part in his uncle's life.

The latter, too, was different. He had only existed in Charles' mind as

an aversion of childhood, but Charles no longer objected to sleep in the

dark--the habit had come to him unconsciously. After all he owed Sir

George Repington no grudge; it would be absurd to cherish an animosity

that was based on a jejune domestick patriotism. The time had long gone

by when he thought his own father the finest gentleman in the world. Yet

was not this power of taking so much for granted, this passive

acceptance of change and decline, a surrender of his youth? Was he, in

fact, already divesting himself of all passionate reality? Charles

experienced the despair of the devout man whose faith deserts him. He

wrestled with his doubts and suddenly (it seemed a miracle) beheld on

the ingle seat a swansdown muff. Youth returned--a harlequin with the

supple wand of illusion. He stood once more in peach-coloured velvet

coat, staring up to a balcony over whose railing dimpled the most

enchanting face in England.

"This was your mother, boy," said Sir George almost timidly, breaking in

upon his dreams.

Very tenderly, Charles took the locket from the old man, and the sight

of the fresh young face brought back to his mind queer old nursery

rhymes, and his mother's voice and the smell of a pot of musk and the

cries of London coming in through an open window. There was a mist over

Charles' eyes and a lump in Charles' throat as he shook his uncle's

hand.

The latter wondered at himself for having been content to remain so long

without the consolation of an acknowledged heir. For all these years, he

had worked without an object. Now the great house of Repington and Son

should be incorporated with some equally famous house and a delightful

leisure was at last imaginable.

It warmed the old man's heart to hear Charles declare the importance of

immediate pursuit, to hear him shout for his horse to be saddled, lame

or sound, to see Mr. Clare look to the priming of the pistols and when,

on the threshold of departure, the old man saw his nephew pick up the

swansdown muff and cram it into the deep pocket of his great cloak, he

could scarcely forbear a loud huzza, such vigour and determination were

plainly visible on his nephew's attractive countenance.

One incident, just before he set out, served to chill our hero's fervour

and discount his conviction of success. He was coming back from the

stable and, as he passed the staircase that led to the bedchambers,

perceived Mrs. Courteen beckoning from the corridor. He stopped to bow;

and in a tone where politeness and condolence and hopefulness were

pleasantly mingled, as good as promised the speedy restoration of Miss

Phyllida Courteen.

"Sir," said the mother, "you are generous indeed to a fallen young

woman."

Our hero frowned at this description of his love.

"And equally generous," she continued, "towards the fault."

Charles made a movement, but the widow plaintively ignored the

interruption.

"They have told me of your generous resolve, but I would warn you, Mr.

Lovely, that interference in these matters is generally disastrous. The

child has done wrong--I do not wish to extenuate her crime--for crime

it is when you consider her mother's indulgence of every whim. I know

nothing of the eligibleness of the gentleman in whose company she has

chosen to shock the sensibility of her mother's small and select circle

of intimate friends."

Charles began to fidget.

"He may for all I know be a man of fashion, of rank, of fortune. He may,

on the other hand, be a play-actor, an attorney's clerk, or a journeyman

tinker. In either case it seems unlikely he will make an offer of

marriage. Pray do not put such an idea into his head. Marriages forced

upon reluctant suitors commonly turn out unhappy for both parties."

The widow must have been immensely in earnest, monstrously eager to

secure her ambition, for never before had her speech betrayed such power

of coherent expression.

"Let her go on her way," said the mother. "Let her find out for herself

the results of rebellion; when the villain deserts her, she may not be

quite so unwilling to stone the damsons next August. Let her learn her

lesson, Mr. Lovely, and pray do not persuade her to come back. Her

reputation is tarnished; and I am not at all inclined to bear the burden

of her ill-behaviour, as I should do, Mr. Lovely, as I certainly should

do since the world is censorious, and apt to visit the sins of the

children upon the heads of the father, as the Bible says."

Charles could scarcely believe that Mrs. Courteen was in earnest.

He knew her for a worldly-minded woman, careless of everything save her

own pleasures, but for such depths of callousness he was not prepared.

"Indeed, madam," he said coldly, "my only excuse for obtruding my

presence upon Miss Courteen at such a time is my sincere hope that she

will honour my solicitous regard with the bestowal of her hand."

"The child must be punished," insisted the mother.

"Indeed, madam, I venture to think we may safely leave that office to

the small and select circle of your intimate friends."

"I cannot understand what attracts--" Mrs. Courteen began, then changed

to "what makes men so generous."

Mr. Lovely regarded her contemptuously.

"So I should think."

"Cruel Mr. Lovely," moaned the widow, "Cruel to suggest that I am

ungenerous. Why, I have never mentioned the pearls which were taken out

of my jewel-case."

"They say that Miss Courteen's necklace vastly becomes her mother."

"Do they, indeed, sir?" said the widow with an affected sigh.

Charles made an impatient gesture.

"Do you imagine, madam, that I am going to tire a good-hearted horse for

the sake of allowing you to bask in the flattery of your friends? By

G----! I tell you that one of 'em is already dead--shot for the sake of

that daughter whose ruin you contemplate so tranquilly."

The widow turned pale.

"At any rate," Charles continued; "at any rate, the little Major with

all his strut died like a cock of the game."

"The Major dead," half screamed the widow; and even that information, so

brutally delivered, provided the thought that now more than ever was it

necessary to prevent Phyllida's marriage.

"Aye, dead! He'll be here in the morning when the Wells waggon arrives."

Charles turned away from the widow, thinking how impossible it was to

believe that a mother could be so heartless. The desire to cherish

Phyllida surged over him in a wave of tenderness; but when presently he

and Clare set out from the inn-door, under the tail of the storm-cloud

shedding stars in slow retreat across the sky, he felt Despair upon his

heels and pondered the infamy of this beautiful world. Poor hero! he was

a gamester even in his emotions and, having staked his hope in one wild

throw, was fearfully watching the issue. What a maddening melody the

cubes made when rattled by the hands of Fate.

Pray remember, before you dismiss the widow to your eternal disdain,

that she may have loved young Mr. Standish, that rugged Squire Courteen

may have been very brutal in his cups, that such a malicious Codicil

might have soured a woman less dependent upon the amenity of life.

Finally, pray remember that she was a woman who did not wrinkle easily,

and the consequent temptations of a deceitful mirrour. Looking-glasses,

like human beings, lie more often than is commonly supposed, but possess

an unlucky reputation for truthfulness which seldom hampers humanity.

Left alone with Sir George, Mr. Ripple took advantage of the opportunity

to explain to his old friend certain events on which the latter had long

brooded in vain.

_Chapter the Thirty-fifth_

THE CUTTING OF A DIAMOND

"And what is your life, William?" asked Sir George Repington, leaning

back in his chair and removing his wig.

"My life, George," replied Mr. Ripple, "is a gem carved by a cunning

workman to stamp any material sufficiently plastick to record an

impression. My life, George, is a conductor of musick. Of itself it

produces no sweet sounds, but evokes a fair harmony from many and

diverse instruments."

"You had ambitions once."

"I have gratified the most of them."

"Yet your life has not been active."

