We remained at anchor all next day, and Inez and I went to the Crystal Palace, and probably no two children ever enjoyed themselves more.
Next day was Sat.u.r.day, and we started from the farm about eleven, but owing to a mishap it was two pm before we got clear of the town of Croydon itself.
The mishap occurred through my own absent-mindedness. I left the Wanderer in one of the numerous new streets in the outskirts, not far off the Brighton Road, and walked with Inez about a mile up into the town to do some shopping.
On returning, a heavy shower, a pelting shower in fact, came on, and so engrossed was I in protecting my little charge with the umbrella, that when I at last looked up, lo! we were lost! The best or the worst of it was that I did not know east from west, had never been in Croydon before, and had neglected to take the name of the street in which I had left the Wanderer.
It was a sad fix, and it took me two good hours to find my house upon wheels.
On through Red Hill, and right away for Horley; but though the horses were tired and it rained incessantly, it could not damp our spirits. At the Chequers Inn we found a pleasant landlord and landlady, and a delightfully quiet meadow in which we spent the Sabbath.
The Chequers Inn is very old-fashioned indeed, and seems to have been built and added to through many generations, the ancient parts never being taken down.
Sunday was a delightful day, so still, so quiet, so beautiful. To live, to exist on such a day as this amid such scenery is to be happy.
_September 7th_.--We are on the road by nine. It is but five-and-twenty miles to Brighton. If we can do seven-and-twenty among Highland hills, we can surely do the same in tame domestic England.
But the roads are soft and sorely trying, and at Hand Cross we are completely storm-stayed by the terrible downpours of rain. I do not think the oldest inhabitant could have been far wrong when he averred it was the heaviest he ever could remember.
During a kind of break in the deluge we started, and in the evening reached the cross roads at Aldbourne, and here we got snugly at anchor after an eighteen-mile journey.
My little maiden went to sleep on the sofa hours before we got in, and there she was sound and fast. I could not even wake her for supper, though on my little table were viands that might make the teeth of a monk of the olden times water with joyful antic.i.p.ation.
So I supped alone with Bob.
I spent a gloomy eerisome evening. It was _so_ gloomy! And out of doors when I dared to look the darkness was profound. The incessant rattling of the raindrops on the roof was a sound not calculated to raise one"s spirits. I began to take a dreary view of life in general, indeed I began to feel superst.i.tions. I--
"Papa, dear."
Ha! Inez was awake, and smiling all over. Well, we would have a little pleasant prattle together, and then to bed. The rattling of the raindrops would help to woo us to sleep, and if the wind blew the Wanderer would rock. We would dream we were at sea, and sleep all the sounder for it.
"Good-night, dearie."
"Good-night, darling papie."
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.
STORM-STAYED AT BRIGHTON--ALONG THE COAST AND TO LYNDHURST--THE NEW FOREST--HOMEWARDS THROUGH HANTS.
"Dim coasts and cloud-like hills and sh.o.r.eless ocean, It seemed like omnipresence! G.o.d methought Had built Himself a temple; the whole world Seem"d imaged in its vast circ.u.mference."
Coleridge.
"Rides and rambles, sports and farming, Home the heart for ever warming; Books and friends and ease; Life must after all be charming, Full of joys like these."
Tupper.
I love Brighton, and if there were any probability of my ever "settling down," as it is called, anywhere in this world before the final settling down, I would just as soon it should be in Brighton as in any place I know.
It is now the 13th of September, and the Wanderer has been storm-stayed here for days by equinoctial gales. She occupies a good situation, however, in a s.p.a.cious walled enclosure, and although she has been rocking about like a gun-brig in Biscay Bay, she has not blown over.
As, owing to the high winds and stormy waves, digging on the sands, gathering sh.e.l.ls, and other outdoor amus.e.m.e.nts have been denied us, we have tried to make up for it by visiting the theatre and spending long hours in the Aquarium.
The Aquarium is a dear delightful place. We have been much interested in the performances of the Infant Jumbo, the dwarf elephant, and no wonder. He kneels, and stands, and walks, plays a mouth organ, makes his way across a row of ninepins, and across a bar, balancing himself with a pole like a veritable Blondin. He plays a street-organ and beats a drum at the same time; and last, and most wonderful of all, he rides a huge tricycle, which he works with his legs, steering himself with his trunk. This infant is not much bigger than a donkey, but has the sense and judgment of ten thousand donkeys. I should dearly like to go on a cycling tour with him to John o" Groat"s. I believe we would astonish the natives.
