part I shall ever protest that those who have eyes to see, let them see,

and people who accuse us of wasting our time forget how persistently

they look for the arrival of the carrier."

Whether or not Major Tarry and Mr. Moon understood this remark of Mrs.

Courteen's, they certainly both agreed with her.

"To-day is Session day," muttered the Justice rather gloomily.

"Well, sir, the magistrates will do their business without you," snapped

his rival.

"Not unlikely, sir, not unlikely."

"Well, sir, what the deuce are you grumbling at?"

Mr. Moon replied that he was not grumbling, he was merely commenting;

and the two gentlemen bickered on across placid Mrs. Courteen like two

children over a hedge.

Meanwhile on the farther side of the Course, as the broad path round the

Pump Room was called, Mr. Vernon was still keeping step with Phyllida

and Betty, but so delicately did the former tread and so far aloof did

he appear that no one suspected him of anything so low as ogling pretty

Miss Courteen or her maid. Sometimes he would murmur "When will my

charmer be there?" and every time he asked this question, the charmer

would send a rippling little laugh into her swansdown muff, and flash a

glance over the top towards Betty who would toss her head and imply that

such curiosity was worth a long-delayed gratification.

At last Mr. Vernon would take out his laced handkerchief and flick

presumably at a ghostly Despair. Phyllida would be prodigiously afraid

that her dear Amor (by that name only did she know her lover) was

growing unhappy at her hard-hearted treatment and, feeling she had

tormented his patience long enough, would gently shake her muff until a

piece of paper fluttered slowly to the ground. Mr. Vernon would stoop

with indescribable grace and distinction of manner, and while Miss

Courteen looked very demure indeed and quite innocent of anything or

anybody in the world, he would put the piece of paper in his

handkerchief and press the handkerchief to his lips and look round the

corner of his eyes at Phyllida, who would just by chance be looking

round the corner of her eyes to ascertain if her Mamma were beckoning to

her. And this used to happen every fine morning during the promenade,

and continued to happen for many days afterwards.

Half-past nine o'clock struck, and the promenaders all turned on their

heels to hear Mr. Ripple divulge the gaiety of the day.

It is not to be supposed that Curtain Wells was careless of her

pilgrims' pleasure. On the contrary every hour of their visit was

wreathed in delightful possibilities of enjoyment. At present it was

Winter so that naturally most of the entertainments occurred indoors,

but in late Spring and Summer a series of Fetes Champetres and Fetes

Aqueuses, of moonlight Concertos, harlequin Ridottos, and lantern

Masquerades made Curtain Wells a tolerably attractive stage for the

marionettes who postured and declaimed upon its boards.

There was much tiptoe attention for the Beau as he ascended a marble

pedestal and slowly turned the pages of a notebook bound in tooled

Morocco leather, gilt-edged, and of impeccable finish and design.

"My Lords," Mr. Ripple began, whereupon old Lord Vanity, blinking

several times at his daughter Lady Jane Vane, took an extra large pinch

of Rappee.

"My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, I have the extreme honour to inform you

that the Publick Breakfast given to Sir Jeremy Dummer for the purpose of

commemorating his twenty-first consecutive winter at Curtain Wells will

be held (_Deo volente_) at the Town Hall to-morrow the fifteenth

instant."

A murmur of delighted anticipation ran round the Exquisite Mob while Sir

Jeremy Dummer who was verging on nonagenarian antiquity drew himself up

very erect, quivering and doddering with senile pride. "There will be

the usual loyal and personal toasts," continued the Beau, "and at the

conclusion of the entertainment the Company will adjourn to the Civic

Chamber, where I hope the ladies will be already arrived, in order to

partake of a dish of tea. I may add that the tea, duty paid, has been

generously presented by Mr. Hopkins of the High Street, well known to

many of you as the incomparable provider of the rarer dried delicacies

which have traced prodigal patterns over so many of your mahogany

tables."

The Exquisite Mob murmured its gratitude for the tea and the compliment

with much condescension and affableness, while the publick spirit of the

tradesman was generally extolled.

"To-night at precisely half-past six o'clock, Mrs. Dudding's

Conversazione. Quadrille tables for ninety-six players, Pope Joan for

the young and sprightly and--ahem--a Pharaoh table in order that our

gentlemen, Mrs. Dudding informs me, may have no valid excuse for

absenting themselves on the score of dullness. Chairs at precisely

half-past ten o'clock and I must request you, my lords, ladies and

gentlemen, to warn your chairmen that quarterstaff play with the poles

will be visited with your acutest displeasure. I am sorry to complain of

an abuse on a morning when the prospect of Nature is so vastly pleasant,

but last week the whooping and halloaing of the partizans caused me to

place Basto upon the Ponto of my Vis a Vis."

The Exquisite Mob sighed in sympathetick consternation as, with a

perceptible break in his voice, Mr. Ripple made this confession.

"And since I am temporarily launched upon unpleasant topicks, I must beg

for earlier and less riotous hours at the _Blue Boar_. It is exceedingly

ungenteel to throw quart bottles of Burgundy at the watch. The latter is

a fine body of men devoted to the service of an orderly and decent

society, and does not deserve a crown of plaisters as the result of

publishing the hour of the night and the state of the weather. However,

I will mention no names, gentlemen."

Lord Vanity, not feeling himself included in the last vocative, took a

pinch of Rappee and gazed very fiercely at my Lady Bunbutter through the

rheum and water of his ancient eyes. As her ladyship showed no signs of

a guilty conscience, the Earl took a second pinch and muttered "devilish

young cubs" under his breath.

"On Sunday," the Beau resumed with his old suavity of enunciation, "the

waters will not be drunk until the fulfilment of Divine Service. On

Monday the usual Assembly will be held, and a Cotillon will be danced at

twelve o'clock precisely. Chairs at half-past twelve o'clock precisely.

And now, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, nothing remains for me but to

wish you a vastly enjoyable breakfast, a happy issue from your divers

infirmities and a very good morning."

This benediction was the recognized sign of dismissal; the Beau

descended from his pedestal and the Exquisite Mob betook itself down

hill, although a few individuals waited behind in order to consult with

the former on matters of etiquette, fashion and gentility, his advice

being considered the most refined in the country.

Mrs. Courteen sailed down upon Mr. Ripple and asked whether she was

right in thinking that the moment when green should be worn was arrived.

"I think so, ma'am," the Beau assured her. "I think so: to be sure, a

few of our more conservative fops hold that green should never appear

before the Queen's birthday. But I differ from them, ma'am, I differ.

You will observe madam, that I differ."

Phyllida had rejoined her mother by this time, and Mr. Ripple saluted

her freshness with a courtly bow.

"Many Valentines?" he inquired with a quizzical droop of his left

eyelid.

Phyllida blushed, protesting,

"No, indeed, sir."

The Widow hastily assured Mr. Ripple that her daughter was not near old

enough to dream of such follies, while Major Tarry and Mr. Moon, whose

skirts were stiff with Valentines intended for Mrs. Courteen herself,

looked very severely at the sun as if he were in some way responsible

for the madness of love in the air.

"Tut-tut! Youth's the time for love, as Mr. Gay sings, and though I do

not encourage the interchange of passionate sentiments among those who

are seeking to recover their health, I regard St. Valentine's Day as a

very proper festival for young men and maidens in whose hearts no

degeneration is yet apparent." With these words Mr. Ripple drooped his

left eyelid lower than ever.

"Fie! sir, we shall have the child vapoured like any woman of fashion,

if you put such inflammable ideas into her head," complained Mrs.

Courteen, who was just beginning to be more than a little jealous of her

daughter.

"Not at all, ma'am," said the Beau, "I swear I saw an agreeable spark

toast Miss Phyllida in Chalybeate--the irreverent dog--but I forgave

him; upon my honour, I was near doing the same thing myself."

Now Phyllida was not at all anxious for her mother to think she had an

admirer, and yet with youth's vanity, she could not resist a

half-acknowledgment of the Beau's rally. Luckily for her, Major Tarry,

who always resented his removal from the centre of attraction, thought

it was time to assert his existence by demanding rather pompously if the

Beau saw anything unusual in the sky.

"Yes, sir," the latter agreed. "I see the sun, which is very unusual at

this season of the year."

Mr. Moon gaped a smile, and Tarry's Apple began to rise. He had

anticipated a surprized negative from the Beau, whereupon he intended to

look very mysterious and say that after all perhaps he was mistaken.

Thus, having impressed the bystanders with the notion that they were

talking to a man of superhuman vision, he would offer an arm to Mrs.

Courteen.

"Run, Betty," exclaimed the latter, "and tell Mr. Thomas we await his

escort."

Thomas was at the footman's Pump Room, a hundred yards down the hill.

Here, every morning he mused regretfully upon the decline of

beer-drinking. Chalybeate to him was a sort of Jacobite liquor which was

slowly supplanting the honest Esau ale. As for streams that spouted

inexplicably from solid rocks, these he held to be an infringement of

Moses' prerogative. He would unscrew the knob of his footman's cane for

a morsel of Parmesan cheese and chew the cud of bitter reflection, while

with the butt of his nose he would polish the silver ball till it shone

with equal splendour.

Betty found him thus occupied and, as he stalked after her in obedience

to his summoning, she heard him mutter several times in quick

succession, "Wells of Sodom! Waters of Gomorrah! Pillars of Salt!"

Mrs. Courteen as she curtseyed her farewells to the Beau sank to the

ground like a deflated balloon. This done she gathered her party into

hearing and occupied their outward attention as they walked in the

direction of the Crescent with a long and disjointed account of her

health.

"Why will you shake your muff so vehemently?" complained the Widow.

"'Tis full of dust," said Phyllida.

If it was, I am afraid Miss Courteen was trying to throw some of it into

her mamma's eyes.

_Chapter the Third_

THE BLUE BOAR

While the Exquisite Mob circled round the central fane of AEsculapius,

Mr. Charles Lovely had enough lack of taste and orthodoxy to make a

heretick promenade in the low-lying water-meadows at the foot of the

town.

He had knocked three times at old General Morton's house in the Western

Colonnade and delivered Miss Courteen's Valentine into the hands of Miss

Sukey Morton's maid. She, poor soul, wore round her neck a brass button

attached to a piece of string still reminiscent in tarred perfume of the

Dorsetshire jetty down which she had wandered a year ago. It was

streaking her breast with verdigris as if in some way prophetick of a

heart that all too soon would be tarnished more irreparably by that

faithless lover beyond the seas.

Consequently Miss Morton's maid received the paquet with a sympathetick

reverence learnt in long morning dreams when the sunlight splashed the

walls of her garret in waves and ripples of faint gold.

"Any name, your honour?" she asked.

"I believe not."

"And no message?" she paused in bright-eyed hope of an assignation which

was to be the first step in the softening of her mistress' hard and

imperious little heart.

"None at all so far as I know, my dear," and Mr. Lovely passed on down

the deserted street towards the meadows.

The little maid stood on the steps regarding him.

"Tes a Valentoine surely," she thought, and held the envelope between

her and the discoverer sun. A red heart glowed through the paper, a red

heart pierced by a flaming arrow.

"And who'd ha' thought she had a bow and her be so spoitful."

She sighed as she gazed after Mr. Lovely.

"He do look proper and happy surely."

The elegant young gentlemen had, in fact caught some of the harlequin

grace of a fine morning in the prime of the year as he avoided the

cracks in the paving stones to bring the meadows closer and make the

Colonnade less intolerably long.

"Wi' sech a rosy spark, for sure, she've no call to be jealous of me,"

thought the little maid, as her soul went winging over the great

Atlantick whose roar filled the silence of her mind, to meet the soul of

her sailor-lover who was at the moment sitting upon an alien beach in

the company of two dusky wantons and a bottle of Jamaica rum.

Mr. Lovely turned the corner and the little maid vanished at the sound

of a bell summoning her to tie one of her mistress' pink bows to a more

modish angle.

Our hero, for since perfect confidence should exist between us, I will

no longer attempt to conceal his identity, continued to walk to the tune

of a lyrick always provided the measure did not compel him to step upon

one of the fatal cracks. Soon he came to a road which ended in green

fields sodden with winter rains, but soft and grateful after the arid

pavement.

Face to face with the pale blue February sky, he took up more earnestly

the intention of the half-fledged songs that occupied his brain. Strange

songs they were, fanciful and unrestrained in the eyes of their author

and his contemporaries who did not recognize in them an echo of one Mr.

Herrick, dead, and now forgotten by the world of literature. His mother

had read the poems to him as a child. The _Hesperides_ of 1648 was the

only book owned by the lodging-house in Westminster where a dingy year

of childhood had dragged out its course. In his youth, he had loved

their sharp, elusive harmonies, and when he attained years of

composition, could never free his own lyricks from extravagance so

acquired, however assiduously he attempted to follow Augustan models. To

his credit, be it added, he was always sincerely ashamed of his

barbarick numbers and, as he grew older, was often successful in

expressing the heart of a riotous evening in a clear-cut drinking song.

Perhaps this vain pursuit of formalism in words made him neglect his

private life, which ran a wild career checked by nothing stronger than

the strings of his purse.

As he leaned over a stile and watched the cattle in the meadows, out of

the past there came like an arrow of song shot from the gloomy depths of

London,

_Ye have been fresh and green,

Ye have been filled with flowers,

And ye the walks have been

Where maids have spent their hours._

But Mr. Lovely was dissatisfied. He felt the sentiment would have

reached a larger dignity, a more epigrammatick crispness, a more

trenchant elusiveness, if it had never strayed beyond the bonds of an

heroick couplet. He deplored his ineradicable early impressions and

vowed to study the classick models with a still more fierce ardour of

imitation.

But having formed this resolution, our hero was just as discontented as

before. The sun shining into his heart, found no reflection there.

"These d--d late nights are killing me," he complained, ascribing his

discontent to fatiguing sessions of play. He bent down to pluck a starry

celandine and wasted a few minutes in trying to find out whether he

liked butter. The little golden oracle told him he did, but as he was

well aware of this fact already, only the flower benefited by an

enhanced reputation for infallibility. Nevertheless it was flicked

carelessly over the hedge where it lay stalk upwards in the shade like

many another prophet before it. To confess the truth at once, Mr. Lovely

had only used the butter to deceive himself, for round about his

red-heeled shoes were eight golden petals which seem to prove that a

more intimate question had been asked, and answered unfavourably if we

may judge by the banishment of the flower. To console his wounded

susceptibleness, he determined to smoke a pipe and, having made up his

mind, found the long clay stem was broken. With a pithy condemnation of

things in general, he tried to establish the reason of his depressed

spirits. Then he discovered his spirits were not depressed, merely

unsettled. Burgundy of course. Hazard without a doubt. Should he try

Chalybeate? The d--l! not if he knew it. Should he try Chalybeate? She

wore a very engaging swansdown tippet. What a fool he had been to come

to these meadows! Should he try Chalybeate? The half-fledged lyrick was

strangled: the landskip seemed pretentiously bright in proportion to the

wintry air which was still abroad and, to crown all, he felt an

extraordinary desire to drink a tankard of ale with Mr. Anthony Clare at

the _Blue Boar_. The latter might know who wore swansdown in the

Crescent. With a sigh of relief, he wrung this admission out of himself,

shivered and turned his face towards Curtain Wells, whose houses

clustered like a swarm of bees around the sacred hill.

The _Blue Boar_, whither Mr. Charles Lovely was bound, was a hostelry of

the conventionally ample type. The rooms with exterior rows of galleries

were built round a large quadrangle to which coaches and stage waggons

were admitted through an arch that was only just high enough for the

vehicles of a more recent pattern. The fixed population consisted of

innumerable plump and shapely chambermaids, innumerable dried-up

hostlers and grooms, and a certain number of sedate waiters who were all

clothed in the same shade of rusty black, and all of whom wished they

had settled earlier in life to become footmen. However this canker of

thwarted ambition never prevented them from handling anything from a

soup-tureen to a guinea-piece with reverence and precision.

The host, Jeremy Daish, was neither round nor rubicund. On the contrary

he was remarkably sallow and, in his suit of cinnamon cloth, bore a

vague likeness to a well-seasoned Cremona violin. He was the builder,

owner, and inventor of the famous _Daish's Rooms_ adjoining the Inn and,

as the latter served for a recognized adjunct to the more official

_Assembly Rooms_, Mr. Daish became a somewhat mildewed counterpart of

the great Beau himself, a mezzotint ill-executed of a famous painting in

oils. His back was so often crouched in servility that it had acquired a

permanent stoop. Rumour said that years ago Mr. Daish was often seen

fiddle in hand at West-country fairs and wakes, and supported the legend

by pointing out when a lady of the extremist fashion and quality graced

his dancing floor with a pair of very high red heels, the solemn

innkeeper would steal to the Dais of the musicians and, taking an

instrument, would himself bob and play my lady through a minuet with

considerable Gusto and Bravura.

The _Blue Boar_ was patronized by a select company of fashionable young

gentlemen who lent the old hostelry something of the tone of White's or

Almack's. Bagmen were excluded from the wing occupied by these elegant

patrons, and though from time to time one of the former, with a merry

reputation, would be invited to take wine with the quality in return for

the tale of a famous and gross adventure, it was distinctly understood

that nothing low or vulgar was allowed to penetrate beyond a certain

doorway.

Beau Ripple himself would saunter down towards twilight and exhort his

youthful subjects on the folly of vice, the futility of play and the

obligation to drink the waters at half-past eight o'clock. Mr. Ripple

was esteemed a Puritan, but such a genteel Puritan that the young

gentlemen, subdued by the length of his waistcoats and his

irreproachable ties and solitaires, listened to him willingly enough,

and overpowered by the orthodoxy of his wigs and buckles, the fullness

of his shirts and the size of his cuffs, heeded his warnings sometimes.

Mr. Lovely strolled through the archway into the yard all fresh and

shining after the morning swill. Along the galleries, the chambermaids

were hurrying about their work, and the figure of Mrs. Grindle, the

housekeeper, glittering and jingling with keys, warned him no loitering

in the galleries would be tolerated at that hour of the day. Two horses

were being groomed in the courtyard, but as he had discussed all their

points both with their owners and the hostlers at least half a dozen

times before, he was not inclined to pursue the outworn theme farther.

"Mr. Clare about?" he inquired.

"Han't seen him, y'r honour," answered one of the workers.

"'Es that Mr. Clare?" asked the other.

"Yes, my good fellow, have you seen him?"

"Rode over to Baverstock Regis to see a maiden aunt," the man replied.

"Ho! ho! ho!" roared the first, "dang me if that bean't the best I ever

hard. Ho! Ho! ho!" and convulsed with merriment, the man slapped his

tight-breeched thighs with frequency and vigour.

"You make the very d--l of a noise, Sirrah," said Mr. Lovely fretfully.

"I axe y'r honour's pardon, but when I hard Jock there talking of maiden

aunts--ho--ho--ho! and when I minds that shaapely--ah! well it doan't do

to mention no naames, but it come over me sudden to laugh," and with

this apology, the humorous hostler picked up his mare's near fore-leg,

and continued to chuckle at intervals for the rest of the day.

Mr. Lovely began to think Tony Clare was confoundedly young, and when

one young man begins to think another young man confoundedly young, it

is usually a convincing proof that the pensive young man is deep in

love.

"What's a fellow to do?" he sighed as he turned into the coffee-room. It

was empty, so he called for a draught of ale, put his feet on the window

seat and surveyed the passers-by. He wondered what had become of his

friends, and why the d----l all the world was gone mad because the sun

shone with unwonted brilliance for the middle of February. Then he

remembered it was Valentine day and amused himself with the manufacture

of paper darts which he shot at the prettiest young women in range.

Unluckily, in an attempt to pierce the ripe heart of buxom Miss Page who

assisted at the cook-shop, he wounded the Rector on the nose. This set

him moralizing on the fortune of Love. Could anything be more

incongruous than Love and the Rector. Yet why not? We are all targets of

a dimpled nudity. The phrase caught his fancy. Numberless Cupids in

attitudes of attack floated before his mind's eye. "Demme!" thought Mr.

Lovely, "my brain is like an Italian ceiling. Targets of a dimpled

nudity!" He flung back the lattice to its utmost extent and leaned out

to the morning whence the chatter of the world without floated into the

sunny room.

"Everybody is monstrous good-humoured," he concluded. But somehow it was

no longer amusing to quiz the young woman in Mrs. Tabby's ribband-shop

through his ivory rimmed perspective. Somehow since yesterday her

forearm had grown coarser.

"All the world's growing old," he grumbled disconsolately. But the world

would not be vapoured, and laughed and chattered and bobbed and flirted

and chirped with all the selfishness of a world that is always young in

defiance of the moods of her individuals.

Suddenly the mob of Cupids faded from his mind and the World at which he

was scoffing ceased to exist. Surely at the very end of the High Street,

he could discern something which was slowly assuming the magic shape of

a swansdown tippet. His heart began to beat very fast and he felt the

rushing crimson flood his cheeks. Life was wrapped in swansdown, as,

through clouds of the airy texture, his soul soared to unimaginable

heights. Then came the descent and, waking as from a dream, he found

himself staring down into a pair of wide blue eyes. In his embarrassment

he knocked over a pot of jacynths and, above the noise of the fall,

heard himself telling a Swansdown Muff he had delivered the paquet.

Could anything be more enchanting than the warning fore-finger, save

the lips to which it was lifted? Could anything better console his

enforced silence than the knowledge that between him and her existed a

secret? The swansdown tippet and swansdown muff had vanished, but

fragments of broken Terra Cotta strewed the pavement. The swansdown

tippet and swansdown muff had floated away to some fairyland of their

own, but a blue jacynth perfumed the air.

Certainly the idlers of Curtain Wells had a fruitful subject for an

afternoon's debate in the sight of young Mr. Lovely climbing out of the

coffee-room window. Besides, if that were not amazing enough, the idlers

were immediately diverted by the aspect of young Mr. Lovely gathering up

the remains of a shattered flower-pot and clasping a bruised jacynth to

his silk waistcoat. They all agreed the incident had no explanation, and

were even stirred out of their perpetual lethargy to muster round the

entrance of the _Blue Boar_ in order to verify a daring speculation that

he was going to carry the fragments within.

"Good G----!" said Mr. Ripple who was approaching the archway from the

other side. "Good G----, sir, are you mad?" To Mr. Ripple the shock was

great. He had aspirations for Mr. Lovely. To be sure, he was wild, an

extravagant young dog, but then he possessed an inimitable assurance of

manner, a pretty talent for polite verse-making, and a consummate taste

in brocades. The Beau of late had often pondered the choice of his

successor. He had aspirations for Mr. Lovely and now he saw his

favourite positively panting (the most ungenteel motion and fatal to the

fall of a waistcoat), not merely panting but smeared with mould, hugging

potsherds, and apparently quite unmoved by his degradation. Is it

wonderful that Mr. Ripple cried,

"Good G----, sir, are you mad?"

"Yes," shouted Mr. Lovely.

"Or drunk?"

"Yes," shouted Mr. Lovely.

As he seemed inclined to answer every question in the affirmative, the

Beau remarked he wished to see a representative group of the young

gentlemen at the Blue Boar upon a matter of the gravest social and

civick importance.

Our hero ejaculated, "With you in the twinkling of a bedpost," and raced

across the yard, up the first staircase, along the first gallery and

into the last room.

A light broke upon Mr. Ripple's bewilderment.

"He has discovered some prehistorick relicks. Probably Cinerary Urn, a

Lunette or possibly a gold coin of Rome."

In pleasant anticipation, the Beau who was an intimate friend of Mr.

Sylvanus Urban, beheld the folded copper-plate illustrating the

discovery and the rounded sentences on the opposite page of the

_Gentleman's Magazine_ in which the excavations would be carefully

recorded by Horace Ripple.

"This must assuage my wrath," he decided by the door of the coffee-room.

To tell the truth, the Beau was on censure bent when he met our hero

outside the _Blue Boar_.

Already, that morning, he had alluded to the riotous nocturnal

behaviour, the assaults upon the watch, the fusilade of empty bottles,

but not being able to descry a single offender, he determined that

personal and individual remonstrance would be more efficacious. To the

_Blue Boar_ therefore, he went having first exchanged his suit of olive

green for one of black sattin unrelieved by silver and terminated by

ruffles whose cambrick fell in severe folds and condemnatory lines.

As he stepped from the Great House round the Crescent and along the High

Street, he passed in sombre eclipse upon the gaiety of subjects shining

with the reflection of his genteel rays.

Presently Mr. Lovely came back still bearing the marks of the potted

soil.

"Was it an Urn?"

Mr. Lovely looked surprized.

"A Lachrymatory perhaps? Or a Lunette? Or," Mr. Ripple grew breathless

with excitement, "not an Image of AEsculapius?"

"Pray, sir, are you trying to humour a madman? Because on my soul, I

don't know what you are driving at."

"So, sir, your late phrenzy was nothing more than the unbridled haste

and inconsiderate volition of youthful folly?" sternly demanded the

Beau.

"I 'faith, I knocked over one of old Daish's precious pots, and was

making haste to remove it from the region of his laments. That's all,

and there's my hand on't."

"You will pardon me," replied the Beau drawing back, "I have no

objection to shaking a hand stained by honest toil, but I have never

shaken a hand sullied by mere zest for uncleanliness."

"As you will, dear Beau," laughed Mr. Lovely.

The Beau was about to point an example to adorn his statement when he

was interrupted by the entrance of severe Mrs. Grindle clasping her nose

with one hand, and with the other holding at arm's length the offending

jacynth by a shred of its roots.

"Mr. Lovely, sir," she began and as our hero pulled forward a chair and

the Beau leaned back to listen, she continued, "I have known a cat

kitten in one of the maids' beds."

"How very distressing," murmured the Beau letting the firelight play in

the diamonds of his rings.

"But never, never," proclaimed Mrs. Grindle swelling like Mr. Handel's

_Largo_, "have I known a young gentleman want to turn his bachelor bed

into a ploughed field. Mr. Lovely, sir, I'll trouble you to say if this

is your planting or did you wish to insinuate that your bed was not made

this morning?"

"Mrs. Grindle, madam," replied the accused, "you have heard of beds and

you have heard of garden-beds. Mine is a garden-bed. A Parterre

impromptu, a Landskip in miniature, a Bucolick of slumber, a dimity

Eclogue. In a word--but pray, Mrs. Grindle, my dear Mrs. Grindle, out

of regard for me rehabilitate that jacynth without a word to Mr. Daish,

and I, out of regard for you, will certainly pay for the washing of the

bedspread."

Mr. Lovely smiled so very engagingly and looked so completely innocent

of any desire to insinuate anything except Mrs. Grindle's good-nature

that the housekeeper gave way, condescended to smile and, as she

retired, threw a quick glance in the direction of a mirrour to notice

the angle of her snowy cap.

Having reduced Mrs. Grindle to affableness, Mr. Lovely turned his smile

towards the Beau. The latter had watched with much satisfaction the

progress of his favourite's negociations, thinking to himself that a man

who could circumvent such a dragon as the housekeeper would be very well

able to keep in order the most self-assertive of Duchesses. He began to

relent his indignation and, as Lovely smiled at him, to see in his late

impetuousness no more than the natural activity of a jolly young man.

Moreover, for a certain reason, he had a genuine affection for the

rogue, and was glad to perceive his high spirits.

"I came here this morning in the hope of a serious conversation with

some of your friends. Are they--are they in the--er--taproom?"

"They're all gone after maids."

"Tut, tut, I wish I could make it plain that Curtain Wells exists for

the continence, not the encouragement of appetites."

"You must blame the sun, dear Beau."

"In view of the many pleasant hours I have spent basking in the warmth,

I should not presume to do anything so ungrateful. But I will remark

that the Sun in his human guises is not to be considered a beneficial

example to young men at a stage in the history of mankind when maidens

are no longer able to transform themselves into umbrageous laurels, thus

rendering impertinent and inconvenient what at first seemed appropriate

and inevitable. I allude, sir, to the legend of Apollo and Madam Daphne.

However, my dear Charles--" here the Beau laid three tapered jewelled

fingers upon the extremity of Mr. Lovely's left shoulder.

"You overwhelm me, sir, with your condescension. The omission of the

surname by Beau Ripple, is the bestowal of a title."

"Very well put, Charles," said the older man contentedly. "'Fore Gad!

you do me credit. Snuff, sir?"

Charles (we may follow the lead of Mr. Ripple) was now veritably

astonished. Never could he recall such an instance of the Beau's

condescension towards a man of his years; and he dipped his fingers into

the proffered snuff-box with greater bashfulness than he would have

displayed towards the powder-box of Titania.

"However, though the rest of our young gentlemen are--after maids," the

Beau stumbled over the crudity of the phrase, "I am happy to see that

you are engrossed by the seemlier pastime of horticulture." Was it fancy

or did Charles really see his mentor blow a tuft of swansdown from his

cuff? "I wish," the latter went on, "to remonstrate with you on the

indecorous character of your midnight entertainments. Owls, under

providence, are allowed to shriek and hoot after sundown, but there

seems no reason for extending to men the privilege accorded by a Divine

Creator to owls. In short, Mr. Lovely, there has been the--there has

been an atrocious hurly-burly in this house every night of late. Pray do

not interrupt me," he added as Charles made a protesting movement. "I

have the fullest Data for my general observations."

"Youth, dear Beau, hot-headed, open-handed Youth."

"Yes, yes, I know something of Youth's anatomy from a personal

experience of the happy state, but Youth, Mr. Lovely, is a mighty

inadequate justification for a circular scar on the forehead of one of

our most respected and silver-tongued watchmen--a scar inflicted by the

unconsumed but necessary concomitant of a quart of Burgundy."

"It was an accident, sir, young Tom Chalkley of the Foot----"

"I have observed, Mr. Lovely, that if one of these missiles happens to

strike the body against which it is aimed the result is invariably an

accident whereas if the missile goes wide of the mark it is a d----d

poor shot. But it cannot go on, Mr. Lovely. It shall not go on. The

residents acting in conjunction with the visitors reserve the right to

expel summarily any person who causes publick offence, and I, as their

accredited representative, should be in the highest degree culpable if I

allowed it to go on. Consequently, my dear Charles, I appeal to you as

to one possessed of some influence over the more violent spirits, to do

all in your power of persuasion to prevent it from going on."

Now as the successful quart bottle had been thrown by our hero, and as

he was usually the chief agent in promoting a disturbance, it is evident

that Mr. Ripple secured his unparalleled authority as much by tact as by

severity.

"Dear Beau, you shall be obliged," said Charles, "and now pray tell me

who wears a white swansdown tippet and lives hard by the Great House."

"I am not accustomed to observe the minor variations in feminine

costume," answered Mr. Ripple with some austerity.

"Nay! But a hermit froze to his psalter must have noticed her,"

protested the younger man.

"The analogy is incomplete."

"I shall be at the Assembly on Monday night."

"You could not be more worthily employed."

"And I shall effect an introduction under your patronage."

"That very much depends."

"On my good behaviour?" asked Charles.

"On the immunity of my watchmen from further assaults."

"Dear Beau, we are all targets of a--" he hesitated, "of a dimpled

nudity or an empty bottle. Love and a bottle, there's the world."

"The flesh, I think, sir."

"I 'faith, Satan must have a fine sieve if he can separate the pair."

"I am no theologian."

"Then you'll present me?" persisted Charles.

"You will protect my watchmen?" demanded the Beau.

"On Monday night?" urged Charles.

"Every night," added the Beau. "Unconditional surrender is my ultimatum.

But I hope I know how to display generosity towards a vanquished enemy.

You will attend the Publick Breakfast awarded to Sir Jeremy Dummer?"

"Truly I----"

"Tut, tut, I insist. My old friend Lord Cinderton arrives to-day with

his invalid son, George Harthe-Brusshe. I should like the young man to

see your cherry and trout-pink cuffs."

"Too unseasonable a combination of colours for breakfast."

"Pshaw! your appearance will give a fillip to his impoverished

appetite."

"I 'faith, I believe I know how to flavour my conversation with Attick

salt, but I swear I never dressed myself for the Role of condiment."

The conversation was soon entirely of sauces.

_Chapter the Fourth_

CURTAIN MAZE

The Maze at Curtain Wells was always considered one of the principal

sights of the place. Holding this reputation, it was naturally the least

frequented. Visitors either went there the second day after their

arrival or scuttled round it with a competent escort in the twenty-four

hours that preceded their departure. But since no one went there twice

and since all the visitors and residents of the Wells were perfectly

familiar with the various shrines, its invariable emptiness may easily

be apprehended. In summer the gardens of which it was a feature were

thronged at the fashionable hours. There was also a Rotunda similar to

if less grandiose than the famous Rotunda at Ranelagh Garden. This had

not long been in existence, and was only used for balls and masquerades

through May and June, when the Maze was spangled with lamps for the

delight of the dancers. Even so, very few availed themselves of the

shelter of its yew-hedges and always spent the rest of the evening in

trying to find their way out, being lucky if they succeeded in making a

somewhat ruffled appearance during the last Cotillon.

To Curtain Garden went Miss Phyllida Courteen and Madam Betty her maid:

to Curtain Garden they were going when they passed Mr. Charles Lovely at

the coffee-room window.

Betty belonged to a type of womanhood that grows with age, increased fat

and pursiness, into a nurse such as Mr. Shakespeare drew in _Romeo and

Juliet_. If she had been brought up in a disreputable purlieu of the

town, she would have become a personally chaste procuress but, nurtured

among the buttercups, she merely had a perpetual desire to see her

pretty young mistress aflame through the careless progress of some gay

spark or other. Whatever there was of passion in her meadow-born soul

fed itself on objective embraces. She was never a maid for a

kissing-gate at long shadow time, but when she saw Phyllida's heart

flutter with quick emotion before the approach of Mr. Vernon, a

primitive phrenzy set her cheeks aglow and fired her eyes to a livelier

blue. She adored her mistress with a precocious maternity but,

paradoxically enough, without any of the mother's jealousy of a lover

near to his possession. Vernon with his pale face and slightly sinister

demeanour had caught her fancy. 'Let him mate with my pretty one,' she

would say to herself, 'blossom of apple looks most rare and sweet under

a grey sky of clouds.' It was this anxiety to provide a physical match

for Phyllida which had led her to encourage Vernon's addresses, and her

mistress to pay heed to his vows. Her greatest delight was to stand,

watching against interruption, in the next alley to the lovers. Here she

would thrill her imagination with the thought of frail and timid fingers

in the clasp of a strong white hand. The sudden interposition of Mr.

Lovely vexed her. Certainly he was handsome enough, but too much of a

piece with Phyllida; they might have been brother and sister. Moreover,

he was always laughing.

"A man who always laughs is as bad as a dog who always wags his tail.

Neither is fit for a maid," she grumbled to Phyllida as they stepped

briskly along beneath the tall poplars that fringed the road leading to

the entrance of Curtain Garden.

"Truly I vow he has a romantick air," protested Phyllida.

"La! what's romantick? 'Tis no more than reading a book on the shady

side of the street." Betty tossed a contemptuous head.

"Indeed, Betty, I think 'tis a great deal more than that. To be

romantick, child, is to have a noble heart, and to have a noble

heart----"

"'Is to lead the Venite on a Sunday morning," interrupted the maid.

"No! 'tis not."

"Well! 'tes to kneel very obstreperous."

"'Tis no such a thing," said Phyllida, stamping on the pavement.

By this time, they had reached the famous wrought-iron gates of the

principal entrance, where an old man in an enormous three-cornered hat

and long heavily laced surtout walked up and down. Sometimes he would

stop and, over gnarled hands twisted round the ivory crook of his cane,

stare fiercely at the stamped effigies of AEsculapius and Flora while he

addressed the presiding deities in a wheezy monotone.

"Curtain Garden! Curtain Garden! Lads and lasses, ye'll grow old. Fit

for maids is Curtain Garden." Thus having droned a warning to Olympus,

he would resume his walk.

In two months the broad gravelled path which he guarded would be

thronged by the Exquisite Mob, but at present his only audience on fine

days was composed of Phyllida and Betty. On wet days, when not even they

ventured out, he would sit in a little pagoda whence every few minutes

he would pop out his head, and in the same wheezy monotone lament 'Rain!

Rain! on the windowpane!' and retire as abruptly as a cuckoo that has

told the hour.

With this aged janitor Phyllida used to have a daily conversation which

never varied by a single letter.

"Nobody in the garden this morning?"

"Not a soul nor a body, young miss."

"Are you better of your cold?"

"Very much worse."

As Phyllida used to tell Betty when they had left the gateway behind

them, 'he must be very ill indeed because he has been very much worse

every day.'

This customary conversation interrupted the argument over Mr. Lovely's

romantick character of mind, and when they turned down the path which

led to the Maze all discussion went to the wind at the prospect of again

seeing her dear Amor.

Vernon had met Phyllida in the Maze but a bare two weeks ago. It

happened to be his first visit to the Wells, and he was in the act of

being solemnly lost when he accosted her for direction. Betty had

encouraged the chance acquaintanceship and Mr. Vernon, who was tired of

the mechanick Dryads of Vauxhall, embarked upon a new pleasure. The

natural secretiveness of his disposition led him to adopt Amor as a

fantastick pseudonym, and neither Betty nor Phyllida had troubled

themselves to inquire farther into his antecedents. Indeed, it would

have puzzled them to do so, for he had but lately appeared at the Pump

Room in response to Phyllida's earnest entreaty, and absolutely refused

to meet her at the Assembly Rooms. Consequently, had she felt inclined

to indulge a suspicion, there was no one to whom she could appeal except

perhaps Beau Ripple: and he, of course, was not to be thought of in

connection with so trivial a matter.

You will recollect that Vernon's toilet of this morning was considerably

perturbed by the image of Phyllida. Over his coffee he had reviewed the

situation with great contempt for himself.

To begin with, he had moved into lodgings opposite his charmer's abode.

What foolish enthusiasm! worthy of a stripling of sixteen, as he told

himself. Then he had seriously contemplated matrimony. To be sure, he

had made a few cautious inquiries and heard it stated on good authority

that she was an heiress, but odds his life! was that enough to make him

commit himself irreparably. He was jaded, and the rustick seclusion (so

he characterized the Wells!) had affected his head. A boarding-school

miss with gawky tendencies--a boarding-school miss with the smile of a

young nymph--a boarding-school miss with little fingers that tugged the

manhood--the weariness--out of his heart! It was impossible. His friends

would sneer unmercifully, and he would settle in the country as he had

often wished, and by heavens! he would seek her mother's consent. Pshaw!

the chit would become more insipid than ever, more delightful, more

enthralling, more utterly subjugating. Z----ds! what an impetuous fool

he would be considered. No! No! country misses were very well in the

country, and might bear transplantation for a season, but London

bough-pots should be renewed every Spring. Meanwhile the affair was

progressing very well, and if he could pluck a pigeon or two--there were

always pigeons in the country--why a Summer in town--and after that--why

after that--meanwhile his coffee was growing cold.

But when he saw her radiance among the dark hedges of yew, all his

cynical plans withered away, and it would have taken mighty little to

transform the libertine into as honest a lover as ever galloped across

the horizon of a romantick imagination. What grace! What charm! What

movement! What colour! It was incredible she would ever grow old. He

rose from the stone seat in the heart of the Maze and saluted her with a

sculptured bow.

"That's true romantick," whispered Betty. "See him bow, see him stand up

tall and white like a great wax candle."

The swansdown tippet rose and fell to the beating of the eager heart

beneath.

"My charmer takes the sun like a flower," said Mr. Vernon, bending over

her hand.

Betty's eyes were a very quick and fiery blue as she turned away to her

post, and, indeed, the scene would have ravished a block.

Never were yews so dark and velvety, so full of whispered secrets, as

the gentle wind stirred their crisped leaves continually. In a silence

made by cushions of moss set with many green stars that muffled every

footstep, the stone image of Cupid, poised upon his damp-stained

pedestal caught from the February sunlight the veritable bloom and

semblance of divinity.

Vernon, as he led Phyllida to the seat and saw her eyes flash over the

swansdown muff, was sure that such beauty must capture something of the

permanence expressed by the statue and remain for ever young, for ever

provocative of desire.

High over their heads a flight of pigeons circled against the azure,

gathered and broke into a scattered multitude of snowy wings whose

fluttering echoes travelled along the sunlight to the sombre heart of

the Maze.

The simple grace with which Phyllida seated herself held Vernon

entranced. He could have sworn that the stone wings of the Cupid

trembled faintly as if, animate and inanimate, the whole world stood

ready to scale the empyrean. Blinded by an ecstasy of hope, the man

forgot himself, discarded the mean ambitions that for so long had guided

his actions, and conceived the idea of a fresher existence. Great

moments, like great men, have a solitary life, and there was nothing in

Phyllida to respond to the fire which he had waked from a pile of ashes.

Actually she was wondering whether her dear Amor had remembered

Valentine day, whether, indeed, his burning gaze was a prelude to the

offer of a trinket.

"'Tis surely a pleasant Valentine morning," she murmured screwing up her

eyes to the sun.

Vernon cursed the want of practice with young misses which had let him

forget what every fair esteemed a man's sacred duty. However, he was a

resourceful gentleman and, without any perceptible hesitation, produced

from his pocket a paste brooch cut to the likeness of a basket of

twinkling blue forget-me-nots.

The history of this little ornament possesses enough irony to warrant a

short digression. It used to hang in the window of a Midland toy-shop,

and had made a pretty birthday gift from a young man deep in love to his

betrothed. She wore it in her kerchief for ten years and sent it at last

to her lover in London with some other trinkets not very valuable, but

all of the same fresh beauty. At the bottom of the packet was a faded

sprig of whitethorn. The young gentleman--not quite so young now--opened

it as a London dawn empearled the city smoke. It had lain all day in his

room neglected while the dice-box rattled like a skeleton at the feast

of Love--a feast of pimps and blowsy carmine furies. The contents of the

packet went with the last of his guineas, and at the division of the

stake Mr. Vernon contemptuously accepted the brooch. The latter never

troubled himself to take the ornament out of his pocket. Now once more

it came back to Youth and Beauty.

As she pinned it to her kerchief, Phyllida thanked him for his sweet

thoughtfulness, and wondered if he would always remember this morning.

By this time, Vernon had clambered down from his mountain top. Perhaps

the brooch made his descent more easy. Yet I think he was sincere when

he swore he would never forget.

Anyway Phyllida believed him and so there is nothing more to be said.

"When we are wed," she began, and startled him with such an abrupt

disclosure of her dreams. "When we are wed, I think we will live in Hyde

Park. Where is Hyde Park?"

"On the confines of Kensington, my dear."

"Yes, but where is Kensington?"

"A mile or so Westward of Temple Bar."

"I think we will live in Kensington."

"Nay, prithee! would you have us die of dullness."

"Is Kensington dull?"

"'Tis very rustick. No! my charmer shall lodge in the Haymarket."

Phyllida pouted. There was a Haymarket in the country town to which she

made an occasional visit from the little village of Newton Candover, and

she remembered it as a dusty spot not fit for a new pair of shoes.

"I vow I should detest the Haymarket."

"Nay, 'tis the gayest place, with hackney coaches passing to and fro all

day. You shall sit at your window and all the fine ladies of rank and

fashion will envy you."

"And what will my Amor be doing?"

"He will be looking over his angel's shoulder."

"Then they'll envy me more than ever," said Phyllida with a contented

laugh. Vernon pressed her hand and looked round quickly as a man will

before he attempts the first kiss. But Phyllida drew back.

"What shall we do when we are tired of sitting at the windows--if one

could ever tire of anything so pleasant," she added with a sigh.

"We'll call a hackney-coach and drive to Westminster Steps, to the

river."

"To the river? Now that will be most diverting."

"And we'll hail the waterman with the most elegant wherry, and row up

through the dusk to Vauxhall."

Phyllida was staring at him with the round eyes of a child who listens

to an old fairy-tale.

"Then what should we do?" she asked earnestly.

"We should choose a box for two and sit with our elbows over a very

small table and look at each other just as we are looking now."

"Yes! go on," cried Phyllida clapping her hands.

"Then we should call for chicken-wings and eat our supper and listen to

the new song and the musick of the orchestra playing the finest tunes

high up among a thousand sparkling coloured lamps and watch the

masqueraders and row back to Westminster under a great moon."

Mr. Vernon was so much inspired by the interest of his listener that he

began to believe in the reality of this proposed idyll, quite forgetting

that it was a chastened account of a hundred similar adventures enjoyed

with the domino passion of a night.

"Vauxhall must be the properest place in the world," sighed Phyllida, "I

doubt everybody wears their jewels."

"Everybody," replied her lover with a quick glance.

"I should wear my pearls."

"Your pearls?"

"My necklace that was left by Grandmother Courteen. Mamma won't let me

wear it till I'm one-and-twenty."

"But supposing you ran away?"

"Oh I should never dare. I should be frightened."

Vernon changed the subject, perceiving at present the courtship was

nothing more serious than a Springtime diversion.

He told himself if the child surrendered to his blandishments, it would

be an easy matter to induce her to run away. He must weave a strong web

of personal attraction round her, and if her prudence sustained her to

the end, why perhaps he might commit himself to a serious offer of

marriage. He must inquire further into her fortune. He wished it were

not so difficult to put an arm round her waist. Innocence was very well

and the prospect of a siege amusing enough at first, but a long deferred

capitulation would be immensely fatiguing; and yet how charming she was.

Not for anything would he have her different.

"When we are wed," he began and for the first time echoed her lately

expressed hopes. In some way he felt that she would be to blame, if harm

came of it. She had given the cue.

"When we are wed, we shall go to routs."

"But we shall be old and wise and able to go then. It won't be near so

diverting then as 'twould be now--if you came to the Assemblies."

"My angel forgets the risque of discovery."

"There could be no more danger in that than there is in sitting here in

the Maze."

"Come!"

"I'm sure if we were prudent nobody would suspect us of a love-affair."

"But consider my ardour. 'Twould illuminate the whole matter."

"Well! and if the old maids did talk, they would only talk into their

teacups and every one knows that to be monstrous ungenteel behaviour.

Lud! I've been censured before. Why, when I was but sixteen I was the

talk of the ballroom because I stepped four gavottes with Dicky

Combleton, Squire Combleton's youngest son. Every one said I was a

forward minx, and he's only a year older than me and that's only last

year." Phyllida became very indignant, and Mr. Vernon who lacked humour

became very indignant too at being compared to a bumpkin.

"Surely my angel sees the circumstances are slightly altered?"

He clasped her hand, and stroked it slowly, but she was not to be

pacified and drew it away.

"For my part, I don't know how you dare say you care for my reputation

and sit here holding my hand. Walls have ears and hedges have eyes."

"You would not withdraw your hand if you were sure we were not

observed?"

She made no reply.

"Possibly," he went on, "you would let me kiss those sweet lips to a

smile--if we were not observed?"

"Indeed, I vow you should never do anything so indelicate."

"Z----ds! my pretty Puritan----" he stopped because Phyllida's eyes

were very wide open indeed.

"Oh Sir! no one but a father or a very old man has the right to swear so

dreadfully before a maid."

He laughed.

"So oaths depend on age for their propriety? I 'faith that's a new maxim

I've learned this morning. After all, my Phyllida, I am fifteen years

older than you."

"That may be," she retorted primly, "and I have often wondered whether I

should allow a man of middle-age to make love to me."

Vernon wrinkled with annoyance at such a description. He certainly

lacked humour.

"But then, you see, I am in love with you, and not marrying you because

our estates join like my cousin Clarice who, we all agreed, was old

enough to know better."

"Young enough, you mean. Morality rusts with the years."

"I don't know what you are talking about, but it sounds like a text."

"It is a text, my dear, the text of the man of the world."

"I hate texts, but I don't hate goodness and you must promise never,

never to swear again, and--never, never to try to kiss me."

"Not even when we are wed?"

"That's another matter."

"Perhaps when you are old and wise and able to kiss you won't like

kissing."

"Oh! I protest, I should like it vastly," said Phyllida with great

decision.

"But if you have never made the attempt?"

"A young woman knows by instinct."

"But why won't you make sure in advance?"

"Because 'tis imprudent and wicked."

"For my part, I believe you are playing with me."

And then began a long argument which settled nothing at all and, after

ten minutes, left matters precisely where they started.

What Vernon said in jest was in essence perfectly true but unfortunately

he was too vain and she was too young to believe it; for if potential

Phyllida knew very well she would not expire if her dear Amor vanished

for ever, actual Phyllida who was much younger and far more obstinate

was equally sure that a gradual decline into an interesting consumption

would be the natural result of such a calamity; while potential Vernon

who was anxious to prove himself a very fine fellow was very

contemptuous of actual Vernon and not at all willing to admit he would

find more than sufficient compensation for the loss of his Phyllida in

the ample charms of Miss Diana Flashington of the Theatre Royal, Drury

Lane.

And this is the way a large number of world-shaking passions begin,

since at first we seldom apprehend our potentiality.

The quarrel was interrupted by the sound of approaching voices just as

Betty came flying round the corner with the news that "Mr. Thomas and

your mamma be coming as fast as legs can carry 'em this way as ever is."

The implication of a rapid advance is to be understood merely as

relative to their usual rate of procedure.

In an instant all was confusion. Miss Courteen wrung her hands and

behaved quite as wildly as a grand married lady on the verge of

discovery in an ambiguous situation below stairs. Mr. Vernon flicked a

number of invisible specks of dust from his purple sattin breeches as

though he had been kneeling in devout protestation of honourable love

for the past hour, while Betty ran in turn to each of the four alleys

leading to their present position, and put a hand to an attentive ear.

She quickly ascertained by which path the enemy was advancing and

without more ado pushed Mr. Vernon hastily in the opposite direction,

thrust a tambour frame into her mistress's hands and composed herself to

spell aloud the Agricultural Calendar and Farmer's Assistant for the

current year. She was in the middle of some astonishing statisticks of

the comparative productiveness per acre of turnips and mangel-wurzels

when Mrs. Courteen followed by the majestick Thomas appeared upon the

scene. On perceiving her daughter, the latter gave a faint scream and

declared the meeting would certainly produce palpitations.

At the utterance of this fatal word, Thomas immediately unscrewed the

knob of his cane and drew forth a bottle of salts, Phyllida performed

the same conjuring trick with her bag, while Betty after some

lace-involved rites in which a crimson garter played a prominent part

offered a third bottle not more than a moment later. By the tonick

influence of several sniffs Mrs. Courteen was sufficiently revived to

ask in a stern voice what Phyllida was doing in this ungodly place.

Thomas accompanied the query by muttering 'Canaanites' several times in

quick succession under his breath. What the commentary was intended to

imply no one knew; but there was a general belief that the footman

symbolized states of mind, people and actions of which he disapproved,

by the various hostile tribes encountered by the Israelites during their

wanderings.

Phyllida assured her mother she was working a peacock in blue and

scarlet wool for the seat of a chair, and when Mrs. Courteen demanded

why she was not sitting on her own balcony, for the privilege of

possessing which she paid an additional five-and-sixpence a week in

rent, the daughter protested the East wind chapped her ankles.

"Chaps your ankles, miss? What d'ye mean by chaps your ankles? At your

age, I didn't know I had ankles. Woollen hose was what I wore, and I

should have been whipped if I had ever dared to think my ankles were not

as thick as marrowbones."

Phyllida begged her dear mamma's pardon and hoped to be forgiven, but

could not help remarking the sun was so warm that she had felt quite

positive her dear mamma would be pleased to see her take the air.

"Twas very unkind of you," complained the widow, "to presume so far on

my acknowledged indulgence of your whims. You know the miserable state

of my health compels me to sip several glasses of the waters after

breakfast, and seize the lamentable opportunity to deceive your too

confiding parent. How am I to know you have not been sitting in this

heathen nook for days in succession?"

Again the footman muttered 'Canaanites! Canaanites!' As this was exactly

where Phyllida had been sitting for days in succession, she looked

immensely shocked by the question.

"Well! well," said Mrs. Courteen as if resigned to her daughter's

iniquity, "go home and pray that you may become a more dutiful child."

Thomas murmured a low Amen and earned for his devotion a derisive and

ribald gesture from Betty.

"Aren't you coming too, mamma?"

"No, miss, I am not coming; I must rest myself and compose my mind and

soothe my feelings. Thomas, will you arrange my cushion."

Thomas produced it from under the seven capes of his surtout without

perceptibly diminishing his girth.

Said Phyllida to Betty as they stepped out of the Maze, "For my part, I

believe she only wanted to be rid of us in order to meet puffy old Moon

or skimpy little Tarry."

And this supposition was perfectly true.

