Mary Findlater - The Affair at the Inn

I was beginning to try to explain some of the mysteries of motoring when the door of the sitting-room opened, and Miss Virginia Pomeroy came in. Her appearance was a delight to the eyes; tall and full grown, yet graceful, and dressed to perfection. She had none of that meek look that even the prettiest English girls are getting nowadays, as if they would say, 'I'm pretty, but I know I'm a drug in the market, though I can't help it!' No, no, Virginia Pomeroy came into the room with an air of possession, mastery, conquest, that no English girl can assume. She walked straight up to the window and threw it open. 'How perfectly lovely!' she exclaimed. 'Why, there's a motor; I must have a ride in it before very long.' She turned pleasantly to me as she spoke, and asked me if I didn't adore motoring.

'I've never tried,' I said.

'Well, the sooner you begin the better,' she said. 'Never miss a joy in a world of trouble; that's my theory.'

I smiled, but if she had known it, I more nearly cried at her words; she didn't know how many joys I had missed in life!

'I'll go right downstairs and make love to the chauffeur,' she went on, and at this Mrs. MacGill coughed, moved the fire-irons, and told me to close the window. Miss Pomeroy turned to her with a laugh.

'Why!' she said, 'are you two going to sit in this hotel parlour all the morning? You won't have much of a time if you do!'

'I have had the influenza, like Mrs. Pomeroy,' announced Mrs. MacGill solemnly, 'but if Miss Evesham wishes some fresh air she can go out at any time. I'm sure I never object to anything that you choose to do, Cecilia, do I?'

I hastened to assure her that she did not, while the American girl stood looking from one of us to the other with her bright, clever eyes.

'Suppose you come down to the hall door with me then, Miss Evesham,' Miss Pomeroy suggested, 'and we'll taste the air.'

'Shall I, Mrs. MacGill?' I asked, for a companion must always ask leave even to breathe. Mrs. MacGill answered petulantly that of course I might do as I liked.

The motor stood alone and unattended by the front door, both owner and chauffeur having deserted it. It rested there like a redhot panting monster fatigued by climbing the long hill that leads up to Grey Tor Inn.

'Isn't it out of breath?' cried Virginia. 'I want to pat it and give it a drink of water.' The next minute she skipped into the car and laid her white hand on the steering-wheel.

'Oh, don't! Do take care!' I cried. The thing may run away with you or burst, or something, and the owner may come out at any moment – it belongs to that young man who was at Exeter, Sir Archibald Maxwell Mackenzie.'

'I should like it very much if he did come out,' said Virginia, looking over her shoulder at me with the most bewitching ogle I ever saw, and I soon saw that she intended to conquer Sir Archibald as she had conquered many another man, and meant to drive all over Dartmoor in his motor. Well, youth and high spirits are two good things. Let her do what she likes with the young man, so long as she enjoys herself; they will both be old soon enough!

The plot thickens; well, goodness knows it was thin enough before, and it is now only of the innocent consistency of cream sauce. For myself I like a plot that will stand quite stiff and firm; still the Exeter motor is here and the Exeter motor-man is here. I don't mean the chauffeur, but the owner. He doesn't intend staying more than a day or two, but he may like it better as time goes on, – they often do, even these British icebergs. It is, however, a poor climate for thawing purposes. There are only six people in the inn all told, and two, we hear, are leaving to-night.

I was glad to see the English girl standing at the window when we arrived. She brightened, as much as to say that we two might make life more cheerful by putting our heads together. Mrs. MacGill is a good companion for mamma, but could not otherwise be endured for a moment. I find it very difficult to account for her on any ordinary basis; I mean of climate or nationality or the like. The only way I can explain her to my satisfaction is, that some sixty years ago her father, a very dull gentleman, met her mother, a lady of feeble mind and waspish disposition; met her, loved her, married her, – and Mrs. MacGill is the result of the union.

Her conversation at table is aimless beyond description, often causing Miss Evesham to blush, and Sir Archibald to raise his eyebrows. It doesn't take much to produce this effect on Sir Archibald's part; when he was born they must have been slightly lifted.

Mrs. MacGill asked me, at dinner, my Christian name, not having heard it, as mamma often calls me 'Jinny.' Here is the colloquy.

Jinny. My name is Virginia; it is one of the Southern States, you know.

Mrs. Mac. Oh, I see! how curious! Is that a common habit of naming children in America?

Jinny. Oh yes; you see it is such an enormous country, and there are such a number of children to be named that we simply had to extend the supply of names in some way. My mother's middle name, which is my own also, is something really quaint – 'Secessia.'

Mrs. Mac. Secessia! What an extraordinary name! Has it any significance?

Jinny. Yes, indeedy! My mother was born in the early days of the Civil War, at the time of the secession, and her father, an ardent Southerner, named her Gloria Secessia.

Mrs. Mac. Let me see, I don't seem to remember any secession; were we mixed up in what you call your Civil War?

(Here Sir Archibald caught my eye and smiled, almost a human smile it was.)

Jinny. No, but you had a good deal to do with the War of Independence. That was nearly a century before. (Sir Archibald was honestly amused here. He must know American history.)

Mrs. Mac. I thought your last war was called the War of Independence, because it made the negroes independent, but I must have got the two confused; and you've just had another small one, haven't you, though now I remember that we were engaged in only one of them, and that was before my time. It seems strange we should have gone across the ocean to help a younger country to fight its battles, but after all, blood is thicker than water. I had a nephew who went to America – Brazil, I think, was the name of the town – a barrister, Mr. George Forsyth; you may have met him?

Jinny. I think not; I seldom go so far from home.

Mrs. Mac. But you live in South America, do you not?

Jinny. I live in the south, but that is merely to say in the southern part of the United States.

Mrs. Mac. How confusing! I fear I can't make it out without the globes; I was always very good at the globes when I was a child. Cecilia, suppose after dinner you see if there is a globe in the inn.

Poor Miss Evesham! She is so pale, so likeable, so downtrodden, and she has been so pretty! Think of what is involved when one uses the past tense with a woman of thirty. She has fine hair and eyes and a sweet manner. As to the rest, she is about my height, and she is not dressed; she is simply clothed. Height is her only visible dimension, the village mantua-maker having shrouded the others in hopeless ambiguity. She has confessed to me that she dresses on fifteen pounds a year! If she had told me that her father was dead, her mother a kleptomaniac, and she the sole support of a large family, I should have pitied her, but a dress allowance of fifteen pounds a year calls for more than pity; it belongs to the realm of tragedy. She looks at thirty as if she never had had, nor ever expected to have, a good time. How I should like to brighten her up a bit, and get her into my room to try on Paris hats!