# Comin' Thro' the Rye (Mathers)/Summer/Chapter 3

CHAPTER III.
It is Saturday, the thirtieth of August, and I am speeding along through golden sun-flooded fields of wheat, and shorn brown-green meadows; not on my own two indifferently shod feet, but in a carriage drawn by a puffing, snorting, hissing, dirty monster, who makes a prodigious noise, and hurry, and fuss, as he goes on his iron way rejoicing. I am off! Actually off! I am still doubtful as to whether it is really my veritable body that is seated on the hard blue cushions of the railway carriage. I keep on rubbing my eyes to be quite sure that I am awake, that I shall not ​find myself sitting up in bed, bitterly sorry and wrathful that a mocking dream has made a fool of me again. I have pinched myself hard six times, and at the end of each nip have felt relieved on finding that the train, my vis-à-vis, and my novel have not vanished into thin air. For a week I have been dancing like a cat on hot bricks, alternating between feverish hope and grovelling despair; I have packed and unpacked my modest wardrobe at least twelve times, and only a short hour ago, I was drowned in tears because the latest verdict had gone forth, "She shall not go." Whether mother thereupon went down on her knees before her lord, as Philippa did to hers, and softened his flinty heart with her tears and prayers, I know not; at any rate his decision was reversed, and that delusive jade Hope spread her wings and vanished, leaving blessed and calm certainty in her place.
It is a quarter of an hour since I left Silverbridge station, and wished mother and George good-bye. He did look so down in the mouth, and I always did hate to see a man miserable: all women whimper more or less, but men ought not to be bothered. Well, he'll get out into the world some day I hope; and there's nothing puts a love affair out of a man's head so quickly as having a lot to do: it is only the people who sit down and think, think, think of one particular person, who take a disappointment so much to heart. I think most lunatics in love lived in the country. I wish I had a pleasant travelling companion; some one who would not be afraid to open his or her lips, and with whom I could exchange a few reasonable remarks. There is small hope, however, of this lot. They belong, I can see at a glance, to that large class of people who look with horror on the smallest approach to conversation from a stranger; who are bound hard and fast by that ridiculous law of society which commands human beings to be in each other's company for hours, and yet give no more sign that they are aware of each other's presence and existence than if they were carrots or ​cabbages, or tables or chairs; you may know who they are, and they may know who you are, but until the magic words of introduction have been spoken over you—they are not. You are voiceless, eyeless, earless; so are they, and nothing short of your being all jumbled up together in a horrible accident would give any of them back their faculties. To this class of people, the offer of the smallest civility, a newspaper, a book or any other trifle, is regarded with grave doubt, and you are suspected of having designs on their purse, their bodies, or their acquaintance. "Nothing for nothing," is their motto. They never give without receiving a fair return, and why should you? It looks queer, to say the least. Therefore, when you are travelling, if you wish to be considered respectable, and neither an adventurer nor adventuress, put on a stony countenance; look at the ceiling or your boots—never at the countenances of your fellow-travellers; receive any offer of book, paper, etc., with a haughty "Sir!" or "Madam!" look down your nose if any one address you: but to be pleasant, to say "Thank you," and discuss the state of the weather, the state of the country, and the last new murder then indeed you are low, hopelessly low, and you have yourself to thank if the silent ones dub you as something rather different to what you suppose yourself to be.
Now I should, above all things, like to ask one of those little virgins yonder to lend me the Graphic; there is a lovely picture in it, and I always did like pictures. I should like to announce publicly, that I am burningly, consumedly, unbearably hot; not but what my looks sufficiently attest the unwelcome fact, but it is always such a relief to talk over one's misfortunes; half mine always vanish when I can get any one to sympathise with me over them. In this case, however, I might be burnt to a cinder before I should dare to comment on the fact.
The two little people sitting opposite me are sisters, as alike as ​two peas, and I think as green; and the only difference that I can discern between them is that one has a permanent hitch in her nose, and the other has not. They are neither very young, nor very old: they hover on that chilly neutral-grey border-land that divides the young maid from the old one; they look as if they had never had a lover, or a sorrow, or a joy, or a hope, or a disappointment. I wonder what it feels like to have a torpid existence like that? Even the poor flies get wakened up and warmed by the sun sometimes.
A stolid British matron sits on my right, with a red account-book in her hand filled with rows of figures that should make her eyes ache. If ever I have a husband, I will take care of two things that he keeps the accounts and orders the dinner.
