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Title: The Passionate Elopement

Author: Compton MacKenzie

Release date: November 30, 2011 [eBook #38177]

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE
PASSIONATE ELOPEMENT ***

THE PASSIONATE ELOPEMENT

THE PASSIONATE
ELOPEMENT
By COMPTON MACKENZIE

NEW YORK
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
1916

BALLANTINE AND CO. LTD., TAVISTOCK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, LONDON

TO FAITH

Contents
I. THE TOILET 1
II. THE PUMP ROOM 10
III. THE BLUE BOAR 20
IV. CURTAIN MAZE 34
V. THE PUBLICK BREAKFAST 47
The Order of the Exquisite Mob 49
THE PUBLICK BREAKFAST [resumea 50

VI. BAVERSTOCK BARN 61
VII. SUNDAY MORNING 75
VIII. THE GREAT REBELLION 82
IX. THE ASSEMBLY 86
X. AFTER THE ASSEMBLY 104
XI. NOX ALBA 109
XII. WET DAYS 114
XIII. MONARCHY IN ACTION 118
XIV. MONARCHY IN REPOSE 127
XV. PHŒBUS ADEST 135
XVI. THE CHINESE MASQUERADE 146
XVII. THE GRAND MINUET OF CATHAY 157
XVIII. THE CONFIDANTE 165
XIX.BLACKHART FARM WITH A COCK-FIGHT 171
XX. IN WHICH EVERYTHING GROWS BUT
THE PLOT 180
XXI. CURTAIN POLLS 184
XXII. THE CURTAIN ROD 193
XXIII. SPACE BETWEEN AN HEROICK COUPLET 198
XXIV. DAISH'S ROOMS 209
XXV. QUARTS OF BURGUNDY 216
XXVI. AND THE DREGS OF THE SAME 231
XXVII. TIME FOR REFLECTION 236
XXVIII. THE LOVE CHASE 247
XXIX. THE BASKET OF ROSES 255
XXX. SIR GEORGE REPINGTON 265
XXXI. A TALE WITH AN INTERRUPTED MORAL 273
XXXII. THE HORRID ADVENTURES OF BEAU
RIPPLE AND MRS. COURTEEN 277
XXXIII. THE HIGHWAYMEN 290
XXXIV. OLD ACQUAINTANCE 300
XXXV. THE CUTTING OF A DIAMOND 312
XXXVI. THE SCARLET DAWN 319
XXXVII. APRIL FOOLS 334

XXXVIII. BEAU LOVELY 340

The PASSIONATE ELOPEMENT

Chapter the First

THE TOILET

T HE meagre sun that for thirteen pallid February days had shone with no
more brilliance than a rushlight stuck amid the cobwebs of a garret,
poured down at last his profuse glories, and Curtain Wells woke up to a
fine morning and the burden of conscious existence, with an effort all the
more completely unanimous on account of its reputation as an inland Spa.
Residence there implied an almost monastick ideal of regularity. Other
shrines of Æsculapius, falling from their primitive purity of worship, might
set up for adoration a hooped Venus or bag-wigged Cupid, but Curtain
Wells would never admit so naked and misleading a pair of Immortals. Her
fountains ministered to bodily ailments—Vapours, Winds, Gouts, Quinsies,
Consumptions, Fevers quartan and tertian—without pretending to the power
of love-philtres or the sparkle of the Castalian Spring. 'Tis true, romantick
dusk or sunset candlelight might consecrate the vows of many a shepherd
and shepherdess, but those stretched hours of dalliance were always
understood to be the sensuous reward of a strict matutinal discipline.
Consequently Curtain Wells woke up as to a bugle-call. Casement-
hangings were flung back, shutters unbarred and, wonderful to relate, an
occasional window-sash creaked and subsided. A simultaneous toilet would
be followed by a simultaneous visit to the cleansing springs. Drums, routs,
auctions, ridottos, and masquerades did not avail to keep their votaries
abed. Perchance a velvet patch would hide the wearer's secret blemish less
artfully; beneath young Miss Kitcat's eyes there might be a deeper violet
than the state of her health warranted; my lady Bunbutter newly arrived
from scurrilous Bath might see her nose sharpen to a richer carmine point;
but half-past eight o'clock would behold them all bound for the Pump
Room, somewhat reticent perhaps, a little fretful even, yet completely
subjugated by their self-imposed renunciation.
St. Simon's clock struck the half-hour of seven, and the birds who live
tropick days in the eternal summer of chintz curtains seemed to crow
remorsefully at any sluggard who was inclined longer to indulge his

laziness. The sun spangled their plumage with innumerable pin-points of
light until they began to glow with all the astonishing dyes of printed
fabricks. They glowed and ruffled until the sluggard forsook his couch and,
creeping over the chilly floor, flung them back into a day-long folded
tranquillity. Here, then, is an excellent opportunity to catch a few of our fine
characters unaware. Follow the guidance of my Muses and you will see
hero and heroine, comedian, villain, and chorus stripped of all outward aids
to beauty. You may trust the modesty of Clio and Melpomene who will
certainly treat their own sex with discretion and admit you to the keyhole
not a moment before it becomes your disposition of mind. Pray do not
expect a wanton exhibition because you are holding on to the draperies of
two pagan young women.
See that fine house in the middle of the Crescent. Mark the flambeaux
guttering and sputtering into an odorous death. Note the flattened Ionick
columns which lend it such an air of superiority, and the extra story, and the
fat bow-windows on either side of the door. Look well at the door with its
cornice of airy Cupids for ever playing Hide and Seek behind solemn urns
and festoons of carven flowers.
That is the Great House where Beau Ripple lives. Do you wonder at the
early hour of rising when you know that his decree was responsible for the
united achievement? I cannot think you do; especially if you have read his
Epigrams published by Mr. Scratch at the Sign of the Claw in Paul's
Churchyard—those epigrams with razor-keen edge translated into Latin by
Doctor Fumble and into Greek by the Reverend Mr. Tootell. We read how,
in ancient days, tyrants beguiled their political victims with Impromptus of
their own composition and at Curtain Wells it was esteemed an honour to be
reprimanded in such polished prose. Mr. Ripple scorned the easy
allurements of metre and, although in himself he summed up the profound
artificiality of his age, he was wont to say that Verse as a form of
composition possessed all the disadvantages of prose without any of the
advantages.
Let us take a glimpse at the Great Man in the Great House while the little
maid is pondering the gaudy Valentine stuck in a crack of the basement-
steps by the sweep's apprentice.
That carpet of mellow hue was presented by the Captain of an East
Indiaman, much addicted to wind. It muffles the footsteps of the courtiers

who throng the stairs, and secures a respectful calm. It even enables us to
reach the door of his bedchamber unheralded, but as, invisible and armed
with reverence, we cross the threshold, the Great Beau is nowhere to be
seen. We observe his bedclothes dignified even in disarray, we see the open
patchbox, the bottles of Eau de Luce and Eau de Chypre, the black sattin tie
and the wig on the stand, but not until, instinct with awe, we drop our eyes,
do we behold two pink feet and the Circumference of the least austere
portion of his anatomy wrapped, it is true, in embroidered dressing gown,
and with the bedspread hung about it like a pall, yet nevertheless an
unmistakeable Circumference protruding from beneath the bed. Diana very
wisely killed Actæon for overlooking her toilet, and I doubt we deserve the
same penalty, for when, the errant button in his hand, we see the Beau
emerge with purple cheeks and oaths innumerable, a certain conviction
steals over our shocked sensibility that the Great little Man is only mortal
after all, of the same temper and anatomy as ourselves, and, as the gods
know very well, this is a mighty dangerous and revolutionary discovery.
There stood Beau Ripple dancing and d—g, while a monologue with
appropriate action went somehow like this:
Beau. D—— all buttons for being round.
Then he danced.
Beau. D—— all pins for dropping upon the floor and the chambermaids
for not picking them up, and my own feet for treading on them.
Then he danced again.
Beau. D—— all beds for being wide.
Then he danced.
Beau. D—— my eyes, I shall be late for the waters.
Then he danced to his mirrour. And the mirrour showed a man of ripe age
with smooth round face and a pair of very blue eyes.
Beau. And d—— you, Ripple, for a clumsy old fool.
Hereupon the Great little Man beamed at himself, for the nature of him
was so truly kind that he could not be crossed by himself for long, and as
for the world, his severity never upset the balance of a well-turned phrase.
He was an urbane man, one who had presumably lived all his life in prim
and decorous cities but, since he will preside over this story of mine, we
shall learn more about him as we go along.

Further round the Crescent, Mrs. Choke let furnished apartments to
valetudinarian bachelors, and in one of the brightest of these, Mr. Francis
Vernon sat before his looking glass contemplatively combing his wig. His
closely cropped curly hair accentuated the lines of a profile already inclined
to sharpness, just as his red lips enhanced the surrounding paleness of his
complexion. He combed his wig very much as a man strokes a cat. The
caress half-felt loses itself in speculation, and just now Mr. Vernon was
gazing at the wrought-iron balcony of the opposite house where Miss
Phyllida Courteen, all swansdown and rosy cheeks, was plucking half a
dozen snowdrops from a bough-pot. These were to be enclosed in a note
and sent by the hand of the first pleasant-looking passer-by to Miss Sukey
Morton in the Western Colonnade. And the aforesaid Miss Morton would,
in the estimation of Miss Courteen, simper and blush and confide in her
dear Phyllida that, though she had known he admired her and indeed, had
proffered her a dropped fan more than once at the Monday Assemblies, yet
never, never had she for a moment imagined that he would dare to send her
a Valentine, and if he had, she would have died rather than take it, yes, died,
for what she would do when she passed him next Monday evening, she
could not think, especially as he was known to be partial to her, and her
Mechlin pinner was quite ruined by the abominable wax-candles they
would use just because the P—— of W—— was not coming that year after
all.
Miss Courteen was so much charmed by this loquacious dream that she
began to compose an appropriate verse destined to be wrapped round the
green stalks of the flowers.
The snowdrop's white
And so are you. . .
The smallest foot in the world beat time upon the balcony making the iron
bars on which she stood vibrate in twanging chords, but failed to summon
from the caves of Poesy an echo worthy of the snowdrop's white.
"The last line is monstrous easy," she thought.
The bluebell's blue! and the accumulation of liquids and labials has
enchanted her mouth to such a delicious pout that Mr. Vernon is leaning
forward and combing his wig more contemplatively than ever, for, although
he cannot see his charmer's lips, he feels sure from the attitude of her whole

body that her face is infernally captivating, and the memory of her last
whispered good-bye assails him and kindles a leaping flame at the back of
his hazel eyes.
Such a merciless regard as ours penetrates to the heart and we know that
Mr. Vernon is wondering what on earth will come of his affair with Miss
Courteen, and speculating how much she will inherit, and whether
matrimony is quite so expensive a joy as his friends make out. The thought
of money writes an ugly twisted line across his high smooth forehead, and
this line broadens into a hundred little tributary lines as he thinks of his
debts. So he brings himself back to the obstacles of life in rather a gloomy
frame of mind and faces the necessity of his toilet in such a depression of
spirits that he selects a suit to match his mood. And that is the reason why
Mr. Francis Vernon wore purple sattin on Valentine morning.
All this while, Miss Courteen is quite unable to invent that odious third
line, and though she taps her foot to aerial musick and pulls a chestnut curl
right over her nose and twists it round her fingers and wonders whether
'white' is a notably difficult word to rhyme, she never succeeds, and just
when she has almost succeeded, her mother's voice sounds from the floor
above. This disposes of inspiration altogether, for though her mother's voice
is very melodious and sounds prodigiously pleasant as it murmurs 'Spadille'
or 'Manille' over the card-tables, it will allow no competition, and drives all
invisible musick far away.
"Coming, dear mamma," says Phyllida just as Mr. Vernon decides to wear
purple and just as we step out of Mrs. Choke's front door thinking it can no
longer be indiscreet to follow our Muses to the scene of Mrs. Courteen's
toilet.
As we cross the road glittering in the sunshine with last night's rain, we
see a tall young gentleman writing busily in a set of ivory tablets as he
strolls quietly along the pavement. Mr. Lovely, the young gentleman, looks
up very quickly as a three-cornered note flutters down and lodges in a fold
of his ruffles. Miss Courteen who felt the note falling, and thinks that after
all she need not make more than a pretty attempt to save it, peers over the
railing into the upturned face of the young gentleman who bows very low
and sweeps his hat round in a very grand curve, and begs to apologize for
the awkwardness of his ruffles in thus intercepting a lady's note. And you
and I, my inquisitive companion, stand still for a moment and watch the

picture, remembering it is merry Valentine morn. The maid with wide eyes
and crimson cheeks nestling in swansdown and the young man of the
laughing expectant face, in his peach-coloured velvet suit, seem somehow
to have caught the spirit of the day: they make us think of broken stiles, of
hedges heavy with may, of blue and white April noons, of lambs, and
children with pinafores a-flutter gathering cowslip-posies on a wind-washed
down, and of all the old and dear delights of Spring.
Says Phyllida, "Oh! pray pardon my clumsiness."
And "Madam," says he very gallantly, "I'm incredibly obliged, for you've
given me a rhyme."
"Oh! pray tell me—was it to 'white'?"
"Nay! ’twas harder than that," he murmurs.
"But I think that is monstrous difficult."
"Bright, sight, light," (cheerfully) "height," (regretfully) "night,"
(hopefully) and "fight," (fiercely).
"Indeed," adds Phyllida, "I thought of every one of them, but not one
would fit the sense."
The young gentleman who is a rhymester himself, grows interested.
"Might I," says he, "without impertinence inquire your necessity?"
"Sure, 'tis for a Valentine," and as Mr. Lovely's face darkens, she hurriedly
adds, "for a young lady, a friend of mine, you'll see the direction writ on the
flap."
His face clears again and he asks,
"You wish it delivered?"
"Oh, sir! how did you guess?"
"By accident, ma'am, or a happy intuition, I stepped out to take the air this
fine morning, and chance has discovered for me an incontrovertible excuse
for such idle exercise. To be footman to a sister of the Muses is surely
appropriate service for a poet."
"Then you are a poet?"
"My publisher affirms it."
"How romantick truly!" but the tail of the sigh is interrupted by her
mother's voice, and she has bare time to murmur her thanks, drop a genteel
curtsey and vanish. As for Mr. Lovely he has registered a vow to attend the

Monday Assembly next week instead of sitting down to Hazard at the Blue
Boar Inn.
Abovestairs all is confusion because Mrs. Courteen cannot make up her
mind between yellow lutestring and orange silk. Phyllida whose heart is full
of the dancing springtide thinks her dear mamma should wear the brightest
colours and the richest stuffs in the world.
"For if you would only allow the curtains to be drawn back, you would
see what a golden morning it is outside," she complains to her mother who
answers:
"Women of fashion, Phyllida, dress by candlelight for candlelight."
Betty the maid, agrees with her young mistress, "Sweet, pretty dear lamb,"
as she asseverates in Hampshire accents, "Orange silk, say I, and God bless
the gaulden sun."
Mrs. Courteen who is sitting nearly half-undressed and quite incapable of
forming a decision, bids Betty go and find out Thomas' opinion. Thomas is
the family footman and a great critick of men, women, and religions.
Presently Betty comes back and says that Tammas would prefar yaller.
"Why, Betty, why?"
"Because," answers the maid, "he says silks are for the vain and
abominable and lutestrings have a pleasant twang and savour of the
psalmist."
So Mrs. Courteen turns from yellow sack to orange sack and from
primrose-quilted petticoat to apricock-quilted petticoat in despair, till at last
Betty asks triumphantly:
"How would it be, ma'am, if you was to wear your most elegant and truly
genteel green sattin seeing that it do be Saint Valentine with a smell of
green leaves in the air?"
This provokes a new decision, and causes a great rummaging in drawers
and presses and closets until the gown, fragrant with last year's lavender, is
discovered, when the toilet too long neglected starts afresh.
"What patches, ma'am?" says Betty.
"My Cupid's bow and the two tears of widowhood."
"What scents, mamma?" asks Phyllida.
"My Citron Essence, child."

Then shoes are buckled, stockings are gartered, and a black mantua placed
gently round her shoulders. One more touch of powder, one more brush
from the rouge pot, one more flounce and one more flirt while the watchet
ribbands in the cap are hastily changed to ribbands of palest apple-green,
and a pair of emerald snaps are quickly fastened.
"Does my hoop sit straight? Oh! Lud! I vow I shall be late."
A breathless moment and, in place of the mantua, a tippet of pheasants'
feathers is adjusted. Down the Crescent is heard the opening of many doors.
Phyllida runs to the window, draws back the curtains so that the sun streams
in upon the sicklied candles.
"Has the Beau appeared yet?" asks Mrs. Courteen.
"Here he comes, and oh! mamma, he is wearing a suit of olive-green."
"What great good fortune! what taste I shall display. Green is certainly the
fashionable colour," and Mrs. Courteen began to trill to a tune of her own
invention....
"I shall be à la mode, I shall be à la mode and very bon ton and très bon
ton."
Radiant, she descends the stairs followed by Betty carrying an enormous
glass goblet. Outside, rubicund Thomas with heavily knobbed cane awaits
her. The widow glances over her shoulder at the crowds swinging down the
street, all equipped with glass goblets of various sizes and shapes. She
throws an anxious glance towards the head of the procession. The Beau is
certainly in green of a shade slightly darker than her own but, nevertheless,
distinctly comparable. She tosses her cap in anticipation of the envied
triumph and sails in the general direction.
And you, Achates, who have accompanied me so early in the morning to
the toilets of some of our principal characters, pray give yourself the
additional trouble of thinking what a Great Man he must be to induce these
butterflies and moths of fashion to sally forth Cap à Pie perfect at half-past
eight o'clock of a February morning.
"Let Bath be true to her bedgowns," he wrote, "in Curtain Wells we are
ignorant that men and women undress."
When we think of that apoplectick Circumference which so lately
protruded, we can heartily assent to his opinion.

Chapter the Second

THE PUMP ROOM

A S all roads are commonly reputed to lead to Earls Court, so here at
Curtain Wells all roads led to the Pump Room. It dominated the city
from the summit of a moderately steep hill as the Acropolis dominates
the almost equally famous city of Athens. In certain aspects it bore a
remarkable likeness to a Greek temple with its fluted columns and portico
haunted by many white pigeons. It was even more like a gigantick summer-
house whose interior was always open to the four winds. Any reasonable
explanation of a spring that gushed forth at the very top of a hill always
eluded those who toiled laboriously up the slope; but, as a more religious
butterfly once remarked, Providence plainly designed it to serve some
useful purpose by allowing it to gush forth at such an unexpected elevation.
The same lady used to regard volcanoes as an uncomfortable if divine
method of destroying large numbers of Papists together, and would
pertinently observe that if England had admitted the claims of the Pretender,
she was convinced what was now a cool, health-giving fountain would have
boiled over to the horrid accompaniment of flames and lava. At precisely a
quarter to nine o'clock, Beau Ripple paused at the foot of the hill to survey
through a monocle his flurried followers. A wag once said that Ripple liked
to gaze at life through the wrong end of a spy-glass, because he himself was
of so small a stature. Whether this monocle actually diminished his world to
the size of an ant-heap, I do not know, but certainly the whole assemblage
stopped to recover their breath as if conscious of their utter lack of
importance in the eyes of the Great little Man. The Physician-in-chief was
solemnly beckoned into hearing.
"Two minutes," said the Beau.
Mr. Oboe the Physician opened the lid of an enormous watch attached to a
red silk fob and regarded the dial with an expression of great intentness. He
might, so complete was his abstraction, have been feeling the pulse of the
Exquisite Mob behind him.

Slowly the minutes rolled by while the Beau took several possessive sniffs
of the young spring air. Not an unseemly whisper disturbed the silence. So
still was it that above the cooing of the sacred pigeons on the roof of the
Pump Room, far down in the valley could be heard the lowing of cows. At
thirteen minutes to nine Mr. Ripple let his monocle drop; Mr. Oboe replaced
his watch; the Pump Room bell began to clang very fast; the Exquisite Mob
started to climb the hill and innumerable glass goblets glittered in the sun.
When the summit was reached the Beau called in a loud voice:
"Oboe!"
"Mr. Ripple?" bowed the Physician.
"I allow two more minutes for panting."
"Certainly, Mr. Ripple. Very just, sir."
So the Exquisite Mob like the Hart panted after the Waters or perhaps
more accurately before them.
At the expiration of the breathing-space, a diminutive negro known as
Gog advanced towards Mr. Ripple, bearing a fluted goblet upon a tray of
Chinese lacker. An equally diminutive negro called Magog presented the
goblet to Mr. Ripple who turned slightly in the direction of the company
and slowly sipped his portion with consummate meditation. When almost
half-way towards the bottom of the glass the Beau looked up as if surprized
to see his adherents still thirsty. This was understood to be the signal for
approach, and the Exquisite Mob advanced to drink while the children,
miniatures of foppery, played Hide and Seek or Touchlast round the pillars.
Mrs. Courteen sailed towards a thin little military man with a very long
and very crisp pigtail, whose outstanding feature in front was an extremely
conical Adam's Apple that bobbed up and down as if his throat were a bowl
of water and, rising with his choler, at boiling-point invariably choked him
into incoherence.
The Major would have passed for one of those half-pay officers who
frequent watering-places and rely for many of their meals upon an
acquaintance with the tacticks and strategy of the late Duke of
Marlborough, with the miserable failure of Carthagena and the already
forgotten personality of his Highness the Duke of C—— d.
As a matter of fact, he had followed Mrs. Courteen to Curtain Wells from
Hampshire where he owned a small hunting lodge known as Ramilies
House, Oudenarde Grange, and Malplaquet Place according to his humour,

but for no discoverable reason besides. He had a painted board for each
designation, but nobody ever extracted from him the principle on which,
from time to time, they were changed. When asked on one occasion why he
omitted the famous victory of Blenheim from his titular commemoration, he
replied that the omission saved the expense of continually forwarding
letters to Oxfordshire. The Major was inclined to resent the homage paid to
Beau Ripple.
"A d——d civilian, ma'am," he muttered to Mrs. Courteen.
"Oh! you soldiers! I protest you have no reverence for anybody."
"Not I, ma'am. I don't bow the knee to a living soul. Not at all. 'Sblood,
ma'am, the fellow's no better than a low adventurer. Would he fight? Not he.
So he forbids us to wear swords. D—— n it, ma'am, a soldier without his
hanger is like a monkey without his tail. That's what I say."
"So do I, Major, so do I," echoed a suave voice over his shoulder and the
Major turning round, encountered the bland half-bored, half-tolerant smile
of the Great little Man.
"Your similes are uncommon happy, Major."
Tarry's Apple throbbed and bubbled and rose and sank, but the Beau
passed on contemptuously, and a large flabby man in a suit of snuff-
coloured frieze treading upon the Major's toe at this moment, the latter's
wrath flowed into another channel.
"My toe, Mr. Moon!" he said furiously.
"Your toe?" inquired the other with great earnestness. The question of
disputed property which seemed imminent was quashed by the widow's
interruption:
"'Tis too early for argument. Come, neighbours, let us make our
promenade. Where is Phyllida?"
But Phyllida was making her promenade at a careful distance behind her
mother. Phyllida was taking the demurest little steps with an arm in her
beloved Betty's arm and with a swansdown muff held against her cheek to
ward off the shrewd Easterly wind, while almost level with the two maids
walked a stately gentleman of a pale complexion. And every time the
gentleman stopped to survey the promenaders over the tortoise-shell handle
of his ebony walking-stick, Phyllida and Betty stopped to see if it was truly
a quarter-past nine o'clock by St. Simon's church tower. And every time the

gentleman stopped to flick a speck of dust from his purple sattin sleeve, by
a very odd coincidence Miss Courteen always stopped to see if her shoe had
really become unbuckled. This tends to show that in spite of all the
precautions of Beau Ripple, the innermost fane of Æsculapius had been
invaded by a strange god. I doubt Miss Courteen, considered by her mother
too young for Chalybeate, was learning to drink of that deep well whose
waters will never run dry so long as maids and men frequent its precincts.
The Exquisite Mob continued to circle round the Pump Room because the
ritual of the Cure prescribed an hour's steady promenade before breakfast.
The scarlet heels of innumerable shoes clicked in unison and the drowsy
hum of morning small talk rose and fell upon the February air. All agreed it
was a monstrous fine day for the season of the year. All expressed the
opinion that by no stretch of imagination could such weather be expected to
last. All wished it would indeed, and everybody asked his neighbour
whether he intended to grace the next Assembly, and the neighbour
invariably replied he had every intention of doing so. Everybody bowed or
curtseyed very low to Mr. Ripple and Mr. Ripple had a delightfully well-
turned sentence for each of his subjects, as if he would reward their energy
in rising so early. Occasionally the Great little Man would condescend to
take a pinch of the best Rappee with an elderly gentleman. But as he never
took snuff with anybody under the rank of Viscount in the peerage of
England and as the peer thus honoured was bound to be above the age of
five-and-forty, it happened that the elderly gentleman was always old Lord
Vanity, the only individual present who satisfied the double requirement.
"How different this scene is from Hampshire to be sure, though for my
part I shall ever protest that those who have eyes to see, let them see, and
people who accuse us of wasting our time forget how persistently they look
for the arrival of the carrier."
Whether or not Major Tarry and Mr. Moon understood this remark of Mrs.
Courteen's, they certainly both agreed with her.
"To-day is Session day," muttered the Justice rather gloomily.
"Well, sir, the magistrates will do their business without you," snapped his
rival.
"Not unlikely, sir, not unlikely."
"Well, sir, what the deuce are you grumbling at?"

Mr. Moon replied that he was not grumbling, he was merely commenting;
and the two gentlemen bickered on across placid Mrs. Courteen like two
children over a hedge.
Meanwhile on the farther side of the Course, as the broad path round the
Pump Room was called, Mr. Vernon was still keeping step with Phyllida
and Betty, but so delicately did the former tread and so far aloof did he
appear that no one suspected him of anything so low as ogling pretty Miss
Courteen or her maid. Sometimes he would murmur "When will my
charmer be there?" and every time he asked this question, the charmer
would send a rippling little laugh into her swansdown muff, and flash a
glance over the top towards Betty who would toss her head and imply that
such curiosity was worth a long-delayed gratification.
At last Mr. Vernon would take out his laced handkerchief and flick
presumably at a ghostly Despair. Phyllida would be prodigiously afraid that
her dear Amor (by that name only did she know her lover) was growing
unhappy at her hard-hearted treatment and, feeling she had tormented his
patience long enough, would gently shake her muff until a piece of paper
fluttered slowly to the ground. Mr. Vernon would stoop with indescribable
grace and distinction of manner, and while Miss Courteen looked very
demure indeed and quite innocent of anything or anybody in the world, he
would put the piece of paper in his handkerchief and press the handkerchief
to his lips and look round the corner of his eyes at Phyllida, who would just
by chance be looking round the corner of her eyes to ascertain if her
Mamma were beckoning to her. And this used to happen every fine morning
during the promenade, and continued to happen for many days afterwards.
Half-past nine o'clock struck, and the promenaders all turned on their
heels to hear Mr. Ripple divulge the gaiety of the day.
It is not to be supposed that Curtain Wells was careless of her pilgrims'
pleasure. On the contrary every hour of their visit was wreathed in
delightful possibilities of enjoyment. At present it was Winter so that
naturally most of the entertainments occurred indoors, but in late Spring
and Summer a series of Fêtes Champêtres and Fêtes Aqueuses, of
moonlight Concertos, harlequin Ridottos, and lantern Masquerades made
Curtain Wells a tolerably attractive stage for the marionettes who postured
and declaimed upon its boards.

There was much tiptoe attention for the Beau as he ascended a marble
pedestal and slowly turned the pages of a notebook bound in tooled
Morocco leather, gilt-edged, and of impeccable finish and design.
"My Lords," Mr. Ripple began, whereupon old Lord Vanity, blinking
several times at his daughter Lady Jane Vane, took an extra large pinch of
Rappee.
"My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, I have the extreme honour to inform
you that the Publick Breakfast given to Sir Jeremy Dummer for the purpose
of commemorating his twenty-first consecutive winter at Curtain Wells will
be held (Deo volente) at the Town Hall to-morrow the fifteenth instant."
A murmur of delighted anticipation ran round the Exquisite Mob while Sir
Jeremy Dummer who was verging on nonagenarian antiquity drew himself
up very erect, quivering and doddering with senile pride. "There will be the
usual loyal and personal toasts," continued the Beau, "and at the conclusion
of the entertainment the Company will adjourn to the Civic Chamber, where
I hope the ladies will be already arrived, in order to partake of a dish of tea.
I may add that the tea, duty paid, has been generously presented by Mr.
Hopkins of the High Street, well known to many of you as the
incomparable provider of the rarer dried delicacies which have traced
prodigal patterns over so many of your mahogany tables."
The Exquisite Mob murmured its gratitude for the tea and the compliment
with much condescension and affableness, while the publick spirit of the
tradesman was generally extolled.
"To-night at precisely half-past six o'clock, Mrs. Dudding's
Conversazione. Quadrille tables for ninety-six players, Pope Joan for the
young and sprightly and—ahem—a Pharaoh table in order that our
gentlemen, Mrs. Dudding informs me, may have no valid excuse for
absenting themselves on the score of dullness. Chairs at precisely half-past
ten o'clock and I must request you, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, to warn
your chairmen that quarterstaff play with the poles will be visited with your
acutest displeasure. I am sorry to complain of an abuse on a morning when
the prospect of Nature is so vastly pleasant, but last week the whooping and
halloaing of the partizans caused me to place Basto upon the Ponto of my
Vis à Vis."
The Exquisite Mob sighed in sympathetick consternation as, with a
perceptible break in his voice, Mr. Ripple made this confession.

"And since I am temporarily launched upon unpleasant topicks, I must beg
for earlier and less riotous hours at the Blue Boar. It is exceedingly
ungenteel to throw quart bottles of Burgundy at the watch. The latter is a
fine body of men devoted to the service of an orderly and decent society,
and does not deserve a crown of plaisters as the result of publishing the
hour of the night and the state of the weather. However, I will mention no
names, gentlemen."
Lord Vanity, not feeling himself included in the last vocative, took a pinch
of Rappee and gazed very fiercely at my Lady Bunbutter through the rheum
and water of his ancient eyes. As her ladyship showed no signs of a guilty
conscience, the Earl took a second pinch and muttered "devilish young
cubs" under his breath.
"On Sunday," the Beau resumed with his old suavity of enunciation, "the
waters will not be drunk until the fulfilment of Divine Service. On Monday
the usual Assembly will be held, and a Cotillon will be danced at twelve
o'clock precisely. Chairs at half-past twelve o'clock precisely. And now, my
lords, ladies and gentlemen, nothing remains for me but to wish you a
vastly enjoyable breakfast, a happy issue from your divers infirmities and a
very good morning."
This benediction was the recognized sign of dismissal; the Beau
descended from his pedestal and the Exquisite Mob betook itself down hill,
although a few individuals waited behind in order to consult with the
former on matters of etiquette, fashion and gentility, his advice being
considered the most refined in the country.
Mrs. Courteen sailed down upon Mr. Ripple and asked whether she was
right in thinking that the moment when green should be worn was arrived.
"I think so, ma'am," the Beau assured her. "I think so: to be sure, a few of
our more conservative fops hold that green should never appear before the
Queen's birthday. But I differ from them, ma'am, I differ. You will observe
madam, that I differ."
Phyllida had rejoined her mother by this time, and Mr. Ripple saluted her
freshness with a courtly bow.
"Many Valentines?" he inquired with a quizzical droop of his left eyelid.
Phyllida blushed, protesting,
"No, indeed, sir."

The Widow hastily assured Mr. Ripple that her daughter was not near old
enough to dream of such follies, while Major Tarry and Mr. Moon, whose
skirts were stiff with Valentines intended for Mrs. Courteen herself, looked
very severely at the sun as if he were in some way responsible for the
madness of love in the air.
"Tut-tut! Youth's the time for love, as Mr. Gay sings, and though I do not
encourage the interchange of passionate sentiments among those who are
seeking to recover their health, I regard St. Valentine's Day as a very proper
festival for young men and maidens in whose hearts no degeneration is yet
apparent." With these words Mr. Ripple drooped his left eyelid lower than
ever.
"Fie! sir, we shall have the child vapoured like any woman of fashion, if
you put such inflammable ideas into her head," complained Mrs. Courteen,
who was just beginning to be more than a little jealous of her daughter.
"Not at all, ma'am," said the Beau, "I swear I saw an agreeable spark toast
Miss Phyllida in Chalybeate—the irreverent dog—but I forgave him; upon
my honour, I was near doing the same thing myself."
Now Phyllida was not at all anxious for her mother to think she had an
admirer, and yet with youth's vanity, she could not resist a half-
acknowledgment of the Beau's rally. Luckily for her, Major Tarry, who
always resented his removal from the centre of attraction, thought it was
time to assert his existence by demanding rather pompously if the Beau saw
anything unusual in the sky.
"Yes, sir," the latter agreed. "I see the sun, which is very unusual at this
season of the year."
Mr. Moon gaped a smile, and Tarry's Apple began to rise. He had
anticipated a surprized negative from the Beau, whereupon he intended to
look very mysterious and say that after all perhaps he was mistaken. Thus,
having impressed the bystanders with the notion that they were talking to a
man of superhuman vision, he would offer an arm to Mrs. Courteen.
"Run, Betty," exclaimed the latter, "and tell Mr. Thomas we await his
escort."
Thomas was at the footman's Pump Room, a hundred yards down the hill.
Here, every morning he mused regretfully upon the decline of beer-
drinking. Chalybeate to him was a sort of Jacobite liquor which was slowly
supplanting the honest Esau ale. As for streams that spouted inexplicably

from solid rocks, these he held to be an infringement of Moses' prerogative.
He would unscrew the knob of his footman's cane for a morsel of Parmesan
cheese and chew the cud of bitter reflection, while with the butt of his nose
he would polish the silver ball till it shone with equal splendour.
Betty found him thus occupied and, as he stalked after her in obedience to
his summoning, she heard him mutter several times in quick succession,
"Wells of Sodom! Waters of Gomorrah! Pillars of Salt!"
Mrs. Courteen as she curtseyed her farewells to the Beau sank to the
ground like a deflated balloon. This done she gathered her party into
hearing and occupied their outward attention as they walked in the direction
of the Crescent with a long and disjointed account of her health.
"Why will you shake your muff so vehemently?" complained the Widow.
"'Tis full of dust," said Phyllida.
If it was, I am afraid Miss Courteen was trying to throw some of it into her
mamma's eyes.

Chapter the Third

THE BLUE BOAR

W HILE the Exquisite Mob circled round the central fane of
Æsculapius, Mr. Charles Lovely had enough lack of taste and
orthodoxy to make a heretick promenade in the low-lying water-
meadows at the foot of the town.
He had knocked three times at old General Morton's house in the Western
Colonnade and delivered Miss Courteen's Valentine into the hands of Miss
Sukey Morton's maid. She, poor soul, wore round her neck a brass button
attached to a piece of string still reminiscent in tarred perfume of the
Dorsetshire jetty down which she had wandered a year ago. It was streaking
her breast with verdigris as if in some way prophetick of a heart that all too
soon would be tarnished more irreparably by that faithless lover beyond the
seas.
Consequently Miss Morton's maid received the paquet with a
sympathetick reverence learnt in long morning dreams when the sunlight
splashed the walls of her garret in waves and ripples of faint gold.
"Any name, your honour?" she asked.
"I believe not."
"And no message?" she paused in bright-eyed hope of an assignation
which was to be the first step in the softening of her mistress' hard and
imperious little heart.
"None at all so far as I know, my dear," and Mr. Lovely passed on down
the deserted street towards the meadows.
The little maid stood on the steps regarding him.
"Tes a Valentoine surely," she thought, and held the envelope between her
and the discoverer sun. A red heart glowed through the paper, a red heart
pierced by a flaming arrow.
"And who'd ha' thought she had a bow and her be so spoitful."
She sighed as she gazed after Mr. Lovely.

"He do look proper and happy surely."
The elegant young gentlemen had, in fact caught some of the harlequin
grace of a fine morning in the prime of the year as he avoided the cracks in
the paving stones to bring the meadows closer and make the Colonnade less
intolerably long.
"Wi' sech a rosy spark, for sure, she've no call to be jealous of me,"
thought the little maid, as her soul went winging over the great Atlantick
whose roar filled the silence of her mind, to meet the soul of her sailor-lover
who was at the moment sitting upon an alien beach in the company of two
dusky wantons and a bottle of Jamaica rum.
Mr. Lovely turned the corner and the little maid vanished at the sound of a
bell summoning her to tie one of her mistress' pink bows to a more modish
angle.
Our hero, for since perfect confidence should exist between us, I will no
longer attempt to conceal his identity, continued to walk to the tune of a
lyrick always provided the measure did not compel him to step upon one of
the fatal cracks. Soon he came to a road which ended in green fields sodden
with winter rains, but soft and grateful after the arid pavement.
Face to face with the pale blue February sky, he took up more earnestly
the intention of the half-fledged songs that occupied his brain. Strange
songs they were, fanciful and unrestrained in the eyes of their author and
his contemporaries who did not recognize in them an echo of one Mr.
Herrick, dead, and now forgotten by the world of literature. His mother had
read the poems to him as a child. The Hesperides of 1648 was the only
book owned by the lodging-house in Westminster where a dingy year of
childhood had dragged out its course. In his youth, he had loved their sharp,
elusive harmonies, and when he attained years of composition, could never
free his own lyricks from extravagance so acquired, however assiduously he
attempted to follow Augustan models. To his credit, be it added, he was
always sincerely ashamed of his barbarick numbers and, as he grew older,
was often successful in expressing the heart of a riotous evening in a clear-
cut drinking song. Perhaps this vain pursuit of formalism in words made
him neglect his private life, which ran a wild career checked by nothing
stronger than the strings of his purse.
As he leaned over a stile and watched the cattle in the meadows, out of the
past there came like an arrow of song shot from the gloomy depths of

London,
Ye have been fresh and green,
Ye have been filled with flowers,
And ye the walks have been
Where maids have spent their hours.
But Mr. Lovely was dissatisfied. He felt the sentiment would have reached
a larger dignity, a more epigrammatick crispness, a more trenchant
elusiveness, if it had never strayed beyond the bonds of an heroick couplet.
He deplored his ineradicable early impressions and vowed to study the
classick models with a still more fierce ardour of imitation.
But having formed this resolution, our hero was just as discontented as
before. The sun shining into his heart, found no reflection there.
"These d—d late nights are killing me," he complained, ascribing his
discontent to fatiguing sessions of play. He bent down to pluck a starry
celandine and wasted a few minutes in trying to find out whether he liked
butter. The little golden oracle told him he did, but as he was well aware of
this fact already, only the flower benefited by an enhanced reputation for
infallibility. Nevertheless it was flicked carelessly over the hedge where it
lay stalk upwards in the shade like many another prophet before it. To
confess the truth at once, Mr. Lovely had only used the butter to deceive
himself, for round about his red-heeled shoes were eight golden petals
which seem to prove that a more intimate question had been asked, and
answered unfavourably if we may judge by the banishment of the flower.
To console his wounded susceptibleness, he determined to smoke a pipe
and, having made up his mind, found the long clay stem was broken. With a
pithy condemnation of things in general, he tried to establish the reason of
his depressed spirits. Then he discovered his spirits were not depressed,
merely unsettled. Burgundy of course. Hazard without a doubt. Should he
try Chalybeate? The d—l! not if he knew it. Should he try Chalybeate? She
wore a very engaging swansdown tippet. What a fool he had been to come
to these meadows! Should he try Chalybeate? The half-fledged lyrick was
strangled: the landskip seemed pretentiously bright in proportion to the
wintry air which was still abroad and, to crown all, he felt an extraordinary
desire to drink a tankard of ale with Mr. Anthony Clare at the Blue Boar.
The latter might know who wore swansdown in the Crescent. With a sigh of

relief, he wrung this admission out of himself, shivered and turned his face
towards Curtain Wells, whose houses clustered like a swarm of bees around
the sacred hill.
The Blue Boar, whither Mr. Charles Lovely was bound, was a hostelry of
the conventionally ample type. The rooms with exterior rows of galleries
were built round a large quadrangle to which coaches and stage waggons
were admitted through an arch that was only just high enough for the
vehicles of a more recent pattern. The fixed population consisted of
innumerable plump and shapely chambermaids, innumerable dried-up
hostlers and grooms, and a certain number of sedate waiters who were all
clothed in the same shade of rusty black, and all of whom wished they had
settled earlier in life to become footmen. However this canker of thwarted
ambition never prevented them from handling anything from a soup-tureen
to a guinea-piece with reverence and precision.
The host, Jeremy Daish, was neither round nor rubicund. On the contrary
he was remarkably sallow and, in his suit of cinnamon cloth, bore a vague
likeness to a well-seasoned Cremona violin. He was the builder, owner, and
inventor of the famous Daish's Rooms adjoining the Inn and, as the latter
served for a recognized adjunct to the more official Assembly Rooms, Mr.
Daish became a somewhat mildewed counterpart of the great Beau himself,
a mezzotint ill-executed of a famous painting in oils. His back was so often
crouched in servility that it had acquired a permanent stoop. Rumour said
that years ago Mr. Daish was often seen fiddle in hand at West-country fairs
and wakes, and supported the legend by pointing out when a lady of the
extremist fashion and quality graced his dancing floor with a pair of very
high red heels, the solemn innkeeper would steal to the Dais of the
musicians and, taking an instrument, would himself bob and play my lady
through a minuet with considerable Gusto and Bravura.
The Blue Boar was patronized by a select company of fashionable young
gentlemen who lent the old hostelry something of the tone of White's or
Almack's. Bagmen were excluded from the wing occupied by these elegant
patrons, and though from time to time one of the former, with a merry
reputation, would be invited to take wine with the quality in return for the
tale of a famous and gross adventure, it was distinctly understood that
nothing low or vulgar was allowed to penetrate beyond a certain doorway.

Beau Ripple himself would saunter down towards twilight and exhort his
youthful subjects on the folly of vice, the futility of play and the obligation
to drink the waters at half-past eight o'clock. Mr. Ripple was esteemed a
Puritan, but such a genteel Puritan that the young gentlemen, subdued by
the length of his waistcoats and his irreproachable ties and solitaires,
listened to him willingly enough, and overpowered by the orthodoxy of his
wigs and buckles, the fullness of his shirts and the size of his cuffs, heeded
his warnings sometimes.
Mr. Lovely strolled through the archway into the yard all fresh and shining
after the morning swill. Along the galleries, the chambermaids were
hurrying about their work, and the figure of Mrs. Grindle, the housekeeper,
glittering and jingling with keys, warned him no loitering in the galleries
would be tolerated at that hour of the day. Two horses were being groomed
in the courtyard, but as he had discussed all their points both with their
owners and the hostlers at least half a dozen times before, he was not
inclined to pursue the outworn theme farther.
"Mr. Clare about?" he inquired.
"Han't seen him, y'r honour," answered one of the workers.
"'Es that Mr. Clare?" asked the other.
"Yes, my good fellow, have you seen him?"
"Rode over to Baverstock Regis to see a maiden aunt," the man replied.
"Ho! ho! ho!" roared the first, "dang me if that bean't the best I ever hard.
Ho! Ho! ho!" and convulsed with merriment, the man slapped his tight-
breeched thighs with frequency and vigour.
"You make the very d—l of a noise, Sirrah," said Mr. Lovely fretfully.
"I axe y'r honour's pardon, but when I hard Jock there talking of maiden
aunts—ho—ho—ho! and when I minds that shaapely—ah! well it doan't do
to mention no naames, but it come over me sudden to laugh," and with this
apology, the humorous hostler picked up his mare's near fore-leg, and
continued to chuckle at intervals for the rest of the day.
Mr. Lovely began to think Tony Clare was confoundedly young, and when
one young man begins to think another young man confoundedly young, it
is usually a convincing proof that the pensive young man is deep in love.
"What's a fellow to do?" he sighed as he turned into the coffee-room. It
was empty, so he called for a draught of ale, put his feet on the window seat

and surveyed the passers-by. He wondered what had become of his friends,
and why the d——l all the world was gone mad because the sun shone with
unwonted brilliance for the middle of February. Then he remembered it was
Valentine day and amused himself with the manufacture of paper darts
which he shot at the prettiest young women in range. Unluckily, in an
attempt to pierce the ripe heart of buxom Miss Page who assisted at the
cook-shop, he wounded the Rector on the nose. This set him moralizing on
the fortune of Love. Could anything be more incongruous than Love and
the Rector. Yet why not? We are all targets of a dimpled nudity. The phrase
caught his fancy. Numberless Cupids in attitudes of attack floated before his
mind's eye. "Demme!" thought Mr. Lovely, "my brain is like an Italian
ceiling. Targets of a dimpled nudity!" He flung back the lattice to its utmost
extent and leaned out to the morning whence the chatter of the world
without floated into the sunny room.
"Everybody is monstrous good-humoured," he concluded. But somehow it
was no longer amusing to quiz the young woman in Mrs. Tabby's ribband-
shop through his ivory rimmed perspective. Somehow since yesterday her
forearm had grown coarser.
"All the world's growing old," he grumbled disconsolately. But the world
would not be vapoured, and laughed and chattered and bobbed and flirted
and chirped with all the selfishness of a world that is always young in
defiance of the moods of her individuals.
Suddenly the mob of Cupids faded from his mind and the World at which
he was scoffing ceased to exist. Surely at the very end of the High Street, he
could discern something which was slowly assuming the magic shape of a
swansdown tippet. His heart began to beat very fast and he felt the rushing
crimson flood his cheeks. Life was wrapped in swansdown, as, through
clouds of the airy texture, his soul soared to unimaginable heights. Then
came the descent and, waking as from a dream, he found himself staring
down into a pair of wide blue eyes. In his embarrassment he knocked over a
pot of jacynths and, above the noise of the fall, heard himself telling a
Swansdown Muff he had delivered the paquet. Could anything be more
enchanting than the warning fore-finger, save the lips to which it was lifted?
Could anything better console his enforced silence than the knowledge that
between him and her existed a secret? The swansdown tippet and
swansdown muff had vanished, but fragments of broken Terra Cotta
strewed the pavement. The swansdown tippet and swansdown muff had

floated away to some fairyland of their own, but a blue jacynth perfumed
the air.
Certainly the idlers of Curtain Wells had a fruitful subject for an
afternoon's debate in the sight of young Mr. Lovely climbing out of the
coffee-room window. Besides, if that were not amazing enough, the idlers
were immediately diverted by the aspect of young Mr. Lovely gathering up
the remains of a shattered flower-pot and clasping a bruised jacynth to his
silk waistcoat. They all agreed the incident had no explanation, and were
even stirred out of their perpetual lethargy to muster round the entrance of
the Blue Boar in order to verify a daring speculation that he was going to
carry the fragments within.
"Good G——!" said Mr. Ripple who was approaching the archway from
the other side. "Good G——, sir, are you mad?" To Mr. Ripple the shock
was great. He had aspirations for Mr. Lovely. To be sure, he was wild, an
extravagant young dog, but then he possessed an inimitable assurance of
manner, a pretty talent for polite verse-making, and a consummate taste in
brocades. The Beau of late had often pondered the choice of his successor.
He had aspirations for Mr. Lovely and now he saw his favourite positively
panting (the most ungenteel motion and fatal to the fall of a waistcoat), not
merely panting but smeared with mould, hugging potsherds, and apparently
quite unmoved by his degradation. Is it wonderful that Mr. Ripple cried,
"Good G——, sir, are you mad?"
"Yes," shouted Mr. Lovely.
"Or drunk?"
"Yes," shouted Mr. Lovely.
As he seemed inclined to answer every question in the affirmative, the
Beau remarked he wished to see a representative group of the young
gentlemen at the Blue Boar upon a matter of the gravest social and civick
importance.
Our hero ejaculated, "With you in the twinkling of a bedpost," and raced
across the yard, up the first staircase, along the first gallery and into the last
room.
A light broke upon Mr. Ripple's bewilderment.
"He has discovered some prehistorick relicks. Probably Cinerary Urn, a
Lunette or possibly a gold coin of Rome."

