Book into a thousand splinters.

As for Mr. Ripple, every time he rose to a wayside obstacle and fell

with a genteel plump into Mrs. Courteen's wide lap, he had a sensation

of the acutest disgust; with disgust, too, he viewed his cushions of

fawn silk and ivory sattin bedabbled with the widow's copious

tears--these cushions made salt with a mortal widow's grief that were

never intended to be spoiled with anything less ethereal than the

glittering milk of the Queen of Heaven.

Extreme dizziness overtook the Great little Man when, in accents hoarse

with hysterical sorrow, the wretched woman by his side begged the loan

of his handkerchief. Then, indeed, he nearly called to Pridgeon to check

their mad course, turn the horses' heads stablewards, brooding for a

sensuous second upon the delights of a warm meditative bath, made

sweeter with Citron Essence.

Poor Mr. Ripple! As the mile-stones fled past and the chilly March

twilight crept over the dusky fallows and peered above the black

hedgerows, he thought with unutterable pangs of the cheerful and

comfortable town of Curtain Wells. His china shepherds and shepherdesses

called to him over the bleak country, and in the distance like elfin

bells he heard the reproachful tinkle of his elegant lustres.

At the turnpike Mr. Ripple asked the keeper whether a post-chariot had

lately come under his jurisdiction.

"Dick who?" inquired the janitor.

"Have you seen a post-chariot?" said Mr. Ripple, petulantly.

"No, I ain't. Have you seen two bullocks as 'ave lost, stolen and

strayed theyselves hereabouts--the red 'un with a----"

"Drive on," said Mr. Ripple.

"That's gentry," commented the gatekeeper as, spitting on the bust of

King George which reposed in the palm of his dirty hand, he retired to

brood over a well-thumbed pamphlet that set forth with convincing

ribaldry, the imminent danger of another Popish plot.

"Drive on," said Mr. Ripple, "we shall have a heavy shower presently."

They were bowling down a broad village street with a merry jingle of

harness and rhythmical clatter of hoofs, while the cracking of little

Pridgeon's whip, nearly as big as himself, made many inquisitive bodies

huddle in the low doorways of the cottages to survey the gallant

equipage.

"Reg'lar delooge, your honour," said Pridgeon, turning round on the box.

Mrs. Courteen was already so wet with the tears of outraged motherhood

that the addition of rain could scarcely have affected her comfort.

Nevertheless she shuddered so expansively that she squeezed her

companion closer than ever to the side of the chaise.

"Shall we put up at the _Green Dragon_?--very comfortable Inn, the

_Green Dragon_."

"No, no, Pridgeon, drive on. If it rains, it rains."

Such a platitude from Beau Ripple can only have been provoked by the

intensest despair. A ploughboy's epigram would not have seemed more out

of place. The Nine Muses were certainly waked from their harmonious

lethargy, and a small boy, playing _Sally in our Alley_ on a Jew's harp,

twanged a discordant echo of their shocked sensibility. A platitude from

Beau Ripple! The very chaise collapsed in ignominy. Bump--bang--whooooo!

The gay vehicle was on its side and the front off-wheel was whirling

madly down the broad slope of the street, to the enormous delight of the

boy with the Jew's harp and the immense consternation of a flock of

geese in whose company it made a noisy entrance into the village pond.

Pridgeon turned once more on the Jimmy and, having pulled up the horses

and gazed at the Tableau, remarked:

"Blow me tight if I didn't think the wheel'd do that afore we started.

Blow me right and tight!"

By this time, all the village stood in a circle and supplied an

exhaustive commenting upon the sad event.

"She's putt her futt through her petticutt," whooped grandmother.

"So her 'ave and toored 'un proper."

"Blarm 'un if the old buoy's knee ain't streaked like somebody's baad

baacon."

"So it be, buoy, so it be," came the delighted rejoinder.

"Look, see the seat of his breeches!" cried a shapely hussy.

"I never saw such a power o' mud, why 'e's like a brown paaper plaster

behind. Poor soul!"

"Horse ain't hurt?" asked a sharp-featured, bow-legged individual with

professional anxiety.

Four or five hobbledehoys had assisted the Beau to his feet and

volunteered to show him the way to the _Green Dragon_. As that hostelry

stood exactly opposite the scene of the disaster, the offer savoured of

something more than mere friendliness.

Mrs. Courteen was whirling round and round, like a kitten after her

tail, trying to ascertain the precise amount of damage close to her

train; a good-natured booby stuck his foot on the skirt to steady it for

her inspection, and in doing so made the rent more irreparable.

"Better go to the _Green Dragon_, your honour," said Pridgeon, as spruce

as when he started.

"Better go to h----, you dunderhead," said the Beau, very white with

well-bred passion and the shock of the catastrophe. No fragile vase of

Dresden or of azure Sevres, no figure of opalescent Worcester, no

violet-flowered teapot of Lowestoft that ever fell from a proud cabinet

through the careless sweep of a chambermaid's broom, was to be so deeply

commiserated as Mr. Horace Ripple. These painted monuments of care

betray their inherent beauty even in the dainty particles that proclaim

their wreckage, but a fop with muddied breeches--why, in the very first

chapter of this story we trembled to behold the circumference of the

least dignified part of the Beau's anatomy protruding from beneath a

bedstead; and on that occasion, it was gay with the flowers of a silk

dressing-gown.

I do not think that the Great little Man ever recovered from this

outrage to his personal attire, for to the very end of his modish days,

he would wear a coat cut an inch or two lower than was readily allowed

by the least conservative tailor in his employment.

As for Mrs. Courteen, who followed meekly in the wake of her wounded

escort, she could not refrain from wishing that the Major and the

Justice were at hand to console her with jealous attentions and rival

sympathies, and when the first round drop of the swift-approaching storm

hit her plump on the nose and washed away in its downward course the

last vestige of powder from her face, she regretted also the tributary

fingers of Betty.

In the hall of the _Green Dragon_ their reception was almost servile.

