I was to drive her in the pony cart; even her fears were not aroused by the dejected appearance of Greytoria as that noble animal was led up to the door.
'I am glad to see that the horse does not look spirited,' she said; 'for though you say you are so well accustomed to driving, I always prefer a coachman.'
With a quick twitch of the reins I raised Greytoria's drooping nose from the dust. She seemed surprised, but ambled off in the indicated direction.
'The road'—to quote Christina Rossetti—'wound uphill all the way,' and a long way it was. We crawled along at about the rate of a mile an hour over that rough and stony track. The lines I have just quoted haunted my memory with their dismal significance—Life, life! your long uphill road has little promise of rest for me.
We toiled on. Then the summit was gained at last, and down below us, in a little nest-like green valley, huddled between the swelling brown moors, lay Widdington-in-the-Wolds, the Mecca of our pilgrimage.
'There it is at last!' I cried. 'See the quaint old church tower!' I actually appealed to Mrs. MacGill for sympathy, so great was my enthusiasm. It was a mistake.
'I see little to admire, Cecilia,' she said, 'and do look after the pony.'
Her admonition was not unnecessary. In my delight I had risen in my seat and let the reins slip out of my inattentive fingers. Greytoria, in a manner peculiar to herself, had begun the descent of the terrifying hill which leads down to Widdington. Clapping her heels together like a bowing Frenchman, she let herself slide down the decline. I realised this in a moment, but it was rather too late. There was a long, scraping slither; I put on the drag hard, and tried to hold up Greytoria's head. The attempt was vain; she turned round and looked at me, and then, without making any farther effort, quite simply sat down in the traces, the chaise resting gracefully on her back.
Mrs. MacGill cried out with terror, and, indeed, I felt ready to do the same. Not a soul was anywhere in sight. Only far down below us, at the foot of the terrible Widdington hill, could help be procured.
'O Cecilia, this is what comes of trusting you to drive,' cried Mrs. MacGill.