II

I AM not much acquainted in New York, so I had only poppa and Mr.

Winterhazel to see me off. Mr. Winterhazel lives there, and does

business in Wall Street, where he operates very successfully, I've been

told, for such a young man. We had been the greatest friends and regular

correspondents for three or four years--our tastes in literature and art

were almost exactly the same, and it was a mutual pleasure to keep it

up--but poppa had never met him before. They were very happy to make

each other's acquaintance, though, and became quite intimate at once;

they had heard so much about each other, they said. We had allowed two

days before the steamer sailed, so that I could make some purchases--New

York styles are so different from Chicago ones; and, as poppa said

afterwards, it was very fortunate that Mr. Winterhazel was there.

Otherwise, I should have been obliged to go round to the stores alone;

for poppa himself was so busy seeing people about political matters that

he hadn't the thirtieth part of a second for me, except at meal-times,

and then there was almost always somebody there. London is nothing to

New York for confusion and hurry, and until you get accustomed to it the

Elevated is apt to be very trying to your nerves. But Mr. Winterhazel

was extremely kind, and gave up his whole time to me; and as he knew all

the best stores, this put me under the greatest obligation to him.

After dinner the first evening he took me to hear a gentleman who

was lecturing on the London of Charles Dickens, with a stereopticon,

thinking that, as I was going to London, it would probably be of

interest to me--and it was. I anticipated your city more than ever

afterwards. Poppa was as disappointed as could be that he wasn't able to

go with us to the lecture; but he said that politics were politics, and

I suppose they are.

Next day I sailed from North River Docks, Pier No. 2, a fresh wind

blowing all the harbour into short blue waves, with the sun on them,

and poppa and Mr. Winterhazel taking off their hats and waving their

handkerchiefs as long as I could see them. I suppose I started for Great

Britain with about as many comforts as most people have--poppa and Mr.

Winterhazel had almost filled my state-room with flowers, and I found

four pounds of caramels under the lower berth--but I confess, as we

steamed out past Staten Island, and I saw the statue of Liberty getting

smaller and smaller, and the waves of the Atlantic Ocean getting bigger

and bigger, I felt very much by myself indeed, and began to depend a

good deal upon Mrs. Portheris.

As to the caramels, in the next three hours I gave the whole of them to

the first stewardess, who was kind enough to oblige me with a lemon.

Before leaving home I had promised everybody that I would keep a diary,

and most of the time I did; but I find nothing at all of interest in it

about the first three days of the voyage to London. The reason was that

I had no opportunity whatever of making observations. But on the morning

of the fourth day I was obliged to go on deck. The stewardess said

she couldn't put up with it any longer, and I would never recover if I

didn't; and I was very glad afterwards that I gave in. She was a real

kind-hearted stewardess, I may say, though her manner was a little

peremptory.

I didn't find as much sociability on deck as I expected. I should have

thought everybody would have been more or less acquainted by that time,

but, with the exception of a few gentlemen, people were standing or

sitting round in the same little knots they came on board in. And yet

it was very smooth. I was so perfectly delighted to be well again that

I felt I must talk to somebody, so I spoke to one of a party of ladies

from Boston who I thought might know the Wastgagles there. I was very

polite, and she did not seem at all sea-sick, but I found it difficult

to open up a conversation with her. I knew that the Bostonians thought

a good deal of themselves--all the Wastgagles do--and her manner somehow

made me think of a story I once heard of a Massachusetts milestone,

marked '1 m. from Boston,' which somebody thought was a wayside tablet

with the simple pathetic epitaph, 'I'm from Boston,' on it; and just to

enliven her I told her the story. 'Indeed!' she said. 'Well, we are from

Boston.'

I didn't quite know what to do after that, for the only other lady near

me was English, I knew by her boots. Beside the boots she had grey hair

and pink cheeks, and rather sharp grey eyes, and a large old-fashioned

muff, and a red cloud. Only an Englishwoman would be wearing a muff and

a cloud like that in public--nobody else would dare to do it. She was

rather portly, and she sat very firmly and comfortably in her chair

with her feet crossed, done up in a big Scotch rug, and being an English

woman I knew that she would not expect anybody to speak to her who had

not been introduced. She would probably, I thought, give me a haughty

stare, as they do in novels, and say, with cold repression, 'You have

the advantage of me, miss!'--and then what would my feelings be? So I

made no more advances to anybody, but walked off my high spirits on the

hurricane-deck, thinking about the exclusiveness of those Bostonians,

and wondering whether, as a nation, we could be catching it from

England.

