Part 36 (1/2)

Soon we had to turn our backs upon a mystic mountain-land that ringed us in, and face the sea once more--a wide water-horizon whose line was broken with great s.h.i.+ps steaming from all parts of the world to Liverpool.

Apollo had seemed a little faint before luncheon, because of some inner disturbance, but he was flying fast as a saint on his way to Paradise as we crossed the Dee, into England out of Wales, and sprang into Gladstone country.

When people are obliged to reach a town by rail, there must be disappointments to lovers of the picturesque, as you and I know by experience. It's like arriving at a house by the tradesmen's entrance; but with a motor one sails up to the front door through the park.

Of all the towns to which Apollo has brought us, the entrance to Chester to-day was the best. The first effect of colour left on my eyes the impression of sunset-red, warm as copper beeches. The place seemed to be lit with fading firelight, and I wondered at the soft glow everywhere, until I realized that the big buildings--the Cathedral, the great houses and the old city wall--were all made of rosy sandstone.

You can't imagine how a large town which has lived as long as Chester has, and gone on growing, could have contrived to remain so satisfyingly beautiful, or keep such an air of old-time completeness. But the secret is, I suppose, that Chester is ”canny” as well as ”bonny,” and, being wise, she refused to throw away her precious antique garments for glaring new ones. When she had to add houses, or even shops, wherever possible she reproduced the charm and quaintness of the black and white Tudor or Stuart buildings which are Chester's intimate treasures.

Of course, I've seen little of the place yet; but after I had been to the post-office, I strolled about before coming back to the hotel, partly to recover from my disappointment in not hearing from you, partly because I was so bewitched with my first glimpse that I couldn't bear to come indoors still a stranger to the town. Hovering in front of the Cathedral (a curious building, black in its oldest parts, bright pink where it has been renovated) I saw Sir Lionel and Mrs. Norton coming.

That was awkward, because I had said I wanted to ”settle in” before sight-seeing, but I explained vaguely that I'd changed my mind, and was invited to go into the Cathedral with them. Perhaps it was because Emily was with us that nothing seemed very wonderful in the interior--unless the carved oak in the choir--but the cloisters are beautiful, and I liked the chapter house.

After ”doing” the Cathedral, Mrs. Norton was tired, so Sir Lionel and I had a walk alone, an adventure Mrs. Senter would never have allowed if she'd guessed I was out of my room. She is a dog in the manger about walks. She hates them herself, but she won't let other people take them without her if she can help it.

We dropped Emily at the hotel, and had a delicious ramble (speaking for myself!) through the four extraordinary streets which stand for much in Chester's peculiar fame. Wandering there, it was easy to believe what the guide-books say: that nowhere in Great Britain does a town exist which so preserves the ancient character of all its architecture. I don't know if there are British relics; but the city wall and gates are Roman, part of the castle, too; and since mediaeval days nothing seems to have lost in picturesqueness. People come from all over the world to see the Rows: streets dug out below the rock-surface on which the town was originally built, having shops and even warehouses on their level, with galleries above, open fronted, stone-paved, bal.u.s.traded with black oak, so that these ”Rows” all look as if the houses were wide open, communicating with one another. The carved oak fronts of the houses and shops, done ingeniously with strange pargetting, and adorned with wondrous windows, are so adorably queer, with their stagey effects, that I don't wonder Chester has become a kind of Mecca for travellers from my native land, where most things are new.

When we had thus skimmed a little of the cream from the town itself, we had a walk on the old wall, while church bells, near and distant, chimed; but still I don't feel I've more than glanced at the place.

To-morrow we plan to run out to Knutsford, which is Mrs. Gaskell's Cranford really, and I have begged to start early, because if we do (though naturally I don't allege this reason) we can get off before d.i.c.k arrives. Then, when we come back, we can do more sight-seeing, and maybe be out when he turns up at the hotel. After that event, unless you save me to-night with some miraculous suggestion, all pleasure will be over.