Great Cobblebury, for all its pompous name, was too near to Curtain

Wells to attract the attention of many travellers, and the _Green

Dragon_ depended for custom almost entirely on the thirstiness of the

surrounding population. Guests, therefore, received very excellent

service for their money. The host, one George Upex, had watched the

advance of the chaise with sleek arms beneath a protuberant apron and

thumbs that twiddled sleepily; but the smash aroused his hospitable

instincts, and by the time Mr. Ripple and Mrs. Courteen had reached the

doorway of the inn, he was back from the kitchen, where he had hastily

ordered the immediate insertion into the capacious oven of several

dishes, and was ready to usher the stranded travellers into the parlour.

"And what will your good lady take?" he inquired, with his rubicund face

cocked at what he considered a very appetizing angle.

"She is not my good lady, sirrah," rapped out the Beau.

"Not at all, your honour--beg pardon," said Mr. Upex, putting up a

gigantick hand to an equally gigantick mouth as if he would force the

latter feature to eat the indiscreet question it had so grossly emitted.

"How long will it take to mend the damage to my chaise?" demanded Mr.

Ripple.

The landlord made a rough calculation in his mind.

"About an hour to cook the--to mend the--er--chaise," he replied.

"Have you a bed?" asked the Beau.

The landlord beamed. They were going to spend the night under his roof,

and mentally he saw himself on the next day obscuring the sunlight of

the parlour with a very long bill.

"A bed, your honour? Yes, indeed! Oh! yes." Mr. Upex paused. "A bed?"

"Yes! a bed--a b-e-d--bed."

"For one night?"

"One night--no! now, sirrah, now." Mr. Ripple stamped his little foot,

probably to shake off the mud of the humiliating accident.

"Now?" Mr. Upex looked surprized, that is to say the mouth of Mr. Upex

remained fixed in a cavernous gape.

"Why not now?" exclaimed the peremptory Beau. "Ain't your beds aired,

landlord? Ain't they made yet?"

"Oh, certainly, your honour."

"Then show me upstairs at once. I shall lie down until the wheel of my

chaise is mended. And shew this lady another room, and send two or three

chambermaids to attend to her."

Mr. Upex looked much relieved.

It was not such a shameless affair as he had been led by wanton

ambiguity of phrase to believe.

"What about the duck?"

"What duck? What duck?" asked Mr. Ripple fretfully.

"The duck your honour ordered--that is, was about to order when I

interrupted your honour."

"Send up three slices of the breast on a small tray to my chamber, and

don't put any stuffing on the plate, the odour of sage upsets my

appetite."

"Indeed?" said Mr. Upex, quite frankly interested by such a nasal

idiosyncrasy.

"Yes, and send out a woman of taste and discretion to purchase a

nightcap."

"I wouldn't say, your honour, as how one of the maids wouldn't oblige

your--er--the good lady."

"For myself, landlord, for myself."

"I beg your honour's pardon."

Mr. Upex hurried off to execute his guest's requirement and presently

returned to escort them to their rooms.

"When my man comes in," said the Beau, "send him up to me with the

nightcap."

Pridgeon had rescued the wheel from the pond and, having successfully

directed two bumpkins to trundle it to the blacksmith, arrived at the

inn with an admiring retinue of idlers, whom he regaled with quarts of

bitter beer. The woman of taste entrusted with the purchase of the

nightcap (she was the scullerymaid) returned with the vestment neatly

wrapped in paper, and, meeting her master on the stairs, was told to

hand it to the diminutive groom, who chucked her under the chin with the

parcel and took his bow-legged way upstairs to Mr. Ripple's temporary

apartment.

Outside he rapped smartly on the door, which was cautiously opened

sufficiently wide to allow the urbane countenance of the Beau to peer

round the corner.

"Is that you, Pridgeon?"

"Me, y'r honour, with a present from Great Cobblebury."

The Beau took the nightcap, and in its place handed muddied

smallcloaths, smeared coat, and wrinkled waistcoat.

"Have these cloaths thoroughly brushed."

"Yes, y'r honour."

"And bring me three slices of breast in an hour's time."

"Yes, y'r honour."

"And don't get drunk to celebrate your carelessness."

"No, y'r honour."

"Poor clod," murmured the Beau to his polite self, as he closed the door

of his chamber and double locked it against intrusion.

I think it would certainly be indiscreet to spy upon Mr. Ripple's

retirement. How did he spend his time in bed? The whisper of book-leaves

tempts me to suppose that he read several of the bitterest odes, very

possibly a whole satire of Quintus Horatius Flaccus, that poet so fierce

but withal so urbane. Meanwhile Mrs. Courteen, surrounded by three

maids, respectively known as Susan, Joan, and Elizabeth, held forth upon

her misfortunes to a sympathetick audience.

She stood in the middle of her chamber, a massive figure pouring forth

ludicrous complaint. It was as if a stork should seek to emulate a

nightingale.

Susan knelt on the floor and industriously stitched away at the ragged

train; Joan knelt with innumerable pins stuck between her pearly teeth

and judiciously fastened several gaps in her attire, while Elizabeth,

who was being courted by Johnny, the _Green Dragon's_ sibilant hostler,

rubbed away at the mud with as near an imitation of the sounds produced

by her lover's stringy throat as the softness of her own would allow.

"I have been greatly distressed," said the widow, "grossly deceived,

intolerably put about for, though Mr. Ripple has the character of a

block of marble, it don't become a woman to be seen alone with a man

anywhere, especially in a yellow chaise which attracts everybody's

attention. I vow I heard that odious young Miss Kitcat laugh from her

balcony as we flew past--yes, flew--and such bumping! I dare swear I'm

bruised from head to foot, and my skin shows the smallest mark. I

remember when I was a young woman, I stepped a minuet with young Mr.

Heavibois of Heavibois Hall, and I declare he might have been taking the

grossest liberties all through the evening, for the way my wrist was

marked. Lud! it was as purple as my grandmother's silk coverlet that was

given to her by a young lieutenant in the Navy, and was thought to

belong to the wife of the Cham of Tartary, though I dare say he bought

it in Cheapside for ten shillings, being a young gentleman on whose word

nobody could rely, that is the worst of men, young women, you cannot

trust 'em. And now my own daughter has run away with a London spark, and

I, her own mother, must give up half a score routs and my Lady

Pickadilly's drum--the most fashionable affair of the kind that will

ever be known in Curtain Wells, for my Lady Pickadilly is newly come

from town with her second son the Hon. John Hyde, as quiet a young

gentleman as ever said Bo! to a goose, and here we are nearly into

April, and if my daughter drowns herself from London Bridge, why then I

shall be wearing black at the Fetes Champetres and a pretty figure I

shall be truly! though, indeed, if one had the courage to wear a white

velvet vizard, I might very well pass for an Allegory of Moonlight--and

yet that would never do, for to be sure that malicious creature Mrs.