You may imagine my feelings--or rather, as you are probably English,

you can't--when the head steward gave me my place at the dinner-table

immediately opposite the Bostonians, and between this lady and an

unknown gentleman. 'I shall not make a single travelling acquaintance!'

I said to myself as I sat down--and I must say I was disappointed. I

began to realise how greatly we had all unconsciously depended upon my

forming nice travelling acquaintances, as people always do in books, to

make the trip pleasant, and I thought that in considering another voyage

I should divorce myself from that idea beforehand. However, I said

nothing, of course, and found a certain amount of comfort in my soup.

I remember the courses of that dinner very well, and if they were

calculated to make interesting literary matter I could write them out.

The Bostonians ostentatiously occupied themselves with one another. One

of them took up a position several miles behind her spectacles, looked

at me through them, and then said something to her neighbour about

'Daisy Miller,' which the neighbour agreed to. I know what they meant

now. The gentleman, when he was not attending to his dinner, stared at

the salt-cellar most of the time, in a blank, abstracted way; and the

English lady, who looked much nicer unshelled than she did on deck, kept

her head carefully turned in the other direction, and made occasional

remarks to an elderly person next her who was very deaf. If I had not

been hungry, I don't know how I should have felt. But I maintained an

absolute silence and ate my dinner.

Gradually--perhaps because the elderly person was so extremely deaf, and

my own behaviour comparatively unaggressive--the lady of England began

to assume a less uncomfortable position. A certain repellent air went

out of her right shoulder. Presently she sat quite parallel with the

table. By the advent of the pudding--it was cabinet pudding--I had

become conscious that she had looked at me casually three times. When

the Gorgonzola appeared I refused it. In America ladies eat very little

Gorgonzola.

'Don't you like cheese?' she said, suddenly, a little as if I had

offended her. I was so startled that I equivocated somewhat.

'No'm, not to day, I think--thank you!' I said. The fact is, I never

touch it.

'Oh!' she responded. 'But then, this is your first appearance, I

suppose? In that case, you wouldn't like it.' And I felt forgiven.

She said nothing more until dessert, and then she startled me again.

'Have you been bad?' she inquired.

I didn't know quite what to say, it seemed such an extraordinary

question, but it flashed upon me that perhaps the lady was some kind

of missionary, in which case it was my duty to be respectful. So I said

that I hoped not--that at least I hadn't been told so since I was a

very little girl. 'But then,' I said, 'The Episcopalian Prayer-book

says we're all miserable sinners, doesn't it?' The lady looked at me in

astonishment.

'What has the Prayer-book to do with your being ill?' she exclaimed.

'Oh, I see!' and she laughed very heartily. 'You thought I meant

naughty! Cross-questions and crooked answers! Mr. Mafferton, you will

appreciate this!' Mr. Mafferton was the gentleman whom I have mentioned

in connection with the salt-cellars; and my other neighbour seemed to

know him, which, as they both came from England, did not surprise me

then, although now I should be inclined to consider that the most likely

reason of all why they shouldn't be acquainted. I didn't see anything so

very humorous in it, but the lady explained our misunderstanding to Mr.

Mafferton as if it were the greatest joke imaginable, and she had made

it herself. 'Really,' she said, 'it's good enough for "Punch!'" I was

unfamiliar with that paper then, and couldn't say; but now I think it

was myself.

Mr. Mafferton coloured dreadfully--I omitted to say that he was a

youngish gentleman--and listened with a sort of strained smile, which

debouched into a hesitating and uncomfortable remark about 'curious

differences in idioms.' I thought he intended it to be polite, and he

said it in the most agreeable man's voice I had ever heard; but I could

not imagine what there was to flurry him so, and I felt quite sorry for

him. And he had hardly time to get safely back to the salt-cellar before

we all got up.

Next morning at breakfast I got on beautifully with the English lady,

who hardly talked to the elderly deaf person at all, but was kind enough

to be very much interested in what I expected to see in London. 'Your

friends will have their hands full,' she remarked, with a sort of kind

acerbity, 'if they undertake to show you all that!' I thought of

poor old Mrs. Portheris, who was probably a martyr to rheumatism and

neuralgia, with some compunction. 'Oh!' I said, 'I shouldn't think of

asking them to; I'll read it all up, and then I can go round beautifully

by myself!'

