Mrs. Lander realized when the ship came to anchor in the stream at
Liverpool that she had not been seasick a moment during the voyage. In
the brisk cold of the winter morning, as they came ashore in the tug,
she fancied a property of health in the European atmosphere, which she
was sure would bring her right up, if she stayed long enough; and a
regret that she had never tried it with Mr. Lander mingled with her new
hopes for herself.
But Clementina looked with home-sick eyes at the strangeness of the
alien scene: the pale, low heaven which seemed not to be clouded and yet
was so dim; the flat shores with the little railroad trains running in
and out over them; the grimy bulks of the city, and the shipping in the
river, sparse and sombre after the gay forest of sails and stacks at New
York.
She did not see the Milrays after she left the tug, in the rapid
dispersal of the steamer's passengers. They both took leave of her at
the dock, and Mrs. Milray whispered with penitence in her voice and
eyes, “I will write,” but the girl did not answer.
Before Mrs. Lander's trunks and her own were passed, she saw Lord
Lioncourt going away with his heavily laden man at his heels. Mr.
Ewins came up to see if he could help her through the customs, but she
believed that he had come at Mrs. Milray's bidding, and she thanked him
so prohibitively that he could not insist. The English clergyman who had
spoken to her the morning after the charity entertainment left his wife
with Mrs. Lander, and came to her help, and then Mr. Ewins went his way.
The clergyman, who appeared to feel the friendlessness of the young girl
and the old woman a charge laid upon him, bestowed a sort of fatherly
protection upon them both. He advised them to stop at a hotel for a
few hours and take the later train for London that he and his wife were
going up by; they drove to the hotel together, where Mrs. Lander could
not be kept from paying the omnibus, and made them have luncheon with
her. She allowed the clergyman to get her tickets, and she could not
believe that he had taken second class tickets for himself and his wife.
She said that she had never heard of anyone travelling second class
before, and she assured him that they never did it in America. She
begged him to let her pay the difference, and bring his wife into her
compartment, which the guard had reserved for her. She urged that the
money was nothing to her, compared with the comfort of being with some
one you knew; and the clergyman had to promise that as they should be
neighbors, he would look in upon her, whenever the train stopped long
enough.
Before it began to move, Clementina thought she saw Lord Lioncourt
hurrying past their carriage-window. At Rugby the clergyman appeared,
but almost before he could speak, Lord Lioncourt's little red face
showed at his elbow. He asked Clementina to present him to Mrs. Lander,
who pressed him to get into her compartment; the clergyman vanished, and
Lord Lioncourt yielded.
Mrs. Lander found him able to tell her the best way to get to Florence,
whose situation he seemed to know perfectly; he confessed that he
had been there rather often. He made out a little itinerary for going
straight through by sleeping-car as soon as you crossed the Channel; she
had said that she always liked a through train when she could get it,
and the less stops the better. She bade Clementina take charge of the
plan and not lose it; without it she did not see what they could do.
She conceived of him as a friend of Clementina's, and she lost in the
strange environment the shyness she had with most people. She told him
how Mr. Lander had made his money, and from what beginnings he rose to
be ignorant of what he really was worth when he died. She dwelt upon
the diseases they had suffered, and at the thought of his death, so
unnecessary in view of the good that the air was already doing her in
Europe, she shed tears.
Lord Lioncourt was very polite, but there was no resumption of the
ship's comradery in his manner. Clementina could not know how quickly
this always drops from people who have been fellow-passengers; and she
wondered if he were guarding himself from her because she had danced at
the charity entertainment. The poison which Mrs. Milray had instilled
worked in her thoughts while she could not help seeing how patient he
was with all Mrs. Lander's questions; he answered them with a simplicity
of his own, or laughed and put them by, when they were quite impossible.
