This has been a terrible day of fatigue and discomfort. I was a woman
of sixty in the morning, but I felt like a woman of eighty-six by
night. Danger, especially when combined with want of proper food, ages
one in a short time. My sister Isabella, who knew Baden-Powell,
declares that she would scarcely have recognised him to be the same
man after as before the siege of Mafeking, particularly about the
mouth.
My velvet mantle, after all it has suffered, will never be as good
again, and I have reason to be thankful if I escape a severe illness
on my own account after the mad rashness of this day's proceedings.
The young people (I include Cecilia, though considerably over thirty)
had been talking a great deal about an expedition to a distant hamlet
called Widdington-in-the-Wolds. Miss Pomeroy had, of course,
persuaded that misguided young man to take her in the motor, although
there can be little conversation of a tender nature in a machine that
makes such awful noises; still young people now can doubtless shout
anything. Poor Mr. MacGill used always to say that he could scarcely
catch _my_ replies.
Cecilia assured me that it was a short drive, so I consented to allow
her to take me in a pony chaise. Certainly I never saw a
quieter-looking animal than that pony at first sight; she had, indeed,
an air of extreme gentleness. People say that is frequently combined
with great strength--at least in dogs, and I think in men too; in
horses it does not seem to be the case, for this poor animal had a
very dangerous habit of putting her hind feet together and sliding
down a descent. Several times at small declivities she seemed to slide
forwards, and the carriage slid after her, so that I thought we should
both be thrown out. At last, having driven many miles, meeting
several droves of the wild ponies, which happily did us no harm, we
came to the top of a quite precipitous hill, which Cecilia declared we
must descend before we could arrive at Widdington.
I had already warned her that I felt no confidence in her driving, but
she is sadly obstinate, and made some almost impertinent retort, so we
began to descend the hill. We had gone only a short distance, however,
when the pony, curiously enough, sat down.
'Is this a common action with horses, Cecilia?' I gasped.
Then came a cracking noise. 'It's the shafts breaking, I'm afraid,'
she said quite coolly, and jumped out. I got out too, of course, as
fast as I could, and Cecilia began to undo the straps of the animal's
harness. Again I felt I had had a narrow escape. I am not able now for
these nervous shocks--they take too much out of me. I had been reading
some of those alarming books about the neighbourhood, and felt I
should be quite afraid to ask for assistance from any passer-by.
There were none, as we had seen nothing but ponies since we left Grey
Tor, but in several books the violent passions of the natives had been
described.
Cecilia said that she would lead the animal, so we started to go down
the long hill, which was so very steep I thought I should never reach
the bottom. Cecilia seemed to think nothing of it. 'You can do it
quite well, Mrs. MacGill,' she said. 'Well,' I replied, 'if a creature
with four feet, like that pony, can tumble so, how do you suppose that
I, on two, can do it easily?' My velvet mantle, though warm, is very
heavy, and my right knee was still extremely painful. It now began to
rain a little, and the sky got very dark, which, I remember, the books
say is always a prelude to one of those terrific storms which
apparently sweep across Dartmoor in a moment. 'If it rains,' I said,
'the river always rises. "Dart is up," as they say, and we shall
never reach home alive.' Cecilia declared in her stupid way that we
were nowhere near the Dart. 'Why are we on Dartmoor, then?' I asked.
'I have read everywhere that the river runs with appalling velocity,
and sweeps on in an angry torrent, carrying away trees and houses like
straw; there are no trees, but those small houses down there would be
swept away in no time. If we can only get down to the village, and get
something to eat, and a carriage to take us home in, I shall be
thankful!'
Cecilia appeared uncertain as to whether we could get any means of
conveyance at the inn, so I suggested that we should just walk on.
'Nothing,' I said,'shall make me try to go back with that animal. Our
lives were in danger when she sat down. I am sure that they must have
a quieter horse of some kind, in such a lonely place.'
