Stories of Comedy

V >> Various >> Stories of Comedy

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13

"Perhaps you had given him the key?" suggested Sister Anne.

"It's never been out of my pocket. Here it is," cried the beadle; "I'll
have no more to do with it." And he flung down the ponderous key, amidst
another scream from Widow Bluebeard.

"At what hour did you see him?" gasped she.

"At twelve o'clock, of course."

"It must have been at that very hour," said she, "I heard the voice."

"What voice?" said Anne.

"A voice that called, 'Fatima! Fatima! Fatima!' three times, as plain as
ever voice did."

"It didn't speak to me," said the beadle; "it only nodded its head, and
wagged its head and beard."

"W--w--was it a _bl--ue beard_?" said the widow.

"Powder-blue, ma'am, as I've a soul to save!"

Dr. Drench was of course instantly sent for. But what are the
medicaments of the apothecary in a case where the grave gives up its
dead? Dr. Sly arrived, and he offered ghostly--ah! too
ghostly--consolation. He said he believed in them. His own grandmother
had appeared to his grandfather several times before he married again.
He could not doubt that supernatural agencies were possible, even
frequent.

"Suppose he were to appear to me alone," ejaculated the widow, "I should
die of fright."

The doctor looked particularly arch. "The best way in these cases, my
dear madam," said he, "the best way for unprotected ladies is to get a
husband. I never heard of a first husband's ghost appearing to a woman
and her second husband in my life. In all history there is no account of
one."

"Ah! why should I be afraid of seeing my Bluebeard again?" said the
widow; and the doctor retired quite pleased, for the lady was evidently
thinking of a second husband.

"The captain would be a better protector for me certainly than Mr. Sly,"
thought the lady, with a sigh; "but Mr. Sly will certainly kill himself,
and will the captain be a match for two ghosts? Sly will kill himself;
but ah! the captain won't." And the widow thought with pangs of bitter
mortification of Dolly Coddlins. How--how should these distracting
circumstances be brought to an end?

She retired to rest that night not without a tremor,--to bed, but not to
sleep. At midnight a voice was heard in her room, crying, "Fatima!
Fatima! Fatima!" in awful accents. The doors banged to and fro, the
bells began to ring, the maids went up and down stairs skurrying and
screaming, and gave warning in a body. John Thomas, as pale as death,
declared that he found Bluebeard's yeomanry sword, that hung in the
hall, drawn, and on the ground; and the sticking-plaster miniature in
Mr. Bluebeard's bedroom was found turned topsy-turvy!

"It is some trick," said the obstinate and incredulous Sister Anne.
"To-night I will come and sleep with you, sister." And the night came,
and the two sisters retired together.

'Twas a wild night. The wind howling without went crashing through the
old trees of the old rookery round about the old church. The long
bedroom windows went thump thumping; the moon could be seen through them
lighting up the graves with their ghastly shadows; the yew-tree, cut
into the shape of a bird, looked particularly dreadful, and bent and
swayed as if it would peck something off that other yew-tree which was
of the shape of a dumb-waiter. The bells at midnight began to ring as
usual, the doors clapped, jingle--jingle down came a suit of armor in
the hall, and a voice came and cried, "Fatima! Fatima! Fatima! look,
look, look; the tomb, the tomb, the tomb!"

She looked. The vault door was open, and there in the moonlight stood
Bluebeard, exactly as he was represented in the picture, in his yeomanry
dress, his face frightfully pale, and his great blue beard curling over
his chest, as awful as Mr. Muntz's.

Sister Anne saw the vision as well as Fatima. We shall spare the account
of their terrors and screams. Strange to say, John Thomas, who slept in
the attic above his mistress's bedroom, declared he was on the watch all
night, and had seen nothing in the churchyard, and heard no sort of
voices in the house.

And now the question came, What could the ghost want by appearing? "Is
there anything," exclaimed the unhappy and perplexed Fatima, "that he
would have me do? It is well to say 'now, now, now,' and to show
himself; but what is it that makes my blessed husband so uneasy in his
grave?" And all parties consulted agreed that it was a very sensible
question.

John Thomas, the footman, whose excessive terror at the appearance of
the ghost had procured him his mistress's confidence, advised Mr. Screw,
the butler, who communicated with Mrs. Baggs, the housekeeper, who
condescended to impart her observations to Mrs. Bustle, the
lady's-maid,--John Thomas, I say, decidedly advised that my lady should
consult a cunning man. There was such a man in town; he had prophesied
who should marry his (John Thomas's) cousin; he had cured Farmer Horn's
cattle, which were evidently bewitched; he could raise ghosts, and make
them speak, and he therefore was the very person to be consulted in the
present juncture.

