The more “particular” Mrs. Sandboys bad retired to the nearest “baths and washhouses,” convinced that nothing but a warm-bath could ever restore her to her pristine purity.
The less fastidious Cursty, however, as we said before, was hastening up the stairs, two at a time, with a jug of warm water in his hand, intent upon a good wash and effecting that physical impossibility of scrubbing the blackamoor white; for, so intensely sable with adhering coal-dust was the complexion of Mr. Sandboys, that, truth to say, the most experienced ethnologist would, at the first glance, have mistaken that gentleman for one of the Ethiopian tribe. The lady in white had descended the first flight of stairs, and was just preparing to turn the corner of the second, when the black gentleman darted sharply round, and bounced suddenly upon her.
The nervous Mrs. Quinine was in no way prepared for the sight of a “man of colour” in such a place or at such a time. Had even her own husband pounced so unexpectedly upon her, the shock would have been sufficient to have driven all the breath out of the body of so susceptible a lady; but to find herself, without the least preparation, face to face with “a black”—as Mr. Cursty Sandboys appeared to be—was more than the shattered state of her nerves was able to bear.
The lady no sooner set eyes upon the sable monster than she screamed like a railway engine on coming to some dark tunnel, and fainted off dead into the arms of the astonished and terrified Sandboys; and as the lifeless body of the invalid fell heavily against the wretched Cursty, the dusty, grimy, coaly garments of that gentleman left their deep black mark not only upon the white cambric robe but imprinted a large black patch upon the cheek of the poor unconscious Mrs. Quinine.
The industrious little artist who called that lady his wife was busy in his studio, transferring a brace of wild ducks to canvas, previous to their being cooked for his wife’s dinner, when he heard the piercing scream of his dear Blanche. With his palette still upon his thumb, and his wet paint-brush in his hand, he darted forth, and discovered his lady insensible, in the arms of a man who, at first sight, struck him as being nothing more refined than a London coal-heaver.
Guarding his face with his palette, like a shield, the little artist rushed at the amazed Sandboys, and began attacking him with his paint-brush, as with a broadsword, while every stroke he made at the wretched Cursty’s head, left a dab of paint upon his cheeks; so that by the time the indignant Quinine had broken the brush in his repeated blows, the complexion of Mr. Sandboys was as dark and many-coloured as that of a highly tattooed Indian chief.
In such a situation it was impossible for Cursty to defend himself; to have done as much he must have let the strange lady in white drop to the ground. His gallantry bore the vigorous attack of the enraged husband for some few minutes, but when the little painter had discarded the impotent weapons of his art, and Sandboys saw him about to belabour him with his fists, his Cumbrian blood could put up with it no longer. Cursty impulsively withdrew his arm from the lady’s waist, to throw himself into an attitude of self-defence; and, as he did so, the figure of the unconscious Mrs. Quinine fell heavily on the floor.
The fall had the effect of bringing the lady to her senses, when she immediately clung to the legs of the little artist so firmly as to prevent his continuing the attack. Then, as that gentleman stooped to raise his wife from the floor, and Sandboys advanced to explain and apologize for, the misadventure, the lady no sooner set eyes on the black face that had before deprived her of her senses, than she fell into a violent fit of hysterics, and made the whole house ring with her laughter.
The noise brought the hundred-and-one lodgers from their apartments to the stairs, and, from the top to the bottom, at every landing-place, was a bunch of heads “of all nations,”—bearded, whiskered, and moustachio’d,—some in turbans, others in Greek caps, fez-caps, and nightcaps—all enjoying the scene, and mightily taken with the piebald state of Mrs. Quinine’s face and robe-de-chambre, and the party-coloured character of Mr. Sandboy’s complexion.