"No?"

"As for example mine has been."

"I do not know, George, that my contemplative existence has produced

less than your phrenzied encounters with mathematical alliances and

numerical intrigues. The manipulation of human beings is quite as

active. We have neither of us done a vast deal."

"I have had a great influence upon the political situation, more than

once," said Sir George proudly.

"So have I," said the Beau.

"Indeed?"

"I have tamed the wives of the most of our ministers."

"But you are not a man of intrigue?"

"Heaven forbid!" said the Beau devoutly. "No, no George, my knowledge of

Olympian intrigue taught me to be wise. I found that the gods never

improved their dignity by amorous descents. To be sure, on one or two

occasions, they made an effort to assert their divinity by dramatical

effects unworthy of a country conjurer, but I do not believe that they

ever recovered from the indiscretion of familiarity with their

inferiors. No! no! George, I am not a man of intrigue."

"Then what is your life? How do you pass your time?"

Sir George Repington had lit a churchwarden pipe and accentuated the

inquiry by waving the long stem. Mr. Ripple took a pinch of snuff and,

settling himself deeper in his chair, began to relate his manner of

existence in a clear and modulated tone that agreed well with the

comfort of the room. The narrative took its own course and reminded one

of the purring of a cat amid the flickering shadows cast by firelight on

a gaudy rug.

"I assumed my present name--Horace Ripple--partly out of respect to the

poet, partly out of respect to my father's mother. Belladine was too

metallick, too lustrous an appellation for a man without any desire to

agitate the peace of the world. Besides, there were other reasons why I

should forget my patronymick. As Horace Ripple, I rode one fine morning

into the town of Curtain Wells, procured a pleasant house in the Eastern

Colonnade and waited upon Beau Melon. The latter received me very

graciously and was pleased to compliment me upon the trimming of my

waistcoat. (I have often contemplated the revival of that auspicious

fashion.) I was lucky enough to render the great Beau a trifling

service, in the matter of adjusting the discordant claims of two

dairymaids who were quarrelling rather loudly over the young Earl

of---- well, his name don't matter. Melon had been entrusted with the

harvesting of the young nobleman's wild oats. After that I was able to

lend him five hundred pounds and half a dozen epigrams, also to put him

in the way of a neat translation of a song by the passionate Catullus,

whereby he secured the hand of the famous, wealthy, and eccentrick

Contessa Dilettante. He married, bequeathed to me his house, his

notebooks, and his goodwill, so that in a paltry five years I succeeded

to the sovereignty of Curtain Wells. Our season endures from October

until June. During that time I am as busy as a monarch should expect to

be. I have made many alterations during the years of my rule; for

instance, the Assemblies once held every Wednesday are now invariably

held every Monday."

"But what the d----l does it matter which day they are held?"

interrupted Sir George.

"Of course, it does not matter. Nothing matters. Nevertheless, George,

when I announced the change, I tell you my throne, for a moment,

tottered. However, I triumphed over the malcontents, and I venture to

think it would take a very bold man to suggest they should ever again be

held upon Wednesday."

"But, my dear William!" said his friend, "this is nonsense. 'Tis absurd

for you to sit there and congratulate yourself as though this were doing

something."

"My dear George," said the Beau very blandly. "Did I not read last year

in the _Intelligence_ that you were agitating yourself confoundedly in

order to secure some great financial advantage by altering the date of

the despatch of bullion to Portugal?"

"You did, William, you did," said Sir George, setting his shoulders back

at the proud thought of a great victory won.

"And what the d----l does it matter whether the ships sail in February

or March?"

"You don't understand--the depression of the markets, the----"

"Precisely so," interrupted Mr. Ripple, "and you, my dear friend, do not

understand the depression of Monday and Tuesday in the time before my

great reform."

"But mine was an affair of international importance."

"And mine was an affair of domestick and social importance. Gadslife, do

you suppose that my subjects care a jot about your schemes, if their own

bodies are uncomfortable? Do you realize that many an election

depends--yet why should I dispute the question. Nothing matters, but

everything is of the very greatest importance."

Sir George was bewildered by the Beau's sophistry and argued no

farther. After all, as he told himself, the atmosphere of Throgmorton

Street had probably stultified his outlook. He himself only regarded it

as a necessary, if purgatorial prologue to the paradise of the life of a

man of leisure. Belladine was a man of leisure, and if Aristotle's

politicks were not corrupt, must know more than himself about the

affairs of the whole world. So Sir George kindled a fresh pipe with a

burning coal, and listened to the continuation of Mr. Ripple's placid

narrative.

"I perceived," the latter went on, "that pleasure was the most

inexorable fact, setting aside birth and death, in the human economy.

Before my time, the diversions of Curtain Wells, though conducted on a

lavish scale of expense were somewhat haphazard. They did not always fit

in with the moods of the pilgrims of AEsculapius. Too much was left to

private enterprize. There was not enough organization and, worst of all,

there was not enough stress laid upon the ascetick duties, whose

fulfilment would lend such a flavour and zest to relaxation. I

instituted, therefore, a rigour of exercise and diet, I insisted upon

the sacred character of the Pump Room, I glorified the taking of

chalybeate by a ritual at once subtle and magnificent. In a word, I

founded a new religion and, as the auctioneers have it, made of Curtain

Wells a true Temple of Hygeia. Having trained my subjects to make

themselves uncomfortable in a modish way, I was soon able to urge the

necessity of enjoying themselves on the same principle. To this end I

arranged that every month should have its specifick pleasures, which

would be welcomed as we welcome each flower that succeeds in its season.

I will not fatigue you with too much detail, but I can honestly affirm

that when the great Aquatick Gala or Fete Aqueuse comes to a dazzling

conclusion, when the showers of bursting crimson, violet, and golden

rockets dim the lustre of the Dog Star on the last night of June, the

whole of the fashionable world retires to verdant solitudes with a

profound admiration for me and a fixed determination to grace the grand

opening Assembly on the first night of October."

"Indeed," said Sir George Repington, on whose mind a new prospect was

breaking, "and how do you pass your time during the intervening months?"

"I meditate, George, I meditate in a charming rural retreat which I

possess in the green heart of Devonshire. There I spend leafy days in

pastoral seclusion. I have my plane tree, my jug of old Falernian. I

have my spaniel, Lalage, and an impoverished female cousin who performs

very engagingly upon the spinet. I sit in the austere musick-chamber

with shadowy white walls, empty save for two or three tall black oaken

chairs and the curiously painted instrument. I listen to the cool

melodies of Couperin and admire his unimpassioned symbols of the

Passions where a purple domino is the most violent, the most fervid

emotion. I hear above the chirping of the crickets, the faint harmonies

of Archangelo Corelli and the fugues of Domenico Scarlatti, whose name

is so vivid, but whose musick like the morning is a mist of gold. I sit

in a library hung with faded rose brocades and tarnished silver

broideries. There I meditate upon the bloody deaths of Emperors and the

grey hairs of Helen of Troy. There I move serenely from shelf to shelf

and hark to the muffled thunder of volumes clapped together to exclude

the odorous dust. I ponder Religion and Urn Burial and pore over the

lurid histories of notable comets. At dusk of a fine day, I step out

into the dewy garden to watch the colour fade from the flowers and the

stars wink in the lucent green of the western sky. Presently I step

indoors, light a tall wax candle set in a silver candlestick, go

sedately to bed and fall asleep to the perfume of roses and jasmine and

the echo of a cadence from the _Anatomy of Melancholy_."

