"I'm glad of that," I say, trying to cheer up a bit, only somehow I am depressed: and Cousin Jane isn't much better, though she tries to put everything in the pleasantest possible light, and remarks that at all events "the travelling will soon be over."
Skurrie continues reading off his paper and comparing the details with my notes, "Sunday—Antwerp dep. 6.34 P.M. Rosendael arr. 7.45—yes—then Rosendael dep. 8.44, and catch the 10.10 P.M. boat at Flushing. Queenborough arr. 5.50, fresh as a lark, and up to town by 7.55."
"But we don't want to go up to town, we want to go to Ramsgate."
"Ha!" he says slowly, giving this idea as just sprung upon him his full consideration. "Ha!—let me see——" Then, as if by inspiration, he continues quickly—"sacrifice your London tickets, book luggage for Flushing, only then at Flushing re-book it for Queenborough, and once you're there you catch an early train to Ramsgate, and you'll be there nearly as soon as you would have arrived in London. Train just off. Wish you bon voyage."
I thank him for all his trouble, and ask, with some astonishment, if he is not going to accompany us?
"Can't—wish I could," returns Skurrie, "but I've got to go off to Petersburgh by night mail. Business. Should have been delighted to have looked after you and seen you through, but you've got it all down and can't make any mistake. Au plaisir!"
And he is off. So are we.
Oh, this journey!! Everything changes. My health, the scenery, the weather, all becoming worse and worse. Poor Cousin Jane, too.
Oh, the changes of carriage! The rushing about from platform to platform, carrying that confounded bag, and sticks, and umbrellas, and small things, of which Jane—poor Jane!—has her share, and, but for her sticking to every basket and package, I should, in despair, have surrendered to chance, left them behind me somewhere, and should have never seen them again. All aches and pains, and weariness! At last at Bâle, rattled over stones and bridge in a jolting omnibus, through pouring rain to the hotel of "The Three Kings."
Our treatment in the salle-à-manger of that Monarchical Hostelrie is enough to make the most loyal turn republican. A willing head-waiter with insubordinate assistants—and we are miserable.