GREY TOR INN,
AT THE WORLD'S END,
_Monday, May_--
Mrs. MacGill, inspired by the zeal with which the rest are re-reading
Hardy, Blackmore, Baring-Gould, and Phillpotts, has finished a book of
each of these novelists who play the 'pipes of the misty moorlands.'
She dislikes them all, but her liveliest disapproval is reserved for
the first and last named. She finds them most immoral, and says that
if she could have believed that such ill-conducted persons resided in
Dartmoor or anywhere in Devonshire, she would not have encouraged the
Grey Tor Inn by her presence. As to the language spoken by some of the
characters, she is inclined to think no one could ever have heard it.
'There would be no sense in their using such words,' she explains
triumphantly, 'for no one would understand them'; continuing the
argument by stating that she once heard the Duke of Devonshire open a
public meeting and he spoke in exceptionally good English.
All this makes me rather wicked, so when I went down to breakfast
to-day I said cheerfully, 'Good marnin' to you! Marnin', Mrs. MacGill!
How do 'e like my new gown, Cecilia?--it's flam-new! Marnin', Sir
Archibald! I didn't know 'e in the dimpsey light; bide where you be,
I'll take this seat.... Will I have bacon and eggs? Ess fay; there'll
be nought else, us all knows that. There's many matters I want to put
afore 'e to-day.... Do 'e see thickly li'l piece of bread 'pon the
plate, Cecilia? Pass it to me, will 'e? I know I be chitterin' like a
guinea-fowl, but I be a sort o' public merryman bringin' folks the
blessing o' honest laughter.... Can us have blind up if 'tis all the
same to you, Mrs. MacGill? I doan't like eatin' in the dark.'
Then when mamma said, '_Jinny!_' in italics, and looked at me
beseechingly, I exclaimed, 'Gaw your ways, mother! I ban't feared o'
you, an' I doan't mind tellin' 'e 't is so.' When Sir Archibald,
bursting with laughter, remarked it was a fine day, I replied, 'You'm
right theer; did 'e ever see ought like un? Theer's been a wonnerful
change in the weather; us be called 'pon to go downlong to
Widdington-in-the-Wolds to-day to see the roundy poundies.
"Along by the river we'll ram'le about
A-drowin' th' line and a-ketchin' o' trout;
An' when we've got plenty we'll start ver our huomes,
An' tull all our doings while pickin' ther buones."'
By this time Mrs. MacGill, thoroughly incensed, remarked that there
was no accounting for taste in jokes, whereupon I responded genially,
'You'm right theer! it's a wonnerful coorious rackety world; in fact,
in the language of Eden, 'I'll be gormed if it ban't a 'mazin' world!'
Mamma at this juncture said, with some heat, that if this were the
language of Eden she judged it was after the advent of the serpent; at
which Sir Archibald and Miss Evesham and I screamed with laughter and
explained that I meant Eden Phillpotts, not the garden of Eden.
The day was heavenly, as I said, and seemed intended by Providence for
our long-deferred picnic to Widdington-in-the-Wolds. Mamma and Mrs.
MacGill wanted to see the church, Cecilia and I wanted any sort of
outing. Sir Archibald had not viewed the plan with any warmth from the
first, but I was determined that he should go, for I thought he needed
chastening. Goodness knows he got it, and for that matter so did I,
which was not in the bargain.
I refuse to dwell on the minor incidents of that interminable day.
Mrs. MacGill, for general troublesomeness, outdid her proudest
previous record; no picnic polluted by her presence could be an
enjoyable occasion, but this one was frowned upon by all the Fates.
There is a Dartmoor saying that 'God looks arter his own chosen
fules,' which proves only that we were 'fules,' but not chosen ones.
The luncheon was eaten in a sort of grassy gutter, the only place the
party could agree upon. It was begun in attempted jocularity and
finished in unconcealed gloom. Mrs. MacGill, on perceiving that we
were eating American tongue, declined it, saying she had no confidence
in American foods. I buried my face in my napkin and wept
ostentatiously. She became frightened and apologised, whereupon I said
I would willingly concede that we were not always poetic and were
sometimes too rich, but that when it came to tinning meats it was
cruel to deny our superiority. This delightful repast over and its
remains packed in our baskets, we sought the inn.
Mrs. MacGill sank upon a feather-bed in one of the upstairs rooms,
and my mother extended herself on two chairs in the same apartment,
adding to my depression by the remark she reserves for her most
melancholy moments: 'If your poor father had lived, he would never
have allowed me to undertake this.'
I didn't dare face Sir Archibald until he had digested his
indigestible meal, so Miss Evesham and I went for a walk. Naturally it
rained before we had been out a half-hour, and unnaturally we met Mr.
Willoughby, the artist, again. I ran back to the inn while they took
shelter under a sycamore. I said I didn't want my dress spoiled, and I
spoke the truth, but I did also want to give Miss Evesham the tonic of
male society and conversation, of which she stands in abject need. By
the time she is forty, if this sort of conventual life goes on, she
will be as timorous as the lady in Captain Marryat's novel who,
whenever a gentleman shook hands with her, felt cold chills running up
and down her back.
I took a wrong turning and arrived at the inn soaked as to outer
garments. After a minute or two in the motor-shed with Sir Archibald,
I had a fire kindled in the bedroom; but before I could fully dry
myself they were clamouring for me to come down and add my cheerful
note to the general cackle, for mamma and Mrs. MacGill had ordered
early tea. There was a cosy time for a few minutes when Miss Evesham
gaily toasted bread on a fork and Mr. Willoughby buttered it, and Sir
Archibald opened a quaint instrument in a corner by the fire. I struck
the yellow keys of the thing absently. It was a tiny Broadwood of a
bygone century, fashioned like a writing-desk with a sort of bookcase
top to it. I tried 'Loch Lomond' for Mr. Willoughby, and then, as a
surprise to Cecilia, sang my little setting of the verses she gave me
the other day. The words brought tears to her eyes, and Sir Archibald
came closer. 'More, more!' he pleaded, but I said, 'I don't feel a bit
like it, Sir Archibald; if you'll let me off now I'll sing nicely for
you when they've gone.' He looked unmistakably pleased. 'That's good
of you,' he whispered, 'and I've ordered fresh tea made after the mob
disperses.'
'Don't forget that my mother is one of your so-called "mob,"' I said
severely.
'Oh, you know what I mean,' he responded (he always blushes when he is
chaffed). 'I get on famously with your mother, but three or four women
in a little low-ceiled room like this always look like such a bunch,
you know!'
Then there was a dreadful interval of planning, in which Mrs. MacGill,
who appeared to think it necessary that she should be returned to the
Grey Tor Inn in safety whatever happened to anybody else, was finally
despatched in the motor with mamma, Miss Evesham, and Johnson; while
Sir Archibald and I confronted, with such courage as we might, the
dismal prospect of a three hours' tussle with Greytoria.