DARTMOOR, DEVONSHIRE,
GREY TOR INN
The plot thickens; well, goodness knows it was thin enough before, and
it is now only of the innocent consistency of cream sauce. For myself
I like a plot that will stand quite stiff and firm; still the Exeter
motor is here and the Exeter motor-man is here. I don't mean the
chauffeur, but the owner. He doesn't intend staying more than a day or
two, but he may like it better as time goes on,--they often do, even
these British icebergs. It is, however, a poor climate for thawing
purposes. There are only six people in the inn all told, and two, we
hear, are leaving to-night.
I was glad to see the English girl standing at the window when we
arrived. She brightened, as much as to say that we two might make life
more cheerful by putting our heads together. Mrs. MacGill is a good
companion for mamma, but could not otherwise be endured for a moment.
I find it very difficult to account for her on any ordinary basis; I
mean of climate or nationality or the like. The only way I can explain
her to my satisfaction is, that some sixty years ago her father, a
very dull gentleman, met her mother, a lady of feeble mind and waspish
disposition; met her, loved her, married her,--and Mrs. MacGill is the
result of the union.
Her conversation at table is aimless beyond description, often causing
Miss Evesham to blush, and Sir Archibald to raise his eyebrows. It
doesn't take much to produce this effect on Sir Archibald's part; when
he was born they must have been slightly lifted.
Mrs. MacGill asked me, at dinner, my Christian name, not having heard
it, as mamma often calls me 'Jinny.' Here is the colloquy.
_Jinny._ My name is Virginia; it is one of the Southern States, you
know.
_Mrs. Mac._ Oh, I see! how curious! Is that a common habit of naming
children in America?
_Jinny._ Oh yes; you see it is such an enormous country, and there are
such a number of children to be named that we simply had to extend the
supply of names in some way. My mother's middle name, which is my own
also, is something really quaint--'Secessia.'
_Mrs. Mac._ Secessia! What an extraordinary name! Has it any
significance?
_Jinny._ Yes, indeedy! My mother was born in the early days of the
Civil War, at the time of the secession, and her father, an ardent
Southerner, named her Gloria Secessia.
_Mrs. Mac._ Let me see, I don't seem to remember any secession; were
we mixed up in what you call your Civil War?
(Here Sir Archibald caught my eye and smiled, almost a human smile it
was.)
_Jinny._ No, but you had a good deal to do with the War of
Independence. That was nearly a century before. (Sir Archibald was
honestly amused here. He must know American history.)
_Mrs. Mac._ I thought your last war was called the War of
Independence, because it made the negroes independent, but I must have
got the two confused; and you've just had another small one, haven't
you, though now I remember that we were engaged in only one of them,
and that was before my time. It seems strange we should have gone
across the ocean to help a younger country to fight its battles, but
after all, blood is thicker than water. I had a nephew who went to
America--Brazil, I think, was the name of the town--a barrister, Mr.
George Forsyth; you may have met him?
_Jinny._ I think not; I seldom go so far from home.
_Mrs. Mac._ But you live in South America, do you not?
_Jinny._ I live in the south, but that is merely to say in the
southern part of the United States.
_Mrs. Mac._ How confusing! I fear I can't make it out without the
globes; I was always very good at the globes when I was a child.
Cecilia, suppose after dinner you see if there is a globe in the inn.
Poor Miss Evesham! She is so pale, so likeable, so downtrodden, and
she has been so pretty! Think of what is involved when one uses the
past tense with a woman of thirty. She has fine hair and eyes and a
sweet manner. As to the rest, she is about my height, and she is not
dressed; she is simply clothed. Height is her only visible dimension,
the village mantua-maker having shrouded the others in hopeless
ambiguity. She has confessed to me that she dresses on fifteen pounds
a year! If she had told me that her father was dead, her mother a
kleptomaniac, and she the sole support of a large family, I should
have pitied her, but a dress allowance of fifteen pounds a year calls
for more than pity; it belongs to the realm of tragedy. She looks at
thirty as if she never had had, nor ever expected to have, a good
time. How I should like to brighten her up a bit, and get her into my
room to try on Paris hats!
She and I, aided by Sir Archibald, have been to Stoke Babbage to try
to secure a pony, sound, kind, and fleet, that will drag Mrs. MacGill
up and down the hills. She refused the steeds proffered by the Grey
Tor stables, and sent Miss Evesham to procure something so hopelessly
ideal in the shape of horseflesh that I confess we had no expectation
of ever finding it.
The groom at the Unicorn produced a nice pony chaise, well padded and
well braked, with small low wheels, and a pony originally black, but
worn grey by age, as well as by battling with the elements in this
region of bare hills and bleak winds. Miss Evesham liked its looks
particularly. I, too, was pleased by its sturdy build, and remarked
that its somewhat wild eye might be only a sign of ambition. Sir
Archibald took an entirely humorous view of the animal, and indeed, as
compared with a motor, the little creature seemed somewhat inadequate.
We agreed that for Mrs. MacGill (and here we exchanged wicked glances)
it would do admirably, and we all became better acquainted in
discussing its points.
Miss Evesham and I offered to drive the pony back to Grey Tor, and Sir
Archibald saw us depart with something that approached hilarity. He is
awfully nice when he unbends in this way, and quite makes one wish to
see him do it oftener. From all our previous conversations I have come
away with the sort of feeling you have when you visit the grave of
your grandmother on a Sunday afternoon.
I don't know the number of miles between Stoke Babbage and Grey Tor.
The distance covered cuts no actual figure in describing the time
required for a drive with the new pony, whom I have christened
Greytoria. The word 'drive' is not altogether descriptive, since we
walked most of the way home. I hardly think this method of progression
would have occurred to us, but it did occur to Greytoria, and she
communicated the idea by stopping short at the slightest elevation,
and turning her head in a manner which could only mean, 'Suppose you
get out, if you don't mind!'
Having walked up all the hills, we imagined we could perhaps drive
down. Not at all. Greytoria dislikes holding back more, if anything,
than climbing up. We kept our seats at first, applied the brake, and
attempted a very gentle trot. 'Don't let us spoil the pony,' I said.
'We must begin as we mean to go on.' Miss Evesham agreed, but in a
moment or two each issued from her side of the chaise, and that
without argument. Greytoria's supports are both stiff and weak--groggy
is Sir Archibald's word. She takes trembling little steps with her
forelegs, while the hind ones slide automatically down any declivity.
The hills between Stoke Babbage and Grey Tor being particularly long
and steep, we found that I was obliged to lead Greytoria by the
bridle, while Miss Evesham held the chaise by the back of the seat,
and attempted to keep it from falling on the pony's legs; the thing,
we finally discovered, that was the ruling terror of her life.
Naturally we were late at luncheon, but we did not describe our drive
in detail. The groom at the stables says that the pony can drag Mrs.
MacGill quite safely, if Miss Evesham is firm in her management. Of
course she will have to walk up and down all the hills, but she
doesn't mind that, and Mrs. MacGill will love it. It is bliss to her
to lie in slippered ease, so to speak, and see all the people in her
vicinity working like galley slaves. We shall be delightfully situated
now, with Greytoria, Sir Archibald's motor, and an occasional trap
from the stables, if we need other vehicles.
Sir Archibald as yet does not look upon a motor as a philanthropic
institution. There are moments when he seems simply to regard it as a
means of selfish pleasure, but that must be changed.
Item. Miss Evesham looked only twenty-nine at luncheon.