Many of them related to the comparative merits of English and American
railroads, and what he thought himself of these. Mrs. Lander noted the
difference of the English stations; but she did not see much in the
landscape to examine him upon. She required him to tell her why the
rooks they saw were not crows, and she was not satisfied that he should
say the country seat she pointed out was a castle when it was plainly
deficient in battlements. She based upon his immovable confidence in
respect to it an inquiry into the structure of English society, and she
made him tell her what a lord was, and a commoner, and how the royal
family differed from both. She asked him how he came to be a lord, and
when he said that it was a peerage of George the Third's creation, she
remembered that George III. was the one we took up arms against. She
found that Lord Lioncourt knew of our revolution generally, but was
ignorant of such particulars as the Battle of Bunker Hill, and the
Surrender of Cornwallis, as well as the throwing of the Tea into Boston
Harbor; he was much struck by this incident, and said, And quite right,
he was sure.
He told Clementina that her friends the Milrays had taken the steamer
for London in the morning. He believed they were going to Egypt for the
winter. Cairo, he said, was great fun, and he advised Mrs. Lander, if
she found Florence a bit dull, to push on there. She asked if it was
an easy place to get to, and he assured her that it was very easy from
Italy.
Mrs. Lander was again at home in her world of railroads and hotels; but
she confessed, after he left them at the next station, that she should
have felt more at home if he had been going on to London with them. She
philosophized him to the disadvantage of her own countrymen as much less
offish than a great many New York and Boston people. He had given her
a good opinion of the whole English nation; and the clergyman, who had
been so nice to them at Liverpool, confirmed her friendly impressions of
England by getting her a small omnibus at the station in London before
he got a cab for himself and his wife, and drove away to complete his
own journey on another road. She celebrated the omnibus as if it were
an effect of his goodness in her behalf. She admired its capacity for
receiving all their trunks, and saving the trouble and delay of the
express, which always vexed her so much in New York, and which had
nearly failed in getting her baggage to the steamer in time.
The omnibus remained her chief association with London, for she decided
to take the first through train for Italy in the morning. She wished
to be settled, by which she meant placed in a Florentine hotel for
the winter. That lord, as she now began and always continued to call
Lioncourt, had first given her the name of the best little hotel in
Florence, but as it had neither elevator nor furnace heat in it, he
agreed in the end that it would not do for her, and mentioned the most
modern and expensive house on the Lungarno. He told her he did not
think she need telegraph for rooms; but she took this precaution before
leaving London, and was able to secure them at a price which seemed to
her quite as much as she would have had to pay for the same rooms at a
first class hotel on the Back Bay.
The manager had reserved for her one of the best suites, which had just
been vacated by a Russian princess. “I guess you better cable to
your folks where you ah', Clementina,” she said. “Because if you're
satisfied, I am, and I presume we sha'n't want to change as long as we
stay in Florence. My, but it's sightly!” She joined Clementina a moment
at the windows looking upon the Arno, and the hills beyond it. “I guess
you'll spend most of your time settin' at this winder, and I sha'n't
blame you.”
They had arrived late in the dull, soft winter afternoon. The landlord
led the way himself to their apartment, and asked if they would have
fire; a facchino came in and kindled roaring blazes on the hearths;
at the same time a servant lighted all the candles on the tables and
mantels. They both gracefully accepted the fees that Mrs. Lander made
Clementina give them; the facchino kissed the girl's hand. “My!” said
Mrs. Lander, “I guess you never had your hand kissed before.”
The hotel developed advantages which, if not those she was used to, were
still advantages. The halls were warmed by a furnace, and she came to
like the little logs burning in her rooms. In the care of her own fire,
she went back to the simple time of her life in the country, and chose
to kindle it herself when it died out, with the fagots of broom that
blazed up so briskly.
In the first days of her stay she made inquiry for the best American
doctor in Florence; and she found him so intelligent that she at once
put her liver in his charge, with a history of her diseases and symptoms
of every kind. She told him that she was sure that he could have
cured Mr. Lander, if he had only had him in time; she exacted a new
prescription from him for herself, and made him order some quinine pills
for Clementina against the event of her feeling debilitated by the air
of Florence.