XVIII
ALICE SPEAKS FOR HERSELF
Monday, August 9th.--Here we are at last, at the shooting box on theYorkshire moors; or rather in the Yorkshire dales. I mean, papa and Iare here: our faithful Mrs. Parish follows to-morrow, and the "guns" areexpected on Wednesday. We two have been staying at a little seasideplace on the coast--quite a charming place, with not only broad sands,but very presentable cliffs, and other things worth looking at besidesthe sea; delightful gardens, for instance, where the inevitable bandplayed, instead of on the everlasting pier. Of course, it was all rathertedious; but the North Sea breezes and the delicious air did one noharm, I felt, while they seemed to do papa visible good. Indeed, hedeclares he feels fit for anything now--meaning, of course, in the wayof sport, which I only hope he won't overdo. So perhaps, after all, wedid well to leave home a week earlier than we at first intended (much asI hated leaving home at all), for we have come to the moorland air withlungs full of sea-air, and papa says there couldn't be a finer mixturethan that for me.
But it is difficult to think of the sea here in the dales, where we areso far from it. We are far from everything, as it seems to me. Yet I amtold, and I suppose I must believe, that the great smoky town which wepassed through the other day is within twenty miles of us, and we areassured that there is a very "canny" village--if not a small town--fouror five miles from us. It is also true that it only took an hour andtwenty minutes to drive from the railway station, but then there wasn'tmuch of a village there. Now we expected to find one here, and papa evenprofessed to point it out to me as we drove through; but as it wasnearly dark, and I could only make out a short, huddled-up row of houseson one side of the road, I couldn't see where the village came in, andtold him so. Still, it is down on the Ordnance map, Gateby by name; and,though it is too dark to see now, it can only be a few hundred yardsfrom us.
As for this house--which, by-the-bye, is nameless--I am sure it hasnever been anything but a shooting box, for it has no pretence to agarden, but stands behind a hedge almost in a bare field--a plain,gaunt, two-storied, evenly-balanced stone building. In the three roomsdown stairs there is very little furniture, except what we sent beforeus. In one of them, the smallest, a book-case with glass doors has beenmade into a gun-rack, and this may point to the fact that the place wasnot always what it is. This room we will call "the gun-room." Whether itwas built for better things, I don't know; but for ages the house hasbeen let year after year for the shooting alone.
At this moment an old man, with a pale blue eye and a bright red nose,who is apparently caretaker and general factotum of the establishment,is expatiating to papa on the birds: their probable quantity andunmistakable quality; but he has a barbarous tongue, and for my part Iam too tired to listen to him any longer.
Yes, tired--and sleepy too. If writing a diary has always this effectupon me, it will more than fulfil its original mission--which was onlyto help me to pass the intolerable time!
Tuesday, 10th.--I was up and out quite early, long before breakfast, ona voyage of discovery. The first thing I had seen, on drawing up myblind, was red-tiled Gateby, straight in front of my window, acrosshalf-a-dozen fields. I could see a path winding through these fields,and coming out into the road just below our house; so on this pathway Isettled for my first walk. I could see that it was the shortest way toGateby. I would inspect Gateby.
It was a perfect morning, with plenty of sunshine and blue sky, and thelast of a soft white mist just filling up the hollows of the meadows; sothat I knew that it would be a hot day, as, in fact, it is.
When I had followed the path across the fields until I had only two leftto cross (and these were a potato field and a meadow, from which a boywas driving in the cows), I stopped and perched myself on a stonegate-post, and surveyed Gateby. From there it looked like one long lowirregular building, stone-built and red-tiled. Only one house, and thatat the extreme left of the rest, was slated. More of Gateby I could notsee from there, so I went on looking all round me. Over the village rosethe hills, with bold but even outline. The hillsides are so evenlydivided by the hedges into so many squares that they look as thoughgreat nets had been cast over them. The squares have all kinds ofcolours--greens, and yellows, and dirty browns (of ploughed fields).Following the bend of the valley, as the fields grew less inperspective, I noticed that they took a commoner tint, between palegreen and dun, until the farthest range of all showed a uniformgreyish-blue. I did not expect to be able to see half so far when deepdown in a dale, and I thought the hills would be higher. In fact, withthis particular dale of ours I am a little bit disappointed; for,instead of finding it a deep furrow in the face of Nature, as I had madeup my mind it would be, it is, after all, the veriest dimple.