In pleasant anticipation, the Beau who was an intimate friend of Mr.
Sylvanus Urban, beheld the folded copper-plate illustrating the discovery
and the rounded sentences on the opposite page of the Gentleman's
Magazine in which the excavations would be carefully recorded by Horace
Ripple.
"This must assuage my wrath," he decided by the door of the coffee-room.
To tell the truth, the Beau was on censure bent when he met our hero
outside the Blue Boar.
Already, that morning, he had alluded to the riotous nocturnal behaviour,
the assaults upon the watch, the fusilade of empty bottles, but not being able
to descry a single offender, he determined that personal and individual
remonstrance would be more efficacious. To the Blue Boar therefore, he
went having first exchanged his suit of olive green for one of black sattin
unrelieved by silver and terminated by ruffles whose cambrick fell in severe
folds and condemnatory lines.
As he stepped from the Great House round the Crescent and along the
High Street, he passed in sombre eclipse upon the gaiety of subjects shining
with the reflection of his genteel rays.
Presently Mr. Lovely came back still bearing the marks of the potted soil.
"Was it an Urn?"
Mr. Lovely looked surprized.
"A Lachrymatory perhaps? Or a Lunette? Or," Mr. Ripple grew breathless
with excitement, "not an Image of Æsculapius?"
"Pray, sir, are you trying to humour a madman? Because on my soul, I
don't know what you are driving at."
"So, sir, your late phrenzy was nothing more than the unbridled haste and
inconsiderate volition of youthful folly?" sternly demanded the Beau.
"I 'faith, I knocked over one of old Daish's precious pots, and was making
haste to remove it from the region of his laments. That's all, and there's my
hand on't."
"You will pardon me," replied the Beau drawing back, "I have no
objection to shaking a hand stained by honest toil, but I have never shaken a
hand sullied by mere zest for uncleanliness."
"As you will, dear Beau," laughed Mr. Lovely.

The Beau was about to point an example to adorn his statement when he
was interrupted by the entrance of severe Mrs. Grindle clasping her nose
with one hand, and with the other holding at arm's length the offending
jacynth by a shred of its roots.
"Mr. Lovely, sir," she began and as our hero pulled forward a chair and the
Beau leaned back to listen, she continued, "I have known a cat kitten in one
of the maids' beds."
"How very distressing," murmured the Beau letting the firelight play in
the diamonds of his rings.
"But never, never," proclaimed Mrs. Grindle swelling like Mr. Handel's
Largo, "have I known a young gentleman want to turn his bachelor bed into
a ploughed field. Mr. Lovely, sir, I'll trouble you to say if this is your
planting or did you wish to insinuate that your bed was not made this
morning?"
"Mrs. Grindle, madam," replied the accused, "you have heard of beds and
you have heard of garden-beds. Mine is a garden-bed. A Parterre
impromptu, a Landskip in miniature, a Bucolick of slumber, a dimity
Eclogue. In a word—but pray, Mrs. Grindle, my dear Mrs. Grindle, out of
regard for me rehabilitate that jacynth without a word to Mr. Daish, and I,
out of regard for you, will certainly pay for the washing of the bedspread."
Mr. Lovely smiled so very engagingly and looked so completely innocent
of any desire to insinuate anything except Mrs. Grindle's good-nature that
the housekeeper gave way, condescended to smile and, as she retired, threw
a quick glance in the direction of a mirrour to notice the angle of her snowy
cap.
Having reduced Mrs. Grindle to affableness, Mr. Lovely turned his smile
towards the Beau. The latter had watched with much satisfaction the
progress of his favourite's negociations, thinking to himself that a man who
could circumvent such a dragon as the housekeeper would be very well able
to keep in order the most self-assertive of Duchesses. He began to relent his
indignation and, as Lovely smiled at him, to see in his late impetuousness
no more than the natural activity of a jolly young man. Moreover, for a
certain reason, he had a genuine affection for the rogue, and was glad to
perceive his high spirits.
"I came here this morning in the hope of a serious conversation with some
of your friends. Are they—are they in the—er—taproom?"

"They're all gone after maids."
"Tut, tut, I wish I could make it plain that Curtain Wells exists for the
continence, not the encouragement of appetites."
"You must blame the sun, dear Beau."
"In view of the many pleasant hours I have spent basking in the warmth, I
should not presume to do anything so ungrateful. But I will remark that the
Sun in his human guises is not to be considered a beneficial example to
young men at a stage in the history of mankind when maidens are no longer
able to transform themselves into umbrageous laurels, thus rendering
impertinent and inconvenient what at first seemed appropriate and
inevitable. I allude, sir, to the legend of Apollo and Madam Daphne.
However, my dear Charles—" here the Beau laid three tapered jewelled
fingers upon the extremity of Mr. Lovely's left shoulder.
"You overwhelm me, sir, with your condescension. The omission of the
surname by Beau Ripple, is the bestowal of a title."
"Very well put, Charles," said the older man contentedly. "'Fore Gad! you
do me credit. Snuff, sir?"
Charles (we may follow the lead of Mr. Ripple) was now veritably
astonished. Never could he recall such an instance of the Beau's
condescension towards a man of his years; and he dipped his fingers into
the proffered snuff-box with greater bashfulness than he would have
displayed towards the powder-box of Titania.
"However, though the rest of our young gentlemen are—after maids," the
Beau stumbled over the crudity of the phrase, "I am happy to see that you
are engrossed by the seemlier pastime of horticulture." Was it fancy or did
Charles really see his mentor blow a tuft of swansdown from his cuff? "I
wish," the latter went on, "to remonstrate with you on the indecorous
character of your midnight entertainments. Owls, under providence, are
allowed to shriek and hoot after sundown, but there seems no reason for
extending to men the privilege accorded by a Divine Creator to owls. In
short, Mr. Lovely, there has been the—there has been an atrocious hurly-
burly in this house every night of late. Pray do not interrupt me," he added
as Charles made a protesting movement. "I have the fullest Data for my
general observations."
"Youth, dear Beau, hot-headed, open-handed Youth."

"Yes, yes, I know something of Youth's anatomy from a personal
experience of the happy state, but Youth, Mr. Lovely, is a mighty inadequate
justification for a circular scar on the forehead of one of our most respected
and silver-tongued watchmen—a scar inflicted by the unconsumed but
necessary concomitant of a quart of Burgundy."
"It was an accident, sir, young Tom Chalkley of the Foot——"
"I have observed, Mr. Lovely, that if one of these missiles happens to
strike the body against which it is aimed the result is invariably an accident
whereas if the missile goes wide of the mark it is a d——d poor shot. But it
cannot go on, Mr. Lovely. It shall not go on. The residents acting in
conjunction with the visitors reserve the right to expel summarily any
person who causes publick offence, and I, as their accredited representative,
should be in the highest degree culpable if I allowed it to go on.
Consequently, my dear Charles, I appeal to you as to one possessed of some
influence over the more violent spirits, to do all in your power of persuasion
to prevent it from going on."
Now as the successful quart bottle had been thrown by our hero, and as he
was usually the chief agent in promoting a disturbance, it is evident that Mr.
Ripple secured his unparalleled authority as much by tact as by severity.
"Dear Beau, you shall be obliged," said Charles, "and now pray tell me
who wears a white swansdown tippet and lives hard by the Great House."
"I am not accustomed to observe the minor variations in feminine
costume," answered Mr. Ripple with some austerity.
"Nay! But a hermit froze to his psalter must have noticed her," protested
the younger man.
"The analogy is incomplete."
"I shall be at the Assembly on Monday night."
"You could not be more worthily employed."
"And I shall effect an introduction under your patronage."
"That very much depends."
"On my good behaviour?" asked Charles.
"On the immunity of my watchmen from further assaults."
"Dear Beau, we are all targets of a—" he hesitated, "of a dimpled nudity
or an empty bottle. Love and a bottle, there's the world."

"The flesh, I think, sir."
"I 'faith, Satan must have a fine sieve if he can separate the pair."
"I am no theologian."
"Then you'll present me?" persisted Charles.
"You will protect my watchmen?" demanded the Beau.
"On Monday night?" urged Charles.
"Every night," added the Beau. "Unconditional surrender is my ultimatum.
But I hope I know how to display generosity towards a vanquished enemy.
You will attend the Publick Breakfast awarded to Sir Jeremy Dummer?"
"Truly I——"
"Tut, tut, I insist. My old friend Lord Cinderton arrives to-day with his
invalid son, George Harthe-Brusshe. I should like the young man to see
your cherry and trout-pink cuffs."
"Too unseasonable a combination of colours for breakfast."
"Pshaw! your appearance will give a fillip to his impoverished appetite."
"I 'faith, I believe I know how to flavour my conversation with Attick salt,
but I swear I never dressed myself for the Role of condiment."
The conversation was soon entirely of sauces.

Chapter the Fourth

CURTAIN MAZE

T HE Maze at Curtain Wells was always considered one of the principal
sights of the place. Holding this reputation, it was naturally the least
frequented. Visitors either went there the second day after their arrival
or scuttled round it with a competent escort in the twenty-four hours that
preceded their departure. But since no one went there twice and since all the
visitors and residents of the Wells were perfectly familiar with the various
shrines, its invariable emptiness may easily be apprehended. In summer the
gardens of which it was a feature were thronged at the fashionable hours.
There was also a Rotunda similar to if less grandiose than the famous
Rotunda at Ranelagh Garden. This had not long been in existence, and was
only used for balls and masquerades through May and June, when the Maze
was spangled with lamps for the delight of the dancers. Even so, very few
availed themselves of the shelter of its yew-hedges and always spent the
rest of the evening in trying to find their way out, being lucky if they
succeeded in making a somewhat ruffled appearance during the last
Cotillon.
To Curtain Garden went Miss Phyllida Courteen and Madam Betty her
maid: to Curtain Garden they were going when they passed Mr. Charles
Lovely at the coffee-room window.
Betty belonged to a type of womanhood that grows with age, increased fat
and pursiness, into a nurse such as Mr. Shakespeare drew in Romeo and
Juliet. If she had been brought up in a disreputable purlieu of the town, she
would have become a personally chaste procuress but, nurtured among the
buttercups, she merely had a perpetual desire to see her pretty young
mistress aflame through the careless progress of some gay spark or other.
Whatever there was of passion in her meadow-born soul fed itself on
objective embraces. She was never a maid for a kissing-gate at long shadow
time, but when she saw Phyllida's heart flutter with quick emotion before
the approach of Mr. Vernon, a primitive phrenzy set her cheeks aglow and
fired her eyes to a livelier blue. She adored her mistress with a precocious

maternity but, paradoxically enough, without any of the mother's jealousy
of a lover near to his possession. Vernon with his pale face and slightly
sinister demeanour had caught her fancy. 'Let him mate with my pretty one,'
she would say to herself, 'blossom of apple looks most rare and sweet under
a grey sky of clouds.' It was this anxiety to provide a physical match for
Phyllida which had led her to encourage Vernon's addresses, and her
mistress to pay heed to his vows. Her greatest delight was to stand,
watching against interruption, in the next alley to the lovers. Here she
would thrill her imagination with the thought of frail and timid fingers in
the clasp of a strong white hand. The sudden interposition of Mr. Lovely
vexed her. Certainly he was handsome enough, but too much of a piece with
Phyllida; they might have been brother and sister. Moreover, he was always
laughing.
"A man who always laughs is as bad as a dog who always wags his tail.
Neither is fit for a maid," she grumbled to Phyllida as they stepped briskly
along beneath the tall poplars that fringed the road leading to the entrance
of Curtain Garden.
"Truly I vow he has a romantick air," protested Phyllida.
"La! what's romantick? 'Tis no more than reading a book on the shady side
of the street." Betty tossed a contemptuous head.
"Indeed, Betty, I think 'tis a great deal more than that. To be romantick,
child, is to have a noble heart, and to have a noble heart——"
"'Is to lead the Venite on a Sunday morning," interrupted the maid.
"No! 'tis not."
"Well! ’tes to kneel very obstreperous."
"'Tis no such a thing," said Phyllida, stamping on the pavement.
By this time, they had reached the famous wrought-iron gates of the
principal entrance, where an old man in an enormous three-cornered hat and
long heavily laced surtout walked up and down. Sometimes he would stop
and, over gnarled hands twisted round the ivory crook of his cane, stare
fiercely at the stamped effigies of Æsculapius and Flora while he addressed
the presiding deities in a wheezy monotone.
"Curtain Garden! Curtain Garden! Lads and lasses, ye'll grow old. Fit for
maids is Curtain Garden." Thus having droned a warning to Olympus, he
would resume his walk.

In two months the broad gravelled path which he guarded would be
thronged by the Exquisite Mob, but at present his only audience on fine
days was composed of Phyllida and Betty. On wet days, when not even they
ventured out, he would sit in a little pagoda whence every few minutes he
would pop out his head, and in the same wheezy monotone lament 'Rain!
Rain! on the windowpane!' and retire as abruptly as a cuckoo that has told
the hour.
With this aged janitor Phyllida used to have a daily conversation which
never varied by a single letter.
"Nobody in the garden this morning?"
"Not a soul nor a body, young miss."
"Are you better of your cold?"
"Very much worse."
As Phyllida used to tell Betty when they had left the gateway behind
them, 'he must be very ill indeed because he has been very much worse
every day.'
This customary conversation interrupted the argument over Mr. Lovely's
romantick character of mind, and when they turned down the path which
led to the Maze all discussion went to the wind at the prospect of again
seeing her dear Amor.
Vernon had met Phyllida in the Maze but a bare two weeks ago. It
happened to be his first visit to the Wells, and he was in the act of being
solemnly lost when he accosted her for direction. Betty had encouraged the
chance acquaintanceship and Mr. Vernon, who was tired of the mechanick
Dryads of Vauxhall, embarked upon a new pleasure. The natural
secretiveness of his disposition led him to adopt Amor as a fantastick
pseudonym, and neither Betty nor Phyllida had troubled themselves to
inquire farther into his antecedents. Indeed, it would have puzzled them to
do so, for he had but lately appeared at the Pump Room in response to
Phyllida's earnest entreaty, and absolutely refused to meet her at the
Assembly Rooms. Consequently, had she felt inclined to indulge a
suspicion, there was no one to whom she could appeal except perhaps Beau
Ripple: and he, of course, was not to be thought of in connection with so
trivial a matter.
You will recollect that Vernon's toilet of this morning was considerably
perturbed by the image of Phyllida. Over his coffee he had reviewed the

situation with great contempt for himself.
To begin with, he had moved into lodgings opposite his charmer's abode.
What foolish enthusiasm! worthy of a stripling of sixteen, as he told
himself. Then he had seriously contemplated matrimony. To be sure, he had
made a few cautious inquiries and heard it stated on good authority that she
was an heiress, but odds his life! was that enough to make him commit
himself irreparably. He was jaded, and the rustick seclusion (so he
characterized the Wells!) had affected his head. A boarding-school miss
with gawky tendencies—a boarding-school miss with the smile of a young
nymph—a boarding-school miss with little fingers that tugged the manhood
—the weariness—out of his heart! It was impossible. His friends would
sneer unmercifully, and he would settle in the country as he had often
wished, and by heavens! he would seek her mother's consent. Pshaw! the
chit would become more insipid than ever, more delightful, more
enthralling, more utterly subjugating. Z—— ds! what an impetuous fool he
would be considered. No! No! country misses were very well in the
country, and might bear transplantation for a season, but London bough-
pots should be renewed every Spring. Meanwhile the affair was progressing
very well, and if he could pluck a pigeon or two—there were always
pigeons in the country—why a Summer in town—and after that—why after
that—meanwhile his coffee was growing cold.
But when he saw her radiance among the dark hedges of yew, all his
cynical plans withered away, and it would have taken mighty little to
transform the libertine into as honest a lover as ever galloped across the
horizon of a romantick imagination. What grace! What charm! What
movement! What colour! It was incredible she would ever grow old. He
rose from the stone seat in the heart of the Maze and saluted her with a
sculptured bow.
"That's true romantick," whispered Betty. "See him bow, see him stand up
tall and white like a great wax candle."
The swansdown tippet rose and fell to the beating of the eager heart
beneath.
"My charmer takes the sun like a flower," said Mr. Vernon, bending over
her hand.
Betty's eyes were a very quick and fiery blue as she turned away to her
post, and, indeed, the scene would have ravished a block.

Never were yews so dark and velvety, so full of whispered secrets, as the
gentle wind stirred their crisped leaves continually. In a silence made by
cushions of moss set with many green stars that muffled every footstep, the
stone image of Cupid, poised upon his damp-stained pedestal caught from
the February sunlight the veritable bloom and semblance of divinity.
Vernon, as he led Phyllida to the seat and saw her eyes flash over the
swansdown muff, was sure that such beauty must capture something of the
permanence expressed by the statue and remain for ever young, for ever
provocative of desire.
High over their heads a flight of pigeons circled against the azure,
gathered and broke into a scattered multitude of snowy wings whose
fluttering echoes travelled along the sunlight to the sombre heart of the
Maze.
The simple grace with which Phyllida seated herself held Vernon
entranced. He could have sworn that the stone wings of the Cupid trembled
faintly as if, animate and inanimate, the whole world stood ready to scale
the empyrean. Blinded by an ecstasy of hope, the man forgot himself,
discarded the mean ambitions that for so long had guided his actions, and
conceived the idea of a fresher existence. Great moments, like great men,
have a solitary life, and there was nothing in Phyllida to respond to the fire
which he had waked from a pile of ashes. Actually she was wondering
whether her dear Amor had remembered Valentine day, whether, indeed, his
burning gaze was a prelude to the offer of a trinket.
"'Tis surely a pleasant Valentine morning," she murmured screwing up her
eyes to the sun.
Vernon cursed the want of practice with young misses which had let him
forget what every fair esteemed a man's sacred duty. However, he was a
resourceful gentleman and, without any perceptible hesitation, produced
from his pocket a paste brooch cut to the likeness of a basket of twinkling
blue forget-me-nots.
The history of this little ornament possesses enough irony to warrant a
short digression. It used to hang in the window of a Midland toy-shop, and
had made a pretty birthday gift from a young man deep in love to his
betrothed. She wore it in her kerchief for ten years and sent it at last to her
lover in London with some other trinkets not very valuable, but all of the
same fresh beauty. At the bottom of the packet was a faded sprig of

whitethorn. The young gentleman—not quite so young now—opened it as a
London dawn empearled the city smoke. It had lain all day in his room
neglected while the dice-box rattled like a skeleton at the feast of Love—a
feast of pimps and blowsy carmine furies. The contents of the packet went
with the last of his guineas, and at the division of the stake Mr. Vernon
contemptuously accepted the brooch. The latter never troubled himself to
take the ornament out of his pocket. Now once more it came back to Youth
and Beauty.
As she pinned it to her kerchief, Phyllida thanked him for his sweet
thoughtfulness, and wondered if he would always remember this morning.
By this time, Vernon had clambered down from his mountain top. Perhaps
the brooch made his descent more easy. Yet I think he was sincere when he
swore he would never forget.
Anyway Phyllida believed him and so there is nothing more to be said.
"When we are wed," she began, and startled him with such an abrupt
disclosure of her dreams. "When we are wed, I think we will live in Hyde
Park. Where is Hyde Park?"
"On the confines of Kensington, my dear."
"Yes, but where is Kensington?"
"A mile or so Westward of Temple Bar."
"I think we will live in Kensington."
"Nay, prithee! would you have us die of dullness."
"Is Kensington dull?"
"'Tis very rustick. No! my charmer shall lodge in the Haymarket."
Phyllida pouted. There was a Haymarket in the country town to which she
made an occasional visit from the little village of Newton Candover, and
she remembered it as a dusty spot not fit for a new pair of shoes.
"I vow I should detest the Haymarket."
"Nay, 'tis the gayest place, with hackney coaches passing to and fro all
day. You shall sit at your window and all the fine ladies of rank and fashion
will envy you."
"And what will my Amor be doing?"
"He will be looking over his angel's shoulder."

"Then they'll envy me more than ever," said Phyllida with a contented
laugh. Vernon pressed her hand and looked round quickly as a man will
before he attempts the first kiss. But Phyllida drew back.
"What shall we do when we are tired of sitting at the windows—if one
could ever tire of anything so pleasant," she added with a sigh.
"We'll call a hackney-coach and drive to Westminster Steps, to the river."
"To the river? Now that will be most diverting."
"And we'll hail the waterman with the most elegant wherry, and row up
through the dusk to Vauxhall."
Phyllida was staring at him with the round eyes of a child who listens to
an old fairy-tale.
"Then what should we do?" she asked earnestly.
"We should choose a box for two and sit with our elbows over a very
small table and look at each other just as we are looking now."
"Yes! go on," cried Phyllida clapping her hands.
"Then we should call for chicken-wings and eat our supper and listen to
the new song and the musick of the orchestra playing the finest tunes high
up among a thousand sparkling coloured lamps and watch the masqueraders
and row back to Westminster under a great moon."
Mr. Vernon was so much inspired by the interest of his listener that he
began to believe in the reality of this proposed idyll, quite forgetting that it
was a chastened account of a hundred similar adventures enjoyed with the
domino passion of a night.
"Vauxhall must be the properest place in the world," sighed Phyllida, "I
doubt everybody wears their jewels."
"Everybody," replied her lover with a quick glance.
"I should wear my pearls."
"Your pearls?"
"My necklace that was left by Grandmother Courteen. Mamma won't let
me wear it till I'm one-and-twenty."
"But supposing you ran away?"
"Oh I should never dare. I should be frightened."
Vernon changed the subject, perceiving at present the courtship was
nothing more serious than a Springtime diversion.

He told himself if the child surrendered to his blandishments, it would be
an easy matter to induce her to run away. He must weave a strong web of
personal attraction round her, and if her prudence sustained her to the end,
why perhaps he might commit himself to a serious offer of marriage. He
must inquire further into her fortune. He wished it were not so difficult to
put an arm round her waist. Innocence was very well and the prospect of a
siege amusing enough at first, but a long deferred capitulation would be
immensely fatiguing; and yet how charming she was. Not for anything
would he have her different.
"When we are wed," he began and for the first time echoed her lately
expressed hopes. In some way he felt that she would be to blame, if harm
came of it. She had given the cue.
"When we are wed, we shall go to routs."
"But we shall be old and wise and able to go then. It won't be near so
diverting then as 'twould be now—if you came to the Assemblies."
"My angel forgets the risque of discovery."
"There could be no more danger in that than there is in sitting here in the
Maze."
"Come!"
"I'm sure if we were prudent nobody would suspect us of a love-affair."
"But consider my ardour. 'Twould illuminate the whole matter."
"Well! and if the old maids did talk, they would only talk into their
teacups and every one knows that to be monstrous ungenteel behaviour.
Lud! I've been censured before. Why, when I was but sixteen I was the talk
of the ballroom because I stepped four gavottes with Dicky Combleton,
Squire Combleton's youngest son. Every one said I was a forward minx,
and he's only a year older than me and that's only last year." Phyllida
became very indignant, and Mr. Vernon who lacked humour became very
indignant too at being compared to a bumpkin.
"Surely my angel sees the circumstances are slightly altered?"
He clasped her hand, and stroked it slowly, but she was not to be pacified
and drew it away.
"For my part, I don't know how you dare say you care for my reputation
and sit here holding my hand. Walls have ears and hedges have eyes."

"You would not withdraw your hand if you were sure we were not
observed?"
She made no reply.
"Possibly," he went on, "you would let me kiss those sweet lips to a smile
—if we were not observed?"
"Indeed, I vow you should never do anything so indelicate."
"Z—— ds! my pretty Puritan——" he stopped because Phyllida's eyes
were very wide open indeed.
"Oh Sir! no one but a father or a very old man has the right to swear so
dreadfully before a maid."
He laughed.
"So oaths depend on age for their propriety? I 'faith that's a new maxim
I've learned this morning. After all, my Phyllida, I am fifteen years older
than you."
"That may be," she retorted primly, "and I have often wondered whether I
should allow a man of middle-age to make love to me."
Vernon wrinkled with annoyance at such a description. He certainly
lacked humour.
"But then, you see, I am in love with you, and not marrying you because
our estates join like my cousin Clarice who, we all agreed, was old enough
to know better."
"Young enough, you mean. Morality rusts with the years."
"I don't know what you are talking about, but it sounds like a text."
"It is a text, my dear, the text of the man of the world."
"I hate texts, but I don't hate goodness and you must promise never, never
to swear again, and—never, never to try to kiss me."
"Not even when we are wed?"
"That's another matter."
"Perhaps when you are old and wise and able to kiss you won't like
kissing."
"Oh! I protest, I should like it vastly," said Phyllida with great decision.
"But if you have never made the attempt?"
"A young woman knows by instinct."

"But why won't you make sure in advance?"
"Because 'tis imprudent and wicked."
"For my part, I believe you are playing with me."
And then began a long argument which settled nothing at all and, after ten
minutes, left matters precisely where they started.
What Vernon said in jest was in essence perfectly true but unfortunately he
was too vain and she was too young to believe it; for if potential Phyllida
knew very well she would not expire if her dear Amor vanished for ever,
actual Phyllida who was much younger and far more obstinate was equally
sure that a gradual decline into an interesting consumption would be the
natural result of such a calamity; while potential Vernon who was anxious
to prove himself a very fine fellow was very contemptuous of actual Vernon
and not at all willing to admit he would find more than sufficient
compensation for the loss of his Phyllida in the ample charms of Miss
Diana Flashington of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.
And this is the way a large number of world-shaking passions begin, since
at first we seldom apprehend our potentiality.
The quarrel was interrupted by the sound of approaching voices just as
Betty came flying round the corner with the news that "Mr. Thomas and
your mamma be coming as fast as legs can carry 'em this way as ever is."
The implication of a rapid advance is to be understood merely as relative
to their usual rate of procedure.
In an instant all was confusion. Miss Courteen wrung her hands and
behaved quite as wildly as a grand married lady on the verge of discovery in
an ambiguous situation below stairs. Mr. Vernon flicked a number of
invisible specks of dust from his purple sattin breeches as though he had
been kneeling in devout protestation of honourable love for the past hour,
while Betty ran in turn to each of the four alleys leading to their present
position, and put a hand to an attentive ear. She quickly ascertained by
which path the enemy was advancing and without more ado pushed Mr.
Vernon hastily in the opposite direction, thrust a tambour frame into her
mistress's hands and composed herself to spell aloud the Agricultural
Calendar and Farmer's Assistant for the current year. She was in the middle
of some astonishing statisticks of the comparative productiveness per acre
of turnips and mangel-wurzels when Mrs. Courteen followed by the
majestick Thomas appeared upon the scene. On perceiving her daughter, the

latter gave a faint scream and declared the meeting would certainly produce
palpitations.
At the utterance of this fatal word, Thomas immediately unscrewed the
knob of his cane and drew forth a bottle of salts, Phyllida performed the
same conjuring trick with her bag, while Betty after some lace-involved
rites in which a crimson garter played a prominent part offered a third bottle
not more than a moment later. By the tonick influence of several sniffs Mrs.
Courteen was sufficiently revived to ask in a stern voice what Phyllida was
doing in this ungodly place. Thomas accompanied the query by muttering
'Canaanites' several times in quick succession under his breath. What the
commentary was intended to imply no one knew; but there was a general
belief that the footman symbolized states of mind, people and actions of
which he disapproved, by the various hostile tribes encountered by the
Israelites during their wanderings.
Phyllida assured her mother she was working a peacock in blue and
scarlet wool for the seat of a chair, and when Mrs. Courteen demanded why
she was not sitting on her own balcony, for the privilege of possessing
which she paid an additional five-and-sixpence a week in rent, the daughter
protested the East wind chapped her ankles.
"Chaps your ankles, miss? What d'ye mean by chaps your ankles? At your
age, I didn't know I had ankles. Woollen hose was what I wore, and I should
have been whipped if I had ever dared to think my ankles were not as thick
as marrowbones."
Phyllida begged her dear mamma's pardon and hoped to be forgiven, but
could not help remarking the sun was so warm that she had felt quite
positive her dear mamma would be pleased to see her take the air.
"Twas very unkind of you," complained the widow, "to presume so far on
my acknowledged indulgence of your whims. You know the miserable state
of my health compels me to sip several glasses of the waters after breakfast,
and seize the lamentable opportunity to deceive your too confiding parent.
How am I to know you have not been sitting in this heathen nook for days
in succession?"
Again the footman muttered 'Canaanites! Canaanites!' As this was exactly
where Phyllida had been sitting for days in succession, she looked
immensely shocked by the question.

"Well! well," said Mrs. Courteen as if resigned to her daughter's iniquity,
"go home and pray that you may become a more dutiful child."
Thomas murmured a low Amen and earned for his devotion a derisive and
ribald gesture from Betty.
"Aren't you coming too, mamma?"
"No, miss, I am not coming; I must rest myself and compose my mind and
soothe my feelings. Thomas, will you arrange my cushion."
Thomas produced it from under the seven capes of his surtout without
perceptibly diminishing his girth.
Said Phyllida to Betty as they stepped out of the Maze, "For my part, I
believe she only wanted to be rid of us in order to meet puffy old Moon or
skimpy little Tarry."
And this supposition was perfectly true.

Chapter the Fifth

THE PUBLICK BREAKFAST

A T half-past twelve o'clock of the following day, masculine Curtain
Wells began to arrive at the Town Hall determined to eat the health of
General Sir Jeremy Dummer with all the vigour of an appetite
unspoiled by a morsel of food since yesterday's supper. No procession was
arranged by those responsible for the entertainment, but the habit of
punctuality instilled by the Great little Beau secured an unrehearsed
pageant. There was no marshalled order, but since everybody set out from
his abode at the same time, the component populations of the place were
compelled to affect a military method of progress.
It was quite unpremeditated and, therefore, the more impressive. The
Town Hall designed by Sir John Vanbrugh had been erected by publick
subscription to serve as a memorial to those gallant natives of Curtain Wells
who fought and died under the Duke of Marlborough. That the aforesaid
gallant natives were only three in number and in no case killed in action
was no cooler to the furnace of civick gratitude kindled by the signing of
the Peace of Utrecht. In their delight at the discomfiture of the quarrelsome
Whigs, the citizens expressly stipulated there should be no hint of War and
War's alarms in the construction of their Hall. There were to be no cannon
eternally belching forth stony smoke, no image or superscription of Mars or
Bellona. Greaves, bucklers, spears, culverins, swords, scimitars and
grenades were forbidden by name. The central medallion of the pediment
should enshrine Civick Unity.
So the reigning Mayor was represented in all the pomp of office grasping
the hands of two equally, befurred and bechained Aldermen. It was an
affecting combination of the real and the allegorical. A second medallion
contained a voluminously draped and very substantial lady who with absent
gaze spilled from a heavy Etruscan vase a large stream of petrified
Chalybeate. Her far-away look might be attributed to an effort at
ascertaining what a small Æsculapius was doing to a serpent on the summit
of a diminutive Pelion. This was Health. Finally a third medallion held a

peer in coronation robes thoughtfully regarding the front of St. James'
Palace. A curved scroll announced this pensive aristocrat to be the
representative of Society.
Civick Unity, Health, and Society—could any other personifications so
justly convey the essential quality of Curtain Wells? And not a pike or
arquebus to frighten them out of a rigid serenity.
Upon this sermon in stone, three streets converged, which at half-past
twelve o'clock were all thronged. Since the breakfast was essentially a male
function, the civick band by a happy inspiration of the band-master
thundered out The Girl I left Behind Me, as in its wake a number of
prosperous tradesmen tripped to the measure of the tune. Haberdashers and
cheesemongers, drygoodsmen and fishmongers, butchers, tailors, saddlers,
cooks and silversmiths all marched along with a pleasant emotion of relief.
Fortified by preliminary tankards of ale and unhampered by prosaick wives
and daughters, they retreated from nothing save the business of serving
customers. Vapours were dispelled by the breeze of trumpets, and the
thoughts aroused by the musick of the song only added a pungent spice to
their dreams of food and confirmed their faith in the superiority of breeches
over petticoats—at any rate when walking away from the latter.
Meanwhile down the central street came another crowd not marching with
the precision of movement inspired by the escort of the band, but still urged
to a certain unanimity of gait by the common object of their advance. Mr.
Mayor, preceded by his mace, set the time, and a line of Aldermen carefully
ordered their pace to his. Behind the Aldermen came the Watch. This was a
mistake. The latter should have led the dignitaries, but had spent so much
time in buttoning and unbuttoning its capes and belts, in brushing its hats
and polishing its staves that it was late, thereby belying its name. So the
Watch followed behind and vented its contrition on a mob of boys in
occasional backhanded cuffs and current imprecations. Behind the boys
marched three small girls—Amazons heedless of the embargoe laid upon
their sex.
However both these processions were overshadowed by the prodigious
pageant that emanated from the street facing the medallion of Society. The
last deserves a chapter to itself since no appendix could do justice to its
importance. Let me therefore, without being held to have violated the
decency of orderly narration, insert at this point a supplementary chapter

which may serve as a programme to the entertainment I hope worthily to
recount.

Chapter V a

THE ORDER OF THE EXQUISITE MOB
General Sir Jeremy Dummer in a sedan chair borne by two veterans of the
Militia. Beau Ripple in damson-coloured velvet coat and breeches, with
waistcoat of old rose sattin trimmed with silver and rose silk stockings
clocked with the same.
Mr. Ripple with admirable condescension occasionally arrested the
progress of the march in order to address a word of encouragement to Sir
Jeremy Dummer who was inclined to be querulous from want of food and
the action of the chalybeate.
The Earl of Cinderton in smoke-grey silk with cuffs of clouded blue.
The Honourable George Harthe-Brusshe, his son, in a lighter shade of the
same.
The Earl of Vanity looking like a fly, in amber.
Five baronets in various degrees of FEUILLE MORTE.
Four Knights of the Shire trying to look like Baronets and horridly bruised
by the palings in their attempts.
Seventeen exquisite young gentlemen all exactly alike and only to be
distinguished by the various shapes and sizes of their patches.
Major Constantine Tarry who had devoted the sleep of the preceding night
to the preservation of his pigtail's rigour and appeared very pale beside his
red coat in consequence.
Justice Gregory Moon looking much the same as usual save for a sprig of
yew in his buttonhole.
Mr. Charles Lovely and Mr. Anthony Clare arm in arm. The former
wearing a cherry-coloured velvet coat with waistcoat and breeches of trout-
coloured silk, the latter in uniform cucumber green. Both laughed very
loudly and cheerfully from time to time.
Five elegant young gentlemen including a Lieutenant of his Majesty's
Navy, a Cornet of the Grey Dragoons and an Ensign of the Foot.

Twenty-three old men suffering from various diseases.
Thirty-eight old men all firmly convinced that they were suffering from
gout but all perfectly healthy in truth.
Forty-five old men equally firmly convinced that they were suffering from
other and various diseases, and all equally healthy in truth.
Mr. Oboe the Physician watchful of his patients' demeanour and quick to
confirm the slightest suspicion of ill-health.
Mr. Francis Vernon in a tawny suit of figured Manchester velvet.
Fifteen or sixteen gentlemen of various ages, sizes, ranks, costumes,
complexions, and states of health.

Chapter V (resumed)

B EAU Ripple mounted the steps that, in diminishing semi-circles,
reached the entrance of the Civick Hall and, turning his head, froze
into silence with a cold stare of surprize the concluding Crescendo of
The Girl I left Behind Me, as if the half-drawn breaths of the musicians
were suddenly changed to icicles.
The good-natured band was not at all put out by Mr. Ripple's lack of
appreciation. His objection to panting was universally known, so the band
bore him no malice, but continued to pant.
As the musick stopped, Mr. Mayor began to walk up the steps also. No
doubt his ascent would have been as active as the Beau's if he had not been
hampered by the civick robes on which he trod at every alternate step.
Possibly the freezing disdain of Mr. Ripple had made the steps more glacial
than their wont. At any rate, the Mayor whenever he avoided the hem of his
robes, always slipped and stumbled, but he achieved the summit at last and
greeted the Beau with such fervour that he effected a perceptible thaw.
On these occasions of supreme civick importance, it was customary for
the latter to relax his rule of never taking snuff with any one below the rank
of Viscount in the Peerage of England, so he offered his box to the Mayor.
That functionary with a reverence he had acquired over the counter, inserted
two fleshy fingers into the dainty receptacle, withdrew them smeared with
Rappee, sniffed the powder with avidity, sneezed four times, and said he
saw Sir Jeremy alighting from his chair.
The Beau regarded the Mayor's invasion of the delicate touchstone of
quality with a smile of amused apprehension. He explained afterwards that
he felt as if he were carrying a sirloin of beef into a queen's parlour. When
the convulsions set up by the snuff had outworn their first violence, he fixed
his monocle upon the guest's chair. Sure enough, Sir Jeremy was alighting.
Mr. Ripple and the Mayor simultaneously descended the steps, and while
the former started back with an affectation of surprise, the latter charged
forward with eager hospitality.

"Gadslife! Sir Jeremy! You are vastly welcome, Sir. This is a great
occasion. Twenty-one years. Tet-tet." Thus Mr. Ripple.
"How are you, Sir Jermy Dummer, Sir? Come along o' me, Sir Jermy, and
I hope yaul heat very hearty," said or rather shouted the Mayor.
"Eheu fugaces!" murmured Mr. Ripple.
"Heh?" asked the Mayor.
"Postume, Postume."
"Hoh!" said the Mayor. "I beg yaw pardon, Mr. Ripple. Will you take a
harm, Sir Jermy?"
The poor old knight clutched at the fur of the Mayor's robe as the two of
them stumbled up the steps behind Mr. Ripple.
In passing through the antechamber, the old man dropped his hat and cane.
"I shouldn't leave my hat an' cane here if I was you, Sir Jermy," said the
Mayor. "While some's heating, some'll be thieving."
"I have not the slightest intention of doing anything so insane," quavered
the ancient soldier, "can't you see that I dropped 'em by accident?"
The good-natured Mayor stooped to recover the accessories. "I beg yaw
pardon, Sir Jermy. Follow me. The banquet's in here."
The huge folding doors were flung back, and the sight of so much food
kindled a gleam in Sir Jeremy's rheumy eyes and waked a cackle from his
lean throat.
"Glad to hear such a jovial laugh. Wittles is wittles when hall's said an'
done. Hain't that true, Mr. Ripple," said the Mayor turning to the Beau for
confirmation of this statement.
"Victuals are victuals, sir, as you very justly observe."
Upon these three celebrated figures broke the buzz of the excited crowd
from the centre of which Lord Cinderton and Lord Vanity withdrew
themselves.
"Let me present Sir Jeremy Dummer, the Earl of Cinderton. Sir Jeremy
Dummer, the Earl of Vanity." The latter offered his snuff-box to the old
votary of Health who declined it saying,
"No! thankee, my lord, not before I eat. D—— e if ever I took snuff
before I ate."

His worship the Mayor was then presented to the two noblemen and,
discoursing amicably of the outlook on European politicks, the five great
men threaded their way towards the principal table.
There was a tremendous shuffling among the innumerable waiters as Mr.
Daish urged them to unparalleled exertion. They ran hither and thither like
recently fertile hens. One half of them pulled out chairs from the tables and
the other half pushed them back again. Some fled bawling for the soup.
Others conversed in excited whispers. At last the assembled company to the
number of three hundred persons stood each member in the place he had
selected.
What caused a further delay? Why did Mr. Daish hurriedly wave back the
white-capped cook bearing the first tureen?
Through the doorway pattered little Mr. Archdeacon Conybeare. "I'm
late," he muttered, "I know it, I'm aware of it. I'm late. Maria, my love, I'm
late, I'm very late."
The Beau was looking at the large clock below the gallery at the far end of
the hall.
"Will you ask a grace, Mr. Archdeacon," he said.
The Mayor smote the table with a silver hammer as the parson slipped into
his place.
"For what we are going to receive ... my dear Mr. Ripple, 'tis no use to tell
me the contrary, I know I am very late."
The Publick Breakfast had begun.
I think it was the great Dr. Johnson whose forehead while he ate was
dabbled with perspiration and the veins of it red and swollen. At any rate
the Mayor had a similar appearance. He devoured his food as if he feared
the cherubs sporting in the gilded panels of the ceiling would descend and
snatch it from his plate.
Mr. Ripple ate very modishly. One would have said he had watched the
honied meals of many butterflies. For all his fork's fastidious action, it
managed to pick the best of a Fricassée. Rounds, ribs, and sirloins, he
deplored.
Sir Jeremy Dummer evidently felt that his sensibility to the honour
awarded to him deserved practical gratitude. He eat voraciously. The old
fighting spirit abode in him for a space and he handled his knife like his

hanger. He slashed at every course that came along, but, accuracy being
impaired by muscular fatigue, he was content to swallow much of his food
whole.
Sir Jeremy Dummer ate:
Two plates of turtle soup.
The better part of a codfish.
The wing of a capon.
The wing of a duck.
The breast of a pullet.
A hot buttered apple dumpling and two or three slices of ham which he
had not noticed before.
Sir Jeremy Dummer drank:
Two tankards of old ale.
One bottle of Madeira.
Two bottles of Port.
And on the following day, Sir Jeremy Dummer died. He had always been
famous for trencher-play until condemned by Oboe to milky sustenance to
which through twenty-one winter seasons he never willingly yielded. This
commemoration of his abstinence was his opportunity and his revenge.
Could he have made a worthier end? For my own part, I should not presume
to say so.
Meanwhile, unconscious of this premature obituary, Sir Jeremy Dummer
enjoyed the breakfast amazingly. At first he was inclined to peevishness
through not being seated upon a sufficiently high chair. Mr. Daish, however,
with ready tact secured one of the Civick cushions and so enabled Sir
Jeremy, comfortably ensconced in crimson velvet, to eat his last breakfast at
ease.
Mr. Lovely having made the acquaintance of the Honourable George
Harthe-Brusshe, by whom he had seated himself at the particular request of
Mr. Ripple, discussed with animation the food on his plate and the last
foppery of the town. Mr. Harthe-Brusshe, a lantern jawed young gentleman
with a sincere devotion to turtle-soup, observing that Mr. Lovely was about
to leave his portion, begged him to hand it over. Charles who invariably
encouraged every man's idiosyncrasy sent the word down the table to pass
up every neglected plateful. This request was readily granted and presently

Mr. Harthe-Brusshe found himself surrounded by half-a-dozen portions.
Thereupon he declined all other dishes and was faithful to soup for the rest
of the meal.
"I suppose you find the difference in temperature sufficient variety?"
asked Mr. Lovely in a tone of great interest.
"That's so, Sir," replied the other as he refused beef and veal for the sake
of a moderately warm fifth plate of soup.
"I doubt you keep a bottle of it always to hand," remarked Lovely.
"It would tire me too much. It tires me to keep things to hand."
Here the Honourable George Harthe-Brusshe sighed with exhaustion and
seemed to desire silence.
Charles turned to his other neighbour who happened to be Mr. Francis
Vernon.
"Are you making a sojourn here, Sir?"
Vernon noticed the richness of Mr. Lovely's attire, made a rough
calculation of the value of his buckles, brooches and solitaire, and answered
very politely he hoped so indeed.
"I've not yet seen you at the Blue Boar, Sir. We make up a pleasant party
in the old Coffee-Room every night. There's young Tom Chalkley of the
Foot, Tony Clare, Peter Wingfield, Jack Winnington, Harry Golightly of
Campbell's Grey Dragoons, Blewforth of the Lively, and as many more of
us pass the time very pleasantly over some tolerable Port and very excellent
Burgundy."
"I doubt the company is delightful."
"'I faith, that's very true for when the wine makes us loquacious, d—— e,
we sing, and when it makes us mum, why, d——e, the dice-box talks for us.
You'll join us, Sir?" he added, turning to Mr. Harthe-Brusshe.
"Proud," murmured that gentleman pensively regarding the rich scum
slowly hardening over the plate of soup to be attacked next.
"Let me see," said Charles, "to-night we must positively keep quiet in
deference to the Beau. Monday night I've promised to go to the Assembly."
"What's that?" said Mr. Anthony Clare, a florid young gentleman on the
opposite side of the table. "Blewforth!" he called out to a naval officer
farther along. "Charles has forsook letters and is going to try life for a
change."

"Good G——," said the Lieutenant solemnly. "Charles crowding all
canvas after a petticoat?"
Charles looked somewhat disconcerted by this immediate perception of
his motives.
"I 'faith, you're in the wrong, Blewforth," he protested, "'tis to please
Ripple and that's the whole truth of the matter."
A roar of laughter greeted this excuse, and every young gentleman in
hearing vowed to exchange dice for dancing on Monday night.
"I saw Charles leave a note at a house in the Western Colonnade,"
remarked Ensign Chalkley of the Foot.
"A Valentine for a hundred guineas," said Clare.
"Name the charmer," shouted Blewforth, "name her, and egad, she shall be
the toast of the afternoon."
Mr. Vernon felt relieved. Somehow he had half suspected Lovely was in
pursuit of Miss Courteen. If he had not decided to wear purple sattin on the
day before and buried himself in the closet to extricate the suit, he would
have been still more suspicious of Lovely. The latter ignored the friendly
jeers.
"Shall we say Wednesday night, Sir?"
"I shall be honoured."
"May I beg the favour of your name, Sir? 'Tis customary with us to elect
our associates.'
"My name is Vernon. Francis Vernon of the Crescent, Curtain Wells—and
London."
It was Charles' turn to display apprehension. Here was a man well dressed,
of genteel appearance, living in the Crescent.
"Ah! the Crescent! I once had a notion to lodge there myself."
"'Tis a quiet position," said Vernon.
"So much the better for my Muse."
"You are a poet, Sir?"
"I have a metrical fancy."
"Try the Colonnade, Charles," bellowed the Lieutenant, "and your Muse'll
speedily become the most famous Toast of the time."
"Blewforth owns a spy-glass," said some one.

