When we came into Dunster it was almost dark—just the beautiful hour when the air seems to have turned blue, a deep, clear azure; and of all the quaintly picturesque places we have seen, I know at first glimpse that Dunster would turn out to be the best. Some towns, like some people, introduce themselves to you in a friendly, charming way, with no chill reserve, as if they were sure you deserved to see their best side. It's like that with Dunster, anyhow when you arrive in a motor, and the first thing you see is the ancient Yarn Market, wooden, octagonal, perfect. Then before you have recovered from the effect of that, and the general unspoiledness of everything, you come to the stone porch of the Luttrell Arms Inn; old and grim, with openings for crossbows with which I suppose the Abbots of Cleve must have had to defend themselves, because the house once belonged to them.
If you could see no other town but Dunster, it would be worth while coming across seas to England. But I suppose I've said that about other places, haven't I? Well, I can't help it if I have. Dunster is absolutely perfect—not one false note struck in the quaint music of its antiquity.
Our sitting room was the Abbot's refectory, splendid with black oak beams, and a noble ceiling. Its diamond-paned windows look into a wonderful courtyard, where you expect to see monks walking, or perhaps cavaliers; and on the hill above the garden, there are earthworks thrown up by Oliver Cromwell's army during the siege of Dunster Castle—the "Alnwick of the West." To-morrow, we are to be allowed, as a special favour, to see the inside of the Castle which towers up so grandly against the sky. It isn't open to the public; but Sir Lionel knows some relatives of the owners, so we are to be shown round.
"To-morrow," I say. But if I don't stop at once, and go to bed, it will be "to-day."
Ever your
Audrie.
XXV
FROM SIR LIONEL PENDRAGON TO
COLONEL PATRICK O'HAGAN
Swan Hotel, Wells,