Well, Gateby is a quaint enough little place when you attack it fairly,from the front, as I presently did. It has about a dozen houses alltold, and they are all on one side of the road, and hug each other asthough space were an object of the first importance. Several of thehouses are, at least, demi-semi-detached. The largest of them is thepublic-house; the best the schoolhouse, the front of which is simply onemass of pink roses--I never saw anything like it.
I walked back by the road. The pathway through the fields merely cutsoff, I now found, the angle made by the two roads: the road in which weare, which leads over the moor, and the road in which Gateby is, whichleads in one direction to the railway, six miles off, and in theother--I don't know where. These two roads join at right angles, and Ibelieve they are the only roads in the dale.
Nearing home, I met the person with the gay-coloured nose and eyes, andhe stopped to bid me good morning. I thought his complexion looked alittle cooler, but then it was very early morning. He inquired, withsome pride and expectancy, what I thought of the dale. I answered,rather unkindly I am afraid, that I thought it pretty, but a fraud: thehills were too low, the valleys were too shallow.
"Ah!" he observed compassionately, "waaet till thoo's been ower t' mower,an' seen t' view from Melmerbridge Bank; an' waaet till thoo seesBeckdaael!"
He went on to tell me all about Melmerbridge. I almost think he offeredto personally conduct me over to Melmerbridge, and to show me itschurch, and its beck, and the view from its bank. At any rate, before Icould get away from him I had learnt that his name was Andy Garbutt, andthat he had been eight and twenty years, man and boy, come nextMichaelmas, in the service of the owner of our nameless shooting-box.
I found papa ready for breakfast, and delighted to find that I had beenout and about so early; there was no need to tell him that it was simplybecause I could not sleep or rest. And of course we both duly voted thereal Yorkshire bacon the very best we had ever tasted in our two lives;though, for my part, I must own I only swallowed it to please papa,whose eye was upon my plate.
In the afternoon we walked up to the moor together, and papa was charmedbecause we "put up" quite a number of birds. I could not stay long,however, as papa wished me to drive off to meet Mrs. Parish, and I amwriting this while waiting for the trap, because, somehow, I cannotsettle to reading--not even yellowbacks. A horrid nuisance, her coming!I do wish it had not been just yet. By-the-bye, papa tells me he hasheard from Mr. Miles, who, after all, has not yet left England, hisbusiness having turned out different from what he expected. Then howstrange that we have never heard from him all these weeks! I quitethought he would be out there by this time. However, he says he reallydoes sail in a few days, and he only wishes he saw his way to runningdown to say good-bye to us--but that will be impossible. I believe papahas written to him, telling him all about the place, and the prospects,and who are coming. I am not sorry that he is not coming, I think. Thisreminds me that papa says that Dick Edmonstone has written saying thathe cannot possibly come. I am not at all sorry to hear that. I think heshows his sense.
Thursday, 12th.--Everybody came yesterday; and now they are all on themoor, and we two women are to go and have lunch with them at one. Thereare five guns, and we hear t
hem distinctly from time to time. Besidespapa, there are Cousin Philip (who likes to be called Doctor Robsonnow), and Laurence Pinckney, and Captain Awdry, and Mr. Oliver.
Cousin Philip has been on a long voyage to New Zealand and back, asship's surgeon, since we last saw him. It ought to have improved him,and perhaps it has; but to me he seems as dull and ponderous andundecided as ever. He tells me that he interested himself at sea bygetting up prayer-meetings in the steerage, which, he says, had far moreheart in them than the captain's perfunctory services on thequarter-deck; but it seems that his zeal got him disliked--mostunrighteously--by the other officers. He is certainly a good young man.Captain Awdry I have met once or twice before; he is a great beauty, agreat sportsman, and that's all; but Mr. Oliver is new to me. I fancy heis local--an ironmaster or something. He is old, and tall, and wellset-up; very deferential to me, if you please, and tremendously keenabout the grouse. As for Laurence Pinckney--one has to call him Mr.Pinckney now--he is nothing short of a revelation.