'By yourself!' she exclaimed. 'You! This is an independent American

young lady--the very person I went especially to the United States to

see, and spent a whole season in New York, going everywhere, without

coming across a single specimen! You must excuse my staring at you. But

you'll have to get over that idea. Your friends will never in the world

allow it--I suppose you have friends?'

'No,' I said; 'only a relation.'

The lady laughed. 'Do you intend that for a joke?' she asked. 'Well,

they do mean different things sometimes. But we'll see what the relation

will have to say to it.'

Mr. Mafferton occasionally removed his eyes from the salt-cellar during

this meal, and even ventured a remark or two. The remarks were not

striking in any way--there was no food for thought in them whatever; yet

they were very agreeable. Whether it was Mr. Mafferton's voice, or his

manner, or his almost apologetic way of speaking, as if he knew that he

was not properly acquainted, and ought not to do it, I don't know, but

I liked hearing him make them. It was not, however, until later in the

day, when I was sitting on deck talking with the lady from England about

New York, where she didn't seem to like anything but the air and the

melons, that I felt the least bit acquainted with Mr. Mafferton. I had

found out her name, by the way. She asked me mine, and when I told her

she said: 'But you're old enough now to have a Christian name--weren't

you christened Mary?' She went on to say that she believed in the

good old-fashioned names, like Nancy and Betsy, that couldn't be

babified--and I am not sure whether she told me, or it was by intuition,

that I learned that hers was Hephzibah. It seems to me now that it never

could have been anything else. But I am quite certain she added that her

husband was Hector Torquilin, and that he had been dead fifteen years.

'A distinguished man in his time, my dear, as you would know if you had

been brought up in an English schoolroom.' And just then, while I was

wondering what would be the most appropriate thing to say to a lady

who told you that her husband had been dead fifteen years, and was a

distinguished man in his time, and wishing that I had been brought up

in an English schoolroom, so that I could be polite about him, Mr.

Mafferton came up. He had one of Mr. W. D. Howells' novels in his

hand, and at once we glided into the subject of American literature. I

remember I was surprised to find an Englishman so good-natured in his

admiration of some of our authors, and so willing to concede an American

standard which might be a high one, and yet have nothing to do with

Dickens, and so appreciative generally of the conditions which have

brought about our ways of thinking and writing. We had a most delightful

conversation--I had no idea there was so much in Mr. Mafferton--and Mrs.

Torquilin only interrupted once. That was to ask us if either of us had

ever read the works of Fennimore Cooper, who was about the only author

America had ever produced. Neither of us had, and I said I thought there

were some others. 'Well,' she said, 'he is the only one we ever hear of

in England.' But I don't think Mrs. Torquilin was quite correct in this

statement, because since I have been in England I have met three or

four people, beside Mr. Mafferton, who knew, or at least had heard of,

several American writers. Then Mrs. Torquilin went to sleep, and when

she woke up it was five o'clock, and her maid was just arriving with

her tea. Mr. Mafferton asked me if he might get me some, but I said. No,

thanks; I thought I would take a brisk walk instead, if Mrs. Torquilin

would excuse me.

'Certainly,' she said; 'go and take some exercise, both of you. It's

much better for young people than tea-drinking. And see here, my dear! I

thought you were very sensible not to dress for dinner last night, like

those silly young fools opposite. Silly young fools I call them. Now,

take my advice, and don't let them persuade you to do it. An Atlantic

steamer is no place for bare arms. Now run away, and have your walk, and

Mr. Mafferton will see that you're not blown overboard.'

Mr. Mafferton hesitated a moment. 'Are you quite sure, he said, 'that

you wouldn't prefer the tea?'

'Oh yes, sir!' I said; 'we always have tea at half-past six at home, and

I don't care about it so early as this. I'd much rather walk. But don't

trouble to come with me if you would like some tea.'

'I'll come,' he said, 'if you won't call me "sir."' Here he frowned a

little and coloured. 'It makes one feel seventy, you know. May I ask why

you do it?'

I explained that in Chicago it was considered polite to say 'ma'am' or

'sir' to a lady or gentleman of any age with whom you did not happen to

be very well acquainted, and I had heard it all my life; still, if he

objected to it, I would not use it in his case.