"I wish he would own a mirrour," said Charles, "his wig is infamous."
"His head is swollen since the w-war," stammered little Peter Wingfield,
"or else he was w-wounded in the wig." Blewforth, impervious to
smoaking, gave a loud guffaw.
Lovely and Vernon agreed to meet on the following Wednesday and the
conversation moved on general lines till the silver hammer of the Mayor
summoned the company to attend to the toasts. The eyes of the room were
on him as away up at the high table, he rose burly and majestick.
"Mr. Alderman Jobbins," he proclaimed, "the King!" Mr. Jobbins, the
youngest of the city fathers, blessed his sovereign with unctuous pride, and
the toast was drunk amid acclamations whose echo was drowned in broken
glass. Curtain Wells knew when to borrow from military manners.
Then the assembly tilted on its chairs after filling new glasses, and
composed itself to listen to Beau Ripple who had risen, monocle in hand.
When the murmur of delighted anticipation had sighed itself out on the
wings of a loud 'Hush,' the Great little Man with indescribable suavity
begged the company's permission to say a few words.
"Mr. Mayor, my lords, and gentlemen, may I say citizens? (a voice, 'You
may') for I think I am giving utterance to the sentiments of this salubrious
town when I protest that upon an occasion of such unique interest and such
immense significance, we no longer recognize any distinction between
visitors and residents (loud applause). We are assembled this morning in
order to honour a man for whom no honour is sufficient. We are celebrating
the twenty-first consecutive winter at Curtain Wells of Sir Jeremy Dummer
(loud cheers). He has been faithful to us, gentlemen. Each year towards the
close of the equinoctial gales, his coach has clattered over the cobbles of
Curtain Wells. Each year he has alighted at the door of Number Seventeen,
the Crescent. Each year he has torn himself away from the gaiety of London
in order to set us an example of perseverance. Each year his arrival has
encouraged other gentlemen of grave address to put their faith in the
cleansing springs of Chalybeate. To be sure, his gout is as virulent as ever,
but has he despaired? No (cheers). Has he tried other remedies? No
(cheers). He has only been the more firmly convinced of the profound
malignity of his disorder and the more resolutely determined to annoy it by
any and every means in his power (continued applause). Twenty-one years
ago Curtain Wells was a different place. We had, it is true, this Civick Hall.

We had Crescent and Colonnade, Curtain Garden and Curtain Rotunda,
Curtain Wells and Curtain Pump Room, Curtain Hill and Curtain Dale. But
we had not your respected Mayor. In those days he was a younger, shall I
add, a more foolish man? I myself was still overshadowed by the reputation
of my great predecessor Beau Melon whose alabaster bust consecrates the
Assembly Rooms.
"In those days, gentlemen, coaches very rarely exceeded the rate of four
miles an hour, and as you have heard, the new Machine proposes to travel at
an uniform speed of six. Twenty-one years! This valetudinarian majority
should make the youngest of us pause and reflect. Twenty-one years of
Chalybeate (a groan from the back of the room).
"Mr. Mayor, my lords and gentleman, I propose the health of Sir Jeremy
Dummer and venture to assert that the time-honoured toast was never
before fraught with such significance. The health of Sir Jeremy Dummer! It
is in order to commemorate his health that we are assembled. Gout has done
many ill deeds, ruined many tempers, spoiled many legs, but for this at least
we should be grateful—— it has afforded us the spectacle of a gallant
gentleman faithful to his earliest prescription, hopeful of an ultimate cure
and charitable to the town of his adoption. (Loud and prolonged applause.)
One moment, gentlemen: let me add that the guest of this entertainment has
expressed a desire to present the town with a new set of mugs for the
publick fountains." (Volleys of applause.)
Beau Ripple after leading the toast with three very urbane Huzzas
resumed his seat, and Sir Jeremy Dummer doddered up to make his reply.
As it consisted chiefly of a long and detailed account of his symptoms and
extended over half an hour, and as you, with knowledge of his speedy
death, will not bear it with the slumberous equanimity of his
contemporaries, I shall not recount it. It is enough to say that when it was
concluded, everybody woke with a start and cheered vociferously. Then the
Mayor proposed the health of Mr. Ripple, and somebody else proposed the
health of the Mayor, and so on until all the dignitaries had had enough wine
drunk to their long life to ensure for every one of them an undiseased
immortality.
When the toasts were finished, the quality adjourned to the Civick
Chamber to meet the ladies over a dish of tea, while the quantity marched

off to put the seal on a great occasion by talking it over in the various
taprooms round the town.
Vernon was not inclined to brave the extension of the affair when he
perceived his new friends cautiously escaping from the Beau. He hated to
be conspicuous, and it was a small pleasure to meet his Phyllida among the
dowagers. Indeed, he was beginning to wish he had been less hasty in
taking lodgings in the Crescent, and the prospect of the Blue Boar was
already alluring enough to make him inquire the price of a room in that
merry house. So he asked if he might take Mr. Lovely's arm.
In the square, the elegant young gentlemen made a bright knot.
"What's to be done?" cried the Lieutenant.
"L-l-let's ride over to B-Baverstock Regis and s-see T-Tony's m-maiden
aunt," stammered little Peter Wingfield.
"Bravo!" shouted Charles.
Clare looked up in surprize. Charles was seldom willing to play the game
of light love. Could that chatter of Blewforth's have gone deeper than he
thought? There was a strange excitement about him—an excitement that
was aroused by something stronger than the civick wine. Was he in love?
Mr. Anthony Clare was puzzled.
"You must know, gentlemen," said Mr. Lovely, "that this maiden aunt is of
a very singular complexion. 'Tis usual, as we are all aware, to look to
maiden aunts for legacies and presents, but this lady, as I know by the state
of Tony's purse, gets more than she gives."
"Fie! Charles," protested his friend, "I vow your point of view
deteriorates." What could be the matter with him?
"Well, gentlemen," he continued, "since you are so set on meeting my
relatives, egad! you shall. We'll ride over to Baverstock to-night; there are
dances in Baverstock Barn, and the maids—maiden-aunts will all be there.
You'll come Charles?"
"Not another word. I'll lead the love-chase or, shall we say, the legacy
hunt."
"And you, sir?" Clare continued with a bow to Vernon.
After a moment's hesitation due, no doubt, to bashfulness, the latter
assented, and in a trice the whole party went whooping and holloaing in the
direction of the Blue Boar.

And all this time, Phyllida was counting the kisses in her teacup while she
watched Miss Sukey Morton search energetically for strangers.

Chapter the Sixth

BAVERSTOCK BARN

V ERNON left his companions at the door of his lodgings in order to
adapt his dress to the road, having settled with them to meet presently
at the Blue Boar where a horse was to be saddled in readiness. He
wondered while pulling on his riding-boots what was the monetary value of
his new friends. They talked of play; but was it high enough to make their
fellowship worth joining? They were all apparently expensive in their tastes
and habits, but seemed so young and irresponsible. That however was rather
an advantage. They belonged to the World, the World that is of St. James'
Street; yet if they were callow pigeons, why were they learning to fly to far
from the nest which bred them?
Now Mr. Vernon had got hold of a wrong analysis. These young men of
Curtain Wells in spite of their outward freshness were not at all fit for the
table. They had tough breasts beneath an array of fine feathers. This society
of theirs, so remote from the larger society of London, with a toleration of
good and bad alike, was in its essence eclectick, like a regiment or a
college. An air of genial self-satisfaction clung to it nourished by rules and
opinions and traditions which had never been proved to be false or harmful.
The members were all clipped to a pattern and displayed a wealth of blooms
in a prim setting. Even Lovely straggled too much, and was only allowed to
disturb the fellowship on account of his decorative qualities and because he
was evidently only a strong sport from the conventional habit of growth.
Vernon in making up his mind to join this elegant association was quite
unaware that the condescension was on the side of youth. He was willing to
instruct them in the ways of the great world, but found what he had been
compelled to learn, they knew by inherited instinct. He was ignorant of
their existence: they on the other hand had experienced many Mr. Vernons.
Still he was endowed with too much insight not to understand almost
immediately that he must imitate their standards, and soon caught the tone
of his companions well enough to be voted an acquisition.

However, as he wrestled with his riding-boots, he was distinctly at a loss.
This ride to Baverstock was presumably an expedition of gallantry, and yet
he had felt it unwise to obtrude a jest appropriate to the occasion. The
conversation had possessed a certain elusive ribaldry; women were
discussed with frankness, and yet he had not ventured to boast of his own
conquests. These young men chattered of love, much as they would have
talked of fox-hunting. Love was a theory, a philosophy with a cant
terminology of its own. And yet the analogy was incomplete. No man
would hesitate to chronicle his leaps, but then no man would confess to
having shot a fox. There was the rub. He was a fox shooter; these were
hunters. Gadslife! How absurdly young they all were. And this Lovely? He
was evidently more prudish than the rest of them—a man of sentiment who
objected to either mode of death. He would like to see this paragon of virtue
who had stared so coldly at the tale of old Sir John Columbine and his frail
exquisite consort, put to the test. From that moment he began to hate
Charles, and stamped the wrinkles out of his boots with considerable
feeling. He would devote himself to emptying Lovely's purse before he
tried the rest of them.
Vernon in a very pleasant frame of mind strolled through the chill of
approaching twilight. The humiliation of Lovely was in a way achieved as
soon as conceived. This was how Vernon always escaped from awkward
situations. He so seldom faced facts.
An outraged husband once threatened him with a riding whip, and Vernon
promptly climbed out by the window. In the street he only remembered he
had successfully seduced the wife, and forgot the uncomfortable epilogue.
He behaved to futurity in the same generous way as he treated the past.
Presently he found the company assembled in the yard of the inn, with a
dozen horses pawing the cobbles impatient of the cold. They were soon
mounted and the arched entry rang again with the sound of hoofs as they
trotted through the High Street.
"Which way?" shouted Vernon who was in front.
"Straight ahead and turn to the right," answered Clare. "We've eight miles
to go and a good road to go on."
"Huzza!" shouted Vernon who felt that extreme heartiness was the correct
attitude.
In the clap and clack of the horses' hoofs, the affectation passed unnoticed.

How the fat shopkeepers stared to see these young gentlemen cantering
away in the late afternoon, 'Some wild frolick,' they thought and turned
half-regretfully to attend to their customers who were just as much
interested in the jolly troop as themselves. Children scrambled from the
gutters on to the pavement with yells of dismay as the horsemen scattered
their mud pies. Little girls effected heroick rescues of favourite dolls from
the very gate of death and little boys bowled their hoops between the legs of
wayfarers with more assiduity than usual, in their struggles to avoid the legs
of the horses.
Lieutenant Blewforth like most sailors was an inferior rider, but on this
occasion he surpassed himself, and sat his horse like a Bedouin. He only
wished buxom Miss Page would step to the door of the cook-shop and
behold his prowess. Unluckily at the very moment when his ambition was
in process of achievement, his mount swerved, and the gay Lieutenant
found himself at his charmer's feet. The inevitable idler secured the horse,
and Blewforth, having no small change, was obliged to reward him with a
crown, and what is more look as if he enjoyed the expense. To give him
credit, he certainly succeeded.
"Do you always propose yourself in that precipitous manner?" Charles
inquired as they cantered past the last house and gained the hedgerows.
"You pay very little heed to her corns."
The Lieutenant uttered an enormous guffaw that made his mount swerve
again.
"The Royal Navy is always so d-devilish romantick," stammered little
Peter Wingfield who looked like a precocious boy beside the burly officer.
"By G—," puffed Blewforth, "that reminds me of a good story I heard of
an ensign in Bolt's. He was a d—d bashful man, and couldn't abide the
women. One day he was making his compliments to the Colonel's daughter
—a gaunt hussy of thirty-five summers or winters. He hung back outside
the parlour-door for some time, mustered up courage to enter at last, dashed
into the room and, tripping over his hanger, found himself kneeling at her
feet. This was a bad beginning truly, but in trying to retrieve the position, he
clutched the air and caught hold of her skinny hand. They were married in
the spring, and the garrison said he badly wanted her money."
In the outburst of laughter which hailed the climax of the story, Vernon
asked with much interest what the young woman's dowry was worth. The

subject fascinated him.
"Don't know, sir," replied Blewforth, "but I saw the jade at Portsmouth last
year, and I'm d—d if £50,000 would have made her endurable."
They were riding through a pleasant country of meadows and small
streams; so Charles walked his mare to admire the willows empurpled by
the fast gathering dusk. Vernon seized the opportunity for conversation.
"A fine landskip," he remarked.
Charles looked up half-angry. He disliked a man who suited his words to
his own supposed tastes.
"It might be finer," he said shortly.
"Without a doubt," replied the other. "You'll pardon my ignorance, Mr.
Lovely, but of what does the entertainment before us consist?"
Charles' face grew clear again at once—at any rate, the man did not claim
omniscience.
"The entertainment, sir, is composed of fiddles and country dances
enjoyed by the light of tallow-dips in an old barn. There will be some
ploughboys, shepherds and farmers, with a few milkmaids and farm
wenches, and the whole will resemble a painted Dutch interior."
"And you propose to join the merrymaking?"
"We do."
"It should be a diverting experience."
"I hope so indeed. My friend Clare vows he has discovered a Venus
masquerading in fustian."
"His maiden-aunt in short?"
"The same. Like all small societies, sir, we have our intimate jests which
to a stranger must seem excessively threadbare."
"On the contrary," said Vernon, "they possess an engaging spontaneity
which flatters me with the suggestion that my own youth has not vanished
irreclaimably. And yet," he sighed, "I am a man whom the world insults by
claiming as its own."
"You have travelled?" inquired Charles.
"I have made the Grand Tour."
"That is a pleasure which I still owe to myself and to my country."
"You lack energy?"

"Of the kind expressed in gold."
"An hour's good luck at the tables."
"I've enjoyed some dozens," interrupted Lovely. "Almost enough to pay
for twice as many less fortunate periods."
"Then why continue to play?"
"Why fall in love? Why die in a consumption? Why live this life of ours at
all? Your question, sir, takes little account of mankind's innate perversity,
and no account at all of his tastes and disposition of mind."
"On the contrary," argued Vernon, "I esteem all these at their greatest
effect, but regard with equal reverence the doctrine of free will. I myself—
but why should I fatigue you with personal anecdotes?"
"Pray continue," said Charles eagerly. He was always alert at a confidence
and plumed himself on his ability to read human character. In this case
curiosity outran discernment, and he failed to see the improbability of a
man like Vernon exposing his temperament without securing a
compensatory advantage.
"I myself, Mr. Lovely, was once addicted to the equally expensive habit of
intrigue, but I found it led me into so many cursed situations that I forced
myself to enjoy less compromising pastimes. I chose cards."
"Ah! cards!" commented Charles.
"But here again," Vernon continued, "I found the introduction of a
passionate element ruined at once my pleasure and my skill. I was
confounded. To be sure there remained wine, but whoever heard of a man's
will exercised by wine? To be frank, Mr. Lovely, I was unwilling to take the
risque of defeat."
"So I am to regard you as a disappointed voluptuary, a hedonist
philosopher whose premisses induced him to a false conclusion. No, no, sir,
keep your logick for speculations upon the soul, not the body."
"Sir," answered Vernon, "I found, indeed, that pleasure tormented by
passion was no pleasure at all, but pleasure divorced from any ulterior
emotion I soon discovered to be the highest good."
"So you would persuade me that you're an Epicurean who flings withered
rose leaves and drinks sour wine. Come, come, sir, I wager your fingers
would twitch and your lips quiver if one of us held a dice-box with a deep
stake on the main."

"I deny that."
"We shall see."
"I hope we may."
"Ay, sir, and I wager this affectation of indifference will not outlast a
week's ill luck, and as for woman, why the very dairymaids to-night will
kindle a spark in your eyes."
"My life on't, they will not," cried Vernon.
"Foregad! you wear too stolid a mask to convince me it is your natural
countenance."
This duologue, which seems to show that Mr. Lovely was younger and
less wise than we might have thought, was interrupted by the shouts of the
riders in front who wanted to know whether Charles imagined they were
part of a funeral pomp.
"For d——e!" shouted Mr. Golightly, "we are all nodding like plumes and
the twilight obscures the undeniable charms of the prospect."
Baverstock Barn, like a great cathedral, loomed upon them at last. As they
dismounted, revelry and the drawling chatter of rustick voices, mingled
with the tuning of fiddles, came from within, while the flickering light from
the open door enchanted a heap of roots to the appearance of huge gems.
Clare approached the entrance while the rest stood by their horses.
"Farmer Hogbin!" he sang out.
"Who be caaling?"
"Mr. Anthony Clare!"
"Come in now, do 'ee come in."
"I've brought over a party with me, farmer?"
"Maids, do 'ee hear that? Maister Clare have brought wi'un a passel o'
gallantry."
There was much jingling merriment from the maids.
"Now then Jock, Tommas, William, Jarge, Joe, Sam, Peter, Ern, move
your shanks and stable they hosses."
The farmer, a huge Falstaff of a man quite in proportion to his barn,
towered in the doorway obscuring the light, while the farm hands clumped
with heavy legs towards the horses.
"Gi' they pleanty o' oats, my lads."

"A' right," mumbled the lads in chorus.
"Come in, my gentlemen, come in. Never mind for a speck of mud; the
maids'll dust 'ee."
This sally provoked a ripple of laughter from the maids, and a chuckle
from the young gentlemen.
The farmer surveyed them solemnly as they stepped into the barn.
"Why, you be all in top-boots?" he shouted. "Ho! ho! my maids, ye'll get
thy twinkling toes rarely trod on, or shall I lend 'em my slippers to each in
turn?"
This was considered splendid fooling, and laughter again resounded.
"Nay, farmer, you're in the wrong," said Charles producing a pair of
pumps from the pockets of his riding coat.
"Why! dang me, if they han't brought a King's wardrobe wi'en. Eh! maids,
you must mind your modesties to-night."
The maids, huddled together like a bunch of red apples, were set shaking
with laughter at this warning—as if by a boisterous wind.
"Who will help us with our boots?" asked Clare as he subsided upon a
truss of straw and flung his legs wide apart.
There was considerable whispering from the heart of the bunch till one of
the maids was pushed by her companions out into the open with
ejaculations of "Go on, stoopid."
"Thee needst not let on to be so backward." "Thee wast forthy enough
behind the kitchen door yester'een." "Eh! bustle thyself, great gowk," and
others of like freedom of opinion.
The maid selected for Mr. Clare was blooming indeed.
"Cream and claret," murmured Charles.
"Gad! a Venus by a Dutch master truly," commented Vernon.
"She's no g-ghost," stammered little Peter Wingfield.
"Farewell and adieu to you, gay Spanish ladies,
Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain."
sang or rather bellowed Mr. Blewforth, slapping his thigh with a nautical
zest.
"Our Blewforth, careening far nearer than Cadiz

Will give to green fields what was meant for the Main."
continued Charles to the same tune.
"Give what?" asked Tom Chalkley.
"The breezy charm of his manner," replied Charles.
Now ensued jests, giggles, laughter, pranks, and struggles, as each
gentleman persuaded a fair to wrestle with his riding-boots. Vernon who
had forgotten to provide himself with pumps remained aloof from the
merriment not sorry for an opportunity to convince Mr. Lovely of his
remoteness from anything so vulgar as excitement.
Great was the mirth of everybody when the Lieutenant produced an
enormous Valentine that depicted a peculiarly fat Cupid winking at a
dairymaid over a brimming bowl of milk. Greater still was the mirth when
he presented the token with much earnestness to the bashful lass they called
Margery, and it became uproarious indeed when he explained he had
wished to offer it on the preceding night, but had been deterred by Mr.
Clare's reputed jealousy.
"Whoever heard tell of such a thing in the milk before?"
"Tis a Cupid, Margery," said Mr. Clare.
"There now and if I didn't go for to think it were a baby," declared
Margery.
Farmer Hogbin coming back from attending to the horses in time to hear
this remark called out in his great voice:
"Don't 'ee fret thyself, my lass, what thee wants'll come soon enough, I
warrant. Now my gentlemen, take your partners, we was just a-going to
begin a round dance. Tune up your squeaking boxes, fiddlers, and tip us
Come lasses and lads."
The fiddlers smiled encouragement at the dancers as they struck off with
the gallant old tune. Even Mr. Vernon, boots and all, was made to give an
arm to buxom Mrs. Crumplehorn, the cowman's wife. The sanded floor of
the barn resounded with the perpetual tripping of toes and heels.
"Come, lasses and lads,
Take leave of your dads."

The waist of every fair was encircled by a neat arm that tapered to a fine
wrist as the dancers swung down to their places. Little Peter Wingfield
unable to enfold the ample Polly was given her pinner as if he were indeed
the child his appearance and behaviour proclaimed him.
Every one admired the first two couples that took the middle. Mr. Lovely
was so graceful and Mr. Clare was so thorough. Round they went and down
they went and across and through and over and under while the rest of the
dancers clapped and tapped their appreciation. Faster and faster went the
fiddles, faster and faster went the shoes. Thicker and thicker rose the sand
and saw-dust from the floor until the barn seemed to be the centre of a
raging storm, such a wind the petticoats made and so dense became the
atmosphere. Thunder was added when the gigantick farmer and the burly
Lieutenant, whom merry chance had thrown into the arena together,
charged through their Pas Seul, bellowing the while with Gargantuan
laughter.
At last the fiddles stopped and, panting mutual congratulations, the
exhausted couples subsided upon the various trusses of straw laid along the
side of the barn. Even the ivory paleness of Mr. Vernon's cheeks wore a
faint tinge of carmine, and some curls of his modish wig were very slightly
ruffled.
Jock, Tommas, William, Jarge, Joe, Samuel, Peter, and Ern, who had
gathered into a critical knot, feeling themselves eclipsed by these active
visitors, were released from their sheepishness by a demand for the bowls
of spiced ale.
After this, they played Kiss in the Ring; and it was truly a most
exhilarating sight to see Mr. Anthony Clare with flapping coat-tails in
pursuit of the blooming Margery who was soon caught not very unwillingly
as we may suppose. It was ludicrous in the extreme to see little Peter
Wingfield darting hither and thither like a little brown rabbit. His little
white wig seemed to twinkle like a tail set too high on his little brown body.
But he let himself be caught by Polly beneath a lingering spray of mistletoe,
and how all the world laughed when she lifted him up and gave him a
resonant kiss on his little red lips. As for the large farmer and the burly
Lieutenant they thundered after every maid in the barn quite regardless of
any rules and, as I think, kissed the most of them very heartily indeed.

But the chief excitement of all was caused by a great white owl that came
flapping down from the rafters and put out half the candles with his great
sweeping wings. How all the lasses screamed and how earnestly the lads
reassured them, and though the former were repeatedly told that owls while
feeding on mice had not yet imbibed their habits, they persistently held their
skirts a little higher than usual and nestled very close and comfortable to the
exquisite young gentlemen from the Blue Boar.
Then, of course, they all danced Sir Roger de Coverley, and drank more
spiced ale while they rested. Somebody called on Charles for a song and he
gave them one of his own which everybody agreed was much too serious
for so jolly an occasion. Charles swore he had composed the tune himself,
but everybody else vowed they had heard it before, and as for the words,
there was not a trace of originality about them. However, his voice was
pleasant enough as he sang:
"When in the dews of early morn
My Chloe trips for may,
Across the fields of springing corn
I watch her pass,
The fairest lass,
That e'er was won with vows of love
Upon a summer's day.

"Ah! shame that I should leave thee, dear,
And cross the roaring sea,
That I should leave thee lonely here:
Think not, sweetheart,
Because we part
And I to foreign lands do rove,
Thou art less dear to me."
Blewforth protested he had said good-bye with almost identical rhymes in
every port of the two hemispheres, and moreover was not ashamed to
confess as much. All the maids, however, grew quite tearful and vowed the
evening was spoiled; indeed, they made such ado that Charles sang one of
Mr. d'Urfey's ballads to cheer their spirits and succeeded in providing such

a burst of laughter that the echo of it never died away during the rest of the
evening.
Of course, it was decided they must dance Sir Roger once more and, that
duty accomplished, it was discovered that Anthony Clare and Margery had
vanished. Of course everybody wondered where they could have gone, and
when they returned in time to take a last sip at the spiced ale, it was noticed
that Margery hung back in the shadows with a melancholy expression of
countenance that made her companions nudge each other with wise looks.
Soon word came that the horses were saddled and waiting. Good-byes
were murmured, and many a promise to come again was faithfully sworn
and many a kiss given and taken. The ousted yokels held each a soil-stained
hand for their genteel rivals to mount from. The maids stood huddled in the
flickering light of the open barn-door; Farmer Hogbin bellowed a last
farewell which was thunderously echoed by the Lieutenant, as with flushed
faces and half-regretful memories, the horsemen cantered towards Curtain
Wells under a sailing moon.
Clare rode by Charles to hear the judgment of Paris upon his
tatterdemalion Venus.
"I'd liefer for her sake that you were overseas next barley-harvest," said
Charles shortly.
"Plague on the man, what a cold stream it is!"
"My excellent Tony, your Blowzabella will be happier mating on a straw
pallet with Hodge than living under your protection in London."
"She would see the world."
"Pshaw! her world is a garden of gillyflowers. She was never meant to be
pushed out of sight for an importunate visitor."
"She would return."
"Like a spent primrose fit only for the bonfire."
"I could secure an annuity for her."
"You'll tire of her in London. Drain the claret from her cheeks, smear the
downy bloom, and you'll find rank lees and rotten core. Hodge never would.
No, no, the thought of so much comely maidenhood languishing for your
velvet-sleeved caresses is merely droll."
Clare loved and admired Charles too much to despise his tirades however
self-consciously virtuous they might appear. He felt more than ever

convinced that his friend was in love, in love too with some one the very
antithesis of the dairymaid. He would try one more test.
"But if I told I was in mind to wed my Venus?"
Charles jerked his reins in astonishment.
"Z—— ds, Tony look round you. There are maids more fit I say. Why wed
a mountain, however rich in pasture when you can wed a mountain-
nymph?"
Clare decided his suspicion was confirmed. Lovely objected to milkmaids
on the score of a taste sharpened to an exquisite point of refinement by an
ideal passion. He was postulating mere theories of life on account of the
charms of one dear She. Who was the witch? She had not withdrawn him
from their late junketing whatever her spells.
"Your morality, Charles, did not prevent you from entering very heartily
into the spirit of our pastoral piece."
They had fallen behind the others, and through the silent night Charles'
voice caught a melody from the wakening year as he rhapsodized.
"Fore Heaven! I love the country, I love these creamy hussies. I love their
swains with the sweet earth all about them. I was happy to-night! I was
happy with those dear people. I could lose my tricked-out self in that
twinkling barn. I bowed to merriment as a tree bows to the wind. I wanted
to hear the singing hopes and joys and desires of humble people. There we
were, all of us populating a frieze for some merry artist god. We were as
wax moulded to some fantastick dancing shape. On these occasions, I can
surmize at immortality and imagine the heart of the universe. I doubt you
think I'm babbling nonsense, but I'm trying to tell you I was entirely
disinterested in our merry-making of to-night."
Clare stretched out to touch the poet's arm.
"Try to think that I, chattering of Margery, am not more personal than you.
'Tis true, I piped a love-ditty, but though it may trouble the bush and brake
of a small wood, it would seem thin fluting——"
"To any but her," Charles interrupted. "The thinnest tune will charm one
who is nearer than you to the primitive animal too easily quelled by sweet
songs. Pipe to a crowd, Tony, but musick dedicated to a solitary
shepherdess at the sight of whom your mouth will be awry in a year's time
is ill work for her."

"I doubt you're right," said Clare softly. "You are compassionate to poor
nymphs to-night, Charles. Have you met a goddess?"
"Tony, I have."
"May you prosper!"
"Thank'ee. I'll tell you more of her when I know more myself."
They urged their horses to a trot and were silent for a while. Then Clare
asked Charles what he thought of Vernon.
"Oh! a statue positively. I doubt the whole affair was to him vastly low.
"Umph! there was a permanent leer carved on his lips. I dislike the
fellow."
"Nay! you're too stern in your judgments. He has promised me an evening
for Hazard."
Clare smiled. It was useless to remonstrate with a man whom the thought
of two dice transformed into a machine with glassy eyes and curiously
sensitive fingers.
So they rode silently.
Charles could see Phyllida in the moon-enchanted clouds, sometimes with
the trim waist of a dice-box.

Chapter the Seventh

SUNDAY MORNING

S UNDAY morning at Curtain Wells was eminently a day of rest. A stroke
of organizing genius on the part of Beau Ripple had abolished the
fatigues of early Chalybeate by transferring the corporeal obligations of
fashionable humanity to an hour which would not interfere with the respect
owed to the spirit.
"A glass of Chalybeate," he had remarked, "will promote the proper
digestion of the homily. Moreover, the vanity of post-religious promenades
will be considerably mitigated by the discipline of the Pump."
At Curtain Wells, therefore, soon arose the pleasant custom of inviting
one's friends and neighbours to partake of a substantial breakfast before
setting out to St. Simon's parish church. The neighbours, if gentlemen, were
expected to provide a suitable escort for their lady-hosts, and there was not
a dame in the town who did not make it a point of honour to be armed in at
the great West door on fine mornings or handed out of her chair with
cautious ceremony if the weather was unsettled.
The Widow Courteen was not the woman to neglect or despise any
prescriptive right conferred upon her sex. It was not surprizing, therefore, to
see Major Constantine Tarry and Mr. Gregory Moon turning solemnly into
the Crescent on the first Sunday morning whose events I am privileged to
chronicle. The demeanour of neither gentleman would have allowed us
even a momentary hesitation as to the day. The Sabbath wrote itself in the
devout wrinkles of Mr. Moon's domed forehead and expressed itself in the
stiff curls of the Major's military wig. As they drew near to Mrs. Courteen's
house the latter voiced a desire to see eggs and bacon upon the breakfast
table, and the former encouraged his ambition by repeating a legend of a
fecundity among hens unusual at this season of the year. The meditation
carried the two gentlemen to Mrs. Courteen's door in silence.
"Your turn to knock, Tarry," said Mr. Moon, in a rather depressed voice, as
he fumbled with the steps from which the Major assaulted the door with

military abruptness.
To them after a decent interval appeared Thomas in resplendent waistcoat
of Sunday and with nose polished to the limit of a nose's power of
brightness.
"Is your mistress within?" inquired the Major.
"Within and awaiting you," said solemn Mr. Thomas.
"Then I think, Mr. Moon," said the Major with half a turn, "we will step
inside immediately."
"I think we may venture," replied the latter.
They were ushered into the passage where Thomas received their hats and
canes. Thomas had such a sober effect on his fellow men that the slightest
action in which he took part was conducted with a ritual at once austere and
grand. One felt that the delivery of a hat, smallsword, cane, or message
possessed at least the dignity, the entire absence of all worldly
considerations that belong to the Sunday alms.
"Will your mistress receive us in the front parlour or the back parlour this
morning?" inquired Tarry whose legs were prepared for either emergency.
"In the front parlour," said Thomas. "Miss Thomasina was ill this
morning."
"In the back parlour, I presume?" said Moon.
"Very ill with retching and divers pains," continued Thomas.
"Poor Thomasina," said the Major with an attempt at jocularity.
"A feeble animal," said the footman, "and too fond of grass; and the grass
of this city is fit only for Nebuchadnezzar."
A bright fire was crackling in the grate, and on each hob a kettle of
burnished copper sang with considerable sentiment.
Thomas withdrew, and the Major and Mr. Moon took up the Englishman's
position on the hearthrug with coat-tails wide apart to allow the grateful
warmth free access to whatever chillness of morning air still clung about
their bodies. So they remained, silent, wrapped in the dignified
contemplation of an inferior painting in oils on the opposite wall. No doubt
in reality their thoughts were far away, possibly in the chaste seclusion of
the Widow's own room or possibly in the kitchen whence from time to time
ascended the pleasant jingle and chink that heralds food's approach.

No doubt they would both have stood there long enough for us to moralize
on England and the greatness of England, had not Mrs. Courteen come into
the room just then.
Ponto, Phyllida's black spaniel, sidled in with the breakfast and Phyllida
herself followed, and the freshness of her in the morning was strewn about
the room like petals of roses.
Conversation at breakfast suited itself to the solemnity of the day. The
widow sighed at every remark that was made, and in the gentle pathos of
her manner indicated placidly her conviction of fleeting time and sorrow,
and all those melancholy reflexions which are considered proper to the
Sabbath. However, at all times she was accustomed to preserve a cloistral
rigour of speech before her daughter. No one loved better to gather the
easier blooms on the safe side of the garden-god's perfumed hedge, but they
could only be plucked in numerous corners of ballrooms and during
secluded promenades. The presence of Phyllida made her mother's blood so
much rennet. Conversation became mere verbal curds and whey.
However, the Justice talked into his cup of the swift approach of Spring,
of the benefit of sun, the intolerable increase in vagrancy, the need for
repressing poachers. If platitudes were esteemed as high as rolling
hexameters, Moon would have been among the epical poets. As for Major
Tarry, he thrashed each topick at if his tongue were a little rattan cane. One
felt that any observation was regarded by that gallant gentleman as an
awkward recruit. He had an air of drilling the conversation. After breakfast,
the various members dispersed to acquire a seemly attitude towards matters
of religion.
Since the search for attitudes occupies a vast deal of human energy, it may
not be out of place to inform my reader where the half-dozen required for
Morning Prayer at St. Simon's were found.
The Widow Courteen found hers hidden between powder puff and patch-
box.
Miss Courteen found hers between the lines of a three-cornered note.
Madam Betty found hers in the coral secrets of Miss Courteen's left ear.
Mr. Thomas found his in a Bible as large and heavy as a Bible should be.
Major Tarry found his in the stem of a churchwarden pipe.
Mr. Moon found his in the best attitude that exists.

Soon Mrs. Courteen's chairmen were knocking at the door and the whole
party prepared to set out. The widow seated in her chair, hummed a hymn
tempo di minuetto. The Major marched upon her left and the Justice upon
her right, and Thomas marched in front. Phyllida and Betty kept to the
pavement and had scarcely time to wonder if all the world would be at
church, when they arrived at the porch and found that all the world certainly
was.
As the Major had handed the widow into her chair, Mr. Moon handed her
out, and the party of Mrs. Courteen proceeded to Mrs. Courteen's pew,
while Mrs. Courteen's chairmen carried the chair to an alley beloved of
chairmen and proceeded to doze away the Sabbath morning in its damask
recesses and were no doubt as comfortable as their mistress in the musty
cushions of St. Simon's pews. In the Western gallery, three fiddles, two
hautboys, and a bass viol squeaked and groaned with much fervour. In the
pulpit the parson squeaked and groaned with equal fervour and in the desk
below the clerk squeaked and groaned with most fervour of all. When the
parson threatened damnation, the ladies fanned themselves rapidly and
when he spoke of alms and oblations, they consoled themselves with
carraway comfits.
The service was rather worldly and seemed remote enough from anything
at all spiritual, but nevertheless in so far as it was indigenous to fair King
Richard's land, it should exact from us as much respect as we owe to a
Chippendale chair and that is or ought to be very great indeed. If so much
condemnatory fervour was equivalent to breaking these butterflies of
fashion upon a religious wheel, it cannot be denied that the exquisite bloom
of their ruined wings was a great deal more pleasant to regard than the
spattered blood and bones of earlier and more tangible martyrs to an
extreme mode.
The parson continued to prophesy hell-fire. But hell-fire means so many
kinds of illumination—certainly it had an invincible attraction for these gay
moths and butterflies. Perhaps they thought of it merely as a huge
aggregation of wax candles by which most of them had more than once
been morally singed. If any permanency of emotion was desirable, it would
certainty be more endurable in heat and gaiety than in chill aerial solitudes.
And, thanks to chickens, there would always be painted fans. This was the
sum of the congregation's united reflection during the sermon; individually,

no doubt, each soul played with more particular premisses, but the ultimate
conclusion was the same for all.
After so much damnation, the blessing was a rhetorical anti-climax.
Clouds had gathered during the homily due, no doubt, to the violence of the
preacher and, as the worshippers tripped out through the great West door,
the clouds burst and the streaming rain inclined them more favourably than
ever to the prospect of eternal warmth.
The morning's fair promise had been utterly belied, and many appealing
glances were launched at Mr. Ripple as he beckoned to his chairman. Surely
he would not be so barbarous as to force so much accumulated fine raiment
through mud and water, to drink the latter element in a less pleasing form.
But Mr. Ripple was inexorable: he stepped into his gilded chair, regardless
of appeal: the chairmen tightened their muscles for the long pull uphill, and
Gog and Magog, the diminutive negroes balanced one on each step,
guarded their master from interruption. Now ensued shouts, whistles,
cockcrows and screams. Hats were waved, canes flourished, and lily-white
hands shaken. All this uproar was due to the fact that there were just half as
many coaches and chairs as were required, and when these were filled, and
on their way to the Pump Room, there remained in the church too many
foolish virgins, too many improvident dowagers, too many thoughtless
beaux.
The rain fell in torrents, and the last vehicle had turned the corner.
A desolate remnant surveyed the situation. It was wet enough.
Now arose one of those crises which are inseparable from a despotism.
Somebody, for his presumption will always remain anonymous, somebody
suggested that the idea of climbing the hill of health in such a downpour
was unimaginable.
The stranded exquisites depended for the moment entirely on their rouge
for colour.
"Rebellion," they muttered and the ominous word flapped over their heads
and darkened the gloom more profoundly.
"The Beau will be furious."
"He will never forgive us."
"We shall be banished."
"Curtain Wells will no longer know us."

Again the daring voice was upraised:
"We are strong enough to defy Ripple. He has no right to make us wade
through mud for a whim of his own. If we do so, we'll do so in shifts and
shirts." The unknown voice gathered force with each new proposition, and
the startled exquisites huddled closer in a very ecstasy of perturbation.
"Shall damask flowers lose their beauty, shall silver lace be tarnished and
broideries lack lustre because Ripple has commanded the impossible? Silk
is the fashion, ay! and watered silk, but not sodden silk. Well was it named
the Pump Room, for such shall we become, mere pumps exuding moisture
at the propulsion of a tyrant!"
The apparent carelessness of the unknown tyrannicide had its effect; a
suspicion began to creep in that Mr. Ripple's domination was based on
insecurity. The thin end of this destructive wedge was enough to break open
the fortress of their duty and, the rain stopping for a moment, the stranded
exquisites hurried home to discuss the probable result of their revolt over
hot rum and lemon. Up at the Pump Room Mr. Ripple missed many a well-
known face that Sunday, and his urbane countenance lost some of its
smoothness as the minutes rolled by without the arrival of a single person
on foot.
At the expiration of the quarter of an hour, he despatched Gog to see what
had happened and when Gog came back with the news that the stranded
exquisites had one and all departed to their own lodgings, Mr. Ripple
ascended his marble pedestal with an air of determination.
"My lords, ladies and gentlemen," he began, and just then Magog hurried
up with the Beau's glass of chalybeate. The latter looked at it for a moment.
Pity and anger fought visibly for the mastery. Anger won, and the
remorseless Beau dashed the glass into a thousand sparkling fragments.
"The Pump Room will be closed until—until this—," he faltered over the
description of such ingratitude, "until the extraordinary behaviour of certain
visitors has been justified, if it can be justified. There will be no Assembly
to-morrow night."
The company shivered unanimously and the Beau, dismissing his
chairmen, walked forth into the rain with all the dignity in the world. It is
said he ruined three suits of unparagoned cut that fatal day by walking
about the principal thoroughfares of Curtain Wells for the remainder of a
very wet afternoon.

Chapter the Eighth

THE GREAT REBELLION

N OT unnaturally, the only topick of that memorable Sunday was the
rebellion. The excitement it raised far exceeded anything of the sort
not excepting the Jacobite rising, and the oldest inhabitant of the Wells
positively asserted that the landing of the Duke of Monmouth was
altogether inferior in the quality of emotional interest.
Sirloins of beef were allowed to freeze into glaciers of fat, horse radish
lost its sting, and the most frothy ale was flat in the presence of such an
absorbing topick of conversation. When at last everybody, momentarily
exhausted, sought recuperation in the Sunday dinner, everybody ate so fast
to be the sooner at the coffee-house or the Town Hall or the Assembly
Rooms or some such equally renowned haunt of gossip that everybody had
a remarkably bad attack of indigestion.
From every doorway the crowds hurried forth after dinner, scorning the
sacred forty winks. But coffee-house, Town Hall, and Assembly Rooms
were closed, bolted, barred and shuttered, and for a sign over each was a
scroll of parchment on which was inscribed in the finest gold leaf:
Closed till further notice. By order. Horace Ripple.
Disconsolately the ladies trooped home again to discuss developments
over a dish of Bohea; eagerly the gentlemen trotted to the Blue Boar only to
be told that nobody save lodgers could be admitted.
Most of them admired the decision of the Great little Man, but the rebels
who, having once started, felt bound to hold out if only against the censure
of the faithful, laughed very loudly and boldly and said it was all very well
to close the places of publick entertainment on Sunday, that was only a loss
of two hours custom to the proprietors, but on the next day, a very different
tale would be told. So they prophesied as they tripped home to their pipes
and hot rum, with a twirl of their elegant canes, a shake of their exquisite
heads, and a Whack row-de-dow from their irreverent lips.

The faithful who had seen the Beau in the first flood of his wrath were not
so sanguine. They knew that like the late King of France he could say
L'état, c'est moi, and what shopkeeper, innkeeper, or porter, would be brave
enough to defy him?
The sun set on a gloomy town and everybody went to bed at half-past
eight o'clock having nothing better to do.
Mr. Ripple had earlier in the afternoon assured himself of Mr. Lovely's
fidelity, and in the company of the young gentlemen of the Blue Boar,
passed a very pleasant evening over some capital Burgundy opened at his
expense. He sent down messages to my Lord Cinderton and my Lord Vanity
begging the favour of their company, and both my lords hurried back as fast
as their dignified legs would carry them. Of course, they quite agreed with
Mr. Ripple that the outbreak was scandalous and were determined to
support his decrees against the whole of society provided they were not
included in the excommunication. The news of Sir Jeremy Dummer's
sudden decease was brought in, and Mr. Ripple, deeply moved by the
melancholy event, ascribed it to the horror with which the old baronet was
overwhelmed at the defiance of himself. It was soon announced in every
drawing-room that Sir Jeremy Dummer had died of an apoplexy brought on
by the sight of the rebel abstainers from morning Chalybeate.
It was arranged, almost in silence, that everybody faithful to the great
Beau, should repair to the Pump Room on the following morning, dressed
in funereal black, a quarter of an hour earlier than usual. They might not be
admitted, but their devotion would carry its own reward, and would
certainly afford the Beau confidence in the loyalty of the most of his
subjects. It was farther arranged that a deputation of the leading visitors and
residents should wait upon him at his lodgings with an address black-edged,
assuring him of their sorrow and fidelity. As for the rebels, they must make
what terms they could.
At eleven o'clock of Monday forenoon the deputation waited upon the
Beau and was ushered over the Turkey carpet into his urbane presence.
Apparently he was quite untouched by the almost servile assurance of
loyalty contained in the address. He begged leave to inform the company
that, while sensible of their compliment, he could not permit any publick
amusement until the ringleaders of the revolt had, hat in hand, implored his
forgiveness. He added he had reluctantly despatched mounted messengers

to Leamington, Cheltenham, Bristol Well, Brighthelmstone, Harrowgate,
Scarborough, Tunbridge and the Bath, begging his brethren to refuse
admittance to any new arrivals until farther warning. He was confident that
his appeal would not be disregarded. The abashed deputation withdrew,
having effected nothing. Monday passed gloomily enough. There were no
chairmen, there were no chairs, there were no coaches, there was no
Assembly. The shops were all closed: the Pump Room was closed: coffee-
houses, chocolate-houses and taverns were all closed.
The rebels were now merged almost imperceptibly into loyalists but a few
still held out, and two of the more callous—I will not affront the living
world with their names—went so far as to send out invitations to a party of
Quadrille. Six equally hardened rebels arrived at the time appointed. Two
tables were formed, the candles were lighted, the guineas stood piled in
glittering dozens, the cards were dealt, when suddenly the door was flung
open and Mr. Ripple in black sattin, armed with a spade, marched into the
room.
"I think, ladies and gentlemen, that I am Spadille this evening," he
proclaimed in a voice of ice.
The eight rebels dropped their cards. It was impossible to play with any
calmness in the presence of that menacing figure whose contempt was so
sublime. The ladies fluttered from the room in dismay.
"Gentlemen," said the Beau, "you will call at my house to-morrow with
the humblest apologies for this evening's outrage."
Then he vanished from the room. It only remains to add that the
gentlemen did call at the Great House on the following morning where their
humiliation was complete if we may judge by an alabaster tablet set up in
the portico of the Assembly Rooms where it remained until the other day,
when, alas! the famous old rooms, so long the most frequented shrine of wit
and beauty in England, were pulled down to make way for a publick library.
The tablet which was in the likeness of the Ace of Spades bore the
following inscription:
Sacred to the Memory of Justice, Decency, and Order,
This Tablet was erected by four Gentlemen
In Token of their sincere Penitence and resolute
Amendment.
Also in the profoundest Admiration and deepest

Respect for Beau Ripple, King of Curtain Wells,
for many years
Arbiter of Fashion
and
Oracle of Wit.
The Great and Only
Spadille.

Chapter the Ninth

THE ASSEMBLY

T HE submission of the recalcitrants secured once more to Curtain Wells
her publick amusements, and the Monday Assembly was announced
for Wednesday evening. Everybody determined that it should make up
in brilliance what it lacked in punctuality, and all private conversaziones,
routs, and Quadrille parties were, by general consent, postponed.
We have temporarily got out of touch with the lesser intrigues of this
history, but truly all such were eclipsed by the great Rebellion whose
echoes drowned the whispered vows of lovers and the murmur of
scandalous small talk. The prospect of peace set everybody at amusement,
with vigour refreshed by the momentary lull in the gay tempest of their
lives.
An additional excitement surrounded this Assembly because it was
everywhere reported that the young gentlemen of the Blue Boar would be
present in force. This rumour was, indeed, likely to prove true, for the
young gentlemen, already determined to discover Mr. Lovely's charmer,
were confirmed in their resolve by a desire to reciprocate the Beau's lately
implied confidence in a way more likely to gratify him than any other.
The prospect of dancing with young Tom Chalkley of the Foot, Tony
Clare, and Peter Wingfield, or Lieutenant Blewforth of the Lively fluttered
all the young ladies' hearts and very many of the old ones'. Moreover, there
were the Honourable Mr. Harthe-Brusshe and Mr. Golightly, and above all,
there was Mr. Charles Lovely who, if he were a poet, was also a man of the
extremest fashion and finest taste, and so at once genteel and romantick.
Altogether the postponed Assembly promised to be a great success.
Miss Phyllida Courteen hoped that her dear Amor would make an
exception for once, but Mr. Vernon declared he would by no means commit
himself to such publick adoration of his fair; so she was forced to content
herself with the prospect of teasing Miss Sukey Morton about the
anonymous Valentine. She knew that her dear Morton would suspect Mr.

