Part 35 (1/2)
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.