When I knew him before, he used to go to some public school--I forgetwhich, but it can't be many years ago. And now he is a "writing man,"fresh from Fleet-street, with all the jargon at his tongue's end--and,in short, quite the most amusing boy. In appearance he is just what heought not to be. I have always pictured to myself the literaryman--especially the literary young man--with long hair and eye-glasses,and the rest bizarre. Therefore Laurence Pinckney disappoints me; he isspruce, brisk, and sharp-eyed, short, dark, and unguarded.
He sat next me at dinner, and talked nothing but his "shop"--which,however, is a kind of "shop" that rather interests one; besides, theegotism of a raw recruit in the noble army of authors is reallydiverting. He talks fluently about all the new books, criticising mostof them severely, and I should say that he has read and remembered atleast two or three reviews of each. He has told me the differentmagazines he writes for, so that I shall know where to seek his name--ifI don't forget. He "thinks nothing of bearding literary lions in theireditorial dens;" and this, I shouldn't wonder, has something to do withthat drawer full of rejected MSS. of which he has already been frankenough to whisper--in fact, he has quite taken me into his literaryconfidence. But indeed he is rather amusing.
Friday, 13th.--Mrs. Parish is really very agreeable, and easier to geton with than for a long while past. She tells me, among other things,that she saw more of Mr. Miles's beggars after we left home--caught themtalking to the servants, and packed them off about their business. Poorthings! From her account, I rather fancy they were the same I saw. Shewent with me to luncheon on the moor yesterday. It was really not badfun. They were all in good spirits, because, on the whole, they had madea good start. Captain Awdry had done the most execution, and took it themost sadly. But old Mr. Oliver had drawn first blood, and, unlike theblase Captain, was not above showing his delight. Papa and Cousin Philipwere modest about their share: it was impossible to find out exactlywhat they had done. Poor Laurence Pinckney, however, had hit nothing atall; and, indeed, his shooting must be execrable, to judge by what onehears. I heard Mr. Oliver muttering that he would not get within rangeof him, not if he knew it; while Captain Awdry's contempt lies too deepfor smiles or sneers. But Mr. Pinckney does not care; he carries anotebook with him, which he whips out whenever the view strikes him asworth remembering, or whenever something happy occurs to him. He says itis extraordinary what happy thoughts do come to a man who carries a gun.I tell him that to-morrow he must think of nothing but his next shot.He answers that to-morrow he must not shoot, as Saturday is always abusy day with him, wherever he is:--on it he writes for his weeklypaper. He calls it "his," as though the paper belonged to him, and Itell him so. He explains that he is "on the staff--practically." Hekeeps to himself the name of the paper and the nature of hiscontributions: it is best to make no inquiries, I think.
Saturday, 14th.--Papa tells me that Dick has written to say he finds hecan come after all, and is coming.
Somehow it has been a wretched day. I seem to have done absolutelynothing all day, and, now that it is evening, my head aches, and I havecome upstairs quite early, though I know I shall never sleep. Poor papahas been saying he sees I find it dull, and blaming himself because Ihave no companion. As it happens, that is, in my eyes, the most joyfulfeature of the business, but I could not tell dear papa so; and he wasfull of regrets that Cousin Maggie was prevented from coming at the lastmoment--a circumstance for which I can never be too thankful. PoorMaggie would have been an infliction indeed. She has all the heavyvirtues of her brother--and imagine a feminine Philip! That creaturehimself has annoyed me sufficiently this evening: tacked himself on tome, talked in a low voice, looked like a sheep, and would not besnubbed--he never would, and never will. To escape him, and for no otherreason, I sang a song in response to Laurence Pinckney's absurdpleadings. But I hate singing! I hate the sound of my voice! I wouldgive worlds to be away from here, and at home again and alone. I amtired of the place, and to be forever saying civil things to people isinsupportable, and replying to their civility-speeches even worse. Thisminute I hate everything and everybody, and myself the worst of all!
Sunday, 15th.--I wrote some contemptible nonsense last night, when myhead was splitting; but I will not score it out; if ever I go mad thesegradations will be interesting, if not useful!...
It is, by-the-bye, to-morrow, papa tells me, that Dick is coming.
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