great cities--and miles and miles of farms and common land, and mere "country."

When we lived in New York, you and Dad and I, we used to joke about the way we should feel in England if we should ever go to visit Dad's ancestral Devons.h.i.+re. We used to pretend that, after being accustomed to the vast distances of America, we should be afraid of tumbling off the edge of England; but so far I find that I don't dread that imminent peril. Just now England seems so vast that my only fear is I mayn't have time to reach the Roman Wall.

The Duke's midges bit us a good deal, in the park, so we didn't linger, but went back to Apollo, where Young Nick's remarkable appearance had attracted a crowd of boys and girls from Arundel town. They stood in the road gaping at him, with that steady, unblinking stare English children and French grown-ups have, while the brown image sat motionless in the car, as scornfully oblivious of his critics as if he'd been the idol he looked.

Poor Sir Lionel hates the attention his extraordinary little chauffeur excites, for, in spite of his long expatriation, he loathes being conspicuous in any way as heartily as other Englishmen do. But (Mrs.

Norton has told me) he saved Young Nick from being murdered by someone who was a "family enemy." Since then--it was when Nick was scarcely more than a child--the brown image has wors.h.i.+pped the Dragon, and refused to be separated from him. When Sir Lionel proposed providing for him well, and leaving him behind, Nick made no complaints, but began industriously to starve himself to death. So, of course, he had to be brought to England, and his master just makes the best of him, costume, features, broomstick legs, and all.

We had tea in a picture of Turner's: for Littlehampton, with its tidal river, its harbour and pier, its fis.h.i.+ng boats and s.h.i.+ning sails, its windmill, its goldy-brown sands, and its banked violet clouds, was a genuine Turner. Of course, he wouldn't have painted the Beach Hotel, in spite of its nice balconies, but we were glad it was there, and it didn't spoil the picture.

By that time, it was nearly half-past five, but we had hours of daylight before us, so we stopped for a look at Climping Church (don't you love the "ing" that shows a place has kept its Saxon name?) with its splendid Norman doorway and queer, long windows, shaped like open pods of peas beautifully ornamented round their edges. Thank goodness, there was nothing "perp" about it! I get so tired of "perp" things in guide books.

Slinden we glanced at, too, a most idyllic village, garrisoned with the n.o.blest beeches I ever saw. Hilaire Belloc, whose "Path to Rome" we liked so much, stayed at Slinden, writing delightful things about Suss.e.x. I mean to get and read all I can, because, even in the glimpse I've had, I can see that Suss.e.x has a character, as well as a charm, individually its own. The Downs give it, and make you feel that a true man of Suss.e.x would be frank, warm-hearted, simple and brave, with old-fas.h.i.+oned ways which, with a pleasant obstinacy, he would be loath to change. I heard Mrs. Tupper quote two or three quaint proverbs which were new to me, but Sir Lionel said they were old, almost, as the Suss.e.x downs, and as racy of the soil. I always a.s.sociated Brighton with Suss.e.x, which made it seem a sophisticated county: but you see, _true_ Suss.e.x--the Downs--stands all independent and st.u.r.dy, between the pleasure-places by the sea and the snug Weald.

The faces we pa.s.sed didn't look like faces descended from smugglers, they seemed so kind and good; but then, of course, smuggling was quite a respectable industry in Suss.e.x, where the secretive formation of the coast clearly showed that Providence had meant it to epict. I love the Suss.e.x downs, I like the Suss.e.x faces, and I admire the Suss.e.x church spires--tall and pointed, covered with lichened s.h.i.+ngles.

We stopped at Boxgrove, too, a church adored by architects; and as we went our way to Goodwood the sea was a torn sheet of silver seen behind great downs which the afternoon sun was gilding. Oh, the Lebanon cedars and the views of Goodwood! If I were there for the races, I think not even the finest horses, the most beautiful women, and the prettiest frocks in England could hold my eyes long from that view. I can shut my eyes now--the day after--and see those Lebanon cedars black against an opal sky. Another picture I can see, too, is Bosham Church, standing up tall and pure as a gray nun singing an _Ave Maria_ beside the clear water. It comes back to me from my studies of English history that Vespasian had a villa there, and that Harold sailed from Bosham. Do you know, he's in the act of doing it on the Bayeux tapestry? Once, the Danes stole the Bosham church bells, and the dear things still ring at the bottom of the sea, because the robber s.h.i.+p was wrecked, and went down with the chime, in mid channel. I like that story. It matches the picture and the tapestry.