Dudding, whose Conversazione last month was the completest failure ever

known, would make one of her odious epigrams about poor Mr. Moon, the

best natured of gentlemen and the very personification of the milk of

human kindness. To be sure, his ankles are very big, but indeed I vow if

one were to regard all the defects in humanity, very few of us would be

able to hold up our heads. Mr. Ripple himself is the smallest man in the

Wells, but nobody esteems him the less for that. To be sure, I think he

was very ill-advised,--though for that matter he was never known to take

anybody's advice but his own--very ill-advised, I say, not to speak more

severely to my daughter. I was always so careful of her modesty that I

never allowed her to sit in the Maze with an odious little nudity in

stone always hovering about, till I declare they should have planted ivy

to climb up his shameless legs. I'm sure nothing could be more Biblical

than such vegetable apparel. Cupid they call him: Stupid I call it."

Mrs. Courteen here paused to take a longer breath and Susan exclaimed:

"La! ma'am, what to do wi' your petticoat I doan't know. It comes

peaping through your gown like Tom o' Coventry in the Christmas

mumming."

"Pin it, child, pin it," said the widow.

"La! ma'am, we ha' used nigh forty pins already, and thee'll be like a

hedgehog soon."

"No matter, child, no matter how I appear. I must do my duty as a

mother, but I vow I blush when I think that near everybody takes us for

man and wife. To be sure, I don't mind, and always say that if the world

wishes to talk, the world will talk; and there once was a time when I

was talked about from one corner of the county to the other. And now

this improper affair of my daughter's will set every idle tongue wagging

again. My own maid Betty, who was privy to the whole unhappy intrigue,

was truly frightened when she found how far ignorance and wilfulness had

taken her. 'What will they say at Courteen Grange, ma'am, and what will

Mr. Rumble the carrier say, and Mrs. Rumble and the old widow who keeps

the shop and poor old Jonas the gardener and all the good folk of the

shire?' 'Ah,' said I, 'what indeed?' Ugh! child, you're running pins

into my--into my legs!"

"Dear life, ma'am," said Susan the culprit, apparently not much abashed

by the accusation, "'tis difficult to find a bit of leg to run a pin

into, for, O my soul and body, you're shining like a starlight night,

wi' pins all over 'ee."

So the rehabilitation of Mrs. Courteen went on with diffuse anecdotes on

the side of the widow, with similes from deft-fingered Susan, with much

displaying of pearly teeth from Joan, and with a gentle cooing from

Elizabeth, who was betrothed to the hostler of the _Green Dragon_ Inn.

Outside it was raining faster than ever, and the wind was beginning to

moan under the eaves and away in the remote corners of the house. A

flash of lightning and a terrifick burst of thunder that followed

immediately upon its heels undid half an hour's steady pinning, owing to

the violent tremours with which it afflicted poor Mrs. Courteen.

It made Mr. Ripple break a Caesura and, worse, it made him try to mend it

with a false quantity. Altogether the prospect was extremely uninviting,

and the succulent odour of roast duck was certainly no temptation to

precipitate his departure. However, the duck came to an end, and the

morsels of it which began to freeze upon his plate made him so impatient

of farther delay that when Pridgeon knocked at the door and informed him

the chaise was once more fit for the roads, he called for his bill and,

as I believe, (such a sweet change had Horace and roast duck wrought in

his mind) hummed a popular jig while he buttoned up his breeches. Soon

he was tapping delicately at the door of Mrs. Courteen's chamber,

saying:

"Come, ma'am, I hope you're rested. Our horses are waiting--'tis a most

atrocious night--but never mind, ma'am, never mind, we shall sleep the

sounder," he had almost said "for having done our duty," but not even

the stress of an untoward adventure could condemn his spirit to a second

platitude that stormy night, and he altered the unfinished sentence to

"for not having to endure Mrs. Dudding's epigrams. Foregad, ma'am," he

went on, "she churns the sour cream of her intellect and produces, after

infinite toil, a very rancid wit."

Then the Great little Man pattered downstairs, condescended to

felicitate Mr. Upex upon his timely meal, inquired the name of his cook,

said she was a good woman and would go far, listened to Farmer Gruby's

opinion that this rain would do a power o' good to the land, condoled

with him upon a bovine loss which he was still lamenting, bade Pridgeon

stand another quart of ale each to the good fellows who had assisted to

talk about the accident, raised his monocle to a bill of sale affixed to

the wall, inquired into the state of the roads before them, evoked an

atmosphere of respectful adoration by presenting the landlord with a

card inscribed 'Horace Ripple, The Great House,' and finally won the

perpetual devotion of Mr. George Upex by writing in his neatest hand at

the top right corner of the engraved card 'Recommended by.' The landlord

vowed he would have the precious voucher of identity framed and hung up

in the parlour underneath a painting on glass of his gracious Majesty

K---- G----, and in close proximity to a likeness of Lord Breda's prize

bullock Jupiter, which several drunken loyalists had been known to

salute in mistake for the K----.

Mrs. Courteen sailed downstairs, followed by Susan, Joan and Elizabeth,

all of whom were kept busy picking up pins, which they stuck between

their teeth, to the great disappointment of Mr. Pridgeon, who would have

very much liked to snatch a kiss from each Hebe in turn, and, seeing

that the hostler was standing outside in the rain, I dare swear that but

for the pins he would have been successful in his amorous project. Off

went the chaise into the gathering gloom, spattering the onlookers with

mud, and almost drowning with its clatter the hearty cheers of the

inhabitants of Great Cobblebury.