The only cheerful people present are two fat clergymen—comfortably dressed, happy, well-shaven souls, who are not only pleasantly provided for in this world, but are blessedly safe for the next. One is telling the other the latest bon mot of a certain witty bishop, and I strain my ears to catch the pregnant syllables: but he laughs so much over it, that the point is lost in successions of chuckles, and I feel unreasonably though distinctly cross. The other man says, "Hey?" at every tenth word. It strikes me he must spend a good half of his waking existence in saying, "Hey?"
What a small insignificant person a spinster travelling alone looks! She is a poor creature, compared with the "married woman," and all her smart paraphernalia, the footman, the lady's maid, the nurse, the baby, the husband. I place him last of all, advisedly; for, though he provided all the rest, he is often the meekest and most unimportant of all.
No wonder men call themselves lords of creation! It is not for what they are, but for what they give, that they are of so much importance all good things come to a woman through a plain gold circlet, apparently!
​There is no denying it—I like to feel important! or rather, I think I should if I ever got the chance—for I never had one yet. I do not want to be married for years and years; but if I could have all the nice, pleasant, dignified surroundings that married women have, without being obliged to take the husband, I should like it. Now, if I happen to get smashed up to-day, there is no one to gather my pieces together, or acquaint my friends of my demise, or give me decent burial. I shall be simply an unattended, unappropriated female, and of no account whatever. I am proud to say that I do not bear a bandbox, a bag, and a sheaf of umbrellas and parasols, as is the wont of most unmarried females: I have only one bonnet, and that is in my box, and in a bad way, I fear; for finding the trunk would not close, I sat down on the contents with much vigour, forgetting the bonnet in my excitement; and to-morrow morning I shall be a sorrowful sight to see. We wanted to buy a new one—mother and I; but an empty purse stared us sternly in the face, and forbade the purchase. Next to being hungry, I wonder if there is any misfortune, short of death, equal to that of an empty purse? To be ill in body is bad, to be ill in mind is worse, but for real downright, biting unpleasantness, and bitterness of soul, commend me to the empty pocket! I fancy Nick hates to see us penniless as heartily as we hate to see ourselves he knows it is so easy for us to get into mischief when we have gold, so hard to distinguish ourselves in his court without it. I wonder how many extravagances and naughtinesses have been nipped in the bud for lack of the glittering dross? Well, if I do possess a sneaking love for smart clothes (is not love of dress one of his distinct and evil promptings? does he not ruin body and soul by hundreds every day, for the sheen that lies on a satin, the lustrous bloom on a silk, and the fairy cobwebs of a priceless lace?) it is pretty plain I cannot indulge it.
How hungry I am! In the breathless hurry-skurry of my de​parture, sherry and sandwiches found no place: I was too intent on conveying my person and box to the station (anticipating a revoke of the favourable sentence) to think of probable hunger; now as the train slowly glides into Pringly station, the sight of the refreshment bar, with its fossil sandwiches, leaden buns, and orange-coloured decanters, rejoices my heart.
"Guard," I say, jumping up as that individual goes past the carriage with his flag under his arm, "will you get me some sandwiches, and two buns, and a glass of ale, please?"
"Yes, miss,"—and he vanishes.
In my hurry I have trodden heavily on the foot of one of the elderly young ladies, and she gives me a look as I make my apologies that quite revives me, it is so healthily vicious. They exchange glances of horror out of their pale eyes as I drink Bass's best or worst. In all their lives, if their complexions may be trusted to speak truth, they have never tasted anything stronger than barley-water. Now, why drinking a glass of ale in a railway carriage, when you are burnt up with dust and thirst, and scrammed with hunger, should be any worse than drinking ale at the family table when you do not particularly want it, I cannot understand; nevertheless, the British matron, the divines, and the little elderlies, all look at me with shocked eyes. If they only knew how I am inwardly laughing at them! for is not this one of those little affectations that make one smile at human nature?
Away we go again, tearing through the bright, beautiful country as though it were the desert of Sahara, and we could not leave it behind fast enough. How the sun pours down on our devoted heads! Truly August is giving us some straight burning strokes before it goes. How I fuss, and fidget, and fan myself, and adopt the hundred and one flapping and fussy measures that mortals suffering under discomfort always affect, until they resign themselves to the inevitable, and learn that hardest of hard lessons—endurance. ​The little females sit white and silent: they are very warm, they are suffering horribly, but they make no complaint. Somehow they irresistibly remind me of little boiled hens with melted butter poured over them. They do not grumble, even to each other. Now if Dolly were here, I should keep up a never-ending stream of nouns and adjectives, and grow cool over the comfort I received. The British matron has closed her eyes, the account-book has slipped from her fingers, and she is asleep, giving utterance now and again to a majestic snore, that once or twice wakes her up, when she looks round fiercely at us all, as who should say, "Who made that noise? I did not," and then goes off again.