How the wind has been blowing to be sure, and how wild and spiteful the waves have been; how they have leapt and dashed and foamed, wrecking everything within reach, and tearing up even the asphalt on the promenade!
Sunday was a pleasant day, though wind and sea were still high, and on Monday we made an early start.
It is a muggy, rainy morning, with a strong head wind. The sea is grey and misty and all flecked with foam, and the country through which we drive is possessed of little interest. Before starting, however, we must needs pay a farewell visit to the sh.o.r.e, and enjoy five minutes"
digging in the sand. Then we said,--
"Good-bye, old sea; we will be sure to come back again when summer days are fine. Good-bye! Ta, ta!"
Sh.o.r.eham is a quaint and curious, but very far from cleanly little town.
We heard here, by chance, that the storm waves had quite destroyed a portion of the lower road to Worthing, and so we had to choose the upper and longer route, which we reached in time for dinner with the kindly landlord of the Steyne Hotel. If children are a blessing, verily Mr C--is blessed indeed; he hath his quiver full, and no man deserves it more.
Worthing, I may as well mention parenthetically, is one of the most delightful watering-places on the south coast, and I verily believe that the sun shines here when it does not shine anywhere else in England.
Two dear children (Winnie and Ernie C--) came with us for three miles, bringing a basket to hold the blackberries they should gather on their way back.
Winnie was enchanted with this short experience of gipsy life, and wanted to know when I would return and take her to Brighton. Ernie did not say much; he was quietly happy.
It broke up a fine afternoon, and now and then the sun shone out, making the drive to Littlehampton, through the beautiful tree scenery, quite a delightful one.
Reached Littlehampton-on-Sea by five o"clock, and, seeing no other place handy, I undid the gate of the cricket-field and drove right in. I then obtained the address of the manager or secretary, and sent my valet to obtain leave. I have found this plan answer my purposes more than once.
It is the quickest and the best. It was suggested to me long, long ago on reading that page of "Midshipman Easy" where that young gentleman proposes throwing the prisoners overboard and trying them by court-martial afterwards.
So when Mr Blank came "to see about it" he found the _fait accompli_, looked somewhat funny, but forgave me.
Littlehampton-on-Sea is a quiet and pleasant watering-place, bracing, too, and good for nervous people. I am surprised it is not more popular. It has the safest sea-bathing beach in the world, and is quite a heaven on earth for young children.
We had a run and a romp on the splendid sands here last night, and I do not know which of the two was the maddest or the merriest, Hurricane Bob or his wee mistress. We are down here again this morning for half-an-hour"s digging and a good run before starting.
Now last night the waves were rippling close up to the bathing-machines, and Bob had a delicious dip. When we left the Wanderer this morning he was daft with delight; he expected to bathe and splash again. But the tide is out, and the sea a mile away; only the soft, wet, rippled sands are here, and I have never in my life seen a dog look so puzzled or nonplussed as Bob does at this moment.
He is walking about on the sand looking for the sea.
"What _can_ have happened?" he seems to be thinking. "The sea _was_ here last night, right enough. Or can I have been dreaming? Where on earth _has_ it gone to?"
In the same grounds where the Wanderer lay last night, but far away at the other end of the field, is another caravan--a very pretty and clean-looking one. I was told that it had been here a long time, that the man lived in it with his young wife, supporting her and himself by playing the dulcimer on the street. A quiet and highly respectable gipsy indeed.
Delayed by visitors till eleven, when we made a start westward once again.
"Tis a glorious morning. The sky is brightly blue, flecked with white wee clouds, a haze on the horizon, with rock-and-tower clouds rising like s...o...b..nks above it.
The road to Arundel is a winding one, but there are plenty of finger-posts in various stages of dilapidation. A well-treed country, too, and highly cultivated. Every three or four minutes we pa.s.s a farm-steading or a cottage near the road, the gardens of the latter being all ablaze with bright geraniums, hydrangeas, dahlias, and sunflowers, and all kinds of berried, creeping, and climbing plants.