"What nonsense is this you have been talking to the maids, John Thomas,
about the conjurer who lives in--in--"

"In Hangman's Lane, ma'am, where the gibbet used to stand," replied
John, who was bringing in the muffins. "It's no nonsense, my lady. Every
word as that man says comes true, and he knows everything."

"I desire you will not frighten the girls in the servants' hall with any
of those silly stories," said the widow; and the meaning of this speech
may, of course, at once be guessed. It was that the widow meant to
consult the conjurer that very night. Sister Anne said that she would
never, under such circumstances, desert her dear Fatima. John Thomas was
summoned to attend the ladies with a dark lantern, and forth they set on
their perilous visit to the conjurer at his dreadful abode in Hangman's
Lane.

* * * * *

What took place at that frightful interview has never been entirely
known. But there was no disturbance in the house on the night after. The
bells slept quite quietly, the doors did not bang in the least, twelve
o'clock struck, and no ghost appeared in the churchyard, and the whole
family had a quiet night. The widow attributed this to a sprig of
rosemary which the wizard gave her, and a horseshoe which she flung into
the garden round the family vault, and which would keep _any_ ghost
quiet.

It happened the next day, that, going to her milliner's, Sister Anne met
a gentleman who has been before mentioned in this story, Ensign Trippet
by name; and, indeed, if the truth must be known, it somehow happened
that she met the ensign somewhere every day of the week.

"What news of the ghost, my dearest Miss Shacabac?" said he (you may
guess on what terms the two young people were by the manner in which Mr.
Trippet addressed the lady); "has Bluebeard's ghost frightened your
sister into any more fits, or set the bells a-ringing?"

Sister Anne, with a very grave air, told him that he must not joke on so
awful a subject, that the ghost had been laid for a while, that a
cunning man had told her sister things so wonderful that _any_ man must
believe in them; that among other things, he had shown to Fatima her
future husband.

"Had," said the ensign, "he black whiskers and a red coat?"

"No," answered Anne, with a sigh, "he had red whiskers and a black
coat."

"It can't be that rascal Sly!" cried the ensign. But Anne only sighed
more deeply and would not answer yes or no. "You may tell the poor
captain," she said, "there is no hope for him, and all he has left is to
hang himself."

"He shall cut the throat of Sly first, though," replied Mr. Trippet,
fiercely. But Anne said things were not decided as yet. Fatima was
exceedingly restive, and unwilling to acquiesce in the idea of being
married to Mr. Sly; she had asked for further authority. The wizard said
he could bring her own husband from the grave to point out her second
bridegroom, who shall be, can be, must be, no other than Frederick Sly.

"It is a trick," said the ensign; but Anne was too much frightened by
the preceding evening's occurrences to say so. "To-night," she said,
"the grave will tell all." And she left Ensign Trippet in a very solemn
and affecting way.

* * * * *

At midnight, three figures were seen to issue from Widow Bluebeard's
house, and pass through the churchyard turnstile, and so away among the
graves.

"To call up a ghost is bad enough," said the wizard; "to make him speak
is awful. I recommend you, ma'am, to beware, for such curiosity has been
fatal to many. There was one Arabian necromancer of my acquaintance who
tried to make a ghost speak, and was torn in pieces on the spot. There
was another person who _did_ hear a ghost speak certainly, but came away
from the interview deaf and dumb. There was another--"

"Never mind," says Mrs. Bluebeard, all her old curiosity aroused, "see
him and hear him I will. Haven't I seen him and heard him, too, already?
When he's audible _and_ visible, _then_'s the time."

"But when you heard him," said the necromancer, "he was invisible, and
when you saw him he was inaudible; so make up your mind what you will
ask him, for ghosts will stand no shilly-shallying. I knew a stuttering
man who was flung down by a ghost, and--"

"I _have_ made up my mind," said Fatima, interrupting him.

"To ask him what husband you shall take," whispered Anne.

Fatima only turned red, and Sister Anne squeezed her hand; they passed
into the graveyard in silence.

There was no moon; the night was pitch dark. They threaded their way
through the graves, stumbling over them here and there. An owl was
toowhooing from the church tower, a dog was howling somewhere, a cock
began to crow, as they will sometimes at twelve o'clock at night.

"Make haste," said the wizard. "Decide whether you will go on or not."

"Let us go back, sister," said Anne.

"I _will_ go on," said Fatima. "I should die if I gave it up, I feel I
should."