"And that is your life?" said Sir George.

"That is my life."

"William, would it have been your life if things had been different on

that April morning? I thought my life was as I would have wished to

spend it; I have worshipped dull columns of figures and the dust of

counting-houses, but to-night when I saw that child, when I saw that

nephew of mine, I feared old age and wished I could somehow have

thought less, calculated less, striven less, and loved more."

"George," said Mr. Ripple, tapping the lid of his snuff box with not so

brave an air as usual, and, as he spoke, his friend apprehended in a

moment's illumination that all this decorated narrative had been evoked

to defer an explanation which he had felt all the while was inevitable.

"George," said Mr. Ripple, "if upon that morning in April, I could have

made up my mind, I should, I believe, have--and yet I don't know," he

broke off, "I doubt I was never intended to be a man of commonplace

action."

"You did not interfere?"

"I loved her, too."

"You loved her?"

"I saw she cared for him alone, and, when Roger fell, though I had my

pistol loaded and levelled, I had no heart to fire. But I was never

brave enough to tell you I had let him escape and, having waited too

long--oh! well there it is--I waited and could not bear to resume my old

life. And indeed, George, I think I have been a happy man. You have

conjured up the ghost of Belladine to-night and Belladine was and is and

will be miserable to the end of his days, but pray dismiss him, vex not

his ghost, and take snuff with Horace Ripple of the Great House, Curtain

Wells. We are both too old, George, to do anything now. We must depend

on young Charles."

"And if he should fail?"

"We are both old men. We should, therefore, both be able to suffer

another disillusion."

"I suppose that is true," said Sir George rather sadly. "William----"

"Horace," corrected Mr. Ripple.

"William," persisted the other, "did I ever mention Thistlegrove Cottage

to you?"

"Not that I can remember."

"'Tis a fine night, full of stars," said Mrs. Tabrum, entering the room

with a tray full of brightly burning candles, "and what time would your

honours like to be waked up in the morning?"

"I will ring my bell," said Mr. Ripple.

"I will ring my bell," said Sir George Repington.

The two old friends took each a candle, and went upstairs to bed. From

the corridor casement they looked out.

"What a laugh she had," says Sir George. A gust of wind extinguished his

candle, and he shuddered.

"That is the way I shall go out."

"That is the way we shall all go out," said Mr. Ripple.

"And nothing afterwards?"

"Darkness."

"And nothing else?"

"Perhaps a hand in the darkness."

_Chapter the Thirty-sixth_

THE SCARLET DAWN

The post-chariot that held in its musty recesses Miss Phyllida Courteen

and Mr. Francis Vernon rattled on its way with all the vigour imparted

by four fresh horses and the exhilarating effect of Plymouth Gin upon

the post-boys.

A smell of saddlecloths and damp cushions, of leather straps and the

dust of oat and hay, clung to the vehicle while over them was wafted the

permeating steam of horses' flanks and the pungent odour of hot lamps.

"Phyllida, my Phyllida, at last."

"Why did you let me travel alone? I was frightened."

"My dear," said Vernon, "indeed, I do not know how to explain my

neglect, but I wanted to ride out of the darkness and find you alone in

the firelight like a maid in an old tale. It must have seemed cowardice

to you."

"I was frightened," murmured Phyllida, growing breathless at the

recollection of Mr. Charlie and Mr. Dicky Maggs lurching round the table

in the Travellers' Room.

"You longed for me?" Vernon moved closer to his love and took her hand.

"Amor," said the girl shuddering, "I think I am frightened now. I think

we will go back. I think I have done wrong."

"You think all these foolish thoughts, dear life. I know that to-day

will be to you a day of days for ever."

He held her now in his arms, and she with a sigh yielded herself into

his keeping. Soft she was and timid, like a bird which has fallen from

the nest, and in the gloom he could still see her wide blue eyes and

above the jangle of the chariot he could hear her whisper,

"I love you, Amor, I love you."

"My Phyllida."

"Amor, dear, dear Amor."

"'Tis not my name, dear one."

"'Tis the name you told me."

"My name is Vernon."

"To me you will always be Amor. Amor means Love. I asked the Archdeacon

and he told me that Amor meant Love."

Vernon was taken outside of himself. As he kissed those lips more soft

than the petals of flowers, the other lips he had known seemed cracked

and dry. In the darkness, he felt her eyelashes upon his cheek as they

drooped to a blush, and a passion of remorse swept over him. He would

wed this child at the end of the journey. He would love her for ever.

That was certain. Oh, yes, there was no doubt he would love her for

ever. He had plucked this flower in a wanton moment, had thought to wear

her for a scented month and fling her away. O execrable intent!

"My Phyllida, my Phyllida! Why do you love me?"

"Why do you love me?" Her hand nestled in his.

"I don't know, because--because--oh, because I do love you, because you

have driven me mad with your blue eyes and your hair and your lips. My

Phyllida, my Phyllida!"

Vernon was no longer conscious of acting. This was no scene set with

chairs at appropriate angles. The raffish Mr. Francis Vernon of London,

the clever Mr. Francis Vernon who vowed every woman had her price, Mr.

Vernon the hero of half a hundred squalid intrigues was dead. Why should

he not forget him, taking for his own that fortunate pseudonym which had

set him as high as the angels? With a gesture of dismay, he drew from

his cuff a greasy King of Hearts and spurned the dishonourable cardboard

with his foot.

"Amor!"

"My dear! My lovely one! My heart!"

"Once I climbed up a high hill at home in Hampshire."

He held her more closely.

"I climbed a hill and stared for a long while right into the sun. I was

giddy. Amor! Amor! I feel now as I did when I stared for a long while

into the sun."

"Phyllida! Phyllida!"

"You'll never not love me, Amor?"

"Never, I swear it."

"I could not bear you not to love me. Once I knew a young woman whose

lover forsook her and she used to work woollen flowers all day long with

a tambour frame, because she was working woollen flowers when he told

her that he loved her, and she never did anything else all the years

that we knew her; and, Amor, she is working them now, and oh, I'm afraid

when I think of her working those woollen flowers."

Vernon in his new frame of mind could scarcely forbear telling his love

of the ills he had intended towards her. He had caught a passion for

frankness and would have poured into her ears the whole of his past. He

could not endure, to such elation had he been carried, that Phyllida

should be ignorant of the worst of him in order that for the future she

should know more truly the very best of him. But he was wise and, though

Cupid had lent him his own wings, he would not play too many aerial

pranks, soar too near the sun, fall and break his neck. It was indeed a

form of abnegation that prevented him from showing Phyllida his own bad

self. It was bitter to hear her murmur, with a white hand on his sleeve.

"I knew you were true, my true love, all the time, all the time."

Nothing tugs at the heart-strings of a man like a young maid's plighting

of her troth. Nothing makes his brain reel like her first kiss freely

given.

