I have always had an idea that events need a propelling hand every now
and then. Somehow it seemed to me that afternoon at Widdington that
Virginia and Sir Archibald were in need of my assistance, and I took a
desperate resolution and helped them to the best of my power. This is
what I did: I undertook to look after Mrs. MacGill and Mrs. Pomeroy in
the motor if Sir Archibald drove Virginia home in the pony chaise; but
not content with this, I deliberately sent them round by a road some
five miles longer than the one we had come by. I happened to be
speaking with the landlady about the roads, and she told me that there
was another way back to Grey Tor, only that it was longer. The idea
struck me, as the saying goes, 'all of a heap.'
'Sir Archibald,' I said, returning to the parlour, where they all sat,
'if you had seen the business I had to get Greytoria _down_ that
hill, you would hesitate more about getting her up it. But the
landlady here tells us that if you go round by the lower road you
avoid the hill, and it is only a little longer.'
'I don't believe in country people's distances,' he said, 'but I'll
inquire.'
I turned back, as if by accident, into the bar, and leaned across the
counter towards the landlady. She was a genial-looking old woman with
a rollicking eye.
'The young people wish to go round by the low road,' I said, 'but I'm
afraid there may be some difficulties made about it.' I hesitated and
smiled at her, adding, 'It's not _much_ farther, is it?'
'Happen four mile or so, ma'am,' she said, looking hard at me.
'Four? As much as that?' I asked.
'Happen three mile, maybe,' she corrected; 'no, two and a half.'
Here Sir Archibald came out to inquire about the distance. He looked
up at the grey skies first, and seemed uncertain.
'How much farther do you call it by the low road to Grey Tor?' he
asked.
'Close on two mile, sir,' she mumbled shamelessly, and Sir Archibald
hesitated no longer.
'Two miles of level are better than half a mile of precipice. I vote
for the longer road, Miss Pomeroy,' he said, on going back into the
parlour.
Virginia nodded and smiled. She was sitting at the old, tinny-sounding
spinet, singing the most beautiful little wandering airs that might
have been learned in fairyland.
Suddenly she drifted into a plaintive melody we had not heard before,
and when we had succumbed to its spell she began singing some words I
had found in my dear mother's diary. I had given the verses to
Virginia, and she had set them to an air of her own. It is a part of
her charm that she sings sad songs as if she had never felt joy, and
gay ones as if she had never known care or sorrow.
''Tis I am a lady, now that I'm old;
I'm sheltered from hunger and want and cold,
In a wonderful country that's rich in gold,
(And life to the last is sweet).
Now in the doorway I sit at my ease,
And my son's son he plays at my knees
On little stumbling feet.
But my heart goes back to the days of old,
To a barren country where gorse is gold,
For oh! it was there that my love was told,
'Twas there we used to meet!
'They may think I've forgotten the land forlorn,
In the happy valleys covered with corn;
They may lay me down with my face to the morn,
A stone at my head and feet;
But I know that before the break o' the day
My soul will arise and be far away
(The spirits travel fleet),--
Away from the valleys covered with corn,
Back again to the land forlorn,
For oh! it was there that my Love was born,
'Twas there we used to meet!'[1]
Sir Archibald, Mr. Willoughby, and I could have listened for an hour,
but I felt that it was time to hurry off the elders of the party, so
made dark allusions to the weather. These were sufficient to rouse
Mrs. MacGill and Mrs. Pomeroy, who were in a semi-comatose condition
induced by copious draughts of tea.
We all went to the door of the inn, and Mr. Willoughby came and helped
me to my seat in the motor.
'I am coming across to Grey Tor on Saturday,' he said. 'I have some
sketches to take over that way. Shall you still be at the inn?'
'Probably,' I answered evasively.
'I hope so,' said he; 'perhaps we may have another talk such as we
have had this afternoon.'
'Who knows? Talk is a fugitive pleasure,' I replied. 'Some days it
will be good, and others it can't be captured at any price.'
'I'll come in the chance of catching some,' he whispered. And at this
moment Mrs. MacGill interrupted us and insisted that I should tie on
her shawl. The homeward drive was begun, but it would be too long a
story to describe its miseries. Imagination must do its work here.