_Chapter the Fifth_

THE PUBLICK BREAKFAST

At half-past twelve o'clock of the following day, masculine Curtain

Wells began to arrive at the Town Hall determined to eat the health of

General Sir Jeremy Dummer with all the vigour of an appetite unspoiled

by a morsel of food since yesterday's supper. No procession was arranged

by those responsible for the entertainment, but the habit of punctuality

instilled by the Great little Beau secured an unrehearsed pageant. There

was no marshalled order, but since everybody set out from his abode at

the same time, the component populations of the place were compelled to

affect a military method of progress.

It was quite unpremeditated and, therefore, the more impressive. The

Town Hall designed by Sir John Vanbrugh had been erected by publick

subscription to serve as a memorial to those gallant natives of Curtain

Wells who fought and died under the Duke of Marlborough. That the

aforesaid gallant natives were only three in number and in no case

killed in action was no cooler to the furnace of civick gratitude

kindled by the signing of the Peace of Utrecht. In their delight at the

discomfiture of the quarrelsome Whigs, the citizens expressly stipulated

there should be no hint of War and War's alarms in the construction of

their Hall. There were to be no cannon eternally belching forth stony

smoke, no image or superscription of Mars or Bellona. Greaves, bucklers,

spears, culverins, swords, scimitars and grenades were forbidden by

name. The central medallion of the pediment should enshrine Civick

Unity.

So the reigning Mayor was represented in all the pomp of office grasping

the hands of two equally, befurred and bechained Aldermen. It was an

affecting combination of the real and the allegorical. A second

medallion contained a voluminously draped and very substantial lady who

with absent gaze spilled from a heavy Etruscan vase a large stream of

petrified Chalybeate. Her far-away look might be attributed to an effort

at ascertaining what a small AEsculapius was doing to a serpent on the

summit of a diminutive Pelion. This was Health. Finally a third

medallion held a peer in coronation robes thoughtfully regarding the

front of St. James' Palace. A curved scroll announced this pensive

aristocrat to be the representative of Society.

Civick Unity, Health, and Society--could any other personifications so

justly convey the essential quality of Curtain Wells? And not a pike or

arquebus to frighten them out of a rigid serenity.

Upon this sermon in stone, three streets converged, which at half-past

twelve o'clock were all thronged. Since the breakfast was essentially a

male function, the civick band by a happy inspiration of the band-master

thundered out _The Girl I left Behind Me_, as in its wake a number of

prosperous tradesmen tripped to the measure of the tune. Haberdashers

and cheesemongers, drygoodsmen and fishmongers, butchers, tailors,

saddlers, cooks and silversmiths all marched along with a pleasant

emotion of relief. Fortified by preliminary tankards of ale and

unhampered by prosaick wives and daughters, they retreated from nothing

save the business of serving customers. Vapours were dispelled by the

breeze of trumpets, and the thoughts aroused by the musick of the song

only added a pungent spice to their dreams of food and confirmed their

faith in the superiority of breeches over petticoats--at any rate when

walking away from the latter.

Meanwhile down the central street came another crowd not marching with

the precision of movement inspired by the escort of the band, but still

urged to a certain unanimity of gait by the common object of their

advance. Mr. Mayor, preceded by his mace, set the time, and a line of

Aldermen carefully ordered their pace to his. Behind the Aldermen came

the Watch. This was a mistake. The latter should have led the

dignitaries, but had spent so much time in buttoning and unbuttoning its

capes and belts, in brushing its hats and polishing its staves that it

was late, thereby belying its name. So the Watch followed behind and

vented its contrition on a mob of boys in occasional backhanded cuffs

and current imprecations. Behind the boys marched three small

girls--Amazons heedless of the embargoe laid upon their sex.

However both these processions were overshadowed by the prodigious

pageant that emanated from the street facing the medallion of Society.

The last deserves a chapter to itself since no appendix could do justice

to its importance. Let me therefore, without being held to have violated

the decency of orderly narration, insert at this point a supplementary

chapter which may serve as a programme to the entertainment I hope

worthily to recount.

_Chapter V a_

THE ORDER OF THE EXQUISITE MOB

_General Sir Jeremy Dummer in a sedan chair borne by two veterans of the

Militia. Beau Ripple in damson-coloured velvet coat and breeches, with

waistcoat of old rose sattin trimmed with silver and rose silk stockings

clocked with the same._

Mr. Ripple with admirable condescension occasionally arrested the

progress of the march in order to address a word of encouragement to Sir

Jeremy Dummer who was inclined to be querulous from want of food and the

action of the chalybeate.

_The Earl of Cinderton in smoke-grey silk with cuffs of clouded blue._

_The Honourable George Harthe-Brusshe, his son, in a lighter shade of

the same._

_The Earl of Vanity looking like a fly, in amber._

_Five baronets in various degrees of_ FEUILLE MORTE.

_Four Knights of the Shire trying to look like Baronets and horridly

bruised by the palings in their attempts._

_Seventeen exquisite young gentlemen all exactly alike and only to be

distinguished by the various shapes and sizes of their patches._

_Major Constantine Tarry who had devoted the sleep of the preceding

night to the preservation of his pigtail's rigour and appeared very pale

beside his red coat in consequence._

_Justice Gregory Moon looking much the same as usual save for a sprig of

yew in his buttonhole._

_Mr. Charles Lovely and Mr. Anthony Clare arm in arm. The former wearing

a cherry-coloured velvet coat with waistcoat and breeches of

trout-coloured silk, the latter in uniform cucumber green. Both laughed

very loudly and cheerfully from time to time._

_Five elegant young gentlemen including a Lieutenant of his Majesty's

Navy, a Cornet of the Grey Dragoons and an Ensign of the Foot._

_Twenty-three old men suffering from various diseases._

_Thirty-eight old men all firmly convinced that they were suffering from

gout but all perfectly healthy in truth._

_Forty-five old men equally firmly convinced that they were suffering

from other and various diseases, and all equally healthy in truth._

_Mr. Oboe the Physician watchful of his patients' demeanour and quick to

confirm the slightest suspicion of ill-health._

_Mr. Francis Vernon in a tawny suit of figured Manchester velvet._

_Fifteen or sixteen gentlemen of various ages, sizes, ranks, costumes,

complexions, and states of health._

_Chapter V (resumed)_

Beau Ripple mounted the steps that, in diminishing semi-circles, reached

the entrance of the Civick Hall and, turning his head, froze into

silence with a cold stare of surprize the concluding Crescendo of _The

Girl I left Behind Me_, as if the half-drawn breaths of the musicians

were suddenly changed to icicles.

The good-natured band was not at all put out by Mr. Ripple's lack of

appreciation. His objection to panting was universally known, so the

band bore him no malice, but continued to pant.

As the musick stopped, Mr. Mayor began to walk up the steps also. No

doubt his ascent would have been as active as the Beau's if he had not

been hampered by the civick robes on which he trod at every alternate

step. Possibly the freezing disdain of Mr. Ripple had made the steps

more glacial than their wont. At any rate, the Mayor whenever he avoided

the hem of his robes, always slipped and stumbled, but he achieved the

summit at last and greeted the Beau with such fervour that he effected a

perceptible thaw.

On these occasions of supreme civick importance, it was customary for

the latter to relax his rule of never taking snuff with any one below

the rank of Viscount in the Peerage of England, so he offered his box to

the Mayor. That functionary with a reverence he had acquired over the

counter, inserted two fleshy fingers into the dainty receptacle,

withdrew them smeared with Rappee, sniffed the powder with avidity,

sneezed four times, and said he saw Sir Jeremy alighting from his chair.

The Beau regarded the Mayor's invasion of the delicate touchstone of

quality with a smile of amused apprehension. He explained afterwards

that he felt as if he were carrying a sirloin of beef into a queen's

parlour. When the convulsions set up by the snuff had outworn their

first violence, he fixed his monocle upon the guest's chair. Sure

enough, Sir Jeremy was alighting. Mr. Ripple and the Mayor

simultaneously descended the steps, and while the former started back

with an affectation of surprise, the latter charged forward with eager

hospitality.

"Gadslife! Sir Jeremy! You are vastly welcome, Sir. This is a great

occasion. Twenty-one years. Tet-tet." Thus Mr. Ripple.

"How are you, Sir Jermy Dummer, Sir? Come along o' me, Sir Jermy, and I

hope yaul heat very hearty," said or rather shouted the Mayor.

"_Eheu fugaces!_" murmured Mr. Ripple.

"Heh?" asked the Mayor.

"_Postume, Postume._"

"Hoh!" said the Mayor. "I beg yaw pardon, Mr. Ripple. Will you take a

harm, Sir Jermy?"

The poor old knight clutched at the fur of the Mayor's robe as the two

of them stumbled up the steps behind Mr. Ripple.

In passing through the antechamber, the old man dropped his hat and

cane.

"I shouldn't leave my hat an' cane here if I was you, Sir Jermy," said

the Mayor. "While some's heating, some'll be thieving."

"I have not the slightest intention of doing anything so insane,"

quavered the ancient soldier, "can't you see that I dropped 'em by

accident?"

The good-natured Mayor stooped to recover the accessories. "I beg yaw

pardon, Sir Jermy. Follow me. The banquet's in here."

The huge folding doors were flung back, and the sight of so much food

kindled a gleam in Sir Jeremy's rheumy eyes and waked a cackle from his

lean throat.

"Glad to hear such a jovial laugh. Wittles is wittles when hall's said

an' done. Hain't that true, Mr. Ripple," said the Mayor turning to the

Beau for confirmation of this statement.

"Victuals are victuals, sir, as you very justly observe."

Upon these three celebrated figures broke the buzz of the excited crowd

from the centre of which Lord Cinderton and Lord Vanity withdrew

themselves.

"Let me present Sir Jeremy Dummer, the Earl of Cinderton. Sir Jeremy

Dummer, the Earl of Vanity." The latter offered his snuff-box to the old

votary of Health who declined it saying,

"No! thankee, my lord, not before I eat. D---- e if ever I took snuff

before I ate."

His worship the Mayor was then presented to the two noblemen and,

discoursing amicably of the outlook on European politicks, the five

great men threaded their way towards the principal table.

There was a tremendous shuffling among the innumerable waiters as Mr.

Daish urged them to unparalleled exertion. They ran hither and thither

like recently fertile hens. One half of them pulled out chairs from the

tables and the other half pushed them back again. Some fled bawling for

the soup. Others conversed in excited whispers. At last the assembled

company to the number of three hundred persons stood each member in the

place he had selected.

What caused a further delay? Why did Mr. Daish hurriedly wave back the

white-capped cook bearing the first tureen?

Through the doorway pattered little Mr. Archdeacon Conybeare. "I'm

late," he muttered, "I know it, I'm aware of it. I'm late. Maria, my

love, I'm late, I'm very late."

The Beau was looking at the large clock below the gallery at the far end

of the hall.

"Will you ask a grace, Mr. Archdeacon," he said.

The Mayor smote the table with a silver hammer as the parson slipped

into his place.

"For what we are going to receive ... my dear Mr. Ripple, 'tis no use to

tell me the contrary, I know I am very late."

The Publick Breakfast had begun.

I think it was the great Dr. Johnson whose forehead while he ate was

dabbled with perspiration and the veins of it red and swollen. At any

rate the Mayor had a similar appearance. He devoured his food as if he

feared the cherubs sporting in the gilded panels of the ceiling would

descend and snatch it from his plate.

Mr. Ripple ate very modishly. One would have said he had watched the

honied meals of many butterflies. For all his fork's fastidious action,

it managed to pick the best of a Fricassee. Rounds, ribs, and sirloins,

he deplored.

Sir Jeremy Dummer evidently felt that his sensibility to the honour

awarded to him deserved practical gratitude. He eat voraciously. The old

fighting spirit abode in him for a space and he handled his knife like

his hanger. He slashed at every course that came along, but, accuracy

being impaired by muscular fatigue, he was content to swallow much of

his food whole.

Sir Jeremy Dummer ate:

Two plates of turtle soup.

The better part of a codfish.

The wing of a capon.

The wing of a duck.

The breast of a pullet.

A hot buttered apple dumpling and two or three slices of ham which he

had not noticed before.

Sir Jeremy Dummer drank:

Two tankards of old ale.

One bottle of Madeira.

Two bottles of Port.

And on the following day, Sir Jeremy Dummer died. He had always been

famous for trencher-play until condemned by Oboe to milky sustenance to

which through twenty-one winter seasons he never willingly yielded. This

commemoration of his abstinence was his opportunity and his revenge.

Could he have made a worthier end? For my own part, I should not presume

to say so.

Meanwhile, unconscious of this premature obituary, Sir Jeremy Dummer

enjoyed the breakfast amazingly. At first he was inclined to peevishness

through not being seated upon a sufficiently high chair. Mr. Daish,

however, with ready tact secured one of the Civick cushions and so

enabled Sir Jeremy, comfortably ensconced in crimson velvet, to eat his

last breakfast at ease.

Mr. Lovely having made the acquaintance of the Honourable George

Harthe-Brusshe, by whom he had seated himself at the particular request

of Mr. Ripple, discussed with animation the food on his plate and the

last foppery of the town. Mr. Harthe-Brusshe, a lantern jawed young

gentleman with a sincere devotion to turtle-soup, observing that Mr.

Lovely was about to leave his portion, begged him to hand it over.

Charles who invariably encouraged every man's idiosyncrasy sent the word

down the table to pass up every neglected plateful. This request was

readily granted and presently Mr. Harthe-Brusshe found himself

surrounded by half-a-dozen portions. Thereupon he declined all other

dishes and was faithful to soup for the rest of the meal.

"I suppose you find the difference in temperature sufficient variety?"

asked Mr. Lovely in a tone of great interest.

"That's so, Sir," replied the other as he refused beef and veal for the

sake of a moderately warm fifth plate of soup.

"I doubt you keep a bottle of it always to hand," remarked Lovely.

"It would tire me too much. It tires me to keep things to hand."

Here the Honourable George Harthe-Brusshe sighed with exhaustion and

seemed to desire silence.

Charles turned to his other neighbour who happened to be Mr. Francis

Vernon.

"Are you making a sojourn here, Sir?"

Vernon noticed the richness of Mr. Lovely's attire, made a rough

calculation of the value of his buckles, brooches and solitaire, and

answered very politely he hoped so indeed.

"I've not yet seen you at the _Blue Boar_, Sir. We make up a pleasant

party in the old Coffee-Room every night. There's young Tom Chalkley of

the Foot, Tony Clare, Peter Wingfield, Jack Winnington, Harry Golightly

of Campbell's Grey Dragoons, Blewforth of the _Lively_, and as many more

of us pass the time very pleasantly over some tolerable Port and very

excellent Burgundy."

"I doubt the company is delightful."

"'I faith, that's very true for when the wine makes us loquacious, d----

e, we sing, and when it makes us mum, why, d----e, the dice-box talks

for us. You'll join us, Sir?" he added, turning to Mr. Harthe-Brusshe.

"Proud," murmured that gentleman pensively regarding the rich scum

slowly hardening over the plate of soup to be attacked next.

"Let me see," said Charles, "to-night we must positively keep quiet in

deference to the Beau. Monday night I've promised to go to the

Assembly."

"What's that?" said Mr. Anthony Clare, a florid young gentleman on the

opposite side of the table. "Blewforth!" he called out to a naval

officer farther along. "Charles has forsook letters and is going to try

life for a change."

"Good G----," said the Lieutenant solemnly. "Charles crowding all canvas

after a petticoat?"

Charles looked somewhat disconcerted by this immediate perception of his

motives.

"I 'faith, you're in the wrong, Blewforth," he protested, "'tis to

please Ripple and that's the whole truth of the matter."

A roar of laughter greeted this excuse, and every young gentleman in

hearing vowed to exchange dice for dancing on Monday night.

"I saw Charles leave a note at a house in the Western Colonnade,"

remarked Ensign Chalkley of the Foot.

"A Valentine for a hundred guineas," said Clare.

"Name the charmer," shouted Blewforth, "name her, and egad, she shall be

the toast of the afternoon."

Mr. Vernon felt relieved. Somehow he had half suspected Lovely was in

pursuit of Miss Courteen. If he had not decided to wear purple sattin on

the day before and buried himself in the closet to extricate the suit,

he would have been still more suspicious of Lovely. The latter ignored

the friendly jeers.

"Shall we say Wednesday night, Sir?"

"I shall be honoured."

"May I beg the favour of your name, Sir? 'Tis customary with us to elect

our associates.'

"My name is Vernon. Francis Vernon of the Crescent, Curtain Wells--and

London."

It was Charles' turn to display apprehension. Here was a man well

dressed, of genteel appearance, living in the Crescent.

"Ah! the Crescent! I once had a notion to lodge there myself."

"'Tis a quiet position," said Vernon.

"So much the better for my Muse."

"You are a poet, Sir?"

"I have a metrical fancy."

"Try the Colonnade, Charles," bellowed the Lieutenant, "and your Muse'll

speedily become the most famous Toast of the time."

"Blewforth owns a spy-glass," said some one.

"I wish he would own a mirrour," said Charles, "his wig is infamous."

"His head is swollen since the w-war," stammered little Peter Wingfield,

"or else he was w-wounded in the wig." Blewforth, impervious to

smoaking, gave a loud guffaw.

Lovely and Vernon agreed to meet on the following Wednesday and the

conversation moved on general lines till the silver hammer of the Mayor

summoned the company to attend to the toasts. The eyes of the room were

on him as away up at the high table, he rose burly and majestick.

"Mr. Alderman Jobbins," he proclaimed, "the King!" Mr. Jobbins, the

youngest of the city fathers, blessed his sovereign with unctuous pride,

and the toast was drunk amid acclamations whose echo was drowned in

broken glass. Curtain Wells knew when to borrow from military manners.

Then the assembly tilted on its chairs after filling new glasses, and

composed itself to listen to Beau Ripple who had risen, monocle in hand.

When the murmur of delighted anticipation had sighed itself out on the

wings of a loud 'Hush,' the Great little Man with indescribable suavity

begged the company's permission to say a few words.

"Mr. Mayor, my lords, and gentlemen, may I say citizens? (a voice, 'You

may') for I think I am giving utterance to the sentiments of this

salubrious town when I protest that upon an occasion of such unique

interest and such immense significance, we no longer recognize any

distinction between visitors and residents (loud applause). We are

assembled this morning in order to honour a man for whom no honour is

sufficient. We are celebrating the twenty-first consecutive winter at

Curtain Wells of Sir Jeremy Dummer (loud cheers). He has been faithful

to us, gentlemen. Each year towards the close of the equinoctial gales,

his coach has clattered over the cobbles of Curtain Wells. Each year he

has alighted at the door of Number Seventeen, the Crescent. Each year he

has torn himself away from the gaiety of London in order to set us an

example of perseverance. Each year his arrival has encouraged other

gentlemen of grave address to put their faith in the cleansing springs

of Chalybeate. To be sure, his gout is as virulent as ever, but has he

despaired? No (cheers). Has he tried other remedies? No (cheers). He has

only been the more firmly convinced of the profound malignity of his

disorder and the more resolutely determined to annoy it by any and every

means in his power (continued applause). Twenty-one years ago Curtain

Wells was a different place. We had, it is true, this Civick Hall. We

had Crescent and Colonnade, Curtain Garden and Curtain Rotunda, Curtain

Wells and Curtain Pump Room, Curtain Hill and Curtain Dale. But we had

not your respected Mayor. In those days he was a younger, shall I add, a

more foolish man? I myself was still overshadowed by the reputation of

my great predecessor Beau Melon whose alabaster bust consecrates the

Assembly Rooms.

"In those days, gentlemen, coaches very rarely exceeded the rate of four

miles an hour, and as you have heard, the new Machine proposes to travel

at an uniform speed of six. Twenty-one years! This valetudinarian

majority should make the youngest of us pause and reflect. Twenty-one

years of Chalybeate (a groan from the back of the room).

"Mr. Mayor, my lords and gentleman, I propose the health of Sir Jeremy

Dummer and venture to assert that the time-honoured toast was never

before fraught with such significance. The health of Sir Jeremy Dummer!

It is in order to commemorate his health that we are assembled. Gout

has done many ill deeds, ruined many tempers, spoiled many legs, but for

this at least we should be grateful---- it has afforded us the spectacle

of a gallant gentleman faithful to his earliest prescription, hopeful of

an ultimate cure and charitable to the town of his adoption. (Loud and

prolonged applause.) One moment, gentlemen: let me add that the guest of

this entertainment has expressed a desire to present the town with a new

set of mugs for the publick fountains." (Volleys of applause.)

Beau Ripple after leading the toast with three very urbane Huzzas

resumed his seat, and Sir Jeremy Dummer doddered up to make his reply.

As it consisted chiefly of a long and detailed account of his symptoms

and extended over half an hour, and as you, with knowledge of his speedy

death, will not bear it with the slumberous equanimity of his

contemporaries, I shall not recount it. It is enough to say that when it

was concluded, everybody woke with a start and cheered vociferously.

Then the Mayor proposed the health of Mr. Ripple, and somebody else

proposed the health of the Mayor, and so on until all the dignitaries

had had enough wine drunk to their long life to ensure for every one of

them an undiseased immortality.

When the toasts were finished, the quality adjourned to the Civick

Chamber to meet the ladies over a dish of tea, while the quantity

marched off to put the seal on a great occasion by talking it over in

the various taprooms round the town.

Vernon was not inclined to brave the extension of the affair when he

perceived his new friends cautiously escaping from the Beau. He hated to

be conspicuous, and it was a small pleasure to meet his Phyllida among

the dowagers. Indeed, he was beginning to wish he had been less hasty in

taking lodgings in the Crescent, and the prospect of the _Blue Boar_ was

already alluring enough to make him inquire the price of a room in that

merry house. So he asked if he might take Mr. Lovely's arm.

In the square, the elegant young gentlemen made a bright knot.

"What's to be done?" cried the Lieutenant.

"L-l-let's ride over to B-Baverstock Regis and s-see T-Tony's m-maiden

aunt," stammered little Peter Wingfield.

"Bravo!" shouted Charles.

Clare looked up in surprize. Charles was seldom willing to play the game

of light love. Could that chatter of Blewforth's have gone deeper than

he thought? There was a strange excitement about him--an excitement that

was aroused by something stronger than the civick wine. Was he in love?

Mr. Anthony Clare was puzzled.

"You must know, gentlemen," said Mr. Lovely, "that this maiden aunt is

of a very singular complexion. 'Tis usual, as we are all aware, to look

to maiden aunts for legacies and presents, but this lady, as I know by

the state of Tony's purse, gets more than she gives."

"Fie! Charles," protested his friend, "I vow your point of view

deteriorates." What could be the matter with him?

"Well, gentlemen," he continued, "since you are so set on meeting my

relatives, egad! you shall. We'll ride over to Baverstock to-night;

there are dances in Baverstock Barn, and the maids--maiden-aunts will

all be there. You'll come Charles?"

"Not another word. I'll lead the love-chase or, shall we say, the legacy

hunt."

"And you, sir?" Clare continued with a bow to Vernon.

After a moment's hesitation due, no doubt, to bashfulness, the latter

assented, and in a trice the whole party went whooping and holloaing in

the direction of the _Blue Boar_.

And all this time, Phyllida was counting the kisses in her teacup while

she watched Miss Sukey Morton search energetically for strangers.

_Chapter the Sixth_

BAVERSTOCK BARN

Vernon left his companions at the door of his lodgings in order to adapt

his dress to the road, having settled with them to meet presently at the

_Blue Boar_ where a horse was to be saddled in readiness. He wondered

while pulling on his riding-boots what was the monetary value of his new

friends. They talked of play; but was it high enough to make their

fellowship worth joining? They were all apparently expensive in their

tastes and habits, but seemed so young and irresponsible. That however

was rather an advantage. They belonged to the World, the World that is

of St. James' Street; yet if they were callow pigeons, why were they

learning to fly to far from the nest which bred them?

Now Mr. Vernon had got hold of a wrong analysis. These young men of

Curtain Wells in spite of their outward freshness were not at all fit

for the table. They had tough breasts beneath an array of fine feathers.

This society of theirs, so remote from the larger society of London,

with a toleration of good and bad alike, was in its essence eclectick,

like a regiment or a college. An air of genial self-satisfaction clung

to it nourished by rules and opinions and traditions which had never

been proved to be false or harmful. The members were all clipped to a

pattern and displayed a wealth of blooms in a prim setting. Even Lovely

straggled too much, and was only allowed to disturb the fellowship on

account of his decorative qualities and because he was evidently only a

strong sport from the conventional habit of growth.

Vernon in making up his mind to join this elegant association was quite

unaware that the condescension was on the side of youth. He was willing

to instruct them in the ways of the great world, but found what he had

been compelled to learn, they knew by inherited instinct. He was

ignorant of their existence: they on the other hand had experienced many

Mr. Vernons. Still he was endowed with too much insight not to

understand almost immediately that he must imitate their standards, and

soon caught the tone of his companions well enough to be voted an

acquisition.

However, as he wrestled with his riding-boots, he was distinctly at a

loss. This ride to Baverstock was presumably an expedition of gallantry,

and yet he had felt it unwise to obtrude a jest appropriate to the

occasion. The conversation had possessed a certain elusive ribaldry;

women were discussed with frankness, and yet he had not ventured to

boast of his own conquests. These young men chattered of love, much as

they would have talked of fox-hunting. Love was a theory, a philosophy

with a cant terminology of its own. And yet the analogy was incomplete.

No man would hesitate to chronicle his leaps, but then no man would

confess to having shot a fox. There was the rub. He was a fox shooter;

these were hunters. Gadslife! How absurdly young they all were. And this

Lovely? He was evidently more prudish than the rest of them--a man of

sentiment who objected to either mode of death. He would like to see

this paragon of virtue who had stared so coldly at the tale of old Sir

John Columbine and his frail exquisite consort, put to the test. From

that moment he began to hate Charles, and stamped the wrinkles out of

his boots with considerable feeling. He would devote himself to emptying

Lovely's purse before he tried the rest of them.

Vernon in a very pleasant frame of mind strolled through the chill of

approaching twilight. The humiliation of Lovely was in a way achieved as

soon as conceived. This was how Vernon always escaped from awkward

situations. He so seldom faced facts.

An outraged husband once threatened him with a riding whip, and Vernon

promptly climbed out by the window. In the street he only remembered he

had successfully seduced the wife, and forgot the uncomfortable

epilogue. He behaved to futurity in the same generous way as he treated

the past.

Presently he found the company assembled in the yard of the inn, with a

dozen horses pawing the cobbles impatient of the cold. They were soon

mounted and the arched entry rang again with the sound of hoofs as they

trotted through the High Street.

"Which way?" shouted Vernon who was in front.

"Straight ahead and turn to the right," answered Clare. "We've eight

miles to go and a good road to go on."

"Huzza!" shouted Vernon who felt that extreme heartiness was the correct

attitude.

In the clap and clack of the horses' hoofs, the affectation passed

unnoticed.

How the fat shopkeepers stared to see these young gentlemen cantering

away in the late afternoon, 'Some wild frolick,' they thought and turned

half-regretfully to attend to their customers who were just as much

interested in the jolly troop as themselves. Children scrambled from the

gutters on to the pavement with yells of dismay as the horsemen

scattered their mud pies. Little girls effected heroick rescues of

favourite dolls from the very gate of death and little boys bowled their

hoops between the legs of wayfarers with more assiduity than usual, in

their struggles to avoid the legs of the horses.

Lieutenant Blewforth like most sailors was an inferior rider, but on

this occasion he surpassed himself, and sat his horse like a Bedouin. He

only wished buxom Miss Page would step to the door of the cook-shop and

behold his prowess. Unluckily at the very moment when his ambition was

in process of achievement, his mount swerved, and the gay Lieutenant

found himself at his charmer's feet. The inevitable idler secured the

horse, and Blewforth, having no small change, was obliged to reward him

with a crown, and what is more look as if he enjoyed the expense. To

give him credit, he certainly succeeded.

"Do you always propose yourself in that precipitous manner?" Charles

inquired as they cantered past the last house and gained the hedgerows.

"You pay very little heed to her corns."

The Lieutenant uttered an enormous guffaw that made his mount swerve

again.

"The Royal Navy is always so d-devilish romantick," stammered little

Peter Wingfield who looked like a precocious boy beside the burly

officer.

"By G--," puffed Blewforth, "that reminds me of a good story I heard of

an ensign in Bolt's. He was a d--d bashful man, and couldn't abide the

women. One day he was making his compliments to the Colonel's

daughter--a gaunt hussy of thirty-five summers or winters. He hung back

outside the parlour-door for some time, mustered up courage to enter at

last, dashed into the room and, tripping over his hanger, found himself

kneeling at her feet. This was a bad beginning truly, but in trying to

retrieve the position, he clutched the air and caught hold of her skinny

hand. They were married in the spring, and the garrison said he badly

wanted her money."

In the outburst of laughter which hailed the climax of the story, Vernon

asked with much interest what the young woman's dowry was worth. The

subject fascinated him.

"Don't know, sir," replied Blewforth, "but I saw the jade at Portsmouth

last year, and I'm d--d if L50,000 would have made her endurable."

They were riding through a pleasant country of meadows and small

streams; so Charles walked his mare to admire the willows empurpled by

the fast gathering dusk. Vernon seized the opportunity for conversation.

"A fine landskip," he remarked.

Charles looked up half-angry. He disliked a man who suited his words to

his own supposed tastes.

"It might be finer," he said shortly.

"Without a doubt," replied the other. "You'll pardon my ignorance, Mr.

Lovely, but of what does the entertainment before us consist?"

Charles' face grew clear again at once--at any rate, the man did not

claim omniscience.

"The entertainment, sir, is composed of fiddles and country dances

enjoyed by the light of tallow-dips in an old barn. There will be some

ploughboys, shepherds and farmers, with a few milkmaids and farm

wenches, and the whole will resemble a painted Dutch interior."

"And you propose to join the merrymaking?"

"We do."

"It should be a diverting experience."

"I hope so indeed. My friend Clare vows he has discovered a Venus

masquerading in fustian."

"His maiden-aunt in short?"

"The same. Like all small societies, sir, we have our intimate jests

which to a stranger must seem excessively threadbare."

"On the contrary," said Vernon, "they possess an engaging spontaneity

which flatters me with the suggestion that my own youth has not vanished

irreclaimably. And yet," he sighed, "I am a man whom the world insults

by claiming as its own."

"You have travelled?" inquired Charles.

"I have made the Grand Tour."

"That is a pleasure which I still owe to myself and to my country."

"You lack energy?"

"Of the kind expressed in gold."

"An hour's good luck at the tables."

"I've enjoyed some dozens," interrupted Lovely. "Almost enough to pay

for twice as many less fortunate periods."

"Then why continue to play?"

"Why fall in love? Why die in a consumption? Why live this life of ours

at all? Your question, sir, takes little account of mankind's innate

perversity, and no account at all of his tastes and disposition of

mind."

"On the contrary," argued Vernon, "I esteem all these at their greatest

effect, but regard with equal reverence the doctrine of free will. I

myself--but why should I fatigue you with personal anecdotes?"

"Pray continue," said Charles eagerly. He was always alert at a

confidence and plumed himself on his ability to read human character. In

this case curiosity outran discernment, and he failed to see the

improbability of a man like Vernon exposing his temperament without

securing a compensatory advantage.

"I myself, Mr. Lovely, was once addicted to the equally expensive habit

of intrigue, but I found it led me into so many cursed situations that I

forced myself to enjoy less compromising pastimes. I chose cards."

"Ah! cards!" commented Charles.

"But here again," Vernon continued, "I found the introduction of a

passionate element ruined at once my pleasure and my skill. I was

confounded. To be sure there remained wine, but whoever heard of a man's

will exercised by wine? To be frank, Mr. Lovely, I was unwilling to take

the risque of defeat."

"So I am to regard you as a disappointed voluptuary, a hedonist

philosopher whose premisses induced him to a false conclusion. No, no,

sir, keep your logick for speculations upon the soul, not the body."

"Sir," answered Vernon, "I found, indeed, that pleasure tormented by

passion was no pleasure at all, but pleasure divorced from any ulterior

emotion I soon discovered to be the highest good."

"So you would persuade me that you're an Epicurean who flings withered

rose leaves and drinks sour wine. Come, come, sir, I wager your fingers

would twitch and your lips quiver if one of us held a dice-box with a

deep stake on the main."

"I deny that."

"We shall see."

"I hope we may."

"Ay, sir, and I wager this affectation of indifference will not outlast

a week's ill luck, and as for woman, why the very dairymaids to-night

will kindle a spark in your eyes."

"My life on't, they will not," cried Vernon.

"Foregad! you wear too stolid a mask to convince me it is your natural

countenance."

This duologue, which seems to show that Mr. Lovely was younger and less

wise than we might have thought, was interrupted by the shouts of the

riders in front who wanted to know whether Charles imagined they were

part of a funeral pomp.

"For d----e!" shouted Mr. Golightly, "we are all nodding like plumes

and the twilight obscures the undeniable charms of the prospect."

Baverstock Barn, like a great cathedral, loomed upon them at last. As

they dismounted, revelry and the drawling chatter of rustick voices,

mingled with the tuning of fiddles, came from within, while the

flickering light from the open door enchanted a heap of roots to the

appearance of huge gems.

Clare approached the entrance while the rest stood by their horses.

"Farmer Hogbin!" he sang out.

"Who be caaling?"

"Mr. Anthony Clare!"

"Come in now, do 'ee come in."

"I've brought over a party with me, farmer?"

"Maids, do 'ee hear that? Maister Clare have brought wi'un a passel o'

gallantry."

There was much jingling merriment from the maids.

"Now then Jock, Tommas, William, Jarge, Joe, Sam, Peter, Ern, move your

shanks and stable they hosses."

The farmer, a huge Falstaff of a man quite in proportion to his barn,

towered in the doorway obscuring the light, while the farm hands clumped

with heavy legs towards the horses.

"Gi' they pleanty o' oats, my lads."

"A' right," mumbled the lads in chorus.

"Come in, my gentlemen, come in. Never mind for a speck of mud; the

maids'll dust 'ee."

This sally provoked a ripple of laughter from the maids, and a chuckle

from the young gentlemen.

The farmer surveyed them solemnly as they stepped into the barn.

"Why, you be all in top-boots?" he shouted. "Ho! ho! my maids, ye'll get

thy twinkling toes rarely trod on, or shall I lend 'em my slippers to

each in turn?"

This was considered splendid fooling, and laughter again resounded.

"Nay, farmer, you're in the wrong," said Charles producing a pair of

pumps from the pockets of his riding coat.

"Why! dang me, if they han't brought a King's wardrobe wi'en. Eh! maids,

you must mind your modesties to-night."

The maids, huddled together like a bunch of red apples, were set shaking

with laughter at this warning--as if by a boisterous wind.

"Who will help us with our boots?" asked Clare as he subsided upon a

truss of straw and flung his legs wide apart.

There was considerable whispering from the heart of the bunch till one

of the maids was pushed by her companions out into the open with

ejaculations of "Go on, stoopid."

"Thee needst not let on to be so backward." "Thee wast forthy enough

behind the kitchen door yester'een." "Eh! bustle thyself, great gowk,"

and others of like freedom of opinion.

The maid selected for Mr. Clare was blooming indeed.

"Cream and claret," murmured Charles.

"Gad! a Venus by a Dutch master truly," commented Vernon.

"She's no g-ghost," stammered little Peter Wingfield.

_"Farewell and adieu to you, gay Spanish ladies,

Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain."_

sang or rather bellowed Mr. Blewforth, slapping his thigh with a

nautical zest.

_"Our Blewforth, careening far nearer than Cadiz

Will give to green fields what was meant for the Main."_

continued Charles to the same tune.

"Give what?" asked Tom Chalkley.

"The breezy charm of his manner," replied Charles.

Now ensued jests, giggles, laughter, pranks, and struggles, as each

gentleman persuaded a fair to wrestle with his riding-boots. Vernon who

had forgotten to provide himself with pumps remained aloof from the

merriment not sorry for an opportunity to convince Mr. Lovely of his

remoteness from anything so vulgar as excitement.

Great was the mirth of everybody when the Lieutenant produced an

enormous Valentine that depicted a peculiarly fat Cupid winking at a

dairymaid over a brimming bowl of milk. Greater still was the mirth when

he presented the token with much earnestness to the bashful lass they

called Margery, and it became uproarious indeed when he explained he had

wished to offer it on the preceding night, but had been deterred by Mr.

Clare's reputed jealousy.

"Whoever heard tell of such a thing in the milk before?"

"Tis a Cupid, Margery," said Mr. Clare.

"There now and if I didn't go for to think it were a baby," declared

Margery.

Farmer Hogbin coming back from attending to the horses in time to hear

this remark called out in his great voice:

"Don't 'ee fret thyself, my lass, what thee wants'll come soon enough, I

warrant. Now my gentlemen, take your partners, we was just a-going to

begin a round dance. Tune up your squeaking boxes, fiddlers, and tip us

_Come lasses and lads_."

The fiddlers smiled encouragement at the dancers as they struck off with

the gallant old tune. Even Mr. Vernon, boots and all, was made to give

an arm to buxom Mrs. Crumplehorn, the cowman's wife. The sanded floor of

the barn resounded with the perpetual tripping of toes and heels.

_"Come, lasses and lads,

Take leave of your dads."_

The waist of every fair was encircled by a neat arm that tapered to a

fine wrist as the dancers swung down to their places. Little Peter

Wingfield unable to enfold the ample Polly was given her pinner as if he

were indeed the child his appearance and behaviour proclaimed him.

Every one admired the first two couples that took the middle. Mr. Lovely

was so graceful and Mr. Clare was so thorough. Round they went and down

they went and across and through and over and under while the rest of

the dancers clapped and tapped their appreciation. Faster and faster

went the fiddles, faster and faster went the shoes. Thicker and thicker

rose the sand and saw-dust from the floor until the barn seemed to be

the centre of a raging storm, such a wind the petticoats made and so

dense became the atmosphere. Thunder was added when the gigantick farmer

and the burly Lieutenant, whom merry chance had thrown into the arena

together, charged through their Pas Seul, bellowing the while with

Gargantuan laughter.

At last the fiddles stopped and, panting mutual congratulations, the

exhausted couples subsided upon the various trusses of straw laid along

the side of the barn. Even the ivory paleness of Mr. Vernon's cheeks

wore a faint tinge of carmine, and some curls of his modish wig were

very slightly ruffled.

Jock, Tommas, William, Jarge, Joe, Samuel, Peter, and Ern, who had

gathered into a critical knot, feeling themselves eclipsed by these

active visitors, were released from their sheepishness by a demand for

the bowls of spiced ale.

After this, they played Kiss in the Ring; and it was truly a most

exhilarating sight to see Mr. Anthony Clare with flapping coat-tails in

pursuit of the blooming Margery who was soon caught not very unwillingly

as we may suppose. It was ludicrous in the extreme to see little Peter

Wingfield darting hither and thither like a little brown rabbit. His

little white wig seemed to twinkle like a tail set too high on his

little brown body. But he let himself be caught by Polly beneath a

lingering spray of mistletoe, and how all the world laughed when she

lifted him up and gave him a resonant kiss on his little red lips. As

for the large farmer and the burly Lieutenant they thundered after

every maid in the barn quite regardless of any rules and, as I think,

kissed the most of them very heartily indeed.

But the chief excitement of all was caused by a great white owl that

came flapping down from the rafters and put out half the candles with

his great sweeping wings. How all the lasses screamed and how earnestly

the lads reassured them, and though the former were repeatedly told that

owls while feeding on mice had not yet imbibed their habits, they

persistently held their skirts a little higher than usual and nestled

very close and comfortable to the exquisite young gentlemen from the

_Blue Boar_.

Then, of course, they all danced _Sir Roger de Coverley_, and drank more

spiced ale while they rested. Somebody called on Charles for a song and

he gave them one of his own which everybody agreed was much too serious

for so jolly an occasion. Charles swore he had composed the tune

himself, but everybody else vowed they had heard it before, and as for

the words, there was not a trace of originality about them. However, his

voice was pleasant enough as he sang:

_"When in the dews of early morn

My Chloe trips for may,

Across the fields of springing corn

I watch her pass,

The fairest lass,

That e'er was won with vows of love

Upon a summer's day._

_"Ah! shame that I should leave thee, dear,

And cross the roaring sea,

That I should leave thee lonely here:

Think not, sweetheart,

Because we part

And I to foreign lands do rove,

Thou art less dear to me."_

Blewforth protested he had said good-bye with almost identical rhymes

in every port of the two hemispheres, and moreover was not ashamed to

confess as much. All the maids, however, grew quite tearful and vowed

the evening was spoiled; indeed, they made such ado that Charles sang

one of Mr. d'Urfey's ballads to cheer their spirits and succeeded in

providing such a burst of laughter that the echo of it never died away

during the rest of the evening.

Of course, it was decided they must dance _Sir Roger_ once more and,

that duty accomplished, it was discovered that Anthony Clare and Margery

had vanished. Of course everybody wondered where they could have gone,

and when they returned in time to take a last sip at the spiced ale, it

was noticed that Margery hung back in the shadows with a melancholy

expression of countenance that made her companions nudge each other with

wise looks.

Soon word came that the horses were saddled and waiting. Good-byes were

murmured, and many a promise to come again was faithfully sworn and many

a kiss given and taken. The ousted yokels held each a soil-stained hand

for their genteel rivals to mount from. The maids stood huddled in the

flickering light of the open barn-door; Farmer Hogbin bellowed a last

farewell which was thunderously echoed by the Lieutenant, as with

flushed faces and half-regretful memories, the horsemen cantered towards

Curtain Wells under a sailing moon.

Clare rode by Charles to hear the judgment of Paris upon his

tatterdemalion Venus.

"I'd liefer for her sake that you were overseas next barley-harvest,"

said Charles shortly.

"Plague on the man, what a cold stream it is!"

"My excellent Tony, your Blowzabella will be happier mating on a straw

pallet with Hodge than living under your protection in London."

"She would see the world."

"Pshaw! her world is a garden of gillyflowers. She was never meant to be

pushed out of sight for an importunate visitor."

"She would return."

"Like a spent primrose fit only for the bonfire."

"I could secure an annuity for her."

"You'll tire of her in London. Drain the claret from her cheeks, smear

the downy bloom, and you'll find rank lees and rotten core. Hodge never

would. No, no, the thought of so much comely maidenhood languishing for

your velvet-sleeved caresses is merely droll."

Clare loved and admired Charles too much to despise his tirades however

self-consciously virtuous they might appear. He felt more than ever

convinced that his friend was in love, in love too with some one the

very antithesis of the dairymaid. He would try one more test.

"But if I told I was in mind to wed my Venus?"

Charles jerked his reins in astonishment.

"Z----ds, Tony look round you. There are maids more fit I say. Why wed

a mountain, however rich in pasture when you can wed a mountain-nymph?"

Clare decided his suspicion was confirmed. Lovely objected to milkmaids

on the score of a taste sharpened to an exquisite point of refinement by

an ideal passion. He was postulating mere theories of life on account of

the charms of one dear She. Who was the witch? She had not withdrawn him

from their late junketing whatever her spells.

"Your morality, Charles, did not prevent you from entering very heartily

into the spirit of our pastoral piece."

They had fallen behind the others, and through the silent night Charles'

voice caught a melody from the wakening year as he rhapsodized.

"Fore Heaven! I love the country, I love these creamy hussies. I love

their swains with the sweet earth all about them. I was happy to-night!

I was happy with those dear people. I could lose my tricked-out self in

that twinkling barn. I bowed to merriment as a tree bows to the wind. I

wanted to hear the singing hopes and joys and desires of humble people.

There we were, all of us populating a frieze for some merry artist god.

We were as wax moulded to some fantastick dancing shape. On these

occasions, I can surmize at immortality and imagine the heart of the

universe. I doubt you think I'm babbling nonsense, but I'm trying to

tell you I was entirely disinterested in our merry-making of to-night."

Clare stretched out to touch the poet's arm.

"Try to think that I, chattering of Margery, am not more personal than

you. 'Tis true, I piped a love-ditty, but though it may trouble the bush

and brake of a small wood, it would seem thin fluting----"

"To any but her," Charles interrupted. "The thinnest tune will charm one

who is nearer than you to the primitive animal too easily quelled by

sweet songs. Pipe to a crowd, Tony, but musick dedicated to a solitary

shepherdess at the sight of whom your mouth will be awry in a year's

time is ill work for her."

"I doubt you're right," said Clare softly. "You are compassionate to

poor nymphs to-night, Charles. Have you met a goddess?"

"Tony, I have."

"May you prosper!"

"Thank'ee. I'll tell you more of her when I know more myself."

They urged their horses to a trot and were silent for a while. Then

Clare asked Charles what he thought of Vernon.

"Oh! a statue positively. I doubt the whole affair was to him vastly

low.

"Umph! there was a permanent leer carved on his lips. I dislike the

fellow."

"Nay! you're too stern in your judgments. He has promised me an evening

for Hazard."

Clare smiled. It was useless to remonstrate with a man whom the thought

of two dice transformed into a machine with glassy eyes and curiously

sensitive fingers.

So they rode silently.

Charles could see Phyllida in the moon-enchanted clouds, sometimes with

the trim waist of a dice-box.

_Chapter the Seventh_

SUNDAY MORNING

Sunday morning at Curtain Wells was eminently a day of rest. A stroke of

organizing genius on the part of Beau Ripple had abolished the fatigues

of early Chalybeate by transferring the corporeal obligations of

fashionable humanity to an hour which would not interfere with the

respect owed to the spirit.

"A glass of Chalybeate," he had remarked, "will promote the proper

digestion of the homily. Moreover, the vanity of post-religious

promenades will be considerably mitigated by the discipline of the

Pump."

At Curtain Wells, therefore, soon arose the pleasant custom of inviting

one's friends and neighbours to partake of a substantial breakfast

before setting out to St. Simon's parish church. The neighbours, if

gentlemen, were expected to provide a suitable escort for their

lady-hosts, and there was not a dame in the town who did not make it a

point of honour to be armed in at the great West door on fine mornings

or handed out of her chair with cautious ceremony if the weather was

unsettled.

The Widow Courteen was not the woman to neglect or despise any

prescriptive right conferred upon her sex. It was not surprizing,

therefore, to see Major Constantine Tarry and Mr. Gregory Moon turning

solemnly into the Crescent on the first Sunday morning whose events I am

privileged to chronicle. The demeanour of neither gentleman would have

allowed us even a momentary hesitation as to the day. The Sabbath wrote

itself in the devout wrinkles of Mr. Moon's domed forehead and expressed

itself in the stiff curls of the Major's military wig. As they drew near

to Mrs. Courteen's house the latter voiced a desire to see eggs and

bacon upon the breakfast table, and the former encouraged his ambition

by repeating a legend of a fecundity among hens unusual at this season

of the year. The meditation carried the two gentlemen to Mrs. Courteen's

door in silence.

"Your turn to knock, Tarry," said Mr. Moon, in a rather depressed voice,

as he fumbled with the steps from which the Major assaulted the door

with military abruptness.

To them after a decent interval appeared Thomas in resplendent waistcoat

of Sunday and with nose polished to the limit of a nose's power of

brightness.

"Is your mistress within?" inquired the Major.

"Within and awaiting you," said solemn Mr. Thomas.

"Then I think, Mr. Moon," said the Major with half a turn, "we will step

inside immediately."

"I think we may venture," replied the latter.

They were ushered into the passage where Thomas received their hats and

canes. Thomas had such a sober effect on his fellow men that the

slightest action in which he took part was conducted with a ritual at

once austere and grand. One felt that the delivery of a hat, smallsword,

cane, or message possessed at least the dignity, the entire absence of

all worldly considerations that belong to the Sunday alms.

"Will your mistress receive us in the front parlour or the back parlour

this morning?" inquired Tarry whose legs were prepared for either

emergency.

"In the front parlour," said Thomas. "Miss Thomasina was ill this

morning."

"In the back parlour, I presume?" said Moon.

"Very ill with retching and divers pains," continued Thomas.

"Poor Thomasina," said the Major with an attempt at jocularity.

"A feeble animal," said the footman, "and too fond of grass; and the

grass of this city is fit only for Nebuchadnezzar."

A bright fire was crackling in the grate, and on each hob a kettle of

burnished copper sang with considerable sentiment.

Thomas withdrew, and the Major and Mr. Moon took up the Englishman's

position on the hearthrug with coat-tails wide apart to allow the

grateful warmth free access to whatever chillness of morning air still

clung about their bodies. So they remained, silent, wrapped in the

dignified contemplation of an inferior painting in oils on the opposite

wall. No doubt in reality their thoughts were far away, possibly in the

chaste seclusion of the Widow's own room or possibly in the kitchen

whence from time to time ascended the pleasant jingle and chink that

heralds food's approach.

No doubt they would both have stood there long enough for us to moralize

on England and the greatness of England, had not Mrs. Courteen come into

the room just then.

Ponto, Phyllida's black spaniel, sidled in with the breakfast and

Phyllida herself followed, and the freshness of her in the morning was

strewn about the room like petals of roses.

Conversation at breakfast suited itself to the solemnity of the day. The

widow sighed at every remark that was made, and in the gentle pathos of

her manner indicated placidly her conviction of fleeting time and

sorrow, and all those melancholy reflexions which are considered proper

to the Sabbath. However, at all times she was accustomed to preserve a

cloistral rigour of speech before her daughter. No one loved better to

gather the easier blooms on the safe side of the garden-god's perfumed

hedge, but they could only be plucked in numerous corners of ballrooms

and during secluded promenades. The presence of Phyllida made her

mother's blood so much rennet. Conversation became mere verbal curds and

whey.

However, the Justice talked into his cup of the swift approach of

Spring, of the benefit of sun, the intolerable increase in vagrancy, the

need for repressing poachers. If platitudes were esteemed as high as

rolling hexameters, Moon would have been among the epical poets. As for

Major Tarry, he thrashed each topick at if his tongue were a little

rattan cane. One felt that any observation was regarded by that gallant

gentleman as an awkward recruit. He had an air of drilling the

conversation. After breakfast, the various members dispersed to acquire

a seemly attitude towards matters of religion.

Since the search for attitudes occupies a vast deal of human energy, it

may not be out of place to inform my reader where the half-dozen

required for Morning Prayer at St. Simon's were found.

The Widow Courteen found hers hidden between powder puff and patch-box.

Miss Courteen found hers between the lines of a three-cornered note.

Madam Betty found hers in the coral secrets of Miss Courteen's left ear.

Mr. Thomas found his in a Bible as large and heavy as a Bible should be.

Major Tarry found his in the stem of a churchwarden pipe.

Mr. Moon found his in the best attitude that exists.

Soon Mrs. Courteen's chairmen were knocking at the door and the whole

party prepared to set out. The widow seated in her chair, hummed a hymn

_tempo di minuetto_. The Major marched upon her left and the Justice

upon her right, and Thomas marched in front. Phyllida and Betty kept to

the pavement and had scarcely time to wonder if all the world would be

at church, when they arrived at the porch and found that all the world

certainly was.

As the Major had handed the widow into her chair, Mr. Moon handed her

out, and the party of Mrs. Courteen proceeded to Mrs. Courteen's pew,

while Mrs. Courteen's chairmen carried the chair to an alley beloved of

chairmen and proceeded to doze away the Sabbath morning in its damask

recesses and were no doubt as comfortable as their mistress in the musty

cushions of St. Simon's pews. In the Western gallery, three fiddles, two

hautboys, and a bass viol squeaked and groaned with much fervour. In the

pulpit the parson squeaked and groaned with equal fervour and in the

desk below the clerk squeaked and groaned with most fervour of all. When

the parson threatened damnation, the ladies fanned themselves rapidly

and when he spoke of alms and oblations, they consoled themselves with

carraway comfits.

The service was rather worldly and seemed remote enough from anything at

all spiritual, but nevertheless in so far as it was indigenous to fair

King Richard's land, it should exact from us as much respect as we owe

to a Chippendale chair and that is or ought to be very great indeed. If

so much condemnatory fervour was equivalent to breaking these

butterflies of fashion upon a religious wheel, it cannot be denied that

the exquisite bloom of their ruined wings was a great deal more pleasant

to regard than the spattered blood and bones of earlier and more

tangible martyrs to an extreme mode.