"Oh, Phyllida, Phyllida! I'm not fit for you."

"Foolish Amor."

"Are you happy, my dearest?"

"Oh, so happy."

"We shall never be parted again."

"Never!"

"I did not know that life was so wonderful."

"I thought it was," she murmured, as she nestled to his heart, "because

Spring was always so sweet, and now I need never mind the Winter."

"All the years I did not know you, my Phyllida, were wasted years."

"Amor!"

"Phyllida!"

"How I shall always love you."

"Always?"

"To the end."

"Once," she said with a sigh, "I longed to grow old, and now I would

like to be always young."

"Ah! Phyllida, my Phyllida, don't speak of age. I've wasted so much of

my life."

He thought with anguish of the dead Summers he had known and wondered

with a great dread whether they would come again. If, while he could

still feel this splendid passion, they should be grey and dismal, he

would never forgive himself for having revelled in the warmth and gaiety

of those irrevocable seasons.

"You are not sad?" she asked, jealous of his silence.

"I wish that life were not so short."

Our villain was beginning to examine the foundations of his existence

upon this earth, where hitherto he had jogged along, accepting the most

outrageous calamity and good luck with placid superficial mind.

Meditation upon the brevity of a life, which at any moment a tavern

brawl might extinguish, would have seemed to him before this passionate

conversation a lunatick method of spending time. Poor villain! he had

not enjoyed much leisure for meditation. He was born in a hurry, his

mother being under contract to appear as Millamant a long while before

she should. He was brought up in a hurry at Alleyn's School to be

murdered in a hurry by some Richard III. Moreover, in youth he had

assisted at so many tinsel deaths that it was not surprizing he should

regard them lightly. Even his mother's death within sound of the orange

girls outside Drury Lane struck him as nothing more final than a last

appearance.

Now for the first time, there broke upon him the stunning fact of

inevitable decay and, being a self-indulgent man, he had for the moment

nothing more dignified than petulant despair with which to meet this

sudden apprehension of mortality.

"'Tis monstrous," he declared, "a fearful thought that you and I should

ever grow old and die. I cannot bear to think of your brown hair growing

white. Phyllida, you cannot grow old."

Love had made a woman of Phyllida and already, with gentle touch, she

soothed his anguish.

"Dear Amor, I know that if we love each other truly, we shall never grow

old to each other."

"Phyllida, I love you," and clasping her lissome body breathless to his,

he defied the lightning of the Gods.

And now a new fear assailed him. 'We shan't be followed,' he had

contemptuously informed old Mother Mawhood at Blackhart Farm. In sudden

dread he leaned out of the window of the chariot, and strained his eyes

to pierce the darkness. He could see nothing save the shadows of the

postillions against the hedge, hear nothing save the clatter of the

horses. The loneliness and gloom affected his spirits and with a shudder

he sought again the musty interior of the vehicle. He caught his love to

his heart.

"What did you see?" she asked.

"Nothing, but I was afraid, I could not bear to lose you now."

"You saw nothing?"

"Nothing."

"And heard nothing?"

"Nothing. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, Amor, I thought I saw the shadow of a man on horseback."

"Fancy, my sweet, fancy." Then, with a sinking fear, he remembered he

had told Mother Mawhood of the pearls. He called to mind the postboys'

insolence, the look that passed between Charlie and Dickie when he told

them he would ride in the chariot. He sprang in alarm to open the

window, but the carriage pulled up with a jerk which flung him back

against Phyllida. The glass crashed to the heavy butt of a pistol and,

as he stretched out for his own fire-arms, he saw the postboys resting

long barrels on the sill and, by the lamp which one of them held, a

masked face that with thick brutal voice demanded their money.

"Hand 'em over."

"Hand what over?" said Vernon, in a futile attempt to delay his

humiliation.

"The pops first," said one of the Maggs, winking humorously in the

direction of Vernon's pistols that in leathern holsters lay harmless on

the dusty floor of the chariot.

Now occurred one of those astonishing coincidences that have tempted the

speculation of many sages since the beginning. A field-mouse chose that

very moment to cross the road. A large white owl spied the diminutive

pilgrim and, having tasted no food that stormy night, swooped daringly

upon his prey under the heads of the standing horses. Terrified by the

soft white apparition, the leaders plunged forward. In a moment the

chariot was bumping and jolting at a wild pace down the road, having

broken Charlie Maggs' big toe in transit. The blackguard deserved a scar

for his carelessness, if for nothing else, and the limp he earned that

night was some time afterwards the means of proving his complicity in

the affair of the blind mouse-tamer, thereby ridding the world of a very

dirty rascal. Mice were fatal to Charlie Maggs. It is satisfactory to

know that the adventurous animal avoided the owl, and it is also

consoling to learn that the latter never adorned a gamekeeper's pole,

but died a natural death in the hollow trunk where it had spent actually

all the days of its life.

It was a moment or two before Vernon understood that the danger was

averted; then he bent low to reassure Phyllida, who was crouching in the

darkest corner of the chariot.

"My dear," he cried, and for all the swaying motion caught her to him

with a certain grace. "My dear, there is nothing to be afraid of now."

"Oh! Amor!" she sobbed, abandoning herself to the horror of remembrance,

"that face--that black face."

"My sweet, you shall never see it again."

"It will follow us."

"If he should I have something here that will frighten him away fast

enough."

Vernon waved a pistol which he had picked up even as he caught hold of

Phyllida. But the masked face did not pursue them and, after a mile or

so of noisy swaying progress, Vernon began to consider the possibility

of stopping the carriage. He leaned out of the window and nearly had his

eyes put out by a bramble sucker. A survey from the other side, where

the remaining lamp lent a wavering illumination, showed they were

travelling at an alarming pace down a deep rocky lane. Vernon noticed

that the boulders in places trespassed considerably upon the road with

projecting points, and there seemed every likelihood of the chariot

being presently wrecked like a rudderless boat. However, runaway horses

and drunken men share a large amount of the world's luck between them,

and notwithstanding the headlong speed, every boulder in turn was

successfully avoided. Farther along, the surface of the road grew worse

and, every other second, one of the wheels would grate against the side

of a deep rut with a horrid jar. They were going downhill now and Vernon

strained his eyes to discover the lie of the country. The pace was

harder than ever, and it seemed impossible for four horses to survive

the roughness of the road and the steepness of the descent.

Suddenly above the clatter they heard the roar of water: at the same

moment the front wheel struck some permanent obstacle: the chariot

dipped forward: Phyllida and Vernon were flung in a tangled heap on the

floor, while the sudden cessation of movement made the noise of the

water sound very portentous in the gloom. Vernon extricated himself from

the vehicle on the lighted side and, jumping out, splashed his way

through mire and puddles to the horses' heads. The two leaders with that

unexpected philosophy which in horses often succeeds the most fervid

excitement were cropping the young herbage peacefully, while the

wheelers were only slightly more restive through their inability to

reach the same sweet pasture. Vernon snatched the solitary lamp from the

socket and went to help Phyllida alight. As she stood upon the step and

gave him her little hand, he divined with a sense of awe, begotten by

the solitude of the surroundings, that she was truly his. He was Adam

greeting Eve with the mystery of woman all about her in that primaeval

Spring.