And now the Beau, whose urbanity had been restored by Horace and roast

duck, entertained Mrs. Courteen with delightful tales of fashionable

society. The most violent jolt no longer availed to upset the balance of

his sentences. The widow was deeply impressed by Mr. Ripple's charming

behaviour and, though she could not appreciate his anecdotes at their

value, was put into a very pleasant disposition of mind by a

half-fledged fancy that the Great little Man was slowly succumbing to

her ample fascination. As for little Pridgeon, his diminutive inside was

so replete with cordials and old Jamaica rum that he was quite

impervious to the weather and he sang a large number of country ballads

in a very engaging Alto voice.

Suddenly, as they were driving over a wild stretch of commonland, dotted

with huge clumps of gorse and a number of stunted and wind-bent

thorn-trees, the chaise stopped with a jerk, spoiling the climax of one

of the Beau's best stories, describing how he had compelled the Duchess

of Hereford to apologize to a flower girl.

"What's the matter?" he cried out.

"Nothing," said Pridgeon, "but we're just underneath the gallows with a

very notorious reskel swingin' over our heads--reg'lar old scarecrow he

is--can't you hear the chains, y'r honour? He's bobbin' about in the

wind like a cork in a puddle."

"Drive on, rogue," commanded Mr. Ripple sternly.

"It 'ud be a pity not to see 'im. Blue Jenkins vas his name--I'll hold

up one of the lamps and you can take a good look at 'im. There was

hundreds used to walk 'ere of a Sunday afternoon when he was just

turned off, ecod, y'r honour ought to take a look at him."

"Will you drive on, sirrah!"

Suddenly Mrs. Courteen uttered a loud scream; and very uncanny it

sounded in the tempest.

"What in the name of--what's the matter?" exclaimed Mr. Ripple.

"I hear horses," said Mrs. Courteen, and screamed again.

Pridgeon cocked up his ears.

"She's right," he shouted. "There's a couple of 'em coming up behind

us!"

"Good G----! Highwaymen!" said Mrs. Courteen, clinging to Mr. Ripple.

The latter did not lose his presence of mind.

"Drive on, you puppy! I'll see to the priming of my pistols." With these

words the Courageous little Man dived between the widow's agitated legs

and groped for the elegant walnut case of his exquisitely chased

pistols.

"'Tain't no good," shouted Pridgeon, as he lashed the horse to a gallop.

"'Tis only a mile afore we reaches Long Hill and they'll catch us

walkin' there."

"I warn you, madam," said Mr. Ripple calmly, while the postchaise

rattled through the storm, "I warn you that I shall certainly shoot

once, if not twice."

But Mrs. Courteen had fainted away and only half a dozen pins released

from their responsibleness whispered a faint and ineffective answer.

_Chapter the Thirty-third_

THE HIGHWAYMEN

The rumour of Phyllida's elopement took definite shape just as the

candles were being lighted for the nuts and wine. It lent quite a

flavour even to the inferior Port that disgraced most of the

dinner-tables at Curtain Wells. And if a flavour was lent to moderately

bad wine, what a truly celestial aroma was given off by the fragrant

pots of tea in the parlours. Curtain Wells was always famous for the

finest blends, and I venture to think that the sad affair of Miss

Courteen inspired every hostess to a perfection of art unequalled before

or since. Never were the gentlemen so quick to follow the ladies from

the spent dinner. Moreover, the absence of Beau Ripple permitted a

recklessness of conjecture, a venom of Innuendo that would have made the

rumour famous, even had it proved devoid of the slightest foundation.

Many inclined to the theory that Mr. Ripple had arranged the prologue to

suit himself, and vowed they had seen fervent stares exchanged between

him and Mrs. Courteen. One inventive young gentleman started a report

that Mr. Vernon was the Pretender; but this was contradicted by old Lady

Loch Lomond who, having been one of the ladies-in-waiting at St.

Germain's and watched the young prince in his bath, was positive that

Mr. Vernon did not resemble him at all. The young gentleman's ingenious

suggestion lent a momentary glamour to the heroine of the affair, but

with the destruction of his story by Lady Loch Lomond, publick attention

was again concentrated upon Beau Ripple. An extravagant explanation of

his roundabout method of courtship was found in a whispered legend that

in early youth he had married one of the daughters of the Grand Turk

and escaping from the turbaned alliance four months afterwards through

the friendly offices of a fig merchant from Smyrna who smuggled him out

of the Bosphorous and landed him at Lyme Regis in Dorsetshire, had spent

the rest of his enforced celibacy in dread of vengeful scimitars.

Then somebody remembered the codicil to Squire Courteen's will, and the

story of young Mr. Standish who left the neighbourhood in such a hurry.

One of the abetters of this last tale mentioned that Mr. Ripple was

badly in need of money, and finally everybody agreed that here at last

was the true explanation of the yellow chaise. The Beau was trying to

make up his losses by wedding Mrs. Courteen secretly so that the lawyers

should not lay violent hands upon her inheritance. This was such a

satisfactory and circumstantial account that everybody sat down to

Quadrille without their play being the more distracted than usual.

Meanwhile the author of the latest explanation went from house to house

to burble the news in the company of his two witnesses. The three of

them were received everywhere with acclamation as soon as it transpired

they were the bearers of the authoritative account; and though they were

all of them bores of the finest calibre, they enjoyed a considerable

popularity which compensated for all the slights and snubs they had

received in the past at the hands of rank and fashion. Having discovered

their talents, they all three existed for ever afterwards on the sources

of false information and published books of memoirs and thought

themselves great men and, in fact, are to this very day consulted by

social historians.

Meanwhile another rumour was flying furiously round all the shops that

Mr. Lovely was on the verge of making a hurried departure from Curtain

Wells. Mr. Ripple owed nothing to the tradesmen; consequently his yellow

chaise caused no consternation in commercial hearts, but Mr Charles

Lovely owed large amounts. Every shopkeeper in the High Street vowed he

would know the true facts of this reported flight. Under the great

archway of the _Blue Boar_, they pattered--all of them dressed in

snuff-coloured suits and all of them with suspiciously long envelopes

protruding from their left-hand pockets. There was Mr. Crumpett the

Confectioner and Mr. Frieze the Tailor and another tailor called Charges

and a third called Trimmings. There was Mr. Cuffe the hosier, and Mr.

