I must get away from these women at all costs. People may say what
they like, but there's no question that nothing is more destructive to
comfort than the society of ladies. A man cannot smoke, nor wear the
clothes nor use the language that he wants to when they are
present,--so what is the use of pretending, as some fellows do, that
they add to the pleasantness of life? I certainly thought that by
coming to these out-of-the-way parts in the motor, with no one but my
servant, I should be free of the women; but no such luck! In the hotel
at Exeter there was a batch of them,--some Americans, of course,
particularly a girl, so deuced lively she could not be ignored. I
dislike the whole girl-tribe with all my heart, and I dislike the
kittenish ones most: they're a positive pest.
This is a rum sort of country,--a sort of inferior Scotland, I should
call it; but if you were to say that to the artist chaps and writing
fellows you meet about here, they would murder you. There is a lot of
rot talked about everything in this world, but there's more and worse
rot talked about scenery than anything else. For instance, people will
yarn away about 'the blue Mediterranean,' but it's not a bit bluer
than any other sea,--the English Channel, for example; any sea will be
blue if the sky is blue. I suppose it earns somebody's living to talk
and write all this sort of stuff, and get idiots to believe it. Here
they are always jawing away about 'giant monoliths' and wonderful
colossal stone-formations on the moor, till you really think there's
something rather fine to be seen. And what are the giant monoliths?
Two or three ordinary sorts of stones set up on end on a mound! What
rot!
This is a goodish hotel, and the roads so far have been all right for
the motor; we have come along fairly well; Johnson can drive a bit
now, and understands the machine.
The country was pretty decent for a while, before reaching this;
plenty of trees, no good for timber, though, and there was a lot of
that rotten holly--I'd have it all up if it grew on Kindarroch. And
the gorse, too, was very bad. There was a fellow at Exeter--a sort of
artist, I conclude, from the nonsense he talked--who said he was
coming up here to see the gorse,--came every year, he said. To see the
gorse! To see a lot of dirty weeds that every sensible man wants to
root up and burn! O Lord!
This morning it was rather fine, and I was having a smoke after
breakfast in the hall, when that American girl--the one I saw at
Exeter--came down the staircase, singing at the top of her voice. I
knew she was here, with a mother in the background; she had been
fooling around the motor already, asking a lot of silly questions,
and touching the handles and the wheels--a thing I can't bear--so we
had made acquaintance in a kind of way. The artist at Exeter, I
remember, asked me if I didn't think this girl remarkably pretty, and
I told him I hadn't looked to see, which was perfectly true. But you
can't help seeing a girl if she's standing plump in front of you. Of
course these Americans dress well--no end of money to do it on. This
one had a sort of Tam o' Shanter thing on her head, and a lot of dark
hair came out under it, falling over her ears, and almost over her
cheeks--untidy, I call it. She wore a grey dress, with a bit of
scarlet near her neck, and a knot to match it under the brim of her
cap. I can notice these things when I like. She has black eyes, and
knows how to use them. I don't like dark women; if you must have a
woman about, I prefer pink and white--it looks clean, at any rate. The
name of these people is Pomeroy, Johnson told me; they appear to have
got the hang of mine at Exeter; trust women for that sort of thing.
'Good morning, Sir Archibald,' said Miss Pomeroy now, as pat as you
please. 'It's a mighty pretty morning, isn't it? Don't you long for a
walk? I do! I'm going right up to that stone on the slope there. Won't
you come along too?' A man can hardly refuse outright, I suppose, when
a thing is put to him point blank like this, and we started together,
I pretty glum, for I made up my mind I must give up my after-breakfast
pipe, a thing which puts me out of temper for the day. However, Miss
Pomeroy said she liked smoke, so there was a kind of mitigation in the
boredom which I felt was before me.
Grey Tor, as the guide-books call it, is just above the hotel, a sort
of knob of rock that is thought a lot of in these parts. (We make road
metal of the same kind of thing in Scotland; I'd like to tell the
chaps that who write all the drivel about Dartmoor.) There's an iron
railing round the top of this Tor, to keep the tourists from falling
off, though they'd be no loss if they did. Coach loads of them come
every day, and sit on the top and eat sandwiches, and leave the paper
about, along with orange and banana skins--same as they do at the
Trossachs at home. There's a grassy track up to this blessed Tor, and
Miss Pomeroy and I followed it; American women are no good at walking,
and, in spite of her slight figure, she was puffing like a grampus in
no time, and begging me to stop. We sat down on a rock, and soon she
had breath enough to talk. The subject of names came up, I forget for
what reason.
'I like your kind of name,' Miss Pomeroy was good enough to say. 'I
call it downright sensible and clear, for it tells what you're called,
and gives your background immediately, don't you see? Now, you
couldn't tell what my Christian name is without asking--could you?'
'No, I couldn't,' I agreed, and was silent. I am no hand at small
talk. She gave me rather a funny look out of her black eyes, but I
took no notice. She seemed to want to laugh--I don't know why; there's
nothing funny on Dartmoor that _I_ can see. We got on to the Tor
presently, and nothing would satisfy a woman, naturally, but climbing
all over the beastly thing. She had to be helped up and down, of
course. Her hands are very white and slim; they were not at all hot, I
am glad to say, as she wore no gloves, and I had to clutch them so
often. There was a very high wind up there, and I'm blessed if her
hair didn't come down and blow about. It only made her laugh, but I
considered it would be indecent to walk back to the hotel with a woman
in such a dishevelled state.
'I will pick up the hairpins,' I said seriously, 'if you will--will do
the rest.' She laughed and put up her arms to her head, but brought
them down with a flop.
'I'm afraid my waist is too tight in the sleeves for me to do my hair
up here; it'll have to wait till I get down to the hotel,' she said
gaily. I suppose she meant that she tight-laced, though I couldn't see
how her waist could be tight in the sleeves. I was quite determined
she should not walk to the hotel in my company with her hair in that
state.
'I will stick these in,' I said firmly, indicating the hairpins, of
which I had picked up about a bushel, 'if you will do the rolling up.'
It got done somehow, and I stuck in the pins. I never touched a
woman's hair before; how beastly it must be to have all that on one's
head--unhealthy, too. I dare say it accounts for the feebleness of
women's brains. Miss Pomeroy's cheeks got pinker and pinker during
this operation--a sort of rush of blood, I suppose; it is all right as
long as it does not go to the nose. She is not a bad-looking girl,
certainly.
We got back to the hotel without any further disagreeables.