Here and there we passed a whole villageful of white-washed cottages, with purplish-brown moss covering their roofs--rather picturesque; and some of the slate-roofed, stone houses are nice in their way, too; I suppose distinctively Cornish. Not that I care! I'm glad Graylees Castle isn't in Cornwall, which is _much_ too far from town.
There were some mine-shafts about, to mar the scenery, toward the end of the journey, and the road surface was bad compared to what we've had. If the car weren't a very good one, we should have suffered from the bumps. Ellaline Lethbridge, by the way, said something about Cornwall which puzzled me. Suddenly she exclaimed: "Why, the atmosphere here is like Spain! Everything swims in a sea of coloured lights!" _I_ thought she'd spent all her life at school in France, and I mentioned the impression, upon which she replied, with an air of being taken aback: "I mean, from what I have _heard_ of Spain." Can she have had an escapade, I wonder? But that is Dick's business, not mine--at present.
There's a castle in Launceston, which has kept us over to-day, as Sir Lionel has been in these parts before, and can't rest unless we see everything he admired in his youth. I wish he hadn't seen so much, there'd be less for us to do. I _hate_ pottering about, seeing sights in the rain, and it has been trying to rain all day. It's well enough to say that the rain rains alike on the just and the unjust, but that is not true, as some women's hair curls naturally. Ellaline's does, and mine doesn't--except the part I owe for at Truefitt's.
It's an old hotel that we're in, quite pleased to show its age; and I have made rather a beast of myself with some sort of Cornish pasty, which, it seems, is a local favourite, and spoils the peasants' teeth. Cornish cream is good, and, I understand from Sir Lionel, was invented by the Phoenicians. I suppose they drowned their sorrows in it while working in the tin mines one always associates with them.
We go to Tintagel to-morrow, and do some other Cornish things, I don't know what. But write to me at Bideford, as we shall be back in Devonshire in a few days on our way--I fancy--toward Wales. I long to hear what you or Lady Mac may have up your sleeves about the dear Ellaline's papa.
Ever your affectionate
Gwen.
Dick sends his love, and will write.
XVIII
MRS. SENTER TO HER SISTER, MRS. BURDEN
_King Arthur's Castle, Tintagel_, _Aug. 12th_
My Dear Sis: I'm sorry I told you to write to Bideford, as we're stopping at this place several days, and I might have had your answer here. However, it's too late now, as by this time your letter is in the post, perhaps, and we may or may not leave to-morrow. I think I can be pretty sure your wire to Dick means that you'd heard from me, and that the news for him is not favourable. If he guessed that I'd been questioning you about the eligibility of his girl, frankly I doubt if he'd have swallowed the bait of your telegram. Even as it was he seemed restive, and didn't yearn to be packed off to Scotland, even for a few days. However, he'd committed himself by reading your message aloud, before he stopped to think; and when Sir Lionel and Ellaline had learned that you were ill, and wanted him, they would have been shocked if he'd refused to go. I comforted him by promising to sow strife between ward and guardian, as often and diligently as possible, until he can get back to look after his own interests, and I shall do my best to keep the promise--not for Dick's sake alone.
He was off within an hour after the telegram, a little sulky, but not too worried, as he has the faith engendered by experience in your recuperative powers. I, naturally, worry still less, as I have a clue to the mystery of your attack which Dick doesn't possess. I quite believe that by the time he reaches your side it will no longer be a bedside, but a sofaside; that you'll be able to smile, hold Dick's hand, and replace Benger's Food with slices of partridge and sips of champagne. By the way, this is the glorious Twelfth. It does seem odd and frumpish not to be in Scotland, but motoring covers a multitude of social sins. Not a word has been said about birds. Our sporting talk is of mufflers, pinions, water-cooled brakes, and chainless drives.
The Tyndals have turned up at this hotel, more gorgeous and more bored than ever, but they have taken a fancy to Ellaline Lethbridge, and I am playing it for all it's worth. It comes in handy at the moment, and I have no conscientious scruples against using millionaires for pawns. They have an impossibly luxurious motorcar. Sir Lionel thinks it vulgar, but they are pleased with it, as it's still a new toy. I have been making a nice little plan for them, which concerns Ellaline. None of them know it yet, but they will soon, and if it had been invented to please Dick (which it wasn't entirely) it couldn't suit him better. You may tell him that, if by any chance he's with you still when you get this.
