Here beginneth the chronicle of the dreadfullest drive that ever was
driven. I pitied Sir Archibald with my whole heart to be left behind
with Greytoria and me, but what else could be done? There was a mist
when we started which degenerated after a bit into an intermittent
drizzle, and at intervals the wind blew a young tornado. The road was
dreary, but fascinating in its broad stretches of loneliness. We
passed green field and brown moor in turn, with all the trees looking
grey in the mist, and here and there the brawling of a stream to break
the silence. Sometimes there was a woodman working in a roadside
copse, sometimes a goggled stone-breaker pursuing his monotonous
task, sometimes a carrier bending beneath his weight of faggots. If it
had not been for the flaming gorse and the groups of red cattle, there
would have been no colour in the landscape. My spirits kept their
normal height for the first six or eight miles, but they sank little
by little as the hills grew in number and increased in height. Sir
Archibald refused to let me walk, and it made me wretched to see him
stalking beside the pony chaise, appealing to Greytoria's pride,
courage, conscience, ambition, and sense of decency, in turn, and
mostly without avail. We kept the best-travelled road, but it seemed
to lead us farther and farther from Grey Tor, which had quite
disappeared from the horizon and could not be used as a landmark.
There could be no conversation either going up or down hill, as Sir
Archibald was too breathless and busy. I, sitting in state, punctuated
the ascents and descents, as long as I had strength, with agreeable
persiflage something in this wise:--
'The guide-book says, "Pedestrianism is doubtless the ideal manner of
touring in Devonshire. Only on foot is it possible to view the more
romantic scenery. Motors are not advised and bicycles discouraged."'
Sir Archibald would smile, say something under his breath, and whack
Greytoria.
'Sir Archibald, there is a place in these parts where the devil is
said to have died of cold; it must be just here.'
'Sir Archibald, do 'e knaw I think we'm pixy-led? When Devonshire folk
miss the path home at night and go astray, they'm "pixy-led."'
If we two poor wayfarers could have sat quietly beside each other and
chatted in 'e dimpsey light, it would not have been a bit bad, but
there was something eternally doing. When the drag wasn't being put on
or off, the whip was being agitated, or Sir Archibald was looking for
a house to ask the way. Never was there such a route from one spot to
another as the one we took from Widdington-in-the-Wolds to the Grey
Tor Inn. If it was seven miles as the swallow flies, it was
twenty-seven as Greytoria flew. The dinner-hour passed, and the
luncheon baskets, with all other luggage, were in the motor. Sir
Archibald's last information, obtained from an unintelligible boy
driving a cow, was to the effect that we were only two miles from
home.
'She may manage it and she may not,' said my squire, looking savagely
at Greytoria. 'If I only knew whether she can't or she won't, I should
deal with her differently.'
The rain now came down in earnest. Part of my mind was for ever
toiling up or creeping down a hill with the pony, and another part was
spent in keeping my umbrella away from Sir Archibald's hat, on those
rare occasions when he was by my side. A woman may have the charms of
Cleopatra or Helen of Troy, but if she cannot keep her parasol or
umbrella away from a man's hat, her doom is sealed.
How I hate this British climate! How I hate to wear always and always
stout shoes, sensible clothes, serviceable hats, short skirts, looking
like a frump in the intervals of sunshine, that I may be properly
attired when it rains! I shed a few secret tears now and then for
sheer down-heartedness and discouragement. I was desperately cold, and
my wetting had given me a feverish, teeth-chattering sort of feeling.
Hungry I was, too, and in such a rage with the beastly pony that I
wished she had been eaten in the French Revolution; she was too old to
be tender, even then.
Now ensued a brief, all too brief, season of content on a fairly level
bit of road. It was not over an eighth of a mile in length, and must
have been an accident on the part of Nature. I was so numb and so
sleepy that I just heard Sir Archibald's sigh of gratitude as he took
his seat for a moment beside me, and then I subsided into a
semi-comatose state, too tired to make even one more expiring effort
to be agreeable. I am not clear as to the next few moments, in which I
felt a sudden sense of warmth and well-being and companionship. I must
have dropped off into a sort of dream, and in the dream I felt the
merest touch, just the brush of something on my cheek, or I thought I
did. Slight as it was, there was something unaccustomed about it that
made me come hastily into the conscious world, and my waking was made
the more speedy by a sudden stir and noise and ejaculation. We had
come to another hill, and Sir Archibald had evidently wished for once
to omit the walking-up process. Greytoria, outraged in her deepest
sensibilities by the unwonted addition of Sir Archibald's weight to
her burdens, braced her hind legs firmly and proceeded to achieve the
impossible by slithering backward down the hill. Sir Archibald leaped
out on the one side; I put the drag on, or off, whichever is wrong,
and leaped out on the other.
He adjusted the drag and gave Greytoria a clip that she will describe
to her grandchildren on future winter evenings. I, with matchless
presence of mind, got behind the pony chaise and put my shoulder under
the back to break its descent. And so we wound wearily up the hill,
and on reaching the top saw the lighted hotel just ahead of us.
In silence we traversed the few remaining yards, each busy with his
own thought. Silently we entered the gate and gave Greytoria to the
waiting groom. Silently and stiffly I alighted from the chaise, helped
by Sir Archibald's supporting arm. He held my hand a second longer
than was necessary; held it, half dropped it, and held it again; or
did something unusual with it that was widely separated from an
ordinary good-night 'shake.'
There was no harm in that, for the most unsentimental man feels a sort
of brotherly sympathy for a damp, cold, hungry, tired, nice girl.
But about that other--episode?... Of course if he did, I should
resent it bitterly; but if it were only a dream I must not blame him
even in thought.... There is always the risk that a man might
misunderstand the frank good-fellowship in which we American girls are
brought up, and fail to realise that with all our nonsense we draw the
line just as heavily, and in precisely the same place as our British
cousins.... But why do I think about it any more?... It wouldn't be a
bit like him, so probably he didn't.... In fact it is so entirely out
of character that he simply couldn't.... And yet I suppose the number
of men who actually couldn't is comparatively small.