The parson continued to prophesy hell-fire. But hell-fire means so many

kinds of illumination--certainly it had an invincible attraction for

these gay moths and butterflies. Perhaps they thought of it merely as a

huge aggregation of wax candles by which most of them had more than once

been morally singed. If any permanency of emotion was desirable, it

would certainty be more endurable in heat and gaiety than in chill

aerial solitudes. And, thanks to chickens, there would always be painted

fans. This was the sum of the congregation's united reflection during

the sermon; individually, no doubt, each soul played with more

particular premisses, but the ultimate conclusion was the same for all.

After so much damnation, the blessing was a rhetorical anti-climax.

Clouds had gathered during the homily due, no doubt, to the violence of

the preacher and, as the worshippers tripped out through the great West

door, the clouds burst and the streaming rain inclined them more

favourably than ever to the prospect of eternal warmth.

The morning's fair promise had been utterly belied, and many appealing

glances were launched at Mr. Ripple as he beckoned to his chairman.

Surely he would not be so barbarous as to force so much accumulated

fine raiment through mud and water, to drink the latter element in a

less pleasing form. But Mr. Ripple was inexorable: he stepped into his

gilded chair, regardless of appeal: the chairmen tightened their muscles

for the long pull uphill, and Gog and Magog, the diminutive negroes

balanced one on each step, guarded their master from interruption. Now

ensued shouts, whistles, cockcrows and screams. Hats were waved, canes

flourished, and lily-white hands shaken. All this uproar was due to the

fact that there were just half as many coaches and chairs as were

required, and when these were filled, and on their way to the Pump Room,

there remained in the church too many foolish virgins, too many

improvident dowagers, too many thoughtless beaux.

The rain fell in torrents, and the last vehicle had turned the corner.

A desolate remnant surveyed the situation. It was wet enough.

Now arose one of those crises which are inseparable from a despotism.

Somebody, for his presumption will always remain anonymous, somebody

suggested that the idea of climbing the hill of health in such a

downpour was unimaginable.

The stranded exquisites depended for the moment entirely on their rouge

for colour.

"Rebellion," they muttered and the ominous word flapped over their heads

and darkened the gloom more profoundly.

"The Beau will be furious."

"He will never forgive us."

"We shall be banished."

"Curtain Wells will no longer know us."

Again the daring voice was upraised:

"We are strong enough to defy Ripple. He has no right to make us wade

through mud for a whim of his own. If we do so, we'll do so in shifts

and shirts." The unknown voice gathered force with each new proposition,

and the startled exquisites huddled closer in a very ecstasy of

perturbation.

"Shall damask flowers lose their beauty, shall silver lace be tarnished

and broideries lack lustre because Ripple has commanded the impossible?

Silk is the fashion, ay! and watered silk, but not sodden silk. Well was

it named the Pump Room, for such shall we become, mere pumps exuding

moisture at the propulsion of a tyrant!"

The apparent carelessness of the unknown tyrannicide had its effect; a

suspicion began to creep in that Mr. Ripple's domination was based on

insecurity. The thin end of this destructive wedge was enough to break

open the fortress of their duty and, the rain stopping for a moment, the

stranded exquisites hurried home to discuss the probable result of their

revolt over hot rum and lemon. Up at the Pump Room Mr. Ripple missed

many a well-known face that Sunday, and his urbane countenance lost some

of its smoothness as the minutes rolled by without the arrival of a

single person on foot.

At the expiration of the quarter of an hour, he despatched Gog to see

what had happened and when Gog came back with the news that the stranded

exquisites had one and all departed to their own lodgings, Mr. Ripple

ascended his marble pedestal with an air of determination.

"My lords, ladies and gentlemen," he began, and just then Magog hurried

up with the Beau's glass of chalybeate. The latter looked at it for a

moment. Pity and anger fought visibly for the mastery. Anger won, and

the remorseless Beau dashed the glass into a thousand sparkling

fragments.

"The Pump Room will be closed until--until this--," he faltered over the

description of such ingratitude, "until the extraordinary behaviour of

certain visitors has been justified, if it can be justified. There will

be no Assembly to-morrow night."

The company shivered unanimously and the Beau, dismissing his chairmen,

walked forth into the rain with all the dignity in the world. It is said

he ruined three suits of unparagoned cut that fatal day by walking about

the principal thoroughfares of Curtain Wells for the remainder of a very

wet afternoon.

_Chapter the Eighth_

THE GREAT REBELLION

Not unnaturally, the only topick of that memorable Sunday was the

rebellion. The excitement it raised far exceeded anything of the sort

not excepting the Jacobite rising, and the oldest inhabitant of the

Wells positively asserted that the landing of the Duke of Monmouth was

altogether inferior in the quality of emotional interest.

Sirloins of beef were allowed to freeze into glaciers of fat, horse

radish lost its sting, and the most frothy ale was flat in the presence

of such an absorbing topick of conversation. When at last everybody,

momentarily exhausted, sought recuperation in the Sunday dinner,

everybody ate so fast to be the sooner at the coffee-house or the Town

Hall or the Assembly Rooms or some such equally renowned haunt of gossip

that everybody had a remarkably bad attack of indigestion.

From every doorway the crowds hurried forth after dinner, scorning the

sacred forty winks. But coffee-house, Town Hall, and Assembly Rooms were

closed, bolted, barred and shuttered, and for a sign over each was a

scroll of parchment on which was inscribed in the finest gold leaf:

_Closed till further notice. By order. Horace Ripple._

Disconsolately the ladies trooped home again to discuss developments

over a dish of Bohea; eagerly the gentlemen trotted to the _Blue Boar_

only to be told that nobody save lodgers could be admitted.

Most of them admired the decision of the Great little Man, but the

rebels who, having once started, felt bound to hold out if only against

the censure of the faithful, laughed very loudly and boldly and said it

was all very well to close the places of publick entertainment on

Sunday, that was only a loss of two hours custom to the proprietors, but

on the next day, a very different tale would be told. So they prophesied

as they tripped home to their pipes and hot rum, with a twirl of their

elegant canes, a shake of their exquisite heads, and a _Whack

row-de-dow_ from their irreverent lips.

The faithful who had seen the Beau in the first flood of his wrath were

not so sanguine. They knew that like the late King of France he could

say _L'etat, c'est moi_, and what shopkeeper, innkeeper, or porter,

would be brave enough to defy him?

The sun set on a gloomy town and everybody went to bed at half-past

eight o'clock having nothing better to do.

Mr. Ripple had earlier in the afternoon assured himself of Mr. Lovely's

fidelity, and in the company of the young gentlemen of the _Blue Boar_,

passed a very pleasant evening over some capital Burgundy opened at his

expense. He sent down messages to my Lord Cinderton and my Lord Vanity

begging the favour of their company, and both my lords hurried back as

fast as their dignified legs would carry them. Of course, they quite

agreed with Mr. Ripple that the outbreak was scandalous and were

determined to support his decrees against the whole of society provided

they were not included in the excommunication. The news of Sir Jeremy

Dummer's sudden decease was brought in, and Mr. Ripple, deeply moved by

the melancholy event, ascribed it to the horror with which the old

baronet was overwhelmed at the defiance of himself. It was soon

announced in every drawing-room that Sir Jeremy Dummer had died of an

apoplexy brought on by the sight of the rebel abstainers from morning

Chalybeate.

It was arranged, almost in silence, that everybody faithful to the great

Beau, should repair to the Pump Room on the following morning, dressed

in funereal black, a quarter of an hour earlier than usual. They might

not be admitted, but their devotion would carry its own reward, and

would certainly afford the Beau confidence in the loyalty of the most of

his subjects. It was farther arranged that a deputation of the leading

visitors and residents should wait upon him at his lodgings with an

address black-edged, assuring him of their sorrow and fidelity. As for

the rebels, they must make what terms they could.

At eleven o'clock of Monday forenoon the deputation waited upon the Beau

and was ushered over the Turkey carpet into his urbane presence.

Apparently he was quite untouched by the almost servile assurance of

loyalty contained in the address. He begged leave to inform the company

that, while sensible of their compliment, he could not permit any

publick amusement until the ringleaders of the revolt had, hat in hand,

implored his forgiveness. He added he had reluctantly despatched mounted

messengers to Leamington, Cheltenham, Bristol Well, Brighthelmstone,

Harrowgate, Scarborough, Tunbridge and the Bath, begging his brethren to

refuse admittance to any new arrivals until farther warning. He was

confident that his appeal would not be disregarded. The abashed

deputation withdrew, having effected nothing. Monday passed gloomily

enough. There were no chairmen, there were no chairs, there were no

coaches, there was no Assembly. The shops were all closed: the Pump Room

was closed: coffee-houses, chocolate-houses and taverns were all closed.

The rebels were now merged almost imperceptibly into loyalists but a few

still held out, and two of the more callous--I will not affront the

living world with their names--went so far as to send out invitations to

a party of Quadrille. Six equally hardened rebels arrived at the time

appointed. Two tables were formed, the candles were lighted, the guineas

stood piled in glittering dozens, the cards were dealt, when suddenly

the door was flung open and Mr. Ripple in black sattin, armed with a

spade, marched into the room.

"I think, ladies and gentlemen, that I am Spadille this evening," he

proclaimed in a voice of ice.

The eight rebels dropped their cards. It was impossible to play with any

calmness in the presence of that menacing figure whose contempt was so

sublime. The ladies fluttered from the room in dismay.

"Gentlemen," said the Beau, "you will call at my house to-morrow with

the humblest apologies for this evening's outrage."

Then he vanished from the room. It only remains to add that the

gentlemen did call at the Great House on the following morning where

their humiliation was complete if we may judge by an alabaster tablet

set up in the portico of the Assembly Rooms where it remained until the

other day, when, alas! the famous old rooms, so long the most frequented

shrine of wit and beauty in England, were pulled down to make way for a

publick library.

The tablet which was in the likeness of the Ace of Spades bore the

following inscription:

Sacred to the Memory of Justice, Decency, and Order,

This Tablet was erected by four Gentlemen

In Token of their sincere Penitence and resolute

Amendment.

Also in the profoundest Admiration and deepest

Respect for Beau Ripple, King of Curtain Wells,

for many years

Arbiter of Fashion

and

Oracle of Wit.

The Great and Only

Spadille.

_Chapter the Ninth_

THE ASSEMBLY

The submission of the recalcitrants secured once more to Curtain Wells

her publick amusements, and the Monday Assembly was announced for

Wednesday evening. Everybody determined that it should make up in

brilliance what it lacked in punctuality, and all private

conversaziones, routs, and Quadrille parties were, by general consent,

postponed.

We have temporarily got out of touch with the lesser intrigues of this

history, but truly all such were eclipsed by the great Rebellion whose

echoes drowned the whispered vows of lovers and the murmur of scandalous

small talk. The prospect of peace set everybody at amusement, with

vigour refreshed by the momentary lull in the gay tempest of their

lives.

An additional excitement surrounded this Assembly because it was

everywhere reported that the young gentlemen of the _Blue Boar_ would be

present in force. This rumour was, indeed, likely to prove true, for the

young gentlemen, already determined to discover Mr. Lovely's charmer,

were confirmed in their resolve by a desire to reciprocate the Beau's

lately implied confidence in a way more likely to gratify him than any

other.

The prospect of dancing with young Tom Chalkley of the Foot, Tony Clare,

and Peter Wingfield, or Lieutenant Blewforth of the _Lively_ fluttered

all the young ladies' hearts and very many of the old ones'. Moreover,

there were the Honourable Mr. Harthe-Brusshe and Mr. Golightly, and

above all, there was Mr. Charles Lovely who, if he were a poet, was also

a man of the extremest fashion and finest taste, and so at once genteel

and romantick. Altogether the postponed Assembly promised to be a great

success.

Miss Phyllida Courteen hoped that her dear Amor would make an exception

for once, but Mr. Vernon declared he would by no means commit himself to

such publick adoration of his fair; so she was forced to content herself

with the prospect of teasing Miss Sukey Morton about the anonymous

Valentine. She knew that her dear Morton would suspect Mr. Chalkley who,

with the politeness for which the British Army has always been famous,

had once recovered her dropped fan. This somewhat ordinary event had led

Miss Morton to colour the whole world to the hue of a red coat. All the

dearest confidences exchanged with her beloved Courteen referred to

young Mr. Chalkley who was quite unconscious of the amount of room he

occupied in Miss Morton's heart, and was used to regard women as

musquets for the presenting of arms, but nothing more.

The whole of Wednesday had been spent by the ladies of the Wells in

refreshing their bodies with sleep and rouge alternately, and the sickle

moon in the frore February sky looked pale and ghostly beside the sleek

tapers that twinkled in every window pane and the ruddy flambeaux of the

lackeys as they stamped up and down in waiting to escort their

mistresses to the ball.

Phyllida was not long in putting on her white muslin nightgown with

flowered sack; and as her curls had neither to be subdued by Powder and

Pomatum, nor frizzled to a mock vivacity by restorative Tongs, she sat

in the bow-window of her bedchamber and stared at the young moon. The

curtains were drawn back, but, even so, she could still see innumerable

shepherds arming as many shepherdesses through the pattern and, as the

fire-light flickered over them, they seemed, indeed, to be stepping a

forgotten dance.

"I should like to live in a curtain," thought Phyllida, "and be always

young and always happy and always hand in hand with--but after all

nothing could be less like a shepherd than Amor," and just then the

little flame that had been urging all the figures into motion turned to

a noisy puff of smoke; the picture faded from her mind and the voice of

her mother destroyed the last gossamer fancy that floated through her

brain.

The widow's room was billowy with rejected petticoats on which, like

sea-wrack, floated garters, stockings, and gloves; while a large

constellation of paste gleamed fitfully through the mirk of a Paris net.

In the midst of the delicate havock sat the widow uncertain as ever what

colour and stuff would most become the evening.

"The Major spoils my rose lustring and my orange sack makes the Justice

look----"

"Like suet," said Betty.

The widow was about to reprimand her for the simile, but as it perfectly

expressed what the Justice would look like, she refrained.

"Sure, madam," said Phyllida, who was impatient to set out, "you had

best wear your blue brocade."

"The child is right," said the widow emphatically. "Betty! my blue

brocade."

Betty did not protest she had already tried on the blue brocade four

times because, if she had, the widow would instantly have thought that

green would be better, and the argument would have begun all over again.

At last the widow was dressed; the coach was at the door; and in a very

short time made one of a long row of equally cumbersome vehicles that

extended far down the High Street. Mrs. Courteen peering from the window

announced she had caught a glimpse of Lady Bunbutter stepping out of her

coach in blue brocade. This dreadful anticipation of her own entrance

was extremely disconcerting, and if there had been the slightest

prospect of turning round in the crush of coaches, chairs, footmen,

linkboys and gaping cits, she would have instantly driven home to

exchange blue for any other colour in her trunk-mail or closet. However,

as she could not change her attire, she did the next best thing

possible, by blaming Phyllida for her suggestion. As this was the

prologue to every assembly, the latter was not much troubled by her

mother's annoyance and soon the coach arrived at the very steps leading

up to the Rooms. At the moment it drew up, Major Tarry and Mr. Moon

stepped forward and flung open the door and handed the widow out and

armed her up the steps and gave her name to Mr. Ripple's confidential

Secretary who passed it on to another equally confidential footman who

bawled it out at the top of his voice just as Mrs. Courteen sailed into

the ballroom where Mr. Ripple, with the rosy bloom of triumph on his

cheeks, advanced to offer two fingers vailed in gloves of diaphanous

chicken-skin.

Curtseys, bows, and compliments lasted until the arrival of the next

guest, when the widow with her faithful Ancients surveyed the room in a

grand promenade. Phyllida made off to greet her dear Morton with half a

glance in the direction of the young gentlemen from the _Blue Boar_, who

were grouped rather stiffly at the other end of the ballroom.

The babble of conversation and the swish of fans, the colour all compact

of movement, the innumerable tapers, the glitter of many brooches, pins,

and buckles, the mirrours, the preliminary notes of the musicians, the

shuffling feet, and the tap of the opened snuff-boxes combined in that

glorious whole--a ball at the Assembly Rooms, Curtain Wells.

Soon the Minuets would begin, and after the Minuets, the Gavottes, and

so on to the Country Dances and the last great Cotillon. The passionate

history of the world is writ in crowquill letters on the programs of

dances. What Jealousies and yellow-winged Envies hovered on the cool air

of waving fans, what vows would be made and broken in those alcoves, now

serene and empty, before the last flambeau expired in the gutter

outside. What mean Ambitions coiled around every genteel fine hoop!

Yet Mr. Ripple was so suave, Mrs. Courteen and my Lady Bunbutter so full

of compliments, Lieutenant Blewforth so jolly and Mr. Lovely so witty,

old Lord Vanity so generous of snuff, my Lord Cinderton so

distinguished--and as for Miss Phyllida Courteen, she was enchanted to a

magical domain where only very slowly did Mr. Francis Vernon blacken a

trinket sun with the menace of real passion.

Suddenly her heart began to beat so fast that she feared all her friends

would observe her agitation. Surely that young gentleman in primrose

sattin and flesh-coloured brocaded waistcoat, who took the polished

floor so easily, was the poet of Valentine Day to whom she had confided

her note. Surely too, for all he stared at everybody else from time to

time, his eyes were really fixed on hers. Perhaps he was a friend of

Amor's with a message to deliver--and yet it would be more interesting,

she decided, if he were not. Presently Mr. Lovely was bowing over her

chair and asking in the politest manner possible for the honour of the

next two dances.

She looked round at Miss Morton as if to say she could not leave her

without a partner.

"Madam," said Mr. Lovely bowing very low indeed, "if I might be so

presumptuous, does the young lady wish for a Vis a Vis, for in that case

I shall certainly present my friend Mr. Chalkley of the Foot."

Miss Morton, amid a deal of simpering, confessed she favoured a minuet

on occasions, so Mr. Lovely hurried off to fetch Mr. Chalkley before the

musicians began to play the opening bars of the dance.

Phyllida was astonished at the coincidence and not sure whether, after

all, Mr. Chalkley had not employed Mr. Lovely's offices on his behalf.

However, as she had little enough envy in her and was romantically

attached to Mr. Amor, she could scarcely refuse to help her dear Morton

into the arms of an expectant lover, and if Mr. Lovely had no real

inclination to dance with her, that was no great matter, since he was a

vastly agreeable young gentleman and would pass the time very pleasantly

in the absence of another.

Mr. Chalkley, when summoned by Charles, was extremely indignant and

swore he was not come to dance with any jade in the room.

"Pshaw," replied his friend, "you can't stand there gaping all the

evening."

"Why don't you make Blewforth dance with the hussy?"

"Odds my life, Tom, why won't you tread a minuet with a handsome young

woman?"

"You're too devilish fond of arranging matters for other people to suit

your own whims. I'll be hanged if I dance a step to-night!" But all the

other young gentlemen vowed so earnestly that Mr. Chalkley was a surly

fellow, that he gave way at last and suffered himself to be dragged to

the feet of attractive Miss Sukey Morton, whose black eyes flashed very

brightly at the sight of Mr. Chalkley's red coat.

Charles, having disposed her friend, offered his hand to Phyllida and

soon they were stepping the minuet with infinite grace, admired by every

one who saw them.

For her the room sank into unreality and she lived in a rainbow whose

colours moved and changed to the slow dignity of far-heard Pizzicato.

The melody to which these marionettes were dancing possessed a strange

quality. It was emotion in quintessence, without passion, without

abandon. Whatever it had of definite character lay in the half bashful

invitation to dance, as if some ghostly puppet master, pale and stately,

were beckoning to his performers. As the opening bars of the minuet were

repeated at the close only to die away in a poignant farewell, Phyllida

felt for the first time, in the swoon of her last courtesy, that she was

a doll whose gestures served to amuse a genteel but unearthly audience

of monocled Gods.

Actually it was a mere momentary dizziness, a sudden loss of volition on

which Charles hung a score of fancies.

"You are feeling faint?" he inquired.

"No, no."

"The heat is overpowering. Shall we sit for a while in an alcove, or

shall we saunter in Curtain Garden?" They passed through the crowded

room and down a cool passage into a Baroc cloister where stone Satyrs

took the place of Angels, and the Cherubim were not easily to be

distinguished from Loves.

The young moon was setting behind Curtain Hill larger and more golden

than before.

The cloister was hung with amber lights and held innumerable whispers.

Somewhere close at hand was a sound of running water.

"You are fond of dancing, madam?"

"Oh, sir, 'tis a very delicate motion truly."

"I fear you thought I was presumptuous in offering my hand for the

minuet."

"No, indeed, sir," Phyllida answered quite naturally.

Lovely was rather surprized. He had expected the customary play of a

fan.

"You are making a long stay here?" he asked.

"Oh, sir, I do not know, 'tis for so long as my mamma thinks proper."

"I have not had the honour of an introduction."

"No," said Phyllida doubtfully. She was not at all anxious to present

Mr. Lovely, and willing enough to take advantage of the Assembly rule

that the offer and acceptance of a dance was not necessarily a passport

to intimacy on the next day. She did not wish to be treated like a child

before the gallant Mr. Lovely who treated her with such deference.

"Did you hear anything more of the Valentine?" said Phyllida with a

ripple of laughter.

"Not a word."

"You remember the young woman by whom I was seated?"

"Perfectly."

"'Twas for her," said Phyllida with more laughter.

"Nonsense."

"Oh, yes! indeed, 'tis true, and the best of it is she thinks the

Valentine was sent by Mr. Chalkley."

"Never!"

"Oh! yes, yes, yes."

"But he has never set eyes on her."

"No! But she thinks he has--often, just because he picked up her fan

once."

"Truly then I did a very politick action in effecting the introduction."

"Oh, sir, she was ravished, you may be sure."

"Gad! I'll send her a Valentine every day of the week, and put one in

her Prayer Book on Sundays."

"Oh, sir! but sure, it might end in a wedding, and that's a very serious

matter as all the world knows."

"Not more serious than love," said Charles.

"Well, no, perhaps not more than love; but then neither of 'em is in

love with t'other."

"I swear they shall be."

"You can't force people to fall in love."

"Can't you?" said Charles very earnestly, so earnestly that Phyllida

thought the air was turning chill and that they ought to go back to the

ballroom.

"Not yet," pleaded Mr. Lovely. "I thought we might walk towards the

Maze."

"The Maze?" said she quickly.

"Why, yes! the entrance is but a few yards from where we are."

"I had forgot," she answered, and then with a sudden determination, "I

think we had better go back."

"You're not frightened of the Maze?"

"Oh, no, truly I'm not," Phyllida affirmed. "But I think I heard my

mamma's voice and if she sees me here, I shall not be allowed to come to

the next Assembly."

Phyllida was feeling a vague emotion of infidelity to her dear Amor and

almost dreaded to see his tall shadow in the amber light.

"As you will," he said in some disappointment, "but we han't had a deal

of conversation yet."

"That's true," she replied, "but this is only our second meeting. Oh!

Gemini!" she went on, "you'll think me forward and bold, but I vow I

never meant it in that way."

"Madam," said Charles with a bow, "I should never presume to put upon it

an interpretation so complimentary to myself, but, seriously, you will

give me two more dances to-night?"

"It would be indiscreet."

"Nay, I do not think so."

"Your friends would laugh."

"I do not _think_ so."

Mr. Lovely looked so fierce that Phyllida hurriedly promised two

gavottes, and Charles who was something of a Gascon could not help

congratulating himself on his speedy success.

They walked back to the ballroom almost in silence, and above the

chatter of folk in the lobby, heard the opening of a plaintive minuet.

Lovely, when he had left his partner, walked over to his friends of the

_Blue Boar_ and was greeted with a shower of sallies.

"How now, Charles, have you been smuggling rare spirits in the

cloister?" cried Blewforth.

"Snuggling would be b-b-better!" stammered little Peter Wingfield.

Charles glared at both the young gentlemen, who laughed very heartily

indeed, and were not at all put about by his frowns.

"Oddslife, Charles," said Mr. Chalkley, "where have been your eyes these

past six weeks to have so lately discovered the fair Courteen?"

"Charles looks at women through dice-boxes," said Blewforth.

"And what's worse, sees double wherever he looks," added Mr. Chalkley.

"Charles," added Mr. Antony Clare, "be wise. Some knave of Clubs will

trump your Queen."

"Mr. Clare," said Charles drawing himself up very straight and looking

as grand as possible, "I'll trouble you to croak when I ask for your

noise; as for you, gentlemen, you're too free with your words, be d--d

to the lot of you."

Thereupon Mr. Charles Lovely swung himself out of the room with such an

air that the young gentlemen looked after him in some apprehension.

"Egad!" commented Chalkley, "the man must be madly in love for he's lost

his wit."

"And his humour too," said Blewforth.

"Don't rally him too hard, boys," said Tony.

"We can't all turn parsons because Charles is bewitched by two blue

eyes," grumbled Chalkley.

This was the opinion of the company, and though in their hearts they

excused Mr. Lovely, they were loud in their condemnation of his churlish

behaviour.

Clare, afraid he was gone to work off his injured feelings by reckless

play, soon followed him out of the ballroom, but could not find him at

the tables.

Charles had, in fact, turned into the garden. Cupid had pierced him with

a long sharp arrow, and he was not yet able to bear a rough hand on the

wound. The night air came over him fresh and cool. In the darkness he

was more than ever enthralled by the image and pale fancies of an ideal

passion. Yet for all he was a poet, or perhaps just because he was a

poet, his love was tinted with the hues of convention. She was like

those Madonnas who appear to peasant children, Madonnas in crude

croelean robes sown with tinsel stars. One feels that much of the

apparition is due to preconceived opinion. So with Charles, his love

made one of a list of women dating to the Queens of Babylon. There was

too much bob-a-cherry about her and too much cream. She stood, too, on

such a high pedestal that if she owned feet of cracked clay not a soul

could have seen them.

Charles felt very angry with his bachelor friends, and when Clare joined

him at the end of an alley was in no mood to be pleasant company.

"Sure, Charles," the latter remonstrated, "you're the last man to tie

yourself to the skirts of a goddess."

"There's a medium between an angel and a woman of the town," said

Charles sententiously.

"But the woman was once an angel to somebody, and 'foregad! I believe

you do your charmer an injury to make her such a paragon of air. I swear

those eyes can flash with more than saintly ecstasy."

"Z----ds! Tony, you are bent on a quarrel. I tell you the child's name

shall not be a toast for my profligate friends."

"You are not better than any of them."

"But at least I can reverence purity."

"Aye, and so can Blewforth."

"D---- e!" swore Charles, "'tis a pity he don't exercise his talent more

openly."

The argument would doubtless have continued, if the sound of voices

approaching had not made the two young men pause involuntarily. Two

people were passing down the adjoining alley, and it was impossible not

to overhear some of the conversation, which was sufficiently ridiculous.

A feminine voice declared that soldiers were romantick, and a voice of

opposite sex replied that as an attribute of class, it was an undeniable

quality, but not for that reason universally applicable to individual

members of that class.

"But a scarlet coat is so dazzling," argued Treble.

"Madam," said Bass, "I cannot claim that my profession is romantick. The

Law, Madam, has no time for romance except perhaps in the examination of

an unwilling witness, but what my profession lacks, my name possesses.

Moon, madam, I venture to affirm, is a singularly romantick name."

"It is," murmured the widow, for, of course, it was she.

"The moon is the method of illumination adopted by every poet of

distinction."

"How true that is," she sighed.

"I might add that so far as dazzling goes my name is as capable of

extreme refraction as the red coat of a soldier. Moreover, madam, the

latter is very antipathetick to the complexion of a woman of quality."

"But the coat need not be worn, Mr. Moon. It could exist in a bottom

drawer, I should feel it was there, and I could sometimes brush it

even."

"Good heavens! ma'am, has not the Law an equal fascination? Do you know

that my house is full of legal cases?"

"How untidy!" said the widow reprovingly.

"Arguments _Pro_ and _Contra_, trials!"

"But I dislike arguments, they put my hair out of curl and we have so

many trials to bear already."

"They need never be used, but they can exist, madam, they can exist in

calf on a bottom shelf, and they could be dusted sometimes," declared

the Justice. Then in softer accents he began to plead:

"Think, my dear Mrs. Courteen, of Mrs. Moon. Mrs. Moon! I often murmur

that short sentence over to myself."

"Do you, Mr. Moon? When?" said the widow, who seemed touched by his

devotion.

"Oh! after dinner--or getting into bed, or--" but the third occasion was

never revealed, for Major Tarry charged round the corner and carried off

the dear questioner to adorn a gavotte.

Somehow the hedges no longer seemed so mysterious and the night not

quite so large.

"Gad! what follies!" laughed Charles.

"D'ye know who the lady was?" inquired the other.

"Venus grown fat by the sound of her voice."

"That was Mrs. Courteen."

"Eh?"

"Your charmer's mother."

"Then she must have had a very delightful father."

"That's neither here nor there," said Clare. "Your angel's wings may

moult, and she who now goes tiptoe for very lightness will one day--but,

pshaw! if you love her, she will always skim the ground."

"Tony!" said Charles, "I've made a fool of myself."

"In the best way of folly."

It may seem odd that Charles should have been so ready to admit the

mortality of his goddess, but after all as yet his love was an

apparition. No miracles had been worked at the shrine, and she had a

mother.

Also Charles began to smell romance, of which he pretended to an

exaggerated horror. Like mother, like daughter. He made up his mind to

neglect Miss Phyllida Courteen, and having done so, went back to the

ballroom with the temerity of a successful anchorite. Yet when he saw

her again she was young and adorable, and he was as madly in love with

her as ever; all the more perhaps because he realized that one day she

would fade. However, he was no longer so full of heroick rebukes for his

friends. Perhaps, like the Greeks, he was beginning to understand that

romantick Troy was a menace to the common sense of the world.

Charles found the young men in precisely the same position as that in

which he left them.

"Oddslife," cried Blewforth, "there's Charles come back. What, man! have

you been languishing under the sky? Your mistress has been dancing

merrily with Ripple himself, while you were star-gazing."

"'Tis a pity that none of you have enough impudence to follow his

example," retorted Charles, "for on my soul you all stand stiff and

awkward as the figures on a Gothick tombstone. Gad! I've a mind to tell

the ladies how nimbly you tripped it at Baverstock, Blewforth, and as

for you, Tom, I'm hanged if I'd be cut out by a beggarly half-pay

militia captain," continued Charles pointing to the disreputable Captain

Mann who was handing Miss Morton through the gavotte.

"Well said!" Clare joined in, "we shall find it more difficult than ever

to believe Blewforth's tales of conquest in the ports of civilization."

"Unless," added Charles, "like a picture by a great master he possesses

an immovable reputation and attracts by beauty in repose."

"Ha--ha--ha," bellowed the Lieutenant, "you should have seen me at

Minorca. These finicking hussies aren't worth the shoe leather one uses

in dragging them round the room." But just as Mr. Blewforth was about to

give a discourse on the beauty, grace, and agility of feminine Spain,

Mr. Ripple scaled the rigid group:

"Now, gentlemen, you are not dancing. Come, come this won't do. I've

let you off the Minuets and Gavottes, but I insist on the Country

Dances. Let me see, Lieutenant Blewforth, I have the very Vis a Vis you

are looking for--Mrs. Georgina Bean, widow of the late Captain Bean, of

your own Service. She will like to hear the latest Marine Information."

Blewforth struck his colours with an almost humble salute.

"Mr. Chalkley," the Beau continued, "Miss Margery Mansel a young lady

fresh from boarding-school, will certainly suit your accomplishments.

Treat her kindly, sir. Mr. Golightly, I insist on your dancing with Lady

Jane Vane--your father and hers were intimate friends. Mr.

Harthe-Brusshe, your respected father tells me that he has a particular

desire you should dance with Miss Mimsy; she's an heiress, sir, and as

good as she is wealthy. Come, come, gentlemen, make no doubt that I

shall find a partner for every one of you."

The young gentlemen, a little stiffer, a little more awkward, followed

Mr. Ripple very mildly across the room. The rest of the Assembly

fluttered quite perceptibly at their approach.

Lovely had no opportunity of asking Phyllida to dance with him as by the

time he had crossed the room, she was standing opposite Mr. Moon. So he

hurried up to Miss Sukey Morton who flashed her black eyes and took his

arm with all the grace in the world and discussed the attraction of the

British Army with much fan-play and volubility. He met Phyllida in the

course of the dance and begged her hand for the Cotillon, but she shook

her head gravely with a glance in the direction of old General Morton,

and Charles passed on to less interesting encounters much exasperated by

the impertinence of old age.

"Why aren't you a soldier, Mr. Lovely?" asked Miss Morton in a wondering

voice.

"I like to pull the sheets over my head when I sleep," said Charles very

solemnly, "but soldiers always have to put them on top of a pole."

"Oh! but think of war and fortresses and sieges and bivouacks."

"I dislike war, I object to fortresses. For sieges I lack the patience

and I abominate bivouacks."

"But the uniform is so gay," persisted Miss Morton, "and so martial."

"A footman's, ma'am, is twice as gay and three times as martial."

"Nay, I vow you're jealous of the Army."

"Madam, is that surprizing, when Miss Morton inclines so much to

scarlet?"

"Nay, now you are laughing at me,", she pouted, "and I hate to be

laughed at. Are you a friend of Mr. Chalkley?"

"Indeed, I hope I may describe myself as such," said Charles.

"Does he paint landskips as an Amateur?" inquired cunning Miss Sukey

Morton.

"Not that I am aware of."

The disappointment visible on her countenance recalled the incident of

the Valentine, and he made haste to add:

"Though now I come to think of it, I found him cutting out an ace of

hearts one day last week."

"An ace of hearts?" said Miss Morton very innocently, "why what would he

do that for?"

"I asked him as much, and he muttered something about a torn velvet

patch. But his behaviour that day was monstrous odd altogether, for I

remember I found him later on the bowling green of the _Blue Boar_

picking snowdrops, and when I rallied him, he asked me for a rhyme to

'white.'"

Miss Morton danced for the rest of the evening as though her scarlet

heels were little flames.

The hands of the clock were nearing the magick hour of the last

Cotillon, and everybody was hurrying in search of partners and places;

when the appearance of Gog and Magog, with Mr. Ripple's marble pedestal,

warned everybody that the Great little Man was about to make an

announcement. Everybody waited with extreme deference and not a whisper

disturbed the religious peace. The room was quite still save for the

tinkle of jewellery and the slow sighing of the fans.

The Beau ascended his pedestal, calm and majestick while the listeners

craned their necks to attention.

"My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen. You are doubtless all aware that we

have to lament the sudden death of that respected model of fortitude and

perseverance, Sir Jeremy Dummer."

A sympathetick murmur floated along the wind of the fans.

"I am happy to tell you that he died as he lived, fighting. He died, if

I may use so vulgar a metaphor, in harness--the harness of an old

war-horse who, having fought the foes of England during his prime,

continued to fight the greatest foe of England during his decay. That

energy which erstwhile displayed itself in the trenches of War enabled

him for twenty-one years to persecute by every means in his power that

enemy of all of us--the Gout.

"He sought to starve it into capitulation by restricted diet, he tried

to storm it by sudden charges of chalybeate. My lords, ladies and

gentlemen, it was in the middle of one of these gallant sallies that he

died. In a word, he was half-way through a glass of the cleansing liquid

when death overtook him. There it stood, that partially empty glass

beside the dead form of the veteran. May we not regard this relick as

the tears of AEsculapius? Shall we not enshrine these sparkling drops in

a lachrymatory and, having sealed the sacred fluid with the city seal,

shall we not set it in a prominent part of our civick museum? My lords,

ladies and gentlemen, we shall. I have consulted with my brother the

Mayor of this town, and he has agreed.

"Moreover, let me remind you of the last words of the great Socrates,

his last injunction to his friend to sacrifice a cock to AEsculapius. Let

us also, in memory of our deceased exemplar, present a new tap to our

publick fountain and so sacrifice, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, not a

cock, but a turncock to AEsculapius."

The Great little Man here paused to wipe away the tears of sorrow and

the heat of the atmosphere. "It seems," he continued, "out of place to

make any announcement of a new diversion, but pleasure is as inexorable

as death."

Here the audience seemed to murmur a mournful assent.

"Next Tuesday at 7 o'clock precisely will be held the Chinese

Masquerade. This, as you are aware, limits our costumes to those

authorized by gold-lackered cabinets and teacups of blue china. I myself

shall act as Gold Mandarin and my young friend Mr. Charles Lovely will

be the Blue Mandarin. There will be a grand minuet of Cathay, but I will

not detain you now with farther particulars of this entertainment. I

hope that we shall hold masquerades of assorted characters until May,

when we shall make an attempt to start the Fetes Champetres which were

so successful last year.

"Finally, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, you are aware that an incident

of an unpleasantly obtrusive habit deterred us from Terpsichore on

Monday night. I am, indeed, happy to say that the curtain has fallen

upon the whole affair without a dissentient voice. I should have been

inexpressibly grieved if the gloom consequent upon the defiance of my

authority, had been at all lasting. May I add that the rebels--if I may

call them so without offence--have acted in the handsomest manner and

have offered to set up in the portico of these rooms a tablet

commemorating the temporary cloud upon your delight. I should be more

than mortal if I were not proud of such a token of confidence in my

despotism.

"My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, I am your very grateful, humble, and

obliged servant to command."

The Beau's descent from his pedestal was the signal for much waving of

lace handkerchiefs and fans. There were cries of 'Bravo, Beau,' 'Viva,

Ripple!'

Finally when old Lord Vanity stepped up to the dignified lord of

ceremonies and solemnly offered him his noted jade snuffbox full to

overflowing of the richest brown Rappee, and when the Beau, having

dropped his jewelled fingers into the modish soil, drew them forth and

raised them to his aquiline nose, a stillness fell upon the room, and

above the silence the sniffs of the great Beau, three in number, were

distinctly heard by all. It was as if he wished them Good Health. But

this was not enough for the Exquisite Mob. Somebody--it may have been

our hero--ran post haste for a bottle of champagne, and somebody else

rushed off for goblets. Presently, the prettiest Impromptu in the world

was enacted, and very proud indeed were the spectators of a scene

memorable for many years in the chronicles of fashion.

Delicately veined hands untwisted the silver wire and tore off the gold

cap. Somebody fetched a corkscrew, somebody clenched the sombre green

bottle between his brocaded knees. An arm tapering to snowy peaks pulled

at the unwilling cork. A fairy explosion was followed by the dewy

vapours of long imprisoned sunshine. The amber liquid sparkled and

bubbled and flowed over the many faceted goblet in cream and foam.

The Beau mounted once more upon his pedestal and drank to the pleasure,

health, and beauty of the company, while Lord Vanity and my Lady

Bunbutter quaffed an answering toast in deputy for the lords, ladies and

gentlemen present. Salvoes of well-bred applause pattered round the

room, and the Beau's triumph was hailed with acclamations.

And you, beautiful women and fine gentlemen, roses and carnations of an

older century, nothing remains of you for us. Your very perfume is but a

name. You are no more to the world of to-day than those glossy candles

that spluttered to death in gilt sockets. And yet, from the ruin of

elegance, one relick of that famous evening remains; for the silver wire

of the bottle of champagne, flung heedless to the ground, caught in a

flounce of some Beauty's petticoat. Long ago the gossamer stuff

mouldered, long ago was Beauty herself a skeleton, but the wire

cherished by Beauty's family may still be seen in a glass-topped table

in the corner of a quiet library somewhere in the broad Midlands. O

insignificant wire, you are more durable than the flowers who despised

you!

And now another famous ball waned to a close, and all the world of taste

and fashion went home to bed.

_Chapter the Tenth_

AFTER THE ASSEMBLY

Mr. Charles Lovely walked back with Mr. Antony Clare to the _Blue Boar_,

and joined Mr. Francis Vernon in the Coffee Room.

The latter noticed that Clare frowned slightly when he saw him, and

explained, almost apologetically, that he had moved thither from his

lodgings in the Crescent. Charles was delighted and immediately proposed

a game of hazard.

"You'll play, Tony?" he said eagerly.

"Not I," his friend answered. "I'm too sleepy, for 'tis confoundedly

fatiguing to be on such polite behaviour for so long."

"That's true indeed," cried Charles, "and therefore we need recreation

the more." With this he gave a tug at the bell-pull of flowery chintz,

and presently Mr. Daish who had sent the waiters to bed, came yawning to

answer the summons.

"Daish, bring two bottles of Burgundy like the fine fellow and good

landlord that you are."

"Yes, Mr. Lovely, certainly, your honour, but I hope your honour will be

careful with the bottles; it would be a terrible thing for the house if

the watch was murdered as they nearly was twice over last week," said

Mr. Daish, crumpling into obsequiousness at the impudence of his

request, and retreating sidelong from the room.

Mr. Clare, seeing that it was useless to argue Charles out of his

determination, took a seat by the fire.

"Egad," said Lovely, "what a jealous dog it is, he won't play, but can't

bear to go to bed." Clare gave the fire a meditative poke.

"What shall it be, Mr. Vernon? Ecarte?"

"With pleasure."

"Or picket?"

"As you will."

"Why, then, picket, and if we find we grow too sleepy to count our

sequences, we shall, at any rate, not be too sleepy to trickle dice out

of a box, eh?"

Charles turned with these words to take some unbroken paquets of playing

cards from a small mahogany cabinet hanging against the wall. The

picture presented was a friendly one as the two men seated themselves at

the card table. The fire was burning brightly and rosy shadows flickered

over the ceiling. The curtains were close drawn and the ample flowers of

their pattern seemed to retain somehow the warmth and the light. By the

side of the grate sat Tony in a high grandfather's chair. He had taken

off his wig and was staring meditatively at the crisp curls, as it

reposed on his knee. The buckles of his shoes spat tiny glints of

flame--red, blue and green. Presently he leaned across to a small

bookshelf and took down some dry inn volume, but the print danced in the

fire-light and very soon he was dozing peacefully, while his wig slipped

to the ground and became a pleasant couch for a large tabby cat to purr

away comfortable hours.

At the table sat Vernon and Lovely face to face, and the green baize

made a prim battlefield for the debonair antagonists. It was a

meadow-fight viewed from towering Olympus. Here was pasture profitable

enough to some: to others barren as the unharvested sea. No crescent

moon lighted it, no sun parched the fresh greenery whose four tall

candles flickered only to chamber tempests, storms of tapestry, keyhole

zephyrs. At either end were ranged round guineas in wicked little heaps,

and along the borders stood serried packs of cards, shorn of their

meaner numbers as becomes the apparelled duel of picket. These had been

flung contemptuously on to the floor and the survivors lay face

downwards on the table with a new and alluring slimness. Their backs

were so innocent--mere festoons of flowers and bouquets of rosebuds;

yet their very innocence only served to enhance the red and black

determination of their faces. How the royal cards reflected in their

appearance the temper of their courts. How sombre-suited went the Queen

of Spades, how pensive seemed her consort, while the savage Ace was hung

with garlands of mourning and sable flowers of Proserpine. The Queen of

Diamonds looked harassed; the Knave had a lean eye and the King himself

seemed peaked and careworn. The Club Court was a swarthy and more brutal

counterpart of the gay Hearts, and the gay Hearts, with ripe dewy

mouths, had yet a certain sly sensuality that bred distrust.

Then the tournament began. The stacked guineas sprawled in golden

disarray and dwindled and swelled and tinkled to the tune of the game.

Charles was winning. Five times he had made the grand Repique, five

times the gallant Pique, thrice Capote had taken captive twelve hostile

cards to be redeemed with rippling guineas. Ace, King, Queen, Knave, Ten

came in sequences as month succeeds to month. His hands were palaces for

the abode of many courtiers. They were picture galleries of the oldest

kings and queens in Europe. If he threw away Spades, he took up the red

Hearts for which he longed. If he discarded Diamonds, he gained a lusty

host of Clubs to serve his purpose.

At last Vernon, who had lost steadily for a pair of hours--six games at

an average price of thirty guineas a game--declared he would fight no

longer against his adversary's good fortune. "Moreover," he added, "so

much counting has set my brain in a whirl."

"As you will," said Charles, who would have liked to continue with

picket, but could not refuse to give his opponent an opportunity to

avenge himself at another game.

So they turned to Ecarte.

And now his fortune deserted him. Each time Vernon dealt he turned up a

King, and Charles began to dread their florid appearance, as some

ambitious minister dreads the veering of his master's favour. Those

kings who had hitherto been numbered in his hands in fours and threes,

those puppet kings, had won a new dignity from the only game which

accords them their rightful place at the head of the pack; each one had

acquired, it seemed, a personality that threatened him. Time after time

were his Jeux de Regle defeated by the most astonishing combinations of

ill luck.

So many times did those confounded monarchs affront him face upwards on

the serene baize that he began to suspect Vernon of being a sort of

gamester Warwick, a maker and unmaker of kings. Indeed, he went so far

as to watch his deals rather narrowly and, being unable to detect

anything amiss, became heartily ashamed of his suspicions.

It was now five o'clock of a chill morning; the fire had sunk into

ashes, and dawn would soon shoot her icy arrows into the slow-flying

bulk of night.

Clare was still asleep in the armchair, but presently the stealthy cold

waked him and he jumped up; the candles were guttering away; the

burgundy was drunk; the room smelt stale.

"Come to bed, Charles," he cried out.

Lovely, who had lost at Ecarte considerably more than he had won at

Picket, drew back the curtains for answer. The dawn was in the East.

He blew out the candles one after another, and in the unreal morning

twilight, the aftermath of smoke curled like an outworn pleasure into

extinction save of a foul odour.

"We have still a grey hour for the dice," said Charles.

"As you will," replied Vernon.

The dice boxes were brought out, and the ivory cubes began to dance;

strange fancies assailed Clare as he watched the gamesters; morbid

imaginations, caught from the chilly atmosphere, froze his reason, and

the rattle of the dice acquired a macabre significance. They clicked

like the hoofs of horses on an iron-bound road. Then they were the

castanets of a sinister dance. Soon they were the shaken ribs of Death,

the king of dancers, and at the end no more than a baby's rattle,

insistent, importunate, maddening.

Charles was winning again.

The various faces of the cubes took fantastick likenesses. _Two_ was a

patched beauty, leaden-eyed, pallid, pleasure-doomed. _Five_ was a

skewbald cat and _four_ a plum cake. Six was a ladder to some evil

house. _Three_ was a necklace of jet, _one_ a Pierrot's velvet eye.

Charles was still winning.

The irresponsibleness of the dice annoyed Clare. They tumbled and rolled

so gaily and it was mortifying to see a man enslaved by acrobats of

ivory. The bodies, too, with their absurd waists were like women whom

extravagant stays had driven to vomit sweetmeats.

Charles had won. The casement swung open in the sudden winds of dawn;

the room was tinted with the cold colours of sunrise. The three men

stumbled upstairs disdainful of the morning's gold. A guinea slipped

from Lovely's pocket and tinkled down to the foot of the stairs to

reward the little scullery-maid who was even now yawning on her pallet

upstairs.

A thrush tuned his melodies against the swift coming of spring, and the

purple leaf-buds welcomed the sun.

_Chapter the Eleventh_

NOX ALBA

Charles was tempted to deprive himself of sleep for the pleasure of

bedabbling his pale silk stockings with dew, but vanity killed romance

and the fresh light enchanted a still unruffled couch. So he flung his

coat over a chair, and the heavy pockets chinked as they fell back

against the taper legs. His prayers were all to rosy Aurora when the

fragrant linen sheets flowed like water over his parched brows.

Sleep could not pass the melodious batteries of many birds, and Lovely's

brain had captured something of the time's clarity. The clock has many

secret hours, but those who would know them must follow their slow

pilgrimage wide awake. What castles men build to the pipes of the

morning!

The world was waking up. Outside the talk of hostlers grew so loud that

the birds fled from the inn yard to the still deserted bowling green.

Soon he heard the jangle of pails, the swish of mops and from time to

time the sound of a horse's hoof striking the cobbles with a clap. In

the distance a post-horn endowed the air with silver tongues. Charles

followed its course along the London road. He pictured the cumbrous

vehicle swinging in its straps between the black February hedgerows. He

saw the postillions blinking sleepy eyes to the Eastern sun. He saw the

great London road like a tape-measure unfolded from the gilded case that

was London. Already he was at Knightsbridge watching some townbred maid

gathering cresses in the little stream. Now he was spurring the horses

to a fine lather, for he could see the grooms in a black knot by the

_White Horse_ cellars. In a trice he was taking the air in St. James'

Street, and then suddenly he was a little boy picking his way through

Westminster mud beside his mother who was carrying a bouquet of violets

to their narrow house near St. John's Church. And now it was winter, and

the sea-coal was burning sullenly: there were no violets, and heavy on

the leaden afternoon he heard the bell tolling in Millbank Gaol. "God

save the poor soul, the marshes will be icy cold to-night," said his

mother, and he knew that some prisoner had escaped.

"How late your father is," she went on as she opened a cupboard, set in

the panelled wall, to reach for plates and dishes. Then she told him to

get out the candlesticks--beautiful silver candlesticks with swan-like

necks and curious mazy lines around their bases. The candlesticks were

nowhere to be found.

"Where can they be?" exclaimed his mother, pausing to help in the

search. Then he heard a sigh and was told to ask Mrs. Gruffle, the

landlady, for the brass bed-chamber candlesticks. He rather liked these:

there was always a delightful quagmire of grease in the little plate

where the socket rested--grease that could be moulded into queer little

pliable shapes, with shreds of tobacco stuck around for fur. When he

came back to the parlour, he saw his father with his legs on the bars of

the grate.

"They had to go, my dear, they had to go," the latter was saying.

"They were my mother's."

"I know, I know, but z----ds' You wouldn't have me fail Dicky

Claribut?"

"But sure they were not worth----"

"Oons! I pledged my best buckles to him; the candlesticks were for his

gentleman. I'm devilish sorry, my dear, but, 'faith, 'twas not to be

avoided, and here's young Charles! Charles, my boy, never play, or, if

you do, play deep and win."

"Don't put such ideas into the boy's mind," said his mother anxiously.

"Oddslife, my dear, be very sure the ideas are there already."

"How can you have the heart to persist when you know...."

"The heart, madam?" interrupted his father. "Let me tell you that the

hearts of the Lovelys are all of a piece--and 'tis cardboard."

Our hero came to his elegant self with a start and was back in Curtain

Wells with hot eyelids, and thoughts continually racing over the flowery

wall-paper.

It was not long, however, before he was once more in pursuit of the

past.

And now he was seated beside his handsome father in a chariot. They were

both in mourning and he thought how well the black frogged riding-coat

became his parent. As for himself, his black sattin breeches set his

teeth on edge as he tried to scratch his knee.

"Where are we going?" he was asking.

"To your mother's brother, Sir George Repington of Repington Hall."

"That's the man whose letters made her cry?"

"The same, young Charles," said Mr. Lovely, ogling a dairymaid through

his black-rimmed perspective, as the object of his glances shrank into a

hedge, powdered with cow-parsley, and closed her eyes against the dust

of their chariot.

Then, without any warning, they were driving through a stately park, and

as they turned a corner, Mr. Lovely senior exclaimed "Good G...! A

cemetery indeed!" Charles looked up and saw a field full of small

cypresses with rank grass growing between them.

His father, who was looking rather pale, signed to the postboy to stop,

and "Charles," said he, "do you go on up to the Hall, knock at the door

and ask for your uncle, Sir George Repington. I'll wait for you here."

As he set out in obedience to his father he heard him mutter. "This was

the very place. I swear this was the place, and not an apple tree left."

And then Charles diminutive enough in his black suit with miniature

small-sword of cut steel, was asking two enormous footmen in

canary-coloured velvet for Sir George Repington. They looked at him and

laughed.

"My uncle," said Charles solemnly.

And they laughed again, but one of them murmured, 'This way,' and walked

up a very wide and very slippery staircase, while Charles stumped up

behind him. Half way, his sword belt came undone, and the sword

clattered down upon the polished oak stairs with a noise that seemed to

resound a dozen times through the quiet house. As he did not dare to

keep the canary-coloured gentleman waiting, he picked up the toy weapon,

clutched it tight in his left hand and entered a big dark room where a

gentleman with iron grey close cropped hair sat reading in a chair with

a very tall back, his wig balanced upon his toes.

"What the d----l's this?" asked the grey gentleman jumping up.

"Your honour's nephew," said the yellow gentleman.

"Eh! what! leave us, sirrah," and "What do you want?" he said, turning

to Charles.

Charles could only watch the long furrow over his nose and wonder how

deep it was, when the grey gentleman caught sight of the small sword.

"Eh! what the d----l! give me that," and snatching the weapon, he broke

it over his knee and flung it into the grate.

"Please, sir, my father sent me to see you."

