The Affair at the Inn Part 5

We were discussing our common lack of relatives. 'I have no one but my mother and two distant cousins,' I said.

The sympathetic man would have murmured, 'Poor little soul!' and the too sentimental one would have seized the opportunity to exclaim, 'Then let me be all in all to you!' But Sir Archibald removed his pipe and remarked, 'Good thing too, I dare say'; and then in a moment continued with graceful tact and frankness, 'They say you can't tell anything about an American family by seeing one of 'em.'

Upon my word, the hopeless candour of these our brethren of the British Isles is astonis.h.i.+ng. Sometimes after a prolonged conversation with two or three of them I feel like going about the drawing-room with a small broom and dust-pan and sweeping up the home truths that should lie in scattered profusion on the floor; and which do, no doubt, were my eyes as keen in seeing as my ears in hearing.

However, I responded meekly, 'I suppose that is true; but I doubt if the peculiarity is our exclusive possession. None of my relatives belonged to the criminal cla.s.ses, and they could all read and write, but I dare say some of them were more desirable than others from a social point of view. It must be so delicious to belong to an order of things that never questions itself! Breckenridge Calhoun says that is the one reason he can never quite get on with the men over here at first; which always makes me laugh, for in his way, as a rabid Southerner, he is just as bad.'

There was quite an interval here in which the fire crackled, the black cat purred, and the pipe puffed. Sir Archibald broke the cosy silence by asking, 'Who is this Mr. Calhoun whom you and your mother mention so often?'

The conversation that ensued was quite a lengthy one, but I will report as much of it as I can remember. It was like this:--

_Jinny._ Breckenridge Calhoun is my 'childhood's friend,' the kind of man whose estates join yours, who has known you ever since you were born; liked you, quarrelled with you, forgotten you, and been sweet upon you by turns; and who finally marries you, when you have both given up hope of finding anybody more original and startling.--By the way, am I the first American girl you've met?

_Sir A._ Not the first I've met, but the first I've known. There was a jolly sort of schoolgirl from Indiana whom I saw at my old aunt's house in Edinburgh. There were half a dozen elderly tabbies pressing tea and scones on her, and she cried, just as I was coming in at the door, 'Oh, no more tea, please! I could hear my last scone splas.h.!.+'

_Jinny (shaking with laughter)._ Oh, how lovely! I am so glad you had such a picturesque and fearless young person as a first experience; but as she has been your only instructress, you have much to learn, and I might as well begin my duty to you at once.

_Sir A._ You're taking a deal of trouble.

_Jinny._ Oh, it's no trouble, but a pleasure rather, to put a fellow-being on the right track. You must first disabuse your mind of the American girl as you find her in books.

_Sir A._ Don't have to; never read 'em.

_Jinny._ Very well, then,--the American girl of the drama and casual conversation; that's worse. You must forget her supposed freedom of thought and speech, her rustling silk skirts, her jingling side bag or chatelaine, her middle initial, her small feet and hands, her high heels, her extravagant dress, her fortune,--which only one in ten thousand possesses,--her overworked father and weakly indulgent mother, called respectively poppa and momma. These are but accessories,--the frame, not the picture. They exist, that is quite true, but no girl has the whole list, thank goodness! I, for example, have only one or two of the entire lot.

_Sir A._ Which ones? I was just thinking you had 'em all.

_Jinny._ You must find out something for yourself! The foundation idea of modern education is to make the pupil the discoverer of his own knowledge. As I was saying when interrupted, if you remove these occasional accompaniments of the American girl you find simply the same old 'eternal feminine.' Of course there is a wide range of choice. You seem to think over here that there is only one kind of American girl; but if you would only go into the subject deeply you would find fat and lean, bright and dull, pert and meek, some that could only have been discovered by Columbus, others that might have been brought up in the rocky fastnesses of a pious Scottish home.

_Sir A._ I don't get on with girls particularly well.

_Jinny._ I can quite fancy that! Not one American girl in a hundred would take the trouble to understand you. You need such a lot of understanding that an indolent girl or a reserved one or a spoiled one or a busy one would keep thinking, 'Does it pay?'

_Sir A. (reddening and removing his pipe thoughtfully, pressing down the tobacco in the bowl)._ Hullo, you can hit out when you like.

_Jinny._ I am not 'hitting out'; I get on delightfully well with you because I have lots of leisure just now to devote to your case. Of course it would be a great economy of time and strength if you chose to meet people half-way, or perhaps an eighth! It's only the amenities of the public street, after all, that casual acquaintances need, in order to have a pleasant time along the way. The private path is quite another thing; even I put out the sign, 'No thoroughfare,' over that; but I don't see why you need build bramble hedges across the common roads of travel.--Do you know what a 'scare-cat' is?

_Sir A._ Can't say I do.

_Jinny._ It's a nice expressive word belonging to the infants'

vocabulary of slang. I think you are regular 'scare-cats' over here, when it comes to the treatment of casual acquaintances. You must be clever enough to know a lady or a gentleman when you see one, and you don't take such frightful risks with ladies and gentlemen.

During this entire colloquy Sir Archibald Maxwell Mackenzie, Baronet, of Kindarroch, eyed me precisely as if he had been a dignified mastiff observing the incomprehensible friskings of a playful, foolish puppy of quite another species. 'Good Heavens,' thinks the mastiff, raising his eyes in devout astonishment, 'can I ever at any age have disported myself like that? The creature seems to have positively none of my qualities; I wonder if it really _is_ a dog?'

'Do you approve of marriage,--go in for it?' queried Sir Archibald in a somewhat startling manner, after a long pause, and puffing steadily the while.

