Lady Duffus Hardy

A chat by the way.—A steam bicycle.—Rough times.—At Ocala.

The boat is waiting, bobbing up and down at the little rustic pier at Tocoi. The sun is laughing down upon us, with a face of shining gold, and the sweet east wind is fanning our cheeks with its breath of balm; a sweep of sunny water lies before us, sea-gulls and strange birds are wheeling over our heads as we step on board, and are soon on our way to Palatka.

We pass by pretty little hamlets and endless groves of orange and lemon trees, stretching inland from the low-lying shore; most of them are already stripped of their golden fruit, but some have their branches still heavily laden.

In about two hours we land at Palatka, a pretty bright little town, one of the scores of places which we are obliged to pass through with only a passing glance. Those who are tired of wandering and wish to rest, cannot do better than spend a few pleasant tranquil days here on the banks of the quiet river. There is an excellent hotel, “The Palatka House,” where they will find comfortable accommodation and an excellent cuisine. We desire to reach Silver Springs and thence take the boat down the Ocklawaha river, of whose wonders we have heard so much that we prepare ourselves for disappointment. We don’t quite know how to get there or whether we are to sleep on the land or on the river, but we are content to drift, being strong in the faith that things will come right somehow.

We have not been long seated when our conductor comes along; he punches our ticket, and smilingly adds a conjecture “Ladies from England, I think?”

We modestly admit the fact. He claims nationality with us, and forthwith friendly relations are established between us. He sits down and enters into conversation.

“You live in London, perhaps,” he hazards as a preliminary observation. That fact ascertained, he adds excitedly, “Ah! then you must know my father, Mr. Augustus Brown; he lives at Rose Villa, Lower Norwood, near by the Crystal Palace.” I pleaded ignorance of Mr. Augustus Brown, representing that these delightful suburbs were about ten miles from London’s self, and that a pilgrimage to the Crystal Palace was not a thing of everyday occurrence.

“Ten miles!” he repeated incredulously, “why here we know everybody within a radius of a hundred miles! Think again, you must know him, you must have met him somewhere! He is a fine old gentleman, tall, thin, with grey hair, and a long beard—you’ll surely remember him?”

He looked so earnest that I was quite sorry to disappoint him by repeating my former statement, at the same time softening the blow by explaining the immense population of London and its suburbs, and how often people lived for years without even knowing their next door neighbours. That was all very well, but not to know my father, “Mr. Augustus Brown,” was quite another thing! I’m afraid by my ignorance of the inhabitants of Lower Norwood I lost caste considerably in his eyes. He went about his business with rather a perplexed face and presently came back to us with the information:

“You’ll have to change cars soon at Perry’s Junction for Ocala; it isn’t much of a place, but you’ll have to sleep there, and in the morning take the cars for Silver Springs, about half an hour’s ride.” He then emerged from his official character and added, “Perhaps you’ll be going back to England soon? Yes? Well, I should like to give you my father’s address.” He fumbled through a tattered pocket-book, and extracted therefrom a crumpled piece of paper. “There, if you should ever be in that neighbourhood I hope you’ll just give a call on my folks; they’ll make you right welcome, and please tell ’em I’m all right, and I hope to be home next fall.”

I took the paper, but knowing that my chance of making the acquaintance of his esteemed parents was small I ventured to suggest that he would most likely forward that information himself.

“No,” he answered, “I’m not much of a hand with a pen; somehow we get out of the way of it in these parts. I haven’t written to the old folk for years, though I think of them often enough—God bless ’em! I often picture to myself how they’ll look when I first walk in upon ’em.”

“Take you for a tramp, most likely, and shut the door in your face,” I suggest, somewhat flippantly, perhaps; but he answered gravely:

“Father might, but mother ’ll know me, sure enough, though I left home at fourteen years old and I’m now thirty. But she’d know me, ay, even if I was in my coffin. And I should know her dear old face, even if we don’t meet till we meet in heaven.”

We were constantly beset by similar inquiries from perfect strangers; the fact of our nationality once ascertained, somebody would accost us—on the cars, the platform, the hotel corridors, no matter where.

“Excuse me, but do you know my cousin, the Rev. Jonah Smith, a clergyman, curate of St. Jeremiah’s, somewhere down in Cumberland, the place where my grandfather came from?”

Everybody seemed to think we must know their relations—sometimes we found it very difficult to convince them to the contrary. Once I received a long letter, filling several sheets of foolscap, as long as a lawyer’s long brief, setting forth a whole family history up to a certain period, marriages and intermarriages, beseeching me to set inquiries on foot and transmit to them any information I could gather concerning their English relations, with whom they, the American branch, had held no communication for the last generation.