The fat parson is no longer saying, "Hey?" aloud, though he may be shouting it in the land of Nod; his flabby cheeks are damp and unbeautiful, his mouth is a long, long way open. As a rule, human beings do not look well asleep: there is a startling resemblance between them and the ruminating animal world when the brain is dormant and the soul away.
After a while I think I fall off into a doze like the rest. I am conscious of making a deliberate effort to keep my mouth shut when "Luttrell! Luttrell!" comes sweetly to my ear. I start up in prodigious excitement, dancing up and down on both the little females' feet this time, but in too great a hurry to apologise; in fact, I am out of the carriage and across the platform almost before the train has stopped.
There is Milly in her carriage, but an ampler, grander, different Milly, somehow, to the bouncing, golden-haired, handsome sister of the old days.
"How do you do?" I say, rushing up to her. "How glad I am to see you!" And I give her a hug, for I have not seen her for a long, long while.
"I am so glad you have come," she says; "but, good heavens, Nell! what a hat you have got on!"
​The gladness dies a little out of my face and voice; I feel ruffled and vaguely chilled. I have not seen her since her marriage, and she might have looked at my face, not my hat; besides, under the shadow of just such an one had Milly walked for all the years of her life before she married. As we drive away, she asks for all at home kindly enough, but already, I think, her husband and child fill her heart, and the pomps and vanities, and gauds and pleasures of her new life have shouldered away the memory of the old one at home. As I look at her I marvel if she ever could have dodged papa round corners, and gone water-cressing, or worn a sun-bonnet and double skirts? And although I shut my eyes tight, and try to conjure up the vision, I cannot.
"Where is Alice?" I ask. "I thought she would have come with you?"
"Charles is driving her this afternoon, but she will be in by the time we reach the Court."
"I am longing to see the babies," I say, looking at Milly's dress, and thinking what uncommonly fine birds fine feathers will make. (I am sure I could be made very presentable.)
"Mine is a splendid boy," says Milly, warming up directly: "he has the Luttrell skin and hair, and his eyes———" Words fail Milly at this point.
"And Alice's!"
"The youngest is a nice child."
"How droll it seems to think of Alice as a mamma with two children! And I have never seen the last one yet."
"Have you many people staying with you?"
"Not many—a dozen or so. There is Fane!"
We are in the park now, and across the grass comes a tall, bonny, fair-haired young-fellow, with a sunshiny face and a bright manner that makes every heart warm to him. It was but little ​that I saw of him at Milly's wedding; I am glad to have the chance of knowing him better.
"I am so glad you have come," he says heartily; "we were afraid that———"
A glance from Milly at the servants checks him, and he jumps into the carriage and we bowl away. I wonder if all married people behave as these do? There they sit face to face, hand locked in hand, gazing at each other with an absorbed spooniness that I do not know whether to smile at or admire. Well, I don't wonder at her loving him. In another minute we are at the house and in the hall. Through the half-opened drawing-room door comes a sound as of many tongues, a chinking as of many tea-cups; evidently all the world is there.
"I will go to my room, thank you," I say in answer to Milly's question. "Your maid will show me the way."
As I mount the wide staircase, shallow and wide enough to drive a coach and six down, I heave a deep sigh of relief. I am tired, hot, dusty; but oh! I am at my journey's end, and I am here, not at Silverbridge. My room is vast, and wide, and cool; it looks over garden and pleasaunce, hill and dale, fashioned after nature's rarest and most lovely pattern; and away to the left glitters my splendid old friend, the sea, upon whose face I have not looked for many a long day. I have removed my travelling dress and am drinking tea, when Alice comes in with a rush.
"How delighted I am to see you!" she says; and we fly towards each other and kiss heartily.
"You disgraceful young woman!" I say, holding her at arm's length; "so you have actually got another baby, have you!"
"Is it not shocking?" she says, laughing. "I have my hands full, I can tell you."
"And what is the last one like?" I ask with interest; "as pretty as the first was?"
​"Prettier!" says Alice, with emphasis.
"And what is Milly's like?" I ask, slyly.
"Oh, all very well; but he does not come up to mine."
(I expect some fun out of these babies.)
"And you are better looking than ever," I say, concluding my lengthened survey; "may I ask if you find any improvement visible in me?"
