Chapter 31

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

Pen-y-gwrd-Hotel, August 30th

Dear Rose-Without-a-Thorn: I didn't find the amber, but Sir Lionel found a fat little, round lump, and gave it to me; and that seems almost more lucky than finding it myself; because it may mean that something good is to come to me from him.

He was on the Aberystwith beach when I got there, though it was only half-past six. He hadn't said a word the night before, but he made up his mind then to find some amber—for me. You see, he knew the superstition about luck, and how everybody goes hunting for it.

I picked up a pretty piece of carnelian, and gave it to him in exchange, asking him "to keep it to remember me by."

"I don't want to remember you," he answered. And when, perhaps, I looked hurt, he went on: "Because I want to keep you in my life. I want you very much, if—"

But just then Mrs. Senter came behind us, and left that "if" like a key sticking in a door which couldn't be opened without one more turn. I should have liked to know what was behind the door; but I daresay there was nothing much, really.

She, too, had come to look for amber and other things. I don't know about the other things, but she didn't find the amber.

At eleven o'clock, after seeing something of the place, we slipped away toward Machynlleth, along a hilly road, which grew lovelier with each of its many twists among low mountains. Now, said Sir Lionel, we were about to see the heart of Wales; and I should soon have realized that without his telling, for as we slowed down to pass through little villages we heard the children talking Welsh—a soft, pleasant language, which I can only try to describe by saying that it sounded like whispering out loud. But that is a very Irish description!

The scenery was so gentle in its beauty that my wild, excited mood was lulled by its soft influence. The colour of landscape and sky kept the delicate tints of spring, though we are in full, rich summer; and there was none of the tropical verdure we saw near Tenby; no crimson fountains of fuchsias, no billows of blood-red roses, and fierce southern flowers. Pale honey-suckle draped the gray or whitewashed stone cottages. Rocks and crannies of walls were daintily fringed with ferns, or cushioned with the velvet of moss, and crusted with tarnished golden lichen. A modern-timbered house, rising pertly here and there, looked out of place among dwellings whose early owners quarried each stone from among their own mountains.

As we left the fairy glades of those wooded hills for rugged mountains scantily clad with ragged grass, slate-quarries tried their ugly best to blotch and spoil the scene, but owing to some strange charm of atmosphere, like a gauze veil on the stage, they could not quite succeed. By and by the gauze veil turned to rain, but rain suited the wild landscape—far better, by the way, than it suited Mrs. Senter, whose nightly hair-wavers are but a reed to lean upon in wet weather. She made some excuse to come behind with Emily and me, and before the car started again I summoned courage to ask if I might take her place, saying I loved to feel the rain.

So there I was with Sir Lionel once more; and I wondered if he thought of that night when we rushed through the storm from Tintagel to Clovelly? Soon this also bade fair to be a storm, for the rain began to tumble out of the sky, rather than fall, as if an army of people stood throwing down water by the bucketful. I revelled in it, and in the sombre scenery, where sharp rocks stood out like bones through the tattered green coats of soldier-mountains. All the world was gray or gray-green, save for a patch of purple heather here and there, like the stain of a new wound.

We were under Cadir Idris, mounting the pass high above a deep ravine; yet the blowing rain hid the mountain from our eyes as if he were the veiled prophet. The sound of the wind, which seemed to come from all quarters at once, was like the mysterious music of a great AEolian harp, as it mingled with the song of ghostly cascades that veined the dark rocks with marble. Mountain sheep sprang from crag to crag as Apollo rounded a corner and broke into their tranquil lives, now and then loosening a stone as they jumped. One good-sized rock would have bounced down on the roof of our car if Sir Lionel hadn't seen it coming, and put on such a spurt of speed that Apollo leaped ahead of the danger. But he always does see things in time. You wouldn't think sheep could have as much expression as those sheep had, when they saw us and weren't sure which way to run. Of course they needn't have run at all; but whichever way they decided, it was certain to be wrong!

