_Tuesday evening_
This will be a long story to tell. On Monday morning Mrs. MacGill was
very lively, perhaps wakened up by the explosion of the previous
night. She came down to breakfast, and was persuaded by the Pomeroys
to undertake an expedition to Widdington-in-the-Wolds, an outlying
hamlet famous for an old church.
'It is long since I have lunched out of doors, Mrs. Pomeroy,' she
said, 'but the doctor has so strongly recommended carriage exercise
and fresh air to me, that I dare say on such a very fine morning I
might make the attempt, if you are thinking of it.'
Mrs. Pomeroy had been made to think of it by the fair Virginia, as I
well knew; for the expedition was to be carried out in Sir Archibald's
motor.
'One should always make an effort to see all places of interest in a
neighbourhood,' Mrs. Pomeroy observed, with the sigh of the
conscientious American sightseer, and Mrs. MacGill assented. My heart
sank. Fancy visiting places of interest in the company of Mrs.
MacGill! But, as Browning has it, 'Never the hour and the place and
the loved one all together!' I have noticed the curious, indomitable
tendency of tiresome people to collect and reappear in these exquisite
places most favoured by nature; more suited, it would seem, for angel
visitants than for the flat-footed multitude: but I digress.
The fact remained that it was in close company with Mrs. MacGill that
I was to visit the solitudes of Dartmoor,--Mrs. MacGill in a
bead-trimmed mantle, a bonnet ornamented with purple velvet pansies,
and an eis-wool shawl tied round her throat.
I was to drive her in the pony cart; even her fears were not aroused
by the dejected appearance of Greytoria as that noble animal was led
up to the door.
'I am glad to see that the horse does not look spirited,' she said;
'for though you say you are so well accustomed to driving, I always
prefer a coachman.'
With a quick twitch of the reins I raised Greytoria's drooping nose
from the dust. She seemed surprised, but ambled off in the indicated
direction.
'The road'--to quote Christina Rossetti--'wound uphill all the way,'
and a long way it was. We crawled along at about the rate of a mile an
hour over that rough and stony track. The lines I have just quoted
haunted my memory with their dismal significance--Life, life! your
long uphill road has little promise of rest for me.
We toiled on. Then the summit was gained at last, and down below us,
in a little nest-like green valley, huddled between the swelling brown
moors, lay Widdington-in-the-Wolds, the Mecca of our pilgrimage.
'There it is at last!' I cried. 'See the quaint old church tower!' I
actually appealed to Mrs. MacGill for sympathy, so great was my
enthusiasm. It was a mistake.
'I see little to admire, Cecilia,' she said, 'and do look after the
pony.'
Her admonition was not unnecessary. In my delight I had risen in my
seat and let the reins slip out of my inattentive fingers. Greytoria,
in a manner peculiar to herself, had begun the descent of the
terrifying hill which leads down to Widdington. Clapping her heels
together like a bowing Frenchman, she let herself slide down the
decline. I realised this in a moment, but it was rather too late.
There was a long, scraping slither; I put on the drag hard, and tried
to hold up Greytoria's head. The attempt was vain; she turned round
and looked at me, and then, without making any farther effort, quite
simply sat down in the traces, the chaise resting gracefully on her
back.
Mrs. MacGill cried out with terror, and, indeed, I felt ready to do
the same. Not a soul was anywhere in sight. Only far down below us,
at the foot of the terrible Widdington hill, could help be procured.
'O Cecilia, this is what comes of trusting you to drive,' cried Mrs.
MacGill.
This stiffened me up a little, and I determined to unharness
Greytoria.
'Come and sit by the roadside,' I said. 'I'll get her unharnessed, and
once on her legs again there won't be any harm done; it's not as if
she had broken her knees.'
'I didn't know that horses _could_ sit down,' wailed Mrs. MacGill.
'Well, it is an uncommon accomplishment,' I admitted, tugging at the
harness buckles.
Greytoria turned a mild old eye upon me; she seemed accustomed to the
process of being unharnessed, but did not make any attempt to rise.