Trinket of one toyshop and Mr. Leonard of another, and Mr. Wheeler the

coach-builder; there was fat Mrs. Leafy of one flower-shop and little

Miss Bunch of the other flower-shop, and old Mrs. Tabby of the ribband

shop, there was Mr. Filigree the Goldsmith, and Mr. Tree the bootmaker,

and Mr. Buckle the saddler, and young Washball the barber's senior

apprentice. In fact, the only creditors absent were Mr. Daish who was at

that very moment listening to a plausible demonstration of Mr. Lovely's

prospects, and the ex-limner Mr. Canticle who would have scorned to

associate himself with such a snuff-coloured rabble and had, moreover,

been paid something on account more lately than the rest.

"What the deuce is this seditious gathering?" exclaimed Lieutenant

Blewforth to little Peter Wingfield as they swung round the corner and

plunged into the voluble assemblage. Suddenly there was a noise of a

window being thrown up, and a stillness fell upon the dingy throng as

they beheld the debonair countenance of our hero.

"Speak up, Charles," bellowed the Lieutenant, "I support your

candidature. D---- e," he muttered to Wingfield, "d----e, if I knew

Charles was a Parliament man."

"L-listen," said Mr. Wingfield, standing on tip-toe and craning his

little neck to hear Charles' views on the political situation.

"Gentlemen," Mr. Lovely began, with a hand gracefully buried in the

opening of his embroidered waistcoat, "Gentlemen, I am sensibly

flattered by this deputation."

A simultaneous grunt acclaimed this remark.

"I say, I am sensibly flattered. It is always a pleasure to--to----"

"Charles'll never be elected, if he talks to 'em so slow," commented Mr.

Blewforth with a shake of his burly head.

"I say, I am sensibly flattered."

"That's all very fine, Mr. Lovely, but what about my bill?" shouted Mr.

Filigree who being better able to stand a loss was bolder than his

companions.

"Ay--yes--to be sure, your money," Charles started off again. "Well,

gentlemen, I say, gentlemen, money is a very wonderful thing. It is the

panacea or cure of all earthly ills, like sleep in the play it knits up

the ravelled sleeve of care. Money! to be sure!"

"He's trying to make 'em swallow the new taxes," said Blewforth sagely.

At that moment somebody twitched Mr. Lovely's coat from behind, and he

retired from the open window; the angry snuff-coloured crowd looked at

each other, conferred for a moment, then pattered quickly back by the

way they had come. From the tangle of their murmured confabulations, two

ominous words floated back to the Lieutenant and little Peter

Wingfield--'Sheriff's Officers!'

It was Clare's announcement of the arrival of Betty in the best parlour

of the _Blue Boar_ that had distracted Charles' attention from his

creditors. He found her trembling from head to foot and playing with the

buttons of her scarlet cloak.

"My young mistress, your honour, my pretty lamb has gone."

"Miss Courteen?"

"Little Miss Phyllida."

"With Vernon."

"No, wi' Amor."

"How long ago?"

"Nigh three hours or more. The Bow and the Widow have galloped after

'em, but what I do say is, 'tis no work to set an old couple to catch a

young couple: oh! your honour, if ever in this sweet Springtime you

loved my dear one, will 'ee follow her now and bring her back to me?"

The news of Phyllida's elopement so crudely announced staggered him,

notwithstanding his anticipation of such an event.

Hitherto his love for the maid had been a pleasant fancy, an impulse to

day-dreams but nothing more material.

That very morning as he wandered in the water-meadows, he had been so

full of the outside effect of his attitude there had been no room for

the personal desire. He had tried to convince himself he was sincerely

anxious for Phyllida's future happiness; but the true position he should

have taken up was a determination to possess her for himself whatever

the cost. She was young and fair, rose-flushed and adorable, and 'twas a

pity to waste so much freshness on Vernon dulled by pleasure and--not

quite well-bred.

Now a sense of personal loss stung him into action. Besides, he and Tony

had vowed to transform life into a gay adventure. Here already was a

quest worthy of their highest hopes.

"I will certainly go," said Charles.

"Ah! you have a true heart."

"Have I, Betty, have I?"

"'Twas on merry Valentine morn, you saw my pretty one."

"So 'twas."

"When thrushes and blackbirds do maate."

"So they say."

"Take it for a sign, will 'ee?"

"I will."

"And say when you come to her and have sent that wagabone packing off to

his Lunnon, say the linnets are piping away down in Hampshire, will

'ee?"

"I will."

"Say that us'll soon be harking for the cuckoo in the greenwood, and

look see, give her this; 'tis a little white daisy I picked. Bid her

look 'tes none the less beautiful because the edge of her petals are

gone red wi' the cold March wind. 'Tes a daeisy, the same as before--a

little white daeisy."

Hastily putting the frail flower in Mr. Lovely's hand, the maid ran to

the door. There she stayed a moment.

"And say, will 'ee, that I'm coming to kiss her and hug her and comfort

her as soon as the Wells waggon can bring me."

"That's a good maid--a loyal maid," said Charles to himself when Betty

was gone, and, as he looked at the tender blossom somewhat shrivelled by

captivity, a fallen tear trembled like a dew-diamond on the golden heart

of the gathered flower.

And now the problem of escaping his duns vexed Mr. Lovely more acutely

than before. Daish had been pacified by generous Clare with L50 on

account. The horses were saddled and ready; and by the greatest good

fortune when Charles looked out into the inn-yard, there was not a

snuff-coloured soul in sight.

Blewforth came in with the news of Sheriff's officers, and Clare

appeared in the gallery all buttoned up for the journey: "Where shall I

tell Daish to send our baggage by the Wells' stage waggon? there's a

good inn called _The Basket of Roses_ about twenty five miles away, dy'e

know it?"

"No," said Charles, "is it on the London Road?"

"Yes, on the London Road."

"Then 'twill suit me very well. Shall we set out at once, Tony?"

"No time to lose," shouted Blewforth.

Daish came shuffling in to say the horses were growing impatient of the

cold.

Off went our romantick adventurers: up they got on their horses: down

tinkled a couple of new silver crowns on the cobbles.

"Thank 'ee, yer honours!" shouted Jimmy Trickett the hostler; and the

third detachment of the Love Chase set out amid the thunderous farewells

of Lieutenant Blewforth of the _Lively_, as jolly a sound to put heart

into a pair of handsome young gentlemen on a gallant quest as they were

likely to hear throughout their wanderings.

