'The inn at the world's end. The inn at the world's end.' These words
come into my mind every morning when I look out of my window at the
barren moor with its clumps of blazing whin, the misty distance, and
the outline of Grey Tor against the sky. That 'giant among rocks
rising in sombre and sinister majesty athwart the blue' looks to my
eye like an interesting stone on a nice, middle-sized hill. If only
they would dwell more upon the strange sense of desolation and mystery
it seems to put into the landscape, instead of being awed by its
so-called size! I am fascinated by it, but refuse to be astounded.
This naughty conception of the colossus of the moor is the one link
between Sir Archibald and me, for he has seen Ben Nevis and I the
Yosemite crags. Geologically speaking, I admit that these moor rocks
must be fascinating to the student, and certainly we at home are
painfully destitute of 'clapper-bridges,' 'hut-circles,' and
'monoliths'; although I heard an imaginative fellow-countryman declare
yesterday to a party of English trippers that we had so many we became
tired to death of the sight of them, and the government ordered
hundreds of them to be pulled down.
Every inn, even one at the world's end, is a little picture of life,
and we have under our roof all sorts of dramas in process of
unfolding.
Shall I always be travelling, I wonder, picking up acquaintances here
and there, sometimes friends, now and then a lover perhaps! Imagine a
hotel lover, a lodging-house suitor, a husband, whom one would
remember afterwards was rented with an apartment! But if I had found
only Cecilia Evesham in this bleak spot I could be thankful for
coming. She is like a white thornbush in a barren field, and she is
not plain either, as they all persist in thinking her. Life, Mrs.
MacGill, and the village dressmaker have for the moment placed her
under a total eclipse; but she will shine yet, this poor little sunny
beam, all put out of countenance by fierce lights and heavy shadows.
To-day is her birthday, and mamma, who has taken a great fancy to her,
gave her a long, wide scarf of creamy tambour lace. I presented a
little violet brooch and belt-buckle of purple enamel, and by hard
labour extracted from Mrs. MacGill a hideous little jug of Aller Vale
pottery with 'Think of Me' printed on it. Think of her, indeed! One
can always do that without having one's memory jogged, or jugged. Sir
Archibald joined in the affair most amiably, and offered a red-bound
Dartmoor Guide which he chanced to have with him. When we made our
little gifts and I draped Miss Evesham in her tambour scarf, she
looked only twenty-seven and a half by the clock! I wanted to put a
flower in her hair, but she shook her head, saying, 'Roses are for
young and lovely people like you, Virginia, who have other roses to
match in their cheeks.' I was pleased that Sir Archibald was so
friendly about the simple birthday festivities. I can forgive being
snubbed a little myself, or if not exactly snubbed, treated as a
mysterious (and inferior) being from another planet; but if he had
been condescending or disagreeable with Miss Evesham I should have
hated him. As it is I am quite grateful for him as a distinct addition
to our dull feminine party. He is a new type to me, I confess it, and
I had not till to-day made much headway in understanding him. When a
man has positively no shallows one always credits him (I dare say
falsely) with immeasurable depths. His unlikeness to all the men I've
known increases his charm. He seems to attach such undue importance to
small attentions, as if they meant not only a loss of dignity to the
man, but an unwise feeding of the woman's vanity as well. He gave me
the Black Watch ribbon for my banjo with as much inward hesitation and
fear as Breck Calhoun would feel in asking me to share his future on
nothing a year. He didn't grudge the ribbon, not he! but he was
awfully afraid it might prove too encouraging a symptom for me to bear
humbly and modestly.
Then that little affair of yesterday--was there ever anything more
characteristic or more unexpected! I am certain he followed me into
the lane for a walk, and would have joined me if Madam Spoil-Sport had
not been my companion. Then came the stampede of the hill ponies,
which may or may not have been a frightful and dangerous episode. I
can only say it seemed so terrifying that I should have fainted if I
hadn't been so surprised at Sir Archibald's behaviour; and I'm not at
all a fainting sort of person, either.
Mrs. MacGill never looked more shapeless and stupid, and having been
uncommonly selfish and peevish that day, was even less worth
preserving than usual. I don't know what the etiquette is in regard to
life-saving. No doubt the (worthy) aged should always have the first
chance, but in any event I should think a man would evince some slight
regret at seeing a young and lovely creature, just on the threshold of
life, stamped into jelly by a herd of snorting ponies! But Sir
Archibald apparently did not care what happened to me so long as he
could rescue his countrywoman. I waited quite still in that awful
moment when the clattering herd was charging down upon us, confident
that a man of his strength and coolness would look out for us both.
But he snatched the sacred person of the Killjoy, threw her against a
gate, stood in front of her, and with out-stretched arms defied the
oncoming foe. His gesture, his courage, the look in his eye, would
have made the wildest pony quail. It did more,--it made me quail; but
in the same instant he shouted to me, 'Look out for yourself and be
sharp! Shin up that bank! Look alive!'
Shinning was not my customary attitude, but it was not mine 'to make
reply.' I shinned; that is all there is to say about the matter. I
_was_ 'sharp' and I _did_ 'look alive,' being deserted by my natural
protector. I, Virginia Pomeroy, aged twenty-two, native of Richmond,
U.S.A., clambered up one of those steep banks found only in Devonshire
lanes,--a ten or twelve foot bank, crowned with a straggling, ragged
hedge of thorn. I dug my fingers and toes into the earth and clutched
at grass tufts, roots, or anything clutchable, and ended by tumbling
into a thicket of freshly cut beechen twigs. I was as angry as I had
breath to be, but somehow I was awed by the situation: by Mrs.
MacGill's trembling gratitude; by Sir Archibald's presence of mind; by
his imperious suggestion as to my way of escape, for I could never
have climbed that sheer wall of earth unless I had been ordered to in
good set terms. Coming down from my heights a few minutes later,
looking like an intoxicated lady who has resisted the well-meant
advice of a policeman, I put Mrs. MacGill together and shook Sir
Archibald's hand. I am sure I don't know why; he did precious little
for me, but he had been something of a hero, nevertheless.
'_Shin up that bank and look alive!_' I was never spoken to in that
way before, in all my life. I wish Breck Calhoun could have heard him!
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