Chalkley who, with the politeness for which the British Army has always
been famous, had once recovered her dropped fan. This somewhat ordinary
event had led Miss Morton to colour the whole world to the hue of a red
coat. All the dearest confidences exchanged with her beloved Courteen
referred to young Mr. Chalkley who was quite unconscious of the amount
of room he occupied in Miss Morton's heart, and was used to regard women
as musquets for the presenting of arms, but nothing more.
The whole of Wednesday had been spent by the ladies of the Wells in
refreshing their bodies with sleep and rouge alternately, and the sickle moon
in the frore February sky looked pale and ghostly beside the sleek tapers
that twinkled in every window pane and the ruddy flambeaux of the lackeys
as they stamped up and down in waiting to escort their mistresses to the
ball.
Phyllida was not long in putting on her white muslin nightgown with
flowered sack; and as her curls had neither to be subdued by Powder and
Pomatum, nor frizzled to a mock vivacity by restorative Tongs, she sat in
the bow-window of her bedchamber and stared at the young moon. The
curtains were drawn back, but, even so, she could still see innumerable
shepherds arming as many shepherdesses through the pattern and, as the
fire-light flickered over them, they seemed, indeed, to be stepping a
forgotten dance.
"I should like to live in a curtain," thought Phyllida, "and be always young
and always happy and always hand in hand with—but after all nothing
could be less like a shepherd than Amor," and just then the little flame that
had been urging all the figures into motion turned to a noisy puff of smoke;
the picture faded from her mind and the voice of her mother destroyed the
last gossamer fancy that floated through her brain.
The widow's room was billowy with rejected petticoats on which, like sea-
wrack, floated garters, stockings, and gloves; while a large constellation of
paste gleamed fitfully through the mirk of a Paris net. In the midst of the
delicate havock sat the widow uncertain as ever what colour and stuff
would most become the evening.
"The Major spoils my rose lustring and my orange sack makes the Justice
look——"
"Like suet," said Betty.

The widow was about to reprimand her for the simile, but as it perfectly
expressed what the Justice would look like, she refrained.
"Sure, madam," said Phyllida, who was impatient to set out, "you had best
wear your blue brocade."
"The child is right," said the widow emphatically. "Betty! my blue
brocade."
Betty did not protest she had already tried on the blue brocade four times
because, if she had, the widow would instantly have thought that green
would be better, and the argument would have begun all over again.
At last the widow was dressed; the coach was at the door; and in a very
short time made one of a long row of equally cumbersome vehicles that
extended far down the High Street. Mrs. Courteen peering from the window
announced she had caught a glimpse of Lady Bunbutter stepping out of her
coach in blue brocade. This dreadful anticipation of her own entrance was
extremely disconcerting, and if there had been the slightest prospect of
turning round in the crush of coaches, chairs, footmen, linkboys and gaping
cits, she would have instantly driven home to exchange blue for any other
colour in her trunk-mail or closet. However, as she could not change her
attire, she did the next best thing possible, by blaming Phyllida for her
suggestion. As this was the prologue to every assembly, the latter was not
much troubled by her mother's annoyance and soon the coach arrived at the
very steps leading up to the Rooms. At the moment it drew up, Major Tarry
and Mr. Moon stepped forward and flung open the door and handed the
widow out and armed her up the steps and gave her name to Mr. Ripple's
confidential Secretary who passed it on to another equally confidential
footman who bawled it out at the top of his voice just as Mrs. Courteen
sailed into the ballroom where Mr. Ripple, with the rosy bloom of triumph
on his cheeks, advanced to offer two fingers vailed in gloves of diaphanous
chicken-skin.
Curtseys, bows, and compliments lasted until the arrival of the next guest,
when the widow with her faithful Ancients surveyed the room in a grand
promenade. Phyllida made off to greet her dear Morton with half a glance in
the direction of the young gentlemen from the Blue Boar, who were
grouped rather stiffly at the other end of the ballroom.
The babble of conversation and the swish of fans, the colour all compact
of movement, the innumerable tapers, the glitter of many brooches, pins,

and buckles, the mirrours, the preliminary notes of the musicians, the
shuffling feet, and the tap of the opened snuff-boxes combined in that
glorious whole—a ball at the Assembly Rooms, Curtain Wells.
Soon the Minuets would begin, and after the Minuets, the Gavottes, and so
on to the Country Dances and the last great Cotillon. The passionate history
of the world is writ in crowquill letters on the programs of dances. What
Jealousies and yellow-winged Envies hovered on the cool air of waving
fans, what vows would be made and broken in those alcoves, now serene
and empty, before the last flambeau expired in the gutter outside. What
mean Ambitions coiled around every genteel fine hoop!
Yet Mr. Ripple was so suave, Mrs. Courteen and my Lady Bunbutter so
full of compliments, Lieutenant Blewforth so jolly and Mr. Lovely so witty,
old Lord Vanity so generous of snuff, my Lord Cinderton so distinguished
—and as for Miss Phyllida Courteen, she was enchanted to a magical
domain where only very slowly did Mr. Francis Vernon blacken a trinket
sun with the menace of real passion.
Suddenly her heart began to beat so fast that she feared all her friends
would observe her agitation. Surely that young gentleman in primrose sattin
and flesh-coloured brocaded waistcoat, who took the polished floor so
easily, was the poet of Valentine Day to whom she had confided her note.
Surely too, for all he stared at everybody else from time to time, his eyes
were really fixed on hers. Perhaps he was a friend of Amor's with a message
to deliver—and yet it would be more interesting, she decided, if he were
not. Presently Mr. Lovely was bowing over her chair and asking in the
politest manner possible for the honour of the next two dances.
She looked round at Miss Morton as if to say she could not leave her
without a partner.
"Madam," said Mr. Lovely bowing very low indeed, "if I might be so
presumptuous, does the young lady wish for a Vis à Vis, for in that case I
shall certainly present my friend Mr. Chalkley of the Foot."
Miss Morton, amid a deal of simpering, confessed she favoured a minuet
on occasions, so Mr. Lovely hurried off to fetch Mr. Chalkley before the
musicians began to play the opening bars of the dance.
Phyllida was astonished at the coincidence and not sure whether, after all,
Mr. Chalkley had not employed Mr. Lovely's offices on his behalf.
However, as she had little enough envy in her and was romantically

attached to Mr. Amor, she could scarcely refuse to help her dear Morton
into the arms of an expectant lover, and if Mr. Lovely had no real
inclination to dance with her, that was no great matter, since he was a vastly
agreeable young gentleman and would pass the time very pleasantly in the
absence of another.
Mr. Chalkley, when summoned by Charles, was extremely indignant and
swore he was not come to dance with any jade in the room.
"Pshaw," replied his friend, "you can't stand there gaping all the evening."
"Why don't you make Blewforth dance with the hussy?"
"Odds my life, Tom, why won't you tread a minuet with a handsome
young woman?"
"You're too devilish fond of arranging matters for other people to suit your
own whims. I'll be hanged if I dance a step to-night!" But all the other
young gentlemen vowed so earnestly that Mr. Chalkley was a surly fellow,
that he gave way at last and suffered himself to be dragged to the feet of
attractive Miss Sukey Morton, whose black eyes flashed very brightly at the
sight of Mr. Chalkley's red coat.
Charles, having disposed her friend, offered his hand to Phyllida and soon
they were stepping the minuet with infinite grace, admired by every one
who saw them.
For her the room sank into unreality and she lived in a rainbow whose
colours moved and changed to the slow dignity of far-heard Pizzicato.
The melody to which these marionettes were dancing possessed a strange
quality. It was emotion in quintessence, without passion, without abandon.
Whatever it had of definite character lay in the half bashful invitation to
dance, as if some ghostly puppet master, pale and stately, were beckoning to
his performers. As the opening bars of the minuet were repeated at the close
only to die away in a poignant farewell, Phyllida felt for the first time, in
the swoon of her last courtesy, that she was a doll whose gestures served to
amuse a genteel but unearthly audience of monocled Gods.
Actually it was a mere momentary dizziness, a sudden loss of volition on
which Charles hung a score of fancies.
"You are feeling faint?" he inquired.
"No, no."

"The heat is overpowering. Shall we sit for a while in an alcove, or shall
we saunter in Curtain Garden?" They passed through the crowded room and
down a cool passage into a Baroc cloister where stone Satyrs took the place
of Angels, and the Cherubim were not easily to be distinguished from
Loves.
The young moon was setting behind Curtain Hill larger and more golden
than before.
The cloister was hung with amber lights and held innumerable whispers.
Somewhere close at hand was a sound of running water.
"You are fond of dancing, madam?"
"Oh, sir, 'tis a very delicate motion truly."
"I fear you thought I was presumptuous in offering my hand for the
minuet."
"No, indeed, sir," Phyllida answered quite naturally.
Lovely was rather surprized. He had expected the customary play of a fan.
"You are making a long stay here?" he asked.
"Oh, sir, I do not know, 'tis for so long as my mamma thinks proper."
"I have not had the honour of an introduction."
"No," said Phyllida doubtfully. She was not at all anxious to present Mr.
Lovely, and willing enough to take advantage of the Assembly rule that the
offer and acceptance of a dance was not necessarily a passport to intimacy
on the next day. She did not wish to be treated like a child before the gallant
Mr. Lovely who treated her with such deference.
"Did you hear anything more of the Valentine?" said Phyllida with a ripple
of laughter.
"Not a word."
"You remember the young woman by whom I was seated?"
"Perfectly."
"’Twas for her," said Phyllida with more laughter.
"Nonsense."
"Oh, yes! indeed, 'tis true, and the best of it is she thinks the Valentine was
sent by Mr. Chalkley."
"Never!"
"Oh! yes, yes, yes."

"But he has never set eyes on her."
"No! But she thinks he has—often, just because he picked up her fan
once."
"Truly then I did a very politick action in effecting the introduction."
"Oh, sir, she was ravished, you may be sure."
"Gad! I'll send her a Valentine every day of the week, and put one in her
Prayer Book on Sundays."
"Oh, sir! but sure, it might end in a wedding, and that's a very serious
matter as all the world knows."
"Not more serious than love," said Charles.
"Well, no, perhaps not more than love; but then neither of 'em is in love
with t'other."
"I swear they shall be."
"You can't force people to fall in love."
"Can't you?" said Charles very earnestly, so earnestly that Phyllida
thought the air was turning chill and that they ought to go back to the
ballroom.
"Not yet," pleaded Mr. Lovely. "I thought we might walk towards the
Maze."
"The Maze?" said she quickly.
"Why, yes! the entrance is but a few yards from where we are."
"I had forgot," she answered, and then with a sudden determination, "I
think we had better go back."
"You're not frightened of the Maze?"
"Oh, no, truly I'm not," Phyllida affirmed. "But I think I heard my
mamma's voice and if she sees me here, I shall not be allowed to come to
the next Assembly."
Phyllida was feeling a vague emotion of infidelity to her dear Amor and
almost dreaded to see his tall shadow in the amber light.
"As you will," he said in some disappointment, "but we han't had a deal of
conversation yet."
"That's true," she replied, "but this is only our second meeting. Oh!
Gemini!" she went on, "you'll think me forward and bold, but I vow I never
meant it in that way."

"Madam," said Charles with a bow, "I should never presume to put upon it
an interpretation so complimentary to myself, but, seriously, you will give
me two more dances to-night?"
"It would be indiscreet."
"Nay, I do not think so."
"Your friends would laugh."
"I do not think so."
Mr. Lovely looked so fierce that Phyllida hurriedly promised two
gavottes, and Charles who was something of a Gascon could not help
congratulating himself on his speedy success.
They walked back to the ballroom almost in silence, and above the chatter
of folk in the lobby, heard the opening of a plaintive minuet.
Lovely, when he had left his partner, walked over to his friends of the Blue
Boar and was greeted with a shower of sallies.
"How now, Charles, have you been smuggling rare spirits in the cloister?"
cried Blewforth.
"Snuggling would be b-b-better!" stammered little Peter Wingfield.
Charles glared at both the young gentlemen, who laughed very heartily
indeed, and were not at all put about by his frowns.
"Oddslife, Charles," said Mr. Chalkley, "where have been your eyes these
past six weeks to have so lately discovered the fair Courteen?"
"Charles looks at women through dice-boxes," said Blewforth.
"And what's worse, sees double wherever he looks," added Mr. Chalkley.
"Charles," added Mr. Antony Clare, "be wise. Some knave of Clubs will
trump your Queen."
"Mr. Clare," said Charles drawing himself up very straight and looking as
grand as possible, "I'll trouble you to croak when I ask for your noise; as for
you, gentlemen, you're too free with your words, be d—d to the lot of you."
Thereupon Mr. Charles Lovely swung himself out of the room with such
an air that the young gentlemen looked after him in some apprehension.
"Egad!" commented Chalkley, "the man must be madly in love for he's
lost his wit."
"And his humour too," said Blewforth.
"Don't rally him too hard, boys," said Tony.

"We can't all turn parsons because Charles is bewitched by two blue eyes,"
grumbled Chalkley.
This was the opinion of the company, and though in their hearts they
excused Mr. Lovely, they were loud in their condemnation of his churlish
behaviour.
Clare, afraid he was gone to work off his injured feelings by reckless play,
soon followed him out of the ballroom, but could not find him at the tables.
Charles had, in fact, turned into the garden. Cupid had pierced him with a
long sharp arrow, and he was not yet able to bear a rough hand on the
wound. The night air came over him fresh and cool. In the darkness he was
more than ever enthralled by the image and pale fancies of an ideal passion.
Yet for all he was a poet, or perhaps just because he was a poet, his love
was tinted with the hues of convention. She was like those Madonnas who
appear to peasant children, Madonnas in crude crœlean robes sown with
tinsel stars. One feels that much of the apparition is due to preconceived
opinion. So with Charles, his love made one of a list of women dating to the
Queens of Babylon. There was too much bob-a-cherry about her and too
much cream. She stood, too, on such a high pedestal that if she owned feet
of cracked clay not a soul could have seen them.
Charles felt very angry with his bachelor friends, and when Clare joined
him at the end of an alley was in no mood to be pleasant company.
"Sure, Charles," the latter remonstrated, "you're the last man to tie
yourself to the skirts of a goddess."
"There's a medium between an angel and a woman of the town," said
Charles sententiously.
"But the woman was once an angel to somebody, and 'foregad! I believe
you do your charmer an injury to make her such a paragon of air. I swear
those eyes can flash with more than saintly ecstasy."
"Z—— ds! Tony, you are bent on a quarrel. I tell you the child's name
shall not be a toast for my profligate friends."
"You are not better than any of them."
"But at least I can reverence purity."
"Aye, and so can Blewforth."
"D—— e!" swore Charles, "'tis a pity he don't exercise his talent more
openly."

The argument would doubtless have continued, if the sound of voices
approaching had not made the two young men pause involuntarily. Two
people were passing down the adjoining alley, and it was impossible not to
overhear some of the conversation, which was sufficiently ridiculous. A
feminine voice declared that soldiers were romantick, and a voice of
opposite sex replied that as an attribute of class, it was an undeniable
quality, but not for that reason universally applicable to individual members
of that class.
"But a scarlet coat is so dazzling," argued Treble.
"Madam," said Bass, "I cannot claim that my profession is romantick. The
Law, Madam, has no time for romance except perhaps in the examination of
an unwilling witness, but what my profession lacks, my name possesses.
Moon, madam, I venture to affirm, is a singularly romantick name."
"It is," murmured the widow, for, of course, it was she.
"The moon is the method of illumination adopted by every poet of
distinction."
"How true that is," she sighed.
"I might add that so far as dazzling goes my name is as capable of extreme
refraction as the red coat of a soldier. Moreover, madam, the latter is very
antipathetick to the complexion of a woman of quality."
"But the coat need not be worn, Mr. Moon. It could exist in a bottom
drawer, I should feel it was there, and I could sometimes brush it even."
"Good heavens! ma'am, has not the Law an equal fascination? Do you
know that my house is full of legal cases?"
"How untidy!" said the widow reprovingly.
"Arguments Pro and Contra, trials!"
"But I dislike arguments, they put my hair out of curl and we have so
many trials to bear already."
"They need never be used, but they can exist, madam, they can exist in
calf on a bottom shelf, and they could be dusted sometimes," declared the
Justice. Then in softer accents he began to plead:
"Think, my dear Mrs. Courteen, of Mrs. Moon. Mrs. Moon! I often
murmur that short sentence over to myself."
"Do you, Mr. Moon? When?" said the widow, who seemed touched by his
devotion.

"Oh! after dinner—or getting into bed, or—" but the third occasion was
never revealed, for Major Tarry charged round the corner and carried off the
dear questioner to adorn a gavotte.
Somehow the hedges no longer seemed so mysterious and the night not
quite so large.
"Gad! what follies!" laughed Charles.
"D'ye know who the lady was?" inquired the other.
"Venus grown fat by the sound of her voice."
"That was Mrs. Courteen."
"Eh?"
"Your charmer's mother."
"Then she must have had a very delightful father."
"That's neither here nor there," said Clare. "Your angel's wings may moult,
and she who now goes tiptoe for very lightness will one day—but, pshaw!
if you love her, she will always skim the ground."
"Tony!" said Charles, "I've made a fool of myself."
"In the best way of folly."
It may seem odd that Charles should have been so ready to admit the
mortality of his goddess, but after all as yet his love was an apparition. No
miracles had been worked at the shrine, and she had a mother.
Also Charles began to smell romance, of which he pretended to an
exaggerated horror. Like mother, like daughter. He made up his mind to
neglect Miss Phyllida Courteen, and having done so, went back to the
ballroom with the temerity of a successful anchorite. Yet when he saw her
again she was young and adorable, and he was as madly in love with her as
ever; all the more perhaps because he realized that one day she would fade.
However, he was no longer so full of heroick rebukes for his friends.
Perhaps, like the Greeks, he was beginning to understand that romantick
Troy was a menace to the common sense of the world.
Charles found the young men in precisely the same position as that in
which he left them.
"Oddslife," cried Blewforth, "there's Charles come back. What, man! have
you been languishing under the sky? Your mistress has been dancing
merrily with Ripple himself, while you were star-gazing."

"'Tis a pity that none of you have enough impudence to follow his
example," retorted Charles, "for on my soul you all stand stiff and awkward
as the figures on a Gothick tombstone. Gad! I've a mind to tell the ladies
how nimbly you tripped it at Baverstock, Blewforth, and as for you, Tom,
I'm hanged if I'd be cut out by a beggarly half-pay militia captain,"
continued Charles pointing to the disreputable Captain Mann who was
handing Miss Morton through the gavotte.
"Well said!" Clare joined in, "we shall find it more difficult than ever to
believe Blewforth's tales of conquest in the ports of civilization."
"Unless," added Charles, "like a picture by a great master he possesses an
immovable reputation and attracts by beauty in repose."
"Ha—ha—ha," bellowed the Lieutenant, "you should have seen me at
Minorca. These finicking hussies aren't worth the shoe leather one uses in
dragging them round the room." But just as Mr. Blewforth was about to
give a discourse on the beauty, grace, and agility of feminine Spain, Mr.
Ripple scaled the rigid group:
"Now, gentlemen, you are not dancing. Come, come this won't do. I've let
you off the Minuets and Gavottes, but I insist on the Country Dances. Let
me see, Lieutenant Blewforth, I have the very Vis à Vis you are looking for
—Mrs. Georgina Bean, widow of the late Captain Bean, of your own
Service. She will like to hear the latest Marine Information."
Blewforth struck his colours with an almost humble salute.
"Mr. Chalkley," the Beau continued, "Miss Margery Mansel a young lady
fresh from boarding-school, will certainly suit your accomplishments. Treat
her kindly, sir. Mr. Golightly, I insist on your dancing with Lady Jane Vane
—your father and hers were intimate friends. Mr. Harthe-Brusshe, your
respected father tells me that he has a particular desire you should dance
with Miss Mimsy; she's an heiress, sir, and as good as she is wealthy. Come,
come, gentlemen, make no doubt that I shall find a partner for every one of
you."
The young gentlemen, a little stiffer, a little more awkward, followed Mr.
Ripple very mildly across the room. The rest of the Assembly fluttered quite
perceptibly at their approach.
Lovely had no opportunity of asking Phyllida to dance with him as by the
time he had crossed the room, she was standing opposite Mr. Moon. So he
hurried up to Miss Sukey Morton who flashed her black eyes and took his

arm with all the grace in the world and discussed the attraction of the
British Army with much fan-play and volubility. He met Phyllida in the
course of the dance and begged her hand for the Cotillon, but she shook her
head gravely with a glance in the direction of old General Morton, and
Charles passed on to less interesting encounters much exasperated by the
impertinence of old age.
"Why aren't you a soldier, Mr. Lovely?" asked Miss Morton in a
wondering voice.
"I like to pull the sheets over my head when I sleep," said Charles very
solemnly, "but soldiers always have to put them on top of a pole."
"Oh! but think of war and fortresses and sieges and bivouacks."
"I dislike war, I object to fortresses. For sieges I lack the patience and I
abominate bivouacks."
"But the uniform is so gay," persisted Miss Morton, "and so martial."
"A footman's, ma'am, is twice as gay and three times as martial."
"Nay, I vow you're jealous of the Army."
"Madam, is that surprizing, when Miss Morton inclines so much to
scarlet?"
"Nay, now you are laughing at me,", she pouted, "and I hate to be laughed
at. Are you a friend of Mr. Chalkley?"
"Indeed, I hope I may describe myself as such," said Charles.
"Does he paint landskips as an Amateur?" inquired cunning Miss Sukey
Morton.
"Not that I am aware of."
The disappointment visible on her countenance recalled the incident of the
Valentine, and he made haste to add:
"Though now I come to think of it, I found him cutting out an ace of
hearts one day last week."
"An ace of hearts?" said Miss Morton very innocently, "why what would
he do that for?"
"I asked him as much, and he muttered something about a torn velvet
patch. But his behaviour that day was monstrous odd altogether, for I
remember I found him later on the bowling green of the Blue Boar picking
snowdrops, and when I rallied him, he asked me for a rhyme to 'white.'"

Miss Morton danced for the rest of the evening as though her scarlet heels
were little flames.
The hands of the clock were nearing the magick hour of the last Cotillon,
and everybody was hurrying in search of partners and places; when the
appearance of Gog and Magog, with Mr. Ripple's marble pedestal, warned
everybody that the Great little Man was about to make an announcement.
Everybody waited with extreme deference and not a whisper disturbed the
religious peace. The room was quite still save for the tinkle of jewellery and
the slow sighing of the fans.
The Beau ascended his pedestal, calm and majestick while the listeners
craned their necks to attention.
"My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen. You are doubtless all aware that we
have to lament the sudden death of that respected model of fortitude and
perseverance, Sir Jeremy Dummer."
A sympathetick murmur floated along the wind of the fans.
"I am happy to tell you that he died as he lived, fighting. He died, if I may
use so vulgar a metaphor, in harness—the harness of an old war-horse who,
having fought the foes of England during his prime, continued to fight the
greatest foe of England during his decay. That energy which erstwhile
displayed itself in the trenches of War enabled him for twenty-one years to
persecute by every means in his power that enemy of all of us—the Gout.
"He sought to starve it into capitulation by restricted diet, he tried to storm
it by sudden charges of chalybeate. My lords, ladies and gentlemen, it was
in the middle of one of these gallant sallies that he died. In a word, he was
half-way through a glass of the cleansing liquid when death overtook him.
There it stood, that partially empty glass beside the dead form of the
veteran. May we not regard this relick as the tears of Æsculapius? Shall we
not enshrine these sparkling drops in a lachrymatory and, having sealed the
sacred fluid with the city seal, shall we not set it in a prominent part of our
civick museum? My lords, ladies and gentlemen, we shall. I have consulted
with my brother the Mayor of this town, and he has agreed.

"Moreover, let me remind you of the last words of the great Socrates, his
last injunction to his friend to sacrifice a cock to Æsculapius. Let us also, in
memory of our deceased exemplar, present a new tap to our publick
fountain and so sacrifice, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, not a cock, but a
turncock to Æsculapius."
The Great little Man here paused to wipe away the tears of sorrow and the
heat of the atmosphere. "It seems," he continued, "out of place to make any
announcement of a new diversion, but pleasure is as inexorable as death."
Here the audience seemed to murmur a mournful assent.
"Next Tuesday at 7 o'clock precisely will be held the Chinese Masquerade.
This, as you are aware, limits our costumes to those authorized by gold-
lackered cabinets and teacups of blue china. I myself shall act as Gold
Mandarin and my young friend Mr. Charles Lovely will be the Blue
Mandarin. There will be a grand minuet of Cathay, but I will not detain you
now with farther particulars of this entertainment. I hope that we shall hold
masquerades of assorted characters until May, when we shall make an
attempt to start the Fêtes Champêtres which were so successful last year.
"Finally, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, you are aware that an incident of
an unpleasantly obtrusive habit deterred us from Terpsichore on Monday
night. I am, indeed, happy to say that the curtain has fallen upon the whole
affair without a dissentient voice. I should have been inexpressibly grieved
if the gloom consequent upon the defiance of my authority, had been at all
lasting. May I add that the rebels—if I may call them so without offence—
have acted in the handsomest manner and have offered to set up in the
portico of these rooms a tablet commemorating the temporary cloud upon
your delight. I should be more than mortal if I were not proud of such a
token of confidence in my despotism.
"My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, I am your very grateful, humble, and
obliged servant to command."
The Beau's descent from his pedestal was the signal for much waving of
lace handkerchiefs and fans. There were cries of 'Bravo, Beau,' 'Viva,
Ripple!'
Finally when old Lord Vanity stepped up to the dignified lord of
ceremonies and solemnly offered him his noted jade snuffbox full to
overflowing of the richest brown Rappee, and when the Beau, having
dropped his jewelled fingers into the modish soil, drew them forth and

raised them to his aquiline nose, a stillness fell upon the room, and above
the silence the sniffs of the great Beau, three in number, were distinctly
heard by all. It was as if he wished them Good Health. But this was not
enough for the Exquisite Mob. Somebody—it may have been our hero—ran
post haste for a bottle of champagne, and somebody else rushed off for
goblets. Presently, the prettiest Impromptu in the world was enacted, and
very proud indeed were the spectators of a scene memorable for many years
in the chronicles of fashion.
Delicately veined hands untwisted the silver wire and tore off the gold
cap. Somebody fetched a corkscrew, somebody clenched the sombre green
bottle between his brocaded knees. An arm tapering to snowy peaks pulled
at the unwilling cork. A fairy explosion was followed by the dewy vapours
of long imprisoned sunshine. The amber liquid sparkled and bubbled and
flowed over the many faceted goblet in cream and foam.
The Beau mounted once more upon his pedestal and drank to the pleasure,
health, and beauty of the company, while Lord Vanity and my Lady
Bunbutter quaffed an answering toast in deputy for the lords, ladies and
gentlemen present. Salvoes of well-bred applause pattered round the room,
and the Beau's triumph was hailed with acclamations.
And you, beautiful women and fine gentlemen, roses and carnations of an
older century, nothing remains of you for us. Your very perfume is but a
name. You are no more to the world of to-day than those glossy candles that
spluttered to death in gilt sockets. And yet, from the ruin of elegance, one
relick of that famous evening remains; for the silver wire of the bottle of
champagne, flung heedless to the ground, caught in a flounce of some
Beauty's petticoat. Long ago the gossamer stuff mouldered, long ago was
Beauty herself a skeleton, but the wire cherished by Beauty's family may
still be seen in a glass-topped table in the corner of a quiet library
somewhere in the broad Midlands. O insignificant wire, you are more
durable than the flowers who despised you!
And now another famous ball waned to a close, and all the world of taste
and fashion went home to bed.

Chapter the Tenth

AFTER THE ASSEMBLY

M R. CHARLES Lovely walked back with Mr. Antony Clare to the
Blue Boar, and joined Mr. Francis Vernon in the Coffee Room.
The latter noticed that Clare frowned slightly when he saw him, and
explained, almost apologetically, that he had moved thither from his
lodgings in the Crescent. Charles was delighted and immediately proposed
a game of hazard.
"You'll play, Tony?" he said eagerly.
"Not I," his friend answered. "I'm too sleepy, for 'tis confoundedly
fatiguing to be on such polite behaviour for so long."
"That's true indeed," cried Charles, "and therefore we need recreation the
more." With this he gave a tug at the bell-pull of flowery chintz, and
presently Mr. Daish who had sent the waiters to bed, came yawning to
answer the summons.
"Daish, bring two bottles of Burgundy like the fine fellow and good
landlord that you are."
"Yes, Mr. Lovely, certainly, your honour, but I hope your honour will be
careful with the bottles; it would be a terrible thing for the house if the
watch was murdered as they nearly was twice over last week," said Mr.
Daish, crumpling into obsequiousness at the impudence of his request, and
retreating sidelong from the room.
Mr. Clare, seeing that it was useless to argue Charles out of his
determination, took a seat by the fire.
"Egad," said Lovely, "what a jealous dog it is, he won't play, but can't bear
to go to bed." Clare gave the fire a meditative poke.
"What shall it be, Mr. Vernon? Ecarté?"
"With pleasure."
"Or picket?"
"As you will."

"Why, then, picket, and if we find we grow too sleepy to count our
sequences, we shall, at any rate, not be too sleepy to trickle dice out of a
box, eh?"
Charles turned with these words to take some unbroken paquets of playing
cards from a small mahogany cabinet hanging against the wall. The picture
presented was a friendly one as the two men seated themselves at the card
table. The fire was burning brightly and rosy shadows flickered over the
ceiling. The curtains were close drawn and the ample flowers of their
pattern seemed to retain somehow the warmth and the light. By the side of
the grate sat Tony in a high grandfather's chair. He had taken off his wig and
was staring meditatively at the crisp curls, as it reposed on his knee. The
buckles of his shoes spat tiny glints of flame—red, blue and green.
Presently he leaned across to a small bookshelf and took down some dry inn
volume, but the print danced in the fire-light and very soon he was dozing
peacefully, while his wig slipped to the ground and became a pleasant
couch for a large tabby cat to purr away comfortable hours.
At the table sat Vernon and Lovely face to face, and the green baize made
a prim battlefield for the debonair antagonists. It was a meadow-fight
viewed from towering Olympus. Here was pasture profitable enough to
some: to others barren as the unharvested sea. No crescent moon lighted it,
no sun parched the fresh greenery whose four tall candles flickered only to
chamber tempests, storms of tapestry, keyhole zephyrs. At either end were
ranged round guineas in wicked little heaps, and along the borders stood
serried packs of cards, shorn of their meaner numbers as becomes the
apparelled duel of picket. These had been flung contemptuously on to the
floor and the survivors lay face downwards on the table with a new and
alluring slimness. Their backs were so innocent—mere festoons of flowers
and bouquets of rosebuds; yet their very innocence only served to enhance
the red and black determination of their faces. How the royal cards reflected
in their appearance the temper of their courts. How sombre-suited went the
Queen of Spades, how pensive seemed her consort, while the savage Ace
was hung with garlands of mourning and sable flowers of Proserpine. The
Queen of Diamonds looked harassed; the Knave had a lean eye and the
King himself seemed peaked and careworn. The Club Court was a swarthy
and more brutal counterpart of the gay Hearts, and the gay Hearts, with ripe
dewy mouths, had yet a certain sly sensuality that bred distrust.

Then the tournament began. The stacked guineas sprawled in golden
disarray and dwindled and swelled and tinkled to the tune of the game.
Charles was winning. Five times he had made the grand Repique, five
times the gallant Pique, thrice Capote had taken captive twelve hostile cards
to be redeemed with rippling guineas. Ace, King, Queen, Knave, Ten came
in sequences as month succeeds to month. His hands were palaces for the
abode of many courtiers. They were picture galleries of the oldest kings and
queens in Europe. If he threw away Spades, he took up the red Hearts for
which he longed. If he discarded Diamonds, he gained a lusty host of Clubs
to serve his purpose.
At last Vernon, who had lost steadily for a pair of hours—six games at an
average price of thirty guineas a game—declared he would fight no longer
against his adversary's good fortune. "Moreover," he added, "so much
counting has set my brain in a whirl."
"As you will," said Charles, who would have liked to continue with
picket, but could not refuse to give his opponent an opportunity to avenge
himself at another game.
So they turned to Ecarté.
And now his fortune deserted him. Each time Vernon dealt he turned up a
King, and Charles began to dread their florid appearance, as some
ambitious minister dreads the veering of his master's favour. Those kings
who had hitherto been numbered in his hands in fours and threes, those
puppet kings, had won a new dignity from the only game which accords
them their rightful place at the head of the pack; each one had acquired, it
seemed, a personality that threatened him. Time after time were his Jeux de
Règle defeated by the most astonishing combinations of ill luck.
So many times did those confounded monarchs affront him face upwards
on the serene baize that he began to suspect Vernon of being a sort of
gamester Warwick, a maker and unmaker of kings. Indeed, he went so far as
to watch his deals rather narrowly and, being unable to detect anything
amiss, became heartily ashamed of his suspicions.
It was now five o'clock of a chill morning; the fire had sunk into ashes,
and dawn would soon shoot her icy arrows into the slow-flying bulk of
night.
Clare was still asleep in the armchair, but presently the stealthy cold
waked him and he jumped up; the candles were guttering away; the

burgundy was drunk; the room smelt stale.
"Come to bed, Charles," he cried out.
Lovely, who had lost at Ecarté considerably more than he had won at
Picket, drew back the curtains for answer. The dawn was in the East.
He blew out the candles one after another, and in the unreal morning
twilight, the aftermath of smoke curled like an outworn pleasure into
extinction save of a foul odour.
"We have still a grey hour for the dice," said Charles.
"As you will," replied Vernon.
The dice boxes were brought out, and the ivory cubes began to dance;
strange fancies assailed Clare as he watched the gamesters; morbid
imaginations, caught from the chilly atmosphere, froze his reason, and the
rattle of the dice acquired a macabre significance. They clicked like the
hoofs of horses on an iron-bound road. Then they were the castanets of a
sinister dance. Soon they were the shaken ribs of Death, the king of
dancers, and at the end no more than a baby's rattle, insistent, importunate,
maddening.
Charles was winning again.
The various faces of the cubes took fantastick likenesses. Two was a
patched beauty, leaden-eyed, pallid, pleasure-doomed. Five was a skewbald
cat and four a plum cake. Six was a ladder to some evil house. Three was a
necklace of jet, one a Pierrot's velvet eye.
Charles was still winning.
The irresponsibleness of the dice annoyed Clare. They tumbled and rolled
so gaily and it was mortifying to see a man enslaved by acrobats of ivory.
The bodies, too, with their absurd waists were like women whom
extravagant stays had driven to vomit sweetmeats.
Charles had won. The casement swung open in the sudden winds of dawn;
the room was tinted with the cold colours of sunrise. The three men
stumbled upstairs disdainful of the morning's gold. A guinea slipped from
Lovely's pocket and tinkled down to the foot of the stairs to reward the little
scullery-maid who was even now yawning on her pallet upstairs.
A thrush tuned his melodies against the swift coming of spring, and the
purple leaf-buds welcomed the sun.

Chapter the Eleventh

NOX ALBA

C HARLES was tempted to deprive himself of sleep for the pleasure of
bedabbling his pale silk stockings with dew, but vanity killed romance
and the fresh light enchanted a still unruffled couch. So he flung his
coat over a chair, and the heavy pockets chinked as they fell back against
the taper legs. His prayers were all to rosy Aurora when the fragrant linen
sheets flowed like water over his parched brows.
Sleep could not pass the melodious batteries of many birds, and Lovely's
brain had captured something of the time's clarity. The clock has many
secret hours, but those who would know them must follow their slow
pilgrimage wide awake. What castles men build to the pipes of the
morning!
The world was waking up. Outside the talk of hostlers grew so loud that
the birds fled from the inn yard to the still deserted bowling green.
Soon he heard the jangle of pails, the swish of mops and from time to time
the sound of a horse's hoof striking the cobbles with a clap. In the distance a
post-horn endowed the air with silver tongues. Charles followed its course
along the London road. He pictured the cumbrous vehicle swinging in its
straps between the black February hedgerows. He saw the postillions
blinking sleepy eyes to the Eastern sun. He saw the great London road like
a tape-measure unfolded from the gilded case that was London. Already he
was at Knightsbridge watching some townbred maid gathering cresses in
the little stream. Now he was spurring the horses to a fine lather, for he
could see the grooms in a black knot by the White Horse cellars. In a trice
he was taking the air in St. James' Street, and then suddenly he was a little
boy picking his way through Westminster mud beside his mother who was
carrying a bouquet of violets to their narrow house near St. John's Church.
And now it was winter, and the sea-coal was burning sullenly: there were
no violets, and heavy on the leaden afternoon he heard the bell tolling in

Millbank Gaol. "God save the poor soul, the marshes will be icy cold to-
night," said his mother, and he knew that some prisoner had escaped.
"How late your father is," she went on as she opened a cupboard, set in the
panelled wall, to reach for plates and dishes. Then she told him to get out
the candlesticks—beautiful silver candlesticks with swan-like necks and
curious mazy lines around their bases. The candlesticks were nowhere to be
found.
"Where can they be?" exclaimed his mother, pausing to help in the search.
Then he heard a sigh and was told to ask Mrs. Gruffle, the landlady, for the
brass bed-chamber candlesticks. He rather liked these: there was always a
delightful quagmire of grease in the little plate where the socket rested—
grease that could be moulded into queer little pliable shapes, with shreds of
tobacco stuck around for fur. When he came back to the parlour, he saw his
father with his legs on the bars of the grate.
"They had to go, my dear, they had to go," the latter was saying.
"They were my mother's."
"I know, I know, but z——ds' You wouldn't have me fail Dicky Claribut?"
"But sure they were not worth——"
"Oons! I pledged my best buckles to him; the candlesticks were for his
gentleman. I'm devilish sorry, my dear, but, 'faith, ’twas not to be avoided,
and here's young Charles! Charles, my boy, never play, or, if you do, play
deep and win."
"Don't put such ideas into the boy's mind," said his mother anxiously.
"Oddslife, my dear, be very sure the ideas are there already."
"How can you have the heart to persist when you know...."
"The heart, madam?" interrupted his father. "Let me tell you that the
hearts of the Lovelys are all of a piece—and 'tis cardboard."
Our hero came to his elegant self with a start and was back in Curtain
Wells with hot eyelids, and thoughts continually racing over the flowery
wall-paper.
It was not long, however, before he was once more in pursuit of the past.
And now he was seated beside his handsome father in a chariot. They
were both in mourning and he thought how well the black frogged riding-
coat became his parent. As for himself, his black sattin breeches set his
teeth on edge as he tried to scratch his knee.

"Where are we going?" he was asking.
"To your mother's brother, Sir George Repington of Repington Hall."
"That's the man whose letters made her cry?"
"The same, young Charles," said Mr. Lovely, ogling a dairymaid through
his black-rimmed perspective, as the object of his glances shrank into a
hedge, powdered with cow-parsley, and closed her eyes against the dust of
their chariot.
Then, without any warning, they were driving through a stately park, and
as they turned a corner, Mr. Lovely senior exclaimed "Good G...! A
cemetery indeed!" Charles looked up and saw a field full of small cypresses
with rank grass growing between them.
His father, who was looking rather pale, signed to the postboy to stop, and
"Charles," said he, "do you go on up to the Hall, knock at the door and ask
for your uncle, Sir George Repington. I'll wait for you here."
As he set out in obedience to his father he heard him mutter. "This was the
very place. I swear this was the place, and not an apple tree left." And then
Charles diminutive enough in his black suit with miniature small-sword of
cut steel, was asking two enormous footmen in canary-coloured velvet for
Sir George Repington. They looked at him and laughed.
"My uncle," said Charles solemnly.
And they laughed again, but one of them murmured, 'This way,' and
walked up a very wide and very slippery staircase, while Charles stumped
up behind him. Half way, his sword belt came undone, and the sword
clattered down upon the polished oak stairs with a noise that seemed to
resound a dozen times through the quiet house. As he did not dare to keep
the canary-coloured gentleman waiting, he picked up the toy weapon,
clutched it tight in his left hand and entered a big dark room where a
gentleman with iron grey close cropped hair sat reading in a chair with a
very tall back, his wig balanced upon his toes.
"What the d——l's this?" asked the grey gentleman jumping up.
"Your honour's nephew," said the yellow gentleman.
"Eh! what! leave us, sirrah," and "What do you want?" he said, turning to
Charles.
Charles could only watch the long furrow over his nose and wonder how
deep it was, when the grey gentleman caught sight of the small sword.

"Eh! what the d——l! give me that," and snatching the weapon, he broke
it over his knee and flung it into the grate.
"Please, sir, my father sent me to see you."
"Who's he?"
"Valentine Lovely, sir."
"Good G——! Good G——!" muttered the old gentleman. "And Mrs.
Lovely? Did she send you too?"
"Mrs. Lovely's dead, sir."
The grey gentleman looked across the room at a large painting of a girl in
a white dress skipping with a rope of roses.
"Please, sir," said young Charles, "I think that is Mrs. Lovely."
"It was, boy; it was."
"I wish I had known her then," said Charles.
"Is your name George, boy?" inquired the grey gentleman in a tone that
was half eager.
"No, sir, 'tis Charles—after the Prince of Wales."
"A Papist, eh?" said the grey gentleman bitterly.
"George was too honest a name for that scoundrel. Well, boy, you can
stay."
"Please, sir, I'd rather go back to my father," said the boy. "He's waiting
for me."
"Then go and be d——d," said the grey gentleman, and he walked over to
the window.
Poor little Charles was left standing alone in the big room. He waited a
moment, but as the grey gentleman did not turn his head, he edged his way
towards the great door. When he reached it, he looked round at his uncle.
The latter was still staring out of the window. The child gave a puzzled sigh
and with both hands succeeded in turning the handle. The clocks seemed to
tick very loudly as he breathlessly closed the door and set out to descend
the wide staircase. The canary-coloured gentlemen having vanished he
could hold on to the balustrade with both hands without shame. As he
crossed the green sunlit lawn, a blackbird flew into the shrubbery with a
shrill note of alarm.

Then he was in the chariot with his father, and this time he was really fast
asleep.
And now he was boy and man at once. The picture of the girl with roses
became his mother as he had known her, pale and sad. Then it would
change and become Miss Phyllida Courteen, strangely like his mother; and
sometimes the Queen of Diamonds would be mopping and mowing in a
frame of golden Georges.
At last these many dancing visions forsook his brain, and he slept a
dreamless sleep, not waking until high noon of a wet and gusty day. When
he reached the coffee-room, he found Mr. Francis Vernon perusing the latest
edition of Mr. Hoyle, and as the weather was dirty, agreed to give Mr.
Francis Vernon his revenge.
This favour was accorded in the handsomest manner possible and when,
late in the afternoon, the young gentlemen all returned from hunting, Mr.
Charles Lovely owed Mr. Francis Vernon rather more than he could very
easily pay.
No doubt the latter's success is to be ascribed to his opportune purchase of
the latest edition of Mr. Hoyle.

Chapter the Twelfth

WET DAYS

I F cards are the devil's playthings, wet days are certainly his select
playtime; and all the days before the Chinese Masquerade were very wet
indeed. The Exquisite Mob returned from the Pump Room remarkably
depressed in spirit. The forenoons passed away in the coffee-houses and the
shops, but in the afternoons when it was wont to exercise itself and air its
modes the stuffy parlours of Curtain Wells became vastly tiresome.
The result was that all the young gentlemen played very hard and very
deep and very late, and Mr. Charles Lovely hardest, deepest, and latest of
all. The old gentlemen all found their gout teazed them more lamentably.
Even Beau Ripple grew tired of reading the Epodes of Horace and the
Letters of Tully to his grey Angora cat. The ladies played Quadrille and
talked scandal, while some of them, I grieve to say, supplied a foundation
for much of the gossip.
Candlelight intrigues flourished, and there were not a few tragedies in
porcelain, when some Sir John Vulcan, returning too soon from his
favourite coffee-house, caught my Lady Venus in too ardent converse with
some young Ensign Mars. Very red grew the gallant Ensign—near as red as
his coat, while Sir John blustered and swore so loud that he almost cracked
the walls with his fox-hunting voice, and my lady Venus fluttered her fan to
the pace of her dainty heart, tinkling out exquisite little lies as soulless as
unreal, but quite as fascinating as some frail musical box. And the trio acted
and declaimed their time-honoured parts to a keyhole audience of lady's
maid and gentleman's gentleman.
Very diverting the footmen of Curtain Wells found the story that evening,
and very savoury it was voted below stairs—nearly as savoury as the
stewed trotters over which it was related.
And so the days went by.
Pitter-pat went the rain on the window-panes, pitter-pat went the cards on
the card tables, pitter-pat went the spoons in the coffee-cups, pitter-pat went

my lady's shoes across the floor to watch for the third person, pitter-pat
went many fans and many hearts.
Mrs. Courteen decked herself in the rosiest sattins, bade Betty close the
shutters, draw the curtains and light the candles. Then she composed herself
to read the last number of the Prattler until a knock at the door announced
the arrival of Mr. Gregory Moon and Major Constantine Tarry. Both vowed
that their enchantress looked vastly well, and nodded agreement with her
assertion that she believed she had a very fresh colour, no doubt due to the
tonick air of the Wells.
"It flushes one merely to go upstairs," she declared. "I vow I take as much
exercise in going up and down stairs as I do in taking my morning saunter
to the Pump Room." The climb was euphemistically known as the Saunter.
"Lud, lud," continued the widow, "complexions are droll things."
"Monstrous elusive, ma'am," said the Justice rather gloomily.
"Ha, ha," yapped the Major, "I pickled my skin in the Low Countries."
"That would be injudicious for a delicate surface. Height, Major," sighed
Mrs. Courteen, "height! How we pine for it. Mortals! Dear! Dear!"
"I remember I once examined a vagabond who claimed to have been
there," remarked Mr. Moon. "We ordered him a whipping."
"What became of him?" asked Mrs. Courteen.
"I believe he died shortly afterwards. Well! well! Kill or cure! Kill or
cure!"
The widow flashed her white shoulders in an elaborate shudder.
"Talking of kill or cure," exclaimed the Major, jumping up, "did I ever
repeat my tale of the Hessian captain?"
"Probably," said Mr. Moon mildly.
"What do you mean, sir?"
"You are somewhat inclined to repetition, sir."
Mrs. Courteen hurriedly assured Major Tarry that she for one had
positively never heard it.
"He did not say 'have you heard my story, ma'am,' the Justice went on in
the calm voice of despair. "He said 'have I repeated it?' I merely remarked
that he probably has—dozens of times!"—Mr. Moon burst out in the nearest
approach to a passionate enunciation that he ever attained.

