Part 6 (1/2)

On the whole, there was no one on the ”Spartacus” whom Katy liked so well as sedate little Gretchen except the dear old Captain, with whom she was a prime favorite. He gave Mrs. Ashe and herself the seats next to him at table, looked after their comfort in every possible way, and each night at dinner sent Katy one of the apple-dumplings made specially for him by the cook, who had gone many voyages with the Captain and knew his fancies. Katy did not care particularly for the dumpling, but she valued it as a mark of regard, and always ate it when she could.

Meanwhile, every morning brought a fresh surprise from that dear, painstaking Rose, who had evidently worked hard and thought harder in contriving pleasures for Katy's first voyage at sea. Mrs. Barrett was enlisted in the plot, there could be no doubt of that, and enjoyed the joke as much as any one, as she presented herself each day with the invariable formula, ”A letter for you, ma'am,” or ”A bundle, Miss, come by the Parcels Delivery.” On the fourth morning it was a photograph of Baby Rose, in a little flat morocco case. The fifth brought a wonderful epistle, full of startling pieces of news, none of them true. On the sixth appeared a long narrow box containing a fountain pen. Then came Mr. Howells's ”A Foregone Conclusion,” which Katy had never seen; then a box of quinine pills; then a sachet for her trunk; then another burlesque poem; last of all, a cake of delicious violet soap, ”to wash the sea-smell from her hands,” the label said. It grew to be one of the little excitements of s.h.i.+p life to watch for the arrival of these daily gifts; and ”What did the mail bring for you this time, Miss Carr?” was a question frequently asked. Each arrival Katy thought must be the final one; but Rose's forethought had gone so far even as to provide an extra parcel in case the voyage was a day longer than usual, and ”Miss Carr's mail” continued to come in till the very last morning.

Katy never forgot the thrill that went through her when, after so many days of sea, her eyes first caught sight of the dim line of the Irish coast. An exciting and interesting day followed as, after stopping at Queenstown to leave the mails, they sped northeastward between sh.o.r.es which grew more distinct and beautiful with every hour,--on one side Ireland, on the other the bold mountain lines of the Welsh coast. It was late afternoon when they entered the Mersey, and dusk had fallen before the Captain got out his gla.s.s to look for the white fluttering speck in his own window which meant so much to him. Long he studied before he made quite sure that it was there. At last he shut the gla.s.s with a satisfied air.

”It's all right,” he said to Katy, who stood near, almost as much interested as he. ”Lucy never forgets, bless her! Well, there's another voyage over and done with, thank G.o.d, and my Mary is where she was. It's a load taken from my mind.”

The moon had risen and was s.h.i.+ning softly on the river as the crowded tender landed the pa.s.sengers from the ”Spartacus” at the Liverpool docks.

”We shall meet again in London or in Paris,” said one to another, and cards and addresses were exchanged. Then after a brief delay at the Custom House they separated, each to his own particular destination; and, as a general thing, none of them ever saw any of the others again.

It is often thus with those who have been fellow voyagers at sea; and it is always a surprise and perplexity to inexperienced travellers that it can be so, and that those who have been so much to each other for ten days can melt away into s.p.a.ce and disappear as though the brief intimacy had never existed.

”Four-wheeler or hansom, ma'am?” said a porter to Mrs. Ashe.

”Which, Katy?”

”Oh, let us have a hansom! I never saw one, and they look so nice in 'Punch.'”

So a hansom cab was called, the two ladies got in, Amy cuddled down between them, the folding-doors were shut over their knees like a lap-robe, and away they drove up the solidly paved streets to the hotel where they were to pa.s.s the night. It was too late to see or do anything but enjoy the sense of being on firm land once more.

”How lovely it will be to sleep in a bed that doesn't tip or roll from side to side!” said Mrs. Ashe.

”Yes, and that is wide enough and long enough and soft enough to be comfortable!” replied Katy. ”I feel as if I could sleep for a fortnight to make up for the bad nights at sea.”

Everything seemed delightful to her,--the s.p.a.ce for undressing, the great tub of fresh water which stood beside the English-looking washstand with its ample basin and ewer, the chintz-curtained bed, the coolness, the silence,--and she closed her eyes with the pleasant thought in her mind, ”It is really England and we are really here!”

CHAPTER V.

STORYBOOK ENGLAND.

”Oh, is it raining?” was Katy's first question next morning, when the maid came to call her. The pretty room, with its gayly flowered chintz, and china, and its bra.s.s bedstead, did not look half so bright as when lit with gas the night before; and a dim gray light struggled in at the window, which in America would certainly have meant bad weather coming or already come.

”Oh no, h'indeed, ma'am, it's a very fine day,--not bright, ma'am, but very dry,” was the answer.

Katy couldn't imagine what the maid meant, when she peeped between the curtains and saw a thick dull mist lying over everything, and the pavements opposite her window s.h.i.+ning with wet. Afterwards, when she understood better the peculiarities of the English climate, she too learned to call days not absolutely rainy ”fine,” and to be grateful for them; but on that first morning her sensations were of bewildered surprise, almost vexation.

Mrs. Ashe and Amy were waiting in the coffee-room when she went in search of them.

”What shall we have for breakfast,” asked Mrs. Ashe,--”our first meal in England? Katy, you order it.”

”Let's have all the things we have read about in books and don't have at home,” said Katy, eagerly. But when she came to look over the bill of fare there didn't seem to be many such things. Soles and m.u.f.fins she finally decided upon, and, as an after-thought, gooseberry jam.

”m.u.f.fins sound so very good in d.i.c.kens, you know,” she explained to Mrs.

Ashe; ”and I never saw a sole.”

The soles when they came proved to be nice little pan-fish, not unlike what in New England are called ”scup.” All the party took kindly to them; but the m.u.f.fins were a great disappointment, tough and tasteless, with a flavor about them as of scorched flannel.

”How queer and disagreeable they are!” said Katy. ”I feel as if I were eating rounds cut from an old ironing-blanket and b.u.t.tered! Dear me!

what did d.i.c.kens mean by making such a fuss about them, I wonder? And I don't care for gooseberry jam, either; it isn't half as good as the jams we have at home. Books are very deceptive.”