"Who's he?"

"Valentine Lovely, sir."

"Good G----! Good G----!" muttered the old gentleman. "And Mrs. Lovely?

Did she send you too?"

"Mrs. Lovely's dead, sir."

The grey gentleman looked across the room at a large painting of a girl

in a white dress skipping with a rope of roses.

"Please, sir," said young Charles, "I think that is Mrs. Lovely."

"It was, boy; it was."

"I wish I had known her then," said Charles.

"Is your name George, boy?" inquired the grey gentleman in a tone that

was half eager.

"No, sir, 'tis Charles--after the Prince of Wales."

"A Papist, eh?" said the grey gentleman bitterly.

"George was too honest a name for that scoundrel. Well, boy, you can

stay."

"Please, sir, I'd rather go back to my father," said the boy. "He's

waiting for me."

"Then go and be d----d," said the grey gentleman, and he walked over to

the window.

Poor little Charles was left standing alone in the big room. He waited a

moment, but as the grey gentleman did not turn his head, he edged his

way towards the great door. When he reached it, he looked round at his

uncle. The latter was still staring out of the window. The child gave a

puzzled sigh and with both hands succeeded in turning the handle. The

clocks seemed to tick very loudly as he breathlessly closed the door and

set out to descend the wide staircase. The canary-coloured gentlemen

having vanished he could hold on to the balustrade with both hands

without shame. As he crossed the green sunlit lawn, a blackbird flew

into the shrubbery with a shrill note of alarm.

Then he was in the chariot with his father, and this time he was really

fast asleep.

And now he was boy and man at once. The picture of the girl with roses

became his mother as he had known her, pale and sad. Then it would

change and become Miss Phyllida Courteen, strangely like his mother; and

sometimes the Queen of Diamonds would be mopping and mowing in a frame

of golden Georges.

At last these many dancing visions forsook his brain, and he slept a

dreamless sleep, not waking until high noon of a wet and gusty day. When

he reached the coffee-room, he found Mr. Francis Vernon perusing the

latest edition of Mr. Hoyle, and as the weather was dirty, agreed to

give Mr. Francis Vernon his revenge.

This favour was accorded in the handsomest manner possible and when,

late in the afternoon, the young gentlemen all returned from hunting,

Mr. Charles Lovely owed Mr. Francis Vernon rather more than he could

very easily pay.

No doubt the latter's success is to be ascribed to his opportune

purchase of the latest edition of Mr. Hoyle.

_Chapter the Twelfth_

WET DAYS

If cards are the devil's playthings, wet days are certainly his select

playtime; and all the days before the Chinese Masquerade were very wet

indeed. The Exquisite Mob returned from the Pump Room remarkably

depressed in spirit. The forenoons passed away in the coffee-houses and

the shops, but in the afternoons when it was wont to exercise itself and

air its modes the stuffy parlours of Curtain Wells became vastly

tiresome.

The result was that all the young gentlemen played very hard and very

deep and very late, and Mr. Charles Lovely hardest, deepest, and latest

of all. The old gentlemen all found their gout teazed them more

lamentably. Even Beau Ripple grew tired of reading the Epodes of Horace

and the Letters of Tully to his grey Angora cat. The ladies played

Quadrille and talked scandal, while some of them, I grieve to say,

supplied a foundation for much of the gossip.

Candlelight intrigues flourished, and there were not a few tragedies in

porcelain, when some Sir John Vulcan, returning too soon from his

favourite coffee-house, caught my Lady Venus in too ardent converse with

some young Ensign Mars. Very red grew the gallant Ensign--near as red as

his coat, while Sir John blustered and swore so loud that he almost

cracked the walls with his fox-hunting voice, and my lady Venus

fluttered her fan to the pace of her dainty heart, tinkling out

exquisite little lies as soulless as unreal, but quite as fascinating as

some frail musical box. And the trio acted and declaimed their

time-honoured parts to a keyhole audience of lady's maid and

gentleman's gentleman.

Very diverting the footmen of Curtain Wells found the story that

evening, and very savoury it was voted below stairs--nearly as savoury

as the stewed trotters over which it was related.

And so the days went by.

Pitter-pat went the rain on the window-panes, pitter-pat went the cards

on the card tables, pitter-pat went the spoons in the coffee-cups,

pitter-pat went my lady's shoes across the floor to watch for the third

person, pitter-pat went many fans and many hearts.

Mrs. Courteen decked herself in the rosiest sattins, bade Betty close

the shutters, draw the curtains and light the candles. Then she composed

herself to read the last number of the _Prattler_ until a knock at the

door announced the arrival of Mr. Gregory Moon and Major Constantine

Tarry. Both vowed that their enchantress looked vastly well, and nodded

agreement with her assertion that she believed she had a very fresh

colour, no doubt due to the tonick air of the Wells.

"It flushes one merely to go upstairs," she declared. "I vow I take as

much exercise in going up and down stairs as I do in taking my morning

saunter to the Pump Room." The climb was euphemistically known as the

Saunter. "Lud, lud," continued the widow, "complexions are droll

things."

"Monstrous elusive, ma'am," said the Justice rather gloomily.

"Ha, ha," yapped the Major, "I pickled my skin in the Low Countries."

"That would be injudicious for a delicate surface. Height, Major,"

sighed Mrs. Courteen, "height! How we pine for it. Mortals! Dear! Dear!"

"I remember I once examined a vagabond who claimed to have been there,"

remarked Mr. Moon. "We ordered him a whipping."

"What became of him?" asked Mrs. Courteen.

"I believe he died shortly afterwards. Well! well! Kill or cure! Kill or

cure!"

The widow flashed her white shoulders in an elaborate shudder.

"Talking of kill or cure," exclaimed the Major, jumping up, "did I ever

repeat my tale of the Hessian captain?"

"Probably," said Mr. Moon mildly.

"What do you mean, sir?"

"You are somewhat inclined to repetition, sir."

Mrs. Courteen hurriedly assured Major Tarry that she for one had

positively never heard it.

"He did not say 'have you heard my story, ma'am,' the Justice went on in

the calm voice of despair. "He said 'have I repeated it?' I merely

remarked that he probably has--dozens of times!"--Mr. Moon burst out in

the nearest approach to a passionate enunciation that he ever attained.

"I vow you do him an injustice. Pray tell us the story, Major," and the

widow tapped the sword-arm of the infuriated soldier three times. The

painted chicken-skin fell with so persuasive a touch that the Apple sank

to its normal position and, having turned his back on Mr. Moon, the

Major began his tale.

"Well, Madam, you must know that in the year ... but before I tell this

story, I should like to give you some idea of the disposition of his

Majesty's forces."

Mrs. Courteen sighed. She knew what giving an idea of the disposition of

the forces meant. It was useless to protest however, for the Major was

already marching round the room in search of appropriate furniture.

He instantly declared that Mr. Moon's chair was necessary to the

illustration.

"Pray excuse me, sir!" he rapped out.

The Justice, with a reproachful glance at Mrs. Courteen, moved

ponderously to the couch.

"Well, Madam, here are Thistleton's Dragoons," and he gave a twist to

the chair as he spoke.

"Oh, yes! Very droll!" said Mrs. Courteen.

"Here," the Major continued, seizing another chair and planting it

vigorously down by the couch, "here is Buckley's Foot."

"Mine, sir," said the Justice.

"Your what, sir?"

"My foot, sir, not Buckfeast's."

The Major withered his rival with an eloquent silence.

"Here am I," he said, snatching from the mantelpiece a diminutive

Worcester shepherdess and placing it between the two chairs.

The widow gazed anxiously at the pastoral soldier. It belonged to the

owner of the house.

"Here is Tournai. You'll pardon me, sir, but I should be obliged if you

would hand me the couch," said the Major fiercely.

The Justice moved wearily to the window-seat. That, at all events, was a

fixture, he reflected gratefully.

After much exertion Tarry succeeded in moving the couch in front of the

door, so that if the piece of furniture in question was a poor

representation of what it was intended to convey, it certainly made of

Mrs. Courteen's front parlour something very like an impregnable

fortress.

"I should be glad to give you some idea of the enemy's earthworks," said

the Major with a covetous glance in the direction of the chintz

window-curtains.

Mrs. Courteen's fleeting expression of dismay warned him to prune the

luxuriance of his examples, and as at that moment a tap at the door

necessitated the instant surrender of Tournai to admit Mrs. Betty

farther operations were stopped. Moreover the sudden capitulation

involved the fracture of the Worcester shepherdess which, as Mr. Moon

sardonically supposed, served to illustrate the point of the story.

"You're killed, Tarry; you're dead as mutton. I doubt a cure is

inconceivable."

Betty held a note in her hands.

"From Bow Ripple," she whispered excitedly.

_Chapter the Thirteenth_

MONARCHY IN ACTION

Mrs. Courteen scarcely believed Betty spoke the truth. Never could she

remember such a gigantick wave of elation as swept over her on receipt

of the Beau's letter. Yet, without a doubt, it was true. There was the

royal notepaper and, as she reverently examined the outside, there was

the river of the house of Ripple meandering in regular curves through

meadows of sealing-wax. She marked the colour--lilac--as if faintly to

adumbrate the imperial purple of Rome. Moreover, the sprinkled sand, a

few particles of which still adhered to the surface, smelt of Courts.

There were years of authority between the lines of the graceful

superscription; the very "C" of the Crescent bellied in the breeze of

Royal favour. Major Tarry and Mr. Moon regarded her with an expression

compounded of jealousy and respect. Who was this woman, this

correspondent with monarchs?

"Pray excuse me, neighbours," murmured the widow, sinking into a chair.

The seal crackled musically as with smooth forefinger and shapely thumb

she gently withdrew the diaphanous paper from its waxen prison; so must

the golden bough have sounded to the touch of AEneas.

THE GREAT HOUSE, CURTAIN WELLS,

_February_,

MADAM--_I shall do myself the honour of waiting upon you this

afternoon at half-past Four o'clock in order to the discussion of

an Affair of the gravest moral Importance._

_In expectation, Madam, I subscribe myself,_

_Your obliged Servant,_

HORACE RIPPLE.

"Gemini!" cried Betty, "the Bow will be here in fourteen ticks."

"Gentlemen," said Mrs. Courteen with that stateliness which follows from

intercourse with Princes, "gentlemen, I must beg to be excused."

The Major and the Justice solemnly advanced and, having kissed the

outstretched hand, moved sadly from the room. As they went downstairs

the former mused on the unrepeated story of the Hessian Captain, while

the latter vowed to insert a supplementary chapter to his great Essay on

Peace which should deal with the self-esteem of retired Majors. With

similar thoughts no doubt Mr. Oliver Goldsmith went home from that

famous dinner when General Oglethorpe, at the instigation of Dr. Samuel

Johnson, spilled the Port on the bare mahogany board in order to draw a

plan of the Siege of Belgrade. At any rate, old Mr. Hardcastle talks a

great deal about that famous beleaguerment in the witty and diverting

farce of _She Stoops to Conquer_. Mrs. Courteen tremulously sought her

toilet-glass. 'An affair of the gravest moral importance.' Powder

judiciously distributed removed any implied indifference in the

freshness of her widowed cheeks. Paleness and morality were certainly

akin. As for her lemon sack, Betty vowed she would find nothing more

becoming to the unique occasion.

A dignified knock at the front door put an end to any longer hesitation,

and Mrs. Courteen, like the Queen of Sheba, presented herself

immediately.

The Great little Man was pacing the carpet of the front parlour, but at

the widow's entrance he turned on his heels with a low bow.

"We are quite alone?" he inquired.

"Solitary indeed," replied the lady. Surely, surely he could not be

contemplating an offer of marriage. Yet certainly such might well be

described as an affair of the gravest moral importance. If weddings were

not moral, what would become of our weak humanity?

"Madam," said the Beau. "'Tis only after long thought and exhaustive

research among the social archives of Curtain Wells: 'tis only after a

complete examination of my glorious predecessor, Beau Melon's notes on

the amenities of Polite Cures in which he calls attention with a red

cross to the special difficulty of tendering advice to perplexed

visitors, that I am resolved to inform you of a fact which may distress

your maternal heart, complicate your domestick arrangements, disturb

your apprehensive piety and not inconceivably lend to-morrow's goblet a

very wry flavour. Madam, your daughter is in love."

The widow raised two anguished hands, but Mr. Ripple continued:

"When I say in love, madam, I say so because I am not so cynical of

maiden humanity as to suppose that she would sit in vivacious discourse

with a young gentleman for the space of one hour and a half measured by

the frequent chimes of the publick clock unless she were in love."

"You cannot mean this," palpitated the unhappy mother. "Say you cannot

mean it!"

"Madam, I am not used to devoting so much valuable time to the

preparation of circumstantial falsehoods. Your daughter is in love."

"But she is so young," protested the widow. "Not more than fifteen or at

the most seventeen."

"To you, madam, deaf to Love's alarms, for evermore protected against

his showered darts, such precocious ardour must appear improbable, but I

have proof of its existence."

"Malicious tongues! The world is so censorious. It would destroy the

reputation of the mother by insinuations against the virtue of the

child."

"Madam, pray allow me to narrate the unhappy but indisputable facts of

the affair. You must know that it is a part of my duties--a pleasant

part, if I may say so without undue want of reserve--to inspect Curtain

Garden from time to time. You will recollect that this forenoon we

enjoyed for two hours a glimpse of the sun. Having been kept indoors

during the last two or three days, I determined to seize the balmy

occasion and perform my rural duties. I observed that the spring bulbs

were remarkably forward. I noticed with pleasant anticipation of summer

saunters that the paths were in good order, the gravel free from weeds.

From the main Promenade I turned into the Maze."

The widow started.

"The yew hedges were neatly trimmed and I noticed some very good

examples of topiary; I may mention in particular the transformation of

the old Noah into a peacock whose tail will doubtless gain a more

vigorous plumage from the warm weather. I wandered along contemplating

the various greens of the mosses that adorn the path and muffle the

footsteps in a manner extremely suitable to the decorous quiet of the

surroundings. During my saunters, I delight to rest my mind with the

recitation of the Odes and Epodes of my poetick and pre-Christian

namesake. I was embarked upon the apostrophe to Lyce:

_Nec Coae referunt jam tibi purpurae

Nec clari lapides tempora, quae semel

Notis condita fastis

Inclusit volucris dies._

"I had got so far, but egad! I could get no farther for the life of me.

I repeated the last four lines, and in my attempts to catch the

fugitive--Ah!" cried the Beau, "I have it!"

_Quo fugit Venus? Heu quove color? decens_

_Quo motus?_

or to paraphrase with an extempore couplet,

_Where now is fled thy beauty? Where thy bloom,_

_Those airy steps that charmed th' expectant room?_

"To continue, however--this elusive sentence made me lose my direction

and I found myself removed from the centre of the Maze by an

impenetrable hedge of yew. I was about to retrace my steps when I heard

voices on the other side of the hedge. It was a duet, madam--man and

maid, flute and bass viol, fife and drum, describe it how you will."

"Did you recognize the voices?"

"Madam, I did not."

"Then how--since you were not able to see over the tops of the hedges

without----"

The Great little Man drew himself up.

"Madam," he said, "I regard the physical exertion of bobbing up and down

as ungenteel."

"Then how do you----?"

"Because on retracing my steps I passed your maid in an attitude of

vigilance and exactly one hour and a half later I saw Miss Courteen and

the aforesaid maid leave the Garden; and vastly well she looked, madam."

Mrs. Courteen asked why Mr. Ripple did not interrupt them. "'Twould

surely have frightened them out of love-making for ever."

"Madam, if I am a king, I hope I am also a gentleman."

"I will call the hussy and you shall reproach her, Mr. Ripple."

"Madam, that is precisely what I am anxious to avoid. On former

occasions my interference has proved futile and I cannot allow my

counsel to be exposed to contempt. In confidence let me tell you that

the last three elopements which I tried to stop were all successfully

carried through, and I hear that the parties have lived very happily

together ever since. I have vowed not to accept again the

responsibleness of a prophet. My glorious predecessor, Beau Melon,

mentions several instances of his advice being neglected without any ill

effects and notes that it is probably injudicious to interfere unless

compelled by the prospect of a duel. Let me read you his comments.

'_Elopements. Tell the father. D---- n Miss. She won't listen. Fool for

your pains. Fifteen times bitten--shy for evermore. Bodies more

important than souls in Curtain Wells._' An ill-constructed sentence,

madam, but nevertheless full of truth."

"Then what do you advise me to do?"

"Madam, I should recommend you to pay less attention to your own heart,

and give the most of your care to your daughter's."

The widow rose in a state of extreme agitation and rustled about the

room to the hazard of all ware under a certain stability. Such a

reproach from Mr. Ripple was more than she could bear politely.

However, presently she caught her placket in the wanton arm of a chair

and after a short struggle capitulated to stillness.

She began the catalogue of her natural virtues. "I vow the child has

been reared on the Church Catechism, she was for ever learning collects,

texts, parables, miracles, question and answer, sermons, homilies, and

aspirations. If I had been allowed my own way with her education, she

would have led a life of Sundays; but the late Mr. Nicholas Courteen her

father and my husband swore the child's intelligence was become like a

Crusader's tomb, scrabbled over with pious nonsense ill-digested and

ill-writ. Have I not warned her a hundred times that gentlemen do not

love the gawky charms of a hoyden? Have I not repeated to her the

history of half a score seductions? Am I to blame? Don't I keep a maid

to look after her? What else has that hussy to do? I ask you, Mr.

Ripple, what else?"

"Upon my soul, ma'am, I don't very well know," murmured Mr. Ripple.

"Nothing, sir, nothing, save to dress and undress me twice a day, give

an eye to my gowns and arrange my toilet table. Apparently they think

that I should--" The widow broke off to ring violently for Betty in

order to reproach her with a careless supervision of Phyllida.

Mr. Ripple seized the opportunity to make his farewells. He swore to

himself that nothing should induce him to remonstrate again with a

careless mother. He would say a friendly word to the child herself.

The widow thanked the Beau for his advice and promised to be mighty

severe with Phyllida.

"Not if you will be warned by me, madam. No, no, I beg you will not

think it was to urge severity that I made you this visit. No, no, it was

merely to suggest prudence. Your humble servant, madam."

"Your very devoted, sir."

The widow curtsied the Beau out of the room, and, having heard the front

door closed, she watched in prim disgust for the entrance of Betty.

That young woman presently came into the room.

"Well, vixen!" said the widow.

"La! ma'am, what is it?"

"Well, gypsy!"

"Not a drop in my family, ma'am, and that's more than some of the

cottage-folk near by can say."

"Well, little Impropriety, what excuse have you to hand?"

Betty asked what Impropriety meant.

"Would it be stealing you mean, ma'am?"

"Well, Madam Indecency!"

Betty suddenly saw the widow's amber petticoat gleaming through the

unfastened placket.

"Dear love and barley breaks! However did I come to leave that undone!

Never mind, ma'am. 'Tis not as if he'd caught a sight of your smock,

though for my part I should not be afraid to show clean linen to any

man, Bow or whatsoever."

"'Tis not to talk of plackets that I called you, hussy, but of

packets--love-packets, notes, letters, assignations."

Betty began to understand. She remembered how they had met Mr. Ripple

that morning in Curtain Garden, and at once connected the two incidents.

"'Twould be about this very forenoon that you are talking, ma'am?"

The widow was surprized. She had expected an impregnable barrier of mock

stupidity.

"It would," she answered severely.

"Well, there now! And if I didn't say as 'twas very wrong, but indeed,

he was so genteel and made such very grand bows that I didn't think as

'twould be kind to refuse him."

"Refuse him what?"

"Why, direction, ma'am, for the handsome poor soul was lost in the Maze.

He was just twirling around from North to South like the weathercock on

the old Parish Church at home."

"Does it take an hour and a half to direct a man out of a shrubbery?"

"No, indeed, ma'am, but hearing we was from Hampshire, he fell a-talking

and said as when he was last there he was staying with my Lord Senna at

Camomile Hall, and was bosom friend of Mr. the Honourable John Squills."

The widow grew interested. The latter had once attended a hunting

breakfast at Courteen Grange.

"And what was the loquacious gentleman's name?"

"Ah there! indeed, 'twas wrong of me, but if I didn't go and forget to

axe him!"

"Idiot!" said Mrs. Courteen, "and where does he lodge?"

"He intends to post to Bristol Well to-night."

"Is this true?"

"La, dearest ma'am, how does I know. But he spoke as though 'twas."

"You are a pair of simpletons. Lud! you might have been ravished and no

one the wiser. I doubt you both deserve a whipping."

Mrs. Courteen dismissed the subject and turned to survey the ravages of

emotion on her own face. Betty retired to warn her young mistress.

The widow was considerably vexed. Vain woman as she was, she was not too

dull to perceive that the Beau's complaint of her daughter levelled an

indirect reproof at herself. The late Squire Courteen, a-man of

plethorick habit and a good seat, had broken his neck over a five-barred

gate more than seven years ago. Some said his recklessness was too

deliberate. Certainly the week before, young Mr. Standish had left the

neighbourhood in a great hurry. Moreover when the Will was read it

appeared that a codicil had been added the day before the Squire died by

which his lady had forfeited every halfpenny of his money if she married

before her daughter and by an ingenious stroke did the same if she

failed to find a husband during the ensuing six months. Farther, a

provision was inserted that this husband must be ten years younger than

herself. It was all very much complicated and extremely malicious.

Mrs. Courteen fanned herself reflectively. She was perfectly happy in

the ridiculous attentions and elderly gallantries of Major Tarry and

Justice Moon. At twenty-nine she had still possessed enough florid

beauty to excuse her ill-spelled love-letters. Moreover, she had a

husband and was safe sport for young gentlemen who lost the hounds

somewhat early in the day. When she was widowed, most of her attraction

vanished. She grew fat and had to content herself with middle-aged

suitors for whom she became a placid ideal on the dull journey of their

lives. Mrs. Courteen continued to fan herself.

That absurd codicil drifted across her thoughts. If Phyllida married she

was condemned to poverty or a young husband. Yet, after all, Moon or

Tarry had enough--not much, but enough; but then both firmly believed in

the annuity. The bitterness of her husband's dying jest stung her for

the first time. What a fool she would be made to seem! Certainly

Phyllida must not be allowed a wedding; that was the solution.

How fatiguing solutions were, to be sure! She felt quite vapoured. At

any rate she would look after her for the future. If she had a gallant

he should be discovered. If Betty's tale were true, why, prevention was

better than cure.

"Alas!" sighed the widow. "I shall play indifferent well and yet--no

matter. Perhaps I shall hold Spadille every hand of the game." Wafted by

this pleasant hope, the widow sailed upstairs to assume the scarlet and

black gown and the spade-patch which she wore to propitiate the cards;

also to embellish her fingers with rings; also to trim her nails to a

perfect curve and polish to whiteness the peering moon at their base. To

such cardboard emotions was this lady come whose husband broke his neck

out hunting.

_Chapter the Fourteenth_

MONARCHY IN REPOSE

On the following morning after breakfast Mrs. Courteen produced a strip

of faded rose ribband.

"Try to match this, child," she said to Phyllida.

"But mamma, 'tis not possible. The silk is old," expostulated the

daughter who was dressed and ready to take the air.

"Nothing is impossible, child," generalised the widow. "Do your

best--all that is required of human beings. You may take Thomas with

you."

"But mamma, I don't want Thomas. I would rather take Betty."

"People can't always take what they desire in this world, and a very

good thing too," remarked Mrs. Courteen, "for the world would be a

wickeder place if they could. Betty must stay and help me."

The widow was determined to begin the supervision of her daughter

recommended by Mr. Ripple. It was the old story of Sisyphus and the

Stones, of Tregeagle and the Thimble; as mischievous spirits are kept

occupied in Tartarus, and condemned for ever to the performance of the

impossible, so was Phyllida to be kept from the temptations of idleness,

in order to save, if not her soul, at any rate her reputation.

The widow apprehended that obedience would be more easily secured by

guile than the direct imposition of a command.

Miss Phyllida Courteen went out that morning with a sullen little frown

above her charming little nose, and walked so fast that Thomas was hard

put to keep his proper distance behind her as he continued to mutter,

'How long, O Lord?' with many a dolorous wheeze and mortified grunt.

In and out of a dozen haberdashers they went. All the young women behind

the counters were very polite and amazingly hopeful, but when they came

to pull out the long drawers filled with ribbands of every size and

colour, they could only produce the gayest pinks, the most brilliant

shades of rose, and though they continued to be very cheerful and

persuaded themselves and their rather petulant customer that the match

was as near as could be expected, they were quite unsuccessful, and the

ribbands were put back in the drawers to await a less exacting

purchaser.

Finally Phyllida, turning out of the tenth shop, heard St. Simon's clock

strike eleven. It was a moderately fine morning, and she knew her beau

was at that moment turning into Curtain Garden. She stamped her foot

with vexation and disappointment.

"Oh Thomas, Thomas! was ever such a mad errand before?" complained his

mistress.

"Velvet! Vanity! and a-whoring after strange silks," groaned Thomas.

"Thomas," said Miss Courteen in her most engaging voice, "you would do

anything for me?"

"With God's help," agreed the footman.

"And you'd do a great deal for a shilling-piece?"

"To spite Beelzebub," said Thomas.

"Then, Thomas, step down to the Western Colonnade, make my compliments

to Miss Sukey Morton, say I hope she is better of her cold, and will she

give Miss Phyllida Courteen the pleasure of her company to Mrs. Pinkle's

Conversazione. But perhaps you'll forget that long message?"

Thomas replied in accents of unctuous solemnity:

"Better of her cold and quite recovered."

"Yes, but there's more."

"Waste not, want not," he answered severely.

"Oh Lud! I suppose I were wise to write it down," with which Miss

Courteen tried the eleventh haberdasher. The pinks were just as light,

the carmines as crude and fresh as ever.

But at the opposite counter it was possible to buy the most agreeable

paper; so Miss Courteen bought a quire, and also a box of wafers marked

with a laurel-wreathed C. Then she borrowed old Mrs. Rambone's

crow-quill pen with which the accounts were made up every evening in the

little back parlour, and Miss Lettice Rambone politely cleared a corner

of the counter and brought out a standish, while Phyllida put her

swansdown muff on the chair because, though it was high enough to pull

about haberdashery, it wasn't high enough for writing letters. After

much arrangement, she wrote:

"MY DEAREST MISS MORTON,--_I hope you are better of your cold. I am

truly anxious that you should come and see me this afternoon at

four o'clock on a matter of great importance. I am truly distressed

by a most unlucky Event. I doubt my dearest Sukey can guess what

disturbs her.

Ever affect. and truly devoted_

PHYLLIDA.

P.S. _Pray come_.

P.P.S. _I saw a Red Coat not unknown to a certain young lady now

resident at Curtain Wells. The said Red Coat made a most polite

bow_."

Ph. C.

Then Phyllida sealed the note with one of her new wafers, and Thomas

unscrewed the knob of his tall stick and put the note inside and the

shilling-piece in his waistcoat pocket and marched away down the High

Street, while Phyllida rushed off with her muff held up to the East wind

which was quite cold when one was walking so fast. For the Western

Colonnade, you turned to the right, but if you were going to Curtain

Garden, you turned to the left, and Phyllida turned to the left.

She had to pass the end of the Crescent on her way, and hurried past,

afraid for her life to see Mrs. Courteen sailing round the corner. She

was now outside the Great House, and could not help looking up to the

big bow-windows to see if Mr. Ripple was there. There he was, very calm

and very dignified, but a little out of focus because his windows all

had such very thick glass. She caught his eye, and the Great little Man

smiled at her. She smiled back and blushed, thinking of the meeting of

yesterday. Suddenly the window shot up, and Phyllida turned her head to

see the Beau beckoning. She stopped in dismay, while Mr. Ripple, having

first spread his handkerchief on the sill, leaned out to speak to her.

"Pray pardon this ungenteel summons, my dear Miss Courteen, but if you

would not consider yourself compromised by such an adventure, I should

be vastly honoured by your inspection of some proper new prints which

have fallen into my hands."

Miss Courteen was overwhelmed by this invitation. What could she do but

murmur assent?

The Beau, with a delightfully suave gesture, hurried to open the front

door for Miss Courteen who tripped up the dazzling white steps, all

swansdown and blushes.

Mr. Ripple begged her to follow him upstairs to the drawing-room and be

seated before the fire.

It was a fine high room of good proportions, with three large

sash-windows and a wrought-iron balcony running along the breadth of the

house. The walls were panelled and painted white, and the floor was

stained and varnished to a glaze of immense brilliancy. The rugs

scattered about it were Aubusson, of rare hues in fawn and puce and

faded lavender and old rose interwoven with queer dead greens. There

were several prints on the walls, mostly after Watteau and Fragonard.

The whole room wore the indescribable air that is only to be found in

the house of a bachelor of comfortable means, good taste and a certain

age. There was no trace of a woman's hand in its arrangement, and yet

one felt that the owner, through long seclusion from the other sex, had

softened towards it with the years until, secure at last, he was able to

admit a feminine cirrhus into the limpid and rarefied air of his remote

celibacy.

Phyllida, as she watched the firelight ripple in orange wavelets across

the surface of the blue and white Dutch tiles set on either side of the

hob, wondered what the Beau meant by this sudden invitation.

Just then he begged to be excused for a moment while he fetched the

portfolio containing his new purchase.

She heard the door gently closed and looked round the room.

How tall and white it was, just like Mr. Ripple's hand, smooth and white

and exquisitely shaped. Outside, the grey weather mellowed the ivory of

the room. There was a curious stillness as of frost, and she watched the

reflection of the fire leaping in opalescent miniature about the high

windows. There was a new spinet, set at an angle to the rest of the

furniture, in a case of light-coloured wood, painted with cupids,

zephyrs and roses, all waxen-pale. The tall, quiet chamber began to

depress her spirits, so that she felt compelled to strike the extreme

treble note of the spinet which through the stillness rang out like the

unwonted pipe of a bird in a hot August woodland.

At last, Phyllida, whose whole body was beginning to tingle with the

effort of waiting in such breathless quiet, heard some one coming

upstairs. Gog, the Beau's diminutive negro, entered with a silver tray;

on which small and shining lake swam coffee cups like swans or fairy

shells. The Great little Man followed close upon the dusky heels of his

squire and soon Phyllida found herself sipping her coffee in easy

conversation with the King of Curtain Wells.

"Do you know the, Maze? he was asking.

"Oh yes," said Phyllida.

"A pleasant spot, cool and green."

"It is indeed."

"I often sit there," said the Beau.

"'Tis a pleasant spot."

"Less fortunate than my poetick namesake, I have no plane-tree there, no

long-buried Falernian; but I am unjust to my time, for, after all, I

have Curtain Garden and Chalybeate that springs from the depths of

earth," continued the Beau, half to himself.

Phyllida was not quite sure what he was talking about, but agreed

politely.

"My dear Miss Courteen," said the Beau suddenly, "may I say something

very abrupt and perhaps intolerably free, but nevertheless something

which I feel ought to be said?"

"Oh yes, sir," Phyllida replied, wishing devoutly that she was well out

of this tall, white room.

"My dear Miss Courteen," he went on, "I am a man who knows something of

life on its merely social side. I have been an observer, if I may say

so, a naturalist of humanity. My self-chosen attitude has forbidden me

all passion, save that which is the recognized privilege of an audience.

Of love I am supposed to know nothing, save in that third person whose

company is unwelcome and superfluous. Perhaps my devotion to the _Odes_

has led me to see too many Lalages, too many Lyces. Perhaps I regard

women too much as roses that bloom, scatter their sweets and die. In a

word, perhaps I am unsympathetick."

"I don't think you are at all, sir," cried Phyllida, surprized by her

own boldness.

"Thank you," said the Beau, with the merest hint of a tremour in his

equable voice.

"But," he went on, "if I regard women as roses, I never seek to pluck

them: most men do. Miss Phyllida, pray pardon a man of some age who

cares more for Youth than he is willing to admit, who is not quite the

phantastick, the fop, the cynick that his subjects make him out. You

know what Shakespeare says: 'Each man in his time plays many parts.' I,

my dear, have remained for more than thirty years faithful to one. That

is why I am considered so eccentrick--well, well, I grow loquacious. My

dear Miss Courteen, it is very unwise to make assignations in the pride

of youth. Assignations belong to the middle-aged, the disillusioned. If

you love a young gentleman, make no secret of it, and let the whole

world join in your happiness; but if it be necessary to love this young

gentleman in Mazes and such clandestine spots, this young gentleman is

not worth so much devotion. Who is he?"

"Mr. Amor, Sir," said Phyllida, feeling half inclined to cry.

"Amor? Amor? I don't know the family. Is it by his wish these meetings

are kept secret? Yes! yes! I know 'tis very romantick and very

rapturous, but, believe me, my dear Miss Courteen, it is not worth the

cost. You must think of your reputation."

"I do, Mr. Ripple, indeed I do--all the time!"

"Come, come then, present me to your Amor at the Chinese Masquerade.

I'll talk to the rogue, and egad! we'll have the wedding in June. What

do you say?"

"I don't think Mr. Amor would be very willing, and I'm sure my mamma

would be monstrous vexed."

"Nonsense," said the Beau, "nonsense! You won't be happy, till you've

packed yourself into a post-chaise smelling vilely of stale tobacco and

horse-cloths. And when you've found some Fleet Street parson to marry

you, you'll wish for a fine wedding and a bride-cake, and your tenants

cheering and holloaing at the lodge-gates."

Here the Beau showed himself too unfamiliar with the mind of a young

woman. The idea of eloping had never yet entered that dainty head of

glistening chestnut curls; but from that moment Phyllida began to play

with the notion.

"Come, come," he went on, "let's have no more of clandestine courtship.

Heiresses and dace both attract by reason of their silver: libertines

and pike have much in common. Moreover, you must think of your mother."

"I doubt you don't know my mamma very well. She swears I'm but a child,

but I'm not a child, am I, sir?"

Mr. Ripple put up his monocle and solemnly stared at his fair

impenitent.

"You are not a very old woman."

"Besides, my mamma doesn't understand the meaning of love."

"My dear young lady," protested the Beau, "that is a very common error

with the young. Don't you think that shaded lane once lisped to her

footsteps? Don't you think April once broke as sweet for her?"

"Well, if it did," argued Phyllida, "she's forgotten all she ever knew."

"Come, come, I dare swear she has a secret drawer fragrant with cedar.

Find it, my dear Miss Phyllida, and you'll find many old letters, many

withered nosegays."

"Indeed, I've searched."

"Perhaps her escritoire is the heart."

"'Tis very well for you, Sir, to talk thus, but my parents were never

happy."

The Beau mentally cursed the pertinacious memories of servants.

"Then, if that was the case," he went on, "there is the greater reason

for your friends to secure you against such an irreparable misadventure.

Now come, you'll present me to this Mr. Amor? I may not understand all

women, but trust me, I have a tolerable knowledge of men."

The pale February sun cast a watery beam through the high windows and

Mr. Ripple's face caught an added lustre, was in fact so bright and

kindly that Phyllida promised, subject to Mr. Amor's consent.

And soon they were both bending over the portfolio of prints--very

diverting prints they were too, caricatures of the foibles of fashion.

It was certainly very delightful to see tranquil monarch and fervent

maid laughing very heartily together at the most prodigious head-dress

the world ever saw.

_Chapter the Fifteenth_

PHOEBUS ADEST

The Coffee-room of the _Blue Boar_ wore a remarkably cheerful aspect on

the evening of the day on which we have seen something of Beau Ripple's

methods. There had been a splendid run from Oaktree Common across the

downs to Deadman's Coppice, where a short check only lent a spice to

that glorious final run across Baverstock Ridge until they killed just

outside Farmer Hogbin's famous barn. And after the death what delicious

musick acclaimed the deed--the baying of hounds, the chatter of maids,

the clatter of horses' hoofs, the guffaws of Lieutenant Blewforth, the

still louder guffaws of Farmer Hogbin mounted on his raw-boned hunter of

sixteen hands, the blasts of the horns, the chink of glasses and the

wind getting up in the South-west, all combined in harmonious delight.

What a splendid ride home it was and how the riders went over each

renowned minute of that for-ever-to-be-famous day. Lieutenant Blewforth

swore he would forsake the sea for the life of a country gentleman, and

everybody laughed when H.M.S. _Centaur_ (so they had named Blewforth and

his steed) shied at a belated calf.

"Egad! B-b-Blewforth," stammered little Peter Wingfield, "'tis lucky

your stomach was trained on the roaring d-d-deep, for you pitch and roll

like a sloop making Ushant."

"Ah! my boy," shouted Blewforth, "my pretty sloop don't shy like this

d----d bum-boat I'm pulling."

How Mr. Golightly of Campbell's Grey Dragoons swore such a run was

better than a frontal charge at the enemy's guns and how young Tom

Chalkley of the Foot stiffened all over and muttered something about the

Cavalry. Indeed the only person to look glum was Mr. Anthony Clare who,

though he rode better than any of them and had shown them his horse's

heels all the way, missed Charles Lovely.

As they walked along the road, fading into early dusk, and heard the

wind sighing in the trim hedges and saw the lights of Curtain Wells

seven miles away, Clare cursed that passion for cards which made a man

forsake the bleak Spring fallows for pastures of green baize.

But later when the huge cold sirloin that sailed in so sleek, sailed out

like a battered wreck, and when pints of generous Burgundy had coloured

life to its own rich hue, and when Mr. Daish himself had coaxed the fire

to roar and blaze up the chimney, and set out the walnuts and put half a

dozen ample chairs round the fire, Mr. Clare could not resist the

universal content, but must laugh and make merry and relate the events

of the day for the seventh time, with as much zest as any of the

returned heroes.

Charles had surely been winning: he was so flushed and talked so loudly.

Actually he did not possess a penny, and what was worse, owed Mr. Vernon

a couple of hundred guineas. Not much, but enough when you have only

cloaths to sell, and not a prospect in the world.

Presently one by one the hunters dropped off to sleep with legs

outstretched and doffed wigs and long church-wardens' pipes, that one by

one dropped from slowly opening mouths, slid along unbuttoned waistcoats

and snapped their slender stems upon the floor, until everybody except

Mr. Vernon and our hero was snoring the eighth repetition of the events

of that famous day.

The room was hot; the drawing of many breaths thick with fatigue, beef

and Burgundy induced a meditative atmosphere; the fire no longer blazed,

but sank to an intense crimson glow. Mr. Vernon counted up his gains,

while Mr. Lovely pondered his losses in silence.

At last the latter got up suddenly.

"The cards?" inquired Mr. Vernon.

"Not to-night. I think I'll take the air," Charles replied.

"As you will," said the other and betook himself once more to his

tablets.

Charles paused for a moment outside the Coffee-Room to take down his

full black cloak and three-cornered hat. The night wind had brought in

its track a melancholy drizzle of rain that suited his own melancholy

mood. He wandered rather vaguely across the wide inn-yard, passed under

the arch and sauntered along the deserted High Street.

To tell the truth, Mr. Lovely was very unpleasantly situated at this

period. His father had been the ne'er-do-weel survivor of a long line of

country squires away down in Devonshire. When he had eloped with Miss

Joan Repington, to the eternal chagrin of the young lady's brother, a

rich banker knighted for his loyal support of the Protestant Succession,

Valentine Lovely ran through his own and his wife's fortune in the first

six years of matrimony. Thence onwards they lived a hand-to-mouth

existence, dependent on Valentine's luck at the tables and the

inviolableness of an aunt's legacy of five thousand guineas.

Mrs. Lovely died, prematurely aged, in the birth of a still-born child,

and Mr. Valentine Lovely and his young son continued to live the same

haphazard existence for another ten years. Charles spent all his time

with his father who in the intervals of drink and play taught his heir

to step a minuet, sing a merry song, and indite a witty epigram; also he

gave him a case of pistols, heavily chased with the Lovely arms, and

lent him the family tree for target. Finally he made him proficient in

the polite use of the smallsword and the dice-box.

Once, when an early summer made the Bath intolerably hot, Mr. Lovely and

his heir posted down to Devonshire in a crimson chariot putting up at

the _Prior's Head_, in Danver Monachorum. He spent a week paying

unwelcome visits to the neighbouring gentry who looked askance at the

crimson chariot and still more askance at the degenerate heir of the

Lovelys. Valentine soon tired of so much pastoral exercise and departed

to St. Germain's, leaving young Charles in the care of an old stillroom

maid, now a prosperous farmer's wife. The boy spent placid hours in rich

meadows, ate a quantity of scalded cream, and grew out of knowledge in

the six months of his stay. He used to wander down to the park

gates--gloriously wrought-iron gates between massive stone pillars that

bore on each summit a quintett of cannon balls, the reputed trophy of

some seafaring Elizabethan Lovely. There was a picture in the great

hall, of curiously inferior execution, portraying numbers of Devon

sailormen led by a huge-ruffed gentleman with a long peaked beard,

swarming up the towering sides of the galleon _Jesu Maria_. Charles was

taken to see it when the new family was gone up to London town. He also

saw the great stone swan over the vast fireplace, with the motto of his

house, _Sum decorus_.

Later in the autumn his father returned and the old life of lodgings,

inland Spas and long posting journeys was resumed. He had never again

visited that remote Devon village, with its cows and pastures and

dairymaids and famous chronicles.

Then, just after Charles reached his majority, Mr. Lovely Senior died

quite suddenly, and our hero found himself in undisputed possession of

the interest on five thousand guineas and as much more in cash, owing to

a lucky run by his father in the week before his death.

Charles now indulged the family vice of throwing money to the dogs and,

having lost the earnings of his father, set about realizing a trifle of

ready money on the five thousand guineas left him by his mother's aunt.

This step brought him into pen-and-ink contact with old Sir George

Repington who wrote him a stern letter of advice, with a postscript

offering him a stool in the Repington bank. Charles was furious and did

not reply.

About that time he renewed the friendship with Mr. Anthony Clare begun

in that far-off summer away down in Devonshire. The latter persuaded him

to leave London and come to Curtain Wells where for a time he lived

happily enough on his small annuity. However, just before our story

opened, he had been hard hit at loo and had raised a thousand guineas by

making over the interest on his inheritance to the friendly moneylender

who advanced the needed sum. On the top of this came his losses to

Vernon, and now he was stranded indeed.

Therefore the melancholy drizzle of rain suited his melancholy mood. Of

course he could borrow, play again and perhaps win, but if he should

lose he would be in debt to a friend, a position which he disliked. His

father, less scrupulous in this respect, was always content to lay

himself under fresh obligations. To Charles, however, something of the

pride which sustains a great financial house had descended through his

mother and, prodigal though he was, he would never borrow money from a

friend. Of course a moneylender was different, but what security could

he offer? It looked as if he would have to appeal to his uncle after

all. This alternative was thoroughly odious, and Charles racked his

brains to discover a way out of the difficulties into which he was

plunged.

In such despondent meditation he wandered on until the dancing glare of

two large flambeaux, stuck in iron sockets, caught his attention. He

found himself outside the Great House.

The project of consulting with the Beau entered his mind, but St.

Simon's struck the hour of ten, and he knew Mr. Ripple would be retiring

to rest, since he was accustomed to preserve his energy on those nights

when he was not called out to preside over an assembly, rout, or

masquerade. At that moment the two flambeaux, as if to proclaim their

owner's withdrawal from the claims of society, simultaneously collapsed

and strewed Mr. Ripple's fair white steps with ashes.

The sudden darkness betrayed the opalescent windows of the Beau's

bed-chamber. He had neglected to draw the curtains, and on the blind his

suave shadow disported itself in preparation for the night and the next

morning.

Charles watched the shadow dip giant fingers into monstrous pomade pots.

Now those fast deepening crowsfeet were being vigorously rubbed. Now

that swift creasing neck was being smoothed with slow caressing

movements. The wig-block displayed itself in generous shadowy curves.

Now, surely, the shadow's sudden inaction betokened a contemplation of

creeping age.

"And this," thought Charles, "is the destiny marked out for me by

Ripple."

He knew if he waited upon him on the morrow, explained his reverses, and

promised amendment, the Beau would one day procure for him the monarchy

of the Wells, but Charles was not inclined to manipulate the strings of

marionettes, himself suspended from a longer cord and dancing for the

amusement of a higher power.

The incongruity of the situation, disclosed by the Beau's window,

tickled his sense of humour. There was the monarch of an artificial

kingdom caulking his wrinkles like a beldame in search of her youth;

there he was, that despotick king who prescribed Chalybeate as the

Panacea for all earthly ills, in ludicrous terror at the swift flight of

his complexion.

There he was, no better than the chief eunuch of a Persian harem with

authority over women and the power of lock and key against intrusive

fops.

Yet he was a kindly man and a gentleman. He was feared and loved, a man

whom the world called successful. Charles himself liked fine cloaths,

found talking pleasant, enjoyed the organization of splendid

entertainments, yet he could not condemn himself to eternal celibacy and

the preservation of his figure. The restriction of such an existence

would be unendurable.

You will remember perhaps that in our first Chapter we caught Beau

Ripple in undignified pursuit of a button. We agreed how rash it was for

Gods and Goddesses to discover their anatomy to mortals, and here is the

very fact being forced home to Mr. Charles Lovely, an understudy to

divinity.

Our hero went on his way, fortified against one ambition.

Presently he passed by the lodgings of Mrs. Courteen as the door was

being opened to let out the satellite Moon and the appropriately named

Tarry. The pair of them paused on the steps to ascertain the state of

the weather and discuss the several games of ombre which they had played

for mother-o'-pearl counters.

"Gadslife!" murmured Charles, "Ombre for counters! Then is great Anna

really dead?"

The expensive lodgings of the Earl of Vanity towered above him and he

heard my Lord, with a flowered dressing-gown wrapped about his skinny

shanks, d----g his daughter's eyes for being so late at old Mrs.

Frillface's quadrille party. Farther down the Crescent was old Mrs.

Frillface's house, and outside stood two handsome chairs with the

chairmen fast asleep on the cushions, soon to be wakened from the frowsy

damask by Mrs. Frillface's bloated footman.

And so on past all the lodgings of Curtain Wells.

There was young Miss Kitcat who was really twenty-nine and single only

because, so they said, no one would marry her since that affair with Sir

Hector Macwrath, the young, Nova Scotia Baronet, more than ten years

ago. To be sure, the matter was never rightly explained, and everybody

excused the poor child because her mother never set her the best of

examples, and as for her father, everybody knew that he thought of

nothing but Mdlle. Dancaboute who had such trim ankles and spent so many

guineas and even wore the Kitcat rubies at a Ranelagh supper-party. So

Sir Hector married the lean heiress of Lord Glew, the chief of the

MacStikkeys, and Miss Kitcat remained young Miss Kitcat for many a long

day. There she was, swaying sleepily to the motion of the chair while

now and then her hair would catch in a splinter of wood as the first

chairman stumbled over a loose cobble.

There was little Pinhorn whose father was a ship's chandler at Rye, but

had made money as fast as money could be made over the War commissariat;

there he was, strutting home from my Lady Bunbutter's, quite inlaid with

diamonds, and with a swinging fob near as big as his own bullet head.

Charles gave him a curt good-night as he passed, and wondered to

himself how little Pinhorn ever dared challenge Captain Lagge to walk

with him in Curtain Meads. Unluckily the Beau had heard of the meeting

and went to remonstrate with the gallant Captain.

"What did you say?" asked the Beau.

"I said I would gladly cut the claws of every harpy on the transport,"

answered the sailor.

"Well, so you may, sir," said Mr. Ripple, "but by Heaven! you shan't do

so here."

Next morning the Captain had his orders and was shot through the heart

in the Carthagena business. Poor Captain Lagge, he had a wife and a

little maid waiting for him in the prettiest cottage between Pevensey

and Brighthelmstone.

Charles passed many others whose small histories, could I recount them,

would fill this book to overflowing. For each one he could recall some

unsavoury episode, some mean adventure that made its hero contemptible.

"Oddslife," thought Charles, "was ever Society so corrupt, so insincere,

so entirely damnable?"

By this time he was back in the High Street after a long circuit, and

just as he was thinking of crossing the road to reach the _Blue Boar_

and bed, he noticed a candle was burning in his bookseller's little back

parlour.

"I'll inquire after the sale of my poems," he decided, and without more

ado hammered loudly on the door of the shop. Presently in answer to his

continuous rappings, a foxy-faced old young man with a premature stoop

and cloaths both squalid and ill-cut, shuffled through the shop and

asked who was there.

"A mendicant poet," cried Charles.

"Be d----d," muttered the foxy-faced man, preparing to go back.

"Come, Mr. Virgin, you'll open to me, Charles Lovely?"

"Go away, Mr. Lovely, go away. I'm very busy--very busy indeed. I never

remember when I was so busy before, so full of business."

"So much the better," cried Charles jumping up to smite the signboard

that hung over the door till it swung round on its hinges with a rattle

and a squeak.

"Now don't be rough, Mr. Lovely. I've had the lady's face repainted.

'Tis beautifully done, Mr. Lovely. Do look. Can you see? 'Mr. Paul

Virgin. Bookseller and Publisher. At the Sign of the _Woman_.'"

"Pshaw!" said Charles. "Will you open to me, or I'll turn the woman into

a w----!"

"I suppose you must have your way, but oddscods, indeed I'm monstrous

busy. Oh! Mr. Lovely, I am so busy, you wouldn't believe."

With this final protest, the old young man slowly drew the bolts of the

door and allowed Mr. Lovely to step inside.

There was a musty smell in the shop and the shelves of calf-bound

volumes seemed alive in the uncertain flame of the candle. The counter

was heaped high with volumes and on the floor lay gigantick tomes bound

in jaundiced vellum covers.

Lovely followed the foxy-faced man into the back parlour which in

addition to the general mustiness of the premises had a rank odour of

printer's ink and newly struck proofs.

"I am so busy, Mr. Lovely. Mr. Antique Burrowes' great work on the

Abbeys of England and Wales must positively appear before the publick

next week; the subscription lists are filled up, and we expect a very

favourable reception, and so we ought, for the woodcuts are beautiful.

Look at this one, Mr. Lovely--this is Glastonbury--the Abbot's Kitchen.

What a place just for one man! Ah! those monks: what bellies they had."

Charles scarcely glanced at the proof.

"Very proper," he said, "and what about my poems?"

"Ah! you always have your joke, Mr. Lovely. That's always the way with

poets--they will have their jokes just when I'm so busy too," said Mr.

Virgin sidling across the room to a shelf full of ledgers bound in

hideous marble boards.

"How many sold, these three months?"

"One, Mr. Lovely. One copy. You see it entered."

"Who was the purchaser," said Charles with affectation of great

indifference. "Not a lady, I presume?"

"Ha, ha, you poets--so fond of the women. Singers and poets always like

the women. There was Signor Amoroso, d'ye know him? The famous Tenore,

now singing every night at Vauxhall--he used to buy all my books about

the ladies. But, pray excuse my chatter, Mr. Lovely. I'm sure I oughtn't

to be talking, just when I'm so busy too. Let me see, who was the

purchaser--ah! here it is--it was Miss----"

"Courteen?" Charles let slip in his eagerness.

"Ha-ha! ha-ha!" laughed the foxy-faced bookseller, "Ha-ha! You must keep

your love-secrets better than that. No, it wasn't Miss----" he pursued.

"Oh!" said Charles coldly.

"It was Sir George Repington--I remember now--he wrote from the North."

"Sir George Repington?" exclaimed Charles, completely surprized. "Humph!

I wish him joy of my effusions."

"Oh, no doubt he'll like them or he wouldn't have sent all that way for

them. Well! well! some men are mighty whimsical in their tastes, and

there's no denying that people do read verses."

"However," said Charles, "I take it the taste is not an extended one?"

"Well! you mustn't complain. You had two hundred taken by subscription

and half a dozen copies sold to casual purchasers. You won't lose a vast

deal over the publication."

"No," said Charles, "you wouldn't like that?"

"No, indeed I shouldn't, sir, I take a pride in the success of my

clients. So did my father, sir, and he became an alderman of this town,

though he was a native of Exeter."

"I take it, then, you are not prepared to offer a sum of money on

account of a new volume?"

"Ho-ho!" laughed Mr. Virgin, "what a droll gentleman you are to be sure.

You will have your joke, and don't seem to regard how busy I am."

"Very well, sir," said Charles, "I'll wish you a good night."

"_Good_ night, Mr. Lovely, good night, sir. When I'm not so busy

perhaps, another time, I'll be most happy to talk over your--ahem--literary

projects."

Mr. Virgin held up the candle to light Mr. Lovely through the shop. The

rays happened to fall on a pile of slim volumes reposing on the counter.