My mind is busy working the plan out, so that there may be no hitch, but a few unoccupied corners of my brain are wondering what you have discovered about Miss Lethbridge's prospects and antecedents; how, if both are very undesirable, you intend to persuade Dick to let her drop. If I were you I wouldn't waste arguments. Retain him a few days if you can, though I fear the only way to do so is to have a fit. I believe that can be arranged by eating soap and frothing at the mouth, which produces a striking effect, and, though slightly disagreeable, isn't dangerous. But seriously, if he refuses to hear reason, don't worry. I am on the spot to snatch him at the last moment from the mouth of the lionness, provided she opens it wide enough to swallow him.
Your ever useful and affectionate sister,
Gwen.
P. S. The Tyndals have got a cousin of George's with them, a budding millionaire from Eton, who has fallen in love at sight with the Lethbridge. But even Dick can't be jealous of childhood, and it may be helpful.
Taking everything together, I am enjoying myself here, though I'm impatient to get your letter. Cornwall agrees with Sir Lionel's disposition, and he is being delightful to everyone. I think while he is in the right mood I shall repeat to him what a sad failure my marriage was, and how little I really care for gaiety; "Society my lover, solitude my husband," sort of thing. He is the kind of man to like that, and the sweet, soft air of Cornwall is conducive to credulity.
XIX
AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER
_King Arthur's Castle, Tintagel_, _August 12th_
Most Dear and Sovran Lady: I call you that because I've just been reading Sir Thomas Malory's "Le Morte d'Arthur" (is that Old French spelling?), and because the style of address seems suitable to King Arthur's Castle--which isn't really his castle, you know, but an hotel. I thought it was the castle, though, when I first saw it standing up gray and massive on an imposing hill. I supposed it had been restored, and was rather disappointed to find it an hotel--though it's very jolly to live in, with all the latest feudal improvements and fittings, and King Arthur's Round Table in the enormous entrance-hall.
Sir Lionel wouldn't let Mrs. Senter laugh at me for thinking it the real castle, but said it was a natural mistake for a girl who had spent all her life in a French school--and how should I know the difference? I _was_ grateful to him, for though I love to have some people laugh at me she isn't one of those people. She laughs in that sniffy way cats have.
The real castle I can see from my own feudal, castellated balcony. It is beautifully ruined; but you can go into it, and I have been. Only I want to tell you about other things first.
In my short note from Launceston, did I mention the old Norman house which belongs to cousins of Sir Lionel's? He used to visit there, and poke about in the castle, which was Godwin's and Harold's before the Conquest. But the nicest cousins are dead and the rest are away, so we could only see the outside of the house. However, we went to call at an ancient stone cottage of the colour of petrified wallflowers, to see a servant who took care of Sir Lionel when he was a child. A wonderful old wisp of a thing, with the reputation of being a witch, which wins her great respect; and she used quaint Cornish words that have come down from generation to generation, ever since the early Celts, without changing. When Sir Lionel sympathized with her about her husband's death, she said it was a grief, but he'd been a sad invalid, and a "good bit in the way of the oven" for several years.
[Illustration: _In Sir Lionel's county, Cornwall_]
On the way to Tintagel from Launceston we passed Slaughter Bridge, one of the many places where legend says King Arthur fought his last battle. So that was a good entrance to Arthurian country, wasn't it? Our road cut huge, rolling downs in two, and they surged up on either side, so it was rather like the passage through the Red Sea. And under a sky that hung over us like an illimitable bluebell, we saw our first Cornish mountains, Rough Tor and Brown Willy. Names of that sort make you feel at home with mountains at once, as if you'd known them all your life, and might lead them about with a string. But they are only corruptions of old Celtic names that nobody could possibly pronounce; and nearly everything seems more or less Celtic in Cornwall, especially eyes. They are beautiful gray-blue, with their black lashes as long on the lower as on the upper lid, and look as if they had been "rubbed in with a dirty finger." Now I see that Sir Lionel's eyes are Celtic. I didn't know quite how to account for them at first. _He_ has a temper, I think, and could be severe; but he says the Cornish people are so good-hearted that if you ask them the way anywhere, they tell you the one they think you would prefer to take, whether it's really right or not. But I'm glad he is not so easy going as that.