It was a fine road; Axbridge a sort of toy village whose houses might have been made for good little girls to play with; and to avoid the traffic in the main road we went by way of Congresbury, where the Milford-Joneses live. I was glad we didn't meet them driving their old pony-chaise. I should have been ashamed to bow. There was a turn which led us into a charming road, winding high among woods, then coming out where the gorge of the Avon burst upon our view. It always pleases Sir Lionel if one is enthusiastic over scenery, so I was, though I really hated going over that awfully high suspension bridge, as I detest looking down from heights. So does Mrs. Norton; but I can't afford to be classed with her, therefore I joined Ellaline in exclaiming that the bridge was glorious. I suppose it is fine, if one could only look without fear of being seasick.
We stopped all night in Clifton, in which Miss Lethbridge was interested, largely because of "Evelina," who stopped at the Hot Wells, in the "most romantic part of the story." I couldn't for my life remember who wrote "Evelina"—which was awkward; and it hasn't come back to me yet. I always mix the book up with "Clarissa Harlowe," and so does Dick, though, of course, he's read neither.
We went to see a lot of things in Bristol, but the best was a church called St. Mary Redcliffe. Mrs. Norton, though tired, pined to go when she heard it was famous; and it's as much as your life is worth to deny her a church if she wants one. The others, except Dick, said it was worth stopping for; also that they were glad they did; so somebody was pleased! And Sir L. and E. jabbered enough history in Bristol to last a schoolmaster a week. I was quite thankful to start again, and stop the flow of intelligence, because I hadn't found time to fag up Bristol and Clifton beforehand, as I do some towns.
So we came to Bath, where we've been stopping for two days at one of the best hotels in England, and where I might enjoy a little well-earned civilization if it weren't that there are a thousand and one old houses and other "features" which Mademoiselle Ellaline pretends she yearns to visit. Of course, I know that all she wants is a chance to monopolize Sir L.'s society, but he doesn't know that; and my business is not only to fight unjust monopoly, but to establish a Senter-Pendragon Trust myself. Consequently there is no rest for the wicked, and willy-nilly, I, too, gloat over relics of the past.
Luckily for me, as I have had to do more sight-seeing here than almost anywhere else, Bath is a fascinating place, and I believe it's becoming very fashionable again. Anyhow, all the great ones of earth seem to have lived here at one time or another. I wonder if it mightn't be nice for you to spend a season, taking the waters, or bathing, or whatever is the smartest thing to do? I've noticed it's only the very smartest thing that ever thoroughly agrees with you, and I sympathize. I have the sort of feeling that what is good for duchesses may be good for me; but if I bring off what I'm aiming at now, Lady Pendragon shall rise on the ladder of her husband's fame and her own charm to the plane of royalties.
By the way, in nosing about among the foundations of a church here, St. Peter's—they found the wife (her body, I mean) of that King Edmund Thingummy I never could find out about. He seems always to be cropping up!
I was in hopes we'd only have to go back to the Roman days of Bath, as that saves trouble; but, oh no, down I must dip into Saxon lore, or I'm not in it with the industrious Miss Lethbridge! I think the wretched Saxons had a mint here, or something, and there were religious pageants of great splendour in which that everlasting St. Dunstan mixed himself up. I tell you these things, I may explain, not because I think you will be interested, but because I want to fix them in my mind, as we haven't finished "doing" Bath yet, and are to stop another day or two.
As for Roman talk, there is no end of it among us; it mingles with our meals, which would otherwise be delicious; and in my dreams, instead of being lulled by the music of a beautiful weir under my window, I find myself mumbling: "Yes, Sir Lionel, Ptolemy should have said the place was outside, not in, the Belgic border." (Sounds like something new in embroidery, doesn't it?) "Strange, indeed, that they only discovered the Roman Baths so late as the middle of the eighteenth century! And then, only think of finding the biggest and best of all, more than a hundred years later!"
I assure you, I have kept my end up with my two too-well-informed companions, and I was even able to tell Sir Lionel a legend he didn't know: about Bladud, a son of the British King Lud Hudibras, creating Bath by black magic, secreting a miraculous stone in the spring, which heated the water and cured the sick. Then Bladud grew so conceited about his own powers that he tried to fly, and if he had succeeded there would have been no need for the Wright brothers to bother; but when he got as far as London from Bath the wing-strings broke and he fell, plop! on a particularly hard temple of Apollo. After him reigned his son, no less a person than King Lear. I got this out of a queer little old book I bought the first day we came, but I assumed the air of having known it since childhood. There's another legend, it seems, about Bladud and a swine, but it's less esoteric than this, and Sir Lionel likes mine better.
I do wish we hadn't to spend so much time poking about in the Roman Baths, for though there are good enough sights to see there, for those who love that sort of thing, one does get such cold feet, and there are such a lot of steps up and down, one's dress is soon dusty round the bottom, and that's a bore when one has no maid.