I am still at Ryde, and it is still raining. On a day like this, a
little Ryde goes a great way. No Ryde without rain. _Telle est la vie._
The young girls at Plumfields sit writing themes indoors instead of
taking their exercise in the open air.
[Illustration]
If this rain keeps on, I shall go to wild Assam again, or to the Goodwin
Sands. JAMES, the headwaiter, has told me thirteen different stories of
the haunted room of this hotel. None of them are amusing, or
interesting, or have anything to do with this tale. If I were writing a
shilling volume, I should put them in by way of padding. As it is, they
may go out. I too will go out.
***
I have seen Mlle. DONNERWETTER. She was racing along on the pier, and I
was pacing along in the rear. I saw her and caught her up. I hastily
pressed all the valuables that I had with me--four postage-stamps and an
unserviceable watch-key--into her hand, and entreated her to give me an
interview with Miss SMITH.
"Me muchee want to oblige English Sahib," she said, in her pulverised
English, "but ze Effendina--ze what you call 'ead-mistress, French lady
like myself--she no like it. She give me the _bottine_, if I let great
buckra massa talk to Fraulein SMEETS. But lookee--I give you straight
tip. Miss SMEETS is on ze pier now--you write note--slip it in her hand.
I wink ze eyebrow. I have a grand envy to oblige the English Signor. Ah!
Bismillah! _Quelle alouette!_"
She is French, very French, but she has a kind heart. I hurriedly wrote
a few impassioned words on my left cuff, and folded it into a
three-cornered note. I dropped it down Miss SMEET'S neck as I found her
leaning over the side of the pier, and then ran away. I heard her
murmur, "Someone's mistaken me for the post-office."
It is still raining, but I am quite happy. I have seen her again, and I
feel that she loves me. It was impossible to mistake the _tendresse_
with which she murmured, "post-office." In my little note I requested
her to send a reply to this hotel. I have asked her to tell me plainly
what her income is, and to state on what conditions she will forfeit it.
Of course, she has no income now, as she is a minor, but I would wait a
year or two for a certainty. Shall I write her some verses--lines to a
minor, or thoughts on the Southampton quay? Perhaps I had better wait
until I obtain the statistics. Ah, here is JAMES, bringing me a note. It
must be from my darling--no, it is from Mademoiselle.
DEAR SIR,--Miss SMITH am going away to Londres. A
telegram come for her, and I look over the shoulder. It
say, 'Poor TOMMY'S kicked! Come at once,' Miss SMITH
make the tears.
Yours,
LUCIA DONNERWETTER.
I must be off to London and get this matter traced. JAMES entreats me to
buy a new hat when I am away. He says it's bringing disgrace on the
hotel, and keeping away custom. What! Give up the hat which her dear
foot has kicked! Never! But, perhaps, I will have it ironed. The iron
has entered into my soul, and perhaps, it would be doing more good on my
hat. Yes, I will have it ironed. It does look a little limp. Ironed or
starched--what matter, when my darling is gone, and left me with no
information as to her income?
(_To be concluded in Two more Chapters._)
* * * * *
"Venice Preserved" in The Haymarket.
No--not OTWAY'S tragedy, and not under Mr. BEERBOHM TREE'S management,
but at the Gallery next door to the Theatre, and under the
superintendence of Mr. MCLEAN, you will find not only Venice, but
Florence, Prague, Heidelberg, Capri, Augsburg, Nuremburg, Innsbrück, and
a good many other picturesque places, preserved in about a hundred
water-colour drawings, by Mr. EDWARD H. BEARNE. If there were not so
many rivers and lagoons in the exhibition, it might be called the
"Bearnese Oberland." These pictures are well painted, and, during the
gruesome weather, a tiny tour round this sunny gallery is mighty
refreshing.
* * * * *
STUDY FOR THE PELICAN CLUB.--The "Logic and Principles
of Mill."
* * * * *
[Illustration: HAPPY THOUGHT.