They were gone when the snuff-coloured crowd pattered back with a

Sheriff's officer in tow, and Mr. Jeremy Daish was a person of

sufficient importance to be able to despise their snuff-coloured

threats. After all he had fifty pounds on account and there wasn't a

brewer amongst them.

As they cantered along the same road which we have already followed

three times, Charles told his friend of Betty's request and Tony was as

urgent as he to do all in his power to thwart Mr. Vernon. Honest Anthony

Clare was very proud of the handsome rider by his side. I do not think

he would have allowed that any one was quite the equal of Mr. Charles

Lovely in accomplishment or bearing. He could not avoid a feeling of

self-congratulation when he saw the maids among the daffodils of narrow

cottage gardens run to lean over their green gates and watch their

course away down the road. What a fine fellow he was in his full trimmed

grey riding-coat and brown buckskin breeches. How well the azure

waistcoat became him; how eagerly his blue eyes danced to the rhythm of

their horses. How far ahead down the billowy road he gazed, as if to

conjure up the vision of the galloping chariot that held his hope of

happiness.

And when they, too, rode into the storm, muffled in their full cloaks of

black Bavarian cloth, what a romantick figure Charles made as he spurred

his iron-grey steed to farther exertions.

There was musick in the south-west wind of that tempestuous twilight. It

sighed through the bare hedgerows and whistled round the broad brims of

their beaver hats. There was musick in the clap of horses' hoofs on the

wet road. There was musick in the big horse-pistols tapping against the

saddle-bows.

They were passing a great barn where a host of yokels were thrashing a

stack that had lain too long, and a rare sight these were, knee-deep in

the amber corn whence the rats fled ceaselessly.

"Shall we catch them, Tony?" asked Charles.

"I think we shall."

"But in time?" Charles dug his spurs in deep to cover the blush that was

flaming over his cheeks.

"And will she turn back? Oh! Tony, Tony, she must, she shall, turn

back."

In Great Cobblebury they stopped to give their horses a feed, and heard

of the accident of the yellow chaise.

"Z----ds, these clumsy vehicles travel fast enough," muttered Charles.

When they started again, the darkness clung round them like a pall. The

blown branch of a tree brushed against Lovely's elbow in a narrow part

of the road and he shuddered, as though an unseen hand were warning him

to pause.

"'Tis a plaguey rough night," he shouted over the wind, clapping his hat

tighter and leaning close to his grey's warm slim neck.

They were crossing Dry Tree Common where Blue Jenkins was swinging in a

shameful cradle, and Clare shouted he could see the lights of a chaise

in front.

"That's Ripple for a hundred," cried Charles spurring on his horse,

"gadslife, what a speed they are making. Hurry, Tony, hurry."

A dazzling flash of lightning seared the sky long enough to illuminate

the ghastly figure on the gallows. Clare's chestnut mare shied violently

and threw her rider head foremost into a large clump of gorse. It was a

matter of some difficulty to catch the frightened animal, but Charles by

mere determination succeeded in doing so, for all the night was now

black before the rising of the moon. By this mishap, Clare was in much

the same state of prickles as the Widow, without the help of

deft-fingered Susan.

"What the plague made you do that?" said Charles fretfully. They had

lost five valuable minutes through the behaviour of the mare. Tony

laughed with great good humour.

When they reached the foot of Long Hill, they could see the lights of

the chaise once again. It was finding the heavy pull very difficult. The

rain was pouring down the ditches on either side with a gurgling sound,

heard all the more clearly, because in the shelter of the slope the wind

was quiet. Just before the summit, the carriage stopped and a bullet

sang between Clare and Lovely who were now a bare twenty yards behind.

Mr. Ripple believed in the advantage of an offensive campaign.

"Stop! stop!" shouted Charles, "we are not highwaymen."

The Beau recognized the voice, and in accents wherein could be detected

the faintest note of relief said:

"Charles--Mr. Lovely! and why, may I inquire, are you abroad on such an

unpleasant night?"

"Why, sir," called out Charles, "what have you been about? There's a

dead man lying in the road."

"Good G----!" said Mr. Ripple, "a dead man?"

"Bring a lamp," called Clare.

Pridgeon descended from the box and, having tied the horses to a

withered fir-tree, snatched one of the lamps from its socket.

As he came along, Charles observed by the wavering light primroses in

flower.

"Surely, surely," said the Beau, "I cannot have killed this man."

"N! No!" cried Clare who was kneeling beside the body. "He has been dead

some time. Z----ds! 'Tis the little Major."

"The little Major?" echoed Ripple sharply. "So 'tis! So 'tis!"

"All alone in the storm," said Charles in a low voice.

"It may have been highwaymen," said Ripple.

"So it may, so it may," Clare agreed.

"And it may have been Vernon," said Charles, "d--n him."

"Charles," said the Beau, "I owe you an apology. I have been obstinate.

This should never have been allowed to happen."

Charles grasped his hand in the darkness.

After all, Mr. Ripple was not in his kingdom and they were all levelled

by the presence of Death.

"We cannot leave the body here," said Tony.

"It must travel in the chaise," said Charles.

"What about Mrs. Courteen?" questioned Mr. Ripple.

"She is in a swoon."

"You are sure he is quite dead?" asked Charles and wondered at the

futility of the remark.

Nobody troubled to reply.

"Perhaps it would be better to send a waggon," said Clare. "We are not

many miles from Roseland-in-the-Vale."

"Somebody has cut off his epaulettes," said Charles.

"Then it may have been footpads," said the Beau. "No wayfarer would rob

the dead."

"It is a very dark night," said Clare simply.

"He fought at Fontenoy. Let us lift him out of the mud," said Mr.

Ripple, vaguely recalling long stories which the dead soldier had poured

into his ears.

"He gave his life for her. We must certainly lift him out of the mud,"

said Charles.

"A dead body is dangerous to horses," said Clare, "I will take his

head."

Just then the widow screamed again.

"Say nothing of this to Mrs. Courteen," said Mr. Ripple to the

diminutive coachman.

"I knew something 'd 'appen," replied the latter. "I knew something 'd

'appen when I see'd as how somebody had stuck a bunch of primmerroses in

Blue Jenkins's toes."