And at best, I'm not looking forward with undiluted joy to to-morrow, because I must not only decide what to do for Ellaline, but do it.

While I was walking on the wall with Sir Lionel just now, gazing up at watch-towers, or down over the town, and dodging seedy amateur guides whom we nicknamed ”Wallers,” I kept thinking, thinking, about what to sell. The only thing Sir Lionel has given me of really great value, which could be easily disposed of, is the ruby and diamond ring. But how it would hurt me to give it up in such a sordid way! It was my birthday present from him, and it's a.s.sociated in my mind with that night of moonlight in the New Forest when I first knew I _cared_. But I'm sorely afraid it must be the thing to go. There are several important-looking antique shops here, and I noticed, when casting my eye about, one where they make a speciality of curious and rare jewellery. I shall look at it again more carefully when I run out to the post-office, in a few minutes, and perhaps I may have courage to try and strike a bargain, so as to send the money off in the morning before Knutsford--if I get it----

_An hour later._

Dearest, I've got your wire, now, having retrieved it from the Poste Restante, and I'm thankful for it--thankful that you're well, thankful that you don't blame me for anything I've done, faults committed or mistakes made. But--alas, I don't think the advice, good as it is, will be of any use to me. You see, you don't know Mrs. Senter. It would be hopeless for me to try and force her to exert authority over d.i.c.k Burden.

In the first place, she has no real authority, as apparently he has no expectations from her; and in the second place, though I'm almost sure she doesn't know the truth about me and Ellaline, she suspects that d.i.c.k has a hold over me; and after all I've submitted to from him already it would be impossible to ”bluff” her into the belief that I'd dare ask Sir Lionel to send them both away. No, my dear one, there's little hope for me in that scheme. I allowed Ellaline to make my bed for me, and I must lie in it, although it has proved to be one of those nasty folding ones that will shut and swallow me up in a trap.

No, it's cowardly to whine like that. It won't be pleasant to keep my promise to d.i.c.k; but there have been worse things; and I shall probably be able to escape before long. Anyhow it will all be the same a hundred years hence. As soon as I am with you again it will be as if nothing had happened; and meanwhile I am going to keep a ”stiff upper lip.” It mayn't be becoming, but that won't matter, as Sir Lionel will never look at me; and you will see by my letters in future how well I am getting on.

Best love to my best loved,

From

Audrie.

x.x.xIII

SIR LIONEL PENDRAGON TO COLONEL PATRICK O'HAGAN

_Keswick Hotel_, _September 3rd_

My Dear Pat: Here we are, you see, in the ”happy hunting ground” where you and I used to hunt such shy game as chimneys, needles, crevices, etc., etc.; and if I'm not as happy in it now as I ought to be, that isn't the fault of the country, which is as fair as it ever was--the fairest in England, perhaps.

It just happens, unfortunately, that I've been rubbed up the wrong way before coming to the places I'd looked forward to revisiting more than any other, except Cornwall; and if I hadn't invited dear old Penrhyn from Pen-y-gwrd to meet me here, and have a climb, I'm not sure I should have stopped. However, I have enjoyed the beauty of the run. I must have been as blind as a mole, and as earthy, if I hadn't.

Fine road from Chester to Liverpool, which city had an air of opulent magnificence seen from the ferry, as we neared her--rather like a huge, modern Venice. Lunched there, at the Adelphi, on the fat of the land, and had some trouble finding the way out of town. Liverpool welcomes the coming, but doesn't speed the parting guest; not a sign-post in sight anywhere. Bad pave till Ormskirk, when things improved, growing better and better; but no scenery to speak of until near Preston. Villages all along the line, stone-paved; struck me as being characteristic of that stern North Country which we approached. ”Road too good not to mean police-traps,” said I to myself; and an A. A. scout warned me that they swarmed; but luckily we were not held up. I wasn't in a temper to have taken any nonsense lying down, I'm afraid.