Up at Lynton, the great thing to do, is to walk along the edge of the sea cliff to the Valley of Rocks (a kind of nature museum for statues and busts of Titans), locked in between Castle Rock and the Devil's Cheesewring. It is a startlingly magnificent walk, but when you are actually in the Valley of Rocks, it isn't quite so wonderful as when seen from a distance; the arena itself is rather like the backyard of the gods, where they threw their broken mead-cups. I had a queer feeling of having been there before, which I couldn't understand for a minute, until a scene in "Lorna Doone" flashed back to me. And a young maid in the hotel firmly believes that many of the fantastic shapes of rock were once people who (according to an old story), were turned into stone for behaving irreligiously on Sundays.
Yesterday morning we said good-bye to Lynton, and Sir Lionel, Dick, Mrs. Senter, and I walked to Watersmeet, Emily going along the upper road in the car with Young Nick, whose hand was well enough to drive. I don't know whether Dad ever talked to you about Watersmeet; but I'm surprised if he didn't, because not only is it one of the very most beautiful beauty spots of Devon, but not far beyond, on the way to Exmoor, is Brendon, our name place.
You can guess without my telling, why Watersmeet is called Watersmeet: and it is the most musical meeting you can imagine; rocks on one side, a wooded hill on the other, and down below, the singing river. We walked along an exquisite low-lying path from Watersmeet, and all about I saw the name of Brendon: Brendon village; Brendon forge, and other Brendons. I was so excited that I forgot the Lethbridge episode, and was on the point of exclaiming to Sir Lionel "How interesting to come on father's ancestral home!" I wonder what would have happened if I had? I should have had to try and blunder out of the scrape somehow, with Dick's eyes on me, sparkling with mischief, and Mrs. Senter critical.
I forgot to tell you that the Tyndals left us at Bideford, having no excuse to cling, even if they wanted to, because they had "done" Exmoor already; but since the evening when Mrs. Tyndal tried to pump me about Venice, dear Gwendolen has been restless and suspicious. She can't suspect the truth, of course, unless Dick has told her, which I'm sure he hasn't (for his own sake), but she suspects something. She has a common enough mind to spring to some horrid conclusion, such as my having been secretly in Venice with objectionable people. Perhaps she thinks me privately married! I'm sure she'd be delighted if that were the truth, because then Dick and Sir Lionel would both be safe.
As we walked, Dick kept trying to get me far enough away from the others to tell me some news, which he hurriedly whispered was important. But even if I'd wanted to give him a chance, which I didn't, fate would have denied it to him.
At Rockford Inn we took to the motor again, finding Emily limp after what she considered appalling hills; but I'm sure they were nothing to the Lynton-Lynmouth one, as this time Apollo himself had been sent down in the big lift.
Now we were coming to Doone-land; and I was all eagerness to see it, because of "Lorna Doone," and because of things I'd heard from Sir Lionel, as we walked side by side for a few minutes after Watersmeet. I had supposed that if there were any foundation for the Doone story, it was as slight as the "fabric of a dream"; but he told me of a pamphlet he had read, "A Short History of the Original Doones," by a Miss Ida or Audrie Browne, only about eight or nine years ago. She said it was extraordinary how well the author of "Lorna" had known all the traditions of her family—for she was one of the Doones; and that there really was a Sir Ensor, a wild rebellious son of an Earl of Moray, who travelled with his wife to Exmoor, and settled there, in a rage because the king would give him no redress against his elder brother.
"How does she spell her name of Audrie?" I asked, trying to look more good and innocent than Eve could possibly have been even in pre-serpentine days.
"A-u-d-r-i-e," he answered, and I trusted that Dick was too far behind to hear what we were saying. "That was the favourite name for girls in the Doone family," Sir Lionel went on. "Miss Browne thinks Sir Ensor and his wife must have crossed the Quantocks coming here, and have taken a fancy to the name of West Quantoxhead's patron saint, Audrie, also spelled that way."
"It's rather a pretty name," I ventured, feeling pink.