I knew the moment I opened my eyes that morning that the day of the
picnic had come. The sun was shining brightly, the birds were singing.
Even before breakfast there were tourists sitting on Grey Tor and
holding on to the rails. I could see them against the sky. When we
were all at breakfast, even the old women were excited about the
picnic, and as to Miss Virginia, there was no holding her at all. She
pointed out that she had dressed for the picnic in a brand-new frock
especially built by one of the smart court dressmakers for such
occasions, for which it was about as well suited (I pointed out) as a
ball-dress would have been. It was no good my saying anything, that
these brilliant mornings were not to be trusted, that the road to
Widdington-in-the-Wolds was the worst in the country, that there was
nothing to do or see when you got there; I was overruled on every
point, and all the arrangements were made. I must own I was not in a
good temper anyway. A man has his ups and downs; I had had a worrying
letter from the steward at Kindarroch. My tobacco was done and the
fresh packet hadn't arrived with the morning post, so that my pouch
was filled with a filthy weed from the hotel. Had our party been
composed of only Miss Virginia and her mother, it would not have been
so bad, for then I should have insisted on giving them lunch at a
pothouse, and all the horrors of an _al fresco_ entertainment would
have been avoided. But Mrs. MacGill and her companion were a part of
the show, and the old woman actually hinted that I was to drive her in
the pony-shay, while Johnson conducted the rest of the party in the
motor! I showed her her mistake both clearly and promptly, and had her
packed off about an hour before we started; except for the companion,
who is a decent sort of girl, I could have wished her to capsize on
the way.
We got off in the motor all right--Miss Virginia on the box seat with
me, and the mother behind with Johnson. The going was all right for
the first few miles. Virginia did most of the talking, which was
lucky, for I was not brilliant. It seems odd how a fellow's mood can
be stronger than circumstances. Here was I, on a lovely day, with a
pretty girl on the box beside me, nothing so very much as yet to have
put me out, as black as a thundercloud. Of course the idiocy of a
picnic (on which I have dwelt before) always puts my back up; I didn't
want to come, and yet on this occasion, for some reason or other, I
could not stay away. I really think that feeling more than anything
else made me so devilish ill-tempered. I had soon good cause enough
for ill temper, however. The road was all right at first, as I said,
but presently it gave a dip, and then without the slightest warning we
found ourselves on a hill as steep as the sides of a well, and about
as comfortable for a motor as the precipices of Mont Blanc. It was
dangerous. I hate being in unnecessary danger myself--it is silly; and
as to being in danger with women in charge, it is the very devil. I
jammed on the brakes, and we went skidding and scraping down, showers
of grit and gravel being thrown up in our faces, the whole machine
shaking to bits with the strain. It was a miracle nothing happened
worse than the loss of my temper. The hill got easier after about a
mile. Miss Virginia, who had been frightened to death but had kept
quiet and held on tight, began to laugh and talk again; but I showed
pretty plainly I was in no laughing or talking mood. I kept a grim
silence and looked ahead. I saw her turn and look at me, once or
twice, in a surprised way, and then she suddenly became quite quiet
too. In this significant silence, we drew up at the village inn, where
Mrs. MacGill and Miss Evesham had already arrived.
Guide-books and artists talk yards about this place,
Widdington-in-the-Wolds, but as usual there is nothing to see but a
church, a particularly insanitary churchyard, a few thatched cottages,
two or three big sycamore trees, and an inn, so very small as to be
hardly visible to the naked eye.
We found the Exeter artist here before us, and I walked off with him
at once, leaving the women to themselves. Otherwise I should certainly
have burst, I believe; it is not healthy to refrain from bad language
too long. However, all the agonies of picnic had to be gone
through,--lunch in a ditch, cold, clammy food, forced conversation,
and all the rest of it. Certainly that picnic was a failure; even Miss
Virginia was subdued. When the feeding was done, I went off with
Willoughby, the artist, again. I don't know what the women did with
themselves, I am sure. As I had foretold, the weather had changed;
there had been one cold shower already, and the clouds were piling up
in the sky, threatening a wet, bleak, and windy afternoon. I knew how
it would be, perfectly well, before we started, but no one would heed
me.