"What are those?" Charles asked.

"Ah, 'tis a great pity you can't write verse like that."

"Poems?" said Mr. Lovely in accents of incredulity.

"To be sure--poems, but such poems,--lampoons, squibs, and pasquinades.

'Tis a Satire on the characters of the Bath--very scandalous, they tell

me, but oddscods, 'tas run through nine editions in as many weeks. Now,

if your name was Lively, sir, instead of Lovely."

"Mr. Virgin!"

"No offence. What I mean is, if you could write something similar about

the visitors to Curtain Wells."

"You'd publish it?"

"Well, perhaps that's going too far, but I would give it my very best

attention."

"Humph! Good night," and Charles went out into the drizzle.

On his way home, he saw the Exquisite Mob and the Exquisite Mob-master

grouped before a satirist; and very soon he saw them performing their

anticks thinly disguised by initials and asterisks.

That is how Mr. Charles Lovely sat down to indite

_CURTAIN POLLS_

severely lashed

by a

_Curtain Rod_.

_Chapter the Sixteenth_

THE CHINESE MASQUERADE

The Chinese Masquerade was the outstanding event of early Spring at

Curtain Wells. It was the quintessence of refined affectation, the great

fount in which many tributary delights found their source. Moreover, in

its character there was a national significance. It was not held merely

to emphasize the importance of being seriously amused; it was not one of

many entertainments sacred to Epicurus; it did not serve to commemorate

the fleetingness of life; it was no Burial Service with a ritual of

flung roseleaves and spilt wine. The Chinese Masquerade of Curtain Wells

was something far more grand than any of these, being a great national

act of homage to the beverage of Tea. Of old, Bacchus was saluted in

Samothrace, and the festival of wine was celebrated with all the absence

of restraint that might be expected from the past. Nymphs raved, Satyrs

danced, and garlanded leopards jigged to one wild inspiration. Phrenzy

footed it; troop followed troop, broke and dissolved in flashes of white

limbs when Dionysus of the sly smile and rosy cheeks bewitched thousands

with his strange madness. In fact, the whole affair was an intolerable

concession to Nature. At Curtain Wells you saw the centuries at work.

There the Bacchantes were corseted and hooped to primness; the Satyrs

had high red heels for hoofs, silken breeches for the fur of goats.

Instead of velvety leopards that used to amble over tuffets of fragrant

thyme, each with a hussy astride his supple back, went greasy chairmen

in lurching escort of dowagers and misses. Dionysus himself was changed.

He had kept his sly smile and rosy cheeks, but his vine wreaths were

become ruffles and ties, while his body glittered, not with youth and

health and immortality, but with paste buckles and brooches and

solitaires. The crashing cymbals of Thrace found a thin echo in the

delicate tinkle of tea-spoons and frail sounds of porcelain. To be sure,

the whole of the difference between the worship of Wine and the worship

of Tea was expressed by the fact that to honour the former, society took

off its cloaths, whereas in order to celebrate the latter, all the world

dressed itself up.

Mr. Ripple wore above his suit of amber a robe resembling a golden

dressing-gown. He was the Gold Mandarin, decorated with dragons, tall

pagodas, flowers and fireworks. The Blue Mandarin, whose robe concealed

the pearl-grey suit of Mr. Charles Lovely, seemed as he moved across the

room like a blue garden, so many small landskips wrought in azure silks

trembled in the folds of his garment. Only these two officers of the

Pageant were privileged to remain unmasked. The rest of the company wore

yellow vizards whose painted eyebrows soared at a celestial angle over

eyeslits, cut almondwise. The general effect was of animated Ming

laughing, jesting, talking, and dancing with the lacker cabinets that

were used to contain it.

The ballroom had pagodas in each of the corners where the children of

the Exquisite Mob dressed to a more exact replica[1] of the farthest

Orientals, nodded and peeped and chirped the austere maxims of Confucius

without the slightest idea of their meaning, but all convinced that it

was extremely diverting to partake of a grown-up entertainment, and far

better to drink real tea out of real cups in a delightful palace of

their own, than to play with acorns and ditchwater in the mildewed

Dorick summer-house at the head of the Park avenue.

[1] They wore pigtails, which were considered unbecoming by the

older Follies. Besides, head-dresses were too elaborate to be ruined

for the sake of one entertainment.

Chinese lanterns bobbed on golden wires slung from wall to wall whence

the gilt mirrours with the wax candles of the West had all been removed.

This Eastern light softened the mingled hues of blue and gold to a

gorgeous moving twilight stained by the afterglow of sunset. All along

the sides of the ballroom were placed for seats queer twisted animals,

winged dragons, squat bronzes, Chinese geese, monkeys and parrots in

crude shades of green and vermilion, while at suitable intervals were

set little houses to contain two persons. These were intended to

encourage the intimate amenities of polite conversation.

Outside in the Rococo cloister unknown flowers expanded and curious

fruits ripened by lanternlight; and though the flowers were made of

linen dipped in scent, they served very well to pluck and offer to a

masked fair and as for the fruits, they were all filled with comfits.

Finally, here and there, smoking sandal-wood torches lent a remote

perfume to the Mise en Scene, and curled in scented wreaths about the

motley forms of the masqueraders. To say truth, the Eastern veneer was

more than usually superficial, even for a veneer. The result of the

attempt to secure reality only accentuated the difference between East

and West: still the latter enjoyed making believe so far as it consorted

with true gentility, and it may very easily be understood that nothing

low was permitted by the British Nation in the eighteenth glorious

century of Christian civilization.

Thia was the first masked ball that had been held since Phyllida grew

enamoured of Mr. Francis Vernon, so she made no doubt he would avail

himself of the opportunity to be present. As soon as the Exquisite Mob

was assembled (at half-past seven o'clock precisely, because it was

considered vulgar to be late) there was a solemn drinking of tea, no

mere handing round of teacups and saucers, but a far more impressive

ritual, invented to mark the occasion with due importance.

The Gold Mandarin seated himself on an ivory stool whose claw legs were

fretted with diminutive foliage, temples and flying birds. This was set

on a small platform draped with broideries at the foot of which was an

azure velvet cushion where, with crossed legs, sat the Blue Mandarin.

Mr. Ripple clapped his hands twice to command the entrance of the

Procession of Tea. First walked two musicians slowly tapping gongs

shaped like saucers with large spoons. These were followed by six

children with nodding porcelain Mandarins whose tongues trembled in and

out of their surprized mouths. Then came the bearer of the Caddy--a

magnificently decorated specimen of lackerwork. On either side of the

Caddy was borne a Nankin jar full of milk. Finally, a lacker table on

wheels, overhung by a fringed canopy that protected an enormous bowl of

rarest Ming whither odorous vapours ascended from the flowery liquid,

was pushed along in slow and reverend state.

The company opened its ranks to allow the procession a way until it

stopped before the Gold Mandarin's ivory throne. The Beau at once

descended, dipped a diminutive teacup into the bowl, took three sips and

sighed rapturously. The six porcelain Mandarins were set nodding with

redoubled vigour, gongs boomed from the topmost windows of the pagodas,

and the procession re-formed and passed into the upper room, whither the

assembled company followed it in order to drink in turn from teacups

filled at the sacred fountain.

In the crush, Phyllida, who was wearing a gown faint blue like the March

sky, felt her sleeve pulled gently by a tall mask in tawny raiment. She

recognized the pointed white fingers and whispered 'Amor.'

The mask shook his head to indicate silence, but presently Phyllida

succeeded in conveying her cup of tea to the outskirts of the crowd and

hurried through a corridor to a side-door opening into the cloister

where she waited for her lover's approach. In a minute he was sitting

beside her.

She turned to him delightedly.

"Dear Amor! This will be the first ball that I shall have truly

enjoyed."

This statement scarcely did justice to the many pleasant hours she had

spent to the sound of fiddles, horns, and clarinets.

"Why was my charmer absent yesterday? The Maze was prodigiously dull

without the sweet Nymph who loves to haunt its verdurous ways."

"Oh! Amor, we are discovered."

"Faith, is that so?" remarked Vernon, without any apparent concern.

"Mr. Ripple told my mother I was conversing with a gentleman for one

hour and a half by the clock."

"Interfering dancing-master!"

"And yesterday I was sent to match a ribband quite impossible to match;

I'm sure 'twas done to keep me employed and when I heard eleven chime, I

could bear it no longer, but almost ran towards Curtain Garden, and on

my way the Beau beckoned me to come in and, pray don't be angry, dear

Amor, he was so vastly kind that I told him your name."

"Here's a pretty state of affairs," muttered Vernon.

"He asked me to present you to him to-night, and vowed we should be wed

in June."

"Gadslife! I hope you sent him about his business?"

"Not exactly," said Phyllida, "indeed he was so good-natured that I

promised--at least I half promised to do so."

"Confusion take him," swore Vernon, "for a prating, meddlesome,

tailor-made gentleman. Harkee! I'll not have myself discussed by Mr.

Horace Ripple. I dare swear he patted your hands, eh? called you his

pretty dear, made old man's love, eh? A plague on his impudence!"

Phyllida shrank from her lover's wrath.

"Indeed, sir, I vow he did nothing of the kind. He behaved with some of

that propriety for which I could wish in my Amor." Phyllida remembered a

young woman talking something like this in the first volume of _The Fair

Inconstant_. Vernon could not keep back a smile. "I doubt I'm not

inclined to hear you farther."

Vernon began to chuckle.

"And let me tell you, sir, your behaviour becomes you very ill, and

moreover I told him your name, and the milk's spilt, and 'tis useless to

cry over spilt milk as all the world knows."

A tear-drop trembled in each corner of Phyllida's eyes, making them seem

more clearly blue, as crystals that surround great sapphires enhance

their beauty.

"Sweet indiscretion," began Vernon, who having been politick enough to

conceal his true name, could afford to be generous.

A very faint sob was the sole response.

"Nay, prithee, dear one," he continued, catching hold of a tremulous

hand, "let's have no quarrels at our first ball; I bear you no malice."

"I should never have told him, had I been ashamed of you," she

interrupted.

"Just so, adorable creature, but since we had resolved to keep our

affair secret, and since we were agreed that stolen meetings, like

stolen fruit, taste the sweetest, I was surprized to hear you had told

every one."

"I did not tell any one."

"But, my angel, you did."

"Not until I was forced. 'Tis very well for you. You're a man of fashion

and independence, and I'm a young woman."

"Incontestable truth!"

"Now you're being satirical, and I vow I detest sarcasm. Indeed, I think

it has all been a mistake, and I'll go back to Hampshire to-morrow, and

you may go back to your Haymarket."

"Very well, madam, since you dismiss my suit, I will go back to my

Haymarket. It may be vastly diverting for you, madam, to break a man's

heart. You, secure in the verdant meads and--er--meadows of the county

of Hampshire, you, wandering among fields of daffadillies, at peace,

beneath a summer sun."

"Daffadillies don't grow in the summer."

"Alas! madam, I am ignorant of these pastoral delights."

This was perfectly true since Mr. Vernon's mother was a lady who thought

a bough-pot in Air Street worth the finest estate in the Kingdom.

"I," he continued, "have lived my life in cities, and though I have

often hoped to hear the cuckoo wake me at dawn, 'tis very evident I must

for ever bid farewell to such vain dreams."

Here, Mr. Vernon, who had inherited considerable histrionick ability on

the female side, contrived to get an effective break into his usually

smooth enunciation.

"But I don't want to quarrel for ever," protested Phyllida.

Mr. Vernon turned his head away, probably to hide a tear.

"For my part," she went on, "I should be very willing to live always as

we are living now."

"My angel!"

"But since the world is so censorious and seems to concern itself with

every unimportant young woman's affairs, I thought--I thought----"

"You thought a wedding would put a stop to scandal. How little you know

the world. Why! madam, a hasty wedding would set people's tongues

wagging at once. Come, come, pay no attention to old Ripple. He knows my

name. If he chuse, he can seek me out. I warrant I shall hear no more

about it."

"But we shall be watched."

"Then we'll change our trysting-place. At any rate, prithee, let us

enjoy to-night." Here Mr. Vernon put on his mask and taking off his gown

resumed it inside out. "Do you see, dear charmer, I am both porcelain

and lacker, so that no one will be able to say you prefer the one to the

other. Hark! the fiddles have begun--let's go and step our first gavotte

together."

Phyllida took his arm and they returned to the ballroom. The vizards

made all the faces appear fixed and wooden and Miss Courteen could not

help looking very often at Mr. Charles Lovely who was sitting

cross-legged on his azure cushion and, in contrast to the rest of the

masquerade, was plainly a man. Once she fancied she caught his eye, and

when he came up and asked her to honour his arm for the third gavotte,

she knew she had not been mistaken. Mr. Vernon silently relinquished his

partner.

"Who was your late Vis a Vis?" Charles inquired. "I beg your pardon," he

added as he saw Phyllida hesitate, "my manners grow as barbarick as my

costume."

He had noticed with devout jealousy that Miss Courteen's fingers reposed

a moment longer than was necessary upon that sattin forearm.

"How did you discover me?" she asked with frank interest.

"'Twas not difficult."

"But masked as I am?"

"I did not regard your mask--I saw your eyes."

Phyllida was conscious of a blush and a faint quickening of the pulses,

all over her body. There was certainly something very satisfactory in

such a compliment. It was genuine moreover, for indeed he had discovered

her through the distorted yellow vizard which concealed her roses.

Presently the dance began, and, though Phyllida liked every moment of

it, she could not help observing Amor, half buried in the greenery of an

alcove and, as it seemed to her, forbidding too keen a pleasure.

Charles found it difficult to extract from his partner more than the

ordinary small talk of ballrooms, and as she became more and more

absent-minded during the progress of the dance, he let her go at the end

of it without a very valiant attempt to detain her for the next.

Presently he saw her join a blue mask and lose herself in the flickering

throng. Last time he had remarked particularly that her Vis a Vis wore

brown and gold, yet the two figures were alike in movement and gesture

and he could swear the hands were identical. It was the same without a

doubt. Charles bit his nails with vexation, and fretted confoundedly.

"My dear boy, my dear Charles, pray do not gnaw your fingers. Narcissus

admired himself, 'tis true, but without carrying his devotion to

cannibality."

Charles turned to the well-known voice of Mr. Ripple.

"A thousand pardons, dear Beau, I was vexed by a trifle. The masquerade

comports itself with tolerable success."

"I think so," the Beau replied, adjusting his monocle and gazing

critically at his subjects. "I certainly think so, but I am never easy

in my mind until the Grand Minuet has concluded the entertainment, yet

even so, I do not think you will ever find me preying upon my

extremities."

Charles laughed.

"They take their pleasures very easily, sir." Again the Beau examined

his puppets.

"The burden of amusement certainly weighs very lightly on them, and yet,

Charles, I sometimes fancy I detect a shade too much of

self-consciousness in their movements. I could wish for a less anxious

grace, a less ordered abandon. My monocle which diminishes their size,

diminishes their importance; and I must confess that the motion of

dancing, if one regards the Ensemble, appears to me nothing less than

idiotical. However, do not let my cynical attitude prove contagious--I

have watched so many dances."

"Yet you are willing for me to succeed you," said Charles. "Foregad, Mr.

Ripple, I was never intended for a spectator."

"I have energy to keep me in office long enough to let you grow older.

Come, come, Charles, admit the career I offer would tempt many more

deserving young men."

"But I have passions, feelings, desires, ambitions."

"All very suitable," commented the Beau, "till you grow tired of

versifying life. We write poetry, Charles, in order to improve our

prose."

"Some men write poetry to the end."

"Usually a bitter end; but, indeed, I would not goad you into accepting

my offer. Have your dramas, lose your money, expose your heart to Cupid,

commit the thousand and one foolish actions that will afford you a moral

occupation for your middle age."

"What would that be?"

"A leisurely repentance."

"Sir, I think you spin the natural functions into silk like the

silkworm."

"Well, Charles, and isn't silk a more durable excrement than most? You

are still devouring the tender shoots of the mulberry tree; I am

already in the cocoon and shall go down to posterity as a very reputable

moth vouched for by a cenotaph in St. Simon's Church, Curtain Wells."

"Sir, I doubt they will never say of me 'Vive le roi!'"

"We shall see, we shall see. By the way, do you know a Miss Phyllida

Courteen? Her mother, a widow whose charms are as ample as her dowry, is

lodging in the Crescent."

Charles was taken aback for a moment.

"I believe I have met her once or twice at Assemblies."

"At any rate, you know her by sight."

"Oh yes!" replied our hero.

"Now, I wonder whether you could pick her out from this multitude of

masks."

Charles at once perceived the subject of the question.

"She is standing over there by the second pillar and talking to a mask

in porcel--no, in lacker. That's strange."

"What is strange?" inquired Mr. Ripple mildly.

"Nothing--a lantern effect," Charles explained.

Surely he could not be mistaken in those taper fingers. Moreover, they

were familiar to him. Where could he have seen them?

"So that is Miss Courteen," said the Beau, looking at her very intently.

"Yes, now that you have pointed her out, I certainly seem to recognize

her. Who is her Vis a Vis?"

"That I do not know," said Charles rather gloomily.

"Then, pray, be so good-natured as to make an attempt to ascertain and

you'll oblige me monstrously. Or stay--perhaps I had better inquire

myself."

Mr. Ripple, observing that Mr. Lovely looked somewhat melancholy, patted

him on the shoulder.

"Don't look so full of disapprobation, Charles. Inquisitiveness, with

ordinary men and women, is a breach of good manners: with kings, it is a

condescension. Dear me! how time runs!" the Beau continued, tripping

from an epigram to a truism. "I will leave you to superintend the

Country Dances. Let them be as Oriental as possible, I beg."

With this admonition the Great little Man threaded his way through the

Exquisite Mob.

Charles d----d the country dances very devoutly. He was not enjoying

the evening at all, and wished he were sitting in the cosy firelight of

the _Blue Boar_, lulled by the whispers of playing cards, shuffled and

dealt. Where could he raise that two hundred pounds he owed Vernon?

Vernon--by G...! now he recognized those taper fingers. Vernon! they

belonged to Vernon, he could swear to them. Too often had he watched

their delicate harvesting of his guineas. He began to fret more than

ever. Suddenly he noticed that everybody was looking in his direction,

and became aware that time was indeed running and the moment for the

Country Dances had arrived.

Meanwhile Mr. Ripple searched in vain for Phyllida and a Vis a Vis in

brown and gold.

_Chapter the Seventeenth_

THE GRAND MINUET OF CATHAY

The Country Dances of these powderpuff Orientals were so truly

inappropriate to the celebration that they almost succeeded in

convincing by sheer want of fitness. Picture to yourselves two hundred

blue and golden marionettes jigging to _Sir Roger de Coverley_ or

bobbing to _Come Lasses and Lads_. There was Merry England underneath

this hugger mugger of yellow masks, yet the sustained motion was

decidedly Eastern. Hands across, back to back, right hand, left

hand--each change of attitude was marked by a crashing gong; and he who

sounded this barbarick instrument was Mr. Charles Lovely. He stood upon

a tripod of ebony quite high enough for a hero of comedy, as I am sure

you will admit.

As soon as his proconsulate was over, he jumped from the pedestal and,

once more assuming our poor humanity, sought desperately for Mr. Vernon

and Miss Phyllida Courteen.

And now the great ballroom was cleared. The Exquisite Mob refreshed

itself not with chopsticks, but with two pronged forks and stout-handled

knives. Nor was the fare ascetick rice, but pies of mutton, rounds of

beef, custards, gay jellies and dappled puddings. In the ballroom the

attendants busily ran hither and thither in preparation for the Grand

Minuet of Cathay. Four pagodas guarded four corners; little bridges

spanned little rivers of blue silk. There were miniature groves that

shielded queer little Chinese gods and goddesses, while here and there

were temples with crooked roofs, hung round with silver bells destined

to be jingled at set moments of this incomparable minuet. High up near

the ceiling among the swinging lanterns one saw the peaked faces of

giant kites gazing benignly down. Finally in the very centre of the room

was a small fountain with a pond all about it of real water, starred

with white water lilies, on the highest jet of which a little god,

inflated by air, jigged to the rise and fall of the water. Mr. Ripple

had not been able to find Miss Courteen and was interrupted in his

search by a call to inspect the scene of the Minuet. Gog was sent to

fetch Mr. Lovely and presently the Gold Mandarin and the Blue Mandarin

were stepping over each bridge, peering from each pagoda, gently trying

the bells, lending a last touch to the rivers of silk and coming to a

standstill in silent admiration of the dancing water-god.

"I think," said Mr. Ripple, "we may venture to proclaim, the Minuet of

Cathay."

"I think so," said Mr. Lovely as he cast a quick eye in the direction of

every entrance in turn.

"I could not find Miss Courteen," said the Beau, "have you had better

luck?"

Lovely hesitated a moment.

"No," he said finally.

The Beau looked at him a moment.

"I cannot imagine who this Amor can be. He is not down in my list."

"Amor?" inquired Charles, somewhat too suddenly, "is his name Amor?"

"So the young lady informed me, when we considered the situation

together. I perceive you know him."

"Indeed, sir, I am acquainted with no one of that name."

"I never imagined you were," replied the Beau testily. "'Tis too plainly

a Nom d'amour; but I'll wager you are able to extract a personality from

this pseudonym."

"Nay, indeed, I----"

"Very well," said the Beau, cutting him short, "there is no more to be

said," and he turned away to order a burly Oriental who on less

decorated occasions was wont to assist Mr. Balhatchett the butcher, to

sound the gong of invitation.

While the huge sullen instrument boomed a diapason that threatened more

than it cajoled, Charles wondered if he had been wise to conceal his

knowledge of Mr. Amor's identity. Ripple had obviously not believed him

and was moreover very sensitive to any concealment on the part of his

subjects. He, as his own subaltern, was especially bound to indulge this

foible. Besides, what good had he done? thought Charles. Not much

indeed, for soon Ripple would certainly find out the whole affair. He

ought to tell him all he knew. Ripple would act for the best and close

the Pump Room against the intruder. It would be kill or cure.

But just as he was upon the point of informing the Great little Man, our

hero remembered he owed Vernon two hundred pounds. O resolute hero! Be

quick to mount your ebony pedestal or we shall think you no better than

a walking gentleman.

The Exquisite Mob of crimped and corseted Orientals began to saunter

back from supper, and the debate between honesty and honour was

adjourned to a more meditative opportunity. By this hour of the evening

most of the Masks were tolerably sure of each other's identity, and

though it was an acknowledged custom of the Chinese Masquerade as

opposed to other masked balls that all vizards should be worn from door

to door, the Grand Minuet of Cathay afforded much scandalous talk for

the ensuing days, all the more potent because a convention of anonymity

was sedulously maintained. It was not surprizing that intrigue should

flourish at a dance where half the company was hidden for many moments

at a stretch. The Minuet lasted a whole hour. It reproduced in the

various side-figures many emotions. It was a hundred dances in a grand

Ensemble. The musick was now courtly, now passionate: sometimes it

clanged in barbarick interludes of noise: sometimes but three or four

flutes twittered above the plash of the fountain.

Over the bridges pattered the dancers: in and out of the diminutive

groves twinkled their scarlet heels. Now a couple swayed in a stationary

boat on a motionless river: now at the topmost window of a pagoda,

cambrick handkerchief and painted fan kept time to the tune. The Gold

Mandarin lived in a golden house beside the fountain and, if he chose,

could live a century of sound and perfume in that fragrant hour of

dancing. Far away at the other corner of the room lived the Blue

Mandarin in a small house at the foot of a small volcano that

ceaselessly puffed out clouds of incense. Wherever you went in that

strange dance of dances some new delight assailed your senses.

Here, before a temple hung with silver bells, a dozen of these blue and

golden dolls moved with grace and precision through many variations of

the Minuet. They would carry away with them that night no more than a

memory of bells and stately movement by the rosy light of many lanterns.

Purged of all feeling save for correct gesture, the vizards seemed no

more alive than their mirroured counterparts that moved with equal grace

upside down in the polished floor of parquet.

But step over one of these bridges where false white flowers hang in

scented clusters: go softly through that Bonbon grove, and there in an

alcove fretted to the semblance of wrought ivory, you shall see two

masks that are enraptured beneath a white moon-lantern, tracing the

melody with long caresses. In one of these fanciful resorts, sat Vernon

and Phyllida making love among the shadows, as in pairs and dainty

quartetts the dancers darkened the carved portal when they passed. For

Phyllida, the Assembly Rooms had been snatched up by some powerful

magician and set down in a land of Ombres Chinoises. Many a time had she

sat in the theatre and watched these silent black and white tragedies

and comedies. Now she had joined that whimsical procession which capers

across the draughty sheet. She recalled a particular entertainment of

this character last December. First the Columbine had pirouetted across

and made a light phantastick entrance into the shadow of the house at

the extreme corner. Presently came the Pierrot with a lantern swaying

atop of a tall pole. Up and down the sheet he had danced with incredible

agility, until a Pulcinello shook his bells from the window of the

house, and he floated away gathering giant size as he went. Then came

Harlequin, dancing almost more beautifully than Pierrot, and a quiet

murder was done in the laurel shadows round the house. Pierrot lay dead

and Harlequin, the slim and debonair assassin had donned his vizard:

Columbine wept a while until the lights were turned up, when everybody

agreed that the whole performance was in the best of taste and vastly

well executed.

Phyllida came to herself and found Mr. Vernon gazing steadily at her

with his velvet eyes, all the more disconcerting set almondwise in the

Chinese mask. She shuddered.

To say truth, this exotick minuet of strange perfumes and processions,

was not the sanest amusement for a maid who should have lived always

among the roses. The heat was growing intolerable, and still her lover

with persistent, regular motion bewitched her hand as it lay in his.

The dancers passed and repassed them as they sat in artificial dusk.

Phyllida began to hate them when they fluttered their fans and

handkerchiefs. They were sickly things these dancers--crotchets and

quavers and semiquavers who had captured the semblance of humanity, who

breathed and bowed and capered, merely because musick had conjured them

into existence. Suddenly an amazing clangour of gongs and cymbals waked

her completely from the fever into which she had been flung, and,

waking, she found herself encircled by her lover's arms, his eyes

burning into hers and his lips, all that was left alive by the stolid

vizard, eager to meet her own.

"Don't," she gasped. "Don't. I hate you, I hate you when you do that."

"Nay, my angel must not be so prudish. Come, kiss me of your own will

and we'll gallop to Gretna Green next week."

Phyllida still repulsed him.

"To Gretna Green," he went on. "Drawn by a pair of cream-coloured

horses, in a chaise all citron silk and rosy sattin with my Phyllida

plunged into the softest cushions and her Amor to love her so fondly

while trees and milestones fly past."

Vernon inherited much talent from his mother, and as he breathed his

persuasions in the most refined modulations of intensity, half looked

over his shoulder, for an audience.

"My Phyllida, your lips are soft as moths."

"Don't, Amor, don't."

"Soft as little moths that in wet garden paths brush the cheeks with

feathery wings."

"Release my hand, detestable Amor. I will sit here no longer to be

tortured by your boorishness."

"But why will you repulse me? you love me? We are to be wed almost at

once. Why were you willing to sit in this dark corner, unless for the

charms of love?"

The Minuet was drawing to a close. Long since the musick had departed

into wilder channels. This was now no courtly measure, but a barbarick

medley of noise, fit for trumpets of India, cymbals of Ethiopia, and the

hollow booming of drums that affright wrecked pirates in the green

swamps of Madagascar.

Vernon stood up and drew Phyllida closer.

"By G----, child, you madden me with your prettiness. Come, I swear you

shall kiss me before the end of the dance. You shall, by G---- you

shall!"

Miss Phyllida Courteen, all swansdown and blushes in our first chapter,

is scarcely recognizable now. She is growing old fast. She is kindling

the faggots that will warm her chill old age.

But still, though passion tugged at her heart strings, the school-miss,

the older Eve before the Fall, made her struggle against knowledge.

"I hate you, I hate you like this. Let me go, sir, let me go!"

With a sudden effort, she escaped from his arms, and he, plunging back

at the same moment, struck the frail summer house of ivory so that it

toppled over in front of the Blue Mandarin who was crossing a bridge

over a silken stream that flowed in the direction of his little house

beneath the miniature volcano. The Bonbon grove was strewn with

fragments. Like Cinderella fled Miss Courteen and was quickly lost in

the gold and azure company. With careless air, Mr. Vernon stooped to

buckle his shoe and Charles, seeing the taper fingers, stood for a

moment petrified upon the ridiculous bridge over which he had been

stepping with such an affectation of importance.

Now was his opportunity to probe Mr. Vernon, or rather to lead him

gradually into the urbane presence of Mr. Ripple who would certainly

probe him deep enough. There was every reason to admonish him for, as he

knelt over his shoe, Charles could plainly see his costume was

reversible. Such a device was a breach of etiquette, deserving publick

censure. Himself as viceroy of Society, should not be backward in

arresting a traitor to Society's rules. Of old, the favourites of

monarchs had not scrupled to owe money to those whom they denounced as

dangerous to the State.

Charles took a step forward.

"Sir," he said, pointing with a tasselled wand whose handle was a squat

Buddha, "you have broken a law of the Chinese Masquerade."

"Indeed," said Vernon, rising from his knees, not at all perturbed

apparently by the accusation.

"Yes," went on the Blue Mandarin. Pray let our hero be impersonal for a

while, "You are wearing a double costume."

"What a monstrous breach of privilege," said Vernon chilly, unmoved.

"And it is my duty to report the incident to Beau Ripple. Your name,

sir?"

It was now the turn of our villain to hesitate. If he frankly avowed his

identity, Lovely was bound to say no more about it, but did the

interloping young Jackanapes know the heroine of the affair?--he had

danced with her once that night. If he said Amor, Lovely might easily

inform Ripple and plead ignorance. D---- n the young fool! Why didn't he

pass over his absurd stream and take his callow brain, stuffed with

ceremonies, to the sugar-plum atmosphere of the Beaux' ante-room?

"Why Lovely, man, don't you know me? 'Tis I, Vernon, what the plague do

you mean by so much impertinence? Were you shocked to see me trying to

kiss a saucy school-minx, eh? That was little Miss----"

"Her mask, sir, should conceal her name."

With what fair Incognita Mr. Vernon intended to couple himself, will

never be known. No doubt a pseudonym as nice as his own would have been

forthcoming, since he was of an inventive disposition and had on

occasions a pretty turn of fancy.

The musick had stopped; the Grand Minuet of Cathay was finished. Mr.

Charles Lovely was aware of a rival to whom, by cursed ill-fortune, he

owed money which he was unable to pay.

"Shall I give you your revenge?" murmured Vernon.

The company, still masked, were hurrying in blue and golden bunches to

their coaches and chairs.

"Not tonight," said Charles. "But on my honour, Vernon, you must really

be careful not to offend against our rules on another occasion."

So, lightly enough, with no appearance of mutual ill-will the rivals

passed on. Phyllida was gone home, her face afire beneath her Chinese

mask. To her virginal chamber, I shall presently take you in order to

hear what Mistress Betty has to say about the ways of lovers. And while

we walk in the direction of the Crescent, somewhat overwrought by a

plethora of colour, scent, movement and sound, we may be tolerably

certain that young Mr. Charles Lovely--no longer Blue Mandarin, but

again our admired hero--is seated furiously inditing the most satirical

verses on the residents and visitors of Curtain Wells, in order to make

money enough to pay Mr. Vernon his guineas, and be able to run him

through in Curtain Mead with a clear conscience and a clean smallsword.

_Chapter the Eighteenth_

THE CONFIDANTE

If Eve had possessed a Confidante, it is probable that the evil wrought

by Woman would have been double as great as it is reputed to be. Miss

Courteen had stepped into the mud of reality and, not unnaturally, was

eager to tell Mistress Betty of the accident and ascertain by

candlelight consultation, whether or not her glass slipper was truly

lost.

As they drove home in the rumbling coach, Phyllida experienced an

emotion of futility as she half listened, half dozed, to the

conversation of the Major, the Justice and her mother. To this came

Youth. Bumpety-bump went the coach, bumpety-bump went the conversation,

bumpety-bump went Thomas' broad back on the Jimmy, bumpety-bump went

Phyllida's head, while her thoughts and memories kept pace in the

darkness like swift sparks that are blown along by the wind. At last the

coach drew up before their house in the Crescent: Phyllida and her

mother alighted: Betty opened the door and the coach drove off to put

down Major Tarry and Mr. Moon at their lodgings.

The hall seemed drab and unfamiliar; the bedchamber candle-sticks set

out upon the little gate table had an air of reproof about them; they

seemed to say as they sat in a prim row: "Look at us, we are quite

content. Last night our candles burnt an inch lower, and the candle

suffers diminution, but we remain the same. We are quite content."

"My pretty one looks pale," said Betty, full of solicitude.

"I'm tired," said Phyllida.

"Betty," said Mrs. Courteen, "you must help me to undress. The evening

has been most enjoyable, and my lady Bunbutter tore her gown on a

monkey's tail. Now, Phyllida, do you run quickly to bed, for to-morrow

Mr. Moon and the Major have promised to drive with us to see Melton

Abbey. You will enjoy the excursion vastly."

"What a whimsical place to visit."

"Whimsical! How can you be so irreverend, Phyllida?"

"But why, mamma, do you suddenly drive to Melton Abbey?"

"Why, child! because I wish to train your mind to be sure. Nothing tests

deportment so severely as wandering round a Gothick ruin. However, they

tell me that Gothick will soon be a la Mode, and who am I to dispute the

commands of fashion?"

Upon the heels of this humble interrogation, the widow betook herself to

bed.

"When you have undressed my mamma, Betty, come to my chamber, I have a

thousand things to tell you," Phyllida whispered as they went up the

narrow stairs.

She lighted all the candles in her room and looked round in sudden

affright. It was as if some one had trespassed upon those virginal

solitudes while she was away. Yet her room was the same as usual; the

dimity covers were all in their places: the fire was burning merrily in

the hearth: the bed-cloaths were turned back, fresh, cool and

lavendered. Her slippers knelt devoutly by the fender: the fire-irons

looked just as stilted and apologetick as usual. Everything was

perfectly familiar, perfectly ordinary and perfectly safe; yet something

in the room was strange, or was it herself who was altered? Was she out

of harmony with this palace of amber morning dreams, this treasure-box

of twilight hopes and imaginations?

Down she sat in the big flowered arm-chair and stared at the crackling

logs--a stranger to her own possessions, and, as she untied one by one

the ribbands from her glinting chestnut hair, she seemed to smell the

jasmine of Courteen Grange and hear her father calling below her

casement to come down quickly and count the buds on the York and

Lancaster rose, as he was used to call in those sweet dead Junes.

Presently came Betty with a soft knock and Phyllida, starting away from

the host of childish memories that assailed her, sprang up as the maid

came in on tiptoe.

"Now, sit down, Betty, and listen with all your ears, for I dearly need

your advice."

"My sweet one, I'm listening to 'ee," said Betty, pulling forward a fat

lop-eared hassock and squeezing herself as close to the fender as

possible.

"Betty, Mr. Amor kissed me this evening, and what should I do?"

"What were 'ee best to do? Why think no more about it, for indeed I dare

vow you're not the first maid that was kissed."

"But the worst of the matter is that, though I struggled hard to escape,

and though I detested him for his persistence, yet, oh! Betty, I don't

like to tell you--I did not struggle as hard as I might have done."

As she made this confession, Phyllida went carnation red from forehead

to pointed dimpled chin.

"There's no call for blushes," said Betty emphatically, "for you must

learn the love of man soon or late, and Mr. Vernon is a proper enough

gentleman for sure."

"And he said we should presently elope."

"Oh! time enough to be wed come three years or more," commented Betty.

"Oh! but you would not have me allow a gentleman to take my hand, and

kiss me, and call me his dearest life without being married immediately.

It would be most unbecoming."

"If all the world knew, 'twould, but then nobody don't know, and that's

the best way for all true lovers."

"Nevertheless, Betty, I feel uneasy."

"'Tis only the stirring of your blood, my dear. Only to think," went on

the confidante, "that last sweet Spring time you was building great

cowslip balls in the green meadows, and now you are quite grown up with

a bow of your own to arm you through the minivets and gawottes, so grand

as may be."

"Yes, love makes one grow old, Betty. I've aged very much these weeks."

"Well, and 'twouldn't be right otherwise, for Life bean't all a long

sweet April month, my pretty one."

"Then truly, dear Betty, you swear you think there is no harm in what I

have done?"

"Oh, my dear, harm? Why, what harm could there be with your great fat

Betty to watch and guard 'ee?"

"Still, I'm not sure, Betty. There's something tells me not to be sure."

"Then, do 'ee listen hard to me, my dear, while I tell 'ee what I do

think about life. Life! 'Tis a garden and 'tis a wilderness, and between

them there's a gaate and 'tis a kissing gaate. The wilderness is fine

for children--a great open plaace fit for scampering Jack hares and such

like, but bare enough and bleak enough when you do grow old, and then

you're too fat to get through that kissing gaate, and then you do wish

wi' all your might and main that when you was young you'd gotten into

the garden among the sweet flowers."

Betty stopped, exhausted by the allegory.

"Yes, Betty, that is all very well, but you must go through the gate

with the person whom you love for ever and a day."

"Nay, you can meet him inside and say Good-day and thank you kindly to

the arm you went in on."

"I don't believe you give me good advice. If I told you that to-morrow

morning I was going to run away with Mr. Amor to Gretna Green, what

would you say?"

"Oh, God preserve you from the wicked thought, Gretna Green or any other

such unlawful heathenish village green!"

"There you see," complained Phyllida, "you do not take me seriously, and

it was foolish of me ever to tell you about this evening. But now that

I have told you, you must never breathe a word to a living

soul--never--never--promise!

"I do promise," said Betty.

"With the old rhyme--till Christmas--you remember?"

Betty stood up, while a ritual, sacred to the childhood of Phyllida, was

solemnly enacted. In a monotonous whispered chaunt, Betty promised:

"_I will not tell at primrose tide,

At cherry tide I'll silent be,

At barley harvest I'll be dumb

Till Christmas come and set me free._"

Phyllida was satisfied that her indiscreet confidence was safely locked

up in Betty's bosom, capacious, homely, sweet-savoured as an

apple-closet.

You have seen the confidante in action. Is it not well that we have

banished her from society? No longer may she enter stark mad in white

muslin, as the play directs. We have put her away in an old chest with

hoops and tie-wigs and gibbets and pirates and Newgate ordinaries and

rotten boroughs and watchet ribbands. No longer does she play asterisk

to a heroine, because nowadays the adventures of our heroines are

entirely introspective. But, as upon all time-honoured institutions, let

us drop a tear for the confidante; she has helped a thousand perplexed

authors to unfold their simple dramas, she has helped many a

scene-shifter to leisure.

Mr. Sheridan could laugh at Mr. Cumberland through this artful, artless

medium, but he too had his Lucy. Mr. Smollett depended upon Miss

Williams (a lady of the loosest character) in order to help his Narcissa

to reveal herself and you, Mr. Goldsmith whose name, like immortal

Madame Blaize, is 'bedizened and brocaded,' you had your dearest

Neville.

Yet, after all, however much we may regret them, confidantes were very

bad for heroines. They would encourage them in all that was most

reprehensible. Here you see, is our own confidante encouraging her

mistress to play with Love's torch and for all you or she know, get

badly scorched by the purple flame. Such temerity is very well for

country wenches to whom a green gown is a proper delight for May

morning. Betty, with her memories of many barley breaks, junketings and

Hallowe'en festivals, where ripe lips are as common as cherries at

midsummer, was not the perfect monitor for swansdown misses brought up

under Miss Prudence Prim's long rattan, taught to sit up straight and

put into corsets almost as soon as they were out of robe-coats. In fact

she was a confidante, a match-maker, to whom a wedding-ring was a Post

Hoc horse-collar, through which to grin at the censorious world.

After all, where's the ultimate difference between sweet sensibility a

hundred and fifty years ago and sweet sensibility today? We should

consider it _demode_ for the latter to gossip with her maid. Now every

schoolboy and schoolgirl knows how to spell psychology, and has been

awarded a sub-conscious self to enliven the lonely hours. And this

sub-conscious self, what is it, under analysis? Why, nothing more than

the old confidante in ghostly guise with as long a tongue and as rich a

store of bad advice.

So now, having successfully, as I hope, occupied your attention while

sweet sensibility gets into bed, let us snuff the candles and leave the

room to Phyllida and wavering firelight.

_Chapter the Nineteenth_

BLACKHART FARM WITH A COCK-FIGHT

About ten miles from Curtain Wells on the Bristol road stood a ruined

cottage. With thatch discoloured, torn by gales and sparrows, and with

windows made crooked by internal decay, its expression was grotesque and

unpleasant. A tangled bed of rotten nettles filled the space before it,

and all the vegetation beside was rank and desolate. This cottage served

as fitting lodge to a sinister bye-way covered with weeds and almost

overhung in summer by hedges dark with masses of black bryony, but in

winter and spring sufficiently open to admit the cold grey sky overhead,

and the chill Easterly rain, which on the morning after the Chinese

Masquerade fell with dreary persistence.

Pray pardon me that I take you so far from wit, fashion, and beauty,

along this unsavoury path, but indeed the journey is inevitable if you

are at all anxious to understand something of Mr. Francis Vernon's

intentions. The road leads to Blackhart Farm, famous, no doubt, in days

gone by for the cherries of that denomination; but since the last dying

speech and confession of Mrs. Mawhood the name has acquired a new and

sinister significance.

Now you understand my apologies; or is it possible you have forgotten

Mrs. Mawhood of Blackhart Farm, who was turned off at Tyburn amid the

execrations of the mob in 17--? Yet her long black gloves and white face

haunted many pillows on the night when she paid the ultimate penalty;

and for what was she hanged? Come, come, this history is not the Newgate

Calendar--you must search that bloody register.

At the time, however, of Mr. Vernon's visit, Mrs. Mawhood was alive and,

I am sorry to add, flourishing. He followed the roadway for about a

quarter of a mile between tall, damp hedgerows, dismounted at a small

wicket-gate and, leading his horse, turned aside through a plantation of

close-set, withered larches under which the grass grew pale and thin,

with a sweet unhealthy odour of fungus. Blackhart Farm appeared in

view--a long, low building with slated roof, trim enough, but repulsive

and barren. From a pile of chimney stacks smoke was rising hardly

through the heavy atmosphere.

The path by which Vernon arrived led immediately to the front door. Had

he continued along the cart track he would have reached, by way of a

bleak paved courtyard, the back of the house. Only a very shallow strip

of garden separated the front of the farm from the gloomy plantation

that served as barrier to the curious world.

Vernon tied his horse to the gate of the garden, walked up the

moss-grown path between clipped bushes of box, and knocking with the

handle of his riding-whip on the heavy door, waited. Several moments

passed, and in the deep silence that surrounded this ill-wished abode,

he could distinctly hear a clock ticking on the other side of the heavy

door. This, the drip of trees, and the noise of his horse chewing the

rank herbage by the gate, were the only sounds that broke the stillness.

At last footsteps shuffled over the stone-paved floor within. A small

panel slid away from a grating and a voice of that peculiar unctuous

hoarseness only heard in a prodigiously fat man or woman, inquired his

name.

"I want to see you, old Mother Mawhood."

"Love o'maids!" said the fat voice, "'tis Fancy Vernon, or I'm not a fat

old sinner."

The bolts were pushed back, the latch clicked, the door swung open, and

Mrs. Mawhood, whose bulk, but little reduced by Newgate fare, was soon

to test severely the three-legged tenement, occupied the portal.

Take a good look at Mrs. Mawhood, while with pursy greetings she makes

Fancy Vernon welcome. She is like an idol in a cavernous East Indian

temple, or a giant toadstool, or weight of unbaked dough, or in fact

anything that is slow, sleepy, and horrible. Almost buried in folds of

flesh is a pair of beady black eyes, as steady and wicked as those of a

puff-adder or seaman's parroquet. She is dressed in black, and her nails

are bitten to the quick.

Mr. Vernon was probably less narrow-minded than the mob which howled at

her infamy during the Tyburn journey. At any rate he chatted with her

amicably enough on this grey February forenoon.

"How's business, ma'am?" he asked.

"Very bad," she wheezed. "Only three of 'em upstairs and none of 'em

real quality. Still, the flowers in the garden vant fresh food,

especially the blood-red toolips. Ah! it was two lips that was the

undoin' of the hussies, and, 'tis fair they should profit by the

harvest."

This devilish joke was followed by a low rumbling chuckle echoed above

by a thin wail.

Mrs. Mawhood waddled to the foot of the stairs.

"Keep that d----d brat quiet, you charity bastard," she wheezed

angrily. "She'll hev to get up to-morrow," she continued, seating

herself in a wide arm-chair beside the empty grate, "and a sickly puling

jade she is. I suppose you've come for the Main?"

"No," answered Vernon, "indeed, I did not know there was to be one. Good

birds?"

Mrs. Mawhood nodded. "Thirty-two cocks and a Velch main. 'Tis some of

those baby gentlemen from the Vells as finks they's seeing life ven a

dozen lousy chairmen sveats thesselves 'oarse over a pair of bleeding

chickens. And ven they's 'ad their pockets picked, they goes 'ome

'appy."

"Is Moll here?" asked Vernon.

"No, Moll's keeping a gay house Catherine Street vay."

"Egad, I've a pretty little job for Moll."

"Now don't you go leading Moll astray. She ain't been in Bridewell not

these two years, and she don't vant to neither."

"This job won't take her there. I'm in need of a housewife for a month,

and Moll's a nice homely woman."

"'Oo's she to look after, eh?"

"A pearl necklace," said Vernon.

"And a pretty neck, eh?"

"Tolerable," said Vernon.

"When do you want her?"

"Let me see--February. Shall we say the last week in March?"

"I'll tell her: I shall be sending a hussy from here presently to a nice

honest sitivation." Again the chuckle was heard.

"I want lodgings near the Haymarket. Nice and airy--with a balcony if

possible, and--well, Moll knows what attracts sweet seventeen."

"That's young for a pearl necklace."

"'Tis hers by inheritance. The lodgings must be cheerful because Miss is

shy."

"Oh, Moll knows what every age likes best. She'll buy a dear little

singing goldfinch and put him in a cage and hang him up in the window.

Who knows? P'raps it'll breed a nice little nestful of goldfinches for

Moll. 'Ow many?"

"I can discuss that with Moll herself," said Vernon.

"Ah, but Moll's so soft 'arted. Not less than fifty goldfinches, mind,

and if a little hindrance arrives, 'tis to come down to Blackhart

Farm--mind--and be cared for by old Mother Mawhood wot's kind even to

the pore little flies on the pane."

"You look too far into the future, old lady," said Vernon.

"And so a body should, my fancy boy," the hag answered. "Now I wager you

ain't thought nothin' about postillions?"

"Time enough for that."

"Yes, time enough I dare say, but you ought to engage 'em in advance.

That's vat the quality does ven they writes to me. Have you got a pair

of good honest postboys?"

"No, but----"

"Vell! and good honest boys ain't so easy found in Curtain Vells! Boys

who'll do vat's vanted and no questions axed and none answered."

"But I thought----"

"That's all werry fine," said the monstrous old woman. "But p'raps

there'll be another elopement. Maids is thick in Curtain Vells, and

p'raps you won't find your boys so easy. There's some that don't like

the job--don't like two brace of pops behind 'em and a galloping brother

and father."

"We shan't be followed," said Vernon contemptuously.

"No, I dare say you von't, but 'tis as vell to be behind a couple of

good honest boys as'll use their pops when they're turning a corner and

ready to swear they thought it was two gentlemen on the high toby as vas

a followin' of 'em so fast."

"Very well," said Vernon, "whom do you want me to employ?"

"Vy, there's my two nephews, Charlie and Dickie Maggs, vot 'ud drive

'ard and fast all the vay to Lunnon town and no questions axed either

end, but vot could easily be ansered wiv golden Georges."

"Let 'em wait on me when I send the word, and hark'ee, they must be

ready any time this month, for Miss may take it into her head to run

before I expect."

Further intercourse between Mr. Francis Vernon and old Mother Mawhood

was interrupted by loud knocks on the door at the back, supported by

catcalls, yells, horn-blowing and whip-cracking.

"That's for the Main," said Mrs. Mawhood. "Vill you stay to see the

sport?"

"'Tis a Welch main?"

"Ay--thirty-two birds."

"Well, send a boy to put my horse in the stable."

"This way, my fancy, this way," wheezed the hag, as she waddled towards

the courtyard where the noise was growing louder every minute.

It may strike the reader as strange that the young gentlemen of the

_Blue Boar_ (they were all there save Mr. Lovely) should come ten miles

to a disreputable farm for the purpose of seeing thirty-two cocks of the

game butchered. The Welch Main was a peculiarly bloody form of

cock-fighting, as it was determined by a series of rounds fought by the

respective survivors until at the end a pair of already vilely scarred

and mutilated birds were placed beak to beak by the Feeder to determine

the ultimate victor of the Main.

Ten miles was not too far to travel for such glorious sport in the days

of the Georges, but that they were compelled to travel at all was due to

the squeamishness of Beau Ripple, who had a singular aversion from the

game and would allow no cock-pit to be established within his

jurisdiction. He used to say the martyrdom of chickens should never

extend beyond the demand for painted fans.

Therefore a suitable cockpit had been set up in one of the outlying

barns of Blackhart Farm, whither at discreet intervals went Lieutenant

Blewforth of the _Lively_, Mr. Golightly of Campbell's Grey Dragoons,

Mr. Tom Chalkley of the Foot, little Peter Wingfield, and many other

young gentlemen. They would sit in the first tier and allow their

exquisite necks to be blown upon by the stinking breath of the second

tier which, in turn, was not unwilling to allow the third tier to spit

over its shoulders in the intervals of yelling, 'Three to one on the

Blotch-breasted Red!' 'Six to five against the Cheshire Pile!' 'Two to

one on the Black-breasted Birchin!' and other such bewildering

proclamations of their confidence in particular cocks of the game.

Vernon was not at all displeased that his visit to Blackhart Farm should

have ostensible justification. Looking back, as he emerged into the

courtyard, he noticed all the windows of the house were blind on that

side and wondered why so ill-favoured and disreputable a dwelling-place

had never been investigated by the servants of justice. So it was,

however, not long after this date, and a gruesome day's work it was

beneath the hot August sun: and not the least gruesome sight was old

Mother Mawhood, monstrous, flabby and terror-stricken, quivering in her

chair by the empty fireside, opposite a Robin Redbreast from Bow Street

drinking many quarts of beer and regarding her with unfavourable

glances, while he listened to the chink of the spades in the flower

garden by the plantation. The runners would never have visited Blackhart

Farm had not a certain lady of quality, who travelled in a post-chaise

with muffled windows, dallied a month too long, thereby raising the

suspicions of her eagle-nosed aunt, the Countess of----, but what has

all this to do with cock-fighting?

In the pit the spectators were arranging themselves. In front sat

Lieutenant Blewforth and little Peter Wingfield as Masters of the Match.

In the front tier sat the leading amateurs of Curtain Wells. Behind them

were the shopkeepers, and behind the shopkeepers was the riff-raff of

the Wells and its satellite villages.

Everybody was bawling odds at top voice, and occasionally one of the

birds crowed. This was an infringement of etiquette and, being

considered a sign of cowardice, immediately lengthened the odds against

the offender. The tallowy man in a blue kerseymere coat and breeches is

one of the Feeders, and is acting in that capacity for the Services

represented by Lieutenant Blewforth, while the civilians are employing

the good offices of Jimmy Trickett, who on less exciting occasions is

one of the hostlers of the _Blue Boar_.

Vernon, looking for a vacant place in the front tier found himself next

to Mr. Anthony Clare, who, for all he sat so unmoved, had provided eight

cocks for the civilians and stood to lose a pretty pile of guineas.

"Where's Lovely?" asked Vernon, shaking the sawdust from his boots.

"He never comes to cock-fights," Clare replied rather coldly.

"Too brutal for a poet, eh?"

"I have never heard him say so," said Clare.

As a matter of fact Charles strongly disapproved of the sport and it is

a significant fact that at this very moment, he was trotting along the

Bristol road, tired of lashing Curtain polls and determined, against the

advice of his conscience, to stake fifty guineas on the result of the

Main.