OUR ARTIST, FINDING HE CANNOT EXTERMINATE THE STREET
MUSICIANS, AND UNWILLING TO BE EXTERMINATED BY THEM, HAS
HIT UPON A PLAN FOR HARDENING HIMSELF--WITH THE HAPPIEST
RESULTS. JUST ONE WEEK OF THE DISCIPLINE REPRESENTED
ABOVE HAS MADE HIM ABSOLUTELY INVULNERABLE--HE THINKS,
FOR LIFE!]
* * * * *
"BRITONS NEVER WILL BE SLAVES!"
(_A Scene from a Domestic Comedy._)
MRS. BOB BULL was the wife of a British Workman, and she got up at four
o'clock in the morning.
"Must rise early," she said, "to see that my man has his breakfast."
So she lighted the fire, and put the kettle on to boil, and laid the
cloth, and swept out the rooms. Then down came BOB rather in a bad
humour, because he had been late over-night at the "Cock and Bottle,"
detained (as he explained to his wife) by a discussion about the rights
of labour.
"Of course," said Mrs. BULL; "and why shouldn't you, after a hard day's
work, enjoy yourself?"
But BOB contended that he had not enjoyed himself, although he had
undoubtedly expended two shillings and eight-pence upon refreshment.
What BOB wanted to know was, why there was a button off his coat, and
why his waistcoat had not been properly mended.
"Well, I was busy with the children's things," replied Mrs. BOB; "but I
will put all straight when you have gone to work."
"Gone to work, indeed!" grumbled BOB. "Yes, it's I that does all the
work, and worse luck to it!"
The moment BOB was out of the house, Mrs. BOB got the children up and
dressed them, and gave them their breakfasts and sent them off to
school. When they were gone, she "tidied up" and dressed the baby. Then
she did one of "the bits of washing," that came from a family in whose
service she had been before she married BOB, and that family's
connection. And this occupied her fully, what with soaking, and mangling
and ironing, until it was time to carry BOB his dinner. In the pauses of
her work she had been able to cook it, and it was quite ready to go with
her when she was prepared to take it. It was a long walk (in the rain)
to BOB'S place of work, and it seemed the longer because she could not
leave the baby. But both got there, and the dinner, without any
accident. And then Mrs. BOB hurried back to give the children, now home
from school, _their_ midday meal. And Mrs. BOB had plenty of work to do
afterwards. She had to mend, and to scrub, and to sweep, and to sew. She
was not off her legs for a moment, and had she been a weaker woman, she
would have been thoroughly done up. Then came the children's evening
toilette and the cooking of BOB'S supper. Her lord and master entered in
due course, and she helped him off with his coat, and (when he had
finished his food) lighted his pipe for him.
"Mended my clothes?" asked BOB.
"Of course I have."
"And washed my linen, and druv nails into my boots, and baked the bread,
and pickled the walnuts, and all the rest of it?"
"Yes, BOB, I have done them all--every one of them."
This put BOB into a better temper, and he took out an evening paper, and
began to read it.
"I say," said he; "what do you think! They have got white slaves in
Turkey!"
"You don't say so, BOB!" replied Mrs. BOB, lost in amazement. Then she
said as she paused tidying up the room, "Ah! they wouldn't allow
anything of _that_ sort in England!--would they, BOB?"
And BOB, smoking his pipe, and sprawling before the fire, agreed with
her!
* * * * *
The Riviera in Bond Street.
Why take a long journey and spend a lot of money, when the Riviera is
within a shilling cab-fare? Why not apply at 148, New Bond Street, and
obtain one of the Fine Art Society's "excursion _coupons_," and get
yourself personally conducted by Mr. JOHN FULLEYLOVE to Nice, Monte
Carlo, Genoa, and all sorts of delightful places? Take _Mr. Punch's_
advice, and go there at once! And, when you have exhausted the Riviera,
you have another treat in a series of well-nigh seventy drawings of
Cambridge. These are skilfully limned, with scrupulous architectural
accuracy and charming pictorial effect, and will give great delight to
Cantabrians, old and young. They are worthy to take their place beside
the excellent series of pictures of Oxford which Mr. FULLEYLOVE
exhibited some time ago.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE FOREIGN FOX.
(_With apologies to Æsop._)]
* * * * *
[Illustration]