“Well, I wouldn’t do that,” said Maria; “not if I was queen. Whatever’s the good of having a crown?”
What with the rattling of the cab, the noise in the street, and Susan’s own uncertainty on the subject, it was difficult to make Maria understand this; so any further explanation was put off, and they both looked silently out of the windows till they reached Saint Katharine’s Docks.
Here there was a good deal of bustle and confusion, and also a little delay; for Maria, who had held the cabman’s exact fare tightly grasped in one hand all the way, dropped it in getting out of the cab. A brisk young porter, however, came to their assistance: he picked up the money, shouldered the luggage, and showed Maria where to take the tickets; then he led them down some slippery steps and on board the steamboat, which lay alongside the wharf ready to start. It was all new and confusing to Susan, and it was not till she was settled on deck, wrapped in a warm shawl with Grace in her arms, that she looked round her at what was going on. There was so much to see that she could hardly open her eyes wide enough to take it all in. First there was the captain standing on his bridge with his rough blue pea-coat buttoned up to his chin, and a gold band round his cap; his face was quite round, and quite red, except in places where it was a sort of blue colour. His voice was very hoarse, and Susan could not make out a word he said, though he shouted out very loud now and then. Then there were the passengers, hurrying across the narrow gangway, with all sorts of bags, and parcels, and bundles of wraps, jostling each other in their eagerness to secure good places, and over their heads meanwhile dark smoke came rushing out of the tall black funnel, and there was a constant hissing noise. Then Susan noticed a silent man standing behind a great wheel at one end of the boat, and in front of this was written, “Please do not speak to the man at the wheel.” She thought this very strange—it was almost as though the man at the wheel were in disgrace. As she was gazing at him and thinking how dull he must be, shut out from all conversation, she saw him turn the wheel backwards and forwards by some handles on which his hands were resting: at the same moment the captain gave a gruff roar, a great rope was hauled on board, and the steamer, which till now had been curtseying gently up and down on the water, began to move smoothly on her way.
Maria, who up to this time had not ceased to inquire if this was the right boat for Ramsgate, settled herself at Susan’s side when the start was really made. The sun shone so brightly that it was warm and pleasant on deck, and they found plenty to admire and point out to each other as they went along. A journey by the steamboat was much nicer, they agreed, than by the train. This agreeable state of things lasted while they were on the river, but presently the steamer began to roll a little, and to be tossed about by the waves of the open sea. Then Maria became more and more silent, until quite suddenly, to Susan’s alarm, she rose, said hastily, “You stop here, Miss Susan,” and dived down into the cabin near which they were sitting. What could be the matter? Susan looked helplessly round; she did not like to follow her, and yet it was not at all pleasant to be left here alone amongst all these strangers; she felt frightened and deserted. Next to her sat a tall thin man reading a book. He was tightly buttoned up to the chin in a threadbare great-coat greenish with age, and wore leather straps under his boots. She had noticed this when he came on board, and thought he looked different somehow from everyone else; now she lifted her eyes, and made a side-way examination of his face. He was clean shaven except for a short-pointed beard, and his greyish hair was very closely-cropped. His eyes she could not see, for they were bent on the pages before him, but presently raising them his glance fell on her, and he smiled reassuringly. Susan had never been used to smile at strangers; so, though she did not remove her gaze, it continued to be a very serious one, and also rather distressed.
“The Bonne has mal de mer?” he asked, after they had looked at each other for a minute in silence. Susan did not answer, and, indeed, did not know what he meant. This was a Frenchman, she thought to herself, and that was why he looked different to the other people.
“She is vot you call sea-seek,” he repeated—“that is a bad thing—but she will be soon better.” It was a comfort to hear this, though Susan could not imagine how he knew what was the matter with Maria.
“It arrives often,” he remarked again, “to those who travel on the sea—myself, I have also suffered from it.”
He looked so very kind as he said this, that Susan was encouraged to smile at him, and little by little to say a few words. After that they quickly became friends, and he proved a very amusing companion; for, putting down his book, he devoted himself to her entirely, and told her many wonderful facts about the sea, and ships, and the sea-gulls flying overhead. She listened to these with great attention, bent on storing them up to tell Maria afterwards, and then became confidential in her turn. She told him about her home in London, and Freddie’s illness, and the long journey he was going to begin to-morrow, and Monsieur appeared to take the very deepest interest in it all. By degrees Susan almost forgot poor Maria in the pleasure of this new and agreeable acquaintance.
It was now between one and two o’clock, and Monsieur produced from under the seat a long narrow black bag, and unlocked it In it Susan could not help seeing there were a roll of manuscript, one or two books, a pair of slippers, and a flat white paper parcel. This last being opened, disclosed a hard round biscuit with seeds in it.
“Voyons!” he said gaily, “let us dine, ma petite demoiselle.”