STRANGE ADVENTURES OF ASCENA LUKINGLASSE.
(By Phil Uppes, Author of "An Out-of-Luck Young Man," "Jack and Jill went up the Hill," "The Bishop and his Grandmother," &c.)
Ascena's Narrative.
The story which I have to tell is more than strange. It is so terrible, so incredible, so entirely contrary to all that any ordinary reader of the London Journal or the "penny dreadfuls" has ever heard of, that even now I have some doubt in telling it. I happen, however, to know it is true, and so does my husband. My husband will come in presently with his narrative. There! that ought to make you curious. A very good commencement.
My early life was uneventful. I was a foundling. I was left with two old ladies (I fancy I may work them up some day into "character" sketches) by a perfect gentleman, who, after giving them £200, went away the next morning to Vienna for ever. He left with these two old ladies a little wardrobe full of clothes, but there was not a mark, nor so much as an initial, upon a single thing. They had all been cut out with a sharp pair of scissors.
This again ought to excite your curiosity. Bear it in mind. Mysterious parentage—no mother, no marks, and father gone to Vienna for ever.
The two old ladies kept a school, in which I first was a scholar, then a teacher. There I remained until I was seventeen, when I was tall and strong for my age, and looked more like three or four and twenty. One day one of the old ladies said to me—
"Now, my dear, I will tell you what we are going to do. We are going to sell the school, and buy a little cottage at Bognor. It doesn't face the sea, and just holds two. So, as we have considered you more or less our own daughter, we are going to kick you out. Now don't let's talk any more about it to-day, but tell us to-morrow at breakfast, like a dear good girl, that we are going to do what you wish."
"I shall tell you to-morrow," I answered, firmly. "I'll pretend to think the matter over with all my might and main, until to-morrow morning, and then give you an answer as solemnly weighed, and as carefully set out, as a Saturday afternoon essay."
So I was kicked out.
I became a governess in the household of Mrs. Cowstream. That household consisted of the master, whose manner was what old ladies in Lincolnshire call "rampageous," the children, who were, beyond doubt, hopelessly dull, and the mistress, who was colourless.
Nothing particularly happened save my dismissal (after receiving a salary of about a thousand to twelve-hundred a year) within six months. With about four-hundred pounds in hand I went to the Charing Cross Hotel.
I feel I am a little plot-less. So far: foundling, old ladies at Bognor, aimless engagement by Mrs. Cowstream and advertisement for the Charing Cross Hotel. All good in their way, but not quite enough. I want an incident. I have it.
Having untold gold, I thought I would buy some gloves in the Tottenham Court Road. I entered an omnibus, was much struck by an old woman who sat next me, bought the gloves, was arrested as a thief for passing false money and saved from penal servitude for life by old woman. Come, there's action for you! Still, I don't know why it is, but we don't seem to get much "forrader."
The old woman hurried me about from place to place feeding me simply on grapes and bonbons. For some reason I was not allowed to know where I was. I didn't want to, and not caring a brass-farthing for the selfish old ladies at Bognor, it mattered nothing to me whether they heard from me or not. After a time the old woman asked me to sign this with my blood.
"In consideration of seven pounds a week, I agree to sell my dreams between sunset and sunrise, the payment ceasing on my death, and my dreams, if any, immediately becoming only, and unconditionally my own."
I broke out laughing and signed it. Then the old woman said:—
"I am old enough to be your mother, and I am sure you know I feel kindly towards you. I am not entirely my own mistress—think well of me if you can."
Then placing by my side a little bottle of champagne, potted meats, Devonshire cream, and dainty biscuits of various kinds, she left me. The next day I was kicked out and carried in a carriage to Dawlish. I had a nice little dinner—tender beefsteak, new potatoes, asparagus and spinach, a bottle of sound port and a ripe stilton. After this, somehow or other, I had a restless night. I was tormented with strange dreams in which appeared a person whom I had never seen in my life. Certainly not that I can remember. He was an old man wearing an immense opal on his right-hand little finger. I had never seen such an opal before. The dream was confused, I can only give these facts about it.