I was sorry to leave that pass behind, and have its door shut after us, for we came out into a pastoral landscape, where the only wild things were the grazing black cattle. It was charming country, though; and in less than a mile we had reached a famous spot known as the Tourist Walk. The rain was pelting down harder than ever, so we could not get out and take the walk; but soon after we had abandoned it the deluge suddenly turned from lead to a thick spray of diamonds, mixed with sparkling gold-dust. Our road glittered ahead of us like a wide silver ribbon unrolled, as we sailed into the little gray town of Dolgelly on its torrent river; and beyond, in a fresh-washed radiance of sunlight, the way was one long enchantment, the sweet world of green hills and musical waters looking as young as if God had made it that day. The graceful mountains which pressed round the valley had the air of waiting each her turn to stoop and drink a life-giving draught from the river, which, as we neared Barmouth, opened to the sea, gleaming like a vast sheet of quicksilver. Further on, travelling through woods where young green trees shot up from gilded rocks, glimpses of the estuary came to us like a vision of some Italian lake.

Just before Harlech, the wild yet nymph-like beauty of the world changed to an almost startling grandeur, for the coast moved back from the sea with a noble sweep, magnificent mountains towered along the shore, and line after line of beryl waves shattered into pearl upon a beach of darkened gold.

Harlech Castle was an event in my life. I thought I had begun to take ruined castles for granted in Wales, as you do sea-shells on the shore; but Harlech is a castle that you couldn't take for granted. It was a shock at first to find that a hotel had been built in the very face of it, as if bearding it in its den; yet it is a nice hotel; and when we had lunched there agreeably, I not only forgave it for existing, but began to like and thank it for having thoughtfully placed itself on that admirable height.

From here our eyes ought to have been smitten with the sight of Snowdon; but the Grand Old Mountain was asleep, his head buried in white cloud-pillows which alone betrayed his whereabouts; so we had to be content with the castle. And I was content. To see the splendid ruin reared on its great rock, dark against sea and sky, was thrilling as a vision of an old wounded knight girding his strength for a last stand.

History says that Harlech Castle is no older than Edward I.; but story says (which is more important, because more romantic) that in the dim dawn while History still dozed, here rose the Tower of Twr Brauwen, white-bosomed sister of Bran the Blessed. Also, it came into the possession of Hawis Gadern, a great beauty and heiress, whose uncles tried to wrest it from her, but were defeated and imprisoned in the castle. Anyway, however that may be, Owen Glendower came and conquered, in the beginning of the fifteenth century, when he was forging a chain of wonderful deeds which made him the hero of Wales. Never mind if he was driven away a few years after by Prince Henry. That's another story.

The way from Harlech by Portmadoc to exquisite Pont Aberglaslyn and Beddgelert is very Arthurian; that is, it suggests pre-mediaeval backgrounds, and at every turn I caught myself expecting to come upon Camelot, unspoiled, unchanged. The high mountains still wore their invisibility masks, but the lower mountains, not too proud to show themselves to motoring mortals, grouped as graciously together as if they were lovely ladies and gay knights, turned to stone just when they had assembled to tread a minuet. And the fair Glaslyn flowed past their feet with a swing and sweep, as though the crystal flood kept time to dance music which our ears were not attuned to catch.

Quickly we flashed by more than one beautiful lake, too; a jewel hidden among mountains, found by our eyes unexpectedly, only to be lost again. And all the while Cader Idris and Snowdon drew hoods of mist over their heads, pulling them down tightly and firmly. Not once had we caught a glimpse of either mountain, though we were almost near enough to knock our noses or Apollo's bonnet against their sharp elbows; but we were too happy to care much—at least, one of us was!—and we cared even less when rain came on again. I still kept my place beside Sir Lionel, who was repentant for having made me cry over the dreadful, agonizing, too-tragic story of Gelert. I won't repeat it to you, because it's wickedly sad, and grayhound Gelert was so much nobler than most people.

Sheets of spun glass shimmered and waved before us, as we rushed on through the mountains, past the beautiful place of Gelert's grave, up toward Pen-y-gwrd. And the tinkling swish of the rain on the glass sounded to me as the Welsh names had begun to sound. I wish you could hear them spoken, for the spelling gives no idea of their pronunciation, or the pleasant, muffled music of them. But all I can tell you is, that when you come into Wales you will feel they are characteristic of the country; mysterious, sympathetic, rather secretive.

Sir Lionel was happy in the thought of Pen-y-gwrd, because some of the best memories of his boyhood are associated 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 pronounce it, dear) Which standeth in the meeting of noble 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 Pass, 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 shivering.

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, flushing up like a boy. "Why, he was the best amateur" (he pronounced 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 Dick 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 Dick, who has no clue.