The scene of the catastrophe was peculiarly solemn. The chariot had

struck a column of stone that rose suddenly out of the ground as if the

finger of a Titan had been frozen into perpetuity to mark some early and

gigantick travail of his mother Earth. The lamp with feeble yellow light

made monstrous shadows of the huge features it sought vainly to

illuminate. So far as he could judge they were nearly at the bottom of a

deep ravine along which swept a torrent whose magnitude was impossible

to estimate, since the roar of the waterfall gave it in the darkness a

dreadful importance.

"It must be close on two o'clock," said Vernon, "let's leave this

disastrous vehicle. We may find shelter somewhere over this valley."

Phyllida drew the riding hood round her and, taking her lover's arm,

silently acquiesced in this proposal.

As they drew near the waterfall, the thunder of it made her shiver. They

crossed the torrent by a stone bridge that seemed to have become a

natural feature in the landskip.

On the far side by a common impulse they stopped and Vernon leaned down

to kiss her face.

"My Phyllida," he murmured; and held the lamp so that he could see the

shimmer and gleam of love in her eyes. They stood silent, enraptured,

and the hot yellow lamp away down in the depths of this world-forsaken

valley became the very torch of Hymen.

With slow steps they climbed the opposite hill, deserting the waters and

the rocks, the ferns, the little bridge, for the grey starshine above

the gloom. Yet the awe of that solemn ravine, which they had reached

after such peril, enthralled them still and I think both felt as if

somehow their love had been consecrated by a divine being. It was quite

a relief from the strain of reverence when Vernon informed Phyllida that

there was no sign of any human habitation.

"What shall we do with the carriage?" asked the latter.

"Don't fret about that."

"And the horses?"

"They must take their chance. I wish I knew the hour."

"You said it must be two o'clock."

"The sun does not rise till half-past five. Three hours and a half. I

wonder why we left the chariot. It would be wiser to go back. You will

be cold in this open country."

The wind was blowing shrewdly up there in the starlight, and Phyllida

would not deny she was cold and tired.

"We had better go back to the chaise. 'Twas warmer in the valley."

Yet both of them felt a strange disinclination to risk the disillusion

of return till, suddenly, up there in the wind and starlight, terror

caught them, and the noise of water tumbling over rocks gave them a

sense of security from this wide place of silence.

"'Tis a monstrous uneasy country," said Vernon, voicing in common speech

the sense of woe that oppressed him.

"I feel frightened," Phyllida agreed, "let us go back to the water."

They stopped to listen as people will whose minds have been much wrought

upon. There was nothing but the lisp of the wind in the bents of last

year's grass and a melo-dious sighing in the boughs of larches. Yet

never throughout that adventurous night had Phyllida's heart pattered at

such a pace, never had she been so near to shrieking aloud. Without

longer delay they turned back in the direction of the coombe, walking

with quick steps as if to avoid an invisible pursuit. Half-way down the

hill, Vernon stooped to gather a primrose.

"Here's a daisy," he said.

"A daisy," Phyllida cried. "Why, foolish Amor, 'tis a primrose," and

whatever fiend or goblin followed in their wake fled in affright at the

sound of her rippling laughter.

I think nothing shows more conclusively that Mr. Vernon was in love with

Miss Courteen than his indifference to her ridicule.

"Sweetest," he said, "I'm ignorant of the best things like flowers," and

forthwith began to tell Phyllida of his life in London, so that when

presently they stood again upon the bridge, he was raising his voice in

order to describe his first impressions of rustick Marybone, to which he

added a very nice account of the view of the Hampstead Hills.

Under the influence of this narrative, the scene lost some of its

grandeur. An air of grottoes, of stone embellishments, arbours, and

cunning recesses shed itself over the landskip. One heard comparisons

with this or that famous haunt of sight-seeing mobs. In fact both Vernon

and Phyllida, being English, felt their late raptures were unbecoming,

and having excused a lapse into sensibility by the fright they had

suffered, proceeded to declare that the chasm, far from being Titanick,

would make a mighty fine site for an excursion of pleasure. At least

Vernon clothed the opinion in words, Phyllida was too much fatigued to

do more than murmur a weary assent.

They found the chariot just as they had left it and the four horses

browsing upon the grass. He handed her into the vehicle, made her

comfortable with what rugs and cloaks he could collect and left her to

rest with the assurance he would remain close at hand. She gave his hand

a tired clasp and almost immediately fell fast asleep. Vernon tethered

the horses to various stumps in the vicinity, and proceeded to doze and

dream away the cold hours before dawn in the shelter of a particularly

large and overhanging ledge of rock. The sound of the falling water that

deafened him with its roar when first he heard it, now soothed him like

a gentle lullaby.

I cannot do justice to the scene: Rembrandt with his powerful and gloomy

imagination could have etched it. He would have made the two lovers

present themselves to the onlooker in their right proportions to the

scenery. You and I are too near to the candlelight of Curtain Wells to

believe in the romantick desolation wherein they seemed of no more

importance than the ferns that hung down their green tongues to the

limpid pools hollowed from jagged rocks. Vernon, huddled in the shelter

of the crag, with his hat pressed over his eyes, his knees arched as

high as his chin, might well have been a belated herdsman who, having

flung himself into this valley to avoid the upland wind, had been

bewitched by the magick of running water to dream away the night. The

horses in the black shadows and the ruined chariot had an air of Gothick

melancholy; the yellow lamp that glimmered fitfully in the heart of the

abyss served only to throw into more huge relief the neighbouring rocks,

while it lighted the thresholds of gaping caverns that stretched beyond

to unimaginable depths of solitude and gloom. The night wore on and over

the hill the lovers had found so depressing to their spirits, like a

sword in the twilight, lay the first grey streak of dawn. Phyllida and

her lover slept while the features of the landskip began to win again

their own outlines, while the rocks that were wrapped in the warm velvet

of night appeared with a cold sheen. The grey streak widened to a broad

lake whose margin was flecked with the faint hues of lavender and mauve.

Birds began to twitter and chirp in the trees and bushes that overhung

the rocks below, while the winds of dawn fluted in the small withy bed

beside the bridge.

Very wan in the morning twilight, Mr. Charles Lovely and Mr. Anthony

Clare clattered down the deep lane that led to the valley. Their horses'

flanks glistened with the sweat of hard travel and the riders rose

hardly to the jerking downhill motion.

Just as the rose-tipped fingers of Aurora plucked the lavender from the

skies, Charles and Tony caught sight of the chariot and just as they

pulled their horses to a standstill, Mr. Vernon woke up. It is

characteristick of the latter's new-found consideration that his first

action was to warn them with a gesture of Phyllida's presence fast

asleep inside. Charles tapped his holsters in reply and pointed up the

opposite slope. Vernon rose to follow his pursuers with a backward

glance in the direction of the chariot.

When they were over the bridge and out of Phyllida's hearing Charles

reined in his walking horse and inquired if Vernon was willing to give

him satisfaction.

