And so Brum passed at last over the shining, wonderful sea, feeling
only the wind on his forehead and the salt in his nostrils. It was a
beautiful day at the dawn of spring; the far-stretching sea sparkled
with molten diamonds, and Zillah felt that the highest God's blessing
rested like a blue sky over this strange pilgrimage. She was dressed
with great taste, and few would have divined the ignorance under her
silks.
"Mother, can you see France yet?" Brum asked very soon.
"No, my lamb."
"Mother, can you see France yet?" he persisted later.
"I see white cliffs," she said at last.
"Ah! that's only the white cliffs of Old England. Look the other way."
"I _am_ looking the other way. I see white cliffs coming to meet us."
"Has France got white cliffs, too?" cried Brum, disappointed.
On the journey to Paris he wearied her to describe France. In vain she
tried: her untrained vision and poor vocabulary could give him no new
elements to weave into a mental picture. There were trees and
sometimes houses and churches. And again trees. What kind of trees?
Green! Brum was in despair. France was, then, only like England; white
cliffs without, trees and houses within. He demanded the Seine at
least.
"Yes, I see a great water," his mother admitted at last.
"That's it! It rises in the Cote d'Or, flows N.N.W. then W., and N.W.
into the English Channel. It is more than twice as long as the Thames.
Perhaps you'll see the tributaries flowing into it--the little
rivers, the Oise, the Marne, the Yonne."
"No wonder the angels envy me him!" thought Zillah proudly.
They halted at Paris, putting up for the night, by the advice of a
friendly fellow-traveller, at a hotel by the Gare de Lyon, where, to
Zillah's joy and amazement, everybody spoke English to her and
accepted her English gold--a pleasant experience which was destined to
be renewed at each stage, and which increased her hope of a happy
issue.
"How loud Paris sounds!" said Brum, as they drove across it. He had to
construct it from its noises, for in answer to his feverish
interrogations his mother could only explain that some streets were
lined with trees and some foolish unrespectable people sat out in the
cold air, drinking at little tables.
"Oh, how jolly!" said Brum. "But can't you see Notre Dame?"
"What's that?"
"A splendid cathedral, mother--very old. Do look for two towers. We
must go there the first thing to-morrow."
"The first thing to-morrow we take the train. The quicker we get to
the doctor, the better."
"Oh, but we can't leave Paris without seeing Notre Dame, and the
gargoyles, and perhaps Quasimodo, and all that Victor Hugo describes.
I wonder if we shall see a devil-fish in Italy," he added
irrelevantly.
"You'll see the devil if you go to such places," said Zillah, who,
besides shirking the labor of description, was anxious not to provoke
unnecessarily the God of Israel.
"But I've often been to St. Paul's with the boys," said Brum.
"Have you?" She was vaguely alarmed.
"Yes, it's lovely--the stained windows and the organ. Yes, and the
Abbey's glorious, too; it almost makes me cry. I always liked to hear
the music with my eyes shut," he added, with forced cheeriness, "and
now that'll be all right."
"But your father wouldn't like it," said Zillah feebly.
"Father wouldn't like me to read the _Pilgrim's Progress_," retorted
Brum. "He doesn't understand these things. There's no harm in our
going to Notre Dame."
"No, no; it'll be much better to save all these places for the way
back, when you'll be able to see for yourself."
Too late it struck her she had missed an opportunity of breaking to
Brum the real object of the expedition.
"But the Seine, anyhow!" he persisted. "We can go there to-night."
"But what can you see at night?" cried Zillah, unthinkingly.
"Oh, mother! how beautiful it used to be to look over London Bridge at
night when we came back from the Crystal Palace!"
In the end Zillah accepted the compromise, and after their dinner of
fish and vegetables--for which Brum had scant appetite--they were
confided by the hotel porter to a bulbous-nosed cabman, who had
instructions to restore them to the hotel. Zillah thought wistfully of
her warm parlour in Dalston, with the firelight reflected in the glass
cases of the wax flowers.
The cab stopped on a quay.
"Well?" said Brum breathlessly.
"Little fool!" said Zillah good-humouredly. "There is nothing but
water--the same water as in London."
"But there are lights, aren't there?"
"Yes, there are lights," she admitted cheerfully.
"Where is the moon?"
"Where she always is--in the sky."
"Doesn't she make a silver path on the water?" he said, with a sob in
his voice.
"What are you crying at? The mother didn't mean to make you cry."
She strained him contritely to her bosom, and kissed away his tears.