I've done the hateful deed. It was at Newcastle: and I knew I was in for it, the minute I saw Dick. He's got his partnership, and thinks he's got me. But there's many a slip 'twixt Dick Burden and Audrie Brendon.
I wouldn't tell Sir Lionel I was in love with the horrid Boy Detective, and I'm happy—or nearly happy—to say that he refused to give his consent straight out to an engagement. He told Dick the same thing; so there'll be no leaving us two alone in lovesick corners (can corners be lovesick?), or making announcements, or anything appalling of that sort.
Perhaps it was easier, speaking to Sir Lionel, because he hadn't been kind to me since the last evening in Chester—I can't think why, though I can think why I deserved unkindness. The ring was terribly on my mind; but he can't have found out about that, because the man in the shop promised he wouldn't try to sell it until next day.
I couldn't get quite what Ellaline wanted, though I sold two or three other things—all I could sell; but it came nearly to the right amount; and it went off to her in Scotland, in the form of a post-office order, that same night—assured instead of registered, as the letter was so valuable.
Sir Lionel being somewhat frigid and remote in his manner, appearing to take no more interest in me than if he were a big star and I a bit chipped off a Leonid, I delivered myself of what I had to say without great difficulty. I had a queer, numbed feeling, as though if it didn't matter to him, it didn't to me, until just at the last, when he said something that nearly made me cry. Luckily I was able to swallow the sob. It felt like a large, hot, crisp baked potato; and my heart felt like a larger, cold-boiled beet soaked in vinegar.
It's all over now, though, and I'm comparatively callous. Maybe the vinegar has pickled me internally?
Bamborough Castle, where we arrived to-day with our kind and delightful hosts of Cragside, is to be the northernmost end of the tour. On leaving, we turn southward; and would make straight for Warwickshire and Graylees, if, in an evil moment, Mrs. Norton and I hadn't for once agreed about a place that we longed to see. It is Haworth, where the Brontës lived, and Sir Lionel said that our wish should be gratified. He planned a day in Yorkshire: Ripon, Fountains Abbey, Haworth, Harrogate (not York, because Emily went there with the late Mr. Norton, and has sad marital memories); and the plan still stands. I have an idea that Sir Lionel is impatient to reach Graylees now, so after the Yorkshire field-day we will push on there; and I shall perhaps hear from Ellaline as to Honoré's plans. He ought to be in Scotland by that time. I've written her to wire me at the nearest post-office to Graylees Castle, as I don't like to receive telegrams there. But I see no reason why you shouldn't send a letter to Graylees—the last letter, I hope, which need ever be addressed to me as "Miss Ellaline Lethbridge." It will seem nice to get into my own name again! Rather like putting on comfortable shoes after tight ones that made blisters. And how divine to fly to you—a distracted chicken, battered by a thunderstorm, scuttling back under its mother's downy wing!
Nevertheless, I'm not going to cheat you out of seeing England through my eyes, because my pleasure—just a little of it—is damped by Dick. I am resigned and calm, and you mustn't think me a martyr. I've told you I hate whiners, and I won't be one. Why, I ought to be thankful for the chance of such a wonderful trip, and not be cowardly enough to spoil it by a few private worries!
Cumberland is even lovelier than Wales, though I shouldn't have thought that possible. Sir Lionel went climbing with the nice Welsh guide, whom he invited to Keswick, so he wasn't with us much; and Dick being in London still, there were only Mrs. Norton, Mrs. Senter, and I to be conducted by Young Nick. It did seem odd being driven by him, and seeing his back look so inexpressive among the most ravishing scenes. I asked if he didn't think Cumberland glorious, but he said it was not like India. I suppose that was an answer?
We spun off into the mysterious enchantments of Borrodaile in gusts of rain; but the heavenly valley was the more mystic because of the showers. Huge white clouds walked ahead of us, like ghosts of pre-historic animals; and baby clouds sprawled on the mountain sides, with all their filmy legs in air.