The latter progressed with monotonous cruelty until, of the thirty-two

cocks who began, but two pairs were left, all bleeding profusely. And

now with a refinement of brutality, the steel gaffles, hitherto used to

shorten the earlier and less interesting matches, were removed and

silver ones fastened on in their place, because, the latter, being less

deadly, prolonged the miserable contest.

During this momentary lull, Charles entered the barn and was greeted

with cheers in which could be detected a note of surprize. Clare moved

along in order to make room for his friend, and squeezed Mr. Vernon

somewhat unceremoniously in doing so.

"What birds are being set to?" inquired Lovely.

"My Knowsley and Chalkley's Cheshire Pile, and a White Pile of

Campbell's against Winnington's Cuckoo."

The semi-final dragged out its bloody length, until for the final was

left Mr. Clare's famous Knowsley cock, his ebony breast dabbled with

blood and his red pinions ragged and broken, but still preserving some

of the smartness of their slantwise trimming--trimmed so in order that

by a lucky stroke an adversary's eye might be put out. The survivor of

the two Services was Mr. Campbell's White Pile, stained with crimson.

"Will your bird win?" whispered Mr. Lovely.

"I think so," said Clare, "he comes of a good breed."

"Two to one in Tens against the Pile," shouted Mr. Lovely.

"Done," said Vernon.

"Two to one in Twenties against the Pile," shouted Mr. Lovely.

"Done," said Mr. Vernon.

"Three to one in Fifties," shouted Mr. Lovely.

And this wager also was taken by Mr. Francis Vernon.

The Feeders were setting the birds beak to beak. The shouting of odds

was deafening: the gallant cocks were both exhausted by the four

previous fights, but the feathers flew, the wings whirred, the gaffles

clicked, and the blood flowed fast enough to please the vile faces that

looked down through the murky atmosphere.

At last the White Pile, blinded in one eye, began to retreat before the

Knowsley.

"I pound the cock," shouted Charles, flinging his hat into the pit.

The Teller of the Law, a seedy vagabond with a red nose, began to count

in raucous accents. Twice he counted twenty slowly, and

"Vill any vun take it?" he asked.

"Yes," said Mr. Vernon, and just as Mr. Vernon said 'Yes,' the brave

Knowsley cock, the champion of many famous fights, toppled over on his

side, dead.

The Naval and Military Amateurs had won the Welch Main, and Mr. Charles

Lovely had lost two hundred and ten guineas, not to mention ten pounds

for so rashly pounding the cock.

The young gentlemen went back to Curtain Wells much pleased with the

afternoon's entertainment, while the riff-raff walked or drove in queer

vehicles back to their squalid homes, all save one unfortunate

individual, unable to meet a debt of ten shillings incurred by backing

the brave Knowsley, who for all he was dying had pursued his antagonist

so confidently. He spent the night in a basket close to the roof and was

not set down till the next morning by one of the labourers on Blackhart

Farm.

_Chapter the Twentieth_

IN WHICH EVERYTHING GROWS BUT THE PLOT

You will remember, if you have not put this book upon the table

meanwhile, that in the last paragraph of the last chapter, we left an

unfortunate individual swinging in a basket hard by the roof of a barn.

He was hoisted by a pulley amid the acclamations of the mob because he

was unable to fulfil an obligation so small that half a guinea would

have covered it. There he swung amid cobwebs and bats, fearful every

time the basket creaked he should fall into the blood-stained sawdust of

the cock-pit. I cannot tell you his name, but that is no great matter

since we must examine him not as a man, but as a symbol.

Possibly with the Beau's perspective, we might diminish him to the size

of a textual illustration, for this unfortunate man is a textual

illustration, and though not etched with the care of Mr. Stothard, will

serve his purpose well enough.

Suspension is a disreputable attitude for the human body, whatever way

it is brought about, yet I doubt this maltreated anonymity was in better

case than our hero. He paid the penalty for laying unwise wagers and

found earth on the next morning much as he had left it on the afternoon

of the day before. Moreover, he never paid his half-guinea, which was a

real source of consolation. But our hero swung that night in an

immaterial basket that creaked thrice as damnably as the other, and

found no good-natured labouring man to put him on the ground next

morning. The only result of opposing the advice of his conscience, was

an additional debt of two hundred and twenty guineas to our villain.

To make matters worse, he had to meet his creditor over the breakfast

table, and of the many dooms measured out to sinners, this is surely one

of the most difficult to face with equanimity.

In despair, he took to drinking the waters with the rest of the

Exquisite Mob, and earned a few golden glances from Beau Ripple, but

nothing more tangible. Even the advantage of these was neutralized by

the chalybeate, which acted with disconcerting abruptness upon a healthy

body unused to medicinal spurs.

The wry water served a good purpose, however, by souring his

point-of-view. The liquid iron entered into his soul and he lashed the

Curtain Polls in a variety of metres. He also took long walks into the

country, and sought by the contemplation of scenery to acquire an

impersonal attitude towards his fellow creatures. After all, there is no

better training for a mob-master than the exercise of a satirical pen,

and as time went on Mr. Lovely's book increased in bulk, although it

never achieved more than a suggestive slimness even when bound in calf.

February faded into March, and in accordance with the season everything

began to grow.

Mr. Lovely's book we have already noticed.

Mr. Vernon's seductive arts grew daily more seductive, and, though for a

week or two after Mr. Ripple's warning, Mrs. Courteen arranged for the

complete occupation of Phyllida's leisure, the growth of Mrs. Courteen's

figure necessitated a stricter attention to diet and exercise, and

caused her so much anxiety that her vigilance was soon relaxed. So

whenever the forenoons were fine enough, Phyllida sat on the moss-grown

seat in the centre of the Maze, and, under the patronage of the little

stone Cupid, grew daily more powerfully enchanted by the magical

personality of Mr. Francis Vernon.

Thomas, the footman, grew daily more unctuous owing to the visit of a

gouty dean who, being invited to occupy St. Simon's pulpit, preached a

remarkable sermon in seven divisions and twenty-three sub-divisions,

conclusively establishing the identity of the English Nation with the

tribe of Benjamin. Mr. Moon and Major Tarry grew more entirely devoted

to the widow, and Thomasina the cat also grew owing to the advent of

kittens. In fact, everybody and everything grew prodigiously in the

merry springtime.

The list of visitors grew. Rich Mrs. Bendish arrived and made all the

dowagers jealous with her chest of precious stones that she brought back

from an island in the Caribbean Sea--buried treasure that was actually

discovered. Lord Rocquepool came, and his daughters, the Honourable

Georgina and the Honourable Caroline de Winqule. The Honourable Mrs.

Winter-Green came, and the Welch baronet, Sir Owen Ap Taffy. The

Marquess of Hurricane arrived, and several members of the great Wind

family. Also, with all these aristocratick visitors, it is not

surprizing that Mr. Ripple's snuff bill grew daily.

March came in like a lamb that year, and the sweet season danced in the

bleak furrows over which the lank hares leaped and scampered. White

violets scented equinoctial dusks, and in every window of the Wells big

daffodils hung down their golden ruffs. March went by to the tune of

fiddles and flutes. Mr. Ripple had to attend near half a dozen routs

every night, and the weekly Assemblies were more fully thronged than

ever before.

Every day the jolly sun grew more powerful and the noise of polite

conversation was almost drowned by the twittering of the sparrows as

they, like their betters, made a chorus of loves, jealousies, hopes,

plans and disappointments in a world of chimney-stacks and slanting

roofs. They perched in the most fashionable gutters, just as, down below

on the sunny side of the High Street, the Exquisite Mob ruffled before

the gayest shops.

"How well that chip hat becomes me!"

"What wonderful silks are being displayed this spring!"

"They say that hoops and head-dresses will both show a monstrous

increase in size this year."

As if the daffodils had intoxicated the whole race of dyers, nothing but

shades of yellow were to be seen. In these happier days for the

followers of the Mode, Blonda and Brunetta, those charming sisters,

were not compelled to rely on their natural complexions in order to wear

a certain shade. In these happier days, powder, rouge and patches

availed to make the gaudy apricock glow even beside the blooming peach

without injury to either. Therefore the artfully arranged bow-windows

with rolls of citron damasks, canary velvets, golden brocades, lemon

sattins and orange silks, dismayed not Blonda any more than the sapphire

and turquoise of the autumnal mode fretted the vanity of Brunetta. As

for young maidens, their fashion like the eternal mountains was always

white.

But suddenly on the twenty-seventh of the month the weather changed.

Masses of wet grey clouds swept in from the Atlantick, and March

prepared to go out like a lion.

And on this very morning _Curtain Polls severely lashed by a Curtain

Rod_ appeared on Mr. Paul Virgin's counter.

This small work produced far greater consternation than the sudden

change in the weather. Though it rained and blew, and whistled and

streamed, nobody paid the slightest attention, nobody said 'What a

change in the weather,' for all the world was deeply engrossed in

reading about his asterisked self and his asterisked neighbour.

_Chapter the Twenty-first_

CURTAIN POLLS

There had been nothing to prepare Curtain Wells for its chastizement. No

wreathed pamphlet warned readers in the most choice preliminary duff

that a sarcastick comet would presently singe their vices, their follies

and their vanities. Nobody had been invited to subscribe in advance to

his own ridicule. As it were on the wings of a Westerly gale, these

destructive little volumes settled upon the fields of Pleasure like

locusts on a Bedouin plantation.

Two speculative chap-book pedlars sold the first twenty to as many

drinkers of chalybeate hastening home to breakfast. For those who

stopped to buy there was no breakfast that morning. The kidneys and the

bacon and the eggs and the ham and the loin chops and the red herrings

and the toasted bread were neglected. The vanguard of purchasers were,

in reading about neighbours, too much diverted, and, in reading about

themselves, too indignant to eat.

Out went the kidneys and the bacon and the eggs and the ham and the loin

chops and the red herrings and the toasted bread, frozen stiff in their

own fat; and out went the vanguard to warn the main army of fashion that

scurrility, satire and malice were abroad in many metres.

"Listen to this, Moon," ejaculated Major Tarry, as, undeterred by the

driving wind, he strode along, quoting extracts that were perfectly

inaudible to his companion.

"Listen to this, will you listen to this,"

"_Like a lap-dog he's fed with a second-best spoon,

And bays as he should at the sight of the Moon_."

"Yes, but listen to this," said the Justice treading heavily in a puddle

as he spoke.

"_Do not tarry,

M**n, but marry,

While you're still upon the wax,

Though above her,

You can love her,

And avoid the window tax_."

"Very low, very low indeed," said Tarry.

"So 'tis," quoth the Justice, "but the next verse is lower still."

"_For that coat of

Him we wrote of

Will be in your parlour soon,

And be reigning

When you're waning,

And we whisper horned M**n_."

"Ha, ha," said Tarry, "low, d----d low! But 'sblood, the fellow has

humour."

"Humour," said the Justice, "you call this obscene doggerel, humour?"

"In parts, sir, in parts."

"I call it melancholy and libidinous."

Mrs. Courteen was seated at her window disconsolately regarding the

rain.

"Gemini, child!" she exclaimed. "What can be the matter with Mr. Moon

and the Major that they gesticulate so wildly."

"They're reading books, ma'am," Betty announced.

"Reading book, but they are standing at the street corner like

Methodies!"

"They'm beaent gone sick mad for love of 'ee, do 'ee think, Ma'am?"

"Flatterer," sighed Mrs. Courteen. "No, child, they have probably been

converted. I detect Methodism in their madness. Te-hee! I must keep

that for Archdeacon Conybeare, who so dislikes extremes of sensibility

in anything that pertains to so sacred a thing as religion. Ah, dear!

Religion, what is it?"

"There's many ways of it ma'am, I do think. 'Tis true religious not to

laugh when the lads tickle thy ankles wi' straws during the prayer for

Good King George!"

"Tut-tut, how disloyal!"

Just then the raucous voice of one of the itinerant booksellers shouted

"Curtain Polls severely lashed by a Curtain-Rod."

"Run, Betty, and inquire the price at once," cried Mrs. Courteen

perceiving that this was the cause of the gentlemen's delay. "'Tis

evidently a rumour on the best authority about the Day of Judgment."

Presently Betty returned.

"'Tis a book, ma'am."

"I know that, simpleton, how much?"

"Four shillings and sixpence, ma'am, for a little mimsy book not so

thick as the magick history of Jack the Giant Killer."

"But what was inside, foolish one?"

"Oh, 'twas full of stars, ma'am."

"'Tis certainly a work on fortune-telling. Pray buy it instantly, here

is the money."

Back came Betty with the volume, and presently Mrs. Courteen fainted.

Downstairs ran Betty, and upstairs walked Mr. Thomas and Betty.

"'Twas the book as done it," said the latter vehemently.

The offending volume lay face downwards upon the quilted apricock of

Mrs. Courteen's lap, so Thomas picked it up and began to read:

"_At the Wells many elegant widows are seen,

But no one so modish as Mrs. C******n,

Her hoop_----"

So far he read, but, rubicund though he was, modesty was still able to

deepen his colour.

"Yes," said Betty, "pray do 'ee read us some more, Mr. Thomas."

"What Jebusite wrote this book? I will smite him and all his works,"

replied Thomas, flinging the volume into the fire. Whether the odour of

burning leather or the profuse drops of Sal Volatile revived the

offended lady I do not know, but she instantly sat up and, in a voice

tremulous with anxiety, bade her footman call a chair.

"For," said she, "I must pay a visit of condolence to my Lady Bunbutter,

whose propriety has suffered an almost irreparable injury."

She did not stay to change her dress; she passed her suitors still

quoting scurrility, one against the other in the wind and rain, without

a smile of recognition or sympathy.

Outside my Lady Bunbutter's stood a row of sedan-chairs, and as Mrs.

Courteen walked up my Lady Bunbutter's front door-step, the knot of

chairmen packed more closely over a copy of _Curtain Polls_ indiscreetly

left behind by one of their fares. There was a rustle of pages quickly

turned by dirty thumbs, and as Mrs. Courteen was ushered in by my Lady

Bunbutter's claret-coloured footman, there followed her upstairs a burst

of ribald laughter.

My Lady Bunbutter had, by reason of her superior bulk and wealth,

successfully repelled all rival claimants to the throne of dowagership.

She reigned supreme; moreover her advice on this gusty forenoon was

particularly valuable, inasmuch as she had just shaken off the waters of

Bath on account of the publication there of some odious verses, in which

her name and her person were treated with intolerably small respect.

Therefore it was not surprizing to find her drawing-room the haunt of

innumerable widows, old maids and long-established wives. There they

sat, supplying asterisks with immense volubleness. As it happened, they

had just tittered behind their fans over the odiously vulgar, but

undeniably appropriate--yes! the odious fellow was certainly

witty--when the subject of their malicious laughter and false blushes

entered the room.

With the tact bred of many a Quadrille party, my lady Bunbutter advanced

to meet Mrs. Courteen, murmuring, 'poor dear little Miss Kitcat, so

spiteful and yet, my dear Mrs. Courteen, since we are all friends, alas!

how true!'

Now young Miss Kitcat was still young Miss Kitcat, and simply would not

become old maid or dowager, and would allow herself to be ogled by that

notorious rake and disreputable--yes! disreputable, card-sharper,

Captain Mann.

While the dowagers discussed the situation and vowed that the rogue of

an author sadly needed a lesson, Beau Ripple himself, with many an

urbane tut-tut was reading _Curtain Polls_ in his tall white

drawing-room, where the firelight danced and flickered over the gleaming

ivory panels.

"Too bad," said the Beau to himself as he turned the scandalous pages.

He did not, however, treat them less carefully because they were

scandalous, for to Mr. Ripple a book was always a book, and he paid as

much ceremony to the emanations of Grub Street as he would have shown to

the copper plates of an elephant folio.

"This is, indeed, too bad," said the Beau, "and yet the rascal has wit.

Oh, yes, he certainly has wit, but what an excellent example this volume

affords of the superiority of prose over verse. A poetick satirist too

often sacrifices his good breeding for the sake of the rhymes. Now I

should never have said that. No, no, that is too bad, and this--good

G----! this is unpardonable!"

The Great little Man jumped up as red as one of the big chintz roses

that bloomed so prodigally all over his winged chair.

The King of Fashion looked very small as he stood in the middle of an

Aubusson rug, yet I think he never looked more truly a monarch than at

this moment. Unfortunately there was nobody to see him as he stood in

his little world of mirrours and engravings.

And what had upset his equanimity? Certainly not the following lines:

"_Where R*****, gentlest, kindliest of Beaux,

To all the world an urbane presence shows:

Proclaims the tropick joys of China Tea,

And rules e'en Fashion with his polished sway.

At his approach the graceless ruffle shakes,

While every waistcoat in its buttons quakes;

Each conscious shoe more luminously shines,

And puckered breeches haste to smooth their lines_."

Whatever the Curtain Rod thought of the subjects, to the Monarch he was

always complimental.

"Intolerable! unpardonable!" cried the Beau, tapping his snuff-box so

fiercely that some of the powder was spilled over the grey Angora cat

which was purring against his gold-clocked stockings in the heart of a

faded Aubusson rose. Octavia (the cat) sneezed assent. What had upset

his equanimity? You shall take a short journey to find out, for I

perceive a break in the weather and sweet April is in the West.

We will walk just so far as Curtain Garden, but, pray, do not turn into

the Maze where the paths are atrociously damp. Alas, the rain is

beginning again, but at the end of that long alley is a summer house,

the abode of many Rococo Dryads, although 'tis haunted at present by

amorous mortals, for I caught the glint of a buckle and a shimmer of

chestnut ringlets.

It does not require King OEdipus to guess that those eyes which stare

so into the heavens are the blue eyes of Phyllida, while any one would

recognize in that smooth voice the careful enunciation of Mr. Francis

Vernon.

He, like every one else that forenoon, was reading _Curtain Polls

severely lashed by a Curtain Rod_. Perchance the following lines were

they that lately enraged Mr. Horace Ripple:

"_Now is it a hoyden, a hussy or Miss,

Who listens to love but refuses a kiss?

'Tis said every morning she flies to the Maze,

And buries her head from the Publick's low gaze_

_Of Love in a Maze, pretty charmer, beware,

For under the rose there are thorns ev'rywhere,

And if you should chance the wrong turning to take,

'Tis odds that you'll trip on a tall garden Rake._

_The Cits, when you pass, point you out to their Belles,

You serve as a moral all over the Wells,

And Dowagers, drinking your health in green tea,

Express a faint hope that man will not betray_."

"Those are pretty stanzas for a lover to read," said Vernon, who, to do

him justice, did not seem very greatly perturbed by the insult.

"Oh, Amor," said poor Phyllida, "they can't truly be intended for me!"

"For whom else?"

"But who would write such cruel words of a young woman?"

"That puppy, Lovely."

"Mr. Lovely! Oh! no, he's a gentleman and a man of family and a man of

taste and a friend of Beau Ripple."

"He may be all this and more," declared Vernon, "but he wrote this

book."

"I don't believe it."

"He did, I say, for he informed me so himself--at least he as good as

informed me!"

"Amor! you must have been mistook."

"On my life, not at all. He owes me near five hundred guineas, and when

I hinted that the expense of inland Spas tells upon a gentleman's

resources, begged my pardon, swore he had a literary project on hand,

and promised me a hundred guineas on Lady Day. That was the day before

yesterday."

"A gamester!" said Miss Phyllida, who, with the injustice of her age and

sex, neglected to see that her lover was as much to blame in this

particular as Lovely.

"Ay! a gamester," said Vernon with fervid indignation.

"And for the sake of a hundred guineas he was ready to cheapen the

honour of a maid?"

"My angel forgets the Chinese Masquerade. Mr. Lovely was piqued by her

obvious weakness for a less fashionable, less conspicuous gentleman."

"Oh, I will never forgive him. He has ruined me."

"Nay, come, come, 'tis not so bad as that. Amor will never desert his

Phyllida."

"I'm ruined, I'm ruined," she sobbed. "I shall never dare go to visit my

cousin Barbara, who is as prim and proper as----" Nothing was prim

enough for the comparison. "And she has the most delicious hot buns you

ever tasted, and the dearest spaniel and the most beautiful pugdog. Oh

dear! oh dear! oh dear! how all the neighbours will laugh, and old

Rumble the carrier will be telling tales about me in every kitchen in

the county, and 'tis all your fault."

"My fault?"

"Yes, yours, for asking me to come and meet you and making love, while

all the while there was somebody peeping over the hedges. I'll never

forgive you, never, never!----"

"Dearest life, we can put a stop to scandal by being wed immediately.

Listen! I'll have a post-chaise ready at dawn, and post-boys in scarlet,

and lodgings with a balcony and a goldfinch singing in a cage. My

Phyllida, will you come?"

"Oh! I dare not, I dare not--not yet, oh lud, oh lud! how shall I look

the world in the face?"

Vernon thought for a moment.

"Where are your pearls kept?"

"In my mamma's trunkmail, but Betty could give me the key--and sometimes

in her jewel case."

"On the thirtieth," said Vernon, "there will be a ball at Daish's Rooms,

next to the _Blue Boar_ where I lodge. You will surely be there, 'tis my

lady Bunbutter's rout."

"Yes, we shall be there," said Phyllida.

"At two o'clock in the morning, I will have a post-chaise waiting by St.

Simon's Church corner, opposite Leonard's toy shop. Would you have the

courage to slip out, my dearest heart, my Phyllida?"

"Oh, no, I could not travel by night."

"'Twould be safer," urged Vernon.

"No, no, I could not."

"Then for your sake, I'll take the risque and have the post-chaise in

the same place at three o'clock in the afternoon of the next day.

Promise you will come."

"No, no, I shall never be brave enough, and I must go for I hear voices,

and I must never be seen with you again. Good-bye, good-bye," and before

Vernon could stop her, Phyllida was running down the poplar alley to

escape from Curtain Garden.

Our villain began to wonder whether she would elope after all. If she

were shy, he might secure the necklace at any rate. With slow steps, his

mind full of silken pearls, Mr. Vernon went slowly homewards. Half way

down the High Street, he passed a narrow street known as Blood Passage

from the vicinity of a large slaughter-house. He hesitated; made up his

mind, and, turning down it, came to a crooked house over a low

tumble-down doorway. He knocked fastidiously with the amber knob of his

cane. A slatternly woman, whose last night's rouge was streaked with the

matutinal ashes, opened the door.

"Does Mr. Maggs live here?"

"Come in," said the frowsy light o' love.

_Chapter the Twenty-second_

THE CURTAIN ROD

The satirist stood in his publisher's back parlour, and, through the

dusty glass of the partition, observed the Exquisite Mob purchase their

castigation.

"'Tis strange," he pondered, "that mankind should be willing to pay

four-and-sixpence to be laughed at. Yet it is!"

Mr. Lovely was awaiting a draught for one hundred guineas, and Mr. Paul

Virgin, glad of anything that would delay for a while such an unwelcome

disbursement, continued to bow and smirk over the counter as the neat

little piles of new volumes speedily diminished. At last the hour for

the midday meal arrived with a temporary lull in the storm of

purchasers. Mr. Virgin turned with a sigh into his little back parlour

and, wading carefully through the heaps of uncatalogued tomes, set out

with a wry face to unlock his walnut writing-cabinet.

"We were hurried too much, Mr. Lovely, sir. We han't had leisure to bind

the book as it should be bound. Ye would hurry us so, Mr. Lovely."

"You wouldn't pay me till the book was published, and I want the money,

so d----n all grumbling and be grateful that you'll make a small

fortune."

"A small fortune! What a jester you are, Mr. Lovely. I declare you put

me in mind of the old plays, such jests!"

Mr. Paul Virgin seated before his cabinet, was writing the draught with

tardy fingers.

"There ye are, Mr. Lovely, and never say I don't treat ye with

consideration, with generosity, sir, for I dare swear I shall lose fifty

pounds sterling by this adventure."

"Be d----d, you peevish rogue. Why all the world of fashion has

thronged your shop since nine o'clock this morning."

"Yes, but it takes a deal to make a hundred guineas. Now let me make it

pounds, Mr. Lovely, sir. Do let me make it pounds."

The latter snatched the draught from the old young bookseller and,

having read it through with much deliberation, transferred it to the

seclusion of his innermost pocket.

After this transaction, which was effected with a singular grace, I am

sorry to add that he put his tapered finger to his tapered nose and

winked several times at the disconsolate Mr. Virgin.

"The books are so ill-bound, look at this one, Mr. Lovely, your honour.

The leaves are falling apart already, just because you would hurry us so

terribly."

Mr. Lovely stooped and picked up some loose pages.

"Ay, 'tis autumn already with this copy," he said, glancing casually at

the page he held in his hand. "Why who wrote this?"

"You did, Mr. Lovely, you did."

"I wrote this--this d----d vile verse, this--" and Charles read aloud

the lines that so dismayed our heroine. "I wrote this damnable doggerel?

By G----, Mr. Virgin, I never wrote this."

"Why, who else could have written it?"

"That's what I want to know. Come back, you hound," shouted the irate

author, grabbing his publisher by the tails of his coat, just as he was

edging his way back to the shop. "Come back," he said, jerking him over

Mr. Bayle's Dictionary. "You moth-eaten vagabond, you impostor, you

thief." Charles began to belabour Mr. Virgin with a folio copy of the

_Anatomy of Melancholy_. Round and round the little back parlour he

thumped the publisher; the dust rose from innumerable ancient tomes.

Surely never were books so rudely disturbed since the niece and the

Padre flung the library of the illustrious Don Quixote de la Mancha out

of the window, and burned a hundred volumes of chivalry.

"How came these d----d lines into my book, eh, sir, answer me that,

sir," and having dissected the _Anatomy of Melancholy_, Charles picked

up Sir Roger L'Estrange's translation of AEsop to continue the assault.

"I don't understand, Mr. Lovely, sir. Pray desist, Mr. Lovely, your

honour, sir. The printer must have printed them."

"'Sdeath and fury! you rascal, I know that. Who wrote them, who wrote

them?"

In order to supply the correct twirl to this note of interrogation,

Charles flung the little bookseller to the farthest corner of his little

back parlour, at the same time arming himself with half a dozen fresh

volumes.

Mr. Virgin cowered in the dust and cobwebs.

"Who wrote them?" Charles demanded.

"I don't----"

"What!" and the--th volume of the _Gentleman's Magazine_, newly arrived

from the binder, winged its way in the direction of the quivering

bookseller. This he ducked to avoid, but even as he ducked, the five

volumes of Mr. Ozell's revision of Urquhart and Motteux' _Rabelais_

burst over him like an exploded hand grenade.

"Who wrote them?"

"Truly I don't----"

This time Mr. Prior's _Poems on Several Occasions_ carried his wig into

obscurity, and the owner clapped a hand to his head just in time to

receive the bevelled morocco edges of the _Beggar's Opera_ full on the

fingers.

"Mr. Lovely, sir, you are too violent."

"Violent, you dog? By G---- if you don't give the name of the son of a

w---- that wrote these damnable lines, I'll flay you alive and bind my

next edition of poems with your lousy skin." The foxy-faced old young

man commenced to wring his hands.

"Mr. Lovely," he almost screamed. "Mr. Lovely, you're mad--go out of my

shop."

"Who wrote those lines? Answer, or I'll break up your shop--ay! break it

up with your own sign-board. At the Sign of the Woman--at the Sign of

the Strumpet! Answer me, you lickspittle vermin, answer me."

Charles had now seized his wretched publisher by the neck-band, and

shook him so roughly that the latter, fearing for his teeth, the most

extravagant purchase in his mean little life, began to whine.

"A gentleman--a gentleman----"

"Well, you misbegotten toad, I never supposed 'twas a midwife."

"No, certainly not, Mr. Lovely, a gentleman--a gentleman."

"His name, dog."

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do, answer will you."

"He told me 'twas Amor."

"I knew it, I knew it, you sneaking son of a b----, and he gave you

twenty guineas to print the verses."

"No, not twenty, only ten, Mr. Lovely, on my soul."

"On your soul! H---- l take your soul! Why you were spawned in a ditch,

you viper. So you let my honour go for ten guineas. Give them to me."

"Oh! Mr. Lovely."

"Give them to me."

The miserable little old young man produced the money, unluckily for

himself, in paper.

"Now since you love money so dearly, by heaven, you shall eat money."

And Mr. Lovely, making a bolus of the bribe, crammed it down the

reluctant bookseller's throat with his own ruler. Then our hero walked

out of the shop.

I hope you will not deny this scene was in the true vein of heroism.

Aye! aye! 'tis full of bombast as you very properly observe, ma'am or

sir; but that is the part of a hero. He must follow the Prince of

Denmark's directions to the players. Aye! aye! and 'tis full of wind,

but so was the great Montgolfier balloon, and surely every aeronaut is a

hero, even in his descents at the tail-end of a parachute.

So pray judge Mr. Lovely, not as a man, but as a hero, for I think

you'll do me the justice to admit I never tried to conceal his position.

But he owes the villain a considerable sum of money. Of course he does,

and this awkward fact is perplexing him very much indeed as he strides

down Curtain High Street. To tell the truth, when he emerged from Mr.

Virgin's shop, he found that when the Fates dipped him into Styx, they

made the same mistake as Madame Thetis, with this difference, that,

whereas Achilles was left with a vulnerable heel, our hero preserved a

vulnerable conscience.

It would have been mighty heroick to march into the _Blue Boar_, run Mr.

Vernon through the lungs, wed the injured heroine and tread after death

the golden fields of Elysium; but his silly conscience would not allow

him to kill a man to whom he was under a monetary obligation.

So he borrowed four hundred guineas from Mr. Antony Clare, who could ill

afford the loan, and putting this sum with what he had earned from

lashing the Curtain Polls in an extra thick paper envelope, he sealed it

with his own heroick seal. This fulfilment of earthly debts he sent up

to Mr. Francis Vernon by the hand of Mr. Daish himself, and set to work

to make his conscience less vulnerable by many consecutive pints of

heroick Burgundy.

You thought that he was going to turn out poor humanity after bullying

Mr. Virgin so heroically? Egad, ma'am or sir, you thought wrong. You

doubt anybody can be a Burgundian hero? So he can; there has been more

than one Charles the Bold of Burgundy.

The very word is as fire to the most pusillanimous: the very thought of

its crimson depths should set us all tilting.

'Bring me a quart bottle of Burgundy.' The phrase is like a trumpet-call

outside the keep of Paradise.

'Bring me another quart of Burgundy.' Down goes the portcullis before

the hero's charge.

Port may turn a man into a hero--in his dreams; yet I doubt they are too

heavy. As for Sherry, it will serve to sharpen the wits of a dried-up

attorney, but is poor stuff to weave into heroes. On Champagne, a man

will talk like the crew of the _Argo_, but there's the end of the whole

business.

Charles drank Burgundy and I promise you some fine heroicks presently.

_Chapter the Twenty-third_

SPACE BETWEEN AN HEROICK COUPLET

A discouraging fact for the Persii of yesterday, to-day, and to-morrow,

is that, however needle-sharp their thrusted rapiers, however thorough

their castigations, Society never shows weal or scar at the end of it

all.

Here was profligate, card-playing, snobbish, vapoured Society, quite

recovered of its whipping and, by candletime, setting out to perform,

just those very actions Persius most bitterly abuses.

My lady Bunbutter continued to observe every Matador in her opponents'

hands, continued to rake in ill-gotten guineas, continued to use a

quadrille pack with Manille stained, Spadille nicked, Basto dog-eared,

and Ponto scratched. The Most Honble. the Marchioness of Hurricane

continued to help herself five times to the richest Fricassees;

continued to allow her lap-dog liberty of vomit in alien drawing-rooms,

continued to breathe stertorous bawdry into the prominent ears of her

Italian son-in-law--el Conde di Scirocco--while her daughter the

Contessa snored in a corner.

Young Miss Kitcat continued to encourage the addresses of the

disreputable Captain Mann, and even went so far as to tap that military

scoundrel three times with her fan in coy avowal of his charming

naughtiness.

The Earl of Cinderton drank five bottles of Port that very night in

order to emphasize his indifference to satire, and slept under his own

mahogany table because his lackeys below stairs were too drunk to carry

him to bed.

In fact, nobody save the publisher of Curtain Polls displayed sign or

sense of injury.

Our heroine indeed was vastly affected, but her misfortunes were due to

a gloss upon the original.

As it happened, Mrs. Courteen did not discover the reference to her

daughter's indiscretion, until she was asked by an inquisitive dowager

to explain the allusion in the twelve lines. She managed to conceal her

agitation, thanks to the permanency of the newest rouge, but presently

called for her chair and arrived home a full two hours before she was

expected.

When she sailed into the parlour Phyllida was languishingly occupied

with a blue vase of pot-pourri, and the parlour fire was trying to burn

up beneath a weight of blackened notepaper.

The suddenness of the widow's entrance alarmed her daughter so much that

she dropped the vase, and the contents were strewn over the carpet. The

faint perfume that slowly permeated the stuffy atmosphere of the

lodgings, should have reminded Mrs. Courteen of her youth, of long June

eves and blossoms plucked awhile ago by fingers now wrinkled and stained

with years of snuff.

Mrs. Courteen also neglected to remember that so far as ridicule went,

she had brought enough of that upon her own head.

However, she recalled neither memory nor fact, and was properly enraged

with her daughter's light behaviour.

"You have ruined my good name, child. I can never again look the world

in the face. How we shall be laughed at in Hampshire, for be sure that

odious Miss Talker whose sister married the Rector of Slumber, has

already despatched a copy to her brother-in-law, and you know what

chatterboxes parsons always are: I suppose because they preach, though I

should have thought, lud! that with so much breath used on Sunday, they

might be as dumb as dumb for the rest of the week, and hurt nobody,

least of all their own wives and neighbours. But there! what good is it

to educate a young woman in the way she should go? I might better have

set an example to the village clock. At all events that does possess a

face. Put down your handkerchief, hussy."

"Dear mamma----"

"Don't excuse yourself, pray do not excuse yourself, I doubt 'tis all my

fault. I doubt I han't looked after you, taken you to Melton Abbey, and

prayed for you, minx, yes, prayed for you. And have you got any good

from learning the collects for Sunday and the Benedicite and the

Athanasian Creed and the thirty-nine Articles? None! A pretty thing,

truly, that after so much honourable religion, I should have my daughter

pointed out as a--as what no respectable young woman is. Pointed at! And

I, your mother, am to be laughed at, mocked at, jeered at, because you

suffer every down-at-heel fop to make gross love to you, sheltered from

the eye of men--yes! vastly well--but you forget the eye of one above

and the tongue of scandal."

"Madam, I am truly, deeply ashamed. If I promise never, never again to

cause you the slightest uneasiness, will you forgive me for once, and

take me away from this odious town?"

"Take you away? A pretty request truly; and give every old maid in

Curtain Wells the opportunity of saying I was afraid to show my face and

your figure. Take you away, miss? No, indeed, I shall take you around. I

shall try by exhibiting you beneath your mother's protection, to give

the lie to these atrocious reports and, next year, miss, next year, we

will pay a visit to Tunbridge Wells in order to provide a husband whom

you may kiss in the privacy of your own estate, with no one but a

wandering gamekeeper any the wiser."

"I never kissed Mr. Amor," protested Phyllida.

"Amor? Amor? And who is Mr. Amor?"

"He is my true love, ma'am, whom I love with all my might and main."

"There's indecency! there's impropriety! Lud! I vow, vixen, you are as

wanton as a goddess. You love him, eh?"

"That is my only excuse, ma'am, for having behaved so ill."

"What business, I should like to know, has a child of fifteen----"

"Seventeen, ma'am."

"Fifteen, girl."

"Then, sure, you are reckoning by leap years, ma'am."

"Do not be impudent. I repeat, Phyllida, I will not have impudence. You

know dear Doctor Makewell particularly enjoined me not to allow

impudence. 'Your heart won't stand it, ma'am.' Cruel Phyllida, not

content with deceiving your mother, you are willing to injure her health

by impudence."

"You think only of yourself," said Phyllida bitterly.

"Only of myself! Oh! Phyllida, how dare you accuse me of selfishness? My

whole life since the death of your father who was a most exacting man

and would ride Pegasus, though I told him a hundred times if I told him

once that the brute would murder him. Now I've forgotten what I was

saying, and 'tis all your fault, ungrateful child. Go to bed instantly

and to-morrow I will have all your dresses starched as stiff as leather,

so that nobody, not even that spiteful Lady Jane Vane, can say I don't

take care that whatever your mind may be, your dresses leave nothing to

be desired. Go to bed, go to bed. I can't listen to you any longer. I

feel humiliated by your abominable behaviour. Judge of my feelings when

I tell you I did not dare invite either Mr. Moon or Major Tarry to

escort me home for fear the world would say I was setting you a bad

example. Now, perhaps you'll accuse me of not possessing a conscience.

Indeed, my conscience is too tender. 'Tis the tenderest part of me,

though I have one of the most delicate skins--a skin that bruises if I

ring a bell with unwonted celerity."

"Mamma, I----" Phyllida began.

"Pray do not say another word, you have said enough to-night to last a

lifetime. Send Betty with my bedgown worked in crimson hollyhocks and I

will try to forget this wretched experience by attempting to

ascertain--please get the playing cards--how Miss Trumper managed to

secure codille in the last hand but four of this extremely unpleasant

and unprofitable evening. Go to bed, Phyllida, don't dally. Here is

Betty. Go to bed, Phyllida."

So Phyllida went to bedew her lavendered pillow. Anything was better

than listening to her mother's perpetual reproaches. Anything, anything

was better. Even to be betrayed. Ha! ha! now I think for the first time

you will admit Miss Phyllida to be a true heroine. Poor Clarie Harlowe!

How Phyllida had wept over her adventures and, even in the midst of

tears, how quick she had always been to thrust the forbidden volumes out

of sight when she heard her mother's step on the stairs.

Poor Clarie Harlowe! She began to sign her name to innumerable nobly

penitent epistles.

_Your cruelly abandoned

Phyllida.

Your wretched, but still loving

Phyllida.

Your heartbroken, hopeless

Phyllida.

Your betrayed daughter

Phyllida.

Your forsaken, but affectionate

Phyllida.

Your seduced (or was it seducted, or abduced, or abducted?)

Phyllida_.

Oh, dear! Oh, dear! what a muddle fine language was to be sure!

I have not yet apologized for my very ancient story, but faith! you must

blame the period and the intolerable system of female education. Amor

had either to be a Lovelace or a Joseph at a time when young maidenhood

fainted before an ardent glance.

After all we do not now apologize for our strong silent men and

hysterical girls. Why should we? And yet for my own part I love better

your talkative blackguard; I have known so many strong silent men, and

they were all fools or Scotsmen.

During this digression, Phyllida has fallen asleep, her face flushed and

dabbled with spent tears, her chestnut hair in golden filigree upon the

pillow and, where the sleeve of her bedgown has retreated, a rosy arm

whose little fist is clenched in maiden despair.

Poor foolish child! Why would you fall in love? Untenanted, your dearest

gate swings in the wind to-night, but you will not mount again upon its

topmost mossy bar. You will never again view with the same excitement

the huntsmen over the hill-top; they will mean less to you; their pink

coats will be quite dingy when next you say good morning to old Nick

Runnalls the Whip. For my part, I do not believe that hot buttered

apple-pies will taste so sweet when next you eat them in the long cool

kitchen with its pot of marjoram and shaded sunlight.

And as for your bed-chamber with casements abob with peering rosebuds, I

doubt the shelves will not soon be disturbed to make a place for new

trophies. Once you thought it a day of days when you found the

thigh-bone of a horse or the skull of a badger. They hang on the walls

now, poor relicks of an outworn delight.

All this shall go for a balcony in the Haymarket and a goldfinch in a

gilt cage. Foolish child! Away down in Hampshire the goldfinches build

green nests in the orchard. Phyllida! sweet, headlong, heedless

Phyllida!

* * * * *

"I blame you, Betty. I blame you, vixen. Why you cannot model yourself

on Thomas passes my comprehension." Thus the widow.

"She meant no harm, poor pretty lamb," protested the maid.

"'Tis not what we mean, but what we do that counts in this world."

"Ah! 'tis fine for thee to talk, ma'am, you take good care to amuse

yourself, but, little miss, she must dingle-dangle all day long wi'

nought to do but dream of doing nought."

"She has her friend, Miss Morton."

"Ay! that black-eyed hussy what pinches the maiden who dresses her lean

skimpy rat's hair. I don't take much account o' she."

They continued in this strain for quite two hours, and would never have

stopped if the candles had endured.

They went up to bed just as Charles, having finished his third bottle of

Burgundy, knocked with vinous assurance at the door of the Great House.

I am not at all certain whether this adventurous action should have been

included in this chapter, for I doubt nothing more heroick was ever done

even by Hercules at the zenith of his laborious career. It was

considered rash enough to wait upon Mr. Ripple in the middle of his

siesta. A royal Duke once succeeded in gaining admittance, if very

little else; but to wait upon Mr. Ripple when his flambeaux strewed the

steps, when the orange light in his porch was winking on its way to

annihilation, when the grey Angora cat had settled herself for repose,

when not even a mouse dared scamper in the wainscot, and when Mr. Ripple

himself sat amid the ruins of his complexion--this was defying the

lightning and inviting Jove's revenge indeed.

Nevertheless, fortified by three bottles of a vintage that held the

heart of France in its crimson depths, Charles recklessly knocked at the

front door of the Great House, not once, but twice or thrice, with added

vigour in the repetition. The sound sent the Beau's taper fingers a full

two inches deep into a pomade compounded of some particularly fine

Provencal almonds and the fat of foxes, the whole famous for removing

those pectinated wrinkles that cluster at the edge of middle-aged lips.

The fragrant grease, wedged beneath his nails, caused him to press thumb

to fingers with an exclamation of fastidious displeasure.

The clatter of the second and third assault froze him to his chair with

a sense of impending calamity.

Gog and Magog were fast asleep dreaming their gaudy dreams of Africa.

Mrs. Binn, Mr. Ripple's intelligent cook, was snoring in the starlight

of an upper chamber; Polly and Molly, Mr. Ripple's equally intelligent

maids, were dreaming discreet dreams also in an upper chamber. Mr. Mink

alone of the royal household was awake, engaged upon the overwhelmingly

tricky job of frizzling his master's newest wig, and therefore quite

unable, during this capillary crisis, to attend to the affairs of the

world or the devil, knocked either never so loudly.

Consequently Mr. Ripple had to open the door himself, for if the

knocking were to continue, many heads might peer from the Crescent

windows, and the morning's rumour of the occurrence damage his

authority.

It is characteristick of the Beau that in this critical juncture of

affairs, he preserved his faculties so intact, that he was able without

affectation to choose deliberately between a dressing-gown of flowered

damask and a more diaphanous wrapper of dove-grey China silk. In

deference to the season he selected the latter.

As he passed the door of his third dressing-room, he could see Mr. Mink,

apparently unconscious of anything untoward in the air, blowing with

steady breaths upon a remarkably hot pair of curling-tongs. The calm

demeanour of his gentleman restored whatever was still lacking to Mr.

Ripple's perfect equilibrium of mind.

With gentle steps, he descended the quiet stairs and, candlestick in

hand, proceeded to draw back the cunningly wrought bolts of the front

door.

"Mr. Ripple, I must speak to you," said Charles.

"Charles," said the Beau, "this visit is either vastly important or--it

is vastly impertinent. Pray, what is your business, sir?"

"Business?" repeated Charles, on whom the effort of concentration was

beginning to tell slightly. "Business?"

"Yes, business, sir, business; for I presume you are not situated on my

doorstep for pleasure."

"I want to speak to you."

"Come to-morrow."

"Nay, sir, I must speak with you now. I'm in a devilish mess and need

the advice of a man who has seen--who has seen----"

"Well, sir?" said the Beau, shading his candle in such a way that the

pallid flickering rays lit up the young man's countenance.

"D----! I don't know, Ripple, but for God's sake don't stand there with

that infernal candle dancing all over my face. Let me come in."

Whether it was the note of misery in our hero's voice or his drawn face

or merely a whim of a great man's naturally eccentrick mind that made

the Beau beckon Charles to follow him upstairs to the tall white

drawing-room, where even still the fire glowed dully, will never be

known. Any way, beckon to him he did, and having set down the taper on

the high mantelpiece, seated himself beside the fire and began

meditatively to toast his embroidered morocco pumps.

There they sat in the great drawing-room, the King and his Heir

Presumptive, and very ghostly they looked in the wan light, and very

unreal the whole experience seemed to Charles in after life.

"'Tis about this book."

"What book?"

"This satire."

"You wrote it?"

"Aye," with great weariness.

"_You_ wrote it? 'Foregad, Charles, I should never have believed that."

"But I never--I never wrote those lines."

"What lines?" Mr. Ripple, having admitted much, would admit no more.

"About Miss Courteen and the Maze, and the whole d----d, d----d, d----

d----"

No substantive was strong enough to suit the emphatick epithets thrice

repeated.

"And who, may I ask, was the author of those graceful stanzas?"

"I know, but--but, Ripple--I owed the blackguard money--the Chinese

Masquerade--I knew his name all the while--if harm comes of this affair,

'tis my fault--but by G----, I'll call him out, yes, I'll call him out,

I'll call him out, I'll call him out, and I'll----"

"Go to bed," said Mr. Ripple peremptorily.

"What d'ye mean?"

"You fool, you're drunk. We'll talk of this to-morrow. Good night, Mr.

Lovely. By the way, who was the author of those graceful stanzas?"

"Oh! h----! Amor. Vernor--Vernon. Anon! Oh, h----!"

"What proof have you of this?"

"Proof, eh? what d'ye say--proof--ha-ha-ha! proof! Why the proof of the

pudding's in the eating. Isn't that so? But I've found, I've found the

author, and I'll walk with him in Curtain Mead--in Curtain Mead by

moonlight, eh? and by the powers, you shall act for me."

"Sir, this flippancy is intolerable."

"Who's flippant--who's intol--erol--erable, sir? I say I'll pay him with

six inches of smallsword."

"You forget my rules, Mr. Lovely."

"Rules? Rules? What's the good of rules? He has insulted me and her."

I think you will agree with me that Charles was drunk enough to be very

undignified. Mr. Lovely Senior appeared again, maudlin and quarrelsome.

The Beau, who remembered him, winced at the resemblance.

"This interview is very repugnant to my sense of decorum," he protested.

"I beg you will take your leave, sir. The whole affair needs the

elucidation of the morning; this candle is insufficient. Moreover, the

hour is late; the fire is low; I make it a rule to be asleep by

midnight whenever possible."

"There you go again!" cried Charles, jumping up and walking with

feverish gestures and unsteady legs round about the room. "Rules! Rules!

Rules! 'Foregad, Sir, I tell you, you cannot make rules for life and

death."

"But you can make many excellent rules for living and dying. One of the

best of these is moderation in liquor."

Charles went back to the _Blue Boar_ not quite sure whether he had told

Beau Ripple a very great deal or nothing at all. He remembered so little

of what he had said that next morning he came to the conclusion that it

was nothing at all. He was glad of this, for somehow when the effects of

the Burgundy wore off, he did not feel disposed to attempt the barricade

of the Great little Man's modish prejudice. Anything in the nature of an

intrigue would be distasteful to such an emotional ascetick.

So Charles stayed late in bed on Tuesday morning and took no advantage

of the invitation grimly issued the night before.

In the afternoon, being dejected in spirits, and finding all the world

gone a-hunting, or a-fishing, or a-wenching, he betook himself to the

_World Turned Upside Down_, a noted house for old red wines. While he

sat in the taproom discussing life with an elderly bagman, one of the

hostlers of the _Blue Boar_ to whom he had confided his destination

brought him a note.

"D---- his eyes," said Charles, crumpling the paper to a perfumed ball,

and flicking it towards the undulating surface of the elderly bagman's

rubied nose.

"D---- his eyes," and, turning to his target, he inquired whether the

latter would drink Port or Burgundy.

_Chapter the Twenty-fourth_

DAISH'S ROOMS[2]

Mr. Jeremy Daish, as I told you many pages back, was remarkably like a

Cremona violin. Conceive then this elderly instrument of the Muses

making a final inspection of his polished floor, preparatory to the

invasion of my lady Bunbutter's red-heeled rout.

[2] I went into Daish's Rooms the other day, for they still

exist as the storehouse of a prosperous ironmonger who is not above

unbending at Christmas time so far as to display a variety of choice

knick-knacks wrought by the Curtain Wells Amateur Copper-Beaters'

Association. The famous frieze carved by an Italian immigrant still

exists, and makes a suitable background for the exhibition of patent

mouse-traps. Among all the brass gongs and Japanese flower-pots, above

the mowing machines and oil-stoves of varied price and power I was

pleased to detect the old iron hooks whence long ago hung the gilt

mirrors that held the unimpaired reflections of this gay history's

characters. For a moment, amid the bleak utility of the stores, I half

fancied the swish of a broidered petticoat and the whisper of a painted

fan, smelt Eau de Chypre and heard the Minuet in _Ariadne_. I shall not

visit Daish's Rooms again; the ghosts have too much power to wring my

heart with the tears and laughter of spent joys.

"It's a very inconvenient store-room," said the dapper manager, "I think

Mr. Bugloss intends to pull it down next year."

Everything portended a successful evening's entertainment. The hautboys,

the flutes, the fiddles and the harp were drinking hot negus extra

strong in order to spur them to unwonted achievements of melody.

Prudence and Deborah, Mr. Daish's comely daughters, who never appeared

in the galleries of the _Blue Boar_ so that their attendance on

occasions like the present might possess the charm at once of

condescension and novelty, were busily puffing their caps and smoothing

their pinners, and from time to time glancing in the direction of the

gilt mirrours just to see that the wax candles were not forming ominous

shrouds liable to mar the gaiety of my lady Bunbutter's agreeable

entertainment.

Waiters came and peeped through a door which probably led to the

supper-room and the three footmen in black plush laced with silver braid

were engaged in a dignified consultation over the glittering knobs of

their tall Malacca canes.

The wheels of the first coach crackle suddenly above the murmurous quiet

of preparation. Tremendously hooped and highly wigged, my lady Bunbutter

has arrived and is entirely approving of the arrangements made by Mr.

Jeremy Daish for the fitting entertainment of a distinguished and

fashionable company.

Here comes the latter very splendid, prodigiously well-bred and

thoroughly determined to criticize the musick and the supper and my lady

Bunbutter herself with merciless perseverance. Here comes the Most

Honourable the Marquis of Hurricane and his eldest son the Earl of

Squall and his second son Lord Augustus Wind and Lady Mary Wind and Lady

Winifred Wind, and his son-in-law El Conde de Scirocco and the sleepy

Contessa, but lud! my lady, her ladyship was unable to appear and begs

to send her apologies. Her dog, my lady, has developed a quinsy, most

unaccountable.

Here come the Earl of Cinderton and the Honourable Mr. Harthe-Brusshe,

and the Lady Angela Tongs, his married daughter.

Here comes Mrs. Courteen and Miss Phyllida Courteen with Major

Constantine Tarry and Mr. Gregory Moon close behind.

Here is young Miss Kitcat with Captain Mann who for all he was so

disreputable was nevertheless tantamount to the success of the Cotillon.

Here come old General Morton and Miss Susan Morton.

In fact, here comes everybody of any importance in Curtain Wells; and

the fiddlers are tuning up.

Yet for all the fiddlers are inviting the world to dance, for all the

world declares the whole entertainment promises to be a grand success

(though not so grand as it should be, considering the ample means at the

disposal of my lady Bunbutter whose father was able to leave a large

fortune to a milliner in Soho), her ladyship herself casts many an

anxious glance towards the entrance. The courtiers have arrived but the

King is still absent, and absent he is likely to remain having caught a

slight nasal catarrh from his contact with the night weather, brought

about by Mr. Lovely. For this story his absence was even more important

in its consequences than my Lady Bunbutter dreamed, since if the Beau

had been present on this occasion I doubt he would have persuaded our

heroine to give up all thoughts of elopements, seductions, stratagems

and rope-ladder courtships. As it fell out, there was nobody to

encourage the unromantick side of her, that is to say, nobody whose

opinion she could honestly respect.

Mr. Francis Vernon had hired the old dancing hall for a midnight party

of farewell; and the old dancing hall still possessed an oak door which

opened on a long corridor which in its turn opened into the new and

improved dancing hall of Daish's Rooms. Halfway along this corridor was

a recessed glasshouse now bare of vegetation, bleak and unfriendly in

the chilly moonlight but a very convenient place for the renewal of

true-lovers' vows when one of the lovers had not been invited to my Lady

Bunbutter's rout. So in the press of the opening gavottes, as Phyllida

passed down the side of the room to wait beside her mother's empty

chair, long white fingers plucked at the black silk mittens that netted

her soft little hand. Phyllida started and, looking up, saw the fingers

withdraw themselves through the space left by a half-opened door.

