MARGATE BY MOONLIGHT.
It is about nine P.M.; in the West, a faint saffron flush is lingering above the green and opal sea, while the upper part of the church tower still keeps the warm glow of sunset. The stars are beginning to appear, and a mellow half moon is rising in a deep violet sky. Lamps are twinkling above the dusky cliffs, and along the curve of the shore.
The Reader will kindly imagine himself on a seat at the end of the Pier, where the Sand is playing, and scraps of conversation from his neighbours and passing promenaders, reach his ear involuntarily.
Fair Promenader (roused to enthusiasm by the surroundings). Oh, don't it look lovely at night? (Impulsively.) I can't 'elp sayin' so.
Her Companion (whose emotions are less easily stirred). Why?
The Fair P. (apologetically). Oh, I don't know exactly—these sort o' scenes always do take my fancy.
Her Comp. (making a concession to her weakness). Well, I must say it's picturesque enough—what with the gas outside the 'All by the Sea, and the lamps on the whilk stalls.
First Girl (on seat—to Second). Here comes that young SPIFFING. I do hope he won't come bothering us! (Mr. S. gratifies her desire by promenading past in bland unconsciousness.) Well, I do call that cool! He must have seen us. Too grand to be seen talking to us here, I suppose!
Second Girl. I'm sure I wouldn't be seen talking to him, that's all! Why, he's on'y— [They pick him to pieces relentlessly.
First Girl. Take care—he's coming round again. Now we shall see. Mind you don't begin laughing, or else you'll set me off!
[As a natural consequence, Mr. S.'s approach excites them both to paroxysms of maidenly mirth.
Mr. S. (halting in front of them). You two seem 'ighly amused at something. What's the joke?
Second Girl (as the first is compelled to bury her face behind her friend's back). Don't you be too curious. I'll tell you this much—at your expense!
Mr. S. Oh, is it? Then you might let Me 'ave a a'porth!
First Girl. BELLA, if you tell him, I'll never speak to you again.
[As there is nothing particular to tell, Miss BELLA preserves the secret.
Mr. S. (reconnoitring his rear suspiciously). There's nothing pinned on to my coat-tails, is there? (Renewed mirth from the couple.) Well, I see you're occupied—so, good evenin'.
[Walks on, with offended dignity.
Second Girl. There! I knew how it would be—he's gone off in a huff now!
First Girl. Let him! He ought to know better than take offence at nothing. And such a ridic'lous little object as he's looking, too! What else can he expect, I'd like to know!... Don't you feel it chilly, sitting still?
Second Girl (rising with alacrity). I was just thinking. Suppose we take a turn—the other way round, or he might think—
First Girl. We'll show him others have their pride as well as him. [They disappear in the crowd.
Mr. Spiffing (repassing a few minutes later, with one of the young Ladies on each arm). Well, there, say no more about it—so long as it wasn't at Me, I don't mind! [They pass on.
A Wheezy Matron (in a shawl). She was a prettier byby in the fice than any o' the others—sech a lydylike byby she was—we never 'ad no bother with her! and never, as long as I live, shall I forgit her Grandpa's words when he saw her settin' up in her 'igh cheer at tea, with her little cheeks a marsk o' marmalade. "LOUISER JYNE," he sez, "you mark my words—she's the on'y reelly nice byby you ever 'ad, or will ave!"
Her Comp. An' he wasn't given to compliments in a general way, neither, was he?
Anxious Mother. I can't make him out. Sometimes I think he means something, and yet,—Every morning we've been here, he's come up to her on the Pier, and brought her a carnation inside of his 'at.
Her Confidante. Then depend upon it, my dear, he has intentions. I should say so, certingly!
The Mother. Ah, but CARRIE tells me she's dropped her glove, accidental-like, over and over again, and he's always picked it up,—and handed it back to her. I reelly don't know what to think!
The Confidante. Well, I wouldn't lose heart—with the moon drawin' on to the full, as it is!
A Seaside Siren (conscious of a dazzling complexion—to a suburban Ulysses). I wish I could get brown—I think it's so awfully becoming—but I never can!
Ulysses. Some people are like that. On'y turn red, you know, specially the nose—catches 'em there, y'know!
The Siren. I'm obliged to you, I'm sure! Is that meant to be personal?
Ulysses. Oh, I wasn't thinking of you when I said that.
The Siren. You're very complimentary. But do tell me—am I like that? (She presents her face for his inspection.) Candidly, now.
Ulysses (conscientiously). Well, I don't notice anything particular—but, you see, colours don't show up by moonlight.
[The Siren coldly intimates that her Mother will be waiting supper for them.
An Habitué. Some people will tell yer, now, that Margit's vulgar. They must be precious 'ard to please, that's all! I'm as partickler as what most are, and I can assure yer if there was anythink o' that sort about, I shouldn't come down 'ere reglar, season after season, like I do!
His Companion. In course not—and no more shouldn't I, neither!
Along the Esplanade.
Female Voice (from the recesses of a glazed shelter). But if you're on the sands all day, how is it I never see you?
Male Voice (mysteriously). Would you like to know? Really? You shall. (With pride.) I'm one of the Niggers!
Fem. V. (deeply impressed). Not "GUSSIE," or "Uncle ERNIE!"
Male V. (with proud superiority). Not exactly. I conduct, I do—on the 'armonium.
Fern. V. (rapturously). Oh! I 'ad a sort o' feeling, from the very first, that you must be Somebody!
A Lodging-House Keeper. Yes, nice people they was—I don't know when I've 'ad such nice people. I'll tell you what they did ... They come on a Thursday—yes, Thursday it was—and took the rooms from the Saturday followin' to the next Saturday—and then they stopped on to the Saturday after that. I do call that nice—don't you?
A Mystic Plaint (from a Bench). Many and many a time I've borrered the kittles for them when the School Inspector was comin'—and now for them to turn round on me like this! It's a shame, it is.
A Lady of Economical Principles (at a Bow-window, addressing her Husband at the railings). Why, my dear feller, why ever did you go and do that—when there was a bed empty 'ere for him?
The Husband (sulkily). No one ever said a word to me about there being a bed. And I've taken one for him now at the Paragon, anyway—so that's settled!
The Economical Lady. I call it downright foolishness to go paying 'alf-a-crown a night for a bed, when there's one all ready 'ere for him! And you don't know how long he may mean to stop, either!
The Self-invited Visitor (suddenly emerging from the shadow).—You'll be 'appy to know, Mum, that your 'ospitality will not exceed the 'alf-crown. Good evenin'. [Retires to the Paragon.
The Econ. L. (regretfully). And a lobster ordered in for supper a-purpose for him, too!
A Street Musician (with a portable piano). I will next attempt a love-song. I feel full of love to-night. Oh, Ladies and Gentlemen—(earnestly)—take advantage of a salubrious night like this! Anyone who has not yet contributed will kindly embrace this opportunity of placing his offering upon the instrument; after which I shall endeavour to sing you "In Old Madrid." Oh, what a difficult ditty it is, to be sure, dear Ladies and Gentlemen—especially as it makes the twenty-seventh I've sung since tea-time—however, I will do my best. (He sings it.) That will conclude my al-fresco Concert for this evening. And now, thanking you all for your generous patronage of my humble efforts, and again reminding those who have not yet expressed their appreciation in a pecuniary form, that I am now about to circulate with the hat for the last time, I wish you all farewell, and balmy slumbers!
[He collects the final coins, and wheels away the piano. The crowd disperses; the listeners in the lodging-house balconies retire; and the Crescent is silent and deserted.