"Here's the gate; kneel down," said the wizard. The women knelt down.

"Will you see your first husband or your second husband?"

"I will see Bluebeard first," said the widow; "I shall know then
whether this be a mockery, or you have the power you pretend to."

At this the wizard uttered an incantation, so frightful, and of such
incomprehensible words, that it is impossible for any mortal man to
repeat them. And at the end of what seemed to be a versicle of his chant
he called Bluebeard. There was no noise but the moaning of the wind in
the trees, and the toowhooing of the owl in the tower.

At the end of the second verse he paused again, and called _Bluebeard_.
The cock began to crow, the dog began to howl, a watchman in the town
began to cry out the hour, and there came from the vault within a hollow
groan, and a dreadful voice said, "Who wants me?"

Kneeling in front of the tomb, the necromancer began the third verse. As
he spoke, the former phenomena were still to be remarked. As he
continued, a number of ghosts rose from their graves, and advanced round
the kneeling figures in a circle. As he concluded, with a loud bang the
door of the vault flew open, and there in blue light stood Bluebeard in
his blue uniform, waving his blue sword, and flashing his blue eyes
round about!

"Speak now, or you are lost," said the necromancer, to Fatima. But, for
the first time in her life, she had not a word to say. Sister Anne, too,
was dumb with terror. And, as the awful figure advanced towards them as
they were kneeling, the sister thought all was over with them, and
Fatima once more had occasion to repent her fatal curiosity.

The figure advanced, saying, in dreadful accents, "Fatima! Fatima!
Fatima! wherefore am I called from my grave?" when all of a sudden down
dropped his sword, down the ghost of Bluebeard went on his knees, and,
clasping his hands together, roared out, "Murder, mercy!" as loud as man
could roar.

_Six other ghosts_ stood round the kneeling group. "Why do you call me
from the tomb?" said the first; "Who dares disturb my grave?" said the
second; "Seize him and away with him!" cried the third. "Murder, mercy!"
still roared the ghost of Bluebeard, as the white-robed spirits advanced
and caught hold of him.

"It's only Tom Trippet," said a voice at Anne's ear.

"And your very humble servant," said a voice well known to Mrs.
Bluebeard; and they helped the ladies to rise, while the other ghosts
seized Bluebeard. The necromancer took to his heels and got off; he was
found to be no other than Mr. Claptrap, the manager of the theatre.

It was some time before the ghost of Bluebeard could recover from the
fainting-fit into which he had been plunged when seized by the
opposition ghosts in white; and while they were ducking him at the pump
his blue beard came off, and he was discovered to be--who do you think?
Why, Mr. Sly, to be sure; and it appears that John Thomas, the footman,
had lent him the uniform, and had clapped the doors, and rung the bells,
and spoken down the chimney; and it was Mr. Claptrap who gave Mr. Sly
the blue fire and the theatre gong; and he went to London next morning
by the coach; and, as it was discovered that the story concerning Miss
Coddlins was a shameful calumny, why, of course, the widow married
Captain Blackbeard. Dr. Sly married them, and has always declared that
he knew nothing of his nephew's doings, and wondered that he has not
tried to commit suicide since his last disappointment.

Mr. and Mrs. Trippet are likewise living happily together, and this, I
am given to understand, is the ultimate fate of a family in whom we were
all very much interested in early life.

You will say that the story is not probable. Pshaw! Isn't it written in
a book? and is it a whit less probable than the first part of the tale?

THE PICNIC PARTY.

BY HORACE SMITH.

To give a picnic party a fair chance of success, it must be almost
impromptu: projected at twelve o'clock at night at the earliest,
executed at twelve o'clock on the following day at the latest; and even
then the odds are fearfully against it. The climate of England is not
remarkable for knowing its own mind; nor is the weather "so fixed in its
resolve" but that a bright August moon, suspended in a clear sky, may be
lady-usher to a morn of fog, sleet, and drizzle. Then, again,--but this
being tender ground, we will only hint at the possibility of such a
change,--a lady of the intended party might quit the drawing-room at
night in the sweetest humor imaginable, and make her appearance at
breakfast in a less amiable mood, or, perhaps, "prefer taking breakfast
in her own room,"--from which notice husbands sometimes infer that such
a change has taken place.

Mr. Claudius Bagshaw, a retired silk mercer, in the vicinity of London,
determined, notwithstanding all these arguments, to have a picnic party
on the 24th of August, his wedding-day. On the 3d of July, Mr. Claudius
Bagshaw, after eating his breakfast and reading the Morning Post, looked
out of his parlor window to watch the horticultural pursuits of his
better part. Mr. Bagshaw had become a member of one of the
"march-of-intellect-societies," and was confident that the picnic would
turn out a very pleasant thing.