"I vow you do him an injustice. Pray tell us the story, Major," and the
widow tapped the sword-arm of the infuriated soldier three times. The
painted chicken-skin fell with so persuasive a touch that the Apple sank to
its normal position and, having turned his back on Mr. Moon, the Major
began his tale.
"Well, Madam, you must know that in the year ... but before I tell this
story, I should like to give you some idea of the disposition of his Majesty's
forces."
Mrs. Courteen sighed. She knew what giving an idea of the disposition of
the forces meant. It was useless to protest however, for the Major was
already marching round the room in search of appropriate furniture.
He instantly declared that Mr. Moon's chair was necessary to the
illustration.
"Pray excuse me, sir!" he rapped out.
The Justice, with a reproachful glance at Mrs. Courteen, moved
ponderously to the couch.
"Well, Madam, here are Thistleton's Dragoons," and he gave a twist to the
chair as he spoke.
"Oh, yes! Very droll!" said Mrs. Courteen.
"Here," the Major continued, seizing another chair and planting it
vigorously down by the couch, "here is Buckley's Foot."
"Mine, sir," said the Justice.
"Your what, sir?"
"My foot, sir, not Buckfeast's."
The Major withered his rival with an eloquent silence.
"Here am I," he said, snatching from the mantelpiece a diminutive
Worcester shepherdess and placing it between the two chairs.
The widow gazed anxiously at the pastoral soldier. It belonged to the
owner of the house.
"Here is Tournai. You'll pardon me, sir, but I should be obliged if you
would hand me the couch," said the Major fiercely.
The Justice moved wearily to the window-seat. That, at all events, was a
fixture, he reflected gratefully.

After much exertion Tarry succeeded in moving the couch in front of the
door, so that if the piece of furniture in question was a poor representation
of what it was intended to convey, it certainly made of Mrs. Courteen's front
parlour something very like an impregnable fortress.
"I should be glad to give you some idea of the enemy's earthworks," said
the Major with a covetous glance in the direction of the chintz window-
curtains.
Mrs. Courteen's fleeting expression of dismay warned him to prune the
luxuriance of his examples, and as at that moment a tap at the door
necessitated the instant surrender of Tournai to admit Mrs. Betty farther
operations were stopped. Moreover the sudden capitulation involved the
fracture of the Worcester shepherdess which, as Mr. Moon sardonically
supposed, served to illustrate the point of the story.
"You're killed, Tarry; you're dead as mutton. I doubt a cure is
inconceivable."
Betty held a note in her hands.
"From Bow Ripple," she whispered excitedly.

Chapter the Thirteenth

MONARCHY IN ACTION

M RS. COURTEEN scarcely believed Betty spoke the truth. Never
could she remember such a gigantick wave of elation as swept over
her on receipt of the Beau's letter. Yet, without a doubt, it was true.
There was the royal notepaper and, as she reverently examined the outside,
there was the river of the house of Ripple meandering in regular curves
through meadows of sealing-wax. She marked the colour—lilac—as if
faintly to adumbrate the imperial purple of Rome. Moreover, the sprinkled
sand, a few particles of which still adhered to the surface, smelt of Courts.
There were years of authority between the lines of the graceful
superscription; the very "C" of the Crescent bellied in the breeze of Royal
favour. Major Tarry and Mr. Moon regarded her with an expression
compounded of jealousy and respect. Who was this woman, this
correspondent with monarchs?
"Pray excuse me, neighbours," murmured the widow, sinking into a chair.
The seal crackled musically as with smooth forefinger and shapely thumb
she gently withdrew the diaphanous paper from its waxen prison; so must
the golden bough have sounded to the touch of Æneas.

THE GREAT HOUSE, CURTAIN WELLS,
February,
MADAM—I shall do myself the honour of waiting upon you this afternoon
at half-past Four o'clock in order to the discussion of an Affair of the
gravest moral Importance.
In expectation, Madam, I subscribe myself,
Your obliged Servant,
HORACE RIPPLE.

"Gemini!" cried Betty, "the Bow will be here in fourteen ticks."
"Gentlemen," said Mrs. Courteen with that stateliness which follows from
intercourse with Princes, "gentlemen, I must beg to be excused."
The Major and the Justice solemnly advanced and, having kissed the
outstretched hand, moved sadly from the room. As they went downstairs the
former mused on the unrepeated story of the Hessian Captain, while the
latter vowed to insert a supplementary chapter to his great Essay on Peace
which should deal with the self-esteem of retired Majors. With similar
thoughts no doubt Mr. Oliver Goldsmith went home from that famous
dinner when General Oglethorpe, at the instigation of Dr. Samuel Johnson,
spilled the Port on the bare mahogany board in order to draw a plan of the
Siege of Belgrade. At any rate, old Mr. Hardcastle talks a great deal about
that famous beleaguerment in the witty and diverting farce of She Stoops to
Conquer. Mrs. Courteen tremulously sought her toilet-glass. 'An affair of
the gravest moral importance.' Powder judiciously distributed removed any
implied indifference in the freshness of her widowed cheeks. Paleness and
morality were certainly akin. As for her lemon sack, Betty vowed she would
find nothing more becoming to the unique occasion.
A dignified knock at the front door put an end to any longer hesitation,
and Mrs. Courteen, like the Queen of Sheba, presented herself immediately.
The Great little Man was pacing the carpet of the front parlour, but at the
widow's entrance he turned on his heels with a low bow.
"We are quite alone?" he inquired.
"Solitary indeed," replied the lady. Surely, surely he could not be
contemplating an offer of marriage. Yet certainly such might well be
described as an affair of the gravest moral importance. If weddings were not
moral, what would become of our weak humanity?
"Madam," said the Beau. "'Tis only after long thought and exhaustive
research among the social archives of Curtain Wells: 'tis only after a
complete examination of my glorious predecessor, Beau Melon's notes on
the amenities of Polite Cures in which he calls attention with a red cross to
the special difficulty of tendering advice to perplexed visitors, that I am
resolved to inform you of a fact which may distress your maternal heart,
complicate your domestick arrangements, disturb your apprehensive piety
and not inconceivably lend to-morrow's goblet a very wry flavour. Madam,
your daughter is in love."

The widow raised two anguished hands, but Mr. Ripple continued:
"When I say in love, madam, I say so because I am not so cynical of
maiden humanity as to suppose that she would sit in vivacious discourse
with a young gentleman for the space of one hour and a half measured by
the frequent chimes of the publick clock unless she were in love."
"You cannot mean this," palpitated the unhappy mother. "Say you cannot
mean it!"
"Madam, I am not used to devoting so much valuable time to the
preparation of circumstantial falsehoods. Your daughter is in love."
"But she is so young," protested the widow. "Not more than fifteen or at
the most seventeen."
"To you, madam, deaf to Love's alarms, for evermore protected against his
showered darts, such precocious ardour must appear improbable, but I have
proof of its existence."
"Malicious tongues! The world is so censorious. It would destroy the
reputation of the mother by insinuations against the virtue of the child."
"Madam, pray allow me to narrate the unhappy but indisputable facts of
the affair. You must know that it is a part of my duties—a pleasant part, if I
may say so without undue want of reserve—to inspect Curtain Garden from
time to time. You will recollect that this forenoon we enjoyed for two hours
a glimpse of the sun. Having been kept indoors during the last two or three
days, I determined to seize the balmy occasion and perform my rural duties.
I observed that the spring bulbs were remarkably forward. I noticed with
pleasant anticipation of summer saunters that the paths were in good order,
the gravel free from weeds. From the main Promenade I turned into the
Maze."
The widow started.
"The yew hedges were neatly trimmed and I noticed some very good
examples of topiary; I may mention in particular the transformation of the
old Noah into a peacock whose tail will doubtless gain a more vigorous
plumage from the warm weather. I wandered along contemplating the
various greens of the mosses that adorn the path and muffle the footsteps in
a manner extremely suitable to the decorous quiet of the surroundings.
During my saunters, I delight to rest my mind with the recitation of the
Odes and Epodes of my poetick and pre-Christian namesake. I was
embarked upon the apostrophe to Lyce:

Nec Coæ referunt jam tibi purpuræ
Nec clari lapides tempora, quæ semel
Notis condita fastis
Inclusit volucris dies.
"I had got so far, but egad! I could get no farther for the life of me. I
repeated the last four lines, and in my attempts to catch the fugitive—Ah!"
cried the Beau, "I have it!"
Quo fugit Venus? Heu quove color? decens
Quo motus?
or to paraphrase with an extempore couplet,
Where now is fled thy beauty? Where thy bloom,
Those airy steps that charmed th' expectant room?
"To continue, however—this elusive sentence made me lose my direction
and I found myself removed from the centre of the Maze by an
impenetrable hedge of yew. I was about to retrace my steps when I heard
voices on the other side of the hedge. It was a duet, madam—man and
maid, flute and bass viol, fife and drum, describe it how you will."
"Did you recognize the voices?"
"Madam, I did not."
"Then how—since you were not able to see over the tops of the hedges
without——"
The Great little Man drew himself up.
"Madam," he said, "I regard the physical exertion of bobbing up and down
as ungenteel."
"Then how do you——?"
"Because on retracing my steps I passed your maid in an attitude of
vigilance and exactly one hour and a half later I saw Miss Courteen and the
aforesaid maid leave the Garden; and vastly well she looked, madam."
Mrs. Courteen asked why Mr. Ripple did not interrupt them. "'Twould
surely have frightened them out of love-making for ever."
"Madam, if I am a king, I hope I am also a gentleman."
"I will call the hussy and you shall reproach her, Mr. Ripple."

"Madam, that is precisely what I am anxious to avoid. On former
occasions my interference has proved futile and I cannot allow my counsel
to be exposed to contempt. In confidence let me tell you that the last three
elopements which I tried to stop were all successfully carried through, and I
hear that the parties have lived very happily together ever since. I have
vowed not to accept again the responsibleness of a prophet. My glorious
predecessor, Beau Melon, mentions several instances of his advice being
neglected without any ill effects and notes that it is probably injudicious to
interfere unless compelled by the prospect of a duel. Let me read you his
comments. 'Elopements. Tell the father. D—— n Miss. She won't listen. Fool
for your pains. Fifteen times bitten—shy for evermore. Bodies more
important than souls in Curtain Wells.' An ill-constructed sentence, madam,
but nevertheless full of truth."
"Then what do you advise me to do?"
"Madam, I should recommend you to pay less attention to your own heart,
and give the most of your care to your daughter's."
The widow rose in a state of extreme agitation and rustled about the room
to the hazard of all ware under a certain stability. Such a reproach from Mr.
Ripple was more than she could bear politely.
However, presently she caught her placket in the wanton arm of a chair
and after a short struggle capitulated to stillness.
She began the catalogue of her natural virtues. "I vow the child has been
reared on the Church Catechism, she was for ever learning collects, texts,
parables, miracles, question and answer, sermons, homilies, and aspirations.
If I had been allowed my own way with her education, she would have led a
life of Sundays; but the late Mr. Nicholas Courteen her father and my
husband swore the child's intelligence was become like a Crusader's tomb,
scrabbled over with pious nonsense ill-digested and ill-writ. Have I not
warned her a hundred times that gentlemen do not love the gawky charms
of a hoyden? Have I not repeated to her the history of half a score
seductions? Am I to blame? Don't I keep a maid to look after her? What else
has that hussy to do? I ask you, Mr. Ripple, what else?"
"Upon my soul, ma'am, I don't very well know," murmured Mr. Ripple.
"Nothing, sir, nothing, save to dress and undress me twice a day, give an
eye to my gowns and arrange my toilet table. Apparently they think that I

should—" The widow broke off to ring violently for Betty in order to
reproach her with a careless supervision of Phyllida.
Mr. Ripple seized the opportunity to make his farewells. He swore to
himself that nothing should induce him to remonstrate again with a careless
mother. He would say a friendly word to the child herself.
The widow thanked the Beau for his advice and promised to be mighty
severe with Phyllida.
"Not if you will be warned by me, madam. No, no, I beg you will not
think it was to urge severity that I made you this visit. No, no, it was merely
to suggest prudence. Your humble servant, madam."
"Your very devoted, sir."
The widow curtsied the Beau out of the room, and, having heard the front
door closed, she watched in prim disgust for the entrance of Betty.
That young woman presently came into the room.
"Well, vixen!" said the widow.
"La! ma'am, what is it?"
"Well, gypsy!"
"Not a drop in my family, ma'am, and that's more than some of the
cottage-folk near by can say."
"Well, little Impropriety, what excuse have you to hand?"
Betty asked what Impropriety meant.
"Would it be stealing you mean, ma'am?"
"Well, Madam Indecency!"
Betty suddenly saw the widow's amber petticoat gleaming through the
unfastened placket.
"Dear love and barley breaks! However did I come to leave that undone!
Never mind, ma'am. 'Tis not as if he'd caught a sight of your smock, though
for my part I should not be afraid to show clean linen to any man, Bow or
whatsoever."
"'Tis not to talk of plackets that I called you, hussy, but of packets—love-
packets, notes, letters, assignations."
Betty began to understand. She remembered how they had met Mr. Ripple
that morning in Curtain Garden, and at once connected the two incidents.
"'Twould be about this very forenoon that you are talking, ma'am?"

The widow was surprized. She had expected an impregnable barrier of
mock stupidity.
"It would," she answered severely.
"Well, there now! And if I didn't say as ’twas very wrong, but indeed, he
was so genteel and made such very grand bows that I didn't think as 'twould
be kind to refuse him."
"Refuse him what?"
"Why, direction, ma'am, for the handsome poor soul was lost in the Maze.
He was just twirling around from North to South like the weathercock on
the old Parish Church at home."
"Does it take an hour and a half to direct a man out of a shrubbery?"
"No, indeed, ma'am, but hearing we was from Hampshire, he fell a-talking
and said as when he was last there he was staying with my Lord Senna at
Camomile Hall, and was bosom friend of Mr. the Honourable John Squills."
The widow grew interested. The latter had once attended a hunting
breakfast at Courteen Grange.
"And what was the loquacious gentleman's name?"
"Ah there! indeed, ’twas wrong of me, but if I didn't go and forget to axe
him!"
"Idiot!" said Mrs. Courteen, "and where does he lodge?"
"He intends to post to Bristol Well to-night."
"Is this true?"
"La, dearest ma'am, how does I know. But he spoke as though ’twas."
"You are a pair of simpletons. Lud! you might have been ravished and no
one the wiser. I doubt you both deserve a whipping."
Mrs. Courteen dismissed the subject and turned to survey the ravages of
emotion on her own face. Betty retired to warn her young mistress.
The widow was considerably vexed. Vain woman as she was, she was not
too dull to perceive that the Beau's complaint of her daughter levelled an
indirect reproof at herself. The late Squire Courteen, a-man of plethorick
habit and a good seat, had broken his neck over a five-barred gate more
than seven years ago. Some said his recklessness was too deliberate.
Certainly the week before, young Mr. Standish had left the neighbourhood
in a great hurry. Moreover when the Will was read it appeared that a codicil

had been added the day before the Squire died by which his lady had
forfeited every halfpenny of his money if she married before her daughter
and by an ingenious stroke did the same if she failed to find a husband
during the ensuing six months. Farther, a provision was inserted that this
husband must be ten years younger than herself. It was all very much
complicated and extremely malicious.
Mrs. Courteen fanned herself reflectively. She was perfectly happy in the
ridiculous attentions and elderly gallantries of Major Tarry and Justice
Moon. At twenty-nine she had still possessed enough florid beauty to
excuse her ill-spelled love-letters. Moreover, she had a husband and was
safe sport for young gentlemen who lost the hounds somewhat early in the
day. When she was widowed, most of her attraction vanished. She grew fat
and had to content herself with middle-aged suitors for whom she became a
placid ideal on the dull journey of their lives. Mrs. Courteen continued to
fan herself.
That absurd codicil drifted across her thoughts. If Phyllida married she
was condemned to poverty or a young husband. Yet, after all, Moon or
Tarry had enough—not much, but enough; but then both firmly believed in
the annuity. The bitterness of her husband's dying jest stung her for the first
time. What a fool she would be made to seem! Certainly Phyllida must not
be allowed a wedding; that was the solution.
How fatiguing solutions were, to be sure! She felt quite vapoured. At any
rate she would look after her for the future. If she had a gallant he should be
discovered. If Betty's tale were true, why, prevention was better than cure.
"Alas!" sighed the widow. "I shall play indifferent well and yet—no
matter. Perhaps I shall hold Spadille every hand of the game." Wafted by
this pleasant hope, the widow sailed upstairs to assume the scarlet and black
gown and the spade-patch which she wore to propitiate the cards; also to
embellish her fingers with rings; also to trim her nails to a perfect curve and
polish to whiteness the peering moon at their base. To such cardboard
emotions was this lady come whose husband broke his neck out hunting.

Chapter the Fourteenth

MONARCHY IN REPOSE

O N the following morning after breakfast Mrs. Courteen produced a
strip of faded rose ribband.
"Try to match this, child," she said to Phyllida.
"But mamma, 'tis not possible. The silk is old," expostulated the daughter
who was dressed and ready to take the air.
"Nothing is impossible, child," generalised the widow. "Do your best—all
that is required of human beings. You may take Thomas with you."
"But mamma, I don't want Thomas. I would rather take Betty."
"People can't always take what they desire in this world, and a very good
thing too," remarked Mrs. Courteen, "for the world would be a wickeder
place if they could. Betty must stay and help me."
The widow was determined to begin the supervision of her daughter
recommended by Mr. Ripple. It was the old story of Sisyphus and the
Stones, of Tregeagle and the Thimble; as mischievous spirits are kept
occupied in Tartarus, and condemned for ever to the performance of the
impossible, so was Phyllida to be kept from the temptations of idleness, in
order to save, if not her soul, at any rate her reputation.
The widow apprehended that obedience would be more easily secured by
guile than the direct imposition of a command.
Miss Phyllida Courteen went out that morning with a sullen little frown
above her charming little nose, and walked so fast that Thomas was hard
put to keep his proper distance behind her as he continued to mutter, 'How
long, O Lord?' with many a dolorous wheeze and mortified grunt.
In and out of a dozen haberdashers they went. All the young women
behind the counters were very polite and amazingly hopeful, but when they
came to pull out the long drawers filled with ribbands of every size and
colour, they could only produce the gayest pinks, the most brilliant shades
of rose, and though they continued to be very cheerful and persuaded

themselves and their rather petulant customer that the match was as near as
could be expected, they were quite unsuccessful, and the ribbands were put
back in the drawers to await a less exacting purchaser.
Finally Phyllida, turning out of the tenth shop, heard St. Simon's clock
strike eleven. It was a moderately fine morning, and she knew her beau was
at that moment turning into Curtain Garden. She stamped her foot with
vexation and disappointment.
"Oh Thomas, Thomas! was ever such a mad errand before?" complained
his mistress.
"Velvet! Vanity! and a-whoring after strange silks," groaned Thomas.
"Thomas," said Miss Courteen in her most engaging voice, "you would do
anything for me?"
"With God's help," agreed the footman.
"And you'd do a great deal for a shilling-piece?"
"To spite Beelzebub," said Thomas.
"Then, Thomas, step down to the Western Colonnade, make my
compliments to Miss Sukey Morton, say I hope she is better of her cold,
and will she give Miss Phyllida Courteen the pleasure of her company to
Mrs. Pinkle's Conversazione. But perhaps you'll forget that long message?"
Thomas replied in accents of unctuous solemnity:
"Better of her cold and quite recovered."
"Yes, but there's more."
"Waste not, want not," he answered severely.
"Oh Lud! I suppose I were wise to write it down," with which Miss
Courteen tried the eleventh haberdasher. The pinks were just as light, the
carmines as crude and fresh as ever.
But at the opposite counter it was possible to buy the most agreeable
paper; so Miss Courteen bought a quire, and also a box of wafers marked
with a laurel-wreathed C. Then she borrowed old Mrs. Rambone's crow-
quill pen with which the accounts were made up every evening in the little
back parlour, and Miss Lettice Rambone politely cleared a corner of the
counter and brought out a standish, while Phyllida put her swansdown muff
on the chair because, though it was high enough to pull about haberdashery,
it wasn't high enough for writing letters. After much arrangement, she
wrote:

"MY DEAREST MISS MORTON,—I hope you are better of your cold. I am
truly anxious that you should come and see me this afternoon at four
o'clock on a matter of great importance. I am truly distressed by a most
unlucky Event. I doubt my dearest Sukey can guess what disturbs her.
Ever affect. and truly devoted
PHYLLIDA.
P.S. Pray come.
P.P.S. I saw a Red Coat not unknown to a certain young lady now resident
at Curtain Wells. The said Red Coat made a most polite bow."
Ph. C.

Then Phyllida sealed the note with one of her new wafers, and Thomas
unscrewed the knob of his tall stick and put the note inside and the shilling-
piece in his waistcoat pocket and marched away down the High Street,
while Phyllida rushed off with her muff held up to the East wind which was
quite cold when one was walking so fast. For the Western Colonnade, you
turned to the right, but if you were going to Curtain Garden, you turned to
the left, and Phyllida turned to the left.
She had to pass the end of the Crescent on her way, and hurried past,
afraid for her life to see Mrs. Courteen sailing round the corner. She was
now outside the Great House, and could not help looking up to the big bow-
windows to see if Mr. Ripple was there. There he was, very calm and very
dignified, but a little out of focus because his windows all had such very
thick glass. She caught his eye, and the Great little Man smiled at her. She
smiled back and blushed, thinking of the meeting of yesterday. Suddenly
the window shot up, and Phyllida turned her head to see the Beau
beckoning. She stopped in dismay, while Mr. Ripple, having first spread his
handkerchief on the sill, leaned out to speak to her.
"Pray pardon this ungenteel summons, my dear Miss Courteen, but if you
would not consider yourself compromised by such an adventure, I should
be vastly honoured by your inspection of some proper new prints which
have fallen into my hands."
Miss Courteen was overwhelmed by this invitation. What could she do but
murmur assent?

The Beau, with a delightfully suave gesture, hurried to open the front door
for Miss Courteen who tripped up the dazzling white steps, all swansdown
and blushes.
Mr. Ripple begged her to follow him upstairs to the drawing-room and be
seated before the fire.
It was a fine high room of good proportions, with three large sash-
windows and a wrought-iron balcony running along the breadth of the
house. The walls were panelled and painted white, and the floor was stained
and varnished to a glaze of immense brilliancy. The rugs scattered about it
were Aubusson, of rare hues in fawn and puce and faded lavender and old
rose interwoven with queer dead greens. There were several prints on the
walls, mostly after Watteau and Fragonard. The whole room wore the
indescribable air that is only to be found in the house of a bachelor of
comfortable means, good taste and a certain age. There was no trace of a
woman's hand in its arrangement, and yet one felt that the owner, through
long seclusion from the other sex, had softened towards it with the years
until, secure at last, he was able to admit a feminine cirrhus into the limpid
and rarefied air of his remote celibacy.
Phyllida, as she watched the firelight ripple in orange wavelets across the
surface of the blue and white Dutch tiles set on either side of the hob,
wondered what the Beau meant by this sudden invitation.
Just then he begged to be excused for a moment while he fetched the
portfolio containing his new purchase.
She heard the door gently closed and looked round the room.
How tall and white it was, just like Mr. Ripple's hand, smooth and white
and exquisitely shaped. Outside, the grey weather mellowed the ivory of the
room. There was a curious stillness as of frost, and she watched the
reflection of the fire leaping in opalescent miniature about the high
windows. There was a new spinet, set at an angle to the rest of the furniture,
in a case of light-coloured wood, painted with cupids, zephyrs and roses, all
waxen-pale. The tall, quiet chamber began to depress her spirits, so that she
felt compelled to strike the extreme treble note of the spinet which through
the stillness rang out like the unwonted pipe of a bird in a hot August
woodland.
At last, Phyllida, whose whole body was beginning to tingle with the
effort of waiting in such breathless quiet, heard some one coming upstairs.

Gog, the Beau's diminutive negro, entered with a silver tray; on which small
and shining lake swam coffee cups like swans or fairy shells. The Great
little Man followed close upon the dusky heels of his squire and soon
Phyllida found herself sipping her coffee in easy conversation with the King
of Curtain Wells.
"Do you know the, Maze? he was asking.
"Oh yes," said Phyllida.
"A pleasant spot, cool and green."
"It is indeed."
"I often sit there," said the Beau.
"'Tis a pleasant spot."
"Less fortunate than my poetick namesake, I have no plane-tree there, no
long-buried Falernian; but I am unjust to my time, for, after all, I have
Curtain Garden and Chalybeate that springs from the depths of earth,"
continued the Beau, half to himself.
Phyllida was not quite sure what he was talking about, but agreed politely.
"My dear Miss Courteen," said the Beau suddenly, "may I say something
very abrupt and perhaps intolerably free, but nevertheless something which
I feel ought to be said?"
"Oh yes, sir," Phyllida replied, wishing devoutly that she was well out of
this tall, white room.
"My dear Miss Courteen," he went on, "I am a man who knows something
of life on its merely social side. I have been an observer, if I may say so, a
naturalist of humanity. My self-chosen attitude has forbidden me all
passion, save that which is the recognized privilege of an audience. Of love
I am supposed to know nothing, save in that third person whose company is
unwelcome and superfluous. Perhaps my devotion to the Odes has led me to
see too many Lalages, too many Lyces. Perhaps I regard women too much
as roses that bloom, scatter their sweets and die. In a word, perhaps I am
unsympathetick."
"I don't think you are at all, sir," cried Phyllida, surprized by her own
boldness.
"Thank you," said the Beau, with the merest hint of a tremour in his
equable voice.

"But," he went on, "if I regard women as roses, I never seek to pluck
them: most men do. Miss Phyllida, pray pardon a man of some age who
cares more for Youth than he is willing to admit, who is not quite the
phantastick, the fop, the cynick that his subjects make him out. You know
what Shakespeare says: 'Each man in his time plays many parts.' I, my dear,
have remained for more than thirty years faithful to one. That is why I am
considered so eccentrick—well, well, I grow loquacious. My dear Miss
Courteen, it is very unwise to make assignations in the pride of youth.
Assignations belong to the middle-aged, the disillusioned. If you love a
young gentleman, make no secret of it, and let the whole world join in your
happiness; but if it be necessary to love this young gentleman in Mazes and
such clandestine spots, this young gentleman is not worth so much
devotion. Who is he?"
"Mr. Amor, Sir," said Phyllida, feeling half inclined to cry.
"Amor? Amor? I don't know the family. Is it by his wish these meetings
are kept secret? Yes! yes! I know 'tis very romantick and very rapturous,
but, believe me, my dear Miss Courteen, it is not worth the cost. You must
think of your reputation."
"I do, Mr. Ripple, indeed I do—all the time!"
"Come, come then, present me to your Amor at the Chinese Masquerade.
I'll talk to the rogue, and egad! we'll have the wedding in June. What do you
say?"
"I don't think Mr. Amor would be very willing, and I'm sure my mamma
would be monstrous vexed."
"Nonsense," said the Beau, "nonsense! You won't be happy, till you've
packed yourself into a post-chaise smelling vilely of stale tobacco and
horse-cloths. And when you've found some Fleet Street parson to marry
you, you'll wish for a fine wedding and a bride-cake, and your tenants
cheering and holloaing at the lodge-gates."
Here the Beau showed himself too unfamiliar with the mind of a young
woman. The idea of eloping had never yet entered that dainty head of
glistening chestnut curls; but from that moment Phyllida began to play with
the notion.
"Come, come," he went on, "let's have no more of clandestine courtship.
Heiresses and dace both attract by reason of their silver: libertines and pike
have much in common. Moreover, you must think of your mother."

"I doubt you don't know my mamma very well. She swears I'm but a
child, but I'm not a child, am I, sir?"
Mr. Ripple put up his monocle and solemnly stared at his fair impenitent.
"You are not a very old woman."
"Besides, my mamma doesn't understand the meaning of love."
"My dear young lady," protested the Beau, "that is a very common error
with the young. Don't you think that shaded lane once lisped to her
footsteps? Don't you think April once broke as sweet for her?"
"Well, if it did," argued Phyllida, "she's forgotten all she ever knew."
"Come, come, I dare swear she has a secret drawer fragrant with cedar.
Find it, my dear Miss Phyllida, and you'll find many old letters, many
withered nosegays."
"Indeed, I've searched."
"Perhaps her escritoire is the heart."
"'Tis very well for you, Sir, to talk thus, but my parents were never
happy."
The Beau mentally cursed the pertinacious memories of servants.
"Then, if that was the case," he went on, "there is the greater reason for
your friends to secure you against such an irreparable misadventure. Now
come, you'll present me to this Mr. Amor? I may not understand all women,
but trust me, I have a tolerable knowledge of men."
The pale February sun cast a watery beam through the high windows and
Mr. Ripple's face caught an added lustre, was in fact so bright and kindly
that Phyllida promised, subject to Mr. Amor's consent.
And soon they were both bending over the portfolio of prints—very
diverting prints they were too, caricatures of the foibles of fashion.
It was certainly very delightful to see tranquil monarch and fervent maid
laughing very heartily together at the most prodigious head-dress the world
ever saw.

Chapter the Fifteenth

PHŒBUS ADEST

T HE Coffee-room of the Blue Boar wore a remarkably cheerful aspect
on the evening of the day on which we have seen something of Beau
Ripple's methods. There had been a splendid run from Oaktree
Common across the downs to Deadman's Coppice, where a short check
only lent a spice to that glorious final run across Baverstock Ridge until
they killed just outside Farmer Hogbin's famous barn. And after the death
what delicious musick acclaimed the deed—the baying of hounds, the
chatter of maids, the clatter of horses' hoofs, the guffaws of Lieutenant
Blewforth, the still louder guffaws of Farmer Hogbin mounted on his raw-
boned hunter of sixteen hands, the blasts of the horns, the chink of glasses
and the wind getting up in the South-west, all combined in harmonious
delight. What a splendid ride home it was and how the riders went over
each renowned minute of that for-ever-to-be-famous day. Lieutenant
Blewforth swore he would forsake the sea for the life of a country
gentleman, and everybody laughed when H.M.S. Centaur (so they had
named Blewforth and his steed) shied at a belated calf.
"Egad! B-b-Blewforth," stammered little Peter Wingfield, "'tis lucky your
stomach was trained on the roaring d-d-deep, for you pitch and roll like a
sloop making Ushant."
"Ah! my boy," shouted Blewforth, "my pretty sloop don't shy like this d
——d bum-boat I'm pulling."
How Mr. Golightly of Campbell's Grey Dragoons swore such a run was
better than a frontal charge at the enemy's guns and how young Tom
Chalkley of the Foot stiffened all over and muttered something about the
Cavalry. Indeed the only person to look glum was Mr. Anthony Clare who,
though he rode better than any of them and had shown them his horse's
heels all the way, missed Charles Lovely.
As they walked along the road, fading into early dusk, and heard the wind
sighing in the trim hedges and saw the lights of Curtain Wells seven miles

away, Clare cursed that passion for cards which made a man forsake the
bleak Spring fallows for pastures of green baize.
But later when the huge cold sirloin that sailed in so sleek, sailed out like
a battered wreck, and when pints of generous Burgundy had coloured life to
its own rich hue, and when Mr. Daish himself had coaxed the fire to roar
and blaze up the chimney, and set out the walnuts and put half a dozen
ample chairs round the fire, Mr. Clare could not resist the universal content,
but must laugh and make merry and relate the events of the day for the
seventh time, with as much zest as any of the returned heroes.
Charles had surely been winning: he was so flushed and talked so loudly.
Actually he did not possess a penny, and what was worse, owed Mr. Vernon
a couple of hundred guineas. Not much, but enough when you have only
cloaths to sell, and not a prospect in the world.
Presently one by one the hunters dropped off to sleep with legs
outstretched and doffed wigs and long church-wardens' pipes, that one by
one dropped from slowly opening mouths, slid along unbuttoned waistcoats
and snapped their slender stems upon the floor, until everybody except Mr.
Vernon and our hero was snoring the eighth repetition of the events of that
famous day.
The room was hot; the drawing of many breaths thick with fatigue, beef
and Burgundy induced a meditative atmosphere; the fire no longer blazed,
but sank to an intense crimson glow. Mr. Vernon counted up his gains, while
Mr. Lovely pondered his losses in silence.
At last the latter got up suddenly.
"The cards?" inquired Mr. Vernon.
"Not to-night. I think I'll take the air," Charles replied.
"As you will," said the other and betook himself once more to his tablets.
Charles paused for a moment outside the Coffee-Room to take down his
full black cloak and three-cornered hat. The night wind had brought in its
track a melancholy drizzle of rain that suited his own melancholy mood. He
wandered rather vaguely across the wide inn-yard, passed under the arch
and sauntered along the deserted High Street.
To tell the truth, Mr. Lovely was very unpleasantly situated at this period.
His father had been the ne'er-do-weel survivor of a long line of country
squires away down in Devonshire. When he had eloped with Miss Joan

Repington, to the eternal chagrin of the young lady's brother, a rich banker
knighted for his loyal support of the Protestant Succession, Valentine
Lovely ran through his own and his wife's fortune in the first six years of
matrimony. Thence onwards they lived a hand-to-mouth existence,
dependent on Valentine's luck at the tables and the inviolableness of an
aunt's legacy of five thousand guineas.
Mrs. Lovely died, prematurely aged, in the birth of a still-born child, and
Mr. Valentine Lovely and his young son continued to live the same
haphazard existence for another ten years. Charles spent all his time with
his father who in the intervals of drink and play taught his heir to step a
minuet, sing a merry song, and indite a witty epigram; also he gave him a
case of pistols, heavily chased with the Lovely arms, and lent him the
family tree for target. Finally he made him proficient in the polite use of the
smallsword and the dice-box.
Once, when an early summer made the Bath intolerably hot, Mr. Lovely
and his heir posted down to Devonshire in a crimson chariot putting up at
the Prior's Head, in Danver Monachorum. He spent a week paying
unwelcome visits to the neighbouring gentry who looked askance at the
crimson chariot and still more askance at the degenerate heir of the Lovelys.
Valentine soon tired of so much pastoral exercise and departed to St.
Germain's, leaving young Charles in the care of an old stillroom maid, now
a prosperous farmer's wife. The boy spent placid hours in rich meadows, ate
a quantity of scalded cream, and grew out of knowledge in the six months
of his stay. He used to wander down to the park gates—gloriously wrought-
iron gates between massive stone pillars that bore on each summit a quintett
of cannon balls, the reputed trophy of some seafaring Elizabethan Lovely.
There was a picture in the great hall, of curiously inferior execution,
portraying numbers of Devon sailormen led by a huge-ruffed gentleman
with a long peaked beard, swarming up the towering sides of the galleon
Jesu Maria. Charles was taken to see it when the new family was gone up
to London town. He also saw the great stone swan over the vast fireplace,
with the motto of his house, Sum decorus.
Later in the autumn his father returned and the old life of lodgings, inland
Spas and long posting journeys was resumed. He had never again visited
that remote Devon village, with its cows and pastures and dairymaids and
famous chronicles.

Then, just after Charles reached his majority, Mr. Lovely Senior died quite
suddenly, and our hero found himself in undisputed possession of the
interest on five thousand guineas and as much more in cash, owing to a
lucky run by his father in the week before his death.
Charles now indulged the family vice of throwing money to the dogs and,
having lost the earnings of his father, set about realizing a trifle of ready
money on the five thousand guineas left him by his mother's aunt. This step
brought him into pen-and-ink contact with old Sir George Repington who
wrote him a stern letter of advice, with a postscript offering him a stool in
the Repington bank. Charles was furious and did not reply.
About that time he renewed the friendship with Mr. Anthony Clare begun
in that far-off summer away down in Devonshire. The latter persuaded him
to leave London and come to Curtain Wells where for a time he lived
happily enough on his small annuity. However, just before our story
opened, he had been hard hit at loo and had raised a thousand guineas by
making over the interest on his inheritance to the friendly moneylender who
advanced the needed sum. On the top of this came his losses to Vernon, and
now he was stranded indeed.
Therefore the melancholy drizzle of rain suited his melancholy mood. Of
course he could borrow, play again and perhaps win, but if he should lose
he would be in debt to a friend, a position which he disliked. His father, less
scrupulous in this respect, was always content to lay himself under fresh
obligations. To Charles, however, something of the pride which sustains a
great financial house had descended through his mother and, prodigal
though he was, he would never borrow money from a friend. Of course a
moneylender was different, but what security could he offer? It looked as if
he would have to appeal to his uncle after all. This alternative was
thoroughly odious, and Charles racked his brains to discover a way out of
the difficulties into which he was plunged.
In such despondent meditation he wandered on until the dancing glare of
two large flambeaux, stuck in iron sockets, caught his attention. He found
himself outside the Great House.
The project of consulting with the Beau entered his mind, but St. Simon's
struck the hour of ten, and he knew Mr. Ripple would be retiring to rest,
since he was accustomed to preserve his energy on those nights when he
was not called out to preside over an assembly, rout, or masquerade. At that

moment the two flambeaux, as if to proclaim their owner's withdrawal from
the claims of society, simultaneously collapsed and strewed Mr. Ripple's
fair white steps with ashes.
The sudden darkness betrayed the opalescent windows of the Beau's bed-
chamber. He had neglected to draw the curtains, and on the blind his suave
shadow disported itself in preparation for the night and the next morning.
Charles watched the shadow dip giant fingers into monstrous pomade
pots. Now those fast deepening crowsfeet were being vigorously rubbed.
Now that swift creasing neck was being smoothed with slow caressing
movements. The wig-block displayed itself in generous shadowy curves.
Now, surely, the shadow's sudden inaction betokened a contemplation of
creeping age.
"And this," thought Charles, "is the destiny marked out for me by Ripple."
He knew if he waited upon him on the morrow, explained his reverses,
and promised amendment, the Beau would one day procure for him the
monarchy of the Wells, but Charles was not inclined to manipulate the
strings of marionettes, himself suspended from a longer cord and dancing
for the amusement of a higher power.
The incongruity of the situation, disclosed by the Beau's window, tickled
his sense of humour. There was the monarch of an artificial kingdom
caulking his wrinkles like a beldame in search of her youth; there he was,
that despotick king who prescribed Chalybeate as the Panacea for all earthly
ills, in ludicrous terror at the swift flight of his complexion.
There he was, no better than the chief eunuch of a Persian harem with
authority over women and the power of lock and key against intrusive fops.
Yet he was a kindly man and a gentleman. He was feared and loved, a man
whom the world called successful. Charles himself liked fine cloaths, found
talking pleasant, enjoyed the organization of splendid entertainments, yet he
could not condemn himself to eternal celibacy and the preservation of his
figure. The restriction of such an existence would be unendurable.
You will remember perhaps that in our first Chapter we caught Beau
Ripple in undignified pursuit of a button. We agreed how rash it was for
Gods and Goddesses to discover their anatomy to mortals, and here is the
very fact being forced home to Mr. Charles Lovely, an understudy to
divinity.
Our hero went on his way, fortified against one ambition.

Presently he passed by the lodgings of Mrs. Courteen as the door was
being opened to let out the satellite Moon and the appropriately named
Tarry. The pair of them paused on the steps to ascertain the state of the
weather and discuss the several games of ombre which they had played for
mother-o'-pearl counters.
"Gadslife!" murmured Charles, "Ombre for counters! Then is great Anna
really dead?"
The expensive lodgings of the Earl of Vanity towered above him and he
heard my Lord, with a flowered dressing-gown wrapped about his skinny
shanks, d——g his daughter's eyes for being so late at old Mrs. Frillface's
quadrille party. Farther down the Crescent was old Mrs. Frillface's house,
and outside stood two handsome chairs with the chairmen fast asleep on the
cushions, soon to be wakened from the frowsy damask by Mrs. Frillface's
bloated footman.
And so on past all the lodgings of Curtain Wells.
There was young Miss Kitcat who was really twenty-nine and single only
because, so they said, no one would marry her since that affair with Sir
Hector Macwrath, the young, Nova Scotia Baronet, more than ten years
ago. To be sure, the matter was never rightly explained, and everybody
excused the poor child because her mother never set her the best of
examples, and as for her father, everybody knew that he thought of nothing
but Mdlle. Dançaboute who had such trim ankles and spent so many
guineas and even wore the Kitcat rubies at a Ranelagh supper-party. So Sir
Hector married the lean heiress of Lord Glew, the chief of the MacStikkeys,
and Miss Kitcat remained young Miss Kitcat for many a long day. There
she was, swaying sleepily to the motion of the chair while now and then her
hair would catch in a splinter of wood as the first chairman stumbled over a
loose cobble.
There was little Pinhorn whose father was a ship's chandler at Rye, but
had made money as fast as money could be made over the War
commissariat; there he was, strutting home from my Lady Bunbutter's, quite
inlaid with diamonds, and with a swinging fob near as big as his own bullet
head.
Charles gave him a curt good-night as he passed, and wondered to himself
how little Pinhorn ever dared challenge Captain Lagge to walk with him in

Curtain Meads. Unluckily the Beau had heard of the meeting and went to
remonstrate with the gallant Captain.
"What did you say?" asked the Beau.
"I said I would gladly cut the claws of every harpy on the transport,"
answered the sailor.
"Well, so you may, sir," said Mr. Ripple, "but by Heaven! you shan't do so
here."
Next morning the Captain had his orders and was shot through the heart in
the Carthagena business. Poor Captain Lagge, he had a wife and a little
maid waiting for him in the prettiest cottage between Pevensey and
Brighthelmstone.
Charles passed many others whose small histories, could I recount them,
would fill this book to overflowing. For each one he could recall some
unsavoury episode, some mean adventure that made its hero contemptible.
"Oddslife," thought Charles, "was ever Society so corrupt, so insincere, so
entirely damnable?"
By this time he was back in the High Street after a long circuit, and just as
he was thinking of crossing the road to reach the Blue Boar and bed, he
noticed a candle was burning in his bookseller's little back parlour.
"I'll inquire after the sale of my poems," he decided, and without more ado
hammered loudly on the door of the shop. Presently in answer to his
continuous rappings, a foxy-faced old young man with a premature stoop
and cloaths both squalid and ill-cut, shuffled through the shop and asked
who was there.
"A mendicant poet," cried Charles.
"Be d——d," muttered the foxy-faced man, preparing to go back.
"Come, Mr. Virgin, you'll open to me, Charles Lovely?"
"Go away, Mr. Lovely, go away. I'm very busy—very busy indeed. I never
remember when I was so busy before, so full of business."
"So much the better," cried Charles jumping up to smite the signboard that
hung over the door till it swung round on its hinges with a rattle and a
squeak.
"Now don't be rough, Mr. Lovely. I've had the lady's face repainted. 'Tis
beautifully done, Mr. Lovely. Do look. Can you see? 'Mr. Paul Virgin.
Bookseller and Publisher. At the Sign of the Woman.'"

"Pshaw!" said Charles. "Will you open to me, or I'll turn the woman into a
w——!"
"I suppose you must have your way, but oddscods, indeed I'm monstrous
busy. Oh! Mr. Lovely, I am so busy, you wouldn't believe."
With this final protest, the old young man slowly drew the bolts of the
door and allowed Mr. Lovely to step inside.
There was a musty smell in the shop and the shelves of calf-bound
volumes seemed alive in the uncertain flame of the candle. The counter was
heaped high with volumes and on the floor lay gigantick tomes bound in
jaundiced vellum covers.
Lovely followed the foxy-faced man into the back parlour which in
addition to the general mustiness of the premises had a rank odour of
printer's ink and newly struck proofs.
"I am so busy, Mr. Lovely. Mr. Antique Burrowes' great work on the
Abbeys of England and Wales must positively appear before the publick
next week; the subscription lists are filled up, and we expect a very
favourable reception, and so we ought, for the woodcuts are beautiful. Look
at this one, Mr. Lovely—this is Glastonbury—the Abbot's Kitchen. What a
place just for one man! Ah! those monks: what bellies they had."
Charles scarcely glanced at the proof.
"Very proper," he said, "and what about my poems?"
"Ah! you always have your joke, Mr. Lovely. That's always the way with
poets—they will have their jokes just when I'm so busy too," said Mr.
Virgin sidling across the room to a shelf full of ledgers bound in hideous
marble boards.
"How many sold, these three months?"
"One, Mr. Lovely. One copy. You see it entered."
"Who was the purchaser," said Charles with affectation of great
indifference. "Not a lady, I presume?"
"Ha, ha, you poets—so fond of the women. Singers and poets always like
the women. There was Signor Amoroso, d'ye know him? The famous
Tenore, now singing every night at Vauxhall—he used to buy all my books
about the ladies. But, pray excuse my chatter, Mr. Lovely. I'm sure I
oughtn't to be talking, just when I'm so busy too. Let me see, who was the
purchaser—ah! here it is—it was Miss——"

"Courteen?" Charles let slip in his eagerness.
"Ha-ha! ha-ha!" laughed the foxy-faced bookseller, "Ha-ha! You must
keep your love-secrets better than that. No, it wasn't Miss——" he pursued.
"Oh!" said Charles coldly.
"It was Sir George Repington—I remember now—he wrote from the
North."
"Sir George Repington?" exclaimed Charles, completely surprized.
"Humph! I wish him joy of my effusions."
"Oh, no doubt he'll like them or he wouldn't have sent all that way for
them. Well! well! some men are mighty whimsical in their tastes, and
there's no denying that people do read verses."
"However," said Charles, "I take it the taste is not an extended one?"
"Well! you mustn't complain. You had two hundred taken by subscription
and half a dozen copies sold to casual purchasers. You won't lose a vast deal
over the publication."
"No," said Charles, "you wouldn't like that?"
"No, indeed I shouldn't, sir, I take a pride in the success of my clients. So
did my father, sir, and he became an alderman of this town, though he was a
native of Exeter."
"I take it, then, you are not prepared to offer a sum of money on account
of a new volume?"
"Ho-ho!" laughed Mr. Virgin, "what a droll gentleman you are to be sure.
You will have your joke, and don't seem to regard how busy I am."
"Very well, sir," said Charles, "I'll wish you a good night."
"Good night, Mr. Lovely, good night, sir. When I'm not so busy perhaps,
another time, I'll be most happy to talk over your—ahem—literary
projects."
Mr. Virgin held up the candle to light Mr. Lovely through the shop. The
rays happened to fall on a pile of slim volumes reposing on the counter.
"What are those?" Charles asked.
"Ah, 'tis a great pity you can't write verse like that."
"Poems?" said Mr. Lovely in accents of incredulity.
"To be sure—poems, but such poems,—lampoons, squibs, and
pasquinades. 'Tis a Satire on the characters of the Bath—very scandalous,

they tell me, but oddscods, 'tas run through nine editions in as many weeks.
Now, if your name was Lively, sir, instead of Lovely."
"Mr. Virgin!"
"No offence. What I mean is, if you could write something similar about
the visitors to Curtain Wells."
"You'd publish it?"
"Well, perhaps that's going too far, but I would give it my very best
attention."
"Humph! Good night," and Charles went out into the drizzle.
On his way home, he saw the Exquisite Mob and the Exquisite Mob-
master grouped before a satirist; and very soon he saw them performing
their anticks thinly disguised by initials and asterisks.
That is how Mr. Charles Lovely sat down to indite
CURTAIN POLLS
severely lashed
by a
Curtain Rod.

