Sketches by Boz Page 40

  “I should like that very much indeed,” interposed Mrs. Tuggs. She had never heard of Pegwell; but the word “lunch” had reached her ears, and it sounded very agreeably.

  “How shall we go?” inquired the captain; “it's too warm to walk.”

  “A shay?” suggested Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

  “Chaise,” whispered Mr. Cymon.

  “I should think one would be enough,” said Mr. Joseph Tuggs aloud, quite unconscious of the meaning of the correction. “However, two shays if you like.”

  “I should like a donkey SO much,” said Belinda.

  “Oh, so should I!” echoed Charlotta Tuggs.

  “Well, we can have a fly,” suggested the captain, “and you can have a couple of donkeys.”

  A fresh difficulty arose. Mrs. Captain Waters declared it would be decidedly improper for two ladies to ride alone. The remedy was obvious. Perhaps young Mr. Tuggs would be gallant enough to accompany them.

  Mr. Cymon Tuggs blushed, smiled, looked vacant, and faintly protested that he was no horseman. The objection was at once overruled. A fly was speedily found; and three donkeys—which the proprietor declared on his solemn asseveration to be “three parts blood, and the other corn”—were engaged in the service.

  “Kim up!” shouted one of the two boys who followed behind, to propel the donkeys, when Belinda Waters and Charlotta Tuggs had been hoisted, and pushed, and pulled, into their respective saddles.

  “Hi—hi—hi!” groaned the other boy behind Mr. Cymon Tuggs. Away went the donkey, with the stirrups jingling against the heels of Cymon's boots, and Cymon's boots nearly scraping the ground.

  “Way—way! Wo—o—o –!” cried Mr. Cymon Tuggs as well as he could, in the midst of the jolting.

  “Don't make it gallop!” screamed Mrs. Captain Waters, behind.

  “My donkey WILL go into the public-house!” shrieked Miss Tuggs in the rear.

  “Hi—hi—hi!” groaned both the boys together; and on went the donkeys as if nothing would ever stop them.

  Everything has an end, however; even the galloping of donkeys will cease in time. The animal which Mr. Cymon Tuggs bestrode, feeling sundry uncomfortable tugs at the bit, the intent of which he could by no means divine, abruptly sidled against a brick wall, and expressed his uneasiness by grinding Mr. Cymon Tuggs's leg on the rough surface. Mrs. Captain Waters's donkey, apparently under the influence of some playfulness of spirit, rushed suddenly, head first, into a hedge, and declined to come out again: and the quadruped on which Miss Tuggs was mounted, expressed his delight at this humorous proceeding by firmly planting his fore-feet against the ground, and kicking up his hind-legs in a very agile, but somewhat alarming manner.

  This abrupt termination to the rapidity of the ride, naturally occasioned some confusion. Both the ladies indulged in vehement screaming for several minutes; and Mr. Cymon Tuggs, besides sustaining intense bodily pain, had the additional mental anguish of witnessing their distressing situation, without having the power to rescue them, by reason of his leg being firmly screwed in between the animal and the wall. The efforts of the boys, however, assisted by the ingenious expedient of twisting the tail of the most rebellious donkey, restored order in a much shorter time than could have reasonably been expected, and the little party jogged slowly on together.

  “Now let “em walk,” said Mr. Cymon Tuggs. “It's cruel to overdrive “em.”

  “Werry well, sir,” replied the boy, with a grin at his companion, as if he understood Mr. Cymon to mean that the cruelty applied less to the animals than to their riders.

  “What a lovely day, dear!” said Charlotta.

  “Charming; enchanting, dear!” responded Mrs. Captain Waters.

  “What a beautiful prospect, Mr. Tuggs!”

  Cymon looked full in Belinda's face, as he responded—“Beautiful, indeed!” The lady cast down her eyes, and suffered the animal she was riding to fall a little back. Cymon Tuggs instinctively did the same.

  There was a brief silence, broken only by a sigh from Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

  “Mr. Cymon,” said the lady suddenly, in a low tone, “Mr. Cymon—I am another's.”

  Mr. Cymon expressed his perfect concurrence in a statement which it was impossible to controvert.

  “If I had not been—” resumed Belinda; and there she stopped.

  “What—what?” said Mr. Cymon earnestly. “Do not torture me. What would you say?”