"For what?" said the latter with a sneer.

"For insulting my Muse," said Charles, determined if possible not to

make Phyllida the subject of the quarrel.

"Your muse?" echoed Vernon, with the faintest intonation of surprise,

"but I promised you satisfaction for that a month hence."

Vernon was equally determined that Phyllida should be the direct

occasion of the duel, if duel there must be.

The rosy heavens became a sheet of vivid scarlet intersected with the

golden bars of the fast rising sun. Up he came in a blaze and dazzle of

glory, lustrous and invigorating; still the colour was not quite

effaced, and on the three men that scarlet dawn made an invincible

impression of disaster and woe. A red sky is a warning to shepherds and

sailors, no doubt it was ominous to lovers.

The summit of the hill was reached and involuntarily the three paused in

their wrangling to marvel at the extensive landslip suffused with the

amber haze of earliest morn. The homesteads in sight seemed untenanted:

there was not a single column of curling smoke to mark the presence of

humanity.

Where they were standing, the road was bordered on either side by a wide

stretch of level sward. On the left was a spinney of larches showing as

yet no crimson plumes of Spring, round which numbers of rabbits

gambolled in air that sparkled like golden wine. It seemed indeed more

like July than April, and only the bare trees told the true tale of the

season's youthfulness. Up here on the top of the world the three men

drank in the beauty of the universe and, having as it were performed

their orisons, turned to arrange the details of a bloody encounter.

"I promised I would meet you where you would in a month's time,"

repeated Vernon obstinately.

"But I prefer to meet you now," replied Charles.

"I have no one to act for me."

"Mr. Clare will act for both of us."

"That is an irregular proceeding."

"I don't care."

"And Miss Courteen?" Vernon was resolved to drag Charles to the real

point at issue. "What is to become of Miss Courteen?"

"In either event, Mr. Clare will be able to escort her back to Curtain

Wells."

"D---- n you," said Vernon, roused by his enemy's assumption of

guardianship. "And what if she wishes to stay with me?"

"Mr. Lovely has her mother's authority to conduct her home," interposed

Clare.

"What you two prim busybodies don't appear to understand is that Miss

Courteen prefers to remain with me."

"Miss Courteen is not her own mistress. She is not of age," said Clare.

"And pray how do you propose to make her accompany you?"

"Why, in this way," interrupted Charles, shaking off his friend's arm,

"in this way, Mr. Vernon. If you decline to meet me with pistols, by

G---- I'll thrash you senseless with my crop."

Vernon's hands twitched for a moment, but he had learned a new

restraint, gained a new dignity from the wondrous ride and with scarcely

a perceptible quiver in his voice begged to point out to his friend Mr.

Lovely that if he shot him, he should not scruple to shoot Mr. Clare

were the latter to stand in his way.

"But what if you're shot, Sir?" cried Charles, betraying in his

eagerness the true reason for his desire to force an instant encounter,

"as by G---- you deserve to be for murdering the poor little Major."

Vernon was perplexed.

"The Major? Is he dead? I had nothing to do with his death." The

simplicity of the denial almost convinced his listeners that he was

speaking the truth.

"Come, Sirrah, will you meet me? said Charles, lifting his crop.

"Listen, you pair of puppies," said Vernon between his teeth. "I could

have put a bullet into either of you at any time during the last five

minutes, and by heavens, I don't know why I kept my finger from the

trigger. Yes, I do," he shouted. "I've got a chance of happiness and I'm

not going to throw it away by having your blood on my head. You're an

interfering pair of fools, but I cheated one of you at cards and I

played a low game over the book, and by G----, I believe my father was a

gentleman. I'll meet you, Mr. Lovely, now."

With these words he flung down on the grass at Charles' feet the two

pistols which the skirts of his riding-coat had concealed.

"I'll step fifteen paces," said Mr. Clare, hiding his emotion with a

piece of practical utility. And, as he began to measure the ground, away

down in the broken chariot, Phyllida woke with a start. She was

surprized by the daylight and called to her lover. Only birdsong

answered her voice. In sudden dismay, presentiment hanging over her like

the aftermath of an evil dream, she jumped from the chariot. Intuition,

perhaps the remembrance of last night's fear, made her look towards the

summit of the slope. In silhouette against the golden sky, she saw three

figures. Breathless with horror she ran in their direction. Up the hill

she laboured. It was still cold from the night air and foreboding was

heavy upon her heart. Up the hill she struggled, leaving in her path

many fluttering pieces of muslin where eager feet had torn the frail

flounces. Down the road, she saw them level their weapons. "One, two,

three," came in measured tones along the still air of the morning. There

were two shots, the scud of frightened rabbits to their burrows, a

reeling figure, a cloud across the sun, a mist over life, and she was

kneeling in the dewy grass beside Amor.

"Oh, God!" she screamed, "He's dead. Oh! Oh! Oh!"

That anguished cry wounded Lovely deeper than any leaden bullet, for it

killed his hopes.

At the touch of his dear one, Vernon opened his dark eyes.

"Here's a bunch of primroses," he murmured, "not daisies. I picked them,

Phyllida ... for you ... not daisies ... primroses...."

And so with thoughts of flowers, Mr. Francis Vernon died. Pray let that

sentence be his epitaph.

Charles, watching the maid stare into the sun with eyes whose light

seemed fled with the swift-flying soul of the dead man, wished

passionately--wildly--that he were the quiet body there in the dewy

grass.

"What shall we do?" he murmured brokenly to Clare.

"Leave her alone for a while."

"What a mistake it has been."

They walked away with cautious steps and spoke in whispers as if they

were afraid.

"What right had I to interfere between lovers?"

"You did it for the best."

"I know, I know, but what a d----d number of silly actions are done for

the best."

"To-day is the first of April," said Clare, seeking with a commonplace

to relieve the tension of Charles's distracted mind.

"Is it? What an April fool fortune has made of me."

_Chapter the Thirty-seventh_

APRIL FOOLS

The last ejaculation of Chapter XXXVI will serve as an admirable summary

of the positions in which a number of our characters found themselves on

April the First, in the year whose annals include this small history.

There is a peculiar happiness of choice in making the first day of that

treacherous and feminine month coincide with the humiliation of a large

number of worthy people. We plunge into April with a prodigious

expectation of jollity: we delight in the sound of her name, liquid as

the song of a thrush; we strut in the sunshine, fling off our surtouts,

recline on banks where the painted adder lurks and the East wind cuts

down from the high pastures, and altogether behave in a very foolish

fashion. The heavens have taken a deeper blue; so among the cowslips we

contemplate their azure until a black squall blows along, stings our

rash necks with perilous hailstones and drives us headlong to the

shelter of the pale green hedgerows. There on the drifted leaves of dead

Octobers, we are scratched by the crimson thorns of briers and, slowly

acquiring an extensive rheumatism, wish very sincerely we had never

stirred from the hearth where the wise pages of Montaigne or La

Rochefoucauld lie dog-eared through our precipitate adventure.

Yet, after all, it is better to be a fool in April than a wise man in

November. Pit and boxes hear the ravings of the mad Ophelia with the

sense of superiority secured by plush, but the most of them would be

better men and women for having gathered that nosegay of columbines and

rue.