Somehow or other we did get down, and were standing by the wayside
when Sir Archibald's motor drove towards us, seeming to have descended
the hills in perfect safety. Miss Pomeroy, of course, was on the box.
She _looked_ rouged. I cannot be quite certain, as I am unaware of
ever having seen any one whom I absolutely knew to be addicted to the
habit, but Mr. MacGill had a cousin whom he used to speak of with
considerable asperity, who used to be known as 'the damask rose,' and
that was because she painted, I am sure. Miss Pomeroy's cheeks were
startling. Her poor mother looked like leather, but was calm enough,
in the back seat. She is a sensible woman, and when the young people
(I include Cecilia for convenience) all began to exclaim in their
silly way about Widdington, calling it 'lovely' and 'picturesque' (I
must say that Sir Archibald had too much good sense to join in this),
she remarked aside to me with a quiet smile, 'You and I, Mrs. MacGill,
are too old to care about the picturesque upon an empty stomach.' To
stand in a damp church with a stiff knee is even worse, as I told
Cecilia, when she had insisted on dragging me into the building,
which smells of mildew. The sacred edifice should always, I hope,
suggest thoughts of death to all of us, but Miss Pomeroy appeared more
cheerful than usual, and stood talking with Cecilia about pillars till
I was chilled through. The cold is more penetrating in these old
churches than anywhere else--I suppose because so many people used to
be buried there. It seems hideous to relate that on coming out we sat
down to lunch in a ditch.
Mrs. Pomeroy is so infatuated about her daughter that she would do
anything to please her. I insisted at first that Cecilia was to
accompany me into the inn, but Mrs. Pomeroy gave me such an account of
the scene of carousal going on there that, rather than sit in the bar,
I consented to eat out of doors.
The others called it a fine day, and even spoke of enjoyment. It
showed good sense on the part of our cavalier that he, at least,
never made any pretence of enjoying himself. He is thoroughly sick of
that girl, but she will run after him. It makes me ashamed of my sex.
When I was a girl I always affected not to see Mr. MacGill until he
absolutely spoke to me; and even when he had made me a distinct
offer--which girls like Virginia Pomeroy do not seem to consider
necessary--I appeared to hesitate, and told him to ask papa. Of course
if Mr. Pomeroy is dead (and her mother always wears black, though not
the full costume--she may be only divorced, one hears such things
about Americans), why then one can't expect her to do _that_, but I
very much doubt if she will ever consult Mrs. Pomeroy for a
moment--that is to say, if she can squeeze anything at all like a
proposal from Sir Archibald.
I have tried in vain to put the young man upon his guard. Give them
hair and complexion, and they are deaf adders all; yet what is that
compared to principle, and some notion of cooking? Miss Pomeroy asks
for nothing if she has a box of sweets; yet only the other day I heard
her confess to eating bread and cheese in an inn, along with that
unfortunate young man, who probably considered it a proof of
simplicity. He is sadly mistaken. Ten courses at dinner is the
ordinary thing in New York, I believe, one of them canvas-back ducks
upon ice!
By three o'clock, when this horrid meal was over, Mrs. Pomeroy and I
were both so chilled and fatigued that I sent Cecilia to entreat that
the woman of the inn would allow us to rest for an hour in a room
where there were no drunkards. We were conducted to a small
bedchamber, where I lay down on the bed, while Mrs. Pomeroy had a nap
upon two chairs. Like myself, she is always troubled by a tendency to
breathlessness after eating--and even lunch in a ditch is a meal, of
course. She also talked a little about her daughter in perhaps a
pardonable strain for a mother, who can scarcely be expected to
realise what the girl really is.
A Mr. Calhoun of Richmond, a suburb of New York, appears to have paid
her some attentions. She must have greatly exaggerated them to her
mother, for Mrs. Pomeroy evidently believes that it is fully in her
power to marry the young man if she likes. It will be a merciful
escape for Sir Archibald for a while, even though they can be divorced
so easily in New York.