  “If I had not been”—continued Mrs. Captain Waters—“if, in earlier life, it had been my fate to have known, and been beloved by, a noble youth—a kindred soul—a congenial spirit—one capable of feeling and appreciating the sentiments which—”

  “Heavens! what do I hear?” exclaimed Mr. Cymon Tuggs. “Is it possible! can I believe my—Come up!” (This last unsentimental parenthesis was addressed to the donkey, who, with his head between his fore-legs, appeared to be examining the state of his shoes with great anxiety.)

  “Hi—hi—hi,” said the boys behind. “Come up,” expostulated Cymon Tuggs again. “Hi—hi—hi,” repeated the boys. And whether it was that the animal felt indignant at the tone of Mr. Tuggs's command, or felt alarmed by the noise of the deputy proprietor's boots running behind him; or whether he burned with a noble emulation to outstrip the other donkeys; certain it is that he no sooner heard the second series of “hi—hi's,” than he started away, with a celerity of pace which jerked Mr. Cymon's hat off, instantaneously, and carried him to the Pegwell Bay hotel in no time, where he deposited his rider without giving him the trouble of dismounting, by sagaciously pitching him over his head, into the very doorway of the tavern.

  Great was the confusion of Mr. Cymon Tuggs, when he was put right end uppermost, by two waiters; considerable was the alarm of Mrs. Tuggs in behalf of her son; agonizing were the apprehensions of Mrs. Captain Waters on his account. It was speedily discovered, however, that he had not sustained much more injury than the donkey—he was grazed, and the animal was grazing—and then it WAS a delightful party to be sure! Mr. and Mrs. Tuggs, and the captain, had ordered lunch in the little garden behind:—small saucers of large shrimps, dabs of butter, crusty loaves, and bottled ale. The sky was without a cloud; there were flower-pots and turf before them; the sea, from the foot of the cliff, stretching away as far as the eye could discern anything at all; vessels in the distance with sails as white, and as small, as nicely-got-up cambric handkerchiefs. The shrimps were delightful, the ale better, and the captain even more pleasant than either. Mrs. Captain Waters was in SUCH spirits after lunch!—chasing, first the captain across the turf, and among the flower-pots; and then Mr. Cymon Tuggs; and then Miss Tuggs; and laughing, too, quite boisterously. But as the captain said, it didn't matter; who knew what they were, there? For all the people of the house knew, they might be common people. To which Mr. Joseph Tuggs responded, “To be sure.” And then they went down the steep wooden steps a little further on, which led to the bottom of the cliff; and looked at the crabs, and the seaweed, and the eels, till it was more than fully time to go back to Ramsgate again. Finally, Mr. Cymon Tuggs ascended the steps last, and Mrs. Captain Waters last but one; and Mr. Cymon Tuggs discovered that the foot and ankle of Mrs. Captain Waters, were even more unexceptionable than he had at first supposed.

  Taking a donkey towards his ordinary place of residence, is a very different thing, and a feat much more easily to be accomplished, than taking him from it. It requires a great deal of foresight and presence of mind in the one case, to anticipate the numerous flights of his discursive imagination; whereas, in the other, all you have to do, is, to hold on, and place a blind confidence in the animal. Mr. Cymon Tuggs adopted the latter expedient on his return; and his nerves were so little discomposed by the journey, that he distinctly understood they were all to meet again at the library in the evening.

  The library was crowded. There were the same ladies, and the same gentlemen, who had been on the sands in the morning, and on the pier the day before. There were young ladies, in maroon-coloured
gowns and black velvet bracelets, dispensing fancy articles in the shop, and presiding over games of chance in the concert-room. There were marriageable daughters, and marriage-making mammas, gaming and promenading, and turning over music, and flirting. There were some male beaux doing the sentimental in whispers, and others doing the ferocious in moustache. There were Mrs. Tuggs in amber, Miss Tuggs in sky-blue, Mrs. Captain Waters in pink. There was Captain Waters in a braided surtout; there was Mr. Cymon Tuggs in pumps and a gilt waistcoat; there was Mr. Joseph Tuggs in a blue coat and a shirt-frill.

  “Numbers three, eight, and eleven!” cried one of the young ladies in the maroon-coloured gowns.

  “Numbers three, eight, and eleven!” echoed another young lady in the same uniform.

  “Number three's gone,” said the first young lady. “Numbers eight and eleven!”

  “Numbers eight and eleven!” echoed the second young lady.

  “Number eight's gone, Mary Ann,” said the first young lady.