So drop a tear for Phyllida. She was the heroine of the piece, the

gentlest, tenderest maid. Sorrow has laid his grey fingers upon her

heart and, though she may grow old and wise and wed a squire with

well-tilled acres and spacious hall, to the end of her life a poignant

experience, on which you have been the privileged intruder, will

modulate her lightest laugh with a deeper harmony.

At the _Basket of Roses_ there were April fools that day.

"Charles made up his mind and did no good," said Mr. Ripple. "I

hesitated, and was in no better case. What is one to do?"

Sir George Repington was quite broken up by the affair. Years ago he had

built a bower in April which was destroyed in a morning. In old age,

Spring fooled him again.

Like the heavy footnote of a tragedy, Mr. Moon, lately arrived by the

Wells waggon, employed himself with practical suggestions. Mr. Lovely

must retire over the water for a while, the sooner the better. Mrs.

Courteen and Miss Phyllida must return to Hampshire. He would make

posting arrangements; their baggage must be sent after them. Tarry must

be buried in the parish church at home; he could not allow a neighbour

to lie in a strange churchyard. For once in his life, Mr. Moon was of

real use to a situation and, in the protracted discussions of expedients

for hushing the matter up and conveying the principals safely into

seclusion, the grief of many hearts was temporarily allayed.

"You must come back with me to Curtain Wells, George," decided Mr.

Ripple, "we must not allow the world to invent any more explanations of

the affair. I doubt the wildest rumours are flying round. In a month or

two, Charles can return if he will; meanwhile you and I, George, will

give ourselves the pleasure of paying his debts."

In the dusk of to-morrow's dawn, the vivid yellow chaise of Beau Ripple

rattled over the cobbles of Curtain Wells, and drew up before the Great

House. A dexterous and hurried toilet was performed with Mr. Mink's

assistance and the watchers from the windows, ignorant whether the Great

little Man was returned, were immensely gratified to see him emerge from

his front door, goblet in hand, and wearing a new buff suit of

unparagoned cut with very full trimming round the skirts.

The Exquisite Mob buzzed around the Beau's pedestal with a scarcely

contained curiosity. Mr. Oboe, the Physician, was almost more

subservient than usual, and not a single person inquired after his

neighbour's health or expatiated upon his own. Gog and Magog exposed

their ivory teeth in a permanent smile of welcome, and in the kitchen of

the Great House, Mrs. Binn, the Beau's intelligent cook, prepared a

breakfast of the most savoury character. His ascent to the rostrum

produced an expectant silence.

"My lords, ladies and gentlemen," he began, "I owe you a profound

apology. You will, of course, understand that in my capacity as Master

of the Ceremonies of Curtain Wells, I am under no obligation to any one,

but as Horace Ripple, I feel that my conduct in deserting you yesterday

morning without any notice of my intention deserves an explanation. When

I inform you that a domestick difficulty not entirely unconnected with

my censorious office called for hasty adjustment, you will, I am sure,

pardon me for not divulging the details of a very unfortunate affair. If

I may trespass to such an extent upon your good nature, I should like to

make my late adventure the subject of a short admonition. As you are

aware, I am not accustomed to mingle with the practical politicks of my

matutinal oration any allusion to your moral welfare: I should esteem it

highly impertinent on my part, were I to usurp in such a way the

prerogative of our friend the Rector. Nevertheless I am inclined to make

an exception to my rule this morning, the more so as I feel it my duty

to inform you of my impending resignation."

The Beau raised his monocle in order to regard the consternation of the

Exquisite Mob.

"That event may not occur yet a while; at any rate I shall remain in my

present position during this season. Next October, however, I hope to

present you with a younger, I will not say worthier, successor.

Naturally I shall still spend the greater part of my time in Curtain

Wells, but with the advance of years, I shall wish to be excused from

many of your more nocturnal gaieties. That desire I could not gratify

were I still to hold the reins of responsibleness. However, this is not

an oration of farewell, so I will not longer emphasize the melancholy

topick of mutability.

"The advice I would offer you this morning is, next to the duty of a

regular course of chalybeate, the most important item in human

happiness. My lords, ladies and gentlemen, never meddle with other

people's business when it happens to concern the heart or the soul of a

human creature. Do not, because you are older or because you have read

more widely or because you have travelled across Europe or because you

have dined with a Minister, or because you suffer from any of the

numerous delusions of superiority, do not be too sure that you are

competent to interfere with somebody who has enjoyed none of these

accidental advantages. Admonish the erring child, warn the impetuous

young woman, chide the libertine, reproach the gamester, set an example

of continence to all the world, but abstain from direct interference;

and if an unpleasant doom overwhelms the object of your interest, pray

do not suppose that you would have been able to avert it. My lords,

ladies and gentlemen, you are one and all the genteelest of companions,

but so far as my theology has taken me, you are none of you gods or

goddesses, except in the hyperbole of poetick dedications.

"You have already heard the announcement of your forthcoming

entertainments; let me add to their number with a very cordial

invitation to the Great House, next Tuesday week. Finally, let me add

that during my tenure of office, I shall hope to make these personal

encounters a very frequent delight to your obliged humble servant Horace

Ripple. Oh, and pray let me assure you that my absence yesterday morning

was in no way due to any desire on my part to celebrate the festival of

the First of April. My lords, ladies and gentlemen, your very obedient."

With these words the Great little Man descended from his pedestal, and

was presently in affable conversation with a number of men and women of

rank and fashion.

You will remember that when, it seems an age ago, we first saw Beau

Ripple and the Exquisite Mob, we also met Mr. Vernon and Miss Phyllida

Courteen. For my own part, I feel that the Pump Room on this morning

lacked vitality for all its glitter and stir of elegant movement. I miss

the swansdown muff and the blushing, eager face of Phyllida. I miss

those little notes that dropped like feathers from the wings of Love. I

miss the ingenuous artifice and sweet stratagems of Phyllida and Betty

and for all it would nearly break my heart to see her misery, I would

fain be walking behind them away down in some budding Hampshire lane.

They are still in a postchaise, however, and the musty odour is wringing

her heart with an agony of regret. In what a world of memories will she

live the summer through. The cuckoo will call in the green wood and the

nightingale thrill the moonshine with her passionate song, but Phyllida

will stare into the sun.

In a dip of the billowy downs, the harebells wave from their fragile

stems and ladies' slippers glow with red and orange flames. Far below

you can see the flashing wings of kestrels and hear the lapwing's

desolate cry. The beech trees rustle and in the long dry grass the wind

sighs continually. There she will sit hour after hour in the summer

heat, until she can forget.

And yet, little heroine of a sad tale, I wonder whether you would not

have drooped in London and spent long lonely evenings while the twilight

stole in from the murmurous streets of the city. I wonder whether after

all you were not happier with a flock of rosy children, a portrait by

Mr. Romney, and the most comfortable corner in the great Hall pew. Upon

my soul, I am not competent to give an opinion.