She looked round in affright, but the fiddlers were busy over the gentle

tune and all the world of scandal was dancing or about to dance. The

thrill of his touch gave her strength enough to make up her mind and,

without more than a moment's hesitation, she slipped through the doorway

whose opening was obscured by greenery.

A solitary candle lit the long corridor with fitful draughty light.

"Come," said Vernon; and, taking his arm, she went down the passage

which seemed to stretch far away--to ruin perhaps, but the end was not

perceptible owing to the scarce illumination.

Soon they were alone in the chilly glasshouse with the moon and a star

or two besides.

"To-morrow, my dearest life," he whispered.

"No, no," said Phyllida.

"To-morrow," he went on, "a post-chaise will be waiting by the toyshop,

and on the seat a riding hood of peacock blue that to-day I bought for

my love."

"No! No! Amor, dear Amor, I am afraid."

"Afraid, dear heart, afraid?"

Far off sounded the musick and far off the laughter of the world.

"Afraid that misery will come of it."

"Misery, my beloved? I will cherish you for ever."

"Amor! Amor! I'm afraid. Something, I cannot say what, I cannot explain

my feelings, but something frightens me, I feel--oh! I feel as if I were

walking in a dark wet garden. I feel as if--as if the laurels and the

evergreens held a knife."

Vernon clasped her to him.

"My dear and my dear, they hold no more than an arrow; the arrow that

has pierced our hearts."

Certainly our villain was play-acting, but he was his own audience and

that juxtaposition is as near to sincerity as even your hero attains.

"You won't betray your Phyllida?"

The appeal caught fire from the flaming cheeks of a maid and burned a

way direct, poignant, passionate, right through the lustre and tinsel of

his emotional costume.

"You won't betray your Phyllida?" The question was such an one as

circulating libraries knew very well. It was asked by many a

contemporary Musidora or Clarinda of fiction. Yet so tremulous were the

lips that asked it, lips frail as rose-leaves and, withal, ardent as

wine, that Vernon shuddered. For the first time in his life he had

raised a force. He was at home with Ranelagh romps, with patched

beauties of Vauxhall, mistresses of intrigue whose fans had become a

part of their bodies, or better, whose bodies were no more than the

appendage of their fans, light, airy things where Love danced in a mask

and could be shut up at will.

Now for the first time he stared into eyes which held immortality. He

saw himself Point de Vise but intolerably diminished.

Vernon noticed that the cheek nearer to him flamed more crimson and for

a while he was troubled by the mystery of Love's birth. Elation swung

him to the skies and, catching Phyllida to his heart, he whispered of

constancy, swore that love would endure for ever and hardly knew himself

for a liar.

He never spoke again of pearls, and from that moment truly desired her

for the youth and the mystery of herself.

With a pang of tenderness he let her go, watched her hurry down the

corridor like a crimson Autumn leaf that is blown along by the wind. By

the little door she looked back at him, and from the tips of her fingers

sped elfin kisses which on the wings of the musick of flutes and fiddles

were borne in grace and beauty.

She had promised. With a sigh Mr. Francis Vernon went back to

superintend the arrangements for his farewell party. She had promised,

and, as she slipped unobserved into the glitter and heat of Daish's

famous Rooms, never seemed like one who has stood a long while in

moonlight.

What mattered the censorious world? The softness of his black velvet

sleeve thrilled her, and, forgetting all else, she began to build her

house of dreams. What a house it was, with casements that looked on

every month of the marching years. Now it was December when the

snowflakes were falling. Down the corridor she and her lover moved in

the grey light, but the casements were lined with ferns and stars and

jewels of frost, so they sought Spring in the changing fire-gardens of

burning logs. February went by with her showers and her celandines, her

snowdrops and thrushes that sing on bare branches. That casement in her

house of dreams was gilded round and the sill carved with posies and

true-lovers' knots, for through it she had seen Love for the first time.

March came in by night with a great noise of wind, yet even in the gusty

darkness she could put out her hands to touch a velvet sleeve as black

as the gloom enclosed by the open lattice. Every casement in her house

of dreams was full of delight, even the quaint little window at the very

end of the corridor whose ledge was the haunt of drifted leaves. In the

far-off autumn he would still be by her side.

Somebody asked her to step a minuet, yet while her body danced, while

her feet kept tune to the twinkling rhythm, while her fan fluttered to

mortal harmonies, her soul was away with Love--God knows the spot, but

'twas somewhere mighty near the top of this green world. Now she was

rocking a wooden cradle while the wind in the wide black chimney crooned

an echo to the old nursery song she was singing. Ah! sir or madam, when

a young maiden starts to build her house of dreams, I think, if she be a

wise maid, she builds the nursery first of all.

This wonderful house had a number of clocks, tall clocks, short clocks,

thin clocks, fat clocks, round clocks, square clocks, clocks on the

wall, clocks on the mantelpiece, clocks in the corners; and every clock

was ticking away to a tune of its own, for in the house of dreams there

was never a moment that did not deserve perpetual commemoration.

Somebody asked her to step a gavotte. At the end of the garden of this

wonderful house was a green wicket, and when you had walked through a

coppice of birches and wild raspberries that ripen with the corn, you

found yourself on the London road. It ran straight as a dart over hill

and down dale, through villages whose cottages were only built to stare

at the gay equipages that rattled past, for nothing alive was visible

save a few geese on a blue and white pond beneath a blue and white sky.

Phyllida's mind was a book of old wives' tales and her London was the

golden London of Dick Whittington.

Fled were all the outraged heroines of dog-eared novels in greasy

circulation. The long reproaches, stilted protestations, vows, regrets

and declarations had vanished. The nodding spinsters behind country

counters who selected the literature of their clients and declared how

affecting was this tale, how full of sensibility was that one, had

gradually lost all definite shape like the volumes they doled out so

assiduously. Fled, too, with the vapours of young maidenhood, were some

of the sweets. Nevertheless I doubt there was not a soul to regret the

old Phyllida save perhaps Betty and Dick Combleton, the Squire's

youngest son away down in Hampshire.

Miss Sukey Morton began to talk to her of young Tom Chalkley. She told

how he had passed their house, how he had looked up at the window, and

how by the greatest ill luck she happened to be rather pale that

morning. She babbled on about the imagined progress of an affair which

had never truly existed. To Phyllida who should have been sympathetick,

it was rather wearisome chatter. Suddenly Miss Morton shocked her dear

Courteen very much by asking if she had discovered who was satirized in

those twelve lines beginning ... Phyllida interrupted with a curt

negative, so curt that her darling Morton regarded her with black-eyed

curiosity.

"And how should I know, Sukey, how should I know?"

"My dearest Miss Courteen, there is no need to be angry about a simple

question."

"These discoveries are all so low," complained Phyllida.

"Oh, vastly low, though for my part I think the hussy deserves censure

since she has made every young woman ridiculous."

With this commentary Miss Morton left her friend, and Phyllida,

wondering all the while if she knew the whole affair, was more than ever

firmly determined to elope to-morrow afternoon with her Amor.

_Chapter the Twenty-fifth_

QUARTS OF BURGUNDY

The old ballroom of the famous Daish's Rooms looked mighty cheerful on

the evening of my Lady Bunbutter's rout and Mr. Francis Vernon's

farewell entertainment.

The circular mahogany table with finely carved claw legs shone like the

fine old piece of Spanish wood it was, that is to say, wherever it could

secure a clear space for shining, being almost entirely clouded over by

innumerable dishes of gruit and nuts, plates, silver knives and silver

forks, two large horns of snuff and half-dozen pairs of branched

candlesticks, while in the very centre surrounded by lesser fruits stood

a magnificent pineapple.

Round the table stood a dozen or more solid Windsor wheelback chairs

that were warranted to stand firm, though the fattest gentleman that

ever sat down to dessert tipped perpetually back on them to the utmost

limit of his balance. A magnificent fire blazed and roared in the

hearth, and round the walls were hung prints of racehorses, cock-fights,

steeplechases, prize bullocks, and fat sheep, with bills of sale beneath

them and announcements of forthcoming diversions for the young gentlemen

of the _Blue Boar_ and the more wealthy agriculturalists of the

neighbourhood.

It was ten o'clock of a wet windy night and the chairmen were growing

quarrelsome as they stamped up and down in the street below.

Mr. Jeremy Daish had been rather unwilling for Mr. Vernon to give his

party on a night when he himself would be unable to superintend the

commissariat owing to his services being required for my Lady

Bunbutter's rout close at hand. However, he had left the strictest

injunctions with John the senior waiter to carry off at once all empty

bottles in order to the protection of the Curtain Wells watch, which was

wont to suffer considerably in their persons on such an hilarious

occasion as a party in the old ballroom of Daish's Rooms.

The host stood with his back to the fire complacently surveying the

preparations. Vernon's extraction was somewhat ambiguous, and his father

may or may not have been the fine gentleman that his mother swore he

was. So, as he stood regarding the well-covered table and the tall

armchair at the head of it where he would presently take his seat, a

distinct feeling of elation seized him at the prospect of being in a

position to pass the decanter round a circle of such undeniable

breeding. He went over their names--names famous on many a battlefield

and many a hunting field. They belonged to a world of broad acres and

park gates and double lodges and Corinthian hunting-boxes. They were

revered at home by many peasants and wore the mantle of life with an air

of easy proprietorship. They possessed something like the dignified

stability of the Church of England. They were a force, an institution, a

product of insular civilization. In fact, they were English Gentlemen,

and Mr. Vernon contemplated their existence with great self-satisfaction.

He, too, was an English Gentleman, he reassured himself. It was the

consciousness of being one which gave him that pleasant sense of

superiority to the rest of the world when he found himself in the

congenial company of his peers.

Yet poor Mr. Vernon (I am rather sorry for poor Mr. Vernon) could not

conceal from his shrewd self that he had no business to be at all unduly

elated at the prospect of entertaining young Tom Chalkley of the Foot,

Lieutenant Blewforth of the _Lively_, Mr. Harry Golightly of Campbell's

Grey Dragoons, Mr. Anthony Clare, little Peter Wingfield, Jack

Winnington, the Honourable Mr. Harthe-Brusshe, my Lord Squall, Lord

Augustus Wind and Mr. Charles Lovely.

It was Mr. Vernon's note of invitation to the last which had caused him

to d---- Vernon's hazel eyes, in the taproom of the _World turned Upside

Down_. Presently came a sound of laughter and careless talk as the young

gentlemen of the _Blue Boar_ came swaggering in. Was it merely a sense

of eccentricity that made the host fancy he detected a note of

condescension in their loud and jovial greeting to himself? Probably.

The early guests talked, as early guests always will, with half an eye

on the clock and the other half on the table.

"Squall is late," said Vernon.

"Squall coming?" inquired Blewforth.

"L-l-ook out for squalls," stammered little Peter Wingfield.

"Squall's an ass," said Mr. Golightly.

"So is his brother," said Chalkley.

"Always was," said Clare.

"Wind is coming too," said Vernon. "Augustus, that is, and

Harthe-Brusshe."

The young gentlemen of the _Blue Boar_ looked peevish; it was tactless

of that fellow Vernon to keep them waiting for three such asses as

these.

"They are late," said Blewforth very emphatically.

"I'm expecting Lovely, too," said Vernon almost humbly. Somehow or other

he felt the slightest inclination to apologize, exactly what for he did

not know.

"Charles is always late. He's a d----d careless fellow," said Mr.

Golightly, and one felt the final judgment upon Charles had been passed.

"Charles is not jigging with old Butterbun, is he?" asked little Peter

Wingfield.

"Oh! the d----l! not he," said Blewforth. "He's found a red-cheeked

hussy with whom he's carrying on an intrigue."

"Eh, what! Never?" exclaimed a chorus.

"What's his charmer's name?" said Chalkley.

"Burgundy," replied Blewforth with a great guffaw that made all the

glasses and goblets and decanters on the big oak dresser ring an echo.

"I never thought Charles cared much for wine or women," said Golightly.

"Nor he don't," Blewforth put in. "Nor he don't. That's what beats me.

But I tell you I saw Charles Lovely sitting in the taproom of the _World

Turned Upside Down_. Nobody goes there unless he wishes to be drunk by

nightfall. Eh, boys? So depend on't when Charles does arrive, he'll

arrive drunk. But why? That's the riddle."

"Perhaps the fair Courteen has slighted him," said Chalkley. "Serve him

right. He had no business to take himself so seriously. 'Tis very

fashionable to be a poet, but egad! 'tis devilish low to behave like

one."

"Is that Miss Phyllida Courteen?" said Vernon, trying to speak as though

he had read her name in the list of visitors published every week by the

proprietors of the _Curtain Wells Chronicle and Pump Room

Intelligencer_.

"Aye! d'ye know her? Blooming seventeen with a short upper lip, blue

eyes and hair the colour of that chestnut gelding, What's His Name sold

'tother day."

"Very poor animal," said Golightly.

"Not at all. I disagree with you."

"Very poor animal indeed," said Golightly.

"It fetched a very pretty price."

"Oh," said Mr. Golightly and the argument was over.

"Does she carry a white swansdown muff?" asked Vernon.

"Who?"

"Miss Courteen."

"Eh? Oh! I don't know," and since Mr. Chalkley's tone of voice implied a

lack of further interest on the subject, the subject was dropped.

"My belief is," said Lieutenant Blewforth loudly, and moving as he spoke

in the direction of the fireplace. "Egad, Vernon would you take it

unkind if I rang for a tankard of ale? I'm as dry as a gunner in action.

My belief is," he went on spreading his coat-tails to the genial warmth,

"my belief is----"

"Gadslife! B-B-lewforth," interrupted Peter Wingfield, "pray get on with

the recitation of your c-creed."

"Don't get excited, little man," said Blewforth. "My belief is Charles

wrote that book."

"What book?" said Chalkley, whose acquaintance with the literature of

the day was remarkably small.

"Curtain Polls."

"Never heard of it," said Mr. Chalkley.

"Rubbish!" said Clare, entering suddenly into the conversation.

"Rubbish!" and yet Mr. Anthony Clare was one of the two people in the

room who knew for certain that Charles was, indeed, the author of that

satirical trifle.

"It has caused a terrible amount of talk," Blewforth went on. "My old

aunt Seaworthy to whom I paid my annual visit yesterday tells me that

all the world is very much hurt at being treated with such freedom."

"I d-don't see why Charles should take to drink because he's wrote a

book." This was from Peter Wingfield.

"Ripple may have been annoyed. He's confoundedly touchy about a little

matter like that and Charles thinks Ripple is a demigod."

The Earl of Squall, Lord Augustus Wind and the Honourable Mr.

Harthe-Brusshe came into the room at that moment, and Mr. Vernon, who

had been feeling a little outside the intimacy of the company, made

haste to propose that, everybody save Charles being present, the wine

should be brought in.

Everybody agreed that nothing fitted in more exactly with their wishes

than Mr. Vernon's timely suggestion and everybody selected his chair

with that preciseness which stamps the beginning of an entertainment.

Everybody sat down and the nuts were circulated.

Presently John entered with twelve quart-bottles of Burgundy on a huge

tray. All of them had been gently warmed before a slow fire, and all of

them were wiped clean of the cobwebs and dust of the several years spent

in the ample cellars of the _Blue Boar_.

Vernon had prepared a short oration for the entrance of the liquor and

while John reverently stationed a bottle at everybody's right hand, he

made haste to deliver it. Perhaps his utterance was a shade too

reminiscent of one of the many prologues spoken by his mother at the

theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields, but that did not matter since nobody in

the room was old enough to remember that lady's inimitable delivery of

Mr. Dryden's rhymed Alexandrines.

"The life of Burgundy," said Mr. Vernon, "is very like the life of a

butterfly. At first the grape or caterpillar-grub, feeding upon the

richness of the soil, then the cocoon or bottle stage when it languishes

for many years in darkness below the earth until--until it emerges

glowing with a thousand varied tints of crimson--and, like a butterfly,

wings its airy way into the brain of mankind."

The company, with the exception of my Lord Squall who was sometimes

taken in the old family coach of the Winds to hear his father speak in

the House of Lords, were not accustomed to lengthy speeches and looked

at each other bashfully.

Lieutenant Blewforth with nautical tact saved the situation by drinking

Mr. Vernon's health in a very large and brimming pint bumper which he

emptied in two sonorous gulps.

As everybody else proceeded to follow this good example, everybody was

soon very cheerful, and the advent of the second dozen of bottles was

mightily applauded.

However, the master mind was still absent and the drinking, though

steady, had not yet enlivened the company to uproarious spirits.

"Where's Charles?" bellowed Blewforth munching a devilled biscuit.

"Where's that fellow Charles. Demme! He'll never catch us up at this

rate and we shall have him sober as a post-captain when we are beginning

to amuse ourselves."

"What, you rogue," cried our hero entering just as the Lieutenant

bellowed his inquiry. "I wager five guineas, I am two bottles ahead of

any gentleman present." In order to clinch the bet he flung his purse in

the direction of the table. The gauntlet snuffed in its course two of

the candles and fell with a plump into a piping bowl of punch splashing

Tom Chalkley as high as his stock and imparting to His Majesty's uniform

an odour of hot squeezed lemons that lasted for quite a couple of weeks.

"Charles! Charles!" bellowed the burly Lieutenant, "Huzza for Charles!"

The latter lurched into the vacant chair next to his friend Tony without

a word to the host. However, nobody observed this breach of good

manners, because everybody was anxiously leaning over to fill every

glass in reach of the newcomer as a preliminary to drinking his very

good health a score of times, without a heeltap to any one of them.

"Z--ds! Charles. Where have you been?" said Chalkley.

"Drinking old Burgundy with a rogue of a bagman who looked like Ranelagh

Garden en Fete, for his face was illuminated with every hue of crimson

lamp and I stake my wig his nose was as large and round as the Rotunda."

With the arrival of Charles, everybody woke up and there were calls for

a song. The gallant Lieutenant was the first to respond with my Lord

Dorset's _To you fair ladies now at Land_.

Let me remind you of that fine old ballad:

_To you fair ladies now at Land

We men at Sea indite;

But first would have you understand

How hard it is to write_.

"Not at all," cried Charles.

_The Muses now, and Neptune too,

We must implore to write to you;_

"and chorus, gentlemen, please,"

_With a Fa, la, la, la, la, la

The Muses now, and Neptune too,

We must implore to write to you_.

and so on to the last

_With a Fa, la, la, la, la

Let us hear of no Inconstancy

We have too much of that at Sea_.

And a proper noise everybody made with the _Fa la-la-la-la_ accentuating

every _Fa_ with a bottle and every _La_ with one of Mr. Jeremy Daish's

handsome silver spoons.

The song being a very lengthy one allowed everybody plenty of time to

drink another quart of Burgundy before its rousing conclusion, and if

the company cheered loudly at the beginning, by heavens, they cheered so

loudly at the end that the noise was heard above the fiddlers in the new

ballroom of Daish's famous Rooms and put everybody out of step in the

last Cotillon notwithstanding the heroick efforts of the disreputable,

but nimble-footed Captain Mann.

Then Charles gave a new ballad (new that is in the reign of Queen Anne)

sung first at Messieurs Brook and Hellier's Club at the Temple Tavern in

Fleet Street, but slightly altered by him to suit present company,

_Since I'm in the Chair and every one here

Appears in gay humour and easy;

Say, why should not I, a new Ballad try,

Bright Brethren o' the Bottle to please ye.

This wine is my theme, this is all on's Esteem,

For Jeremy Daish cannot wrong us;

Let them get Wealth who keeps us in health.

By bringing neat liquor among us_.

(with chorus of last two lines repeated).

_Each Vintner of late, has got an Estate

By brewing and Sophistication

With cyder and sloes, they've made a d----d dose,

Has poisoned one half of the nation_.

and so on until

_Now God Bless the King, Peers, Parliament Men,

And keep 'em like us in true concord;

And grant that all those, who dare be his foes,

At Tyburn may swing in a strong cord;

We'll Loyalists be, and bravely agree

With lives and estates to defend her--him

So then we'll not care come Peace or come War

For Lewis, the Pope, or Pretender._

"Ah!" said Mr. Antony Clare whose father had been a Jacobite, "you've

spoilt more than the rhyme by the last word."

This treasonable remark was the signal for more noise than ever because

all the young gentlemen of the _Blue Boar_ who held His Majesty King

George's commission felt bound to uphold the honour of the Royal Navy

and the British Army by flinging a large number of Spanish nuts at the

head of the disloyal Clare who retorted by emptying a whole ram's horn

of snuff over Mr. Golightly so that for a while nothing was to be heard

but vollies of gigantick sneezes. Exhaustion reigned for a moment, but

presently the sound of hustling and bustling in the street outside

roused everybody to fresh vigour of mischief.

My Lady Bunbutter's rout was over, and those of the Exquisite Mob who

had been invited were standing on tiptoe on the steps of Daish's Rooms

peering into the darkness and blinking in the glare of waving flambeaux.

The chairmen were so busy quarrelling over their positions that they

paid no attention to their fares and everything was in a very great

state of confusion indeed; nor was the clamour abated by Mr. Lovely

cleverly hitting the long red ear of the nearest chairmen with a

Barcelona nut because the injured chairman instantly floored a linkboy

who was standing by his side and the linkboy's torch severely burnt the

legs of Lord Cinderton's tall footman in his ash-grey livery and the

tall footman with a yell of dismay punched a flat-footed waiter on the

nose and the flat-footed waiter butted an inoffensive fop in the middle

of his sprigged silk waistcoat and the inoffensive fop struck out with

his tasselled cane left and right with such force that presently

everybody in the street below was fighting with his next door neighbour

to the entire delight of the young gentlemen from the _Blue Boar_. Their

next diversion was to empty the dregs of the Burgundy bottles upon the

heads of the crowd, whereupon all the ladies of Curtain Wells screamed

very loud to see such a number of bloody polls and faces.

Then Charles snatched off little Peter Wingfield's tie-wig and, having

set fire to it, began to drop tufts of burning hair out of the window,

which tufts made an immense smell and blew round and round in the gusty

March air in a very alarming manner.

Little Peter Wingfield, having lost his own wig and being too little to

snatch Lovely's wig, mounted one of the stout Windsor wheelback chairs

and, taking down the print of a famous cock-fight extracted the hook

from the wall and laid an embargo on the black silk ties of three of his

friends in order to fish from the window for another wig. He succeeded

in catching the Marquis of Hurricane's to the intense delight of his

undutiful sons the Earl of Squall and Lord Augustus Wind. Of course

after such a successful display of angling, everybody else had to try

his hand with the picture hook and two more wigs were captured but

proved so frowsy that they were burnt immediately. However, Mr. Chalkley

caught the hem of Lady Jane Vane's petticoat just as she was stepping

into her chair and would without doubt have injured that virgin's modest

reputation for ever, had the garment been made of more durable stuff; as

it was, the hook would not hold and nothing was disclosed beyond what is

allowed by any wet day.

Then Mr. Daish came hurrying in and begged their honours to desist

because the watch was coming, and what Mr. Ripple would say when he

heard of the riot he did not dare surmize.

Poor Mr. Daish bowed and scraped and was so full of excuses that all the

young gentlemen felt quite sorry for him and put ham seat foremost into

the biggest bowl of punch in order to drown his troubles, whereupon Mr.

Daish grew quite cholerick and vowed he would never let one of 'em enter

his inn again and made such ado that the culprits all protested he was

more noisy than anybody else, and offered to fetch in the watch and have

him arrested in his own bowl of punch.

But presently they lifted him out and subscribed ten guineas by sending

round Mr. Golightly's hat; and poor Mr. Daish was more full of excuses

than ever and hoped that anything he had said that could by the most

spirited gentleman be considered derogatory would be forgiven and

ascribed to the dismay caused by the hot punch scalding his hinder parts

and goading him beyond the bounds of polite remonstrance.

Everybody vowed that withered little Daish was a prince of good fellows

and begged him to buy himself a new pair of cinnamon cloth breeches as

soon as possible, while Thomas Chalkley of the Foot created much

amusement by shouting that he was holding Dunquerque against the French.

In order to hold Dunquerque against the French, it was very necessary

that Mr. Chalkley should fling out of the window nineteen quart-bottles

of Burgundy in quick succession, whereupon Lieutenant Blewforth of the

_Lively_ not to be outdone vowed Portobello must be taken and proceeded

to take it by climbing with amazing dexterity on to the mantelpiece

armed only with a long Churchwarden's pipe. Yet notwithstanding all the

efforts of Ensign Chalkley to hold Dunquerque against the French,

notwithstanding that he was valiantly assisted by Cornet Golightly of

the Grey Dragoons, who led a desperate cavalry charge round the whole

room mounted upon one of the stout Windsor chairs, Dunquerque

capitulated. In other words the dignified Curtain Wells watch marched

upstairs with their lanterns and their staves and, standing in a knot by

the doorway, demanded the reason for such a riotous breach of the King's

peace, not to mention Mr. Ripple's and the Mayor's. But the young

gentlemen were all so merry and the watch was so cold that it consented

to taste the punch and presently left Dunquerque in the hands of the

Allies and marched off warmer in mind and body to a quieter quarter of

the ancient borough of Curtain Wells. I am sorry to add that, in passing

the door of the Great House, they so far forgot their standing orders as

to cry with enormous fervour the hour and the weather exactly underneath

Mr. Ripple's window.

With the departure of the watch, peace fell upon the company for a

while; a dice box was produced and some packs of cards, but play lasted

a very short time and was voted too confoundedly dull for so joyful an

evening. So more songs were sung, and it was exceedingly pleasant to

hear these young gentlemen shouting the refrains and hammering Encores

upon the polished mahogany table. It was exceedingly pleasant to see the

wigs on their knees and the long clay pipes keeping time to the tune;

but perhaps the pleasantest sight of all was the two sleepy waiters who

leaned against the jambs of the door and, with kindly grins on their

tired faces, tapped their flat feet to the more alluring measures.

The night was wearing away when somebody called 'Vernon for a song!'

The latter, to tell the truth, had felt out of his element, except

during the brief interval of play, but on being called upon to occupy

the centre of the room, he cheered up and announced his very great

pleasure in acceding to the gentlemen's request.

I wonder if you are at all sorry for Mr. Vernon.

He was very lonely sitting in his high armchair at the head of the

table. I wonder if you will forgive him for singing this song, which you

will find in Mr. D'Urfey's _Pills to Purge Melancholy_.

_In the merry month of May,

On a morn by break of day,

Forth I walked the wood so wide,

When as May was in her Pride

Here I spy'd all alone, all alone,

Phyllida and Coridon._

_Much ado there was God wot,

He did love, but she could not,

He said his love was to woo,

He said none was false to you;

He said he had lov'd her long,

He said love should take no wrong._

_Coridon would have kissed her then,

She said Maids must kiss no men

Till they kiss for good and all;

Then she bade the shepherds call

All the Gods to witness truth,

Ne'er was loved so fair a youth._

_Then with many a pretty oath,

As Yea and Nay and Faith and Troth,

Such as silly shepherds use,

When they would not love abuse;

Love which had been long deluded

Was with kisses sweet concluded._

_And Phyllida with garlands gay

Was crowned the Lady May._

The words were poor, as you will allow, and the tune a mere tinkle, but

it had the effect of rousing our hero from the half-sleep into which he

had fallen.

"Sing that song again, will you."

"G---- forbid," whispered little Peter Wingfield.

"Nay, sir," said Mr. Vernon, "'Tis too long to sing over again, but I'll

toast the heroine if that will please your zest."

"No, sir," said Charles, "it will not please me at all."

The rest of the company began to wake up to the fact that something was

happening.

"I should have thought," Vernon replied, "that Mr. Lovely would have

cordially welcomed such a toast, for we all know his partiality to the

name."

"Gentlemen," said our hero. Did I not promise you some pretty heroicks a

score of pages back? "Gentlemen, I have a tale to tell you."

Charles looked very stiff and very fierce as, clapping on his wig, he

began:

"A short while ago I perpetrated an indiscretion in mistaking Mr.

Francis Vernon for a gentleman, for which I beg the pardon of everybody

present. Mr. Vernon for some reason best known to himself saw fit to

bribe my bookseller to insert in a volume I have just published twelve

scurrilous lines reflecting upon the character of a young lady whom

I--whom I----"

"Admire," suggested our villain.

"No, sir, respect."

"Sir, your virtue should make us all blush," sneered Vernon, cold and

contemptuous.

"D---- n you and your blushes; blush deeper, then," shouted Charles,

slinging the contents of a wineglass into Mr. Vernon's pallid face.

There was silence for a moment until the honourable Mr. Harthe-Brusshe

proclaimed----

"The affair should be settled at once."

And this was the only remark that the Honourable gentleman uttered in

the whole of the evening.

"With all my heart," cried Charles. "Tony, you'll act for me?"

Mr. Vernon had delicately wiped his face with a handkerchief of Mechlin

lace. A single drop of the wine lingered above his left cheekbone.

There, it was not unbecoming.

"I shall be proud to walk with Mr. Lovely in a month's time," said our

villain, "but for the present my honour is pledged to a lady."

"Sure, you borrow on mighty small security, sir," said Charles.

The lingering drop of wine that stained Mr. Vernon's cheek seemed to

expand for a brief moment.

"I have named my day," was all he answered.

"Mr. Vernon is within his rights, Charles," said Mr. Golightly, "and

moreover the weather will be finer next month and we can make up a

jovial party."

"'Tis hardly fair to poor Daish to fight in his rooms," said Blewforth.

"Ripple would put his shutters up at once."

"H---- take you all," cried Charles, in an access of fury, as he sprang

to strike Vernon.

The latter stepped back and with a well-aimed blow sent Charles flying

backwards over two chairs.

"'Slife, Charles," said Mr. Golightly very stiffly. "Your conduct is

d----d irregular, Sir."

"Most improper," said Mr. Chalkley.

"Devilish unrestrained," said little Peter Wingfield.

"Charles was two bottles ahead of us, gentlemen," said Blewforth who

held a broad mind in a broad body.

Our hero was still lying where Vernon had sent him among cards and

broken glass.

"D---- n you all," cried Clare. "Charles is worth the rest of you

puppies in red and blue coats put together, and by G----, Mr. Vernon, he

shall kill you for that blow."

Everybody was so surprized to hear Mr. Anthony Clare, cool and placid

Tony Clare, break out like this that a wave of embarrassment swept over

the room. One by one they hurried from the scene of such an irregular

quarrel.

It was very entertaining to see them march out so stiff and straight,

with nutshells crackling underneath their feet.

_Chapter the Twenty-sixth_

AND THE DREGS OF THE SAME

Mr. Anthony Clare stayed behind to help our hero home to bed. His effort

to achieve sobriety had completely exhausted such faculties as remained

after so many quarts of Burgundy, and he babbled to his companion

foolish threats and impotent defiance in such an incoherent voice that I

doubt his enemy, had he been present, would scarcely have been able to

discover common sense in any one of his remarks. Charles woke up in the

morning full of bile, dressed himself in a splenetick fury and ate a

breakfast, conspicuous for its peppery flavours, with petulance and

aversion. Then he crammed his gold-laced Kevenhuller hat on his head and

went out to interview Mr. Horace Ripple.

In crossing the courtyard of the inn he passed Mr. Chalkley, and for a

moment debated seriously the wisdom of challenging him out of hand. This

he was the more inclined to do because he fancied the gallant Ensign was

regarding him with some disfavour. However, the latter gave him a 'good

morning,' and excused his want of geniality on the score of a liver

teased out of endurance by hard and violent exercise.

So Charles forgave him his supposed breach of good manners and decided

to hear from Tony a full account of the evening's events.

Clare presently overtook him under the archway, and, on being informed

of our hero's destination, tried to dissuade him from the projected

visit to the Beau.

"Z----ds! I tell you that blackguard shall be turned out of the Wells

with ignominy." So much Charles vowed.

"But 'tis no business of yours, Charles," argued his friend.

"No business of mine? Eh! is that so? Then, by heaven! I'll make it my

business."

"Ripple does not believe in settling disputes of this nature by the

personal encounter."

"Then, by heaven!" said Charles, "that being the case there is the

greater necessity for expelling him from the company of gentlemen."

"That is all very well," expostulated Clare, "but you are neither the

young woman's brother nor, as I believe, her lover. What right have you

to interfere?"

"I tell you, Tony," said Charles, "that Ripple has already pondered the

advisableness of interfering with Mr. Francis Amor-Vernon and, indeed,

begged me to disclose his pseudonym, but I would not."

"You owed him money, in fact?" said Clare, gently tapping the kerb of

the pavement with his cane.

"Yes, I owed the dog money."

"And now he is paid?"

"Thanks to your generosity he is paid."

"Charles," said Mr. Clare, laying his hand affectionately on that

indignant gentleman's right shoulder, "oblige me, who was able and glad

to oblige you, by not proceeding further in this affair."

"'Tis monstrous ill-bred in you to remind me of an obligation under

which I laid myself with the most profound disinclination." Charles was

growing angry.

"Nay, you know that is not my meaning, but, consider Charles, this

confounded, pasquinading pamphlet book has placed you in such an ill

light that the world will be very loth to believe any good of you."

"Ripple is wiser than the raree-show over which he presides."

"Ay! but depend on't, he has already been informed of last night's

affair and will be prejudiced against you on account of your quarrelsome

overtures."

"'Sdeath! Tony, pray desist from further argument; you do not convince

me and will soon rouse my choler."

"As you will," said Tony, and, leaving the company of his friend, betook

himself to the solitude of green fields. In the pleasures of country

sights and sounds he found some consolation for the undeserved

reproaches of a gentleman whom he had gratified at considerable expense

to himself.

Charles continued in the direction of the Great House. Being arrived on

the topmost doorstep he rang the bell with complete assurance and

knocked thrice with the heavy brass knocker.

He was admitted to an audience and walked upstairs to the tall white

drawing-room without trepidation or bashfulness. Mr. Ripple had favoured

him with so many compliments lately, had begged his advice on so many

trifles of publick importance, had in fact adopted him so completely

into intimate conversation, that Charles may be pardoned for supposing

that, notwithstanding his unceremonious conduct of the night before

last, notwithstanding his notoriety as the author of a book of satirical

poems, he would still be received with that inimitable and charming

condescension which the Great little Man reserved for few indeed.

He found the Beau seated among the roses of his wide-winged armchair

sipping what looked uncommonly like a cordial physick. He did not rise

to Mr. Lovely's entrance, did not even turn his head, but merely said in

a tone, indifferent, lifeless and chill,

"To what may I ascribe the honour of this visit, sir?"

Conceive the shocked feelings of Madam Semele when he, whom she had

hitherto regarded with the familiarity born of many amorous meetings,

assumed at her own request the attributes of divinity. She died, if you

can recall the sad event.

Charles experienced a particle of that dismay when the Great little Man

for whom he had hitherto felt an almost playful affection suddenly

appeared to him with the attributes of majesty--remoteness, scorn, and

inaccessibleness. The pattern upon the Aubusson rug swam before his eyes

in changes of tint and form as frequent as a child's Kaleidoscope, and

he found himself in humble obeisance. The Beau twirled the fluted stem

of the green Venetian glass that contained his physick and waited for

Mr. Lovely to explain his business.

"Well, sir," he said at last.

The abashed favourite stammered his reasons for the visit.

"Pooh, pooh," said the Beau. "Pooh, pooh! a likely story. Your brain,

sir, addled by the ridiculous rhymes it has already born with obvious

labour, refuses to hatch further monstrous fancies, and is content to

send into the world an abortion. The night before last, Mr. Lovely, you

waited upon me at an hour both indiscreet and inconvenient. I was ready

to overlook this horrid breach of decorum and was indeed willing to

receive your apologies on the following day. You found, however, a more

engaging diversion in cracking bottles with a bagman. For this I do not

blame you--and, indeed, think you will do well to cultivate a manner of

company for which you seem to me singularly adapted. Pray understand,

however, that, in finding your level, you have had to make a very

considerable descent. The rider who has been thrown into a ditch is

unable to cry 'View! Holloa!' to the master of the hunt. In other words,

Mr. Lovely, you have put yourself in a position where your estimate of

polite intrigue is incredible and impertinent. I am very well able to

look after the morals of the Beau Monde without the assistance of the

kitchen or the tap-room."

"Mr. Ripple," said our hero, "you insult me."

"Unfortunately, sir, I recognize no responsibleness in that direction. I

have always claimed the right to speak my mind. If you find my

strictures intolerable, the door affords you an easy remedy."

"Mr. Ripple," Charles replied, "I think you are making a fool of

yourself."

The Great little Man clutched the arms of his wide-winged chair and

gasped. It was certainly twenty years since any one had dared to address

him with such a want of reverence.

"You wrap yourself in paint and sattin," continued Charles. "You strut

about as if you were indeed the king of a puppet show. But don't forget,

Mr. Ripple, that when the puppets perform, when they make miniature love

and die small deaths, the publick regards them, not the wire-puller

above. The world, your world, will forget you, Mr. Ripple, when it still

remembers the inconsiderable passions of your dolls."

"It does not matter, sir," the Beau interrupted in a voice tremulous

with well-bred anger. "It does not matter what the world thinks of me,

so long as my puppets comport themselves with taste and discretion."

"You fool," shouted Charles, "the wires are twisted."

It is improbable that any one had ever shouted in this tall white room

before, and the lustres shivered at the unwonted sound, while a

diminutive Dresden shepherdess, fragile as a sea-shell, lost her head,

which rolled into the grate with a tinkle of dismay.

"Leave my house," said the Beau.

"Ay! and you dislike to be told that your show will presently appear

ludicrous."

"Leave my house."

"Good G----! Ripple. I know I have been to blame; I know my story seems

to you absurd; but, by Heaven! I swear those cursed lines were never

writ by me, and since Vernon wrote them, why, z----ds, man! Can't you

see his intention?"

"Leave my house."

"Very well, sir, your obedient servant."

With a very grand bow, Mr. Lovely took his leave of the Great little

Man.

When he was gone, the Beau stooped to pick up the head of the diminutive

Dresden shepherdess.

"Tut-tut, I doubt the join will be plainly visible," he murmured to

himself.

_Chapter the Twenty-seventh_

TIME FOR REFLECTION

Mr. Lovely left the Great House enraged with the owner, with Society

and, to say truth, with his own heroick self.

I do not think he was very wildly in love with Miss Courteen, but I do

believe he was sincerely vexed with himself for letting her fall into

Vernon's power. For a moment he seriously pondered the wisdom of warning

her mother of the lengths to which the affair had gone, but upon

reflection shrank from a step which would savour, in the eyes of the

world, of ill-bred intrusion. After all, the girl was nothing to him,

and her reputation--plague on her reputation! I trust you observe the

unheroick aftermath of heroick Burgundy. Such bathos of indifference

would have sounded strange in the days preceding this forenoon.

Just then my lady Bunbutter went by in her capacious chair and Charles

prepared to make an elaborate bow, but her ladyship merely stared at him

in cold disdain, and he was forced to buckle his shoe to save his

countenance.

"So everybody knows," said Charles to himself, "Well! I shall always

regard Curtain Wells with affection and remember it with regret."

He walked down the Colonnade where Miss Morton lived and, as he passed

the house, thought with half a smile of Valentine Day. It seemed a

century ago--that merry morning. Soon he was in the fields, where the

hedges were splashed with the silver of blackthorn in profuse bloom.

He crossed a winding path, begun and ended with a notched and scrabbled

kissing-gate, and, passing through a small plantation where the

daffodils grew tall, went up a rounded hillside along whose clear-cut

horizon great fleecy clouds moved solemnly. He stopped for a moment to

glance back at Curtain Wells with the March sun spangling the rain-wet

roofs before he dipped with a sigh into one of those serene valleys that

are only found in England--valleys whose slopes are often darkened by

the long shadows of sheep and cattle, whose hollows are bright with

moist grass and in summer fragrant with spearmint and creamy

meadowsweet.

He took the devious course of a narrow stream and knew the grave

delights of rural meditation; yet somehow the image of Phyllida danced

before him all the time and whenever he paused, the wind far away over

the hillside had a melancholy and foreboding sound.

He met an elderly gentleman--a parson by the colour of his cloth--who

was poking some decayed herbage with a long cane. The elderly gentleman

looked up as Charles went by, gave him a 'very good morning,' and said

he believed he had seen an adder enter the herbage.

"Indeed," said Charles, who thought the information given demanded an

attitude of respectful surprize.

"But nothing amazes me after that wonderful February. When I tell you

that half an hour ago I saw an Orange Tip butterfly, you will understand

that nothing amazes me."

Charles left the Elderly Gentleman still investigating the decayed

herbage reputed to contain an adder, and found himself envying a mind

that could invest a day with such easy fame. He had seen an Orange Tip

butterfly. Had he met grey-eyed Athene, or beheld the roses and doves of

Cytherea, the day would scarcely have held a more splendid memory.

He envied the Elderly Gentleman. To be sure, with a Stoick complacency,

he had announced that nothing strange in the natural order could startle

him after that wonderful February, but his tone of triumphant excitement

foretold an entry in his diary that very night, perhaps was the prelude

to a paragraph in the _Gentleman's Magazine_.

He began to imagine the Elderly Gentleman sipping his Port before the

Rectory fire, on his knees an open Concordance whose pages were

illuminated by dancing butterflies, precocious heralds of the scented

spring. He heard the dignified butler told of his reverend master's

lucky discovery, heard him asked to hand down the calf-bound diary of

such and such a faded year, heard the Elderly Gentleman's chuckle when

he found, as he suspected, that the date in his own experience was

unprecedented and finally heard him order a bottle of the Port in bin

twelve, the first-fruits of the Assiento Agreement.

Charles fell to comparing himself to the Elderly Gentleman, greatly to

his own disadvantage.

Certainly the image of Phyllida danced before him in the water meadows,

eluded him at every turn and twist of the little stream, and beckoned

him along this secluded valley; but his own heart did not beat with the

proper amount of answering fervour.

Six weeks ago when he saw her first, all swansdown and blushes, he had

been duly elated. She had occupied much of his meditations ever since,

but he had no sensation of triumph, no delight in the great fact of her

existence. Perhaps that was because she belonged to the world. The

butterfly had belonged, as a phenomenon, to the Elderly Gentleman alone.

To the rest of mankind it was a legend. The discovery would be recorded

in print, but the discovery itself would flutter in secret pale wings

powdered with vivid gold, and this March morning would remain a

permanent fact in that Elderly Gentleman's heart. He would suffer no

disillusion. If others saw that butterfly, why, then, he would enjoy the

discussion of it, whether in the _Gentleman's Magazine_ beneath a

learned pseudonym or over two or three glasses of Port, with details

long drawn out to protract the delicious memory.

The ink is faded on the pages of those calf-bound diaries, the Latin

epitaph on the Elderly Gentleman's tombstone is now nearly illegible,

but since he went down to Elysium alert and heedful of the changing

seasons, I believe that his spirit still listens on summer eves to the

blackbirds in his beloved orchard and observes with interest and

curiosity each separate harebell that blossoms above his mortal remains.

Charles went on his way with much the same thoughts about the Elderly

Gentleman as I have set down for my own, and continued to envy his gift

of youth.

Presently he met Margery of Baverstock Farm.

Let me remind you, she was the wench to whom Mr. Anthony Clare had paid

light court back in the winter. Charles reproved him for his behaviour

and apparently his friend had given up his addresses, for the milkmaid

looked happy and blooming and seemed not at all displeased to giggle

over a hazel wand at Mr. Charles Lovely.

"Good morning, Margery."

"Oh, good morning, zur," said Margery.

"No longer with Farmer Hogbin?"

"I be with Farmer Hogbin's brother Jahn to High Corner Farm."

"And happy?"

"Oh, 'ess, proud and happy."

"Seen Mr. Clare lately?"

Margery blushed expansively.

"Oh! naw! I an't seen him since Baverstock Barn. I be courting."

"Eh, indeed," said Charles, "and who is the shepherd?"

"Wully Pearce."

"And you'll be married soon?"

"Come barley harvest--'ess."

"I will dance at your wedding, Margery."

"We shaant have daancing, because Wully says it leads to what oughtn't

to happen."

Charles made a wry face.

"Going to wed a Puritan, eh?"

"Nay," said the buxom maid. "He's carter to Farmer Jahn Hogbin."

"Then, surely, he will let you have a merry junketing at the bride-ale."

"Naw, indeed an' he wawnt, because his sister Molly when they were

thrawing the stocking last year fell on her back, and Wully's fam'ly is

a proud and proper fam'ly and Wully says we mun be married wi' no such

nonsense."

This long proclamation of propriety made Margery quite breathless, so

Charles, with a bow and the present of a crown, passed on his way.

Margery's case gave him more food for meditation. There was a buxom hale

wench with the bloom of a peach, throwing away her ample charms upon a

puritanical clod whose only ambition seemed to be the preservation of a

mealy-mouthed decorum. Pshaw! such prime beauty deserved a better fate.

Such a wedding as hers should have made old wives' fireside gossip for a

score of years and the tale of it quickened the hearts of every lover

and his lass that listened beneath the golden summer moon. Had he the

control of the ceremony, by Heaven! they should have danced the dawn in,

and every man and every maid should have gone to sleep with a face as

pale as the morning sky. It was ridiculous that young Cupid should be

breeched for the bidding of a lubberly half-baked ploughboy.

And yet, to be honest with himself, was not he behaving in much the same

way as the despised Wully Pearce? Was not his chief objection to Vernon

based on the latter's reputation as a man of intrigue? It was Phyllida's

attraction to Vernon that made him indignant. Had she chosen to bestow

herself on a middle-aged squire with acres and a gaunt square hall and a

pack of hounds, would he have been at all seriously disconcerted by the

prospect? And Vernon could have no honest love for her, because if a man

means to wed a young woman, he does not stigmatize her behaviour in

scurrilous verses, even to secure an advantage over a supposed rival. Or

does he--when he is not quite a gentleman?

Then occurred to him the story he had heard many years ago of a thin

unhappy-looking woman who had spoken kindly to him at some crowded Al

Fresco entertainment where he and his father and mother had gone one

fine July afternoon. He had asked about her as they drove home to the

lodgings, and he remembered his mother's warning finger, while his

father laughed over Lord B---- and Mrs. D----.

At the end of the tale his mother, a gentle Christian soul, had said it

served the baggage right, and bade him never talk to people to whom he

had not been presented by his parents. No doubt the circumstances of the

two cases were totally different, but he connected them vaguely in his

mind.

Moreover, without any doubt, Phyllida had caught his fancy. She

disturbed his view. Yet there was nothing that singled her out from a

dozen handsome young women with whom he had danced, whose existence save

as a bevy he no longer recognized. Still, whatever he thought about the

affair, his opinion would never again be invited and, disinherited by

Beau Ripple, he must consider his own position with an eye to the

future.

He was bracing himself preparatory to this great mental effort, when he

perceived round the next bend of the stream Mr. Anthony Clare, pensively

leaning against the rugged stem of a pollard willow-tree.

"Tony," said Charles, "Ripple has dismissed me."

"I know," said his friend, "your writ of banishment, signed, sealed and

delivered, is pasted on the window of every coffee-house and occupies a

large and distinguished space in the vestibule of the Assembly Rooms.

What do you propose to do?"

"I might hire myself out to the amiable Hogbin as carter."

"Pshaw," said Tony, "be serious."

"Or I might take to the road."

"Nonsense, man."

"Nay! I vow such a career has many advantages for a poor man, since he

may live and, what is more, die at the public charge."

"You are not in earnest, Charles?" said Mr. Clare, laying an anxious

hand upon his friend's wrist.

"And why not, i' faith?"

"What would you gain by such an impulse of folly?"

"My livelihood and, as I said, very possibly my funeral expenses."

"Such flippancy is ill-timed," said Mr. Clare, who was a serious young

man and spent much of his leisure with the theory of estate-management.

"Nay! I am not treating the matter as a jest, but truly considering the

benefit of adopting such a novel method of existence in these hard

times."

"Novel!" said Clare, with a scoffing laugh. "Novel! why, every

ne'er-do-weel blackguard for the past hundred years has tried this novel

method of existence and every one of them has come at last to the same

windy death."

"Oh, as to the last scene," interrupted Charles, "indeed I vow 'tis the

best in the play, for it never fails to please the populace, and sure in

this dull world a man should try to give a little amusement; I hold that

the author of a diverting comedy and the thief who makes a brave exit

are the truest benefactors of humanity."

"All this is very pretty fooling, but leads nowhere," said Clare, who

had a proposal to make and was vexed by Charles' levity.

"But ponder, Tony, the Gothick atmosphere of such an escapade. Imagine

the moated grange, the haunted lane, the shadowy coppice, the

phantastick oaths and gestures, the pursuit by moonlight, the clatter of

hoofs, the jingle of spurs--all this appeals to an aspect of my

character too long subdued by the bonds of convention and the trammels

of polite society."

"But, you fool, you would be taken at once. You have no cant of the road

and, as a Dilettante, would certainly be regarded with odious suspicion

by every regular highway-man between Berwick and Dover. Oddslife, I'll

not argue with you further, for I do not believe you mean a word of what

you say, and, harkee, I have a plan that will suit either of us better

than your cut-throat Braggadocio."

As a matter of fact, Charles had once or twice thought quite seriously

of taking to the road. After all, it was in accordance with every

precedent of outlawry. As soon as a man was banished from Society, he

should compensate himself for the discomfort he incurred. Tony, however,

now came forward with a project which, while it preserved much of the

charm of highway robbery, held none of its dangers or difficulties. He

suggested that since neither he nor Charles had very many ties to attach

them fast to Curtain Wells, they should spend a year in making the Grand

Tour of the British Islands.

Charles objected on the score of money.

"I have three hundred guineas," said Clare. "That will equip us with all

that we require as travellers, and I am sure the world will entertain us

for our pleasant appearance and company."

"In fact we are to become beggars--in velvet gowns," Charles commented.

"Adventurers, knights at arms, what you will," added Clare.

Charles was enraptured with the idea, so deeply enraptured that he saw

no absurdity in grave Mr. Anthony Clare setting out upon such a career

of folly. In fact, it seemed the most natural thing in the world for his

friend to spend three hundred guineas on a whim. He himself would have

spent treble that sum (had he possessed it) in order to the exploitation

of such a witty, ingenious and romantick method of wasting time.

"We must equip ourselves for the parts we are about to play. There must

be no shilly-shally, and above all no one must think us anything but

eccentrick men of fashion, itinerant beaux, fops on pilgrimage,

wandering wits."

"The last phrase is unfortunate," said Clare. Charles laughed hugely.

By this time Phyllida had faded like a summer joy, Vernon was forgotten,

nothing mattered except this new and exceedingly entertaining project.

"What is the first thing to be done?" inquired Clare.

"Egad, what should always precede any undertaking of importance--a visit

to the tailor."

The two young men beneath a sky growing rapidly overcast, walked

quickly through the lush meadows towards Curtain Wells, discussing as

they went the merits of rival tailors with infinite vivacity.

Meanwhile in the Crescent, our heroine was engaged upon much the same

problem. Possibly the reason that so many timid young women have been

brave enough to plunge into an elopement, is the obfuscation of the real

issue, the vital stakes, by the need of deciding what they shall leave

behind to console their abandoned virtue.

So it was, at any rate, with Phyllida. She was deterred from soft

regrets by the desperate necessity of making up her mind between the

charms of a muslin frock overlaid with pink rosebuds and a muslin frock

sprigged with the palest blue forget-me-nots.

There were a thousand sentiments that might well have restrained her

from the wild step she was taking, but everything was forgotten for a

trifle; and when finally she slipped out of the door, the only living

creature for whom she indulged herself in the luxury of a protracted

farewell, was Thomasina the tabby cat, and that was considerably

interrupted by the attenuated miaouws of a large family lately arrived.

Even Ponto the spaniel had sidled off to a favourite heap of rubbish.

Pray do not suppose I am sneering at Phyllida. Heaven forbid that you or

I should sneer at a young woman, however impetuous, however foolish.

Still, I cannot help observing that the heroism of most heroick actions

is to be sought for in the obscure preliminaries to a grand event.