  “Number eleven!” screamed the second.

  “The numbers are all taken now, ladies, if you please,” said the first. The representatives of numbers three, eight, and eleven, and the rest of the numbers, crowded round the table.

  “Will you throw, ma'am?” said the presiding goddess, handing the dice-box to the eldest daughter of a stout lady, with four girls.

  There was a profound silence among the lookers-on.

  “Throw, Jane, my dear,” said the stout lady. An interesting display of bashfulness—a little blushing in a cambric handkerchief—a whispering to a younger sister.

  “Amelia, my dear, throw for your sister,” said the stout lady; and then she turned to a walking advertisement of Rowlands” Macassar Oil, who stood next her, and said, “Jane is so VERY modest and retiring; but I can't be angry with her for it. An artless and unsophisticated girl is SO truly amiable, that I often wish Amelia was more like her sister!”

  The gentleman with the whiskers whispered his admiring approval.

  “Now, my dear!” said the stout lady. Miss Amelia threw—eight for her sister, ten for herself.

  “Nice figure, Amelia,” whispered the stout lady to a thin youth beside her.

  “Beautiful!”

  “And SUCH a spirit! I am like you in that respect. I can NOT help admiring that life and vivacity. Ah! (a sigh) I wish I could make poor Jane a little more like my dear Amelia!”

  The young gentleman cordially acquiesced in the sentiment; both he, and the individual first addressed, were perfectly contented.

  “Who's this?” inquired Mr. Cymon Tuggs of Mrs. Captain Waters, as a short female, in a blue velvet hat and feathers, was led into the orchestra, by a fat man in black tights and cloudy Berlins.

  “Mrs. Tippin, of the London theatres,” replied Belinda, referring to the programme of the concert.

  The talented Tippin having condescendingly acknowledged the clapping of hands, and shouts of “bravo!” which greeted her appearance, proceeded to sing the popular cavatina of “Bid me discourse,” accompanied on the piano by Mr. Tippin; after which, Mr. Tippin sang a comic song, accompanied on the piano by Mrs. Tippin: the applause consequent upon which, was only to be exceeded by the enthusiastic approbation bestowed upon an air with variations on the guitar, by Miss Tippin, accompanied on the chin by Master Tippin.

  Thus passed the evening; thus passed the days and evenings of the Tuggses, and the Waterses, for six weeks. Sands in the morning—donkeys at noon—pier in the afternoon—library at night—and the same people everywhere.

  On that very night six weeks, the moon was shining brightly over the calm sea, which dashed against the feet of the tall gaunt cliffs, with just enough noise to lull the old fish to sleep, without disturbing the young ones, when two figures were discernible—or would have been, if anybody had looked for them—seated on one of the wooden benches which are stationed near the verge of the western cliff. The moon had climbed higher into the heavens, by two hours” journeying, since those figures first sat down—and yet they had moved not. The crowd of loungers had thinned and dispersed; the noise of itinerant musicians had died away; light after light had appeared in the windows of the different houses in the distance; blockade-man after blockade-man had passed the spot, wending his way towards his solitary post; and yet those figures had remained stationary. Some portions of the two forms were in deep shadow, but the light of the moon fell strongly on a puce-coloured boot and a glazed stock. Mr. Cymon Tuggs and Mrs. Captain Waters were seated on that bench. They spoke not, but were silently gazing on the sea.

  “Walter will return to-morrow,” said Mrs. Captain Waters, mournfully breaking silence.

  Mr. Cymon Tuggs sighed like a gust of wind through a forest of gooseberry bushes, as he replied, “Alas! he will.”

  “Oh, Cymon!” resumed Belinda, “the chaste delight, the calm happiness, of this one week of Platonic love, is too much for me!” Cymon was about to suggest that it was too little for him, but he stopped himself, and murmured unintelligibly.

  “And to think that even this gleam of happiness, innocent as it is,” exclaimed Belinda, “is now to be lost for ever!”

  “Oh, do not say for ever, Belinda,” exclaimed the excitable Cymon, as two strongly-defined tears chased each other down his pale face—it was so long that there was plenty of room for a chase. “Do not say for ever!”

  “I must,” replied Belinda.

  “Why?” urged Cymon, “oh why? Such Platonic acquaintance as ours is so harmless, that even your husband can never object to it.”