Let's see how I am getting on. Mysterious parentage. School life. Old woman in omnibus, ghastly-comical agreement, heavy dinner and consequent nightmare. Is that all? No, I have forgotten the advertisement for the Charing Cross Hotel. All told, I can't say that there is much in my story. Must get on. More heavy dinners, more nightmares. Went to Brighton. Saw Doctor who said, "Your nerves are out of order, you are suffering from a malady called Incipient Detearia. What do you drink?"
"Nothing but port, maraschino, and champagne."
"Quite right. Persevere. I am going away for a fortnight. Continue your diet, and, when I return, I will come and see you again. By that time your malady will have reached an acute stage. By the way, do you ever eat?"
"Not as much as I drink. I sometimes have a plate of turtle soup, but chiefly as an excuse for a glass of punch."
"Quite so. Good day."
After this, my dreams became more and more confused, and I grew quite ill. Then I met a gentleman at the table d'hôte, called Captain Charles. He was most kind, asked me on board his yacht, and, when we had got to Dieppe, said,—
"Miss Ascena, I think we both understand each other. I am afraid I have done very wrong in kidnapping you. Well, now, I am going to put a question to you, straight and fair. When the yacht slipped anchor at Brighton, I had a marriage-licence in our names, in a morocco case in my pocket, upon which any clergyman on the Continent is bound to act. It's no Gretna-Green business, I can assure you."
"I'll talk about it this afternoon, if I am well enough," I said, holding on to a rope (it was very rough), and, feeling myself turning deadly pale.
"Are you married already?" he asked, with a something like a choking in his mouth.
"No, no, no," I cried. "I like you very much."
I got out of the general embarrassment by fainting away until I found myself in the Hotel Royal, Dieppe.
Again I pause to say that I fancy somehow I am making a mess of this story. To my list I have added an absolutely pointless and superfluous case of kidnapping, which would be unpleasant were it not ridiculous.
Well, the Doctor came, and said I was to have a large glass of port wine and a small glass of beef tea every ten minutes. This did me good. After a few hours of this treatment, feeling more communicative, I told Captain Charles all I have written here. I also explained to him my difficulty in carrying on my tale without a collaborateur.
He stooped over me, kissed me gently on the forehead, and said—
"Never mind, dearest. I will send for a curious old man from Strasburg, and have myself a shot at the story. Two pens are better than one."
I could only wonder how it would all end, and, vaguely hope for the best.
Captain Charles' Narrative.
My name is Albert Charles. I have a curious old friend who lives at Strasburg, called Outhouse. I am Charles, his friend. I wrote to Outhouse and told him Miss Lukinglasse's story—of course, in unscientific language. He replied, it was deeply interesting, and he would come to me at once. He arrived, and immediately performed the old "drop of ink trick," where, it will be remembered, a chap is made to describe what he sees in a little writing-fluid.
Then Outhouse turned to me with a strangely solemn face.
"We have got our finger," said he, "on the tarantula in his hole, the viper in his lair, the pieuvre in his cave. Such monsters should not be allowed to live."
I was bewildered. We made our way from Newhaven to Chislehurst. We called upon the old man with the opal, of whom we had so often talked. He trembled. Outhouse seemed to swell to twice his natural height. Then the old chap with the opal appeared to wither under his gaze. Then he changed to all manner of colours, and literally exploded. He went off with a feeble bang, like a cheap firework. Not waiting to pick up his pieces, we returned to Dieppe, collared the omnibus old woman (whom we found on the point of strangling Ascena), and got her sent to prison, where she very properly committed suicide to save us further embarrassment. After these preliminaries had been successfully accomplished, I am pleased to say that Ascena enjoyed peaceful dreams and sweet repose.
There now! I have cleared up things pretty well, and don't think it bad for a first attempt.
Ascena's Narrative.
I am married to Captain Charles, and Outhouse is to live with us for ever. This is pleasant. I am a little disappointed that circumstances over which I have no control should prevent me from telling you why I was a foundling, what was done with my juvenile wardrobe, why my father never returned from Vienna, what on earth became of my dreams when I sold them to somebody or other for a pound a day—in fact, what it is all about. You will say that I am a fraud, a mistake, an unconsidered trifle. You will be right. Mrs. Captain Charles is very stupid and commonplace. Alas! there has been a great falling off since the days of Ascena Lukinglasse!
