They seemed to me to sing—
“You’re off on your travels! Off on your travels,
To fame and fortune in another land!
To wait and work, Frank! Wait and work, Frank!
Ere you gain your own Min’s hand!”
And, perhaps, it was from the recollection of Monsieur Parole d’Honneur’s kindness, and from my having been in company with him that winter in Paris, where I had heard that opera of Offenbach’s for the first time, but the tune of the carriage wheels was strangely like the “Pars pour Crete” chorus in the second act of La Belle Hélène—where, if you remember, the unfortunate Menelaus is hustled off the stage, in company with his portly umbrella and other belongings, in order to make room for the advent of Paris, the “gay deceiver,” the successful intriguant!
Although my thoughts were wrapped up in memories of Min and her parting, hopeful words, and my inner eyes still saw her standing at the window, waving her handkerchief to me in mute adieu, my outward vision was keenly watchful of each landpoint the train hurried by.
I remember every incident on the way.
Not a thing escaped me.
The outlook for baggage at Waterloo; the feeing of the obsequious porter expectant of a douceur; the mistake I made in getting my ticket which had to be rectified at the last moment; the confused ringing of bells and clattering of trucks up and down the platform; the slamming of doors and hurrying of feet to and fro:—then, the sudden pause in all these sounds; the shrill whistle, betokening all was ready; the converting of all the employés into animated sign-posts, that waved their arms wildly; the grunt and wheeze from the engine, as if from a giant in pain; the sharp jerk, and then the steady pull at the carriage in which I was sitting; the “pant, pant! puff, puff!” of the iron horse, as he buckled to his work with a will; and then, finally, the preliminary oscillation of the ponderous train, the trembling and rumbling of creaking wheels along the rails—as we glided and bumped, slowly but steadily, out of the terminus—the distance signal showing “all clear” to us, and blocking the up line with the red semaphore of “danger.”
Past Vauxhall, once famed for its revelry—conspicuous, now, only for its picturesque expanse of candle-factory roofs and the dead boarding that is displayed skirting the railway:—Clapham, villa-studded and with gardens laid out in bird’s-eye perspective:—Surbiton, dainty in its pretty little road-side station, all garnished with roses and shell-walks:—Farnborough, where a large proportion of our passengers, of military proclivities, alight en route for Aldershot, and celebrated of yore for the “grand international” contest with fisticuffs between a British Sayers and a Transatlantic Heenan:—Basingstoke, the great ugly “junction” of many twisted rails and curiously-intricate stacks of chimneys; until, at length, Southampton was reached—a town smelling of docks and coal-tar, and dismal in the evening gloom.
Not a feature of the landscape on my way down was lost to me; although, as I’ve said, I was thinking of Min all the time the train was speeding on.
I was wondering within myself, in a duplicate system of thought, when I would see the scene again, in all its variations, as I saw it clearly, now; and whether the green meadows, and fir-summited hills, and shining water-courses that wandered through and around them—nay, whether the very telegraph posts and wires, and the country stations we rattled past so quickly and unceremoniously, as if they were not worth stopping for—would look the same on my coming back to England and my darling once more!