Phyllida had known the agony of making up her mind through many a

firelit, sleepless night. When the moment arrived for carrying out her

resolve, she spent most of the forenoon reading the advertizement of a

fashionable mantua-maker. As to her devices for getting rid of her

mother and Betty and the landlady and Thomas and Miss Sukey Morton, who

called to inquire whether Mrs. Featherbrain's new novel was called _The

Affectionate Aunt_ or _The Disconsolate Uncle_,--why, they were as old

as the first writer of tales and I will not weary you with their

repetition. And why should I delay you with the narrative of the

attempt to open her mother's jewel-case with a bodkin and a silver

paper-knife? Like most toilet receptacles, it was very easily broken.

She hurried down the Crescent with a small parcel of cloaths wrapped up

in brown paper and tied with a green ribbon. If you are anxious to know

what was inside, I will refer you to Miss Howe, Mr. Richardson's Miss

Howe, to whom Miss Clarissa Harlowe confided a parcel of much the same

dimensions and contents.

She did not forget her swansdown muff nor her swansdown tippet, and

altogether she looked just the same as she looked a good many pages ago

and was flushed to just the same frail hue of carmine.

Ding-dong went St. Simon's husky clock, ding-dong, ding-dong.

Pitter-pat went Phyllida's heart and pitter-pitter-pitter-pitter-pat

went Phyllida's heart when, exactly opposite the toy-shop, she saw a

post chariot and four bay horses and two postillions staring very

intently at the sky.

It struck Phyllida how clever it was of her dear Amor to chuse such a

time and such a place; for all the world was engaged in directing the

start of the Invincible Stage Coach that ploughed once a week between

Curtain Wells and London.

Tootle-a-tootle-a-tootle went the long brass horn of the guard and

plump-plump went two large parcels into his basket and crack-crack went

the coachman's long whip, and 'Now then Miss, jump in,' said one of the

post-boys, still staring intently at the March sky, and before Phyllida

knew where she was, she found herself sitting on a rather damp cushion

with a peacock-blue riding hood lined with swansdown on the seat beside

her, but no sign of Mr. Francis Amor.

In dismay she put her head out of the window and cried to the nearest

postillion.

"Mr. Harmor's followin' on 'orseback," he said, with a thumping thwack

on the ribs of his mount and a vicious prod with his rusty spurs.

Phyllida drew back with tears of disappointment starting to her wide

blue eyes; but before she could make up her mind to stop the chariot and

never elope again, she caught the glance of Thomas in open-mouthed

amazement. Instinctively, she pulled the musty curtains close, and,

lifting the leather flap at her back, could not help laughing aloud to

see dignified Thomas mopping his brow with his right hand and waving his

tall cane with the left; and just as the chariot tore round the corner

of the street, she saw that Thomas had knocked off Lord Cinderton's grey

beaver hat. The Love Chase had begun.

_Chapter the Twenty-eighth_

THE LOVE CHASE

John Gilpin never rode so fast through Edmonton as, on that memorable

afternoon in March, Major Constantine Tarry pounded over the cobbles of

Curtain High Street. His scarlet uniform was very bright against the

huge iron-grey steed on whose broad back he nodded with hat pressed down

as far as his fierce prickly eyebrows, with pigtail bobbing to the

motion and with sword whose martial clangour recalled every famous

battle in the history of the world. He was conversing with the widow

when Thomas burst upon them with the news of Phyllida's elopement.

"Gone, gone!" wailed the footman. "Oh Tyre! Oh Sidon! Hittites on

horseback and two Amorites in a chariot!"

"What the d----l do you mean, sir?" snapped the Major, "who is gone?"

"Miss Phyllida," groaned Thomas.

"Gone," breathed the widow, and the odour of diffused Sanspareil

permeated the room.

"Gone where?" shouted the Major.

"To the desert beyond Jordan," answered the footman.

"With what viper in sheep's clothing?" gasped Mrs. Courteen.

"Which way, which way, sirrah?" interrupted practical Major Tarry.

"Lunnon," ejaculated Thomas, fainting into the arms of a chair.

This was why the inhabitants of the Wells saw a veteran of the Low

Countries shaken up like a cherry in a basket. The sedate glories of the

town were never more nicely displayed than on this famous occasion.

From each bow-windowed shop came forth a bland shopkeeper and half a

dozen inquisitive customers.

The little Miss Pettitoes trilled in bird-like accents: 'What an

adventure!' and returned to a counter spangled with their gay little

purchases, for the Miss Pettitoes were twin sisters and to-morrow was

their birthday.

"What an adventure!" they trilled to each other over a dish of Hyson and

'What an adventure!' they trilled as they kissed each other 'good-night'

and went each to their bed chambers, identical save for the ribbons of

their fascinating little spinster night-caps.

"Hurrah! hurrah!" shouted the boys, as they pushed the maids into the

puddles the better to follow so surprizing a cavalier.

"Rot me!" said Mr. Golightly of the Grey Dragoons, as he lifted his

tortoise-shell rimmed monocle to his supercilious left eye, and 'Rot

you!' he ejaculated, as an enthusiastick trio of youth sheltered between

his remarkably tight-breeched legs.

"Shall we make such an impressive entrance, d'ye think?" asked Mr.

Lovely, as he and Mr. Clare came out of Mr. Canticle's shop, followed by

Mr. Canticle himself and Mr. Canticle's apprentice loaded with a huge

brown-paper parcel.

"Good day, Canticle," said Charles.

"Good day, Mr. Lovely, good day, sir, and depend on't, grey will be the

modish colour for gentlemen of quality; and I beg you not to be uneasy

about the light-blue lining. That, sir, I venture to predict, will

supply the exact touch of genteel eccentricity that consorts so amiably

with the friendly madness of the season. I envy you, gentlemen, I envy

you; and I beg to wish you many a pleasant adventure. The cut of that

riding-coat, Mr. Lovely, will enthral the most fastidious glance, and as

for your breeches, Mr. Clare, I should perhaps be considered boastful if

I said that they impart a tone, sir, a very distinguished tone to the

landskip. Good day, gentlemen."

The two young gentlemen laughed over Mr. Canticle's prophecies, and

excused his loquacity because he had been a limner till the vogue for

foreign painters compelled him to apply his art in another direction.

It was certainly a stroke of irony that the offer of a sartorial uncle

should make him, a very tolerable exponent of nudity, take up the

occupation of devizing cloaths.

By this time, Major Tarry's coat-tails were flapping to hedge-row winds,

and his astonishing course was less universally regarded; although, even

in open country, the clamorous transit caused much confusion to

itinerant carters, while a pair of blackbirds forsook their hardly built

nest and retired in voluble dismay to the densest coppice between

Baverstock Regis and Curtain Wells.

Mr. Jeremy Daish met our hero with a very lugubrious expression, as he

strolled into the coffee-room.

"What has your honour been doing to enrage Mr. Ripple? Oh, Mr. Lovely,

read this."

Charles took the proffered note, and half-smiling, half-sighing, perused

his decree of banishment.

THE GREAT HOUSE.

CURTAIN WELLS, PRIDIE KAL. AP.

MR. DAISH,--_The uncomfortable events of Wednesday evening compel

me to announce that I cannot contemplate with equanimity the

protracted Sojourn of Mr. Lovely at your hitherto peaceful House. I

have no desire to inflict upon you the invidious course of summary

Ejection, but at the same time I am bound to invite a trifle less

cordiality in your Reception of all young gentlemen unperturbed by

the Gout. The town of Curtain Wells exists for the supply of

hygiastick Waters; and, since red wine is a notorious antidote to

chalybeate, my civick brother the Mayor begs me to point out that

we cannot lend our patronage to a house which studiously encourages

the circulation of this antipathetick Beverage. In expectation, Mr.

Daish, that you will presently reconstruct at once your list of

wines and your list of visitors,_

_I am, Mr. Daish, your obliged_

HORACE RIPPLE.

"Console yourself, Daish," said our hero, as he handed back the Beau's

exquisitely written epistle, "Mr. Clare and I propose to make a long

excursion into the country this very afternoon. Have the goodness to

order our horses to be in the yard at six o'clock."

"Certainly, your honour, but I hope that nothing I may have said or done

or hinted--or--or--or--" poor Mr. Daish stumbled over the awkwardness of

the interview, and was more like a Cremona violin than ever, a violin

whose strings were snapping one by one.

"Console yourself, Daish," said our hero with an incredibly magnanimous

air, "you are not to blame. You must know, Daish, that for a long time

past I have had a curiosity to survey this small green earth, unhampered

by anything more serious than the impulse of the moment. To-night,

Daish, when you retire to rest, when you gather the curtains of your

serene bed, when you hark to the clock in the passage striking the

moderate and orderly hour of ten o'clock, when you reflect with a sigh

of proprietary contentment that you have offended no one in the course

of an innkeeper's promiscuous day, when, in a word, your respectable

head sinks into your respectable pillow, dally for a moment in the

imagination of Charles Lovely and Anthony Clare mocking society,

laughing at convention, seated in the parlour of some remote inn and

dozing gratefully before a pile of logs.

"Think of us, Daish, in the cool dusks and azure silences of April, at

the top of some gentle hill whence we can regard with exhilaration the

prospect of a good dinner, a crimson glass, and genial intercourse with

travellers. Behold us in your mind's eye, walking our horses down

through the twilight, as one by one in cottage lattices the candles

twinkle and, high above, the stars betray the night with silver spears.

For my part, already I can hear the evening gossip of housewives, and

the babble of children in small gardens, and clear against the green

West, I can see the many lovers of a little town moving with slow steps

along their customary path.

"Thus, my excellent Daish, each solemn nightfall will discover for us a

new world, and, when the sun rises on the merry unknown streets of our

pilgrimage, we shall think to ourselves what a vast number of jolly

people exist in this remarkably jolly world. Oddslife--"Mr. Lovely broke

off--"what a surprizing alliance."

As he looked out of the window, we had better look out of the window

too, and I think you will be quite disposed to agree with Charles when I

show you that vivid yellow chaise drawn by two fiery chestnut horses,

and driven by that extraordinarily diminutive coachman, for inside are

seated Beau Ripple and the Widow Courteen, and neither you nor I nor

anybody else ever saw both so nearly disconcerted.

"Now what the deuce can be the meaning of that?" continued Mr. Lovely.

"Of what you were saying?" inquired Mr. Daish in a deprecating voice.

"The horses! the horses!" was all that Mr. Lovely saw fit to reply.

Major Tarry's earlier progress might well have been the meteor which

heralds a cataclysm, for cataclysm this later apparition certainly was.

I vow the noise of conversation it caused far exceeded anything of the

sort that was ever known.

The Beau found the publicity of such an exit unendurable to his polite

soul. That his sacred chaise, which had once bowled along at a high but

decorous speed in order to meet the H--r A---- t of Great Britain,

should achieve such a vulgar notoriety nearly upset the sit of his

waistcoat.

His contemporaries felt the Great little Man's humiliation.

Yet compassion did not prevent them from forming numberless conjectures

as to the cause of this strange affair. Some said 'Debt!'; others boldly

affirmed an intrigue; but as usual nobody guessed the true reason, which

was that beneath a gorgeous exterior lurked the gentlest, kindliest

heart.

When the Widow, with a very noisy tale of seduction, poured forth her

tears upon his cushions, Mr. Ripple instantly reproached himself and

nobody else with the disaster, immediately decided he must atone for his

negligence by immediately ringing his flowered bell-pull and commanding

Magog, who immediately appeared, to run immediately to the stables and

command the immediate harnessing of the royal horses to the royal chaise

and the immediate buttoning of his diminutive coachman's slender

gaiters.

It was with a shudder, if a much polished shudder, that he handed Mrs.

Courteen to a place amid the fawn and ivory of the interior of his

chaise. With a barely repressed shudder, too, he observed the dabbled

rouge of her cheeks, and the open mouths of the cits, and the bobbing of

heads at windows, and a horrid bank of black clouds in the extreme

South-west that seemed to betoken a night full of rain, and last but

perhaps worst of all, the lean sign-post 'To London,' a prologue to

G---- knows what unendurable discomfort.

"We have an adventure to hand," said Charles to Clare, as they strolled

across the yard of the _Blue Boar_. "We'll follow Ripple!"

"Ripple?"

"Ay! Which way did Mr. Ripple's chaise go?" demanded Charles of a knot

of idlers.

"Lunnon Road," they replied unanimously.

"We must get ready at once," declared Charles.

* * * * *

"How pleasant 'twould be," thought Phyllida, "if I were not alone."

Even alone, it was very pleasant to bowl along a level road at an

equable rate of speed. It was very pleasant to try on the peacock-blue

riding hood that so became her. It was very pleasant to see the cheerful

faces of the many wayfarers encountered by the chariot. The backs of the

postillions glowed with scarlet, and a gay contrast they made to the

flaming gorse of a wild open stretch of country. Every cottage that

nestled back from the road with clipped yews to guard the gate seemed to

Phyllida a desirable place to live and love in for ever. It was

pleasant to watch the lambs in the meadows, and exciting indeed to count

the still sparse primroses starring the hedgerows. It was pleasant to

watch the children stand on the topmost rung of a five-barred gate and

cheer as they rattled past. Very pleasant it was, though the sight

brought a slight lump in her throat, as she thought how often she had

done the same thing with Dick Combleton the Squire's youngest son.

Up-hill with many a groan and grunt, and down-hill with a clatter and a

dash, and along the level with a ring and a jingle went the post-chariot

in the afternoon sunlight. Past farm-house and farm-yard, past villages

and churches, and inns with waving signs, past ponds and geese, past

many a tired woman trudging home from market and many a jovial carter;

past sign-posts and cross-roads and milestones; past smithies with

roaring fires and monstrous bellows, past lowing cows and crowing cocks,

past journeymen tinkers and journeymen barbers, past a great dancing

bear which, had Phyllida but known it, danced not a whit more foolishly

for bumpkins than rose-pink Phyllida herself for the malicious eyes of

the world of fashion.

After a long climb up a heavy hill, whence a very fair champagne spread

before her, the great black and purple cloud caught the westering sun,

and suffused the whole landskip with a queer metallick sheen. It made

the rooks that swayed in the bare branches of a windy clump of elms take

on a strange green lustre over their plumage, and cast a stillness over

the world. That view remained with Phyllida all her life, as a pause

wherein she had contemplated existence for the briefest moment. Years

afterwards, an old woman, sitting in a dim ingle-nook, would see that

fair champagne in the clouds of smoke that curled ceaselessly up the

wide chimney, and, above the scent of burning logs, would be wafted the

perfume of the white March violets that blossomed at the foot of those

swaying elms where the rooks cawed and the dead leaves raced round and

round.

"Stop, you blackguards," cried a rasping voice above the noise of fast

approaching hoofs.

"Crack! crack!" went Dickie Maggs' big pistol.

"'Ighwayman, Miss," he added cheerfully, as the sound of something soft

falling was heard, followed by horse-hoofs in mad retreat down the long

heavy hill.

In a moment, the chariot was rocking in a wild gallop down the opposite

decline.

Raindrops began to fall, deliberately at first, but soon fast enough,

while the earth was slowly blotted out by storm and rain and twilight.

On the summit of the hill, Major Constantine Tarry lay face downwards,

having paid the extreme penalty of interference with other people's

business. Poor Tarry, he was a bore and a braggart, and had not the

slightest intention of being killed, yet I for one regret the manner of

his death, up there on the top of that wind-swept hill. And for all he

told you such very long stories when he asked you to dine with him at

Oudenarde Grange and Malplaquet Lodge and Ramilies House, he gave you

some capital Port, and Sherry nearly as dry as his own anecdotes.

Moreover, he really fought in that bloody fight of Fontenoy, and that

was a very great honour and should make us forgive a very great deal.

A flash of lightning illuminated the dead body of the veteran lying face

downwards in the mud of an English high-road, and a distant volley of

thunder accorded military honours to his somewhat grotesque death.

_Chapter the Twenty-ninth_

THE BASKET OF ROSES

Some four-and-twenty miles from Curtain Wells on the Great West Road is

a tangle of briers among whose blossoms an old damask rose is sometimes

visible. If the curious traveller should pause and examine this fragrant

wilderness, he will plainly perceive the remains of an ancient garden,

and if he be of an imaginative character of mind will readily recall the

legend of the Sleeping Beauty in her mouldering palace; for some

enchantment still enthralls the spot, so that he who bravely dares the

thorns is well rewarded with pensive dreams and, as he lingers a while

gathering the flowers or watching their petals flutter to the green

shadows beneath, will haply see elusive Beauty hurry past.

Here at the date of this tale stood the _Basket of Roses_ Inn, a mile or

so away from a small village. When coaches ceased to run, the house

began to lose its custom and, as stone is scarce hereabouts, was

presently pulled down in order to provide the Parson with a peculiarly

bleak Parochial Hall.

However, this melancholy fate was still distant, and old Simon Tabrum

had a fine custom from the coaches and private travellers who delighted

to spend a night in so sweet a lodging.

The _Basket of Roses_ was the fairest, dearest inn down all that billowy

London road. The counter, sheathed in a case of pewter, the glasses all

in a row, the sleek barrels and the irregular lines of home-brewed

cordials, charmed the casual visitor to a more intimate acquaintance.

Behind the tap was the Travellers' Room, and what a room it was--with

great open fireplaces and spits and bubbling kettles and blackened

ingles. Long-buried ancestors of the village had carved their rude

initials over each high-backed bench and battered the bottoms of the

great tankards into unexpected dents by many rollicking choruses in the

merry dead past. The walls of this room knew the pedigree of every

bullock and the legend of every ghost for many miles round. Here was the

cleanest floor, the clearest fire in England.

Old Tabrum the landlord was the very man for the house--the very man to

bring out all that was most worthy in his guests. He always produced

good wine and a piping hot supper, never asked for his money till his

guests were satisfied and always wore an apron as white as the foam of

his cool deep ale.

He was eighty years old now, with a bloom on his cheeks like an autumn

pippin and two limpid blue eyes that looked straight into yours and, if

you had any reverence at all, made the tears well involuntarily at the

sight of such gentle beauty.

Once he was a famous Basso Profundo, but now his voice was high and

thin, and seemed already fraught with faint aerial music. The ancient

man was a great gardener as properly became a landlord whose sign was a

swinging posy. What a garden there was at the back of this glorious inn.

The bowling-green surrounded by four grey walls was the finest ever

known, and as for the borders, deep borders twelve feet wide, they were

full of every sweet flower. There were Columbines and Canterbury Bells

and blue Bells of Coventry and Lilies and Candy Goldilocks with Penny

flowers or White Sattin and Fair Maids of France and Fair Maids of Kent

and London Pride.

There was Herb of Grace and Rosemary and Lavender to pluck and crush

between your fingers, while some one rolled the jack across the level

green of the ground. In Spring there were Tulips and Jacynths, Dames'

Violets and Primroses, Cowslips of Jerusalem, Daffodils and Pansies,

Lupins like spires in the dusk, and Ladies' Smocks in the shadowed

corners. As for Summer, why the very heart of high June and hot July

dwelt in that fragrant enclosure. Sweet Johns and Sweet Williams with

Dragon flowers and crimson Peaseblossom and tumbling Peonies, Blue

Moonwort and the Melancholy Gentlemen, Larksheels, Marigolds, Hearts,

Hollyhocks and Candy Tufts. There was Venus' Looking Glass and Flower of

Bristol and Apple of Love and Blue Helmets and Herb Paris and Campion

and Love in a Mist and Ladies' Laces and Sweet Sultans or Turkey

Cornflowers, Gillyflower Carnations (Ruffling Rob of Westminster amongst

them) with Dittany and Sops in Wine and Floramor, Widow Wail and

Bergamot, True Thyme and Gilded Thyme, Good Night at Noon and Flower de

Luce, Golden Mouse-ear, Princes' Feathers, Pinks, and deep-red Damask

Roses.

It was a very wonderful garden indeed.

And because the old man loved flowers, tending them in the early

twilight with water and releasing them from many a small weed which he

was fain to destroy, but in the end always replanted in a small clearing

on the shady side of his farthest meadow, because he loved flowers, the

old man, whose first wife died years and years ago on a long past

primrose-tide, married in the hale winter of his life a comfortable

wench whom he could trust as he trusted his flowers to be true to their

seasons. This second wife, more like a daughter than a wife, he

delighted to surprize with fragrant rolls of gaily sprigged cloths; and

never a summer morning broke but he was abroad in the dewy grass to

gather her such a posy of freshness and beauty as can only be taken in

the earliest hours of the morning. Mrs. Tabrum, for all she was so young

and rosy, had a great feeling for the importance of her position as

mistress of a famous hostelry and ordered about little Polly Patch,

newly arrived from Mrs. Margery Severe's select charity school, with a

great air of ladyship. Little Polly Patch was a very important young

woman too; for the _Basket of Roses_ was not a large galleried inn full

of grooms and hostlers and waiters and chambermaids, but a house of

quite another character, where you were never bewildered by superfluous

service but always received with a quiet dignity. Therefore you paid a

great deal of respectful attention to little Polly Patch who had a great

deal to do with your night's rest and your morning's breakfast. I think

Mr. Vernon was a very wise man to choose a domestick fairyland so apt to

soothe the sweet alarms of his Phyllida.

Here they would sup while the horses were being changed, and hence they

would set out in the darkness, preserving, as they galloped along, a

sense of peace and quiet beauty that should be to her the fortunate

prelude of a happy adventure.

Vernon had sent word to the house of their arrival, hinted at the

fatigues of a gay bridal, and let it be supposed they desired no

intrusion.

To the ancient man such a confidence was enough to set his old brain

agog with the gallant scenes of his youth. He chuckled over every

tankard of ale he drew, told every one of his daffodils the merry secret

and piped away at long forgotten melodies until his wife in despair sat

him down in the ingle, put a broken fiddle in his hand and bade him play

his fancies to sleep. The storm that rose at sunset shrieked about the

inn, and the hollow groaning in the mazes of the huge chimney consorted

in fitting harmonies with the old man's eerie tunes.

"March is going out wi' thunder and tempest like a roaring lion," he

muttered, as a sudden gust of hail was blown against the lattice which

pattered and rattled as if a crowd of elfin drummers were beating a wild

tattoo without.

"Aye, 'tis a main ugly night," said Mrs. Dorothy Tabrum, who was laying

the shining silver about the snowy tablecloth.

"So 'tis, my peony, so 'tis! A main ugly night for daffodils and young

brides. Is her chamber ready?" he went on.

"Aye! Aye!"

"Wi' rosy curtains drawn close?"

Mrs. Tabrum nodded.

"Wi' candlelight and the cracking of logs and green bayleaves in the

presses?"

"Why, do'ee think I'm gone daft to forget suchlike?"

"And a vase of daffodils by her mirrour?" the ancient one persisted.

Polly Patch came in at that moment.

"All be ready, mistress," she said in a slow voice, solemnly nodding her

enormous mobcap while she spoke.

"Now Polly," said Mrs. Tabrum, "lend a hand wi' this table and lets put

'un a thought nearer to the fire. Ugh! how it blows!" A vivid flash of

lightning illuminated the room, and on the heels of a terrifick roar of

thunder there was a cry of 'House! House!'

"Hurry, hurry, my daisies, and make who comes there welcome. Jacob!

Jacob!" cried the old landlord as, much excited, he rose from his seat

in the ingle and quavered towards the taproom.

"You are sure the candles are lighted, Polly?"

"Sarten, mistress."

"And the logs burning brightly?"

"'Ess mistress."

"And the curtains pinned together?"

"'Ess mistress."

"Then stand by the door, curtsey when you're spoken to, and don't put

your thumb in the soup."

"No, mistress."

"Is Mary Maria watching the fowls?"

"Wi' both her eyes, mistress."

"Hark!"

"I'm harking away, mistress."

And while the mistress and the maid harked vigilantly the ancient

landlord ushered Miss Phyllida Courteen into the Travellers' Room of the

_Basket of Roses_ Inn.

As he entered, old Tabrum looked very much like a sexton leading a shy

maid to the altar. She, flustered, expectant, murmured soft thanks into

the farthest recesses of her swansdown muff, stumbled frequently to the

voluble distress of her guide, and seemed afraid to look round the

well-ordered comfortable room after so many miles of wind and driving

rain.

"Dear soul! And where's the bridegroom?" exclaimed Mrs. Tabrum, as she

led Phyllida to a high-backed chair right before the heart of the

blazing fire.

Phyllida blushed as she explained Mr. Amor was travelling on horseback.

"Indeed, I expected to find him here," she stammered, "Oh! I hope

nothing has happened to him."

"Now, don't 'ee fret thyself, sweet marjoram," said the ancient one,

humming round her like a bee. "A'most anything might have happened to

him on such a dreadful night."

"Don't 'ee hark to the ancient dodderer," interrupted the dodderer's

wife.

"Killed by a falling tree, withered to a cinder by bloody lightning."

"You alarm me," exclaimed Phyllida, jumping up.

"Hold thy ancient foolish tongue," commanded Mrs. Tabrum peremptorily,

"and go see that Mary Maria keeps the fowls turning a while yet."

"Very well, my gillyflower, very well," piped senility, "but don't 'ee

take on, my little blue love-in-a-mist, happen 'tis no more than a

broken leg has overtook your husband."

"Polly," said Mrs. Tabrum, who saw that Phyllida was on the verge of

tears, "take thy ancient master away. Hark," she finished, with an

impressive forefinger.

"What are us to hark to, pretty pink?"

"Ef I doant hear a great tom-cat a-scratching in the tulips, my name

be'ant Dorothy Ann Tabrum."

As at this moment the tempest outside was howling with unsurpassed fury,

it is extremely doubtful whether the buxom lady spoke the truth, but her

husband was alert at once and hastily snatching down a blunderbuss

labelled 'Loaded on Tuesday sennight' Simon Tabrum moved stealthily from

the room.

"You must pardon my ancient old husband for his flowery manner of

speech. 'Tis not disrespect he do mean, but love and charity wi' his

neighbour, having as it were been sown a power of years ago and being

now apt to let his withered branches fall on the heads of all manner of

folk."

As this long sentence was evidently considered a full and proper

explanation of the dodderer's inconvenient habit of prophecy, Phyllida

smiled very charmingly and said she quite understood.

"And now let us gossip of thy wedding," said Mrs. Tabrum in a cosy tone

of voice, "or would 'ee rather go to thy chamber, pretty miss?"

"Oh! indeed I will stay here, thank you. Mr. Amor might come at any

moment."

"Polly! Polly Patch!"

"'Ess, mistress."

"What for are 'ee standing there, lolloping thy great cap, dollop. Be

off, great clockface, be off, pundle, to Mary Maria, and tell her to

keep the fowls a-turning and a-turning."

Polly Patch curtseyed solemnly and retreated slowly, murmuring to

herself, "and not to put my thumbs in the soup."

"Do you think he will be a very long time?" asked Phyllida, turning

suddenly to the landlady and looking indescribably wistful.

"What I can't make out, my lamb, is how he came to leave 'ee on such a

night. That's what I can't make out at all. Now at my bride-ale, for all

I was wedding a man old enough to be my ancestor, why it was bride-ale,

I do warrant. My aged husband being a publican and a sinner, there was a

mort of merry-making, I tell 'ee, and 'twas only when Tabrum slipped on

the floor and cracked the back of his faded head as we finished, and me

forced to use the holland smock as I won at Ascensiontide smock-racing.

Oh! his head was so raw as an egg, and running faster than ever I run

for the smock."

"How dreadful," murmured Phyllida, not quite sure whether the narrative

should offend her maiden sensibility or not.

"But he was out wi' the hens next morning," the talkative lady

continued, "out wi' the hens and scratching away in the garden as hard

as any of 'em. But, I tell 'ee, I did souse his head wi' vinegar when I

got 'un indoors. The house smelt like a jar of pickle for a week o'

Sundays after. But there! Tabrum he gets ascited. Don't matter whether

'tis his own or another's wedding, he's all the while jumping around

like a Shrovetide pancake. And talk--well, 'tis babble, babble, and all

of men and maids as was under yews twenty green years ago. I tell 'ee,

we all laffed when he began telling 'ow he kissed my grandmother coming

out of Evening Prayer one frosty night. 'The moon was on her back,' he

says, 'ay, and ecod! so was she!' Pretty times, pretty times!"

What farther free confessions would have rippled from Mrs. Tabrum's

cherry-ripe lips, it would ill become a modest writer or reader to

speculate. They were cut short by the lurching entrance of Charlie and

Dicky Maggs, the two postillions.

It would have been hard to find a more ill-favoured pair of ruffians in

a day's posting. Both of them had dismounted very regularly at every

house of call on the road and arrived at the _Basket of Roses_ with a

considerable cargo of bad spirits. The prospect of a long wait, while

the horses were changed and their fares supped, encouraged them to

farther excesses, and a lucky summons to the drawer to reach down a

special cordial gave them an opportunity to finish off the greater part

of a bottle of Plymouth Gin.

Fortified by this, annoyed to find that Vernon had not arrived, and half

afraid they would lose their wages, they had come in to extract from

Miss Courteen as much money as they could, being willing and anxious to

drink away every minute of the wait.

"Ve're vet, Miss," said Charles.

"And it vouldn't be amiss if ve could 'ave a little piece of gold as 'ud

varm us wiv its shining," said Dicky.

"Mr. Amor will settle your charges," said Phyllida.

"And be off, you ruffians," exclaimed Mrs. Tabrum, enraged by this

impudent invasion of the Travellers' Room.

"Shut your mouth, mother Appleface," hiccoughed Charlie.

"And fork out somefink on account, Miss," oozed from his brother.

The latter began to move with uncertain steps after Phyllida, who shrank

towards the shelter of the inglenook.

"Jacob! Jacob! Simon Tabrum! Polly Patch! Mary Maria!" screamed the

landlady, snatching at the only article of offence in reach, which

happened to be a pair of bellows. With these she puffed away furiously,

to the enormous delight of the drunken postillions, who continued to

advance and indeed probably found the air of the bellows very grateful

to their heated brains.

It is unlikely that anything more serious than a volley of oaths would

have occurred, if a tall elderly gentleman in a chestnut-brown frogged

riding-coat had not come in at that moment; but as he did come in, no

doubt the room was the sweeter for the interruption.

"Oh, your honour," said Mrs. Tabrum, "will 'ee please turn out these

drunken rogues, seeing as all the house is away at their business and no

one near by."

The elderly gentleman clenched his riding-stick a trifle more firmly and

directed his steel-grey eyes--equally potent weapons--towards the

abashed brothers. They did not wait to be addressed, but hurried as

quickly as the fumes of liquor allowed them, to the more congenial

atmosphere of the taproom. It is comforting to reflect, while they

twisted their way out, that Charlie and Dicky Maggs were hanged at

Tyburn for a peculiarly atrocious robbery and brutal assault upon a

blind rat-tamer, who, with many clinging rats and mice and a

scarlet-frilled dog, was a familiar figure in the villages round London.

It is not perhaps so comforting to reflect upon the poor old man lying

insensible in a puddle, with his tame rats and mice wandering aimlessly

in and out of his innumerable pockets and his scarlet-frilled dog with

three broken ribs moaning in the middle of a quickset bush. Egad! I vow

the Tyburn horse never responded so readily to Jack Ketch's whip and

never a pair of rogues went so ashen grey at the tide of a mob's

execrations in all the livid chronicles of quick and evil ends.

The elderly gentleman in the chestnut Surtout turned from the exit of

Charlie and Dickie Maggs to survey the subject of their insolence. It

would have puzzled an onlooker to say precisely what effect was produced

on the elderly gentleman's countenance by this deliberate inspection of

Miss Phyllida Courteen, now melting in tears of apprehension and only

barely restrained from hystericks by Mrs. Tabrum's plump hands in

extensive motion.

When the iron-grey clouds of a chill December afternoon dissolve for a

moment in the scud of a high gale and shed a ray of pallid sunlight on a

spent blossom, we are almost glad to see the thin azure thus displayed

as quickly veiled, and welcome the sullen twilight that succeeds. The

elderly gentleman's countenance took on for a brief moment a strange

light, but the frosted smile betrayed so much grim sorrow behind that it

was quite a relief to see his face resume a normal frigidity as he

muttered a regret and inquired into the chances of a good night's

lodging.

_Chapter the Thirtieth_

SIR GEORGE REPINGTON

"It is now eight o'clock," said the elderly gentleman, "if this young

lady has no objection, I will eat a light supper in this apartment; and

if you, ma'am, have no objection, I will retire to my bedchamber

immediately after the meal. I do not require a heavy supper," he added

as Mrs. Tabrum's jolly face began to pucker with the impatience of a

good housewife to enumerate the plentiful dainties of a well-stocked

larder.

The latter perceiving that Phyllida was recovered of her alarm, and

anxious to prove to the elderly gentleman that his appetite was in the

wrong by producing a flock of savoury dishes as speedily as possible,

hereupon curtseyed, and was soon audible in shrill pursuit of little

Polly Patch.

The Travellers' Room of the _Basket of Roses_ was plunged into rosy

quiet. The Dutch clock swung a languid pendulum to and fro with gentle

tick; the fire whispered and crackled faintly; the lattices occasionally

shook before a more unruly blast; a mouse stood up in a dark corner and

squeaked; the huge oak dresser occasionally tapped; two unknown birds,

screened till morning by chintz foliage, sometimes stirred on their

perches; the elderly gentleman sometimes rapped his mother-o'-pearl

snuff-box; Phyllida sometimes smoothed her forget-me-not flowered

skirts; and away in the taproom was a tinkle and murmur of taproom

sounds muffled by several intervening doors. Yet, however fair the

surroundings, it is impossible for two people, unacquainted, to maintain

a graceful silence for long. The elderly gentleman began to tap his

snuff-box more frequently, while Phyllida would smooth her skirts more

persistently and from time to time cast a sidelong glance in the

direction of the elderly gentleman. The latter felt the undercurrent of

strong emotion so keenly that he was worried by this steady inaction

into a curiosity quite alien to his character, and plunged into a

conversation consisting principally of a large number of direct

questions on his side and a small number of indirect replies on the part

of Phyllida. At last, after a tiresome quarter of an hour in which the

only solid piece of information given and offered was the fact that he

was going to, she departing from the salubrious town of Curtain Wells,

the elderly gentleman produced from the upper left-hand pocket of his

waistcoat an oval case of worn Morocco leather. Phyllida observed that

he rapped this in just the same decided way as he rapped his snuff-box

and felt a certain incongruity in his manner, as he took from it the

miniature of a young girl and offered the portrait for her inspection,

asking whether she detected a likeness.

The girl, depicted with the meticulous art of the worker on a small

scale, recalled at once the features of Mr. Charles Lovely. Phyllida

hesitated for a moment before assigning the likeness to such a man.

"You observe, Madam, the resemblance to yourself?" said the elderly

gentleman.

"To myself?" replied Miss Courteen taken aback.

"For what other reason should I show it to you?"

"To say truth, sir, it reminds me more of a gentleman----"

"Eh! what's that," he interrupted. "Not young Charles Lovely?"

"Indeed, sir--'twas he occurred to my mind."

"You know him?"

"I have stepped a minuet with him," replied Phyllida, now more than ever

on her guard against the steel-grey eyes of the elderly gentleman.

"This was my sister, his mother."

If you had asked the stranger what prompted him to confide so suddenly

in Miss Courteen, I doubt he would have been unable to tell you. If his

clerks could have seen Sir George Repington, head of the great banking

house of Repington, at this moment they would have been indescribably

shocked to hear him announce this piece of personal information. The

clerks in busy Throgmorton Street firmly believed that the great Sir

George Repington lived a desolate and severe life surrounded by

calculating machines of enormous complication; they would have gasped to

imagine his bleak financial solitudes disturbed by a young woman in an

inn-parlour. The chief cashier, indeed, might have emitted one of his

dry hacking little laughs; but then the chief cashier had grown old in

the service of the Repingtons and, having known Sir George as a young

man, enjoyed a privileged cynicism. Moreover, the chief cashier when he

was junior clerk had carried half a score sealed notes to Thistlegrove

Cottage--a diminutive paradise five or six miles along the Hounslow

Road. There, amid the chirping of many linnets, young Master Repington

would swear eternal fidelity while the sun-dyed sleepy air coloured his

dear one's lips as deep as rubies and enchanted with gold her soft brown

hair. No doubt the present scene of this small history would have

awakened a delightful memory from the dusty recesses of the chief

cashier's brain, for all that the end of Thistlegrove Cottage was a

businesslike affair on a level with many other successful monetary

transactions of the great house of Repington and Son.

Phyllida was somewhat embarrassed by the sudden announcement of his

relationship to that dreadful Mr. Lovely, who had lampooned the whole of

the fashionable world. She wondered if the elderly gentleman was aware

of his nephew's late indiscretion, whether she ought to break the news

of his odium, and finally with a maid's inconsequence fell to wishing

she had never eloped since the step had involved her in so awkward an

adventure.

Sir George, noticing her embarrassment, introduced himself,

"My name is Repington, ma'am--Sir George Repington." As he said this he

received the miniature from Phyllida, and having, as it were, fondled

the oval for a second, replaced it in the upper left-hand pocket of his

waistcoat.

The introduction put Phyllida deeper than ever into a quandary. She felt

the genteel movement to be a low curtsey coupled with the graceful

revelation of her name, but this was just the act she could not bring

herself to perform. What a vast number of polite difficulties attached

themselves to an elopement, and how she wished with all her heart she

had never been so foolish as to brave them unaccompanied.

"The resemblance is certainly very remarkable," said Sir George

Repington.

Phyllida clutched this conversational straw.

"I doubt, sir, 'twould ill become me to allow the compliment."

The stilted reply did not seem to offend the elderly gentleman, for he

bowed very gallantly and tapped the lid of his snuff-box with an air.

"And my nephew, ma'am, what does Curtain Wells think of my nephew?"

Luckily for Phyllida who was racking her brains to devize a polite

method of informing Sir George Repington that his nephew had offended

the whole world, that is to say the whole world known to the residents

and visitors of Curtain Wells, Mrs. Tabrum came back to say that a pair

of fowls were on their way.

"A morsel of cheese is all that I require, thank'ee," said Sir George to

this information. "A morsel of cheese, well-aired sheets and----"

"A bit off the breast," murmured Mrs. Tabrum coaxingly.

"Well-aired sheets and----"

"A grilled drumstick," insinuated the landlady.

"Well-aired sheets and----"

"The liver wing."

Sir George Repington capitulated and sat down to supper with Phyllida

opposite and a great bowl of daffadillies between them.

Nobody ever found out what exactly was the elderly gentleman's unspoken

requirement.

Sir George was enjoying himself--a very unusual occupation for that grim

and solid man of business.

Phyllida, on the contrary, was becoming more deeply embarrassed every

moment. She could not help picturing to herself the awkwardness of

greeting her dear Amor in the presence of such a man. Moreover, she

could not understand why the latter preserved such a lack of curiosity.

She, a heroine to herself, was unable to appreciate the point of view

that took her and her adventure for granted. She almost resented Sir

George's acceptation of her as part of the furniture of a wayside inn.

As a matter of fact, the banker was abroad to enjoy himself, and the

discovery of a maid sitting solitary in the firelight of an inn parlour

only struck him as whimsical in so far as she resembled his dead sister.

Having, after a lapse of many grey years, put on once more the mantle of

youth, he was very ready to welcome a face that consorted so perfectly

with his mood.

But as supper went on, and the elderly gentleman inquired no farther

into the well-being of Mr. Charles Lovely, while Mr. Amor did not

arrive, and the drunken postillions remained in the tap-room, and the

Dutch clock ticked on quite unperturbed by the raging of the storm

without, Phyllida began to regain her equanimity, and even to converse

so trippingly with the elderly gentleman that elopements and Gretna

Green marriages floated away while she chattered of her dearest Morton,

betrayed the latter's partiality for young Mr. Chalkley, compared her

boldness with the more modest behaviour of a certain Miss Jenny West,

who was the third daughter of a parson who lived four--no five miles

from where they lived in Hampshire, jumped from the tale of Miss West to

the tale of Miss West's brother who scandalized the country by stepping

eight consecutive gavottes with his cousin from Hertfordshire; and

ultimately confided to Sir George her profound contempt for Mr. Moon and

her immense distrust of Major Tarry. Yet, at the very moment when she

was telling Sir George of a ludicrous chase of the Major's wig one windy

March morning in the preceding year the furious gale was blowing his

sodden pigtail to and fro without a curse from the little soldier in

whom stern death had begotten a divine and everlasting indifference to

the minor amenities of polite appearance. Sir George Repington was near

to the capture of his fled youth that fire-lit evening. He was back in

the old South Gallery at Repington Hall sitting in the wide window seat

at the West End, and opposite to him with flushed exquisite face sat his

sister Joan, rippling joyfully through the fair meadows of life like a

glittering brook. The musick of Phyllida's conversation revived for the

elderly gentleman many a crimson dusk. He thought with a sigh of the

South Gallery now, with its hollow echoes, its dust and long line of

contemptuous ancestors, and of himself as, with severe tread, he ran the

batteries of many immutable eyes.

Old Tabrum would quaver in from time to time to survey the comfort of

his guests, regaling them with some particularly choice floral anecdote.

His wife too would peep to inquire whether the roasted fowls fulfilled

her expectations, and once little Polly Patch put her cap round the door

and asked if his honour would like the warming-pan left in his bed or

merely whisked three or four times over his already well-aired sheets.

* * * * *

Phyllida made a careless remark about her mother, and Sir George

Repington hoped that Mrs. Courteen (Phyllida had some time ago divulged

her name) would not be alarmed by the strife of the elements. Phyllida

made a very careless reply to this, by reassuring Sir George about her

mother, who, as she pointed out, would be not at all likely to observe

the wildness of the night in her anxiety to secure her hand against the

prying glances of my lady Bunbutter.

"Is that Sir Moffyn Bunbutter's lady?" said Sir George.

"Yes, indeed, sir."

"Sure to be, sure to be," Sir George commented. "Who'd have thought of

seeing poor old Sir Moffyn's lady here of all places?"

"But she's not here, sir. She is at Curtain Wells."

"But your mother?"

Phyllida saw her mistake, but, being unused to falsehoods, made no

attempt to extricate herself from the situation provoked by her own

carelessness. As a happy compromise, she blushed and made queer little

excavations in the salt-cellar.

"You've no brother and your father is dead?" went on Sir George, fixing

the abashed young woman with his sharp eyes. "Then you are alone in this

inn?"

The statement, put so baldly, sounded very dreadful to Miss Courteen.

Moreover, she had an uneasy idea that the elderly gentleman was

beginning to feel himself compromised by her company, so she made

patterns in the salt-cellar more fantastick than ever, blushed till the

shells of her ears seemed veritably to crack in the furnace of outraged

sensibility, and looked very guilty.

"Alone?" the elderly gentleman repeated.

Phyllida's whispered 'yes' was only just audible above the languid

ticking of the Dutch clock.

The antique landlord broke the tension by putting his head round the

door and demanding from Sir George whether he preferred to sleep in the

Dorick Summerhouse with a view of the surrounding country, or in the

Green Vista with a more comfortable bed, if not so wide a view.

Antiquity was followed by his wife, who hustled him fairly into the

candlelight and explained that all their bedchambers were named to suit

the flowery eccentricity of her husband.

"Thus we have the Parterre," said old Simon in support of his wife's

explanation, "the Pleached Alley (though that is more truly a passage).

The Sun Dial (a warm attick), the Quincunx, the Bosquet, the Arbour, the

Green Gallery, the Cascade (or stairway) and for my dear hollyhock and

myself, the Columbary."

"God bless you, sirrah," said Sir George rather testily, "I'm no Dutch

garden-maker that I should fret about such vagaries of taste. Oons!

plant me where you will, I wager I shall not open till daybreak."

This quip pleased the old landlord enormously, and he retired upon a

chuckle prolonged sufficiently to convey him to the farthest ends of the

house, whither he was followed by his anxious wife.

Left alone once more, Phyllida and Sir George looked at each other over

the remains of that genial supper.

Neither broke the silence for a while. The elderly gentleman was the

first to speak.

"Don't you think it is somewhat unwise to travel alone, especially as

your postillions do not seem a very trusty pair?"

"I am not really alone," said Phyllida,

"I'm--I'm--expecting--a--a--companion."

Sir George Repington raised his eyebrows and seemed about to make a

severe comment upon this halting explanation, but, leaning his elbow on

the table and his cheek on his hand, he changed his mind and in cold

deliberate accents, so cold and so deliberate that you would have sworn

a weight of emotion was sunk beneath them, began a tale. Since this tale

must either be told by me or by Sir George himself, inasmuch as it

concerns one or two of our characters, I will let the original author

give it to you in his own words, nay I will give the story the

distinction of a chapter to itself.

_Chapter the Thirty-first_

A TALE WITH AN INTERRUPTED MORAL

Sir George Repington filled up his glass (he was drinking Port wine),

motioned Phyllida to a seat on the right, sat himself down opposite,

and, to the accompaniment of thunder and lightning and wind and rain,

proceeded to entertain her with some vastly interesting details of his

domestick history.

"I have already shown you the portrait of my sister Joan, and you will

remember that I remarked upon the resemblance between you and her--I did

not think at the time that such a coincidence would fulfil itself even

more completely.

"We were left orphans soon after I reached my twenty-fifth birthday, and

I will admit that I experienced a keen sensation of pride in the

responsibleness of a great financial house and a very attractive young

woman. Pray, remember I was still young. We lived when we were in London

at a pleasant house in Soho Square, on the side nearest to the Oxford

Road, but spent much of our leisure at Repington Hall, a fine old family

mansion in the county of Surrey, near enough to the town to make our

visits there very frequent."

Sir George sighed at the pleasant memories as he sipped his glass of

Port wine.

"We spent many golden days at Repington Hall and our friends, carefully

selected, as all young people's friends are, found the long June

evenings on the great sloping lawn not less pleasant than we did. Egad!

I can see them all now and hear over the long silences that invariably

punctuate such intimate conversation the lowing of the cows in the home

farm and the deer crunching the sweet long grass beneath the broad

oak-trees. And in Spring what a choir of nightingales sang in the

gnarled whitethorn trees by the sunk fence, and in late summer what

myriads of grasshoppers chirruped in the twilight. Yes, yes, I can see

them all--young Harbottle Ramsey--he's my Lord Sodor and Man

now--succeeded his uncle who was executed after the rising in

'45--well--well, Harbottle was always a staunch Whig, and by gad, so

were all of us in those evenings at Repington. Then there was Burnet,

Cinderton's eldest son--he is Cinderton now--Burnet was always monstrous

careful about his cloaths and always carried a small Persian rug to sit

upon. I remember we used to call it the hearthrug--Harthe-Brusshe is the

family name--and now they tell me he's a positive martyr to the lumbago.

Yes, yes, Ramsey and Burnet and Belladine, I wonder what's become of

Belladine--he was a famous fop--poor Belladine, poor Belladine--he never

recovered from the blow. And then there was Roger Quain.

"He was my best friend, and the happiest day of my life was that on

which he was betrothed to my sister Joan. I tell you no such rousing

toast was given at Repington since the news of the Boyne victory was

brought in to my father. She and Roger were betrothed in July and should

have been wed in April."

The old man--for, with the progress of his tale, such the elderly

gentleman seemed to become--took a longer sip at his glass of Port as if

to brace himself for the climax of the narrative.

"They should have been wed in April. But that winter was a busy one in

Throgmorton Street, and my sister Joan, having caught a chill, was

ordered to remain in the country--her only companion, a foolish cousin

of my mother's. I was not at home more than twice all the winter. I

never knew of that blackguard's visits till March. He used to come every

day--every day until I forbade him the house--a white cockade papist

crammed with disloyalty--always bragging of some outlandish petty

rebellion on the top of some d----d Scottish mountain or other. He

filled her head with his Jacobite twaddle--a fool who, earning his

livelihood by dice and cards, was willing enough to upset all law and

order for the sake of the plunder which he and his fellows might very

well have acquired at the expense of better and honester and more loyal

men.

"He wound himself round her heart with his false French oaths and cursed

lovemaking.

"I sent for Roger; he came down with Belladine--I shall always believe

that Belladine loved her too--and I told Roger he must keep an eye on

his treasure, or 'twould be stolen from him. The wedding was fixed; the

guests were invited; and one fine morning I went down to the orchard to

see how the apples were setting (there had been a shrewd Easterly wind

for some days)--and--and--I found him dead--Roger Quain--my dearest,

oldest friend--Roger Quain dead. Gadslife! young Madam, if you had seen,

as I saw, the fallen apple-blossoms reddened by his blood, I do not

think you would be making a runaway match; and she, my beloved sister,

eloped with his murderer--with Valentine Lovely, Esq., Jacobite, Papist,

rake, spendthrift, drunkard, gamester, and prodigal!"

Sir George Repington rose from his seat and in the passion of

remembrance broke with his grip the thin stem of his wineglass, so that

the spilt liquid as it trickled over the hearth stones and stained the

ashes conjured up the old scene all too vividly and horribly for poor

Phyllida.

"But why did Belladine let her go with that blackguard--that is what I

never knew--that is what I would like to ask Belladine--what can have

happened to Belladine?" the old man muttered to himself, "and why do I

tell you this?" he went on, "why--because----"

But unfortunately the moral of this story was never properly related,

though 'tis easy enough to guess the import, for at that moment in came

the long-awaited Mr. Francis Vernon, splashed from head to foot in mud

and wearing a deep cut over his left temple. After all, Major

Constantine Tarry did succeed in delaying the elopement if only for an

hour or two because Mr. Vernon's mare had shied at the dead body and

flung her rider over the hedge in her unwillingness to pass so damp and

gloomy an obstacle. If the veteran's ghost was able to spare a moment

from his enthralling conversations with Alexander the Great and other

notable captains in Elysium, I make no doubt at the sight he gave vent

to an attenuated cackle of pleasure.

Nothing sets a woman off to such disadvantage as the need to introduce a

pair of men whom instinctively she knows to be hostile to each other.

They never make the slightest attempt to help her out of the awkward

position, and, indeed, add to it by such haughty behaviour, such

ruffling of crests and bristling of limbs that under the circumstances

the most polished gentlemen become uncouth savages or dogs eager to

squabble over a debated bone.

In this instance Mr. Vernon stared Sir George Repington up and down,

while the latter, who was not accustomed to such freedom of regard, took

snuff very aggressively and looked as if he would like to give the

intruder a moment's notice, as indeed he would. Phyllida tried to stem

the tide of embarrassment by remarking in a hushed voice that Sir George

had been kindly entertaining her in the absence of Mr. Amor.

"Has he?" was the latter's frigid response.

"And oh, Amor," she went on, "those odious postillions pushed their way

to the room and wanted money and Sir George kindly came to the rescue

and bade them begone."

"Did he?" was all that Vernon would vouchsafe in thanks to this timely

assistance.

Phyllida, abashed by her lover's bad manners, seemed inclined to

apologize for them with tears. And now Sir George did what most

Englishmen would have done under the circumstances--he walked out of the

room in a very stately way. No doubt the banker thought the strength of

feeling which had led him to reveal his life's tragedy would kindle an

equal emotion in the heart of Miss Courteen and that when he returned he

would find the raffish intruder gone.

This was in fact the precise result of his withdrawal. When he returned,

Mr. Vernon was gone. But neither was Miss Phyllida Courteen anywhere in

sight.

_Chapter the Thirty-second_

THE HORRID ADVENTURES OF BEAU RIPPLE AND MRS. COURTEEN

We will, if you please, take for granted the persuasions used by Mr.

Vernon to induce Phyllida to continue upon her headlong course. He rode

beside her on this second stage of her adventure, and I shall have

something to say of that drive together through the darkness of wind and

rain. We will take for granted Sir George Repington's indignation,

expressed with many a z----ds and many a pinch of snuff, and since

there are a number of fine folk abroad on this most atrocious evening,

it is only just that we should pay them the compliment of relating their

horrid adventures.

You have not forgotten, I hope, the sensation created in Curtain Wells

by the sight of Beau Ripple and Mrs. Courteen ensconced in the former's

vivid yellow postchaise, driven by the former's diminutive groom

Pridgeon. You made one of a host of conjectures, or rather you would

have done had you not been in the heart of the secret, thanks to the

honest, straightforward way in which I have treated you throughout this

story.

They went off with 'Tally-ho' and 'Whoo-whoop, gone away!' They rattled

over the cobbles and clattered over the kidney stones and jolted

prodigiously over a kerb that protruded too far into the road. They

bumped over a log of wood dropped by old Mother Hubbard in her frantick

endeavours to gain the protection of the pavement, they ground the face

of little Miss Muffet's favourite wax doll to minutest grains of powder.

They experienced a second's muffled progress as with two wheels they

rolled over little Tommy Trout's Easter coat and with the others made a

broad smear over little Sammy Green's satchel and cracked his new Horn