Phyllida's mother certainly thought that everything was for the best. In

her case optimism brought its reward, and she secured Courteen Grange as

a dower house, where she continued for many years to be very spritely

company for all the dowagers and many of the old bachelors in the

neighbourhood. It is perhaps strange she did not marry Mr. Moon, but to

confess the truth, the death of Major Tarry destroyed some of his

charm. Without that brisk veteran to stir his ponderous courtship, the

Justice became wearisome, possibly with greater opportunity of intimacy,

more cautious. No doubt in the course of his legal researches, he came

upon the Codicil to Squire Courteen's Will, and his election to the

Chairmanship of the Bench rendered him oblivious to anything more

trivial than Immortal Renown. If we can judge of his qualities by the

epitaph in the South Aisle of the Church, he united in one person the

austerity of Solon, the severity of Draco, the wisdom of Solomon, and

the domination of Aaron. He never finished his great essay on Peace, but

as his mural biographer justly remarked, 'His was now the Peace that

passeth all Understanding,' so that presumably the publication of his

fragment would have been a superfluous tribute. One particular

distinction belongs to Mr. Moon. He was never made an April fool. And if

the quiet tea-tables of Newton Candover were temporarily disturbed by

the escapade of Miss Phyllida Courteen, why the parson benefited by an

increase in his congregation. But even the most impudent curiosity could

not long survive Mrs. Courteen's circumambient frankness.

_Chapter the Thirty-eighth_

BEAU LOVELY

Charles was perfectly right when he said Fortune had made an April fool

of him. He should have accepted the ill omen of Valentine morning, for

it was certainly very unlucky to mock the God of Love with a false

pledge of affection. He was never intended for Phyllida. As Betty

rightly pointed out, they were too much alike. Pray do not suppose that

he was not an utterly miserable man for a long time. He was; but, in

compensation for being born a poet, he possessed the latter's faculty

for enshrining a reality in a sentiment. Phyllida came in time to stand

for the symbol of elusive youth. During his retreat abroad he suddenly

discovered that what he suspected was true, he had grown old. His father

had enjoyed a perennial inducement to commit foolish actions in the

quiet disapproval of his wife. Charles, however, in receipt of a

handsome allowance from his uncle found he no longer had the slightest

inclination to play. Wine had never attracted him save in moments of

high excitement and he was willing to let his love for Phyllida occupy

for ever the sacred inmost shrine of his heart.

Clare remained with him as long as he thought Charles needed his

company, but word arriving that his cousin had died, he returned to

Devonshire, and in the following year you might have read in the

_Gentleman's Magazine_ 'Sir Anthony Clare of Clare Court, Devon, to Miss

Arabella Hopley with L10,000.'

To the end of his days he always said that if he lived his youth over

again, he should not have acted otherwise than he did upon the first of

April 17--. But Tony Clare was obstinate in many ways, and, as I

believe, never admitted the virtue of even a new manure very willingly.

Before Clare left Charles had received a letter from Beau Ripple

inviting him to reside once more at Curtain Wells.

"That is impossible," said Tony stiffly.

"I suppose it is."

"You forget that foolish satire."

"I take it that Ripple intends me to succeed him as King of the Wells."

"The publication of _Curtain Polls_ has made that impossible."

"I don't know. It might incline them to respect me."

Charles was very lonely in Paris after Tony had gone, and when war broke

out again, he decided to go back to England. Just before he started he

received a second epistle from the Beau.

THE GREAT HOUSE,

June 15.

MY DEAR CHARLES,--_Our season will presently evaporate in this

atrocious heat, and your Uncle and I intend to visit Repington

Hall. He is now somewhat recovered of his Disappointment and very

anxious to consult with you as to the advisableness of selling the

Property. I agree with him in thinking that you would not enjoy the

somewhat gross seclusion of a rustick Squire, so that you will

oblige him by returning to England and letting him know your

feelings in the Matter._

_I cannot see you can do better than take up your permanent

residence in Curtain Wells. I do not wish to urge you into a

contemplative Existence too prematurely, but to a man of your

temperament the opportunities of observing human Character must

make an imperious appeal. These I can offer you together with the

pleasant pastime of ruling the fashionable World. You need not fret

yourself with any early indiscretions. They will very soon acquire

a romantick Interest of their own, and I confidently look forward

to your success in the splendid Office I have long wished you to

fulfil. You will have the benefit of my Advice which I hope you

will not find too obtrusive. Come, what do you say? There is a

capital house contiguous to Curtain Garden. I fear I cannot yet

resign the Great House. Your Uncle is willing to buy this property

for you and eagerly looks forward to your acceptance of his Offer.

In this hope he is cordially joined by_

_Your devoted_

HORACE RIPPLE.

Charles hesitated no longer and hurried as quickly as possible to

Repington Hall. The canary-coloured footmen received him with extreme

deference, and he found the wide polished staircase quite easy to climb.

He had been a little afraid of his uncle's sentimental reminiscence, but

as it turned out his fears were groundless. Nothing was said about the

past and the conversation was almost entirely of a financial character.

He spent the remainder of the summer with Sir George Repington at

Scarborough, returning early in the autumn to form the establishment of

his new residence, Dragon Lodge.

He bought a monocle of such thickness that the human countenance seen

through its glass was reduced to the merest pin-point. He procured two

Chinese mutes--Heaven knows how or where--but their names were Ho and

No. His eccentricities would exhaust another volume of description. He

was the famous Beau who appeared on the first of the month in a

light-coloured suit that gradually deepened until, on the last day of

the month, it always achieved blackness. When asked by somebody the

reason of this mode he replied that he was mourning the flight of time:

when asked farther why he was not perpetually funereal in his costume he

replied that the first day of the month always revived his hopes of

immortality. It was observed, however, that in April his dress did not

alter and those who rashly inquired the reason for this exception were

severely rebuked for their curiosity. His library was one of the finest

in England, although it did not contain a single copy of _Curtain

Polls_. The Great Dr. Johnson on one occasion complimented him upon the

selection of his authors, the decorousness of his bindings, and the

rigidity of his ladders.

As Mr. Ripple had prophesied, the indiscretions of his past in course of

time acquired a romantick mystery of their own. He was credited in turn

with a faithless wife immured in a Gothick dungeon in the North-West of

the Island of Sicily, with a prodigiously passionate affair with a

German princess in which he was said to have pinked four Royal Dukes,

and with innumerable other entanglements quite impossible to recount.

All these tales only added to his prestige, while his wealth and

amiability gave him a reputation second to none of the Beaux of the

past. He wrote a number of verses, but never published another volume,

and was probably the original whom Sir Benjamin Backbite copied, though

his reasons for not printing were quite different from those of the

later fop.

He would sometimes return early from assembly, rout, or ridotto to pay a

visit to Mr. Ripple. He would usually find the latter engaged in a game

of picket with Sir George Repington; and, after entertaining the two old

gentlemen with a witty and satirical account of the evening's

entertainment, he would walk slowly back to Dragon Lodge, stare

meditatively at the new motto he had adopted, _Fui decorus_, step into a

small ivory room that opened out of the massive library and take from a

cedar-wood drawer a white swansdown muff.

EXPLICIT

End of Project Gutenberg's The Passionate Elopement, by Compton Mackenzie