To me there is something touching in this desire to claim kinship with the old family tree, whose branches are flourishing in all quarters of the habitable globe. It is so everywhere in the conservative South. In the more cosmopolitan north it is different; as a rule nobody cares to claim kinship with anybody or anything, except perhaps Wall Street and the money market.

At Perry’s Point we changed cars, and took a “narrow gauge” line to Ocala. It was the first time we had been on the genuine “narrow” gauge, and I fervently hope our last. Nothing could well be narrower, the rails being less than three feet apart; the cars running thereon are almost the usual width, seating four passengers in a row, divided in the centre by a passage two or three feet wide. It was like travelling on a see-saw or a bicycle; the cars oscillated fearfully from side to side, we had to hold on to the straps for dear life; even when it came to a stand it was not still, but slowly rocked from side to side.

During this short journey we twice broke down, and were detained some hours while the injury was repaired. We complained of the danger and discomfort of this mode of travelling, at the risk of life and limb. I believe I was regarded by the whole car as a British malcontent; nobody grumbled nor even lifted a disapproving voice. One lady seemed much surprised at our discomposure, and said, raising her placid brows and smiling sweetly:

“I dare say we shall get to Ocala all right; there is no use in fretting. It is true the cars did topple over an embankment a few weeks ago—such things will happen sometimes; a few limbs were broken, but nobody was killed! Besides, we must all die some time, and I don’t think it matters how or when. I really wouldn’t be uneasy,” she added consolingly, with a slightly contemptuous look upon her face. “I dare say it will be all right; and if not,” she shrugged her shoulders, “well, you know, as we say in our prayers, God’s will be done.”

Alas! I could not view the situation in this spirit of philosophical resignation; but I resolved to sink myself no lower in the eyes of my self-possessed fellow-travellers, and sat through the rest of the journey with outward calm, but inward tribulation of spirit. It was long past midnight when we reached our destination. It was a dark, moonless night, the rain was pouring in torrents, the thunder rolled and reverberated through the stormy air; now and again the heavens opened and let a flood of lightning through, then closed and left us in utter darkness. The train stopped; peering from the car windows we saw a light twinkling here and there, but no other sign of life. There were no omnibuses, no carriages plying for hire. We gathered our light hand-baggage together and followed the dreary procession to the end of the cars; they all seemed to know where they were going, and one by one our fellow-passengers were swallowed up in the darkness. We stood on the car platform for a moment and peered out into the black night; the deluge of rain was still falling.

“There are no conveyances! How are we to get to the hotel?” we exclaimed, looking round in helpless bewilderment and addressing nobody in particular.

“Take care, madam, take care—you’ll be in two feet of water that way,” cried a friendly voice arresting my progress; then taking possession of my parcels and of me, added, “It is awkward there being no conveyances on such a night as this; in fine weather it does not signify. The hotel is close by; pray take my arm. I live here, and know every step of the way.”

The train conductor volunteered his assistance to my companion, and swinging his lamp low to guide our faltering feet walked on before us.

“I am the clergyman here,” said my escort in a kind gentle voice, as he pioneered me through a morass and across a pool of mud. My thanks be to him, although I never beheld his face, for, having deposited us at our hotel, he vanished into the night and was seen no more.

We passed first through a kind of rough sitting-room, where some few of our fellow-passengers were already seated in placid contentment, waiting the hotel clerk’s leisure. We were wet through, and not disposed to wait his leisure, so claimed his attention at once, and got it too, as a “lone female” in the South does generally manage to get her will and way.

We were put in charge of a small boy with a big voice, who led us across a sort of courtyard towards a large building—the hotel proper. It seemed to be only a rough temporary erection, doomed to be speedily swept away to make room for some more commodious and imposing structure. A flight of rough wooden steps from the outside led to the interior, whither we slowly ascended, the wind and the rain beating on us as we went. We were shown to our room by a slovenly young woman with a strong Hibernian accent, evidently a late importation from the Emerald isle. It was much more comfortably furnished than we had expected from general appearances. Having relieved ourselves of our wet clothes, we went in search of supper, and, after groping our way through the empty ill-lighted passages, found a long low room illuminated by rows of tiny oil-lamps—the dingiest of dingy apartments, with tables spread, and surrounded by hungry troops of travellers.

There was not much to eat, indeed nothing but leathery slabs of ham, fried eggs, and flabby omelettes; the thunder had turned the milk sour, so the coffee and tea was served plain, while soda and seltzer water popped and sputtered on all sides of us.

The beds were fairly comfortable, and we arose the next morning to find a smiling sky promising a fair day for the trip down the Ocklawaha river.

A little train (not a “narrow-gauge,” we were thankful to find) bore us from Ocala to Silver Springs.