That dreary week of uncertainty in London seemed more foolish than
ever, when Johnson and I struck the familiar road from Stoke Babbage
to the moor. What a silly ass I was, I thought, to kick my heels at
the Carleton all those tiresome days when I might have been with
Virginia!
It all looked exactly the same as we came up the hill from the little
town,--the bare walls of the hotel, Grey Tor with a row of tourists on
the top, moor ponies feeding all over the place, with their tiny foals
running after them. It was a lovely, cloudless day, with 'blue
distances' enough to please all the artists in creation, and the hot
air quivered over the heath as I've seen it do at home on an August
afternoon. I seemed to hear Virginia's voice already, to see her
standing on the step in one of her pretty new frocks, and my spirits
went up with a bound. But when I got to the door there was no one
there. I went into the dining-room; the tables were changed; the one
at which we all used to sit together in the window was pushed into the
middle of the room. At a small table on the side were seated Mrs.
MacGill and Miss Evesham, while the Exeter artist was at another one
not far off. Miss Evesham and he seemed to be having a pretty lively
conversation, while Mrs. MacGill looked thoroughly out of it and
decidedly sulky.
'What!' cried Miss Evesham, seeing me, 'you are back, Sir Archibald!
Had London no attractions?'
'I hate town in the heat,' I replied.
Of course I wanted to ask where the Pomeroys were, but couldn't bring
myself to do it,--especially before Mrs. MacGill. I had pointedly
ignored her, and had every intention of continuing to do so. After
lunch, at the bureau, I found that the Pomeroys had left some days
ago. I couldn't bring myself to ask for their address, with about a
dozen people listening, so I had to hang about and wait for a chance
of seeing Miss Evesham alone. It was after dinner before I got it. I
could see that she was laughing at me, under the rose--confound her
impudence!--and that she seemed to take a kind of pleasure in keeping
me waiting. She and the artist chap appeared to be as thick as
thieves, but at last she sent him off and began teasing me in her
quiet way.
'Are you a good sailor, Sir Archibald?' she asked irrelevantly.
'Not particularly. Why?' was my reply.
'The Atlantic is a wide ocean, and generally very rough, I have
heard,' said she, with a queer look at my face.
'Oh!' cried I involuntarily. 'Have they crossed?'
She burst out laughing.
'You're fairly caught!' she said. 'Am I supposed to know who "they"
are?'
Then of course I had to let on. I could see Miss Evesham knew all
about it, though she did not say much, being more inclined to laugh;
I'm sure I don't know why. The Pomeroys had gone to Torquay, but she
either could not or would not tell me their address, or how long they
were going to stay, or where they were going next.
'Torquay is a big place,' I said, discouraged, 'all hotels and
lodgings. How the deuce shall I find them?'
'Oh,' she replied coolly, 'people generally find what they want very
much--if they are really in earnest.'
With that she nodded me good night, still laughing. I did not see her
again, for of course I made an early morning start for Torquay next
day.
And the devil of a hunt I had, when I got there! What silly idiots
women are! (Of course I mean Miss Evesham.) There are about one
hundred hotels, three hundred boarding-houses, and one thousand
furnished apartments in Torquay, and search as I might, I could not
find the Pomeroys' name on any of their lists, or discover a trace of
them anywhere. It was a broiling hot day, the sun beat down without
mercy, and the glare beat up from the beastly white roads and
pavements till I was nearly blind. I was never so nearly used up in my
life as at the end of that day, and it was not only with bodily
fatigue, but with utter and most cruel disappointment; for I was
convinced that the Pomeroys had left Torquay, and that, like an utter
fool, I had missed my only chance of being happy with a woman.
At last between six and seven of the evening, I found myself sitting
on the edge of a little sort of wood, below a garden overhanging the
sea. The trees were cut away, here and there, to show the view, and to
the right you looked along the coast and saw some red rocks and a
green headland jutting out into the water. It was sunset; I was
watching a little yawl in fall sail slipping round the headland, and
when it was out of sight, I looked at the headland itself. There was
one figure on the piece of green downs at the top,--a tall, slight
figure, a woman's, all in white, with a red parasol.
My heart jumped into my throat. I knew it was Virginia. There was a
piece of white scarf or veil floating out behind her as she walked,
and there is no woman in the world but Virginia who stands like that
or wears a scarf like that!--O Virginia, so dear and so distant, how,
how could I reach her, not having the wings of a bird? Long before I
could get there she would be gone,--lost again in that howling
wilderness of hotels and lodging-houses.
A man came along the path where I was standing.
'How do you get to that place?' I inquired, pointing to the headland,
'and what is it called?'
'It's called Daddy Hole Plain,' said the man, 'and you get there by
the road. I can't direct you from here; you must inquire as you go
along.'
'Is there no short cut?' I inquired impatiently.
'Not unless you can swim or fly!' said the man, with a grin.
I never wished before to be a bird or a fish; mere feet seemed a most
inadequate means of getting me to Virginia. But I set off, very nearly
at a run. The wrong turns that I took, the hills that I went up, the
hills that I went down, the people that I asked, the wrong directions
they gave me,--they seemed quite innumerable. Daddy Hole Plain was
about as difficult to get to as heaven, and when I got there the angel
would be flown!
But she wasn't.... For when at last I saw before me the bit of green
downs with the seats facing the bay, the white figure was there.
Virginia was sitting looking out to sea where the sun was setting,
making a red path on the water, and the white-sailed yawl was drifting
to the west!... I was so hot and tired, so travel-stained and dusty!
Virginia looked so cool and sweet!... To see her there after all my
wandering and disappointment was too much.... I could not speak. She
heard my step, looked up and saw me coming--looked glad, I think....
Her little feet were crossed in front of her upon the turf, and I just
flung myself beside them, and something--so like a lump of ice, that I
had always carried in my breast until I saw Virginia--melted entirely
at that moment, and began to beat.