SOME NOTES AT STARMOUTH.
I must say they take rather a matter of course view here of my engagement. No one would suppose from their manner that there was anything at all unusual in a match between a Government official and a confectioner's assistant! Louise's Aunt, indeed, (whether sincerely, or from motives of policy, I hardly know,) does not conceal her regret that a certain Robert Ponking had not "spoken out" while he had the opportunity. Ponking is a rising salesman in the trimming department of some upholstering business, and doing, I understand, extremely well. Still, I do flatter myself—but one can't say these things, unfortunately!
A Cutter making for the Peer Head.
An encounter—which, but for Louise's exquisite common sense, might have been awkward—has just taken place. We met Ponking on the Pier. It struck me that the Aunt's surprise was a little overdone, but he was evidently unprepared for me. Louise perfectly composed, however; introduced me as "her intended" (a trifle bourgeois this, perhaps, but it is difficult to know what to say—I felt it myself.) Ponking allowed her to see he was fearfully cut up, and I am afraid she is reproaching herself a little, poor girl!
We have met him again; he has reached the saturnine and Byronic stage; Louise remonstrated with him for smoking so many cigars, which she was sure were bad for him (his cigars are bad for everybody else at all events!) and he replied gloomily that there was no one to care now what he did, and oversmoking was as pleasant a way of leaving the world as most. I can see this is depressing Louise; she is not nearly so bright when alone with me as she used to be—she does not even take much interest in my Drama! I do my best to comfort her by declaring that Ponking is only "posing," and has not the remotest idea of dying for love; but that only seems to irritate her—she has such a tender little heart.
As we are constantly meeting him about, I appeal to him privately to brighten up a little. He is much affected, says I must make some allowance for his position, and implores me not to forbid him Louise's society altogether. He will make an effort to be gayer in the future, he promises me, the mask shall only be dropped in private. After all, he is Alf's friend, and an especial favourite of the Aunt's. If he does not recognise the propriety of going, I can't send him away—we must see something of him. I should be sorry for him myself—if only he were not such an underbred beast!
"Thou counterfeit'st a bark."
Shakspeare.
There is certainly a decided alteration in Ponking; he now affects the most rollicking high spirits—though why he should find it necessary to dissemble his grief by playing the fool all over the sands is more than I can understand. But he grinds piano-organs, and goes round with the tambourine; receives penny galvanic shocks, and howls until he collects a crowd; has "larks" with the lovebirds which pick out fortunes, and chaffs all the Professors of Phrenology, choosing, as the head-quarters of his exploits, any place where Louise and I happen to be, to whom he returns, with roars of laughter, to tell us his "latest." Then he plays practical jokes on me, chalking things on my back, and putting sand down my neck. It is all very well for him to plead that he does these things "to hide an aching heart,"—but if he hides it in this way, he won't be able to find it again—that's all! I can see, too, it disgusts Louise, who bites her lips a good deal, although, she says, it is "quite a treat to see how Mr. Ponking is enjoying himself." I am afraid, for all that, that she thinks me a little too serious. Perhaps I am—I must prove to her that it is possible to rollick with refinement. But, somehow, I can never make her laugh as Ponking does.
I very seldom have a quiet hour with her now; her brother has persuaded her that she ought "to see more of what's going on," and "do as others do." Her wishes, are, of course, paramount with me—although I cannot see the enjoyment of going to the open-air Music-Hall quite so often, nor did I come here to play "penny nap," on the sands all the afternoon. If, too, Louise must speculate, she might "go nap" with more judgment, and I do strongly object to the ostentatious generosity with which Ponking throws away his best cards, rather than rob her of a trick—it is in the worst taste, and yet I fear she is touched by it. In the evening several of us promenade the town arm in arm; Ponking has a banjo and Alf an accordion. Louise begs me to go, to see that Alf does not get into trouble—which may be necessary enough, but who will see that I get into none?
It is unpleasant to be warned by a policeman not to make so much noise over the "Soy, oh, what Joy," ditty, and I don't know why he singled me out—I was only humming the confounded thing! They generally come in and have supper with me, which Mrs. Surge complains bitterly about; she says the gentlemen stay so late, and are so noisy, and her room smells of smoke so next day. I am aware of that, because I have to sit in it. I don't like Ponking at any time, but, if possible, he is rather more detestable in his sentimental moods, which generally come upon him after supper, when he informs me that the 'alo has departed from his life, and begs me, in broken accents, to allow Louise to visit his tomb occasionally. If he were only there!
"Uneven is the course.
I like it not!"—Shakspeare.
To-day Louise appeared, for the first time, in a striped yachting-cap. I merely hinted, very gently, that, as she had never been on board a yacht in her life, and the cap did not even suit her, I preferred her ordinary style of head-dress, when she grew angry at once. Everybody, she informed me, was not of my opinion—Mr. Ponking had complimented her particularly—hang Ponking!
I find myself constantly greeting and being greeted by Blazers. I am sure I don't know how I have come to be acquainted with so many—they all ask me "How is myself," and, in answer to my polite, but scarcely warm, inquiries after their health, reply that they are "ter-rific"—which they are! Ponking was asked by Louise the other afternoon whether he was "ready for his tea;" and answered briefly, but emphatically, "Wait till I get 'old of it!" Louise remarked afterwards that he was "so quick." I doubt very much whether she would say as much of me. I am as fond of her as ever—in some respects, fonder—but I cannot help noticing these things—I cannot help seeing that Starmouth is not doing her any good.
Afternoon: on the Sands.—Louise and Alf have been scooping a pit. When it is dug, she says coquettishly that there is just room for me. I decline, a little curtly perhaps—but I really am surprised at Louise—such extremely bad style! Her Aunt, who is eating plums hard-by, says "some people seem to think themselves too grand for anything." I can hear Alf whispering that Louise would not have to ask "poor old Ponk" twice.
Louise says, pouting, that she shall not ask me again. I can see I have hurt her feelings. After all, it is possible to be too particular—there is no harm in it—countless couples around us are making themselves at least equally conspicuous. Somehow I never can be as firm with Louise as I am with most people.... I ought to be comfortable, with her head resting upon my shoulder and my arm encircling her waist (she insists on this)—but, as a matter of fact, I catch myself remarking how very much Louise has caught the sun of late. And she has developed quite a twang within the last few days!
Coming with a Rush!
Ponking has just come up; he has arranged with a photographer to take us all, just as we are, in a group. As Ponking and Alf consider it humorous to be taken in the act of making horrible grimaces, we promptly become objects of general interest. I should not like to be seen by any of the fellows at the office just now.
We are all posed—and a nice picture we shall make!—when, on the outskirts of the crowd, I see a slender stately figure, which does not seem quite to belong to Starmouth.
There is actually a sort of resemblance—but that is absurd! She notices the crowd, and as she pauses with a half-indifferent curiosity, I see her full face.... It is almost too terrible to be true—but I am under no delusion,—it is Ethel Dering!
"Quite steady all, for one moment, please," says the photographer. If I could only bury my head in the sand like an ostrich,—but that would excite remark, I suppose, and, besides, there is no time!