"Now I come to look at you," says Alice, "you are—yes—you decidedly are less plain than you used to be. There was a time, Nell, when I simply trembled for you, but your hair is lovely, your eyes are good, and your dimples are charming. I think you'll do."
"Thank you," I say, meekly; "it is a case of 'it might have been worse,' is it not? Now, would you believe it, but I know a young man who thinks me very pretty indeed?"
"A young man!" says Alice, opening her eyes; "not in Silverbridge, surely? Did you advertise for him, or was he dropped out of a balloon?"
"Neither," I say, laughing; "but I am not going to tell you anything about him. I know so well how everything filters through to the husbands with married women, and I'm not going to have my heart's best affections made the theme of your unfeeling jokes. Did you think I should come, Alice?"
"Not in the least! Charles and Fane have been making bets on you. After this I shall expect you to come and stay with me at Lovelace Chace."
"I wish I could," I say, devoutly; "but, this 'outing' over, I expect to be shut up for the rest of my days."
"Marry," says my beautiful sister, resplendent in all the pride of her matronly young beauty; "you will be able to do as you please then. Now—about this young man———"
"I won't tell you now," I say, putting my fingers in my ears. "I am so glad to have got clean away from him, you know; another ​day I will. Are any nice people staying here, Alice—any one I am likely to fall in love with?"
"What a question!" says Alice, opening her eyes again. "If you think of doing any such thing, there is no need to talk about it beforehand, is there?"
"In this case," I say, seriously, "there is a great deal of need, for if I do not fall in love with some one within the next five months———"
"What then?"
"What, indeed!" I say, gaily. "Come now, tell me, have you any Prince Charming staying here?"
"There is one handsome man," says Alice, "Sir George Vestris; but he is in love with somebody; and there is little Lord St. John whose possessions are charming, if he is not, but he is in love with me; there are two detrimentals looking out for heiresses, and there is some new man who arrived this afternoon, whom I have not seen. It is very odd, he lives near Silverbridge—I can't remember his name. Fane and Milly knew him abroad. I am told he is good-looking."
"And this other man, the one you mentioned first, who is he in love with? Any one here? I should fall quite naturally into my character of gooseberry again."
"With the loveliest woman I ever saw," says Alice, "and she has a pretty name—Silvia Fleming."
"Silvia Fleming!" I cry, starting up, "are you joking?"
"Why should I be?" asks Alice "Why, the Flemings live only twenty miles from here, and it seems Luttrell mère and Fleming mère were old friends. Fane asks them every year."
"What a little place the world is!" I say, sighing; "how one does run up against everybody."
"But where did you ever meet with her, Nell?"
"Did I never speak of her? At Charteris."
​"Ah! I remember. Well, she is a lovely bit of china, but I can't endure her."
"You are jealous," I say, looking at her proudly.
"Oh, no?" she says, laughing, and in her voice there is the ungrudging admiration that one very pretty woman can always afford to give another: it is only your half-and-half beauties who deny the existence of anything comely in their fair neighbours—"but somehow I can't like her. There is something so silent, so secret about her, one never feels sure of what she is up to."
"And she is engaged to this Sir George Vestris?"
Alice shrugs her shoulders. "They are inseparable, they behave like engaged lovers; she takes no notice of any other man, and he is quite in earnest; but she, I believe, is amusing herself. Milly is considerably scandalized, Fleming mère shakes her head, and says nothing, the young woman keeps her own counsel, and we are all in the dark."
"I wish she was married to him," I say, heartily.
"Do you, indeed?" says Alice. "May I ask, Nell, if you have any intentions on any one who admires her?"
"No intentions," I say, turning my head away that she may not see how red my face has grown, "but I think she is dangerous—a man-trap!—and the sooner matrimony locks her up the better."
"I must go," says Alice, jumping up, as the sound of a distant bell comes to our ears. "Come into my room on your way downstairs, dear—it is the next but one on the right—and I will take you into the nursery to show you baby."
"Wait a moment," say, running after her. "I never was a gusher, you know, Alice; but oh, I am so glad to see your pretty face again!"
I put on my white silk gown, and twist a string of dim moon-shiny pearls among my brown locks; I clasp about my throat and neck mother's pearl necklace and bracelets, and when all is done ​survey myself in the mirror with sneaking admiration. "You little fool!" I say, shaking my fist at my pleased face; "you don't look so much amiss there all by yourself, but wait till you get downstairs among the rest—that'll take the conceit out of you!"