Last night I slept so badly that I could not go down to the
dining-room this morning. Cecilia, in spite of her neuralgia yesterday
seemed well and bright. I asked her to send me up some breakfast, but
could scarcely eat it when it came; the tea was cold, the bread damp
and tough, and the egg fresh enough, but curious. Cecilia never came
near me after breakfast. When I came down about eleven o'clock, very
cold, I found no one in the sitting-rooms. Hearing voices, I went to
the door and found Cecilia talking to the American girl, who had a
great deal of colour for that hour in the morning. Sir Archibald came
up, grinding round the drive in his motor. It is quite unnecessary to
have brought a motor here at all, for I observe that the hillsides are
covered with ponies. There must have been a herd of twenty-five of
them outside my window this morning, so a motor is quite out of place.
The doctor here recommends me to try driving exercise, but some of the
animals are so very small that I scarcely think they could pull me up
these hills. Cecilia says the smaller ones are foals. Many of them
kick, I see, so we must select with care. I wish we could procure a
donkey. The feeling of confidence I have when in a donkey-chair more
than makes up for the slowness of motion.
Like me, Mrs. Pomeroy was kept awake by the wind--it never stops here.
When I remarked on this, Cecilia said in her patronising way, 'Don't
you remember Borrow's famous line,--
'There's always the wind on the heath'?
'I see nothing clever in that,' I said; 'there _is_ always wind on the
heath here, and I particularly dislike it.'
When we came into the drawing-room Miss Pomeroy was saying, 'I've
discovered a piano!' The piano, to my mind, was the largest object in
the room, so she must be short-sighted, if she had not seen it before;
pride probably prevents her wearing glasses. She sat there singing for
quite a long time. She wouldn't finish her songs, but just sang scraps
of a number of things. Sir Archibald came into the room and stood
about for some time. I asked him several questions about his father's
sister, whom I used to know. He replied so absently that I could make
nothing of it. Miss Pomeroy has a clear voice. She sang what I suppose
were translations of negro songs--very noisy. When she afterwards
tried one of Moore's exquisite melodies, I confess to admiring it. It
was a great favourite with Mr. MacGill, who used to sing it with much
feeling:--
'Around the dear ruin, each wish of my heart.'
What a touching expression that is for a middle-aged woman--'the dear
ruin'!
Grey Tor is certainly very bleak. The guide-books speak of 'huge
monoliths' (I suppose they mean the rocks on the moor), 'seeming to
have been reared by some awful cataclysm of nature in primordial
times.' I hope there will be no cataclysms during our stay on the
moor; the accounts of tempests of which I read in some of the novels
quite frighten me, yet I can scarcely think there is much danger about
this tor--'a giant, the biggest tor of all,' the guide-books say. It
is so fully peopled by tourists with luncheon-baskets that one loses
the feeling of desolation. Miss Pomeroy has been up to the top
already--twice, once alone. Cecilia means to go too, though nothing
can be worse for neuralgia than cold wind. She will always say that
nothing hurts her like sitting in hot rooms. I should be very glad to
have a hot room to sit in! She has got a nice, quiet-looking animal at
last, and a low pony chaise, so I hope to have some drives.
Neuralgia is one of those things one cannot calculate on. Cecilia will
be ill all day, and then suddenly able to come down to dinner. I have
suffered a good deal from tic douloureux myself, but was never able to
eat during the paroxysms, as Cecilia seems to be. After having five
teeth pulled, I once lived exclusively on soup for three days.
Miss Pomeroy, I suppose, is what most people would call a pretty girl.
Hot bread and dyspepsia will soon do for her, though, as for all
American women. The bread here is tough and very damp. She is dark,
very dark in hair and eyes, in spite of her white skin, and she
describes herself as a 'Southerner.' I should be inclined to suspect a
strain of negro or Indian blood. I heard her discussing what she
called 'the colour problem' with Cecilia, and she seemed to speak with
a good deal of bitterness. Yet Mrs. Pomeroy is evidently a lady. The
girl dresses well in the American style, which I never attempt. She
has, I suppose, what would be called a fine figure, though the waist
seems of no importance just now. Her feet, in shoes, look small
enough, though the heels she wears astonish me; it is years since I
have worn anything but a simple cloth boot, neat but roomy. I have
seen her glance at my feet several times, as if she observed something
odd about them.