I thought as I tugged at that buckle that the whole thing was
symbolical of life for me. Wasn't I for ever tugging at obstinate
buckles of one sort or another? I dare say such morbid thoughts should
have had no place in my fancy at a moment of practical difficulty, but
there are some people made in this way; their thoughts flow on in an
undercurrent to events. So I tugged away, and my thoughts worked on
also.
It was no easy task, this, of getting Greytoria on her legs again; but
I achieved it at last, and she stood up, abject, trembling, with
drooping head and bowed knees, regarding the hill before her.
'We must walk down to the Inn, I'm afraid, Mrs. MacGill,' I said.
'I've got Greytoria into the chaise again, but if we add our weight to
it she will just sit down a second time.'
'Oh, what a hill to go down on foot!' cried Mrs. MacGill, but she saw
that it was inevitable, so we began the long descent, I leading
Greytoria, Mrs. MacGill trailing behind. Down below us the green
valley smiled and beckoned us forward, yet like every peaceful oasis,
it had to be gained with toil and difficulty. As we plodded down that
weary hill, shall I confess that my thoughts turned a little bitterly
to Virginia's side of the day's pleasuring? Why should she, young,
rich, and beautiful, have the pleasant half of the expedition,--a ride
in a motor with a nice young man who was falling in love with her,
while I was doomed to trail along with Mrs. MacGill? Why did some
women get everything? Surely I needed amusement and relaxation more
than Virginia did, but it isn't those who need relaxation who ever get
it; 'to him that hath shall be given,' as the Bible cynically and
truly observes.
Every few yards Mrs. MacGill would call out to me to stop: she was
getting too tired; it was so cold; the road was so rough. But at last
the foot of the hill was gained, and with a sigh of relief she bundled
into the chaise again. She had, however, no eyes for the interest or
beauty of the place we had reached with such difficulty. All her
faculties, such as they are, were concentrated on wondering where and
when we would get some food. As we passed the church, she looked the
other way. I was almost glad. I flicked Greytoria, her flagging pace
quickened, and attempting a trot, we drove up to the inn door.
'I suppose we must wait for the others,' Mrs. MacGill sighed
peevishly, 'but really after all I have gone through, I feel much in
want of food.'
'They will soon be here,' I said, 'and on the way home Greytoria will
go better.'
'Well, as she goes badly up hill, and won't go down at all, I scarcely
see how we are to get home so well,' she retorted, with a measure of
truth.
As I looked at the hill that we should need to reclimb before we
reached home, my heart misgave me too; but just then the motor hove in
sight, a scarlet blot at the top of the hill, and we became
interested in watching its descent. How it spun down! Almost before we
could believe it possible, it dashed up to the inn door, and Virginia
jumped out. She was in exuberant spirits. The drive had been just
lovely; she adored Widdington; the hill only gave her delicious
creeps; she wasn't a bit tired or cold.
'Yes,' thought I, 'it's easy to be neither cold nor tired when you are
happy and amused and young and rich! Try to drive with Mrs. MacGill
when you are feeling ill, and can't afford to buy warm clothes, and
see how you like it!'
Mrs. Pomeroy was less enthusiastic, and Sir Archibald was dumbly
regarding the tires of the motor, which had suffered strange things.
'Hello,' he said, as he glanced up at the window of the inn, 'there's
that artist fellow who was at Exeter. Suppose he's come to "see the
gorse."'
He nodded up at the window, took out his pipe, and began to fill it,
directing Johnson to take the luncheon-basket out of the motor.
Then the artist, Mr. Willoughby, came sauntering out of the door. I
dare say he had had enough of gorse and solitude, for he seemed glad
to greet even a casual acquaintance like Sir Archibald. The position
of being the one man in a party of women had palled upon Sir Archibald
only too apparently, for he met Mr. Willoughby with--for him--quite
unwonted geniality, and they strolled off together down the road.
Virginia put her hand through my arm, and drew me in the direction of
the church.
'We're not going on very well this morning, Cecilia,' she confided to
me. 'He's so Scotch, Sir Archibald is, what they call "canny," and
I've made him very cross by dragging him off on this expedition. All
the tires of the motor are cut, and he hates eating out of doors. I
can see that I've vexed him to madness.'