  “My husband!” exclaimed Belinda. “You little know him. Jealous and revengeful; ferocious in his revenge—a maniac in his jealousy! Would you be assassinated before my eyes?” Mr. Cymon Tuggs, in a voice broken by emotion, expressed his disinclination to undergo the process of assassination before the eyes of anybody.

  “Then leave me,” said Mrs. Captain Waters. “Leave me, this night, for ever. It is late: let us return.”

  Mr. Cymon Tuggs sadly offered the lady his arm, and escorted her to her lodgings. He paused at the door—he felt a Platonic pressure of his hand. “Good night,” he said, hesitating.

  “Good night,” sobbed the lady. Mr. Cymon Tuggs paused again.

  “Won't you walk in, sir?” said the servant. Mr. Tuggs hesitated. Oh, that hesitation! He DID walk in.

  “Good night!” said Mr. Cymon Tuggs again, when he reached the drawing-room.

  “Good night!” replied Belinda; “and, if at any period of my life, I—Hush!” The lady paused and stared with a steady gaze of horror, on the ashy countenance of Mr. Cymon Tuggs. There was a double knock at the street-door.

  “It is my husband!” said Belinda, as the captain's voice was heard below.

  “And my family!” added Cymon Tuggs, as the voices of his relatives floated up the staircase.

  “The curtain! The curtain!” gasped Mrs. Captain Waters, pointing to the window, before which some chintz hangings were closely drawn.

  “But I have done nothing wrong,” said the hesitating Cymon.

  “The curtain!” reiterated the frantic lady: “you will be murdered.” This last appeal to his feelings was irresistible. The dismayed Cymon concealed himself behind the curtain with pantomimic suddenness.

  Enter the captain, Joseph Tuggs, Mrs. Tuggs, and Charlotta.

  “My dear,” said the captain, “Lieutenant, Slaughter.” Two ironshod boots and one gruff voice were heard by Mr. Cymon to advance, and acknowledge the honour of the introduction. The sabre of the lieutenant rattled heavily upon the floor, as he seated himself at the table. Mr. Cymon's fears almost overcame his reason.

  “The brandy, my dear!” said the captain. Here was a situation! They were going to make a night of it! And Mr. Cymon Tuggs was pent up behind the curtain and afraid to breathe!

  “Slaughter,” said the captain, “a cigar?”

  Now, Mr. Cymon Tuggs never could smoke without feeling it indispensably necessary to retire, immediately, and never could smell sm
oke without a strong disposition to cough. The cigars were introduced; the captain was a professed smoker; so was the lieutenant; so was Joseph Tuggs. The apartment was small, the door was closed, the smoke powerful: it hung in heavy wreaths over the room, and at length found its way behind the curtain. Cymon Tuggs held his nose, his mouth, his breath. It was all of no use—out came the cough.

  “Bless my soul!” said the captain, “I beg your pardon, Miss Tuggs. You dislike smoking?”

  “Oh, no; I don't indeed,” said Charlotta.

  “It makes you cough.”

  “Oh dear no.”

  “You coughed just now.”

  “Me, Captain Waters! Lor! how can you say so?”

  “Somebody coughed,” said the captain.

  “I certainly thought so,” said Slaughter. No; everybody denied it.

  “Fancy,” said the captain.

  “Must be,” echoed Slaughter.

  Cigars resumed—more smoke—another cough—smothered, but violent.

  “Damned odd!” said the captain, staring about him.

  “Sing'ler!” ejaculated the unconscious Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

  Lieutenant Slaughter looked first at one person mysteriously, then at another: then, laid down his cigar, then approached the window on tiptoe, and pointed with his right thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the curtain.

  “Slaughter!” ejaculated the captain, rising from table, “what do you mean?”

  The lieutenant, in reply, drew back the curtain and discovered Mr. Cymon Tuggs behind it: pallid with apprehension, and blue with wanting to cough.

  “Aha!” exclaimed the captain, furiously. “What do I see? Slaughter, your sabre!”

  “Cymon!” screamed the Tuggses.

  “Mercy!” said Belinda.

  “Platonic!” gasped Cymon.

  “Your sabre!” roared the captain: “Slaughter—unhand me—the villain's life!”

  “Murder!” screamed the Tuggses.

  “Hold him fast, sir!” faintly articulated Cymon.

  “Water!” exclaimed Joseph Tuggs—and Mr. Cymon Tuggs and all the ladies forthwith fainted away, and formed a tableau.