Chapter the Sixteenth

THE CHINESE MASQUERADE

T HE Chinese Masquerade was the outstanding event of early Spring at
Curtain Wells. It was the quintessence of refined affectation, the great
fount in which many tributary delights found their source. Moreover, in
its character there was a national significance. It was not held merely to
emphasize the importance of being seriously amused; it was not one of
many entertainments sacred to Epicurus; it did not serve to commemorate
the fleetingness of life; it was no Burial Service with a ritual of flung
roseleaves and spilt wine. The Chinese Masquerade of Curtain Wells was
something far more grand than any of these, being a great national act of
homage to the beverage of Tea. Of old, Bacchus was saluted in Samothrace,
and the festival of wine was celebrated with all the absence of restraint that
might be expected from the past. Nymphs raved, Satyrs danced, and
garlanded leopards jigged to one wild inspiration. Phrenzy footed it; troop
followed troop, broke and dissolved in flashes of white limbs when
Dionysus of the sly smile and rosy cheeks bewitched thousands with his
strange madness. In fact, the whole affair was an intolerable concession to
Nature. At Curtain Wells you saw the centuries at work. There the
Bacchantes were corseted and hooped to primness; the Satyrs had high red
heels for hoofs, silken breeches for the fur of goats. Instead of velvety
leopards that used to amble over tuffets of fragrant thyme, each with a
hussy astride his supple back, went greasy chairmen in lurching escort of
dowagers and misses. Dionysus himself was changed. He had kept his sly
smile and rosy cheeks, but his vine wreaths were become ruffles and ties,
while his body glittered, not with youth and health and immortality, but
with paste buckles and brooches and solitaires. The crashing cymbals of
Thrace found a thin echo in the delicate tinkle of tea-spoons and frail
sounds of porcelain. To be sure, the whole of the difference between the
worship of Wine and the worship of Tea was expressed by the fact that to
honour the former, society took off its cloaths, whereas in order to celebrate
the latter, all the world dressed itself up.

Mr. Ripple wore above his suit of amber a robe resembling a golden
dressing-gown. He was the Gold Mandarin, decorated with dragons, tall
pagodas, flowers and fireworks. The Blue Mandarin, whose robe concealed
the pearl-grey suit of Mr. Charles Lovely, seemed as he moved across the
room like a blue garden, so many small landskips wrought in azure silks
trembled in the folds of his garment. Only these two officers of the Pageant
were privileged to remain unmasked. The rest of the company wore yellow
vizards whose painted eyebrows soared at a celestial angle over eyeslits, cut
almondwise. The general effect was of animated Ming laughing, jesting,
talking, and dancing with the lacker cabinets that were used to contain it.
The ballroom had pagodas in each of the corners where the children of the
Exquisite Mob dressed to a more exact replica[1] of the farthest Orientals,
nodded and peeped and chirped the austere maxims of Confucius without
the slightest idea of their meaning, but all convinced that it was extremely
diverting to partake of a grown-up entertainment, and far better to drink real
tea out of real cups in a delightful palace of their own, than to play with
acorns and ditchwater in the mildewed Dorick summer-house at the head of
the Park avenue.
[1] They wore pigtails, which were considered unbecoming by the older Follies. Besides,
head-dresses were too elaborate to be ruined for the sake of one entertainment.
Chinese lanterns bobbed on golden wires slung from wall to wall whence
the gilt mirrours with the wax candles of the West had all been removed.
This Eastern light softened the mingled hues of blue and gold to a gorgeous
moving twilight stained by the afterglow of sunset. All along the sides of
the ballroom were placed for seats queer twisted animals, winged dragons,
squat bronzes, Chinese geese, monkeys and parrots in crude shades of green
and vermilion, while at suitable intervals were set little houses to contain
two persons. These were intended to encourage the intimate amenities of
polite conversation.
Outside in the Rococo cloister unknown flowers expanded and curious
fruits ripened by lanternlight; and though the flowers were made of linen
dipped in scent, they served very well to pluck and offer to a masked fair
and as for the fruits, they were all filled with comfits. Finally, here and
there, smoking sandal-wood torches lent a remote perfume to the Mise en
Scène, and curled in scented wreaths about the motley forms of the
masqueraders. To say truth, the Eastern veneer was more than usually
superficial, even for a veneer. The result of the attempt to secure reality

only accentuated the difference between East and West: still the latter
enjoyed making believe so far as it consorted with true gentility, and it may
very easily be understood that nothing low was permitted by the British
Nation in the eighteenth glorious century of Christian civilization.
Thia was the first masked ball that had been held since Phyllida grew
enamoured of Mr. Francis Vernon, so she made no doubt he would avail
himself of the opportunity to be present. As soon as the Exquisite Mob was
assembled (at half-past seven o'clock precisely, because it was considered
vulgar to be late) there was a solemn drinking of tea, no mere handing
round of teacups and saucers, but a far more impressive ritual, invented to
mark the occasion with due importance.
The Gold Mandarin seated himself on an ivory stool whose claw legs
were fretted with diminutive foliage, temples and flying birds. This was set
on a small platform draped with broideries at the foot of which was an
azure velvet cushion where, with crossed legs, sat the Blue Mandarin.
Mr. Ripple clapped his hands twice to command the entrance of the
Procession of Tea. First walked two musicians slowly tapping gongs shaped
like saucers with large spoons. These were followed by six children with
nodding porcelain Mandarins whose tongues trembled in and out of their
surprized mouths. Then came the bearer of the Caddy—a magnificently
decorated specimen of lackerwork. On either side of the Caddy was borne a
Nankin jar full of milk. Finally, a lacker table on wheels, overhung by a
fringed canopy that protected an enormous bowl of rarest Ming whither
odorous vapours ascended from the flowery liquid, was pushed along in
slow and reverend state.
The company opened its ranks to allow the procession a way until it
stopped before the Gold Mandarin's ivory throne. The Beau at once
descended, dipped a diminutive teacup into the bowl, took three sips and
sighed rapturously. The six porcelain Mandarins were set nodding with
redoubled vigour, gongs boomed from the topmost windows of the pagodas,
and the procession re-formed and passed into the upper room, whither the
assembled company followed it in order to drink in turn from teacups filled
at the sacred fountain.
In the crush, Phyllida, who was wearing a gown faint blue like the March
sky, felt her sleeve pulled gently by a tall mask in tawny raiment. She
recognized the pointed white fingers and whispered 'Amor.'

The mask shook his head to indicate silence, but presently Phyllida
succeeded in conveying her cup of tea to the outskirts of the crowd and
hurried through a corridor to a side-door opening into the cloister where she
waited for her lover's approach. In a minute he was sitting beside her.
She turned to him delightedly.
"Dear Amor! This will be the first ball that I shall have truly enjoyed."
This statement scarcely did justice to the many pleasant hours she had
spent to the sound of fiddles, horns, and clarinets.
"Why was my charmer absent yesterday? The Maze was prodigiously dull
without the sweet Nymph who loves to haunt its verdurous ways."
"Oh! Amor, we are discovered."
"Faith, is that so?" remarked Vernon, without any apparent concern.
"Mr. Ripple told my mother I was conversing with a gentleman for one
hour and a half by the clock."
"Interfering dancing-master!"
"And yesterday I was sent to match a ribband quite impossible to match;
I'm sure ’twas done to keep me employed and when I heard eleven chime, I
could bear it no longer, but almost ran towards Curtain Garden, and on my
way the Beau beckoned me to come in and, pray don't be angry, dear Amor,
he was so vastly kind that I told him your name."
"Here's a pretty state of affairs," muttered Vernon.
"He asked me to present you to him to-night, and vowed we should be
wed in June."
"Gadslife! I hope you sent him about his business?"
"Not exactly," said Phyllida, "indeed he was so good-natured that I
promised—at least I half promised to do so."
"Confusion take him," swore Vernon, "for a prating, meddlesome, tailor-
made gentleman. Harkee! I'll not have myself discussed by Mr. Horace
Ripple. I dare swear he patted your hands, eh? called you his pretty dear,
made old man's love, eh? A plague on his impudence!"
Phyllida shrank from her lover's wrath.
"Indeed, sir, I vow he did nothing of the kind. He behaved with some of
that propriety for which I could wish in my Amor." Phyllida remembered a
young woman talking something like this in the first volume of The Fair

Inconstant. Vernon could not keep back a smile. "I doubt I'm not inclined to
hear you farther."
Vernon began to chuckle.
"And let me tell you, sir, your behaviour becomes you very ill, and
moreover I told him your name, and the milk's spilt, and 'tis useless to cry
over spilt milk as all the world knows."
A tear-drop trembled in each corner of Phyllida's eyes, making them seem
more clearly blue, as crystals that surround great sapphires enhance their
beauty.
"Sweet indiscretion," began Vernon, who having been politick enough to
conceal his true name, could afford to be generous.
A very faint sob was the sole response.
"Nay, prithee, dear one," he continued, catching hold of a tremulous hand,
"let's have no quarrels at our first ball; I bear you no malice."
"I should never have told him, had I been ashamed of you," she
interrupted.
"Just so, adorable creature, but since we had resolved to keep our affair
secret, and since we were agreed that stolen meetings, like stolen fruit, taste
the sweetest, I was surprized to hear you had told every one."
"I did not tell any one."
"But, my angel, you did."
"Not until I was forced. 'Tis very well for you. You're a man of fashion
and independence, and I'm a young woman."
"Incontestable truth!"
"Now you're being satirical, and I vow I detest sarcasm. Indeed, I think it
has all been a mistake, and I'll go back to Hampshire to-morrow, and you
may go back to your Haymarket."
"Very well, madam, since you dismiss my suit, I will go back to my
Haymarket. It may be vastly diverting for you, madam, to break a man's
heart. You, secure in the verdant meads and—er—meadows of the county
of Hampshire, you, wandering among fields of daffadillies, at peace,
beneath a summer sun."
"Daffadillies don't grow in the summer."
"Alas! madam, I am ignorant of these pastoral delights."

This was perfectly true since Mr. Vernon's mother was a lady who thought
a bough-pot in Air Street worth the finest estate in the Kingdom.
"I," he continued, "have lived my life in cities, and though I have often
hoped to hear the cuckoo wake me at dawn, 'tis very evident I must for ever
bid farewell to such vain dreams."
Here, Mr. Vernon, who had inherited considerable histrionick ability on
the female side, contrived to get an effective break into his usually smooth
enunciation.
"But I don't want to quarrel for ever," protested Phyllida.
Mr. Vernon turned his head away, probably to hide a tear.
"For my part," she went on, "I should be very willing to live always as we
are living now."
"My angel!"
"But since the world is so censorious and seems to concern itself with
every unimportant young woman's affairs, I thought—I thought——"
"You thought a wedding would put a stop to scandal. How little you know
the world. Why! madam, a hasty wedding would set people's tongues
wagging at once. Come, come, pay no attention to old Ripple. He knows
my name. If he chuse, he can seek me out. I warrant I shall hear no more
about it."
"But we shall be watched."
"Then we'll change our trysting-place. At any rate, prithee, let us enjoy to-
night." Here Mr. Vernon put on his mask and taking off his gown resumed it
inside out. "Do you see, dear charmer, I am both porcelain and lacker, so
that no one will be able to say you prefer the one to the other. Hark! the
fiddles have begun—let's go and step our first gavotte together."
Phyllida took his arm and they returned to the ballroom. The vizards made
all the faces appear fixed and wooden and Miss Courteen could not help
looking very often at Mr. Charles Lovely who was sitting cross-legged on
his azure cushion and, in contrast to the rest of the masquerade, was plainly
a man. Once she fancied she caught his eye, and when he came up and
asked her to honour his arm for the third gavotte, she knew she had not
been mistaken. Mr. Vernon silently relinquished his partner.
"Who was your late Vis à Vis?" Charles inquired. "I beg your pardon," he
added as he saw Phyllida hesitate, "my manners grow as barbarick as my

costume."
He had noticed with devout jealousy that Miss Courteen's fingers reposed
a moment longer than was necessary upon that sattin forearm.
"How did you discover me?" she asked with frank interest.
"’Twas not difficult."
"But masked as I am?"
"I did not regard your mask—I saw your eyes."
Phyllida was conscious of a blush and a faint quickening of the pulses, all
over her body. There was certainly something very satisfactory in such a
compliment. It was genuine moreover, for indeed he had discovered her
through the distorted yellow vizard which concealed her roses.
Presently the dance began, and, though Phyllida liked every moment of it,
she could not help observing Amor, half buried in the greenery of an alcove
and, as it seemed to her, forbidding too keen a pleasure.
Charles found it difficult to extract from his partner more than the
ordinary small talk of ballrooms, and as she became more and more absent-
minded during the progress of the dance, he let her go at the end of it
without a very valiant attempt to detain her for the next. Presently he saw
her join a blue mask and lose herself in the flickering throng. Last time he
had remarked particularly that her Vis à Vis wore brown and gold, yet the
two figures were alike in movement and gesture and he could swear the
hands were identical. It was the same without a doubt. Charles bit his nails
with vexation, and fretted confoundedly.
"My dear boy, my dear Charles, pray do not gnaw your fingers. Narcissus
admired himself, 'tis true, but without carrying his devotion to cannibality."
Charles turned to the well-known voice of Mr. Ripple.
"A thousand pardons, dear Beau, I was vexed by a trifle. The masquerade
comports itself with tolerable success."
"I think so," the Beau replied, adjusting his monocle and gazing critically
at his subjects. "I certainly think so, but I am never easy in my mind until
the Grand Minuet has concluded the entertainment, yet even so, I do not
think you will ever find me preying upon my extremities."
Charles laughed.
"They take their pleasures very easily, sir." Again the Beau examined his
puppets.

"The burden of amusement certainly weighs very lightly on them, and yet,
Charles, I sometimes fancy I detect a shade too much of self-consciousness
in their movements. I could wish for a less anxious grace, a less ordered
abandon. My monocle which diminishes their size, diminishes their
importance; and I must confess that the motion of dancing, if one regards
the Ensemble, appears to me nothing less than idiotical. However, do not let
my cynical attitude prove contagious—I have watched so many dances."
"Yet you are willing for me to succeed you," said Charles. "Foregad, Mr.
Ripple, I was never intended for a spectator."
"I have energy to keep me in office long enough to let you grow older.
Come, come, Charles, admit the career I offer would tempt many more
deserving young men."
"But I have passions, feelings, desires, ambitions."
"All very suitable," commented the Beau, "till you grow tired of
versifying life. We write poetry, Charles, in order to improve our prose."
"Some men write poetry to the end."
"Usually a bitter end; but, indeed, I would not goad you into accepting my
offer. Have your dramas, lose your money, expose your heart to Cupid,
commit the thousand and one foolish actions that will afford you a moral
occupation for your middle age."
"What would that be?"
"A leisurely repentance."
"Sir, I think you spin the natural functions into silk like the silkworm."
"Well, Charles, and isn't silk a more durable excrement than most? You are
still devouring the tender shoots of the mulberry tree; I am already in the
cocoon and shall go down to posterity as a very reputable moth vouched for
by a cenotaph in St. Simon's Church, Curtain Wells."
"Sir, I doubt they will never say of me 'Vive le roi!'"
"We shall see, we shall see. By the way, do you know a Miss Phyllida
Courteen? Her mother, a widow whose charms are as ample as her dowry, is
lodging in the Crescent."
Charles was taken aback for a moment.
"I believe I have met her once or twice at Assemblies."
"At any rate, you know her by sight."

"Oh yes!" replied our hero.
"Now, I wonder whether you could pick her out from this multitude of
masks."
Charles at once perceived the subject of the question.
"She is standing over there by the second pillar and talking to a mask in
porcel—no, in lacker. That's strange."
"What is strange?" inquired Mr. Ripple mildly.
"Nothing—a lantern effect," Charles explained.
Surely he could not be mistaken in those taper fingers. Moreover, they
were familiar to him. Where could he have seen them?
"So that is Miss Courteen," said the Beau, looking at her very intently.
"Yes, now that you have pointed her out, I certainly seem to recognize her.
Who is her Vis à Vis?"
"That I do not know," said Charles rather gloomily.
"Then, pray, be so good-natured as to make an attempt to ascertain and
you'll oblige me monstrously. Or stay—perhaps I had better inquire
myself."
Mr. Ripple, observing that Mr. Lovely looked somewhat melancholy,
patted him on the shoulder.
"Don't look so full of disapprobation, Charles. Inquisitiveness, with
ordinary men and women, is a breach of good manners: with kings, it is a
condescension. Dear me! how time runs!" the Beau continued, tripping
from an epigram to a truism. "I will leave you to superintend the Country
Dances. Let them be as Oriental as possible, I beg."
With this admonition the Great little Man threaded his way through the
Exquisite Mob.
Charles d——d the country dances very devoutly. He was not enjoying
the evening at all, and wished he were sitting in the cosy firelight of the
Blue Boar, lulled by the whispers of playing cards, shuffled and dealt.
Where could he raise that two hundred pounds he owed Vernon? Vernon—
by G...! now he recognized those taper fingers. Vernon! they belonged to
Vernon, he could swear to them. Too often had he watched their delicate
harvesting of his guineas. He began to fret more than ever. Suddenly he
noticed that everybody was looking in his direction, and became aware that

time was indeed running and the moment for the Country Dances had
arrived.
Meanwhile Mr. Ripple searched in vain for Phyllida and a Vis à Vis in
brown and gold.

Chapter the Seventeenth

THE GRAND MINUET OF CATHAY

T HE Country Dances of these powderpuff Orientals were so truly
inappropriate to the celebration that they almost succeeded in
convincing by sheer want of fitness. Picture to yourselves two hundred
blue and golden marionettes jigging to Sir Roger de Coverley or bobbing to
Come Lasses and Lads. There was Merry England underneath this hugger
mugger of yellow masks, yet the sustained motion was decidedly Eastern.
Hands across, back to back, right hand, left hand—each change of attitude
was marked by a crashing gong; and he who sounded this barbarick
instrument was Mr. Charles Lovely. He stood upon a tripod of ebony quite
high enough for a hero of comedy, as I am sure you will admit.
As soon as his proconsulate was over, he jumped from the pedestal and,
once more assuming our poor humanity, sought desperately for Mr. Vernon
and Miss Phyllida Courteen.
And now the great ballroom was cleared. The Exquisite Mob refreshed
itself not with chopsticks, but with two pronged forks and stout-handled
knives. Nor was the fare ascetick rice, but pies of mutton, rounds of beef,
custards, gay jellies and dappled puddings. In the ballroom the attendants
busily ran hither and thither in preparation for the Grand Minuet of Cathay.
Four pagodas guarded four corners; little bridges spanned little rivers of
blue silk. There were miniature groves that shielded queer little Chinese
gods and goddesses, while here and there were temples with crooked roofs,
hung round with silver bells destined to be jingled at set moments of this
incomparable minuet. High up near the ceiling among the swinging lanterns
one saw the peaked faces of giant kites gazing benignly down. Finally in
the very centre of the room was a small fountain with a pond all about it of
real water, starred with white water lilies, on the highest jet of which a little
god, inflated by air, jigged to the rise and fall of the water. Mr. Ripple had
not been able to find Miss Courteen and was interrupted in his search by a
call to inspect the scene of the Minuet. Gog was sent to fetch Mr. Lovely
and presently the Gold Mandarin and the Blue Mandarin were stepping over

each bridge, peering from each pagoda, gently trying the bells, lending a
last touch to the rivers of silk and coming to a standstill in silent admiration
of the dancing water-god.
"I think," said Mr. Ripple, "we may venture to proclaim, the Minuet of
Cathay."
"I think so," said Mr. Lovely as he cast a quick eye in the direction of
every entrance in turn.
"I could not find Miss Courteen," said the Beau, "have you had better
luck?"
Lovely hesitated a moment.
"No," he said finally.
The Beau looked at him a moment.
"I cannot imagine who this Amor can be. He is not down in my list."
"Amor?" inquired Charles, somewhat too suddenly, "is his name Amor?"
"So the young lady informed me, when we considered the situation
together. I perceive you know him."
"Indeed, sir, I am acquainted with no one of that name."
"I never imagined you were," replied the Beau testily. "'Tis too plainly a
Nom d'amour; but I'll wager you are able to extract a personality from this
pseudonym."
"Nay, indeed, I——"
"Very well," said the Beau, cutting him short, "there is no more to be
said," and he turned away to order a burly Oriental who on less decorated
occasions was wont to assist Mr. Balhatchett the butcher, to sound the gong
of invitation.
While the huge sullen instrument boomed a diapason that threatened more
than it cajoled, Charles wondered if he had been wise to conceal his
knowledge of Mr. Amor's identity. Ripple had obviously not believed him
and was moreover very sensitive to any concealment on the part of his
subjects. He, as his own subaltern, was especially bound to indulge this
foible. Besides, what good had he done? thought Charles. Not much indeed,
for soon Ripple would certainly find out the whole affair. He ought to tell
him all he knew. Ripple would act for the best and close the Pump Room
against the intruder. It would be kill or cure.

But just as he was upon the point of informing the Great little Man, our
hero remembered he owed Vernon two hundred pounds. O resolute hero! Be
quick to mount your ebony pedestal or we shall think you no better than a
walking gentleman.
The Exquisite Mob of crimped and corseted Orientals began to saunter
back from supper, and the debate between honesty and honour was
adjourned to a more meditative opportunity. By this hour of the evening
most of the Masks were tolerably sure of each other's identity, and though it
was an acknowledged custom of the Chinese Masquerade as opposed to
other masked balls that all vizards should be worn from door to door, the
Grand Minuet of Cathay afforded much scandalous talk for the ensuing
days, all the more potent because a convention of anonymity was
sedulously maintained. It was not surprizing that intrigue should flourish at
a dance where half the company was hidden for many moments at a stretch.
The Minuet lasted a whole hour. It reproduced in the various side-figures
many emotions. It was a hundred dances in a grand Ensemble. The musick
was now courtly, now passionate: sometimes it clanged in barbarick
interludes of noise: sometimes but three or four flutes twittered above the
plash of the fountain.
Over the bridges pattered the dancers: in and out of the diminutive groves
twinkled their scarlet heels. Now a couple swayed in a stationary boat on a
motionless river: now at the topmost window of a pagoda, cambrick
handkerchief and painted fan kept time to the tune. The Gold Mandarin
lived in a golden house beside the fountain and, if he chose, could live a
century of sound and perfume in that fragrant hour of dancing. Far away at
the other corner of the room lived the Blue Mandarin in a small house at the
foot of a small volcano that ceaselessly puffed out clouds of incense.
Wherever you went in that strange dance of dances some new delight
assailed your senses.
Here, before a temple hung with silver bells, a dozen of these blue and
golden dolls moved with grace and precision through many variations of the
Minuet. They would carry away with them that night no more than a
memory of bells and stately movement by the rosy light of many lanterns.
Purged of all feeling save for correct gesture, the vizards seemed no more
alive than their mirroured counterparts that moved with equal grace upside
down in the polished floor of parquet.

But step over one of these bridges where false white flowers hang in
scented clusters: go softly through that Bonbon grove, and there in an
alcove fretted to the semblance of wrought ivory, you shall see two masks
that are enraptured beneath a white moon-lantern, tracing the melody with
long caresses. In one of these fanciful resorts, sat Vernon and Phyllida
making love among the shadows, as in pairs and dainty quartetts the
dancers darkened the carved portal when they passed. For Phyllida, the
Assembly Rooms had been snatched up by some powerful magician and set
down in a land of Ombres Chinoises. Many a time had she sat in the theatre
and watched these silent black and white tragedies and comedies. Now she
had joined that whimsical procession which capers across the draughty
sheet. She recalled a particular entertainment of this character last
December. First the Columbine had pirouetted across and made a light
phantastick entrance into the shadow of the house at the extreme corner.
Presently came the Pierrot with a lantern swaying atop of a tall pole. Up and
down the sheet he had danced with incredible agility, until a Pulcinello
shook his bells from the window of the house, and he floated away
gathering giant size as he went. Then came Harlequin, dancing almost more
beautifully than Pierrot, and a quiet murder was done in the laurel shadows
round the house. Pierrot lay dead and Harlequin, the slim and debonair
assassin had donned his vizard: Columbine wept a while until the lights
were turned up, when everybody agreed that the whole performance was in
the best of taste and vastly well executed.
Phyllida came to herself and found Mr. Vernon gazing steadily at her with
his velvet eyes, all the more disconcerting set almondwise in the Chinese
mask. She shuddered.
To say truth, this exotick minuet of strange perfumes and processions, was
not the sanest amusement for a maid who should have lived always among
the roses. The heat was growing intolerable, and still her lover with
persistent, regular motion bewitched her hand as it lay in his.
The dancers passed and repassed them as they sat in artificial dusk.
Phyllida began to hate them when they fluttered their fans and
handkerchiefs. They were sickly things these dancers—crotchets and
quavers and semiquavers who had captured the semblance of humanity,
who breathed and bowed and capered, merely because musick had conjured
them into existence. Suddenly an amazing clangour of gongs and cymbals
waked her completely from the fever into which she had been flung, and,

waking, she found herself encircled by her lover's arms, his eyes burning
into hers and his lips, all that was left alive by the stolid vizard, eager to
meet her own.
"Don't," she gasped. "Don't. I hate you, I hate you when you do that."
"Nay, my angel must not be so prudish. Come, kiss me of your own will
and we'll gallop to Gretna Green next week."
Phyllida still repulsed him.
"To Gretna Green," he went on. "Drawn by a pair of cream-coloured
horses, in a chaise all citron silk and rosy sattin with my Phyllida plunged
into the softest cushions and her Amor to love her so fondly while trees and
milestones fly past."
Vernon inherited much talent from his mother, and as he breathed his
persuasions in the most refined modulations of intensity, half looked over
his shoulder, for an audience.
"My Phyllida, your lips are soft as moths."
"Don't, Amor, don't."
"Soft as little moths that in wet garden paths brush the cheeks with
feathery wings."
"Release my hand, detestable Amor. I will sit here no longer to be tortured
by your boorishness."
"But why will you repulse me? you love me? We are to be wed almost at
once. Why were you willing to sit in this dark corner, unless for the charms
of love?"
The Minuet was drawing to a close. Long since the musick had departed
into wilder channels. This was now no courtly measure, but a barbarick
medley of noise, fit for trumpets of India, cymbals of Ethiopia, and the
hollow booming of drums that affright wrecked pirates in the green swamps
of Madagascar.
Vernon stood up and drew Phyllida closer.
"By G——, child, you madden me with your prettiness. Come, I swear
you shall kiss me before the end of the dance. You shall, by G—— you
shall!"
Miss Phyllida Courteen, all swansdown and blushes in our first chapter, is
scarcely recognizable now. She is growing old fast. She is kindling the
faggots that will warm her chill old age.

But still, though passion tugged at her heart strings, the school-miss, the
older Eve before the Fall, made her struggle against knowledge.
"I hate you, I hate you like this. Let me go, sir, let me go!"
With a sudden effort, she escaped from his arms, and he, plunging back at
the same moment, struck the frail summer house of ivory so that it toppled
over in front of the Blue Mandarin who was crossing a bridge over a silken
stream that flowed in the direction of his little house beneath the miniature
volcano. The Bonbon grove was strewn with fragments. Like Cinderella
fled Miss Courteen and was quickly lost in the gold and azure company.
With careless air, Mr. Vernon stooped to buckle his shoe and Charles, seeing
the taper fingers, stood for a moment petrified upon the ridiculous bridge
over which he had been stepping with such an affectation of importance.
Now was his opportunity to probe Mr. Vernon, or rather to lead him
gradually into the urbane presence of Mr. Ripple who would certainly probe
him deep enough. There was every reason to admonish him for, as he knelt
over his shoe, Charles could plainly see his costume was reversible. Such a
device was a breach of etiquette, deserving publick censure. Himself as
viceroy of Society, should not be backward in arresting a traitor to Society's
rules. Of old, the favourites of monarchs had not scrupled to owe money to
those whom they denounced as dangerous to the State.
Charles took a step forward.
"Sir," he said, pointing with a tasselled wand whose handle was a squat
Buddha, "you have broken a law of the Chinese Masquerade."
"Indeed," said Vernon, rising from his knees, not at all perturbed
apparently by the accusation.
"Yes," went on the Blue Mandarin. Pray let our hero be impersonal for a
while, "You are wearing a double costume."
"What a monstrous breach of privilege," said Vernon chilly, unmoved.
"And it is my duty to report the incident to Beau Ripple. Your name, sir?"
It was now the turn of our villain to hesitate. If he frankly avowed his
identity, Lovely was bound to say no more about it, but did the interloping
young Jackanapes know the heroine of the affair?—he had danced with her
once that night. If he said Amor, Lovely might easily inform Ripple and
plead ignorance. D—— n the young fool! Why didn't he pass over his

absurd stream and take his callow brain, stuffed with ceremonies, to the
sugar-plum atmosphere of the Beaux' ante-room?
"Why Lovely, man, don't you know me? 'Tis I, Vernon, what the plague do
you mean by so much impertinence? Were you shocked to see me trying to
kiss a saucy school-minx, eh? That was little Miss——"
"Her mask, sir, should conceal her name."
With what fair Incognita Mr. Vernon intended to couple himself, will
never be known. No doubt a pseudonym as nice as his own would have
been forthcoming, since he was of an inventive disposition and had on
occasions a pretty turn of fancy.
The musick had stopped; the Grand Minuet of Cathay was finished. Mr.
Charles Lovely was aware of a rival to whom, by cursed ill-fortune, he
owed money which he was unable to pay.
"Shall I give you your revenge?" murmured Vernon.
The company, still masked, were hurrying in blue and golden bunches to
their coaches and chairs.
"Not tonight," said Charles. "But on my honour, Vernon, you must really
be careful not to offend against our rules on another occasion."
So, lightly enough, with no appearance of mutual ill-will the rivals passed
on. Phyllida was gone home, her face afire beneath her Chinese mask. To
her virginal chamber, I shall presently take you in order to hear what
Mistress Betty has to say about the ways of lovers. And while we walk in
the direction of the Crescent, somewhat overwrought by a plethora of
colour, scent, movement and sound, we may be tolerably certain that young
Mr. Charles Lovely—no longer Blue Mandarin, but again our admired hero
—is seated furiously inditing the most satirical verses on the residents and
visitors of Curtain Wells, in order to make money enough to pay Mr. Vernon
his guineas, and be able to run him through in Curtain Mead with a clear
conscience and a clean smallsword.

Chapter the Eighteenth

THE CONFIDANTE

I F Eve had possessed a Confidante, it is probable that the evil wrought by
Woman would have been double as great as it is reputed to be. Miss
Courteen had stepped into the mud of reality and, not unnaturally, was
eager to tell Mistress Betty of the accident and ascertain by candlelight
consultation, whether or not her glass slipper was truly lost.
As they drove home in the rumbling coach, Phyllida experienced an
emotion of futility as she half listened, half dozed, to the conversation of the
Major, the Justice and her mother. To this came Youth. Bumpety-bump went
the coach, bumpety-bump went the conversation, bumpety-bump went
Thomas' broad back on the Jimmy, bumpety-bump went Phyllida's head,
while her thoughts and memories kept pace in the darkness like swift sparks
that are blown along by the wind. At last the coach drew up before their
house in the Crescent: Phyllida and her mother alighted: Betty opened the
door and the coach drove off to put down Major Tarry and Mr. Moon at
their lodgings.
The hall seemed drab and unfamiliar; the bedchamber candle-sticks set
out upon the little gate table had an air of reproof about them; they seemed
to say as they sat in a prim row: "Look at us, we are quite content. Last
night our candles burnt an inch lower, and the candle suffers diminution,
but we remain the same. We are quite content."
"My pretty one looks pale," said Betty, full of solicitude.
"I'm tired," said Phyllida.
"Betty," said Mrs. Courteen, "you must help me to undress. The evening
has been most enjoyable, and my lady Bunbutter tore her gown on a
monkey's tail. Now, Phyllida, do you run quickly to bed, for to-morrow Mr.
Moon and the Major have promised to drive with us to see Melton Abbey.
You will enjoy the excursion vastly."
"What a whimsical place to visit."
"Whimsical! How can you be so irreverend, Phyllida?"

"But why, mamma, do you suddenly drive to Melton Abbey?"
"Why, child! because I wish to train your mind to be sure. Nothing tests
deportment so severely as wandering round a Gothick ruin. However, they
tell me that Gothick will soon be à la Mode, and who am I to dispute the
commands of fashion?"
Upon the heels of this humble interrogation, the widow betook herself to
bed.
"When you have undressed my mamma, Betty, come to my chamber, I
have a thousand things to tell you," Phyllida whispered as they went up the
narrow stairs.
She lighted all the candles in her room and looked round in sudden
affright. It was as if some one had trespassed upon those virginal solitudes
while she was away. Yet her room was the same as usual; the dimity covers
were all in their places: the fire was burning merrily in the hearth: the bed-
cloaths were turned back, fresh, cool and lavendered. Her slippers knelt
devoutly by the fender: the fire-irons looked just as stilted and apologetick
as usual. Everything was perfectly familiar, perfectly ordinary and perfectly
safe; yet something in the room was strange, or was it herself who was
altered? Was she out of harmony with this palace of amber morning dreams,
this treasure-box of twilight hopes and imaginations?
Down she sat in the big flowered arm-chair and stared at the crackling
logs—a stranger to her own possessions, and, as she untied one by one the
ribbands from her glinting chestnut hair, she seemed to smell the jasmine of
Courteen Grange and hear her father calling below her casement to come
down quickly and count the buds on the York and Lancaster rose, as he was
used to call in those sweet dead Junes.
Presently came Betty with a soft knock and Phyllida, starting away from
the host of childish memories that assailed her, sprang up as the maid came
in on tiptoe.
"Now, sit down, Betty, and listen with all your ears, for I dearly need your
advice."
"My sweet one, I'm listening to 'ee," said Betty, pulling forward a fat lop-
eared hassock and squeezing herself as close to the fender as possible.
"Betty, Mr. Amor kissed me this evening, and what should I do?"

"What were 'ee best to do? Why think no more about it, for indeed I dare
vow you're not the first maid that was kissed."
"But the worst of the matter is that, though I struggled hard to escape, and
though I detested him for his persistence, yet, oh! Betty, I don't like to tell
you—I did not struggle as hard as I might have done."
As she made this confession, Phyllida went carnation red from forehead to
pointed dimpled chin.
"There's no call for blushes," said Betty emphatically, "for you must learn
the love of man soon or late, and Mr. Vernon is a proper enough gentleman
for sure."
"And he said we should presently elope."
"Oh! time enough to be wed come three years or more," commented Betty.
"Oh! but you would not have me allow a gentleman to take my hand, and
kiss me, and call me his dearest life without being married immediately. It
would be most unbecoming."
"If all the world knew, 'twould, but then nobody don't know, and that's the
best way for all true lovers."
"Nevertheless, Betty, I feel uneasy."
"'Tis only the stirring of your blood, my dear. Only to think," went on the
confidante, "that last sweet Spring time you was building great cowslip
balls in the green meadows, and now you are quite grown up with a bow of
your own to arm you through the minivets and gawottes, so grand as may
be."
"Yes, love makes one grow old, Betty. I've aged very much these weeks."
"Well, and 'twouldn't be right otherwise, for Life bean't all a long sweet
April month, my pretty one."
"Then truly, dear Betty, you swear you think there is no harm in what I
have done?"
"Oh, my dear, harm? Why, what harm could there be with your great fat
Betty to watch and guard 'ee?"
"Still, I'm not sure, Betty. There's something tells me not to be sure."
"Then, do 'ee listen hard to me, my dear, while I tell 'ee what I do think
about life. Life! 'Tis a garden and 'tis a wilderness, and between them there's
a gaäte and 'tis a kissing gaäte. The wilderness is fine for children—a great

open plaäce fit for scampering Jack hares and such like, but bare enough
and bleak enough when you do grow old, and then you're too fat to get
through that kissing gaäte, and then you do wish wi' all your might and
main that when you was young you'd gotten into the garden among the
sweet flowers."
Betty stopped, exhausted by the allegory.
"Yes, Betty, that is all very well, but you must go through the gate with the
person whom you love for ever and a day."
"Nay, you can meet him inside and say Good-day and thank you kindly to
the arm you went in on."
"I don't believe you give me good advice. If I told you that to-morrow
morning I was going to run away with Mr. Amor to Gretna Green, what
would you say?"
"Oh, God preserve you from the wicked thought, Gretna Green or any
other such unlawful heathenish village green!"
"There you see," complained Phyllida, "you do not take me seriously, and
it was foolish of me ever to tell you about this evening. But now that I have
told you, you must never breathe a word to a living soul—never—never—
promise!
"I do promise," said Betty.
"With the old rhyme—till Christmas—you remember?"
Betty stood up, while a ritual, sacred to the childhood of Phyllida, was
solemnly enacted. In a monotonous whispered chaunt, Betty promised:
"I will not tell at primrose tide,
At cherry tide I'll silent be,
At barley harvest I'll be dumb
Till Christmas come and set me free."
Phyllida was satisfied that her indiscreet confidence was safely locked up
in Betty's bosom, capacious, homely, sweet-savoured as an apple-closet.
You have seen the confidante in action. Is it not well that we have
banished her from society? No longer may she enter stark mad in white
muslin, as the play directs. We have put her away in an old chest with hoops
and tie-wigs and gibbets and pirates and Newgate ordinaries and rotten
boroughs and watchet ribbands. No longer does she play asterisk to a

heroine, because nowadays the adventures of our heroines are entirely
introspective. But, as upon all time-honoured institutions, let us drop a tear
for the confidante; she has helped a thousand perplexed authors to unfold
their simple dramas, she has helped many a scene-shifter to leisure.
Mr. Sheridan could laugh at Mr. Cumberland through this artful, artless
medium, but he too had his Lucy. Mr. Smollett depended upon Miss
Williams (a lady of the loosest character) in order to help his Narcissa to
reveal herself and you, Mr. Goldsmith whose name, like immortal Madame
Blaize, is 'bedizened and brocaded,' you had your dearest Neville.
Yet, after all, however much we may regret them, confidantes were very
bad for heroines. They would encourage them in all that was most
reprehensible. Here you see, is our own confidante encouraging her
mistress to play with Love's torch and for all you or she know, get badly
scorched by the purple flame. Such temerity is very well for country
wenches to whom a green gown is a proper delight for May morning. Betty,
with her memories of many barley breaks, junketings and Hallowe'en
festivals, where ripe lips are as common as cherries at midsummer, was not
the perfect monitor for swansdown misses brought up under Miss Prudence
Prim's long rattan, taught to sit up straight and put into corsets almost as
soon as they were out of robe-coats. In fact she was a confidante, a match-
maker, to whom a wedding-ring was a Post Hoc horse-collar, through which
to grin at the censorious world.
After all, where's the ultimate difference between sweet sensibility a
hundred and fifty years ago and sweet sensibility today? We should
consider it démodé for the latter to gossip with her maid. Now every
schoolboy and schoolgirl knows how to spell psychology, and has been
awarded a sub-conscious self to enliven the lonely hours. And this sub-
conscious self, what is it, under analysis? Why, nothing more than the old
confidante in ghostly guise with as long a tongue and as rich a store of bad
advice.
So now, having successfully, as I hope, occupied your attention while
sweet sensibility gets into bed, let us snuff the candles and leave the room
to Phyllida and wavering firelight.

Chapter the Nineteenth

BLACKHART FARM WITH A COCK-FIGHT

A BOUT ten miles from Curtain Wells on the Bristol road stood a ruined
cottage. With thatch discoloured, torn by gales and sparrows, and with
windows made crooked by internal decay, its expression was
grotesque and unpleasant. A tangled bed of rotten nettles filled the space
before it, and all the vegetation beside was rank and desolate. This cottage
served as fitting lodge to a sinister bye-way covered with weeds and almost
overhung in summer by hedges dark with masses of black bryony, but in
winter and spring sufficiently open to admit the cold grey sky overhead, and
the chill Easterly rain, which on the morning after the Chinese Masquerade
fell with dreary persistence.
Pray pardon me that I take you so far from wit, fashion, and beauty, along
this unsavoury path, but indeed the journey is inevitable if you are at all
anxious to understand something of Mr. Francis Vernon's intentions. The
road leads to Blackhart Farm, famous, no doubt, in days gone by for the
cherries of that denomination; but since the last dying speech and
confession of Mrs. Mawhood the name has acquired a new and sinister
significance.
Now you understand my apologies; or is it possible you have forgotten
Mrs. Mawhood of Blackhart Farm, who was turned off at Tyburn amid the
execrations of the mob in 17—? Yet her long black gloves and white face
haunted many pillows on the night when she paid the ultimate penalty; and
for what was she hanged? Come, come, this history is not the Newgate
Calendar—you must search that bloody register.
At the time, however, of Mr. Vernon's visit, Mrs. Mawhood was alive and,
I am sorry to add, flourishing. He followed the roadway for about a quarter
of a mile between tall, damp hedgerows, dismounted at a small wicket-gate
and, leading his horse, turned aside through a plantation of close-set,
withered larches under which the grass grew pale and thin, with a sweet
unhealthy odour of fungus. Blackhart Farm appeared in view—a long, low

building with slated roof, trim enough, but repulsive and barren. From a pile
of chimney stacks smoke was rising hardly through the heavy atmosphere.
The path by which Vernon arrived led immediately to the front door. Had
he continued along the cart track he would have reached, by way of a bleak
paved courtyard, the back of the house. Only a very shallow strip of garden
separated the front of the farm from the gloomy plantation that served as
barrier to the curious world.
Vernon tied his horse to the gate of the garden, walked up the moss-grown
path between clipped bushes of box, and knocking with the handle of his
riding-whip on the heavy door, waited. Several moments passed, and in the
deep silence that surrounded this ill-wished abode, he could distinctly hear
a clock ticking on the other side of the heavy door. This, the drip of trees,
and the noise of his horse chewing the rank herbage by the gate, were the
only sounds that broke the stillness.
At last footsteps shuffled over the stone-paved floor within. A small panel
slid away from a grating and a voice of that peculiar unctuous hoarseness
only heard in a prodigiously fat man or woman, inquired his name.
"I want to see you, old Mother Mawhood."
"Love o'maids!" said the fat voice, "'tis Fancy Vernon, or I'm not a fat old
sinner."
The bolts were pushed back, the latch clicked, the door swung open, and
Mrs. Mawhood, whose bulk, but little reduced by Newgate fare, was soon
to test severely the three-legged tenement, occupied the portal.
Take a good look at Mrs. Mawhood, while with pursy greetings she makes
Fancy Vernon welcome. She is like an idol in a cavernous East Indian
temple, or a giant toadstool, or weight of unbaked dough, or in fact
anything that is slow, sleepy, and horrible. Almost buried in folds of flesh is
a pair of beady black eyes, as steady and wicked as those of a puff-adder or
seaman's parroquet. She is dressed in black, and her nails are bitten to the
quick.
Mr. Vernon was probably less narrow-minded than the mob which howled
at her infamy during the Tyburn journey. At any rate he chatted with her
amicably enough on this grey February forenoon.
"How's business, ma'am?" he asked.

"Very bad," she wheezed. "Only three of 'em upstairs and none of 'em real
quality. Still, the flowers in the garden vant fresh food, especially the blood-
red toolips. Ah! it was two lips that was the undoin' of the hussies, and, 'tis
fair they should profit by the harvest."
This devilish joke was followed by a low rumbling chuckle echoed above
by a thin wail.
Mrs. Mawhood waddled to the foot of the stairs.
"Keep that d——d brat quiet, you charity bastard," she wheezed angrily.
"She'll hev to get up to-morrow," she continued, seating herself in a wide
arm-chair beside the empty grate, "and a sickly puling jade she is. I suppose
you've come for the Main?"
"No," answered Vernon, "indeed, I did not know there was to be one.
Good birds?"
Mrs. Mawhood nodded. "Thirty-two cocks and a Velch main. 'Tis some of
those baby gentlemen from the Vells as finks they's seeing life ven a dozen
lousy chairmen sveats thesselves 'oarse over a pair of bleeding chickens.
And ven they's 'ad their pockets picked, they goes 'ome 'appy."
"Is Moll here?" asked Vernon.
"No, Moll's keeping a gay house Catherine Street vay."
"Egad, I've a pretty little job for Moll."
"Now don't you go leading Moll astray. She ain't been in Bridewell not
these two years, and she don't vant to neither."
"This job won't take her there. I'm in need of a housewife for a month, and
Moll's a nice homely woman."
"'Oo's she to look after, eh?"
"A pearl necklace," said Vernon.
"And a pretty neck, eh?"
"Tolerable," said Vernon.
"When do you want her?"
"Let me see—February. Shall we say the last week in March?"
"I'll tell her: I shall be sending a hussy from here presently to a nice honest
sitivation." Again the chuckle was heard.
"I want lodgings near the Haymarket. Nice and airy—with a balcony if
possible, and—well, Moll knows what attracts sweet seventeen."

"That's young for a pearl necklace."
"'Tis hers by inheritance. The lodgings must be cheerful because Miss is
shy."
"Oh, Moll knows what every age likes best. She'll buy a dear little singing
goldfinch and put him in a cage and hang him up in the window. Who
knows? P'raps it'll breed a nice little nestful of goldfinches for Moll. 'Ow
many?"
"I can discuss that with Moll herself," said Vernon.
"Ah, but Moll's so soft 'arted. Not less than fifty goldfinches, mind, and if
a little hindrance arrives, 'tis to come down to Blackhart Farm—mind—and
be cared for by old Mother Mawhood wot's kind even to the pore little flies
on the pane."
"You look too far into the future, old lady," said Vernon.
"And so a body should, my fancy boy," the hag answered. "Now I wager
you ain't thought nothin' about postillions?"
"Time enough for that."
"Yes, time enough I dare say, but you ought to engage 'em in advance.
That's vat the quality does ven they writes to me. Have you got a pair of
good honest postboys?"
"No, but——"
"Vell! and good honest boys ain't so easy found in Curtain Vells! Boys
who'll do vat's vanted and no questions axed and none answered."
"But I thought——"
"That's all werry fine," said the monstrous old woman. "But p'raps there'll
be another elopement. Maids is thick in Curtain Vells, and p'raps you won't
find your boys so easy. There's some that don't like the job—don't like two
brace of pops behind 'em and a galloping brother and father."
"We shan't be followed," said Vernon contemptuously.
"No, I dare say you von't, but 'tis as vell to be behind a couple of good
honest boys as'll use their pops when they're turning a corner and ready to
swear they thought it was two gentlemen on the high toby as vas a followin'
of 'em so fast."
"Very well," said Vernon, "whom do you want me to employ?"

