Mrs. Senter said that Mr. Lethbridge had been sure the uncle would shield him rather than have a scandal in the family, and so it was a great surprise to him to be treated like an ordinary criminal. When he was sentenced to several years in prison, after a sensational trial, he contrived to hang himself, and was found stone-dead in his cell. His widow had to go and live with some dull, disagreeable relations in the country, who thought it their duty to take her and the baby for a consideration, and there she died of disappointment and galloping consumption, leaving a letter for her jilted cousin Lionel, in Bengal, which begged him to act as guardian for her child. All the money she had at her death was a few thousand pounds, of which she had never been able to touch anything but the income, about two hundred pounds a year; and that sum, Mrs. Senter gave me to understand, constituted my sole right to consider myself an heiress.
Despite the shameful way in which she had behaved to him, Sir Lionel accepted the charge, eventually took his cousin's little girl away from the disagreeable relatives, and put her at Madame de Maluet's, where Mother Ellaline was educated and particularly desired her daughter to be educated. Not only did he pay for her keep at one of the most expensive schools in France (Madame's is that, and she prides herself on the fact), but gave her an allowance "far too large for a schoolgirl" in the opinion of Mrs. Senter's unknown (to me) informant.
Doesn't this account for everything that looked strange, and for all that appeared cold-hearted, almost cruel, in Sir Lionel to Ellaline, who had heard the wrong side of the story, certainly from Madame de Blanchemain—a silly woman, I fancy—and perhaps even from Madame de Maluet, whose favourite pupil Ellaline the First was?
No wonder Sir Lionel didn't write to the child, or want her to write to him, or send her photograph, or anything! And no wonder he dreaded having her society thrust on him when Madame de Maluet hinted that it was hardly decent to keep his ward at school any longer. I even understand now why, when I show the slightest sign of flirtatiousness or skittishness, he stiffens up, and draws into his shell.
I very politely let Mrs. Senter see that I appreciated her true disinterestedness in repeating to me this tragic family history; and of course she was a cat twice over to do it. At the same time, I never liked her so much in my life, because it was so splendid to have Sir Lionel not only justified (he hardly needed that with me, at this stage) but haloed. I think he has behaved like a saint on a stained-glass window, don't you?
I have interrupted my letter about places and things tremendously, to tell you the story as it was told to me; but it seemed to come in appropriately, and I wanted you to know it, so that you might begin to appreciate Sir Lionel at his true worth in case you have been doubting him a little up to now.
Everyone has gone down to dinner, I'm afraid, and I must go, too, because of the Abbey afterward, and not keeping them waiting; but perhaps, if I skip soup and fish, I may stop long enough to add that after Gloucester we went to quaint old Ross, sacred to the memory of "The Man of Ross," who was so revered that a most lovely view over the River Wye has been named for him. We had lunch there, at a hotel where I should love to stay, and then passed on, along a perfect road, down the Wye, till we came to Kerne Bridge, near Goodrich Castle. There we got out, leaving Buddha as the god in the car, and walked for half a mile along a romantic path to the ruined castle. It was one of the first built in England, and there are early Norman parts of it still intact, and incredibly strong looking, as if they meant to last another thousand years. I was so interested in it, and wish whoever it may concern would leave the castle to me in his will. I would fix up a room or two and bring you there, and we'd have that exquisite view always under our eyes. As for servants, we could employ ghosts.
The Wye is even more charming as a river and as a valley than we used to imagine when we wanted to "do" England, before it burst upon us that most of the wherewithal was used up. Nothing could be more dreamy and daintily pretty than landscape and waterscape, though here and there is a bit which might be gray and grim if the beetling rocks weren't hatted with moss and mantled with delicate green trees. Wherever there is a boulder in the river, the bright water laughs and plays round it, as if forbidding it to look stern.
The real way to see the Wye isn't by motor, but by boat, I am sure, even though that may sound treacherous to Apollo and disloyal to my petrol; but we did the best we could, and went out of our way some miles to see Symond's Yat, a queer, delightful, white village on a part of the river which is particularly divine. There's a splendid rock, and the Yat is the rock, as well as the village. Also there's a cave; but I wasn't sorry not to stop and go in, lest Mrs. Senter might seize the opportunity of telling me some other fearsome tale, less welcome than the last.
In old days it used to take a week by coach from London to Monmouth. Now, with a motor, I dare say we could do it in one long, long day, if we tried. Only it would be silly to try, because one wouldn't see anything, and would make oneself a nuisance as a "road hog" to everybody one met or passed. It was Monmouth we came to next, after "digressing" to Symond's Yat, and as it was nearly evening by that time, Sir Lionel decided to stay the night. He meant to start again in the morning; but Monmouth Castle, towering out of the river, was so fine that it was a pity to leave it unvisited, particularly as Henry V., a special hero of Sir Lionel's (mine, too!) was born there. Then we took an unplanned eight-mile run to Raglan Castle, a magnificently impressive ruin; and that is why we arrived so late to-day at Tintern.