CHAPTER XXXIII

THE ROSEBERRY ROCKS STATION

PEOPLE generally see more of a station on leaving a place than they do on arriving; for, on arriving, every body’s business seems to be to expedite every body else, and hurry them through as quickly as ever they can. “Cab, sir?” is the first sound that greets an arrival, and every porter seems anxious to get a traveller into one. Then the cabs come pouring in from some invisible source in such continuous line, that one might almost fancy they passed round and round the station, just as the handful of sham soldiers that compose the standing army at a theatre pass at the back and the front of the stage until the gods in the gallery begin to laugh at their familiar faces. On a departure, travellers, especially those who have been left behind once or twice, generally manage to have a little time on hand to take their tickets, get a bun, and secure seats. This done, they feel somewhat comfortable, and compose themselves for a stare.

It is a lively scene; all the gaiety of the packet-service without the sickness. Indeed, it is better than the packet-service; for while the sea air, salt water, and stuffy cabin, deter ladies from expensive dress, so the spacious comfort, and perfect shelter of the railway station invite a liberal display of clothes. The Roseberry Rocks Station was built quite on the “money-no-object” principle of the early development of railways,—light, lofty, spacious, and elegant,—with a fine holiday air about it. The white marble stands in the highly decorated refreshment rooms are piled with the most tempting viands, solids, fluids, fruits, sweets of all sorts. Every thing looks so nice and fresh, that a stranger helps himself boldly without troubling to inquire when the tarts or the cakes were made—so necessary at some stations—where they have always a last week’s sandwich or pie ready to foist upon the unwary.

Nor is food for the mind forgotten in providing for that of the body. The books look so new and gay, and, above all, are so cheap—a shilling for what used to cost a guinea a few years since.

One of the peculiarities of modern travel is the great demand there is for books, a book to prevent people seeing the country being quite as essential as a bun to prevent their being hungry. Formerly, a newspaper was considered rather an extravagance, and one paper in a coach was quite enough for the crew. It passed round and round till they had all had enough—though papers were not of the table-cloth size in those days—a single sheet, no supplement, and sevenpence the price. Some people say that they have seen the country till they are tired of it, and know all the views and scenery on the line. True, but that is not making any allowance for the change produced by the seasons, the buds, the leaves, the hay, the grass, the corn, the “tormots,” the sowing, the reaping, the stacking. A railway ride presents a rapid panorama of agriculture; a passenger sees the transition from good to bad farming, from good to bad land, from drained to undrained soil, in a quick, pointed, forcible, unmistakeable way, provided he will but look.

But the train of ideas has carried us into the country, instead of letting us attend to the railway train at the elegant Roseberry Rocks Station.

Though the place may not be so favourable to the pursuits of the little hair-dresser on the back of our work, as shady groves, cooing doves, and splashing waterfalls; and the wheelings of the barrow porter may not be so musical as the notes of the nightingale; yet it is capable of a great deal of useful application, and a skilfully managed tear at parting has brought suitors to book, whose modesty or whose fickleness have survived the rides and drives of the Rocks. It was at the end of the Fern Hill departure line that Captain Leopold Hobson whispered something in Lavinia Lawson’s ear that sent her flying away as happy as a lark, and it was in the ladies’ waiting-room that the timid Peter Muffins slipped the little pink three-cornered note into Arabella Benson’s hand, that ultimately made her Mrs. Muffins. Here, too, Esau Jones is said to have offered to Miss Swithinbank, and Mr. Brown to Miss Green.

On this our departing day, as Jasper Goldspink stood victorious over the accumulated luggage of himself and ladies, Mrs. McDermott soothed the parting pang by assuring Mr. Admiration Jack that they (they, not she as Miss Rosa put it) would be glad to see him at Privett Grove if he ever came into their part of the country, and when after due ringing of bells, taking of seats, banging of doors, and showing of tickets, the inexorable whistle at length sounded and the train began to move, Miss Rosa gave him one of those assuring smiles that completely prevented any idea of her ever being anybody else’s than his. And as the puffing, snorting engine whisked the train out of the station, Jasper lolling luxuriously inside a carriage and Jack looking wistfully after it, each felt a pang of pity for the other.

And now gentle reader which hero will you take for choice?