_Chapter the Thirty-fourth_

OLD ACQUAINTANCE

Charles said he would ride on to the _Basket of Roses_ and bid the

landlord prepare a supper against the arrival of the rest. Clare stayed

behind to protect the Beau from the hysterical excitement of Mrs.

Courteen, who would not be pacified by anything less formidable than an

armed escort. She had made up her mind that highwaymen were abroad,

refused to allow the chaise to drive fast lest they might gallop unaware

into a thieves' ambush, and alarmed herself with so many imaginary

bogies that she almost succeeded in making Mr. Ripple fire point blank

at Mr. Anthony Clare's shadow looming huge in the hedgerow.

Charles reached the _Basket of Roses_ not long after the departure of

the lovers, and on hearing the news immediately spurred his grey horse

to pursuit. For a couple of miles he plunged along a road that was

almost a swamp, fired to greater exertions each minute by the sight of

the ruts made by the chariot in front. Suddenly his horse began to go

lame; the road grew worse; the ruts proved to be those of a country

waggon. He was riding in the wrong direction, so he turned his grey

round and walked her back to the inn. While he was inquiring into the

possibility of securing a fresh mount, a voice from the parlour called

out to know if any person was inquiring into the whereabouts of a young

woman.

"She supped alone with the old gentleman," whispered Mrs. Tabrum.

Charles was not proof against a natural curiosity, and decided to wait

at the inn till the arrival of the others. He ascertained that Vernon

had changed horses so it was evident that he intended to post as fast

as possible Eastward. His own horse must be tended if they were to

proceed that night. There was no other in the stables, and as he was

sure of catching the chariot before morning, he felt there would be no

harm in learning why Phyllida had supped at a wayside inn, alone with an

elderly gentleman. What was Vernon about meanwhile? Why had he not

accompanied her? Charles ordered supper and stepped into the Travellers'

Room.

"You were asking about a certain young woman," said Sir George, fixing

him with deep set eyes of cold steel.

"I was indeed, sir," answered Mr. Lovely pulling forward an armchair

into the blaze and stretching his damp legs towards the genial warmth.

"My name is Repington," said the old gentleman.

"Eh! What?"

"Sir George Repington."

Charles stared at him.

"And mine, sir, is Lovely, Charles Lovely."

"My nephew--humph--'tis your existence which has attracted me so many

miles West."

"I did not think you knew of my existence," said Charles half sneering.

"You never condescended to inform your uncle of your movements."

"Sir," said the nephew, a smile of bitter recollection twisting the

corners of his mouth. "I did not flatter myself that any attention on my

side was welcome."

"What! you remember our only interview?"

"I was eight years old, sir."

"Is that a date in youth's short calendar that breeds a specially

sensitive disposition of mind?"

"You turned me out of your house."

"On the contrary, nephew, you chose to go back to your father."

"Why wasn't he admitted, too?"

"Because," replied the uncle, "on a former occasion I was unfortunately

compelled to invite your father to leave my house."

"By what right?"

Sir George raised his eyebrows.

"Truly, nephew, I think you are indiscreet for a young man of such

fashion."

"I have the right to know," Charles burst out. "In all that I can

remember of my childhood, you stood like a shadow in the corner of the

room, you were the nightmare that haunted my pillow. You used to write

sometimes--oh! I can remember your letters in their fat pursy envelopes.

I can smell the sealing wax, black sealing wax, now. My father would go

out with an oath and my mother would sit by a window with your letter in

her lap, weeping, weeping."

"Did she weep, boy?"

"Ah! that pleases you, eh?"

"No, no, I was thinking what a laugh she had once--what a laugh. I

expect I was hard--I was--Charles, nephew, give me your hand--I----"

The old man faltered in his speech and, as if the room were dark, groped

for our hero's hand; the latter drew back.

"No! thank 'ee, Uncle, once is enough."

The old man did not heed the insult.

"Perhaps I understand your feelings, boy, I've read your poems."

Charles was touched for a moment, but hardened himself as he thought of

that wide staircase down which, clutching the balustrade with both

hands, he had stumbled alone. A child does not easily forgive a slight,

and Charles still regarded his uncle with the eyes of a child.

"Did she speak of me before she died?" murmured the old man with a

wistful eagerness.

"She may have spoken," said Mr. Lovely, "the fever was high."

"Or laugh--before she died? Nephew! to-night a young woman came to this

inn alone. She smiled like my sister, she laughed like my--like your

mother and like your mother she went away with the wrong man."

"What do you mean?" cried Charles too much startled by the sudden

violence of his uncle's speech to resent the criticism of his father.

"And you have ridden in pursuit? Then you are her lover--eh? She's

played you false as Joan played Roger false, and you are riding after

her, and you will shoot him and marry her, and bring her to Repington

Hall. 'Fore Heaven, I would give all my fortune to hear that laughter

ripple along the lonely corridors of Repington Hall. They used to sit in

the sunny window seat; and he would lean over the sill to pluck the

roses that blew beneath. I cut the tree down when he was killed, and in

the orchard where Lovely murdered him I planted cypresses."

"Murdered him?" cried Charles impressed against his will by the old

man's passion.

"Aye, murdered him. Roger was no swordsman, he was a gentle kindly

creature who loved old books and old friends, that's why I cannot

understand Belladine, why did Belladine let him fight, and what became

of--Good G----!" said the old man, "he's come back." Charles looked up

and, seeing only Beau Ripple standing in the doorway, concluded that his

uncle was gone mad.

"A pinch of snuff, George?" said Mr. Ripple.

"Thank'e, William," said Sir George. "This is my nephew, William--young

Charles Lovely."

"We are already very good friends," said the Beau.

The exchange of courtesies effected by the Beau with that unfailing tact

which characterized his least actions shed a new serenity over the

situation and, though Charles was completely puzzled by a surprizing

junction of personalities, he, too, with a profound instinct for the

correct attitude, bore a part in what was apparently nothing more out of

the way than a conversational episode in a social evening; yet three

twigs in a whirlpool do not jostle one another much more roughly than

the same three twigs in a puddle.

"How's the gout, George? You threatened at one time to become an easy

prey to our physical Alectro."