'I approve of it entirely,' I answered, 'especially for men; women are terribly hampered by it, to be sure.'

'I should have put that in exactly the opposite way,' he said thoughtfully.

'I know you would,' I retorted, 'and that's precisely the reason I phrased it as I did. One must keep your attention alive by some means or other, else it would go on strike and quit work altogether.'

Sir Archibald threw back his head and broke into an unexpected peal of laughter at this. 'Come along out of doors, Miss Virginia Pomeroy,' he said, standing up and putting his pipe in his pocket. 'You're an awfully good chap, American or not!'

MRS. MACGILL

_Sunday evening_

This day has been very wet. I had fully intended to go to church, because I always make a point of doing so unless too ill to move, as I consider it fully more a duty than a privilege, and example is everything. However, after the fright I had yesterday, and the shaking, I had such a pain in my right knee that devotion was out of the question, even had my mantle been fit to put on (which it won't be until Cecilia has mended all the tr.i.m.m.i.n.g), so I resolved to stay quietly in bed. After luncheon I could get no sleep, for Miss Pomeroy was singing things which Cecilia says are camp meeting hymns. They sounded to me like a circus, but they may introduce dance music at church services in New York, and make horses dance to it, too.

Anything is possible to a people that can produce girls like Virginia Pomeroy. One can hardly believe in looking at her that she belongs to the nation of Longfellow, who wrote that lovely poem on 'Maidenhood.'

Poor Mr. MacGill used to be very fond of it:--

'Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet.'

Even if there were a river here (we can see nothing of the Dart from this hotel), one could never connect Miss Pomeroy with 'reluctant feet' in any way. She has quite got hold of that unfortunate young man. With my poor health, and sleeping so badly, it is very difficult for me to interfere, but justice to the son of my old friend will make me do what I can.

About half-past five I came down and could see n.o.body. Mrs. Pomeroy suffers from the same tickling cough as I do, after drinking tea, and had gone to her own room. Cecilia was nowhere to be seen. I asked the waiter, who is red-faced, but a Methodist, to tell me where she was, and he told me in the Billiard Room. Of course I didn't know where I was going, or I should never have entered it, especially on a wet Sunday afternoon; but when I opened the door I stood horrified by what I saw.

Miss Pomeroy may be accustomed to such a place (I have read that they are called 'brandy saloons' in America), but I never saw anything like it. There was a great deal of tobacco, which at once set up my tickling cough. Sir Archibald was holding what gamblers call a cue, and rubbing it with chalk, I suppose to deaden the sound. On a table--there were several chairs in the room, so it cannot have been by mistake--sat Miss Pomeroy and Cecilia. The American was strumming on a be-ribboned banjo.

'O Mrs. MacGill, I thought you were asleep,' said Cecilia.

'I wish I were; but I fear that what I see is only too true. Pray, Cecilia, come away with me at once,' I exclaimed.

Sir Archibald had placed a chair for me, but I took no notice of it, except to say, 'I'm surprised that you don't offer _me_ a seat on the table.'

We left the room at once, and I spoke to Cecilia with some severity, saying that I could never countenance such on-goings, and that Miss Pomeroy was leading her all wrong. 'If she is determined to marry a baronet,' I said, 'let her do it; but even an American might think it more necessary that a baronet should be determined to marry her, and might shrink from such a form of pursuit. Well, if you are determined to laugh at me,' I went on, 'there must be some other arrangement between us, but you cannot leave me at present, alone on a hillside like this, just after influenza, amongst herds of wild ponies.'

Cecilia cried at last, and upset me so much that I had another bad night, suffering much from my knee, and obliged to have a cup of cocoa at 2.30 A.M. Cecilia appeared half asleep as she made it, although the day before she could spring out of bed the moment the light came in, to look at the sunrise. These so-called poetic natures are very puzzling and inconsistent.

SIR ARCHIBALD MAXWELL MACKENZIE

There is no doubt, alas! that the weather is improving and that we shall soon be in for that picnic. I have promised the motor and promised my society. There is something about that girl which makes me feel and act in a way I hardly think is quite normal. She forces me to do things I don't want to do, and the things don't seem so bad in themselves, at least as long as she is there. The artist I saw at Exeter has turned up here, the one who comes to look at the gorse; at any rate he makes a man to speak to, which is a merciful variety. He talks a lot of rot of course,--raves about the 'blue distance' here, as if it mattered what colour the distance is. But I think he is off his chump in other ways besides; for instance, he was saying to-day he was sick of landscape and pining to try his hand at a portrait.

'There's your model quite ready,' said I, indicating Miss Virginia, all in white, with a scarlet parasol, looking as pretty as a rose.

'Bah!' said the artist, 'who wants to paint "the young person" whose eyes show you a blank past, a delightful present, and a prosperous future! Eyes that have cried are the only ones to paint. I should prefer the old lady's companion.'

I felt positively disgusted at this, but of course there is no accounting for tastes, and if a man is as blind as a bat, he can't help it; only I wonder he elects to gain his livelihood as an artist.

I walked with Miss Virginia to-day down to the little village about a mile away. It was all through the lanes, and I could hardly get her along because of the flowers. The banks were certainly quite blue with violets, and Miss Virginia would pick them, though I explained it was waste of time, for they would all be dead in half an hour and have to be thrown away.

'But if I make up a nice little bunch for your b.u.t.tonhole,' said she, 'will that be waste of time?' Of course I was obliged to say 'No,'--you have to tell such lies to women, one of the reasons I dislike their society.

'But of course you will throw them away as soon as they are faded, poor dears!' continued Miss Virginia.