"How fortunate we shall be, dear," said Mr. Bagshaw, "how happy we shall
be, if the weather should be as fine on our wedding-day as it is now."

"True, love," replied Mrs. Bagshaw; "but this is only the 3d of July,
and, as the anniversary of our happy day is the 24th of August, the
weather _may_ change."

This proposition Mr. Bagshaw did not attempt to deny.

The Bagshaws were the happiest couple in the world. Being blessed with
the negative blessing of no offspring, the stream of their affections
was not diverted into little channels, but ebbed and flowed in one
uninterrupted tide reciprocally from bosom to bosom. They never
disputed, they never quarrelled. Yes, they did sometimes, but then it
was from a mutual over-anxiety to please. Each was afraid to pronounce a
choice, or a preference, lest it might be disagreeable to the other; and
hence there occasionally did arise little bickerings, and tiffings, and
miffings, which were quite as unpleasant in their effects, and sometimes
as difficult to settle, as quarrels originating in less amiable causes.

"But," said Mr. Bagshaw, referring to the barometer, "the instrument for
indicating the present state and probable changes of the weather still
maintains its elevation, and I tell you what, dear, if the weather
should be _preposterous_ on the 24th of August, suppose, instead of
going into the north, as we did last year, we migrate into Kent or
Surrey? Instead of dining at Hampstead, as we did last year, shall we go
to Greenwich, or to Putney, and eat little fishes?"

"Whichever you like, love," was the lady's answer to the so-intended
question.

"But I put it to your choice, dear."

"Either--or neither--please yourself, love, and you are sure you will
please me."

"Pshaw! but it is for the gratification of your--or, more properly
speaking, for your gratification. I submit to you an alternative for the
purpose of election; and you know, Jane, I repudiate indifference, even
as concerning or applying to trifles."

"You know, Claudius, we have but one wish, and that is to please each
other; so do you decide."

"But, Mrs. Bagshaw, I must promulgate a request that--having, as I have,
no desire but to please you--you will--"

"How, sir! would you force me to choose, when I am so obedient as to
choose that you should have the choice entirely your own way? This
treatment of me is monstrous!"

And here Mrs. Bagshaw did what is usual and proper for ladies to do on
such occasions,--she burst into tears.

"Why, then, madam, to use a strong expression, I must say that--"

But a loud rap at the street-door prevented the utterance of an
"expression," the force of which would doubtless have humbled Mrs.
Claudius Bagshaw down to the very dust.

"Claudius," said the lady, hastily drying her eyes, "that is Uncle
John's knock. We'll go to Gre--Put--Greenwich, love."

"That's well, dear; and be assured, love, that nothing is so adverse to
the constitution of what Locke emphatically calls the human mind,
philosophically considered, as to persevere in that state of indecision
which--that--whereof--but we will not go to either; Uncle John shall
select the locality."

Uncle John was a bachelor of fifty-five, possessing twelve thousand
pounds, a strong disinclination to part with any of them, a good heart,
and a bad temper.

"Good morning t' ye, good folks; as usual, I perceive, billing and
cooing."

The Bagshaws had by this time got together in a corner of the garden,
and were lovingly occupied in trimming the same pot of sweet peas.

"Quite the contrary, Uncle John," said Mrs. Bagshaw. "Claudius and I
have just had one of our most desperate quarrels."

And here the happy pair giggled, and exchanged looks which were meant to
imply that _their_ most desperate quarrels were mere kitten's play; and
that Uncle John did so interpret them, he made manifest by a knowing
shake of his forefinger.

"The fact is, sir, Jane and I talk of commemorating the annual
recurrence of the anniversary of our wedding-day, at some place a
_leetle_ farther in the country; but our minds are in a perfect vacuum
concerning the identity of the spot. Now, sir, will you reduce the place
to a mathematical certainty, and be one of the party?"

"Why--um--no; these things are expensive; we come home at night with a
guinea apiece less in our pockets, and I don't see the good of that."

"I have it!" cried Bagshaw; "we'll make it a picnic; that _won't_ be
expensive."

"Then I'm with you, Bagshaw, with all my heart,--and it shall be _al
fresco_."

"There or anywhere else you please, sir," gravely replied the learned
member of the universal-knowledge-warehouse.

"Uncle John means in the open air, Claudius; that _will_ be delightful."

"Charming!" rejoined Bagshaw.