He said he thought he did object to it--from a lady; it had other

associations in his ears.

So I stopped calling Mr. Mafferton 'sir'; and since then, except to

very old gentlemen, I have got out of the way of using the expression.

I asked him if there was anything else that struck him as odd in my

conversation kindly to tell me, as of course I did not wish to be an

unnecessary shock to my relation in Half-Moon Street. He did not say he

would, but we seemed to get on together even more agreeably after that.

Mr. Mafferton appeared to know nobody on board but Mrs. Torquilin; and

I made acquaintance with hardly anybody else, so that we naturally saw a

good deal of each other, usually in the afternoons, walking up and down

the deck. He lent me all his books, and I lent him all mine, and we

exchanged opinions on a great variety of subjects. When we argued, he

was always very polite and considerate; but I noticed one curious thing

about him--I never could bring him round to my point of view. He did not

seem to see the necessity of coming, although I often went round to

his. This was a new experience to me in arguing with a gentleman. And

he always talked very impersonally. At first this struck me as a little

cold and uninterested, but afterwards I liked it. It was like drinking

a very nice kind of pure cold water--after the different flavours of

personality I had always been accustomed to. Mr. Mafferton only made

one exception to this rule that I remember, and that was the afternoon

before we landed. Then he told me particularly about his father and

mother, and their tastes and occupation, also the names and ages of his

brothers and sisters, and their tastes and occupations, and where he

lived. But I cannot say I found him as interesting that afternoon as

usual.

I need not describe the bustle and confusion of landing at Liverpool

Docks in the middle of a wet April afternoon. Mrs. Torquilin had told me

at breakfast not on any account to let my relations take me away before

she had given me her address; but when the time came I guess--if you

will allow me--she must have forgotten, because the last time I saw her

she was standing under a very big umbrella, which the maid held over

her, a good deal excited, and giving a great many orders about her

luggage to a nervous-looking man in livery.

I easily identified mine, and got off by train for London without any

trouble to speak of. We arrived rather late, though, and it was still

pouring.

'What has become of your people?' asked somebody at my elbow. I turned

and saw Mr. Mafferton, who must have come down by the same train.

'I didn't expect my relation to meet me,' said; 'she doesn't expect me!'

'Oh!' said Mr. Mafferton; 'you did not write to her before you sailed?'

'No,' I said. 'There wasn't time.'

'Upon my word!' said Mr. Mafferton. Then, as I suppose I looked rather

surprised, he added, hastily: ''I only mean that it seems so--so

uncommonly extraordinary, you know! But I would advise you, in that

case, to give the bulk of your luggage into the hands of the forwarding

agents, with instructions to send it early to-morrow to your friend's

address. It is all you can do tonight,' said Mr. Mafferton, 'really. Of

course, you will go there immediately yourself.'

'No,' I responded, firmly; 'I think not, Mr. Mafferton. My relation is

very elderly, and probably in bad health. For all I know, she may have

gone to bed. I must not disturb her so late. All the people I have ever

known have stayed at the Métropole in London. I will go to the Métropole

for to-night, and have my things sent there. To-morrow I will go and see

my relation, and if she asks me to visit her I can easily telephone up

for them. Thank you very much.'

Mr. Mafferton looked as sober as possible, if not a little annoyed.

Then he went and got the agent's young man, and asked me to point out my

things to him, which I did, and got receipts. Then he told a porter to

call a cab, and put my smaller valises into it. 'I will put you in,' he

said, and he gave me his arm and his umbrella, through the wettest

rain I have ever experienced, to the hansom. I thanked him again very

cordially, and before he said good-bye he very kindly gave me his card

and address, and begged me to let him know if there was anything he

could do for me.

Then I rattled away through the blurred lights of your interminable

twisted streets to the Métropole, fancying I saw Westminster Abbey or

St. Paul's through the rain at every turn.

When we stopped at last before the hotel, another hansom behind us

stopped too, and though I am sure he didn't intend me to, I saw quite

plainly through the glass--Mr. Mafferton. It was extremely kind of him

to wish to be of assistance to a lady alone, especially in such weather,

and I could easily understand his desire to see me to my hotel; but what

puzzled me was, why he should have taken another cab!

And all night long I dreamed of Mrs. Portheris.