Sir Roger and I get into a carriage—not
a coupe this time—and dispose our
myriad parcels above our heads, under our feet.
Trucks roll, and porters bawl past; luggage is violently
shot into vans. The last belated, panting passenger
has got in. The doors are slammed-to. Off
we go! The train is already in motion when the
young man jumps on the step and thrusts in his hand
for one parting shake.
“Mon tout,” say I, screwing up
my face into a crying shape, and speaking in a squeaky,
pseudo-tearful voice, “je ne saurai vous le
dire!”
Then he is hustled off by an indignant guard and three
porters, and we see him no more. I throw myself
back into my corner laughing.
“General,” say I, “I think your
young friend is nearly as soft-hearted as the girl
in Tennyson who was
‘Tender over drowning flies.’
He looked as if he were going to weep, did
not he? and what on earth about?”
“How mother, when we used to stun
Her head wi’ all our noisy fun,
Did wish us all a-gone from home;
But now that some be dead and some
Be gone, and, oh, the place is dumb,
How she do wish wi’ useless tears
To have again about her ears
The voices that be gone!”
We have passed Cologne; have passed Brussels; have
passed Calais and Dover; have passed London; we are
drawing near home. How refreshing sounds the
broad voice of the porters at Dover! Squeamish
as I am, after an hour and three-quarters of a nice,
short, chopping sea, the sight of the dear green-fustian
jackets, instead of the slovenly blue blouses across-Channel,
goes nigh to revive me. Adieu, O neatly aquiline,
broad-shaved French faces! Welcome, O bearded
Britons, with your rough-hewn noses!
To avoid the heat of the day, we go down from London
by a late afternoon train. It is evening when,
almost before the train has stopped, I insist
on jumping out at our station. Imagine if through
some accident we were carried on to the next by mistake!
Such a thing has never happened in the annals of history,
but still it might.
Sir Roger has some considerable difficulty in hindering
me from shaking hands with the whole staff of officials.
One veteran porter, who has been here ever since I
was born, has a polite but improbable trick of addressing
every female passenger as “my lady.”
Well, with regard to me, at least, he is right
now. I am “my lady.” Ha!
ha! I have not nearly got over the ridiculousness
of this fact yet, though I have been in possession
of it now these four whole weeks.
It has been a hot, parching summer day, and now that
the night draws on all the flagging flowers in the
cottage-borders are straightening themselves anew,
and lifting their leaves to the dews. The pale
bean-flowers, in the broad bean-fields, as we pass,
send their delicate scent over the hedge to me, as
if it were some fair and courteous speech. To
me it seems as if they were saying, as plainly as may
be, “Welcome home, Nancy!”