Our day stopped at Chichester, and my letter must stop, too, for all this I tell you of was only yesterday. We arrived last evening, and now it's nearly midnight of the next day. I began to write just after dinner, sitting in my dear old-fas.h.i.+oned room, and if I don't soon say good-night I shan't get much beauty sleep. To-morrow morning, at half-past nine, we're going on; but before we start I'll scribble a Chichester postscript. So you see, I must be up bright and early, especially as I mean to fly out for one more glimpse of the cathedral--though I spent most of this afternoon in it.

I wonder if you are sparing a few minutes to-night to dream of

Your Audrie?

P. S.--Eight-twenty in the morning, and I've been up for two hours.

You'd like Chichester immensely. I don't say "love," for it hasn't engaged my affections, somehow; but I do love the beautiful jewel of a market cross, and some of the tombs in the cathedral. The cross is quite a baby compared with lots of others, it seems, being only just born at the time Henry VIII. was cutting off pretty ladies' heads when he had tired of their hearts. Several tombs are so lovely, you almost want to be dead, and have one as like as possible; but, though part of the cathedral is satisfyingly old (eleventh century), its new spire reminds one of a badly chosen hat, and the whole building somehow looks cold and dull, like a person with a magnificent profile who never says anything illuminating.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "_The jewel of a market cross_"]

As for Chichester itself, except the market cross, the only thing that has touched my heart was St. Mary's Hospital, surely the quaintest old almshouse on earth. The town has rather a self-conceited air to me, and unless one were wise, one mightn't realize without being informed that it's immemorably old. Of course, though, if one _were_ wise, one would know the Romans had had a hand in the making or re-making of it, because of the geometric, regular way in which it's built. Sir Lionel Pendragon told me that. He seems to remember all he ever learned, whereas ever so many little bundles are already knocking about in dusty corners of my brain, with their labels lost.

There couldn't be a more thrilling road than the road along which we came to Chichester, and by which we will leave it in a few minutes now.

Think of Roman Stane Street, and listen for the rumble of ghostly chariot wheels! Then--if you've not come this way for Goodwood races--you can throw your mind a little further ahead to the days of the crusaders and the pilgrims; and to kings' processions glittering with gold and glossy with velvets; to armies on their way to fight; and further ahead, to coaches plying along the Portsmouth road. I wonder how many people in the hundreds of motors that flash back and forth each day do think of it all? I pity those who don't, because they lose a thought that might embroider their world with rich colours.

P.P.S.--I met Sir Lionel, accidentally, of course, in the cathedral this morning, where he, too, was saying good-bye to the most fascinating of the old tombs. And wasn't it odd, we had the same favourites? They looked even nicer and queerer than yesterday, with no Mrs. Norton to spatter inappropriate remarks about.

We walked back to the hotel together, and he asked me, just as we were coming in, whether my allowance was enough, or would I like to have more?

I had burst out that it was heaps, before I stopped to realize that he was asking that question really of Ellaline, not of me. Perhaps I ought to have temporized, and said I would make up my mind in a few days--meanwhile writing to her. I suppose she must be quite an heiress; but he can't be as mercenary as she thinks, or he wouldn't have made such a suggestion.

I'm called! The motor's ready. I'll post this from the hotel.

IX

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

_Southsea_, _July 19th_

Dearest: This address isn't part of our plan of campaign. We'd meant to pa.s.s through, after pausing on the way just long enough to see Portsmouth Harbour, and d.i.c.kens's birthplace; but we've stopped here on my account, and now I wish we hadn't. I'll tell you why, in a minute; but if I don't mention a few other things first, they'll be crowded out, and I shall forget them.

After we'd seen the birthplace, and were seeing the harbour, Sir Lionel asked if I'd care to go on board a man-o'-war. Of course, my answer was "Yes"; and he said there was an old friend of his whom he would like to see, Captain Starlin, of the _Thunderer_, so he'd ask for an invitation.

He scribbled things in pencil on a visiting-card, and sent it on board the big gray monster, by a nice low-necked sailor. Of course, the invitation which came back was most cordial, and even Mrs. Norton appeared pleased with the idea of going over the s.h.i.+p. We were received by the Captain himself--rather a young-looking man, whose complexion seemed to have slipped down, like Sir Lionel's, both their foreheads being quite white, and the rest of their faces tanned brown. He took us everywhere, showing us interesting things, and presently said that, not only must we dine with him that evening, but must stay to a dance that was to be given on board afterward.

"Oh, many thanks, but we're only motoring through, and go on this afternoon," began Sir Lionel. Then he stopped short, and looked at me.

"Would you like to dance?" he asked.