It may be inquired why Uncle John, who objected to the disbursement of a
guinea for a day's pleasure, should so readily have yielded at the
suggestion of a picnic. Uncle John possessed a neat little morocco
pocket-case, containing a dozen silver spoons, and silver-handled knives
and forks, and although we are told that these implements are of later
invention than fingers, there is, nevertheless, a very general bias in
their favor, for the purpose to which they are applied. Now, Uncle John
being aware of the prevalence of their employment, it was for this
reason he never objected to make one of a picnic party; for, whilst
others contributed chickens, pigeon-pies, or wines,--it being the
principle of such parties that each member should furnish something to
the feast,--Uncle John invariably contributed the use of his knives,
forks, and spoons.

The whole morning was spent in debating on who should be invited to
partake of this "pleasantest thing that ever was," and examining into
their several pretensions, and their powers of contributing to the
amusements of the day; when, at length, the honor of nomination was
conferred upon the persons following, and for the reasons assigned:--

Sir Thomas and Lady Grouts--because of their title, which would give an
air to the thing--(Sir Thomas, formerly a corn-chandler, having been
knighted for carrying up an address in the late reign). Miss Euphemia
Grouts, daughter No. 1--who would bring her guitar. Miss Corinna Grouts,
ditto No. 2--because she would sing.

Mr. and Mrs. Snodgrass--Mr. Snodgrass being vice-president of the grand
junction march-of-intellect society. Mr. Frederick Snodgrass, their son
(lately called to the chancery bar), who would bring his flute.

Messrs. Wrench and son (eminent dentists). The father to be invited
because he was charming company, and the son, a dead bore, because the
father would be offended if he were not. And, lastly,

Miss Snubbleston, a rich maiden lady of forty-four, for no other earthly
qualification whatever than her carriage, which (to use Bagshaw's words)
would carry herself and _us three_, and also transplant a large portion
of the provender to the place of rendezvous.

Bagshaw having made out a fair copy of this list, somewhat in the shape
of a bill of parcels, this, the first step towards the "pleasantest
thing that ever was," was taken with entire satisfaction.

"Why, Bagshaw," exclaimed Uncle John, who had cast up the numbers,
"including our three selves, we shall be thirteen!"

The member of the institution perceived the cause of his alarm! but
having been lectured out of _prejudices_ respecting matters of greater
moment than this, he prepared a look of ineffable contempt as his only
reply; however, happening to think of Uncle John's twelve thousand
pounds, he suppressed it, and just contented himself with,

"And what then, sir?"

"Why, _then_, sir, that is a risk I won't run; and unless we can manage
to--I have it! the very man. How came we to forget him?
_The--very--man!_ You know Jack Richards?"

The last four words were delivered in a tone implying the utter
impossibility of any human creature being unacquainted with Jack
Richards.

"Not in the least, sir. I never heard of him."

"What! never heard of Ja--The thing is impossible; everybody knows Jack
Richards. The very thing for us; such a wit! such a wag!--he is the life
and soul of everything. Should he be unengaged for the 24th of August.
But he is so caught up! I was invited to meet him at dinner last Sunday
at Jones's, but he didn't come. Such a disappointment to us! However, I
shall meet him on Thursday at the Tims's, if he should but keep his
promise, and then--"

"But, uncle," said Mrs. Bagshaw, "hadn't you better send him an
invitation at once?"

"I'll do better still, my dear; I'll call at his lodgings, and if I find
him hanging loose, I'll bring him to dine with you to-day." Then,
turning to Bagshaw, he added, "That a man like _you_ shouldn't know Jack
Richards, is surprising!"

As this was evidently pointed at Mr. Claudius Bagshaw in his capacity of
member of a learned body, Bagshaw pursed up his mouth into a
mock-modesty smile, and slightly bowed. Off went Uncle John in quest of
Jack Richards; and, that the pleasantest thing in the world might not
suffer by delay, off went Mr. Bagshaw to apprize the Snodgrasses, the
Groutses, and the rest of the nominees; and, more important still, off
went the lady to the poulterer's, to inquire whether he was likely to
have any nice pigeons for a pie, about the twenty-third of next month.
The dinner-hour arrived, and so did Uncle John, but with a face of
unspeakable woe.

"I feared how it would be."

"What! can't he be with us on the 24th?" inquired both the Bagshaws at
the same instant.

"He will if he can; but he won't promise. But to-day!--However, it
serves us right; we were unwise to indulge a hope of his coming at so
short a notice. He has almost engaged himself to you for Sunday
fortnight, though. What a creature it is!--he has given me such a pain
in my side!"

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13