We returned to Charing-Cross Hotel longing to have a good rest, but on entering our apartment we found our beds upset, the sheets and blankets lying on the floor in a heap. It was the sour-faced chambermaid who thought that we were leaving that same day, and was making ready the beds for new visitors. When we told her that we were going to remain another night in London, she picked up the sheets, flung them on the beds and carried away the clean linen. I could have smacked her!
We left London at ten the next morning, having taken our tickets straight to Ryde, the principal port of the Isle of Wight. On arriving at Portsmouth we embarked on a small steamer which corresponded with the train leaving for Shanklin, a sea-bathing place where we intended to spend about three weeks. The crossing, though short, was rather rough. It took ten minutes by train from Ryde to Shanklin station, where we got into an omnibus and drove to Hollier’s Hotel.
Shanklin is a clean and pleasant village built on a cliff with trees planted along its streets, detached houses standing back amid gardens and a grey church reminiscent of rural England, with a spire rising from among the trees. We have taken an apartment of two rooms for two guineas a week. Hollier’s Hotel is a white house overgrown with honeysuckle and sheltered by two enormous linden trees. Boxes of red geraniums hang out of the windows. There was a most charming air of home-like comfort about the whole house. Our sitting-room was prettily furnished, full of nick-nacks, with chintz covers, muslin curtains and vases of fresh flowers on the mantlepiece, and landscapes on the walls. Three bay-windows look on the front at the entrance and at the back into a railed-in garden with a broad, well-kept lawn like a green velvet carpet, shaded by cedars a century old. Before the entrance door stands the hotel omnibus, which is in ceaseless demand the whole day, bringing passengers from and taking them to the station. The driver, perched on his high seat, is dozing in the shade, with his nose on his paper.
On the following day of our arrival we were awakened by the sound of the rain beating against the window-panes. It did not hinder Sergy to go and take his first bath. It was low tide and the bathers were taken out into the sea in a small cabin drawn by a horse.
We have arranged to have our meals served in our apartment. At five o’clock a waiter brought in a neatly arrayed tray with nice tea, delicious cream and fresh-baked rolls.
In the afternoon the sun came out, and we went for a stroll to the Chine, a picturesque narrow pass which descends to the sea-edge. The Chine is, for its own sake, well worth a visit to Shanklin; the admittance is only twopence each. We sat down to rest on a crooked arm of a fallen tree, and listened to the music of a small water-fall down below.
After dinner Sergy went to Mew’s post-office to hire a dog-cart for a drive to Sandown, a neighbouring watering-place. We have run the risk of breaking our necks during the promenade. I drove a restless horse who pranced and kicked all the time, taking fright at a passing train he jerked to one side, bolted and sprang into a furious gallop nearly dragging my hands off. I frantically tugged at the reins and managed to pull up the frightened animal some way down the road, driving him into a heap of stones. The season had not yet begun at Sandown, and the houses with their locked doors and closed shutters looked as if in sleep. Everywhere placards were to be seen bearing the inscription, “Apartments to Let,” and announcements that pieces of ground were to be let. There was land to be sold for 999 years.
Having learned that the Rydes were living already at Blackgang, not far away from Shanklin, I hurried to let them know of our arrival, looking forward to seeing a great deal of Ettie. Although years had separated us, I was not one to forget old friends and had been simple enough to believe that Ettie, also, was burning with impatience to meet me. But one always believes what one desires, it is the weak point of human nature! Several days went by and it was queer that Ettie did not send any word of her coming. This meeting so hotly desired by me came at last, but in a fashion altogether different from that which I had pictured. One morning a knock came at the door, and the parlour-maid ushered in Ettie in person. I must say she was sadly altered, and I scarcely recognised her; time passing over her had modified her as it does everything in this world, nothing was left of the pretty Scotch lassie of by-gone days. She was altered morally too; she looked so stiff, so unlike her old self. Ettie reminded me, nevertheless, of my youthful days, and memories which had slumbered for years awoke now in me. Stirring the cinders of our reminiscences we spoke of the dear old days gone by when we were both sixteen. We kept Ettie for dinner; when she went back in the evening her farewell seemed stiff and formal to me, she gave me a cold kiss on my cheek, and we were parting for no one knows how many years, for good and all, perhaps, for the Rydes were leaving Blackgang in a few days. I am a terrible creature for taking things to heart, and felt at the moment as if I had been drenched with cold water. She is a cold-hearted creature, Ettie, and I do not want to be friends with her any more. I should like to be cold-hearted too, and not to care for any one. When Ettie had gone, I remained for some time wrapped in thoughts the reverse of agreeable, and was not able to put Ettie out of my mind. Sergy, who has a wonderful soothing influence over me, set to work to comfort me, but he did not succeed, and this time I was not to be comforted.
There are delightful walks and drives in all directions of the Isle of Wight. We undertook to make excursions through the neighbouring country in a huge pleasant-tour coach named “Old Times.” This coach can hold twenty people inside and is driven by four powerful horses gaily decorated with ribbons. We began our tour by Bembridge, and scrambled into the back seat of the immense car by a ladder of ten steps. The postilion frantically blew his horn, the coachman cracked his whip over the head of his horses, and the coach rattled full speed along beautifully kept roads. The drive proved long and interesting. We made three halts without changing horses. Our fellow-passengers were not very elegant-looking. I took Sergy’s neighbour, a tall, bearded man, who was chewing a stinking cigar, for a German colonist, and he proved to be a German Royal Prince. Towards noon we drew up before the veranda of Bembridge Hotel standing on the beach, and had lunch on the spacious terrace, enjoying the sea-breeze. At the same time a pleasure-boat had brought a crowd of tourists to the hotel. We were back to Shanklin for dinner, having taken another road through the woods and corn-fields. Before us there was a lovely stretch of country with the gold of ripening grain and the scarlet glint of poppies smelling like honey; full blown blossoms of clover white and pink, scented the air. The Isle of Wight, so green and fresh, is well named “The Garden of England,” really it is quite the nicest bit of England. Trees and grass are of a wonderful vivid green peculiar to this island. The climate is so mild that figs, laurel, and myrtle trees grow in the open air. Intense heat is quite unknown here.