When I had finished packing, I sat down, for the first time that day, just to try and coax myself to eat a mouthful of the beautiful little leg of mutton that I had had for dinner the day before, and which had looked such a picture in the butcher’s shop, that I took quite a fancy to it, as I was sure that it would eat as nice and tender as lamb, and so it did. While I was thus occupied, I gave that simpleton of a Miss Emma a card, on which I had written, in a large round hand, “Mrs. Sk—n—st—n, passenger, Guildford,” so that there might be no mistake about my luggage, and told her (as I do like to have my meals in quiet) to fasten it on my box with a tack or two, and then to run round and fetch me a cab as quick as she could; for, on looking at the clock, I found I had no time to spare, and I wanted to cut up the remainder of the mutton into a sandwich or two, as I didn’t see the good of leaving it for that good-for-nothing servant of mine, when I was going to put her upon board wages; and, as I said to myself, who knows but I might be thankful for something to eat on the journey, and even if I shouldn’t be, why it would save me the expense of having any cold meat with my tea.
When the cab came round, and I went to see my trunk safe on the box with the driver, lo and behold! if that blockhead of an Emma hadn’t been sewing the card on to the handle with some cotton, instead of nailing it on to the lid, as I desired her. But of course she would have it that it was all my fault, saying, that when I told her to fasten it on with a tack or two, she naturally fancied that I meant with a needle and thread—instead of a hammer and nails, as any one, with half a grain of sense in their heads, would have understood me. But there was no time to have it altered then, so I jumped into the cab, disgusted with the whole world, and determined to prevent accidents, by not allowing the trunk to go out of my sight for a moment.
What with quarrelling with that Emma, and searching for coppers to give those dreadful cheats at the turnpikes, and the cabman going the longest way round to make me fancy the distance was greater than it was, positively, when I got to the railway, the bell was ringing. While I was quarrelling with that shameful impostor of a cabman about the fare, I turned round, and saw a porter running off with my trunk on his green velveteen shoulder. I screamed after him, telling him to put it down that instant, but it was all to no use. So taking the cabman’s number, and paying what he asked, off I rushed into the office, and whilst I was getting my ticket, told the gentleman that one of their porters had, in a most shameful manner, carried off my trunk, and I should certainly hold the company responsible for any damage or loss that might happen to it. But of course he would have it that I needn’t alarm myself, and would find it all right, saying that if there was a card on it marked “Guildford,” it would be put with the Guildford luggage, and taken out at the proper station. But there was no time for looking into the matter, for when I got on the platform, the second bell rang, and I was no sooner in my place, than off went the train.
I don’t know whether it has ever struck the reader, but it seems to me that it never rains but when you’re going out upon pleasure. No matter if it has been fine for a month previously, only just put on your things for a trip into the country, or down the river, or for a fête at Vauxhall, or even go out in a new bonnet and leave your umbrella at home, and of course down it must pour in torrents, just because you don’t want it; and positively as if the clerk of the weather had got a spite against you. When my peas were coming up, of course there wasn’t a drop of rain for six weeks, and now that I had set my heart upon a beautiful excursion, a few miles out of town, it must begin to spit the very moment the train left Nine Elms, and come down in perfect cataracts by the time we got to Wandsworth. Talk about subscriptions for the damage done to market-gardeners and florists, by a heavy shower, I’m sure I never see it begin to rain but what my bosom bleeds to think of the dreadful destruction that must then be going on among the artificial flowers in the ladies’ bonnets; and, goodness gracious! if mine didn’t hang down and look as pappy as if they had been boiled. To be sure, there was a young man next to me who was also going to Guildford, and who, being a perfect gentleman, was kind enough to offer me a part of his umbrella, for he couldn’t help seeing that my parasol was of no more use to me than an extinguisher, and I declare even then—for what is one umbrella between two, especially when it’s only a small German as his was—even then I say, the rain kept dripping down my neck and all over my shoulders, until my black silk Polka was so wet that it looked as shiny as a policeman’s oil-skin cape, and I was so drenched to the skin, that upon my word I was quite glad to get out of the bothering train, and take shelter even in the little poking lonely railway hotel, where at least I said to myself, I shall be able to change my soaking things, and get dry and comfortable before going on to Guildford.
When I got into the station, I told a porter to look after my luggage, adding that it was merely one box, with “Mrs. Sk—n—st—n, passenger, Guildford,” written on a card, attached to the handle; and presently back he came, saying that the only box in the office was a hair trunk, without any name at all on it.
“Is it a brown hair trunk?” I asked, quite alarmed.
“Yes, mum,” he answered, “a brown hair trunk, with brass nails.”
On going and looking at it, I said, “Yes, that’s mine, and the card has got torn off, just as I expected.”
Directly I got to the hotel, I requested the landlady to let me have a room with a good fire in it, and a cup of hot tea as soon as ever she could, as I was wet through, and afraid of catching my death, unless I had something warm, and put on some nice dry things immediately. Once in my room, with my bonnet off, I couldn’t help saying to myself, “Drat those third-class carriages! I declare if I’m not as wet as a bathing woman!” And so I was, for my hair hung down the sides of my face positively like skeins of silk. As for my poor, beautiful Leghorn bonnet, it had no more shape in it than a basket-woman’s in Covent Garden Market, and whenever I went across the room I declare the wet came dripping from me for all the world as if I was a walking umbrella.
However, I soon had my box up stairs, and set to work about getting my things out. But when I put the key in the lock, do what I would I couldn’t make it turn. Of course, I thought some of the crumbs of the mutton sandwiches I had in my pocket must have got into it, so I kept blowing down it, and knocking it on my hand, but all to no good, till at last, I got into such a passion with it, that I put the end of my parasol into the handle of the key, and at last forced it round.