They have the look in their eyes that Northern people have, all the world over; a look that can be hard, yet can be kinder than the soft look of more melting Southern eyes. Sir Lionel is of the South—born in Cornwall; yet his eyes have this Northern glint in them—as if he knew and understood mountains. Just now they are terribly wintry, and when they rest coldly on me I feel as if I were lost in a snowstorm without hat or coat. But no matter!
Now, what shall I say to you of Bamborough Castle, which is the crown of our whole tour?
I wish I were clever enough to make the splendour of it burst upon you, as it did upon me.
Imagine us motoring over from Cragside (a very beautiful and famous modern house, with marvellous gardens and enchanting views) which belongs to these kind, delightful friends of Sir Lionel's who own Bamborough Castle. There was a house-party at Cragside, and there were twelve or fifteen of us who left there in a drove of automobiles.
"There were twelve or fifteen of us who left Cragside"
Down the beautiful winding avenue; then out upon a hump-backed, switchback road, a dozen miles and more, past great Alnwick, on, on, until suddenly a vast, dark shape loomed against the sky; a stone silhouette, not of a giant's profile, but of a whole vast family of giants grouped together, to face the sea.
To own a Thing like that must feel like owning Niagara Falls, or the marble range of the Sierra Nevada, or biting off a whole end of England and digesting it. Yet these charming people take their ownership quite calmly; and by filling the huge castle from keep to farthest tower with their beautiful possessions, seem to have tamed the splendid monster, making it legitimately theirs.
I thought Alnwick grand, as we passed, but its position is insignificant compared with Bamborough, which has the wide North Sea for a background. On a craggy platform of black rock like a petrified cushion for a royal crown, it rises above the sea, a few low foothills of golden sand drifting toward it ahead of the tide. The grandeur of the vast pile is almost overwhelming to one who, like me, has never until now seen any of these mighty fortress-castles of the North; but a great historian says that the site of Bamborough surpasses the sites of all other Northumbrian castles in ancient and abiding historic interest; so even if I had been introduced to dozens, my impression must remain the same. "Round Bamborough, and its founder, Ida (the Flame-Bearer), all Northumbrian history gathers"; and it is "one of the great cradles of national life."
Bamborough village, close by, was once the royal city of Bernicia, and the "Laidly Worm" was there to give it fame, even if there had never been a Grizel Cochrane or Grace Darling; but the history of the hamlet that once was great, and the castle that will always be great, are virtually one. I shall bring you Besant's "Dorothy Foster," and lots of fascinating photographs which our hostess has given me. (I don't think I need leave them for Ellaline, as she wouldn't care.) But you know the story of the Laidly Worm, because Dad used to tell it to me when I was small. The wicked stepmother who turned her beautiful stepdaughter into the fearsome Worm used to live at the bottom of a deep, deep well that opens in the stone floor of the castle keep; and there, in the rock-depths, a hundred and fifty feet below, she still lurks, in the form of a gigantic toad. I have been allowed to peep down, and I'm sure I caught the jewelled sparkle of her wicked eye in the gloom. But even if she'd turned me into a Laidly Worm, I couldn't be more repulsive than I probably am at present to Sir Lionel; besides, I could crawl away into a neighbouring cave with modern improvements, and console myself with a good cry—which I can't do now, for fear of getting a red nose. I should hate that, because Mrs. Senter's nose is so magnolia-white, and the background of a magnificent feudal castle sets off her golden hair and brown eyes so passing well.