EXETER, DEVONSHIRE,
ROUGEMONT CASTLE HOTEL,
_Sunday, May 16th, 19--_
I have made out my journey from Tunbridge wells in safety, although
there has been a breakdown upon the Scotch Express, which is a cause
of thankfulness. There were two American women in the same carriage
part of the time. The mother was, like myself, an invalid, and the
daughter I suppose would be considered pretty. She was not exactly
painted, but must have done something to her skin, I think, probably
prejudicial like the advertisements; it was really waxen, and her hair
decidedly dark--and such a veil! It reminded me of the expression
about 'power on the head' in Corinthians--not that she seemed to
require it, for she rang no less than eight times for the guard, each
time about some different whimsey. The boy only grinned, yet he was
quite rude to me when I asked him, only for the second time, where we
changed carriages next. Cecilia spoke a good deal to the girl, who
made her laugh constantly, in spite of her neuralgia, which was very
inconsistent and provoking to me, as she had not uttered a word for
hours after we left Tunbridge Wells. The mother seemed a very
delicate, sensible person, suffering from exactly the same form of
influenza as myself--indeed many of our symptoms are identical. They
happened to be going to this hotel, too, so we met again in the
afternoon. I had a bad night. Exeter is small, but the Cathedral
chimes are very tiresome; they kept me awake as if on purpose; Cecilia
slept, as neuralgic people seem often able to do.
Somehow I do not fancy the idea of Dartmoor at all. It may brace
Cecilia, but it will be too cold for me, I'm sure. I must send for my
black velvet mantle--the one with the beads at the neck, as it will be
the very thing for the moor. At present I have nothing quite suitable
to wear. There is a great deal of skirt about Americans, I see. Even
the mother rustled; all silk, yet the dresses on the top were plain
enough. As I had nothing to read in the train, I bought a sixpenny
copy of a book called _The Forest Lovers_, but could not get on with
it at all, and what I did make out seemed scarcely proper, so I took
up a novel which Mrs. Pomeroy (the American) lent me, by a man with a
curious Scriptural name--something like Phillpotts. It was entirely
about Dartmoor, and gave a most alarming account of the scenery and
inhabitants. I'm sure I hope we shall be safe at Grey Tor Inn. Some of
the wilder parts must be quite dangerous--storms--wild cattle roaming
about, and Tors everywhere.
* * * * *