"Vy, there's my two nephews, Charlie and Dickie Maggs, vot 'ud drive 'ard
and fast all the vay to Lunnon town and no questions axed either end, but
vot could easily be ansered wiv golden Georges."
"Let 'em wait on me when I send the word, and hark'ee, they must be
ready any time this month, for Miss may take it into her head to run before I
expect."
Further intercourse between Mr. Francis Vernon and old Mother Mawhood
was interrupted by loud knocks on the door at the back, supported by
catcalls, yells, horn-blowing and whip-cracking.
"That's for the Main," said Mrs. Mawhood. "Vill you stay to see the
sport?"
"'Tis a Welch main?"
"Ay—thirty-two birds."
"Well, send a boy to put my horse in the stable."
"This way, my fancy, this way," wheezed the hag, as she waddled towards
the courtyard where the noise was growing louder every minute.
It may strike the reader as strange that the young gentlemen of the Blue
Boar (they were all there save Mr. Lovely) should come ten miles to a
disreputable farm for the purpose of seeing thirty-two cocks of the game
butchered. The Welch Main was a peculiarly bloody form of cock-fighting,
as it was determined by a series of rounds fought by the respective
survivors until at the end a pair of already vilely scarred and mutilated birds
were placed beak to beak by the Feeder to determine the ultimate victor of
the Main.
Ten miles was not too far to travel for such glorious sport in the days of
the Georges, but that they were compelled to travel at all was due to the
squeamishness of Beau Ripple, who had a singular aversion from the game
and would allow no cock-pit to be established within his jurisdiction. He
used to say the martyrdom of chickens should never extend beyond the
demand for painted fans.
Therefore a suitable cockpit had been set up in one of the outlying barns
of Blackhart Farm, whither at discreet intervals went Lieutenant Blewforth
of the Lively, Mr. Golightly of Campbell's Grey Dragoons, Mr. Tom
Chalkley of the Foot, little Peter Wingfield, and many other young
gentlemen. They would sit in the first tier and allow their exquisite necks to

be blown upon by the stinking breath of the second tier which, in turn, was
not unwilling to allow the third tier to spit over its shoulders in the intervals
of yelling, 'Three to one on the Blotch-breasted Red!' 'Six to five against the
Cheshire Pile!' 'Two to one on the Black-breasted Birchin!' and other such
bewildering proclamations of their confidence in particular cocks of the
game.
Vernon was not at all displeased that his visit to Blackhart Farm should
have ostensible justification. Looking back, as he emerged into the
courtyard, he noticed all the windows of the house were blind on that side
and wondered why so ill-favoured and disreputable a dwelling-place had
never been investigated by the servants of justice. So it was, however, not
long after this date, and a gruesome day's work it was beneath the hot
August sun: and not the least gruesome sight was old Mother Mawhood,
monstrous, flabby and terror-stricken, quivering in her chair by the empty
fireside, opposite a Robin Redbreast from Bow Street drinking many quarts
of beer and regarding her with unfavourable glances, while he listened to
the chink of the spades in the flower garden by the plantation. The runners
would never have visited Blackhart Farm had not a certain lady of quality,
who travelled in a post-chaise with muffled windows, dallied a month too
long, thereby raising the suspicions of her eagle-nosed aunt, the Countess of
——, but what has all this to do with cock-fighting?
In the pit the spectators were arranging themselves. In front sat Lieutenant
Blewforth and little Peter Wingfield as Masters of the Match. In the front
tier sat the leading amateurs of Curtain Wells. Behind them were the
shopkeepers, and behind the shopkeepers was the riff-raff of the Wells and
its satellite villages.
Everybody was bawling odds at top voice, and occasionally one of the
birds crowed. This was an infringement of etiquette and, being considered a
sign of cowardice, immediately lengthened the odds against the offender.
The tallowy man in a blue kerseymere coat and breeches is one of the
Feeders, and is acting in that capacity for the Services represented by
Lieutenant Blewforth, while the civilians are employing the good offices of
Jimmy Trickett, who on less exciting occasions is one of the hostlers of the
Blue Boar.
Vernon, looking for a vacant place in the front tier found himself next to
Mr. Anthony Clare, who, for all he sat so unmoved, had provided eight

cocks for the civilians and stood to lose a pretty pile of guineas.
"Where's Lovely?" asked Vernon, shaking the sawdust from his boots.
"He never comes to cock-fights," Clare replied rather coldly.
"Too brutal for a poet, eh?"
"I have never heard him say so," said Clare.
As a matter of fact Charles strongly disapproved of the sport and it is a
significant fact that at this very moment, he was trotting along the Bristol
road, tired of lashing Curtain polls and determined, against the advice of his
conscience, to stake fifty guineas on the result of the Main.
The latter progressed with monotonous cruelty until, of the thirty-two
cocks who began, but two pairs were left, all bleeding profusely. And now
with a refinement of brutality, the steel gaffles, hitherto used to shorten the
earlier and less interesting matches, were removed and silver ones fastened
on in their place, because, the latter, being less deadly, prolonged the
miserable contest.
During this momentary lull, Charles entered the barn and was greeted with
cheers in which could be detected a note of surprize. Clare moved along in
order to make room for his friend, and squeezed Mr. Vernon somewhat
unceremoniously in doing so.
"What birds are being set to?" inquired Lovely.
"My Knowsley and Chalkley's Cheshire Pile, and a White Pile of
Campbell's against Winnington's Cuckoo."
The semi-final dragged out its bloody length, until for the final was left
Mr. Clare's famous Knowsley cock, his ebony breast dabbled with blood
and his red pinions ragged and broken, but still preserving some of the
smartness of their slantwise trimming—trimmed so in order that by a lucky
stroke an adversary's eye might be put out. The survivor of the two Services
was Mr. Campbell's White Pile, stained with crimson.
"Will your bird win?" whispered Mr. Lovely.
"I think so," said Clare, "he comes of a good breed."
"Two to one in Tens against the Pile," shouted Mr. Lovely.
"Done," said Vernon.
"Two to one in Twenties against the Pile," shouted Mr. Lovely.
"Done," said Mr. Vernon.

"Three to one in Fifties," shouted Mr. Lovely.
And this wager also was taken by Mr. Francis Vernon.
The Feeders were setting the birds beak to beak. The shouting of odds was
deafening: the gallant cocks were both exhausted by the four previous
fights, but the feathers flew, the wings whirred, the gaffles clicked, and the
blood flowed fast enough to please the vile faces that looked down through
the murky atmosphere.
At last the White Pile, blinded in one eye, began to retreat before the
Knowsley.
"I pound the cock," shouted Charles, flinging his hat into the pit.
The Teller of the Law, a seedy vagabond with a red nose, began to count
in raucous accents. Twice he counted twenty slowly, and
"Vill any vun take it?" he asked.
"Yes," said Mr. Vernon, and just as Mr. Vernon said 'Yes,' the brave
Knowsley cock, the champion of many famous fights, toppled over on his
side, dead.
The Naval and Military Amateurs had won the Welch Main, and Mr.
Charles Lovely had lost two hundred and ten guineas, not to mention ten
pounds for so rashly pounding the cock.
The young gentlemen went back to Curtain Wells much pleased with the
afternoon's entertainment, while the riff-raff walked or drove in queer
vehicles back to their squalid homes, all save one unfortunate individual,
unable to meet a debt of ten shillings incurred by backing the brave
Knowsley, who for all he was dying had pursued his antagonist so
confidently. He spent the night in a basket close to the roof and was not set
down till the next morning by one of the labourers on Blackhart Farm.

Chapter the Twentieth

IN WHICH EVERYTHING GROWS BUT THE PLOT

Y OU will remember, if you have not put this book upon the table
meanwhile, that in the last paragraph of the last chapter, we left an
unfortunate individual swinging in a basket hard by the roof of a barn.
He was hoisted by a pulley amid the acclamations of the mob because he
was unable to fulfil an obligation so small that half a guinea would have
covered it. There he swung amid cobwebs and bats, fearful every time the
basket creaked he should fall into the blood-stained sawdust of the cock-pit.
I cannot tell you his name, but that is no great matter since we must
examine him not as a man, but as a symbol.
Possibly with the Beau's perspective, we might diminish him to the size of
a textual illustration, for this unfortunate man is a textual illustration, and
though not etched with the care of Mr. Stothard, will serve his purpose well
enough.
Suspension is a disreputable attitude for the human body, whatever way it
is brought about, yet I doubt this maltreated anonymity was in better case
than our hero. He paid the penalty for laying unwise wagers and found earth
on the next morning much as he had left it on the afternoon of the day
before. Moreover, he never paid his half-guinea, which was a real source of
consolation. But our hero swung that night in an immaterial basket that
creaked thrice as damnably as the other, and found no good-natured
labouring man to put him on the ground next morning. The only result of
opposing the advice of his conscience, was an additional debt of two
hundred and twenty guineas to our villain.
To make matters worse, he had to meet his creditor over the breakfast
table, and of the many dooms measured out to sinners, this is surely one of
the most difficult to face with equanimity.
In despair, he took to drinking the waters with the rest of the Exquisite
Mob, and earned a few golden glances from Beau Ripple, but nothing more
tangible. Even the advantage of these was neutralized by the chalybeate,

which acted with disconcerting abruptness upon a healthy body unused to
medicinal spurs.
The wry water served a good purpose, however, by souring his point-of-
view. The liquid iron entered into his soul and he lashed the Curtain Polls in
a variety of metres. He also took long walks into the country, and sought by
the contemplation of scenery to acquire an impersonal attitude towards his
fellow creatures. After all, there is no better training for a mob-master than
the exercise of a satirical pen, and as time went on Mr. Lovely's book
increased in bulk, although it never achieved more than a suggestive
slimness even when bound in calf.
February faded into March, and in accordance with the season everything
began to grow.
Mr. Lovely's book we have already noticed.
Mr. Vernon's seductive arts grew daily more seductive, and, though for a
week or two after Mr. Ripple's warning, Mrs. Courteen arranged for the
complete occupation of Phyllida's leisure, the growth of Mrs. Courteen's
figure necessitated a stricter attention to diet and exercise, and caused her so
much anxiety that her vigilance was soon relaxed. So whenever the
forenoons were fine enough, Phyllida sat on the moss-grown seat in the
centre of the Maze, and, under the patronage of the little stone Cupid, grew
daily more powerfully enchanted by the magical personality of Mr. Francis
Vernon.
Thomas, the footman, grew daily more unctuous owing to the visit of a
gouty dean who, being invited to occupy St. Simon's pulpit, preached a
remarkable sermon in seven divisions and twenty-three sub-divisions,
conclusively establishing the identity of the English Nation with the tribe of
Benjamin. Mr. Moon and Major Tarry grew more entirely devoted to the
widow, and Thomasina the cat also grew owing to the advent of kittens. In
fact, everybody and everything grew prodigiously in the merry springtime.
The list of visitors grew. Rich Mrs. Bendish arrived and made all the
dowagers jealous with her chest of precious stones that she brought back
from an island in the Caribbean Sea—buried treasure that was actually
discovered. Lord Rocquepool came, and his daughters, the Honourable
Georgina and the Honourable Caroline de Winqule. The Honourable Mrs.
Winter-Green came, and the Welch baronet, Sir Owen Ap Taffy. The
Marquess of Hurricane arrived, and several members of the great Wind

family. Also, with all these aristocratick visitors, it is not surprizing that Mr.
Ripple's snuff bill grew daily.
March came in like a lamb that year, and the sweet season danced in the
bleak furrows over which the lank hares leaped and scampered. White
violets scented equinoctial dusks, and in every window of the Wells big
daffodils hung down their golden ruffs. March went by to the tune of fiddles
and flutes. Mr. Ripple had to attend near half a dozen routs every night, and
the weekly Assemblies were more fully thronged than ever before.
Every day the jolly sun grew more powerful and the noise of polite
conversation was almost drowned by the twittering of the sparrows as they,
like their betters, made a chorus of loves, jealousies, hopes, plans and
disappointments in a world of chimney-stacks and slanting roofs. They
perched in the most fashionable gutters, just as, down below on the sunny
side of the High Street, the Exquisite Mob ruffled before the gayest shops.
"How well that chip hat becomes me!"
"What wonderful silks are being displayed this spring!"
"They say that hoops and head-dresses will both show a monstrous
increase in size this year."
As if the daffodils had intoxicated the whole race of dyers, nothing but
shades of yellow were to be seen. In these happier days for the followers of
the Mode, Blonda and Brunetta, those charming sisters, were not compelled
to rely on their natural complexions in order to wear a certain shade. In
these happier days, powder, rouge and patches availed to make the gaudy
apricock glow even beside the blooming peach without injury to either.
Therefore the artfully arranged bow-windows with rolls of citron damasks,
canary velvets, golden brocades, lemon sattins and orange silks, dismayed
not Blonda any more than the sapphire and turquoise of the autumnal mode
fretted the vanity of Brunetta. As for young maidens, their fashion like the
eternal mountains was always white.
But suddenly on the twenty-seventh of the month the weather changed.
Masses of wet grey clouds swept in from the Atlantick, and March prepared
to go out like a lion.
And on this very morning Curtain Polls severely lashed by a Curtain Rod
appeared on Mr. Paul Virgin's counter.
This small work produced far greater consternation than the sudden
change in the weather. Though it rained and blew, and whistled and

streamed, nobody paid the slightest attention, nobody said 'What a change
in the weather,' for all the world was deeply engrossed in reading about his
asterisked self and his asterisked neighbour.

Chapter the Twenty-first

CURTAIN POLLS

T HERE had been nothing to prepare Curtain Wells for its chastizement.
No wreathèd pamphlet warned readers in the most choice preliminary
duff that a sarcastick comet would presently singe their vices, their
follies and their vanities. Nobody had been invited to subscribe in advance
to his own ridicule. As it were on the wings of a Westerly gale, these
destructive little volumes settled upon the fields of Pleasure like locusts on
a Bedouin plantation.
Two speculative chap-book pedlars sold the first twenty to as many
drinkers of chalybeate hastening home to breakfast. For those who stopped
to buy there was no breakfast that morning. The kidneys and the bacon and
the eggs and the ham and the loin chops and the red herrings and the toasted
bread were neglected. The vanguard of purchasers were, in reading about
neighbours, too much diverted, and, in reading about themselves, too
indignant to eat.
Out went the kidneys and the bacon and the eggs and the ham and the loin
chops and the red herrings and the toasted bread, frozen stiff in their own
fat; and out went the vanguard to warn the main army of fashion that
scurrility, satire and malice were abroad in many metres.
"Listen to this, Moon," ejaculated Major Tarry, as, undeterred by the
driving wind, he strode along, quoting extracts that were perfectly inaudible
to his companion.
"Listen to this, will you listen to this,"
"Like a lap-dog he's fed with a second-best spoon,
And bays as he should at the sight of the Moon."
"Yes, but listen to this," said the Justice treading heavily in a puddle as he
spoke.
"Do not tarry,

M**n, but marry,
While you're still upon the wax,
Though above her,
You can love her,
And avoid the window tax."
"Very low, very low indeed," said Tarry.
"So 'tis," quoth the Justice, "but the next verse is lower still."
"For that coat of
Him we wrote of
Will be in your parlour soon,
And be reigning
When you're waning,
And we whisper hornèd M**n."
"Ha, ha," said Tarry, "low, d——d low! But 'sblood, the fellow has
humour."
"Humour," said the Justice, "you call this obscene doggerel, humour?"
"In parts, sir, in parts."
"I call it melancholy and libidinous."
Mrs. Courteen was seated at her window disconsolately regarding the rain.
"Gemini, child!" she exclaimed. "What can be the matter with Mr. Moon
and the Major that they gesticulate so wildly."
"They're reading books, ma'am," Betty announced.
"Reading book, but they are standing at the street corner like Methodies!"
"They'm beänt gone sick mad for love of 'ee, do 'ee think, Ma'am?"
"Flatterer," sighed Mrs. Courteen. "No, child, they have probably been
converted. I detect Methodism in their madness. Te-hee! I must keep that
for Archdeacon Conybeare, who so dislikes extremes of sensibility in
anything that pertains to so sacred a thing as religion. Ah, dear! Religion,
what is it?"
"There's many ways of it ma'am, I do think. 'Tis true religious not to laugh
when the lads tickle thy ankles wi' straws during the prayer for Good King
George!"

"Tut-tut, how disloyal!"
Just then the raucous voice of one of the itinerant booksellers shouted
"Curtain Polls severely lashed by a Curtain-Rod."
"Run, Betty, and inquire the price at once," cried Mrs. Courteen
perceiving that this was the cause of the gentlemen's delay. "'Tis evidently a
rumour on the best authority about the Day of Judgment."
Presently Betty returned.
"'Tis a book, ma'am."
"I know that, simpleton, how much?"
"Four shillings and sixpence, ma'am, for a little mimsy book not so thick
as the magick history of Jack the Giant Killer."
"But what was inside, foolish one?"
"Oh, ’twas full of stars, ma'am."
"'Tis certainly a work on fortune-telling. Pray buy it instantly, here is the
money."
Back came Betty with the volume, and presently Mrs. Courteen fainted.
Downstairs ran Betty, and upstairs walked Mr. Thomas and Betty.
"’Twas the book as done it," said the latter vehemently.
The offending volume lay face downwards upon the quilted apricock of
Mrs. Courteen's lap, so Thomas picked it up and began to read:
"At the Wells many elegant widows are seen,
But no one so modish as Mrs. C******n,
Her hoop——"
So far he read, but, rubicund though he was, modesty was still able to
deepen his colour.
"Yes," said Betty, "pray do 'ee read us some more, Mr. Thomas."
"What Jebusite wrote this book? I will smite him and all his works,"
replied Thomas, flinging the volume into the fire. Whether the odour of
burning leather or the profuse drops of Sal Volatile revived the offended
lady I do not know, but she instantly sat up and, in a voice tremulous with
anxiety, bade her footman call a chair.
"For," said she, "I must pay a visit of condolence to my Lady Bunbutter,
whose propriety has suffered an almost irreparable injury."

She did not stay to change her dress; she passed her suitors still quoting
scurrility, one against the other in the wind and rain, without a smile of
recognition or sympathy.
Outside my Lady Bunbutter's stood a row of sedan-chairs, and as Mrs.
Courteen walked up my Lady Bunbutter's front door-step, the knot of
chairmen packed more closely over a copy of Curtain Polls indiscreetly left
behind by one of their fares. There was a rustle of pages quickly turned by
dirty thumbs, and as Mrs. Courteen was ushered in by my Lady Bunbutter's
claret-coloured footman, there followed her upstairs a burst of ribald
laughter.
My Lady Bunbutter had, by reason of her superior bulk and wealth,
successfully repelled all rival claimants to the throne of dowagership. She
reigned supreme; moreover her advice on this gusty forenoon was
particularly valuable, inasmuch as she had just shaken off the waters of
Bath on account of the publication there of some odious verses, in which
her name and her person were treated with intolerably small respect.
Therefore it was not surprizing to find her drawing-room the haunt of
innumerable widows, old maids and long-established wives. There they sat,
supplying asterisks with immense volubleness. As it happened, they had
just tittered behind their fans over the odiously vulgar, but undeniably
appropriate—yes! the odious fellow was certainly witty—when the subject
of their malicious laughter and false blushes entered the room.
With the tact bred of many a Quadrille party, my lady Bunbutter advanced
to meet Mrs. Courteen, murmuring, 'poor dear little Miss Kitcat, so spiteful
and yet, my dear Mrs. Courteen, since we are all friends, alas! how true!'
Now young Miss Kitcat was still young Miss Kitcat, and simply would
not become old maid or dowager, and would allow herself to be ogled by
that notorious rake and disreputable—yes! disreputable, card-sharper,
Captain Mann.
While the dowagers discussed the situation and vowed that the rogue of an
author sadly needed a lesson, Beau Ripple himself, with many an urbane
tut-tut was reading Curtain Polls in his tall white drawing-room, where the
firelight danced and flickered over the gleaming ivory panels.
"Too bad," said the Beau to himself as he turned the scandalous pages. He
did not, however, treat them less carefully because they were scandalous,
for to Mr. Ripple a book was always a book, and he paid as much ceremony

to the emanations of Grub Street as he would have shown to the copper
plates of an elephant folio.
"This is, indeed, too bad," said the Beau, "and yet the rascal has wit. Oh,
yes, he certainly has wit, but what an excellent example this volume affords
of the superiority of prose over verse. A poetick satirist too often sacrifices
his good breeding for the sake of the rhymes. Now I should never have said
that. No, no, that is too bad, and this—good G——! this is unpardonable!"
The Great little Man jumped up as red as one of the big chintz roses that
bloomed so prodigally all over his winged chair.
The King of Fashion looked very small as he stood in the middle of an
Aubusson rug, yet I think he never looked more truly a monarch than at this
moment. Unfortunately there was nobody to see him as he stood in his little
world of mirrours and engravings.
And what had upset his equanimity? Certainly not the following lines:
"Where R*****, gentlest, kindliest of Beaux,
To all the world an urbane presence shows:
Proclaims the tropick joys of China Tea,
And rules e'en Fashion with his polished sway.
At his approach the graceless ruffle shakes,
While every waistcoat in its buttons quakes;
Each conscious shoe more luminously shines,
And puckered breeches haste to smooth their lines."
Whatever the Curtain Rod thought of the subjects, to the Monarch he was
always complimental.
"Intolerable! unpardonable!" cried the Beau, tapping his snuff-box so
fiercely that some of the powder was spilled over the grey Angora cat which
was purring against his gold-clocked stockings in the heart of a faded
Aubusson rose. Octavia (the cat) sneezed assent. What had upset his
equanimity? You shall take a short journey to find out, for I perceive a
break in the weather and sweet April is in the West.
We will walk just so far as Curtain Garden, but, pray, do not turn into the
Maze where the paths are atrociously damp. Alas, the rain is beginning
again, but at the end of that long alley is a summer house, the abode of

many Rococo Dryads, although 'tis haunted at present by amorous mortals,
for I caught the glint of a buckle and a shimmer of chestnut ringlets.
It does not require King Œdipus to guess that those eyes which stare so
into the heavens are the blue eyes of Phyllida, while any one would
recognize in that smooth voice the careful enunciation of Mr. Francis
Vernon.
He, like every one else that forenoon, was reading Curtain Polls severely
lashed by a Curtain Rod. Perchance the following lines were they that lately
enraged Mr. Horace Ripple:
"Now is it a hoyden, a hussy or Miss,
Who listens to love but refuses a kiss?
'Tis said every morning she flies to the Maze,
And buries her head from the Publick's low gaze

Of Love in a Maze, pretty charmer, beware,
For under the rose there are thorns ev'rywhere,
And if you should chance the wrong turning to take,
'Tis odds that you'll trip on a tall garden Rake.

The Cits, when you pass, point you out to their Belles,
You serve as a moral all over the Wells,
And Dowagers, drinking your health in green tea,
Express a faint hope that man will not betray."
"Those are pretty stanzas for a lover to read," said Vernon, who, to do him
justice, did not seem very greatly perturbed by the insult.
"Oh, Amor," said poor Phyllida, "they can't truly be intended for me!"
"For whom else?"
"But who would write such cruel words of a young woman?"
"That puppy, Lovely."
"Mr. Lovely! Oh! no, he's a gentleman and a man of family and a man of
taste and a friend of Beau Ripple."
"He may be all this and more," declared Vernon, "but he wrote this book."
"I don't believe it."

"He did, I say, for he informed me so himself—at least he as good as
informed me!"
"Amor! you must have been mistook."
"On my life, not at all. He owes me near five hundred guineas, and when I
hinted that the expense of inland Spas tells upon a gentleman's resources,
begged my pardon, swore he had a literary project on hand, and promised
me a hundred guineas on Lady Day. That was the day before yesterday."
"A gamester!" said Miss Phyllida, who, with the injustice of her age and
sex, neglected to see that her lover was as much to blame in this particular
as Lovely.
"Ay! a gamester," said Vernon with fervid indignation.
"And for the sake of a hundred guineas he was ready to cheapen the
honour of a maid?"
"My angel forgets the Chinese Masquerade. Mr. Lovely was piqued by her
obvious weakness for a less fashionable, less conspicuous gentleman."
"Oh, I will never forgive him. He has ruined me."
"Nay, come, come, 'tis not so bad as that. Amor will never desert his
Phyllida."
"I'm ruined, I'm ruined," she sobbed. "I shall never dare go to visit my
cousin Barbara, who is as prim and proper as——" Nothing was prim
enough for the comparison. "And she has the most delicious hot buns you
ever tasted, and the dearest spaniel and the most beautiful pugdog. Oh dear!
oh dear! oh dear! how all the neighbours will laugh, and old Rumble the
carrier will be telling tales about me in every kitchen in the county, and 'tis
all your fault."
"My fault?"
"Yes, yours, for asking me to come and meet you and making love, while
all the while there was somebody peeping over the hedges. I'll never forgive
you, never, never!—--"
"Dearest life, we can put a stop to scandal by being wed immediately.
Listen! I'll have a post-chaise ready at dawn, and post-boys in scarlet, and
lodgings with a balcony and a goldfinch singing in a cage. My Phyllida,
will you come?"
"Oh! I dare not, I dare not—not yet, oh lud, oh lud! how shall I look the
world in the face?"

Vernon thought for a moment.
"Where are your pearls kept?"
"In my mamma's trunkmail, but Betty could give me the key—and
sometimes in her jewel case."
"On the thirtieth," said Vernon, "there will be a ball at Daish's Rooms,
next to the Blue Boar where I lodge. You will surely be there, 'tis my lady
Bunbutter's rout."
"Yes, we shall be there," said Phyllida.
"At two o'clock in the morning, I will have a post-chaise waiting by St.
Simon's Church corner, opposite Leonard's toy shop. Would you have the
courage to slip out, my dearest heart, my Phyllida?"
"Oh, no, I could not travel by night."
"'Twould be safer," urged Vernon.
"No, no, I could not."
"Then for your sake, I'll take the risque and have the post-chaise in the
same place at three o'clock in the afternoon of the next day. Promise you
will come."
"No, no, I shall never be brave enough, and I must go for I hear voices,
and I must never be seen with you again. Good-bye, good-bye," and before
Vernon could stop her, Phyllida was running down the poplar alley to
escape from Curtain Garden.
Our villain began to wonder whether she would elope after all. If she were
shy, he might secure the necklace at any rate. With slow steps, his mind full
of silken pearls, Mr. Vernon went slowly homewards. Half way down the
High Street, he passed a narrow street known as Blood Passage from the
vicinity of a large slaughter-house. He hesitated; made up his mind, and,
turning down it, came to a crooked house over a low tumble-down
doorway. He knocked fastidiously with the amber knob of his cane. A
slatternly woman, whose last night's rouge was streaked with the matutinal
ashes, opened the door.
"Does Mr. Maggs live here?"
"Come in," said the frowsy light o' love.

Chapter the Twenty-second

THE CURTAIN ROD

T HE satirist stood in his publisher's back parlour, and, through the dusty
glass of the partition, observed the Exquisite Mob purchase their
castigation.
"'Tis strange," he pondered, "that mankind should be willing to pay four-
and-sixpence to be laughed at. Yet it is!"
Mr. Lovely was awaiting a draught for one hundred guineas, and Mr. Paul
Virgin, glad of anything that would delay for a while such an unwelcome
disbursement, continued to bow and smirk over the counter as the neat little
piles of new volumes speedily diminished. At last the hour for the midday
meal arrived with a temporary lull in the storm of purchasers. Mr. Virgin
turned with a sigh into his little back parlour and, wading carefully through
the heaps of uncatalogued tomes, set out with a wry face to unlock his
walnut writing-cabinet.
"We were hurried too much, Mr. Lovely, sir. We han't had leisure to bind
the book as it should be bound. Ye would hurry us so, Mr. Lovely."
"You wouldn't pay me till the book was published, and I want the money,
so d——n all grumbling and be grateful that you'll make a small fortune."
"A small fortune! What a jester you are, Mr. Lovely. I declare you put me
in mind of the old plays, such jests!"
Mr. Paul Virgin seated before his cabinet, was writing the draught with
tardy fingers.
"There ye are, Mr. Lovely, and never say I don't treat ye with
consideration, with generosity, sir, for I dare swear I shall lose fifty pounds
sterling by this adventure."
"Be d——d, you peevish rogue. Why all the world of fashion has
thronged your shop since nine o'clock this morning."
"Yes, but it takes a deal to make a hundred guineas. Now let me make it
pounds, Mr. Lovely, sir. Do let me make it pounds."

The latter snatched the draught from the old young bookseller and, having
read it through with much deliberation, transferred it to the seclusion of his
innermost pocket.
After this transaction, which was effected with a singular grace, I am sorry
to add that he put his tapered finger to his tapered nose and winked several
times at the disconsolate Mr. Virgin.
"The books are so ill-bound, look at this one, Mr. Lovely, your honour.
The leaves are falling apart already, just because you would hurry us so
terribly."
Mr. Lovely stooped and picked up some loose pages.
"Ay, 'tis autumn already with this copy," he said, glancing casually at the
page he held in his hand. "Why who wrote this?"
"You did, Mr. Lovely, you did."
"I wrote this—this d——d vile verse, this—" and Charles read aloud the
lines that so dismayed our heroine. "I wrote this damnable doggerel? By G
——, Mr. Virgin, I never wrote this."
"Why, who else could have written it?"
"That's what I want to know. Come back, you hound," shouted the irate
author, grabbing his publisher by the tails of his coat, just as he was edging
his way back to the shop. "Come back," he said, jerking him over Mr.
Bayle's Dictionary. "You moth-eaten vagabond, you impostor, you thief."
Charles began to belabour Mr. Virgin with a folio copy of the Anatomy of
Melancholy. Round and round the little back parlour he thumped the
publisher; the dust rose from innumerable ancient tomes. Surely never were
books so rudely disturbed since the niece and the Padre flung the library of
the illustrious Don Quixote de la Mancha out of the window, and burned a
hundred volumes of chivalry.
"How came these d——d lines into my book, eh, sir, answer me that, sir,"
and having dissected the Anatomy of Melancholy, Charles picked up Sir
Roger L'Estrange's translation of Æsop to continue the assault.
"I don't understand, Mr. Lovely, sir. Pray desist, Mr. Lovely, your honour,
sir. The printer must have printed them."
"'Sdeath and fury! you rascal, I know that. Who wrote them, who wrote
them?"

In order to supply the correct twirl to this note of interrogation, Charles
flung the little bookseller to the farthest corner of his little back parlour, at
the same time arming himself with half a dozen fresh volumes.
Mr. Virgin cowered in the dust and cobwebs.
"Who wrote them?" Charles demanded.
"I don't——"
"What!" and the—th volume of the Gentleman's Magazine, newly arrived
from the binder, winged its way in the direction of the quivering bookseller.
This he ducked to avoid, but even as he ducked, the five volumes of Mr.
Ozell's revision of Urquhart and Motteux' Rabelais burst over him like an
exploded hand grenade.
"Who wrote them?"
"Truly I don't——"
This time Mr. Prior's Poems on Several Occasions carried his wig into
obscurity, and the owner clapped a hand to his head just in time to receive
the bevelled morocco edges of the Beggar's Opera full on the fingers.
"Mr. Lovely, sir, you are too violent."
"Violent, you dog? By G—— if you don't give the name of the son of a w
—— that wrote these damnable lines, I'll flay you alive and bind my next
edition of poems with your lousy skin." The foxy-faced old young man
commenced to wring his hands.
"Mr. Lovely," he almost screamed. "Mr. Lovely, you're mad—go out of
my shop."
"Who wrote those lines? Answer, or I'll break up your shop—ay! break it
up with your own sign-board. At the Sign of the Woman—at the Sign of the
Strumpet! Answer me, you lickspittle vermin, answer me."
Charles had now seized his wretched publisher by the neck-band, and
shook him so roughly that the latter, fearing for his teeth, the most
extravagant purchase in his mean little life, began to whine.
"A gentleman—a gentleman——"
"Well, you misbegotten toad, I never supposed ’twas a midwife."
"No, certainly not, Mr. Lovely, a gentleman—a gentleman."
"His name, dog."
"I don't know."

"Yes, you do, answer will you."
"He told me ’twas Amor."
"I knew it, I knew it, you sneaking son of a b——, and he gave you
twenty guineas to print the verses."
"No, not twenty, only ten, Mr. Lovely, on my soul."
"On your soul! H—— l take your soul! Why you were spawned in a ditch,
you viper. So you let my honour go for ten guineas. Give them to me."
"Oh! Mr. Lovely."
"Give them to me."
The miserable little old young man produced the money, unluckily for
himself, in paper.
"Now since you love money so dearly, by heaven, you shall eat money."
And Mr. Lovely, making a bolus of the bribe, crammed it down the
reluctant bookseller's throat with his own ruler. Then our hero walked out of
the shop.
I hope you will not deny this scene was in the true vein of heroism. Aye!
aye! 'tis full of bombast as you very properly observe, ma'am or sir; but that
is the part of a hero. He must follow the Prince of Denmark's directions to
the players. Aye! aye! and 'tis full of wind, but so was the great Montgolfier
balloon, and surely every aeronaut is a hero, even in his descents at the tail-
end of a parachute.
So pray judge Mr. Lovely, not as a man, but as a hero, for I think you'll do
me the justice to admit I never tried to conceal his position.
But he owes the villain a considerable sum of money. Of course he does,
and this awkward fact is perplexing him very much indeed as he strides
down Curtain High Street. To tell the truth, when he emerged from Mr.
Virgin's shop, he found that when the Fates dipped him into Styx, they
made the same mistake as Madame Thetis, with this difference, that,
whereas Achilles was left with a vulnerable heel, our hero preserved a
vulnerable conscience.
It would have been mighty heroick to march into the Blue Boar, run Mr.
Vernon through the lungs, wed the injured heroine and tread after death the
golden fields of Elysium; but his silly conscience would not allow him to
kill a man to whom he was under a monetary obligation.

So he borrowed four hundred guineas from Mr. Antony Clare, who could
ill afford the loan, and putting this sum with what he had earned from
lashing the Curtain Polls in an extra thick paper envelope, he sealed it with
his own heroick seal. This fulfilment of earthly debts he sent up to Mr.
Francis Vernon by the hand of Mr. Daish himself, and set to work to make
his conscience less vulnerable by many consecutive pints of heroick
Burgundy.
You thought that he was going to turn out poor humanity after bullying
Mr. Virgin so heroically? Egad, ma'am or sir, you thought wrong. You doubt
anybody can be a Burgundian hero? So he can; there has been more than
one Charles the Bold of Burgundy.
The very word is as fire to the most pusillanimous: the very thought of its
crimson depths should set us all tilting.
'Bring me a quart bottle of Burgundy.' The phrase is like a trumpet-call
outside the keep of Paradise.
'Bring me another quart of Burgundy.' Down goes the portcullis before the
hero's charge.
Port may turn a man into a hero—in his dreams; yet I doubt they are too
heavy. As for Sherry, it will serve to sharpen the wits of a dried-up attorney,
but is poor stuff to weave into heroes. On Champagne, a man will talk like
the crew of the Argo, but there's the end of the whole business.
Charles drank Burgundy and I promise you some fine heroicks presently.

Chapter the Twenty-third

SPACE BETWEEN AN HEROICK COUPLET
A discouraging fact for the Persii of yesterday, to-day, and to-morrow, is
that, however needle-sharp their thrusted rapiers, however thorough their
castigations, Society never shows weal or scar at the end of it all.
Here was profligate, card-playing, snobbish, vapoured Society, quite
recovered of its whipping and, by candletime, setting out to perform, just
those very actions Persius most bitterly abuses.
My lady Bunbutter continued to observe every Matador in her opponents'
hands, continued to rake in ill-gotten guineas, continued to use a quadrille
pack with Manille stained, Spadille nicked, Basto dog-eared, and Ponto
scratched. The Most Honble. the Marchioness of Hurricane continued to
help herself five times to the richest Fricassées; continued to allow her lap-
dog liberty of vomit in alien drawing-rooms, continued to breathe stertorous
bawdry into the prominent ears of her Italian son-in-law—el Conde di
Scirocco—while her daughter the Contessa snored in a corner.
Young Miss Kitcat continued to encourage the addresses of the
disreputable Captain Mann, and even went so far as to tap that military
scoundrel three times with her fan in coy avowal of his charming
naughtiness.
The Earl of Cinderton drank five bottles of Port that very night in order to
emphasize his indifference to satire, and slept under his own mahogany
table because his lackeys below stairs were too drunk to carry him to bed.
In fact, nobody save the publisher of Curtain Polls displayed sign or sense
of injury.
Our heroine indeed was vastly affected, but her misfortunes were due to a
gloss upon the original.
As it happened, Mrs. Courteen did not discover the reference to her
daughter's indiscretion, until she was asked by an inquisitive dowager to
explain the allusion in the twelve lines. She managed to conceal her
agitation, thanks to the permanency of the newest rouge, but presently

called for her chair and arrived home a full two hours before she was
expected.
When she sailed into the parlour Phyllida was languishingly occupied
with a blue vase of pot-pourri, and the parlour fire was trying to burn up
beneath a weight of blackened notepaper.
The suddenness of the widow's entrance alarmed her daughter so much
that she dropped the vase, and the contents were strewn over the carpet. The
faint perfume that slowly permeated the stuffy atmosphere of the lodgings,
should have reminded Mrs. Courteen of her youth, of long June eves and
blossoms plucked awhile ago by fingers now wrinkled and stained with
years of snuff.
Mrs. Courteen also neglected to remember that so far as ridicule went, she
had brought enough of that upon her own head.
However, she recalled neither memory nor fact, and was properly enraged
with her daughter's light behaviour.
"You have ruined my good name, child. I can never again look the world
in the face. How we shall be laughed at in Hampshire, for be sure that
odious Miss Talker whose sister married the Rector of Slumber, has already
despatched a copy to her brother-in-law, and you know what chatterboxes
parsons always are: I suppose because they preach, though I should have
thought, lud! that with so much breath used on Sunday, they might be as
dumb as dumb for the rest of the week, and hurt nobody, least of all their
own wives and neighbours. But there! what good is it to educate a young
woman in the way she should go? I might better have set an example to the
village clock. At all events that does possess a face. Put down your
handkerchief, hussy."
"Dear mamma——"
"Don't excuse yourself, pray do not excuse yourself, I doubt 'tis all my
fault. I doubt I han't looked after you, taken you to Melton Abbey, and
prayed for you, minx, yes, prayed for you. And have you got any good from
learning the collects for Sunday and the Benedicite and the Athanasian
Creed and the thirty-nine Articles? None! A pretty thing, truly, that after so
much honourable religion, I should have my daughter pointed out as a—as
what no respectable young woman is. Pointed at! And I, your mother, am to
be laughed at, mocked at, jeered at, because you suffer every down-at-heel

fop to make gross love to you, sheltered from the eye of men—yes! vastly
well—but you forget the eye of one above and the tongue of scandal."
"Madam, I am truly, deeply ashamed. If I promise never, never again to
cause you the slightest uneasiness, will you forgive me for once, and take
me away from this odious town?"
"Take you away? A pretty request truly; and give every old maid in
Curtain Wells the opportunity of saying I was afraid to show my face and
your figure. Take you away, miss? No, indeed, I shall take you around. I
shall try by exhibiting you beneath your mother's protection, to give the lie
to these atrocious reports and, next year, miss, next year, we will pay a visit
to Tunbridge Wells in order to provide a husband whom you may kiss in the
privacy of your own estate, with no one but a wandering gamekeeper any
the wiser."
"I never kissed Mr. Amor," protested Phyllida.
"Amor? Amor? And who is Mr. Amor?"
"He is my true love, ma'am, whom I love with all my might and main."
"There's indecency! there's impropriety! Lud! I vow, vixen, you are as
wanton as a goddess. You love him, eh?"
"That is my only excuse, ma'am, for having behaved so ill."
"What business, I should like to know, has a child of fifteen——"
"Seventeen, ma'am."
"Fifteen, girl."
"Then, sure, you are reckoning by leap years, ma'am."
"Do not be impudent. I repeat, Phyllida, I will not have impudence. You
know dear Doctor Makewell particularly enjoined me not to allow
impudence. 'Your heart won't stand it, ma'am.' Cruel Phyllida, not content
with deceiving your mother, you are willing to injure her health by
impudence."
"You think only of yourself," said Phyllida bitterly.
"Only of myself! Oh! Phyllida, how dare you accuse me of selfishness?
My whole life since the death of your father who was a most exacting man
and would ride Pegasus, though I told him a hundred times if I told him
once that the brute would murder him. Now I've forgotten what I was
saying, and 'tis all your fault, ungrateful child. Go to bed instantly and to-
morrow I will have all your dresses starched as stiff as leather, so that

nobody, not even that spiteful Lady Jane Vane, can say I don't take care that
whatever your mind may be, your dresses leave nothing to be desired. Go to
bed, go to bed. I can't listen to you any longer. I feel humiliated by your
abominable behaviour. Judge of my feelings when I tell you I did not dare
invite either Mr. Moon or Major Tarry to escort me home for fear the world
would say I was setting you a bad example. Now, perhaps you'll accuse me
of not possessing a conscience. Indeed, my conscience is too tender. 'Tis the
tenderest part of me, though I have one of the most delicate skins—a skin
that bruises if I ring a bell with unwonted celerity."
"Mamma, I——" Phyllida began.
"Pray do not say another word, you have said enough to-night to last a
lifetime. Send Betty with my bedgown worked in crimson hollyhocks and I
will try to forget this wretched experience by attempting to ascertain—
please get the playing cards—how Miss Trumper managed to secure codille
in the last hand but four of this extremely unpleasant and unprofitable
evening. Go to bed, Phyllida, don't dally. Here is Betty. Go to bed,
Phyllida."
So Phyllida went to bedew her lavendered pillow. Anything was better
than listening to her mother's perpetual reproaches. Anything, anything was
better. Even to be betrayed. Ha! ha! now I think for the first time you will
admit Miss Phyllida to be a true heroine. Poor Clarie Harlowe! How
Phyllida had wept over her adventures and, even in the midst of tears, how
quick she had always been to thrust the forbidden volumes out of sight
when she heard her mother's step on the stairs.
Poor Clarie Harlowe! She began to sign her name to innumerable nobly
penitent epistles.
Your cruelly abandoned
Phyllida.
Your wretched, but still loving
Phyllida.
Your heartbroken, hopeless
Phyllida.
Your betrayed daughter
Phyllida.
Your forsaken, but affectionate

Phyllida.
Your seduced (or was it seducted, or abduced,
or abducted?)
Phyllida.
Oh, dear! Oh, dear! what a muddle fine language was to be sure!
I have not yet apologized for my very ancient story, but faith! you must
blame the period and the intolerable system of female education. Amor had
either to be a Lovelace or a Joseph at a time when young maidenhood
fainted before an ardent glance.
After all we do not now apologize for our strong silent men and hysterical
girls. Why should we? And yet for my own part I love better your talkative
blackguard; I have known so many strong silent men, and they were all
fools or Scotsmen.
During this digression, Phyllida has fallen asleep, her face flushed and
dabbled with spent tears, her chestnut hair in golden filigree upon the pillow
and, where the sleeve of her bedgown has retreated, a rosy arm whose little
fist is clenched in maiden despair.
Poor foolish child! Why would you fall in love? Untenanted, your dearest
gate swings in the wind to-night, but you will not mount again upon its
topmost mossy bar. You will never again view with the same excitement the
huntsmen over the hill-top; they will mean less to you; their pink coats will
be quite dingy when next you say good morning to old Nick Runnalls the
Whip. For my part, I do not believe that hot buttered apple-pies will taste so
sweet when next you eat them in the long cool kitchen with its pot of
marjoram and shaded sunlight.
And as for your bed-chamber with casements abob with peering rosebuds,
I doubt the shelves will not soon be disturbed to make a place for new
trophies. Once you thought it a day of days when you found the thigh-bone
of a horse or the skull of a badger. They hang on the walls now, poor relicks
of an outworn delight.
All this shall go for a balcony in the Haymarket and a goldfinch in a gilt
cage. Foolish child! Away down in Hampshire the goldfinches build green
nests in the orchard. Phyllida! sweet, headlong, heedless Phyllida!
* * *

"I blame you, Betty. I blame you, vixen. Why you cannot model yourself
on Thomas passes my comprehension." Thus the widow.
"She meant no harm, poor pretty lamb," protested the maid.
"'Tis not what we mean, but what we do that counts in this world."
"Ah! 'tis fine for thee to talk, ma'am, you take good care to amuse
yourself, but, little miss, she must dingle-dangle all day long wi' nought to
do but dream of doing nought."
"She has her friend, Miss Morton."
"Ay! that black-eyed hussy what pinches the maiden who dresses her lean
skimpy rat's hair. I don't take much account o' she."
They continued in this strain for quite two hours, and would never have
stopped if the candles had endured.
They went up to bed just as Charles, having finished his third bottle of
Burgundy, knocked with vinous assurance at the door of the Great House.
I am not at all certain whether this adventurous action should have been
included in this chapter, for I doubt nothing more heroick was ever done
even by Hercules at the zenith of his laborious career. It was considered
rash enough to wait upon Mr. Ripple in the middle of his siesta. A royal
Duke once succeeded in gaining admittance, if very little else; but to wait
upon Mr. Ripple when his flambeaux strewed the steps, when the orange
light in his porch was winking on its way to annihilation, when the grey
Angora cat had settled herself for repose, when not even a mouse dared
scamper in the wainscot, and when Mr. Ripple himself sat amid the ruins of
his complexion—this was defying the lightning and inviting Jove's revenge
indeed.
Nevertheless, fortified by three bottles of a vintage that held the heart of
France in its crimson depths, Charles recklessly knocked at the front door of
the Great House, not once, but twice or thrice, with added vigour in the
repetition. The sound sent the Beau's taper fingers a full two inches deep
into a pomade compounded of some particularly fine Provençal almonds
and the fat of foxes, the whole famous for removing those pectinated
wrinkles that cluster at the edge of middle-aged lips. The fragrant grease,
wedged beneath his nails, caused him to press thumb to fingers with an
exclamation of fastidious displeasure.