"Better, William, thankee, far better. I found that hard work kept it

off; or else I grew to drink less Port. I've dined solitary for a round

number of years now."

"Your uncle looks well, Charles. Egad, I believe after all gold is

better than iron for a man's health whatever the apothecaries tell us.

Where is Clare?--a good fellow that friend of yours, Charles. I like Mr.

Clare."

Tony came in from the stables at that moment and was presented to Sir

George Repington.

He had often heard Charles rail against his uncle, but, perceiving no

strain in the relation between them, entered yhe gathering with an easy

grace, and gave a very humorous account of their departure from the

Wells.

"Tut, tut," exclaimed Mr. Ripple, for Ripple he must remain, since as

Ripple he achieved immortality.

"Tut, tut, I cannot have these riotous assemblies. This comes of leaving

Curtain Wells. By the way, where is Mrs. Courteen?"

"She has an audience, sir," said Clare, "and is, therefore, as happy as

can be expected under the circumstances."

"Who is Mrs. Courteen?" This from Sir George.

"A lady in whose company I have set out upon a very restless adventure.

Cupid, George, has been shooting his arrows of late, without much regard

to our mortal comfort. I believe the young rogue was unduly elated by

the success of his Valentines."

"Sure, you aren't abroad on a love-affair, too, William?"

"Not of my own, George, but I have an onus in the matter. Some one has

stolen a porcelain shepherdess from my booth in Vanity Fair."

"That would be the young woman with whom I supped to-night in this inn.

Her name was Courteen."

"What! then we all have an interest in this matter, and can discuss the

proper conduct of it over the very excellent supper whose arrival I

anticipate without apprehension. This is a capital house, George."

"The landlord is an oddity," said Clare, "called me tulip and onion in a

breath, and begged to be allowed to brush the mud off my boots which he

said was a famous manure for carnation gillyflowers. I 'faith, the old

boy made me feel devilish unclean."

Mrs. Tabrum came in to say the widow would not take supper with the

gentlemen. She was much fatigued, and would be glad to retire to bed if

Mr. Pipple--or was it Ripple--had no objection.

"None whatsoever," replied the latter in a pensive tone of voice. He was

meditating rather sadly upon the circumscription of human fame.

A mere five-and-twenty miles from Curtain Wells, and already there was a

doubt as to whether he were Pipple or Ripple.

"The widow don't intend to proceed," said Charles, when Mrs. Tabrum had

curtseyed her way out.

"She is a foolish woman," said the Beau.

"But you are not going to leave the daughter to her fate," asked Sir

George. "As you----" he stopped.

Charles looked up; Mr. Ripple gravely took a pinch of snuff. "I think,"

said the former, "that I shall be more likely to catch the chariot.

What's o'clock?"

"Half-past ten," said Clare. "Your horse must rest an hour or two yet;

I'll ride with you."

"That would be wiser," said Sir George eagerly. "Then nobody will say

Charles took an unfair advantage of him. Although--" Again he stopped in

a sentence, and again Mr. Ripple took a pinch of snuff.

It was strange how Sir George had identified himself with Phyllida's

fortunes. It seemed as if he were staking his hope of a happy old age

upon the result of this love chase. The meeting with Phyllida had filled

up the rift which time and disappointment had created. He felt that

fortune owed him reparation for his sister's loss; and could not help

thinking what an appropriate instrument of the Fates had risen up in the

person of his nephew. Sir George Repington had become so much accustomed

in his large financial experience to the theory of just exchange that he

was inclined to put too blind a confidence in the scales, and was too

sure that the balance would adjust itself at some time or other. His

nephew had not shown himself greatly enraptured by this late

reconciliation, and Sir George had been lonely long enough. He was

anxious at eventide for company. Death came suddenly like a clock that

strikes in the night, and Sir George was afraid of the grey dawn

stealing over the tree tops through the gaunt windows of Repington Hall.

When the time came for him to face the vast uneasy realms of

immortality, he would like to feel that somewhere on this small green

earth, some hand would wave a sorrowful, a last farewell. He would

cherish these two lovers; the maid would bring him and Charles together

in friendship and charity. Everything pointed to a fortunate issue. He

no longer brooded resentfully over calamities that were forgotten long

ago. Belladine had come back. He and Belladine would sit on the sloping

Repington lawns. June was in front of them. Already, like balm upon the

old man's wounded heart, there stole the murmurous peace of the longest

day. He saw the golden light, and the long shadows of the elms. He heard

the caw of homing rooks and the flutter of thrushes in the great Hall

shrubberies. In dignity and in rustick ease he would move with measured

meditative steps like an English squire to his last account--not

account, that savoured too much of Throgmorton Street--to his last bed,

his virtues recorded in a Latin eulogy and for a memorial Charles and

Phyllida, perhaps a grandson George, certainly four weeping cherubs to

guard the four corners of his cenotaph.

Our hero was in that state when a host of conflicting emotions fight for

the mastery. So much had happened in this eventful day. Everything and

everybody appeared in a new perspective. Beau Ripple, seen by the

firelight of the Travellers' Room, was no longer the exquisite despot of

a world in miniature, the impersonal porcelain monarch, the rarest and

most valuable piece in an universe of Bric-a-brac. He was in some way

connected with the tragedy of his uncle's early life. The sovereign

marionette of amber and tortoise-shell, of perfumes and pomades, whom

Charles had known hitherto, was only an elegant exterior. Underneath

the sattin, it seemed, there lived a man--one Belladine, of whose

existence Fashion was ignorant. The well-dressed Attitude called Horace

Ripple would be revered long after his decease. His epigrams would be

quoted. He would represent a period in the frivolous archives of Curtain

Wells, but Belladine whose heart had quickened to something more vital

than a pretty measure, Belladine who had known tears and laughter,

Belladine the Man would be forgotten. Charles pondered with passionate

commiseration the myriad heartaches of poor humanity that were once

esteemed worthy of exaggeration until a new intrigue caught the publick

tongue, and contemplated regretfully the inevitable and gradual

insignificance of all scandal. Truly, it was more consoling to regard

Beau Ripple, that inexplicable phenomenon, than try to gain the

acquaintance of Mr. William Belladine who had once played an important