The clatter of the second and third assault froze him to his chair with a
sense of impending calamity.
Gog and Magog were fast asleep dreaming their gaudy dreams of Africa.
Mrs. Binn, Mr. Ripple's intelligent cook, was snoring in the starlight of an
upper chamber; Polly and Molly, Mr. Ripple's equally intelligent maids,
were dreaming discreet dreams also in an upper chamber. Mr. Mink alone
of the royal household was awake, engaged upon the overwhelmingly tricky
job of frizzling his master's newest wig, and therefore quite unable, during
this capillary crisis, to attend to the affairs of the world or the devil,
knocked either never so loudly.
Consequently Mr. Ripple had to open the door himself, for if the knocking
were to continue, many heads might peer from the Crescent windows, and
the morning's rumour of the occurrence damage his authority.
It is characteristick of the Beau that in this critical juncture of affairs, he
preserved his faculties so intact, that he was able without affectation to
choose deliberately between a dressing-gown of flowered damask and a
more diaphanous wrapper of dove-grey China silk. In deference to the
season he selected the latter.
As he passed the door of his third dressing-room, he could see Mr. Mink,
apparently unconscious of anything untoward in the air, blowing with
steady breaths upon a remarkably hot pair of curling-tongs. The calm
demeanour of his gentleman restored whatever was still lacking to Mr.
Ripple's perfect equilibrium of mind.
With gentle steps, he descended the quiet stairs and, candlestick in hand,
proceeded to draw back the cunningly wrought bolts of the front door.
"Mr. Ripple, I must speak to you," said Charles.
"Charles," said the Beau, "this visit is either vastly important or—it is
vastly impertinent. Pray, what is your business, sir?"
"Business?" repeated Charles, on whom the effort of concentration was
beginning to tell slightly. "Business?"
"Yes, business, sir, business; for I presume you are not situated on my
doorstep for pleasure."
"I want to speak to you."
"Come to-morrow."

"Nay, sir, I must speak with you now. I'm in a devilish mess and need the
advice of a man who has seen—who has seen——"
"Well, sir?" said the Beau, shading his candle in such a way that the pallid
flickering rays lit up the young man's countenance.
"D——! I don't know, Ripple, but for God's sake don't stand there with
that infernal candle dancing all over my face. Let me come in."
Whether it was the note of misery in our hero's voice or his drawn face or
merely a whim of a great man's naturally eccentrick mind that made the
Beau beckon Charles to follow him upstairs to the tall white drawing-room,
where even still the fire glowed dully, will never be known. Any way,
beckon to him he did, and having set down the taper on the high
mantelpiece, seated himself beside the fire and began meditatively to toast
his embroidered morocco pumps.
There they sat in the great drawing-room, the King and his Heir
Presumptive, and very ghostly they looked in the wan light, and very unreal
the whole experience seemed to Charles in after life.
"'Tis about this book."
"What book?"
"This satire."
"You wrote it?"
"Aye," with great weariness.
"You wrote it? 'Foregad, Charles, I should never have believed that."
"But I never—I never wrote those lines."
"What lines?" Mr. Ripple, having admitted much, would admit no more.
"About Miss Courteen and the Maze, and the whole d——d, d——d, d
—— d——"
No substantive was strong enough to suit the emphatick epithets thrice
repeated.
"And who, may I ask, was the author of those graceful stanzas?"
"I know, but—but, Ripple—I owed the blackguard money—the Chinese
Masquerade—I knew his name all the while—if harm comes of this affair,
'tis my fault—but by G——, I'll call him out, yes, I'll call him out, I'll call
him out, I'll call him out, and I'll——"
"Go to bed," said Mr. Ripple peremptorily.

"What d'ye mean?"
"You fool, you're drunk. We'll talk of this to-morrow. Good night, Mr.
Lovely. By the way, who was the author of those graceful stanzas?"
"Oh! h——! Amor. Vernor—Vernon. Anon! Oh, h——!"
"What proof have you of this?"
"Proof, eh? what d'ye say—proof—ha-ha-ha! proof! Why the proof of the
pudding's in the eating. Isn't that so? But I've found, I've found the author,
and I'll walk with him in Curtain Mead—in Curtain Mead by moonlight,
eh? and by the powers, you shall act for me."
"Sir, this flippancy is intolerable."
"Who's flippant—who's intol—erol—erable, sir? I say I'll pay him with
six inches of smallsword."
"You forget my rules, Mr. Lovely."
"Rules? Rules? What's the good of rules? He has insulted me and her."
I think you will agree with me that Charles was drunk enough to be very
undignified. Mr. Lovely Senior appeared again, maudlin and quarrelsome.
The Beau, who remembered him, winced at the resemblance.
"This interview is very repugnant to my sense of decorum," he protested.
"I beg you will take your leave, sir. The whole affair needs the elucidation
of the morning; this candle is insufficient. Moreover, the hour is late; the
fire is low; I make it a rule to be asleep by midnight whenever possible."
"There you go again!" cried Charles, jumping up and walking with
feverish gestures and unsteady legs round about the room. "Rules! Rules!
Rules! 'Foregad, Sir, I tell you, you cannot make rules for life and death."
"But you can make many excellent rules for living and dying. One of the
best of these is moderation in liquor."
Charles went back to the Blue Boar not quite sure whether he had told
Beau Ripple a very great deal or nothing at all. He remembered so little of
what he had said that next morning he came to the conclusion that it was
nothing at all. He was glad of this, for somehow when the effects of the
Burgundy wore off, he did not feel disposed to attempt the barricade of the
Great little Man's modish prejudice. Anything in the nature of an intrigue
would be distasteful to such an emotional ascetick.
So Charles stayed late in bed on Tuesday morning and took no advantage
of the invitation grimly issued the night before.

In the afternoon, being dejected in spirits, and finding all the world gone
a-hunting, or a-fishing, or a-wenching, he betook himself to the World
Turned Upside Down, a noted house for old red wines. While he sat in the
taproom discussing life with an elderly bagman, one of the hostlers of the
Blue Boar to whom he had confided his destination brought him a note.
"D—— his eyes," said Charles, crumpling the paper to a perfumed ball,
and flicking it towards the undulating surface of the elderly bagman's rubied
nose.
"D—— his eyes," and, turning to his target, he inquired whether the latter
would drink Port or Burgundy.

Chapter the Twenty-fourth

DAISH'S ROOMS[2]

M R. JEREMY DAISH, as I told you many pages back, was remarkably
like a Cremona violin. Conceive then this elderly instrument of the
Muses making a final inspection of his polished floor, preparatory to
the invasion of my lady Bunbutter's red-heeled rout.
[2] I went into Daish's Rooms the other day, for they still exist as the storehouse of a
prosperous ironmonger who is not above unbending at Christmas time so far as to display a
variety of choice knick-knacks wrought by the Curtain Wells Amateur Copper-Beaters'
Association. The famous frieze carved by an Italian immigrant still exists, and makes a suitable
background for the exhibition of patent mouse-traps. Among all the brass gongs and Japanese
flower-pots, above the mowing machines and oil-stoves of varied price and power I was pleased
to detect the old iron hooks whence long ago hung the gilt mirrors that held the unimpaired
reflections of this gay history's characters. For a moment, amid the bleak utility of the stores, I
half fancied the swish of a broidered petticoat and the whisper of a painted fan, smelt Eau de
Chypre and heard the Minuet in Ariadne. I shall not visit Daish's Rooms again; the ghosts have
too much power to wring my heart with the tears and laughter of spent joys.
"It's a very inconvenient store-room," said the dapper manager, "I think Mr. Bugloss intends to
pull it down next year."
Everything portended a successful evening's entertainment. The hautboys,
the flutes, the fiddles and the harp were drinking hot negus extra strong in
order to spur them to unwonted achievements of melody. Prudence and
Deborah, Mr. Daish's comely daughters, who never appeared in the galleries
of the Blue Boar so that their attendance on occasions like the present might
possess the charm at once of condescension and novelty, were busily
puffing their caps and smoothing their pinners, and from time to time
glancing in the direction of the gilt mirrours just to see that the wax candles
were not forming ominous shrouds liable to mar the gaiety of my lady
Bunbutter's agreeable entertainment.
Waiters came and peeped through a door which probably led to the
supper-room and the three footmen in black plush laced with silver braid
were engaged in a dignified consultation over the glittering knobs of their
tall Malacca canes.

The wheels of the first coach crackle suddenly above the murmurous quiet
of preparation. Tremendously hooped and highly wigged, my lady
Bunbutter has arrived and is entirely approving of the arrangements made
by Mr. Jeremy Daish for the fitting entertainment of a distinguished and
fashionable company.
Here comes the latter very splendid, prodigiously well-bred and
thoroughly determined to criticize the musick and the supper and my lady
Bunbutter herself with merciless perseverance. Here comes the Most
Honourable the Marquis of Hurricane and his eldest son the Earl of Squall
and his second son Lord Augustus Wind and Lady Mary Wind and Lady
Winifred Wind, and his son-in-law El Conde de Scirocco and the sleepy
Contessa, but lud! my lady, her ladyship was unable to appear and begs to
send her apologies. Her dog, my lady, has developed a quinsy, most
unaccountable.
Here come the Earl of Cinderton and the Honourable Mr. Harthe-Brusshe,
and the Lady Angela Tongs, his married daughter.
Here comes Mrs. Courteen and Miss Phyllida Courteen with Major
Constantine Tarry and Mr. Gregory Moon close behind.
Here is young Miss Kitcat with Captain Mann who for all he was so
disreputable was nevertheless tantamount to the success of the Cotillon.
Here come old General Morton and Miss Susan Morton.
In fact, here comes everybody of any importance in Curtain Wells; and the
fiddlers are tuning up.
Yet for all the fiddlers are inviting the world to dance, for all the world
declares the whole entertainment promises to be a grand success (though
not so grand as it should be, considering the ample means at the disposal of
my lady Bunbutter whose father was able to leave a large fortune to a
milliner in Soho), her ladyship herself casts many an anxious glance
towards the entrance. The courtiers have arrived but the King is still absent,
and absent he is likely to remain having caught a slight nasal catarrh from
his contact with the night weather, brought about by Mr. Lovely. For this
story his absence was even more important in its consequences than my
Lady Bunbutter dreamed, since if the Beau had been present on this
occasion I doubt he would have persuaded our heroine to give up all
thoughts of elopements, seductions, stratagems and rope-ladder courtships.

As it fell out, there was nobody to encourage the unromantick side of her,
that is to say, nobody whose opinion she could honestly respect.
Mr. Francis Vernon had hired the old dancing hall for a midnight party of
farewell; and the old dancing hall still possessed an oak door which opened
on a long corridor which in its turn opened into the new and improved
dancing hall of Daish's Rooms. Halfway along this corridor was a recessed
glasshouse now bare of vegetation, bleak and unfriendly in the chilly
moonlight but a very convenient place for the renewal of true-lovers' vows
when one of the lovers had not been invited to my Lady Bunbutter's rout.
So in the press of the opening gavottes, as Phyllida passed down the side of
the room to wait beside her mother's empty chair, long white fingers
plucked at the black silk mittens that netted her soft little hand. Phyllida
started and, looking up, saw the fingers withdraw themselves through the
space left by a half-opened door.
She looked round in affright, but the fiddlers were busy over the gentle
tune and all the world of scandal was dancing or about to dance. The thrill
of his touch gave her strength enough to make up her mind and, without
more than a moment's hesitation, she slipped through the doorway whose
opening was obscured by greenery.
A solitary candle lit the long corridor with fitful draughty light.
"Come," said Vernon; and, taking his arm, she went down the passage
which seemed to stretch far away—to ruin perhaps, but the end was not
perceptible owing to the scarce illumination.
Soon they were alone in the chilly glasshouse with the moon and a star or
two besides.
"To-morrow, my dearest life," he whispered.
"No, no," said Phyllida.
"To-morrow," he went on, "a post-chaise will be waiting by the toyshop,
and on the seat a riding hood of peacock blue that to-day I bought for my
love."
"No! No! Amor, dear Amor, I am afraid."
"Afraid, dear heart, afraid?"
Far off sounded the musick and far off the laughter of the world.
"Afraid that misery will come of it."
"Misery, my beloved? I will cherish you for ever."

"Amor! Amor! I'm afraid. Something, I cannot say what, I cannot explain
my feelings, but something frightens me, I feel—oh! I feel as if I were
walking in a dark wet garden. I feel as if—as if the laurels and the
evergreens held a knife."
Vernon clasped her to him.
"My dear and my dear, they hold no more than an arrow; the arrow that
has pierced our hearts."
Certainly our villain was play-acting, but he was his own audience and
that juxtaposition is as near to sincerity as even your hero attains.
"You won't betray your Phyllida?"
The appeal caught fire from the flaming cheeks of a maid and burned a
way direct, poignant, passionate, right through the lustre and tinsel of his
emotional costume.
"You won't betray your Phyllida?" The question was such an one as
circulating libraries knew very well. It was asked by many a contemporary
Musidora or Clarinda of fiction. Yet so tremulous were the lips that asked it,
lips frail as rose-leaves and, withal, ardent as wine, that Vernon shuddered.
For the first time in his life he had raised a force. He was at home with
Ranelagh romps, with patched beauties of Vauxhall, mistresses of intrigue
whose fans had become a part of their bodies, or better, whose bodies were
no more than the appendage of their fans, light, airy things where Love
danced in a mask and could be shut up at will.
Now for the first time he stared into eyes which held immortality. He saw
himself Point de Vise but intolerably diminished.
Vernon noticed that the cheek nearer to him flamed more crimson and for
a while he was troubled by the mystery of Love's birth. Elation swung him
to the skies and, catching Phyllida to his heart, he whispered of constancy,
swore that love would endure for ever and hardly knew himself for a liar.
He never spoke again of pearls, and from that moment truly desired her
for the youth and the mystery of herself.
With a pang of tenderness he let her go, watched her hurry down the
corridor like a crimson Autumn leaf that is blown along by the wind. By the
little door she looked back at him, and from the tips of her fingers sped elfin
kisses which on the wings of the musick of flutes and fiddles were borne in
grace and beauty.

She had promised. With a sigh Mr. Francis Vernon went back to
superintend the arrangements for his farewell party. She had promised, and,
as she slipped unobserved into the glitter and heat of Daish's famous
Rooms, never seemed like one who has stood a long while in moonlight.
What mattered the censorious world? The softness of his black velvet
sleeve thrilled her, and, forgetting all else, she began to build her house of
dreams. What a house it was, with casements that looked on every month of
the marching years. Now it was December when the snowflakes were
falling. Down the corridor she and her lover moved in the grey light, but the
casements were lined with ferns and stars and jewels of frost, so they
sought Spring in the changing fire-gardens of burning logs. February went
by with her showers and her celandines, her snowdrops and thrushes that
sing on bare branches. That casement in her house of dreams was gilded
round and the sill carved with posies and true-lovers' knots, for through it
she had seen Love for the first time. March came in by night with a great
noise of wind, yet even in the gusty darkness she could put out her hands to
touch a velvet sleeve as black as the gloom enclosed by the open lattice.
Every casement in her house of dreams was full of delight, even the quaint
little window at the very end of the corridor whose ledge was the haunt of
drifted leaves. In the far-off autumn he would still be by her side.
Somebody asked her to step a minuet, yet while her body danced, while
her feet kept tune to the twinkling rhythm, while her fan fluttered to mortal
harmonies, her soul was away with Love—God knows the spot, but ’twas
somewhere mighty near the top of this green world. Now she was rocking a
wooden cradle while the wind in the wide black chimney crooned an echo
to the old nursery song she was singing. Ah! sir or madam, when a young
maiden starts to build her house of dreams, I think, if she be a wise maid,
she builds the nursery first of all.
This wonderful house had a number of clocks, tall clocks, short clocks,
thin clocks, fat clocks, round clocks, square clocks, clocks on the wall,
clocks on the mantelpiece, clocks in the corners; and every clock was
ticking away to a tune of its own, for in the house of dreams there was
never a moment that did not deserve perpetual commemoration.
Somebody asked her to step a gavotte. At the end of the garden of this
wonderful house was a green wicket, and when you had walked through a
coppice of birches and wild raspberries that ripen with the corn, you found

yourself on the London road. It ran straight as a dart over hill and down
dale, through villages whose cottages were only built to stare at the gay
equipages that rattled past, for nothing alive was visible save a few geese on
a blue and white pond beneath a blue and white sky. Phyllida's mind was a
book of old wives' tales and her London was the golden London of Dick
Whittington.
Fled were all the outraged heroines of dog-eared novels in greasy
circulation. The long reproaches, stilted protestations, vows, regrets and
declarations had vanished. The nodding spinsters behind country counters
who selected the literature of their clients and declared how affecting was
this tale, how full of sensibility was that one, had gradually lost all definite
shape like the volumes they doled out so assiduously. Fled, too, with the
vapours of young maidenhood, were some of the sweets. Nevertheless I
doubt there was not a soul to regret the old Phyllida save perhaps Betty and
Dick Combleton, the Squire's youngest son away down in Hampshire.
Miss Sukey Morton began to talk to her of young Tom Chalkley. She told
how he had passed their house, how he had looked up at the window, and
how by the greatest ill luck she happened to be rather pale that morning.
She babbled on about the imagined progress of an affair which had never
truly existed. To Phyllida who should have been sympathetick, it was rather
wearisome chatter. Suddenly Miss Morton shocked her dear Courteen very
much by asking if she had discovered who was satirized in those twelve
lines beginning ... Phyllida interrupted with a curt negative, so curt that her
darling Morton regarded her with black-eyed curiosity.
"And how should I know, Sukey, how should I know?"
"My dearest Miss Courteen, there is no need to be angry about a simple
question."
"These discoveries are all so low," complained Phyllida.
"Oh, vastly low, though for my part I think the hussy deserves censure
since she has made every young woman ridiculous."
With this commentary Miss Morton left her friend, and Phyllida,
wondering all the while if she knew the whole affair, was more than ever
firmly determined to elope to-morrow afternoon with her Amor.

Chapter the Twenty-fifth

QUARTS OF BURGUNDY

T HE old ballroom of the famous Daish's Rooms looked mighty cheerful
on the evening of my Lady Bunbutter's rout and Mr. Francis Vernon's
farewell entertainment.
The circular mahogany table with finely carved claw legs shone like the
fine old piece of Spanish wood it was, that is to say, wherever it could
secure a clear space for shining, being almost entirely clouded over by
innumerable dishes of gruit and nuts, plates, silver knives and silver forks,
two large horns of snuff and half-dozen pairs of branched candlesticks,
while in the very centre surrounded by lesser fruits stood a magnificent
pineapple.
Round the table stood a dozen or more solid Windsor wheelback chairs
that were warranted to stand firm, though the fattest gentleman that ever sat
down to dessert tipped perpetually back on them to the utmost limit of his
balance. A magnificent fire blazed and roared in the hearth, and round the
walls were hung prints of racehorses, cock-fights, steeplechases, prize
bullocks, and fat sheep, with bills of sale beneath them and announcements
of forthcoming diversions for the young gentlemen of the Blue Boar and the
more wealthy agriculturalists of the neighbourhood.
It was ten o'clock of a wet windy night and the chairmen were growing
quarrelsome as they stamped up and down in the street below.
Mr. Jeremy Daish had been rather unwilling for Mr. Vernon to give his
party on a night when he himself would be unable to superintend the
commissariat owing to his services being required for my Lady Bunbutter's
rout close at hand. However, he had left the strictest injunctions with John
the senior waiter to carry off at once all empty bottles in order to the
protection of the Curtain Wells watch, which was wont to suffer
considerably in their persons on such an hilarious occasion as a party in the
old ballroom of Daish's Rooms.

The host stood with his back to the fire complacently surveying the
preparations. Vernon's extraction was somewhat ambiguous, and his father
may or may not have been the fine gentleman that his mother swore he was.
So, as he stood regarding the well-covered table and the tall armchair at the
head of it where he would presently take his seat, a distinct feeling of
elation seized him at the prospect of being in a position to pass the decanter
round a circle of such undeniable breeding. He went over their names—
names famous on many a battlefield and many a hunting field. They
belonged to a world of broad acres and park gates and double lodges and
Corinthian hunting-boxes. They were revered at home by many peasants
and wore the mantle of life with an air of easy proprietorship. They
possessed something like the dignified stability of the Church of England.
They were a force, an institution, a product of insular civilization. In fact,
they were English Gentlemen, and Mr. Vernon contemplated their existence
with great self-satisfaction. He, too, was an English Gentleman, he
reassured himself. It was the consciousness of being one which gave him
that pleasant sense of superiority to the rest of the world when he found
himself in the congenial company of his peers.
Yet poor Mr. Vernon (I am rather sorry for poor Mr. Vernon) could not
conceal from his shrewd self that he had no business to be at all unduly
elated at the prospect of entertaining young Tom Chalkley of the Foot,
Lieutenant Blewforth of the Lively, Mr. Harry Golightly of Campbell's Grey
Dragoons, Mr. Anthony Clare, little Peter Wingfield, Jack Winnington, the
Honourable Mr. Harthe-Brusshe, my Lord Squall, Lord Augustus Wind and
Mr. Charles Lovely.
It was Mr. Vernon's note of invitation to the last which had caused him to
d—— Vernon's hazel eyes, in the taproom of the World turned Upside
Down. Presently came a sound of laughter and careless talk as the young
gentlemen of the Blue Boar came swaggering in. Was it merely a sense of
eccentricity that made the host fancy he detected a note of condescension in
their loud and jovial greeting to himself? Probably.
The early guests talked, as early guests always will, with half an eye on
the clock and the other half on the table.
"Squall is late," said Vernon.
"Squall coming?" inquired Blewforth.
"L-l-ook out for squalls," stammered little Peter Wingfield.

"Squall's an ass," said Mr. Golightly.
"So is his brother," said Chalkley.
"Always was," said Clare.
"Wind is coming too," said Vernon. "Augustus, that is, and Harthe-
Brusshe."
The young gentlemen of the Blue Boar looked peevish; it was tactless of
that fellow Vernon to keep them waiting for three such asses as these.
"They are late," said Blewforth very emphatically.
"I'm expecting Lovely, too," said Vernon almost humbly. Somehow or
other he felt the slightest inclination to apologize, exactly what for he did
not know.
"Charles is always late. He's a d——d careless fellow," said Mr. Golightly,
and one felt the final judgment upon Charles had been passed.
"Charles is not jigging with old Butterbun, is he?" asked little Peter
Wingfield.
"Oh! the d——l! not he," said Blewforth. "He's found a red-cheeked
hussy with whom he's carrying on an intrigue."
"Eh, what! Never?" exclaimed a chorus.
"What's his charmer's name?" said Chalkley.
"Burgundy," replied Blewforth with a great guffaw that made all the
glasses and goblets and decanters on the big oak dresser ring an echo.
"I never thought Charles cared much for wine or women," said Golightly.
"Nor he don't," Blewforth put in. "Nor he don't. That's what beats me. But
I tell you I saw Charles Lovely sitting in the taproom of the World Turned
Upside Down. Nobody goes there unless he wishes to be drunk by nightfall.
Eh, boys? So depend on't when Charles does arrive, he'll arrive drunk. But
why? That's the riddle."
"Perhaps the fair Courteen has slighted him," said Chalkley. "Serve him
right. He had no business to take himself so seriously. 'Tis very fashionable
to be a poet, but egad! 'tis devilish low to behave like one."
"Is that Miss Phyllida Courteen?" said Vernon, trying to speak as though
he had read her name in the list of visitors published every week by the
proprietors of the Curtain Wells Chronicle and Pump Room Intelligencer.

"Aye! d'ye know her? Blooming seventeen with a short upper lip, blue
eyes and hair the colour of that chestnut gelding, What's His Name sold
'tother day."
"Very poor animal," said Golightly.
"Not at all. I disagree with you."
"Very poor animal indeed," said Golightly.
"It fetched a very pretty price."
"Oh," said Mr. Golightly and the argument was over.
"Does she carry a white swansdown muff?" asked Vernon.
"Who?"
"Miss Courteen."
"Eh? Oh! I don't know," and since Mr. Chalkley's tone of voice implied a
lack of further interest on the subject, the subject was dropped.
"My belief is," said Lieutenant Blewforth loudly, and moving as he spoke
in the direction of the fireplace. "Egad, Vernon would you take it unkind if I
rang for a tankard of ale? I'm as dry as a gunner in action. My belief is," he
went on spreading his coat-tails to the genial warmth, "my belief is——"
"Gadslife! B-B-lewforth," interrupted Peter Wingfield, "pray get on with
the recitation of your c-creed."
"Don't get excited, little man," said Blewforth. "My belief is Charles wrote
that book."
"What book?" said Chalkley, whose acquaintance with the literature of the
day was remarkably small.
"Curtain Polls."
"Never heard of it," said Mr. Chalkley.
"Rubbish!" said Clare, entering suddenly into the conversation.
"Rubbish!" and yet Mr. Anthony Clare was one of the two people in the
room who knew for certain that Charles was, indeed, the author of that
satirical trifle.
"It has caused a terrible amount of talk," Blewforth went on. "My old aunt
Seaworthy to whom I paid my annual visit yesterday tells me that all the
world is very much hurt at being treated with such freedom."
"I d-don't see why Charles should take to drink because he's wrote a
book." This was from Peter Wingfield.

"Ripple may have been annoyed. He's confoundedly touchy about a little
matter like that and Charles thinks Ripple is a demigod."
The Earl of Squall, Lord Augustus Wind and the Honourable Mr. Harthe-
Brusshe came into the room at that moment, and Mr. Vernon, who had been
feeling a little outside the intimacy of the company, made haste to propose
that, everybody save Charles being present, the wine should be brought in.
Everybody agreed that nothing fitted in more exactly with their wishes
than Mr. Vernon's timely suggestion and everybody selected his chair with
that preciseness which stamps the beginning of an entertainment.
Everybody sat down and the nuts were circulated.
Presently John entered with twelve quart-bottles of Burgundy on a huge
tray. All of them had been gently warmed before a slow fire, and all of them
were wiped clean of the cobwebs and dust of the several years spent in the
ample cellars of the Blue Boar.
Vernon had prepared a short oration for the entrance of the liquor and
while John reverently stationed a bottle at everybody's right hand, he made
haste to deliver it. Perhaps his utterance was a shade too reminiscent of one
of the many prologues spoken by his mother at the theatre in Lincoln's Inn
Fields, but that did not matter since nobody in the room was old enough to
remember that lady's inimitable delivery of Mr. Dryden's rhymed
Alexandrines.
"The life of Burgundy," said Mr. Vernon, "is very like the life of a
butterfly. At first the grape or caterpillar-grub, feeding upon the richness of
the soil, then the cocoon or bottle stage when it languishes for many years
in darkness below the earth until—until it emerges glowing with a thousand
varied tints of crimson—and, like a butterfly, wings its airy way into the
brain of mankind."
The company, with the exception of my Lord Squall who was sometimes
taken in the old family coach of the Winds to hear his father speak in the
House of Lords, were not accustomed to lengthy speeches and looked at
each other bashfully.
Lieutenant Blewforth with nautical tact saved the situation by drinking
Mr. Vernon's health in a very large and brimming pint bumper which he
emptied in two sonorous gulps.
As everybody else proceeded to follow this good example, everybody was
soon very cheerful, and the advent of the second dozen of bottles was

mightily applauded.
However, the master mind was still absent and the drinking, though
steady, had not yet enlivened the company to uproarious spirits.
"Where's Charles?" bellowed Blewforth munching a devilled biscuit.
"Where's that fellow Charles. Demme! He'll never catch us up at this rate
and we shall have him sober as a post-captain when we are beginning to
amuse ourselves."
"What, you rogue," cried our hero entering just as the Lieutenant bellowed
his inquiry. "I wager five guineas, I am two bottles ahead of any gentleman
present." In order to clinch the bet he flung his purse in the direction of the
table. The gauntlet snuffed in its course two of the candles and fell with a
plump into a piping bowl of punch splashing Tom Chalkley as high as his
stock and imparting to His Majesty's uniform an odour of hot squeezed
lemons that lasted for quite a couple of weeks.
"Charles! Charles!" bellowed the burly Lieutenant, "Huzza for Charles!"
The latter lurched into the vacant chair next to his friend Tony without a
word to the host. However, nobody observed this breach of good manners,
because everybody was anxiously leaning over to fill every glass in reach of
the newcomer as a preliminary to drinking his very good health a score of
times, without a heeltap to any one of them.
"Z—ds! Charles. Where have you been?" said Chalkley.
"Drinking old Burgundy with a rogue of a bagman who looked like
Ranelagh Garden en Fête, for his face was illuminated with every hue of
crimson lamp and I stake my wig his nose was as large and round as the
Rotunda."
With the arrival of Charles, everybody woke up and there were calls for a
song. The gallant Lieutenant was the first to respond with my Lord Dorset's
To you fair ladies now at Land.
Let me remind you of that fine old ballad:
To you fair ladies now at Land
We men at Sea indite;
But first would have you understand
How hard it is to write.
"Not at all," cried Charles.

The Muses now, and Neptune too,
We must implore to write to you;
"and chorus, gentlemen, please,"
With a Fa, la, la, la, la, la
The Muses now, and Neptune too,
We must implore to write to you.
and so on to the last
With a Fa, la, la, la, la
Let us hear of no Inconstancy
We have too much of that at Sea.
And a proper noise everybody made with the Fa la-la-la-la accentuating
every Fa with a bottle and every La with one of Mr. Jeremy Daish's
handsome silver spoons.
The song being a very lengthy one allowed everybody plenty of time to
drink another quart of Burgundy before its rousing conclusion, and if the
company cheered loudly at the beginning, by heavens, they cheered so
loudly at the end that the noise was heard above the fiddlers in the new
ballroom of Daish's famous Rooms and put everybody out of step in the last
Cotillon notwithstanding the heroick efforts of the disreputable, but nimble-
footed Captain Mann.
Then Charles gave a new ballad (new that is in the reign of Queen Anne)
sung first at Messieurs Brook and Hellier's Club at the Temple Tavern in
Fleet Street, but slightly altered by him to suit present company,
Since I'm in the Chair and every one here
Appears in gay humour and easy;
Say, why should not I, a new Ballad try,
Bright Brethren o' the Bottle to please ye.
This wine is my theme, this is all on's Esteem,
For Jeremy Daish cannot wrong us;
Let them get Wealth who keeps us in health.
By bringing neat liquor among us.
(with chorus of last two lines repeated).

Each Vintner of late, has got an Estate
By brewing and Sophistication
With cyder and sloes, they've made a d——d dose,
Has poisoned one half of the nation.
and so on until
Now God Bless the King, Peers, Parliament Men,
And keep 'em like us in true concord;
And grant that all those, who dare be his foes,
At Tyburn may swing in a strong cord;
We'll Loyalists be, and bravely agree
With lives and estates to defend her—him
So then we'll not care come Peace or come War
For Lewis, the Pope, or Pretender.
"Ah!" said Mr. Antony Clare whose father had been a Jacobite, "you've
spoilt more than the rhyme by the last word."
This treasonable remark was the signal for more noise than ever because
all the young gentlemen of the Blue Boar who held His Majesty King
George's commission felt bound to uphold the honour of the Royal Navy
and the British Army by flinging a large number of Spanish nuts at the head
of the disloyal Clare who retorted by emptying a whole ram's horn of snuff
over Mr. Golightly so that for a while nothing was to be heard but vollies of
gigantick sneezes. Exhaustion reigned for a moment, but presently the
sound of hustling and bustling in the street outside roused everybody to
fresh vigour of mischief.
My Lady Bunbutter's rout was over, and those of the Exquisite Mob who
had been invited were standing on tiptoe on the steps of Daish's Rooms
peering into the darkness and blinking in the glare of waving flambeaux.
The chairmen were so busy quarrelling over their positions that they paid
no attention to their fares and everything was in a very great state of
confusion indeed; nor was the clamour abated by Mr. Lovely cleverly
hitting the long red ear of the nearest chairmen with a Barcelona nut
because the injured chairman instantly floored a linkboy who was standing
by his side and the linkboy's torch severely burnt the legs of Lord
Cinderton's tall footman in his ash-grey livery and the tall footman with a

yell of dismay punched a flat-footed waiter on the nose and the flat-footed
waiter butted an inoffensive fop in the middle of his sprigged silk waistcoat
and the inoffensive fop struck out with his tasselled cane left and right with
such force that presently everybody in the street below was fighting with
his next door neighbour to the entire delight of the young gentlemen from
the Blue Boar. Their next diversion was to empty the dregs of the Burgundy
bottles upon the heads of the crowd, whereupon all the ladies of Curtain
Wells screamed very loud to see such a number of bloody polls and faces.
Then Charles snatched off little Peter Wingfield's tie-wig and, having set
fire to it, began to drop tufts of burning hair out of the window, which tufts
made an immense smell and blew round and round in the gusty March air in
a very alarming manner.
Little Peter Wingfield, having lost his own wig and being too little to
snatch Lovely's wig, mounted one of the stout Windsor wheelback chairs
and, taking down the print of a famous cock-fight extracted the hook from
the wall and laid an embargo on the black silk ties of three of his friends in
order to fish from the window for another wig. He succeeded in catching
the Marquis of Hurricane's to the intense delight of his undutiful sons the
Earl of Squall and Lord Augustus Wind. Of course after such a successful
display of angling, everybody else had to try his hand with the picture hook
and two more wigs were captured but proved so frowsy that they were burnt
immediately. However, Mr. Chalkley caught the hem of Lady Jane Vane's
petticoat just as she was stepping into her chair and would without doubt
have injured that virgin's modest reputation for ever, had the garment been
made of more durable stuff; as it was, the hook would not hold and nothing
was disclosed beyond what is allowed by any wet day.
Then Mr. Daish came hurrying in and begged their honours to desist
because the watch was coming, and what Mr. Ripple would say when he
heard of the riot he did not dare surmize.
Poor Mr. Daish bowed and scraped and was so full of excuses that all the
young gentlemen felt quite sorry for him and put ham seat foremost into the
biggest bowl of punch in order to drown his troubles, whereupon Mr. Daish
grew quite cholerick and vowed he would never let one of 'em enter his inn
again and made such ado that the culprits all protested he was more noisy
than anybody else, and offered to fetch in the watch and have him arrested
in his own bowl of punch.

But presently they lifted him out and subscribed ten guineas by sending
round Mr. Golightly's hat; and poor Mr. Daish was more full of excuses
than ever and hoped that anything he had said that could by the most
spirited gentleman be considered derogatory would be forgiven and
ascribed to the dismay caused by the hot punch scalding his hinder parts
and goading him beyond the bounds of polite remonstrance.
Everybody vowed that withered little Daish was a prince of good fellows
and begged him to buy himself a new pair of cinnamon cloth breeches as
soon as possible, while Thomas Chalkley of the Foot created much
amusement by shouting that he was holding Dunquerque against the
French. In order to hold Dunquerque against the French, it was very
necessary that Mr. Chalkley should fling out of the window nineteen quart-
bottles of Burgundy in quick succession, whereupon Lieutenant Blewforth
of the Lively not to be outdone vowed Portobello must be taken and
proceeded to take it by climbing with amazing dexterity on to the
mantelpiece armed only with a long Churchwarden's pipe. Yet
notwithstanding all the efforts of Ensign Chalkley to hold Dunquerque
against the French, notwithstanding that he was valiantly assisted by Cornet
Golightly of the Grey Dragoons, who led a desperate cavalry charge round
the whole room mounted upon one of the stout Windsor chairs, Dunquerque
capitulated. In other words the dignified Curtain Wells watch marched
upstairs with their lanterns and their staves and, standing in a knot by the
doorway, demanded the reason for such a riotous breach of the King's
peace, not to mention Mr. Ripple's and the Mayor's. But the young
gentlemen were all so merry and the watch was so cold that it consented to
taste the punch and presently left Dunquerque in the hands of the Allies and
marched off warmer in mind and body to a quieter quarter of the ancient
borough of Curtain Wells. I am sorry to add that, in passing the door of the
Great House, they so far forgot their standing orders as to cry with
enormous fervour the hour and the weather exactly underneath Mr. Ripple's
window.
With the departure of the watch, peace fell upon the company for a while;
a dice box was produced and some packs of cards, but play lasted a very
short time and was voted too confoundedly dull for so joyful an evening. So
more songs were sung, and it was exceedingly pleasant to hear these young
gentlemen shouting the refrains and hammering Encores upon the polished
mahogany table. It was exceedingly pleasant to see the wigs on their knees

and the long clay pipes keeping time to the tune; but perhaps the pleasantest
sight of all was the two sleepy waiters who leaned against the jambs of the
door and, with kindly grins on their tired faces, tapped their flat feet to the
more alluring measures.
The night was wearing away when somebody called 'Vernon for a song!'
The latter, to tell the truth, had felt out of his element, except during the
brief interval of play, but on being called upon to occupy the centre of the
room, he cheered up and announced his very great pleasure in acceding to
the gentlemen's request.
I wonder if you are at all sorry for Mr. Vernon.
He was very lonely sitting in his high armchair at the head of the table. I
wonder if you will forgive him for singing this song, which you will find in
Mr. D'Urfey's Pills to Purge Melancholy.
In the merry month of May,
On a morn by break of day,
Forth I walked the wood so wide,
When as May was in her Pride
Here I spy'd all alone, all alone,
Phyllida and Coridon.

Much ado there was God wot,
He did love, but she could not,
He said his love was to woo,
He said none was false to you;
He said he had lov'd her long,
He said love should take no wrong.

Coridon would have kissed her then,
She said Maids must kiss no men
Till they kiss for good and all;
Then she bade the shepherds call
All the Gods to witness truth,
Ne'er was loved so fair a youth.

Then with many a pretty oath,
As Yea and Nay and Faith and Troth,
Such as silly shepherds use,
When they would not love abuse;
Love which had been long deluded
Was with kisses sweet concluded.

And Phyllida with garlands gay
Was crowned the Lady May.
The words were poor, as you will allow, and the tune a mere tinkle, but it
had the effect of rousing our hero from the half-sleep into which he had
fallen.
"Sing that song again, will you."
"G—— forbid," whispered little Peter Wingfield.
"Nay, sir," said Mr. Vernon, "'Tis too long to sing over again, but I'll toast
the heroine if that will please your zest."
"No, sir," said Charles, "it will not please me at all."
The rest of the company began to wake up to the fact that something was
happening.
"I should have thought," Vernon replied, "that Mr. Lovely would have
cordially welcomed such a toast, for we all know his partiality to the name."
"Gentlemen," said our hero. Did I not promise you some pretty heroicks a
score of pages back? "Gentlemen, I have a tale to tell you."
Charles looked very stiff and very fierce as, clapping on his wig, he
began:
"A short while ago I perpetrated an indiscretion in mistaking Mr. Francis
Vernon for a gentleman, for which I beg the pardon of everybody present.
Mr. Vernon for some reason best known to himself saw fit to bribe my
bookseller to insert in a volume I have just published twelve scurrilous lines
reflecting upon the character of a young lady whom I—whom I——"
"Admire," suggested our villain.
"No, sir, respect."
"Sir, your virtue should make us all blush," sneered Vernon, cold and
contemptuous.

"D—— n you and your blushes; blush deeper, then," shouted Charles,
slinging the contents of a wineglass into Mr. Vernon's pallid face.
There was silence for a moment until the honourable Mr. Harthe-Brusshe
proclaimed——
"The affair should be settled at once."
And this was the only remark that the Honourable gentleman uttered in
the whole of the evening.
"With all my heart," cried Charles. "Tony, you'll act for me?"
Mr. Vernon had delicately wiped his face with a handkerchief of Mechlin
lace. A single drop of the wine lingered above his left cheekbone. There, it
was not unbecoming.
"I shall be proud to walk with Mr. Lovely in a month's time," said our
villain, "but for the present my honour is pledged to a lady."
"Sure, you borrow on mighty small security, sir," said Charles.
The lingering drop of wine that stained Mr. Vernon's cheek seemed to
expand for a brief moment.
"I have named my day," was all he answered.
"Mr. Vernon is within his rights, Charles," said Mr. Golightly, "and
moreover the weather will be finer next month and we can make up a jovial
party."
"'Tis hardly fair to poor Daish to fight in his rooms," said Blewforth.
"Ripple would put his shutters up at once."
"H—— take you all," cried Charles, in an access of fury, as he sprang to
strike Vernon.
The latter stepped back and with a well-aimed blow sent Charles flying
backwards over two chairs.
"'Slife, Charles," said Mr. Golightly very stiffly. "Your conduct is d——d
irregular, Sir."
"Most improper," said Mr. Chalkley.
"Devilish unrestrained," said little Peter Wingfield.
"Charles was two bottles ahead of us, gentlemen," said Blewforth who
held a broad mind in a broad body.
Our hero was still lying where Vernon had sent him among cards and
broken glass.

"D—— n you all," cried Clare. "Charles is worth the rest of you puppies
in red and blue coats put together, and by G——, Mr. Vernon, he shall kill
you for that blow."
Everybody was so surprized to hear Mr. Anthony Clare, cool and placid
Tony Clare, break out like this that a wave of embarrassment swept over the
room. One by one they hurried from the scene of such an irregular quarrel.
It was very entertaining to see them march out so stiff and straight, with
nutshells crackling underneath their feet.

Chapter the Twenty-sixth

AND THE DREGS OF THE SAME

M R. ANTHONY CLARE stayed behind to help our hero home to bed.
His effort to achieve sobriety had completely exhausted such
faculties as remained after so many quarts of Burgundy, and he
babbled to his companion foolish threats and impotent defiance in such an
incoherent voice that I doubt his enemy, had he been present, would
scarcely have been able to discover common sense in any one of his
remarks. Charles woke up in the morning full of bile, dressed himself in a
splenetick fury and ate a breakfast, conspicuous for its peppery flavours,
with petulance and aversion. Then he crammed his gold-laced Kevenhuller
hat on his head and went out to interview Mr. Horace Ripple.
In crossing the courtyard of the inn he passed Mr. Chalkley, and for a
moment debated seriously the wisdom of challenging him out of hand. This
he was the more inclined to do because he fancied the gallant Ensign was
regarding him with some disfavour. However, the latter gave him a 'good
morning,' and excused his want of geniality on the score of a liver teased
out of endurance by hard and violent exercise.
So Charles forgave him his supposed breach of good manners and decided
to hear from Tony a full account of the evening's events.
Clare presently overtook him under the archway, and, on being informed
of our hero's destination, tried to dissuade him from the projected visit to
the Beau.
"Z—— ds! I tell you that blackguard shall be turned out of the Wells with
ignominy." So much Charles vowed.
"But 'tis no business of yours, Charles," argued his friend.
"No business of mine? Eh! is that so? Then, by heaven! I'll make it my
business."
"Ripple does not believe in settling disputes of this nature by the personal
encounter."

"Then, by heaven!" said Charles, "that being the case there is the greater
necessity for expelling him from the company of gentlemen."
"That is all very well," expostulated Clare, "but you are neither the young
woman's brother nor, as I believe, her lover. What right have you to
interfere?"
"I tell you, Tony," said Charles, "that Ripple has already pondered the
advisableness of interfering with Mr. Francis Amor-Vernon and, indeed,
begged me to disclose his pseudonym, but I would not."
"You owed him money, in fact?" said Clare, gently tapping the kerb of the
pavement with his cane.
"Yes, I owed the dog money."
"And now he is paid?"
"Thanks to your generosity he is paid."
"Charles," said Mr. Clare, laying his hand affectionately on that indignant
gentleman's right shoulder, "oblige me, who was able and glad to oblige
you, by not proceeding further in this affair."
"'Tis monstrous ill-bred in you to remind me of an obligation under which
I laid myself with the most profound disinclination." Charles was growing
angry.
"Nay, you know that is not my meaning, but, consider Charles, this
confounded, pasquinading pamphlet book has placed you in such an ill light
that the world will be very loth to believe any good of you."
"Ripple is wiser than the raree-show over which he presides."
"Ay! but depend on't, he has already been informed of last night's affair
and will be prejudiced against you on account of your quarrelsome
overtures."
"'Sdeath! Tony, pray desist from further argument; you do not convince
me and will soon rouse my choler."
"As you will," said Tony, and, leaving the company of his friend, betook
himself to the solitude of green fields. In the pleasures of country sights and
sounds he found some consolation for the undeserved reproaches of a
gentleman whom he had gratified at considerable expense to himself.
Charles continued in the direction of the Great House. Being arrived on
the topmost doorstep he rang the bell with complete assurance and knocked
thrice with the heavy brass knocker.

He was admitted to an audience and walked upstairs to the tall white
drawing-room without trepidation or bashfulness. Mr. Ripple had favoured
him with so many compliments lately, had begged his advice on so many
trifles of publick importance, had in fact adopted him so completely into
intimate conversation, that Charles may be pardoned for supposing that,
notwithstanding his unceremonious conduct of the night before last,
notwithstanding his notoriety as the author of a book of satirical poems, he
would still be received with that inimitable and charming condescension
which the Great little Man reserved for few indeed.
He found the Beau seated among the roses of his wide-winged armchair
sipping what looked uncommonly like a cordial physick. He did not rise to
Mr. Lovely's entrance, did not even turn his head, but merely said in a tone,
indifferent, lifeless and chill,
"To what may I ascribe the honour of this visit, sir?"
Conceive the shocked feelings of Madam Semele when he, whom she had
hitherto regarded with the familiarity born of many amorous meetings,
assumed at her own request the attributes of divinity. She died, if you can
recall the sad event.
Charles experienced a particle of that dismay when the Great little Man
for whom he had hitherto felt an almost playful affection suddenly appeared
to him with the attributes of majesty—remoteness, scorn, and
inaccessibleness. The pattern upon the Aubusson rug swam before his eyes
in changes of tint and form as frequent as a child's Kaleidoscope, and he
found himself in humble obeisance. The Beau twirled the fluted stem of the
green Venetian glass that contained his physick and waited for Mr. Lovely
to explain his business.
"Well, sir," he said at last.
The abashed favourite stammered his reasons for the visit.
"Pooh, pooh," said the Beau. "Pooh, pooh! a likely story. Your brain, sir,
addled by the ridiculous rhymes it has already born with obvious labour,
refuses to hatch further monstrous fancies, and is content to send into the
world an abortion. The night before last, Mr. Lovely, you waited upon me at
an hour both indiscreet and inconvenient. I was ready to overlook this
horrid breach of decorum and was indeed willing to receive your apologies
on the following day. You found, however, a more engaging diversion in
cracking bottles with a bagman. For this I do not blame you—and, indeed,

think you will do well to cultivate a manner of company for which you
seem to me singularly adapted. Pray understand, however, that, in finding
your level, you have had to make a very considerable descent. The rider
who has been thrown into a ditch is unable to cry 'View! Holloa!' to the
master of the hunt. In other words, Mr. Lovely, you have put yourself in a
position where your estimate of polite intrigue is incredible and impertinent.
I am very well able to look after the morals of the Beau Monde without the
assistance of the kitchen or the tap-room."
"Mr. Ripple," said our hero, "you insult me."
"Unfortunately, sir, I recognize no responsibleness in that direction. I have
always claimed the right to speak my mind. If you find my strictures
intolerable, the door affords you an easy remedy."
"Mr. Ripple," Charles replied, "I think you are making a fool of yourself."
The Great little Man clutched the arms of his wide-winged chair and
gasped. It was certainly twenty years since any one had dared to address
him with such a want of reverence.
"You wrap yourself in paint and sattin," continued Charles. "You strut
about as if you were indeed the king of a puppet show. But don't forget, Mr.
Ripple, that when the puppets perform, when they make miniature love and
die small deaths, the publick regards them, not the wire-puller above. The
world, your world, will forget you, Mr. Ripple, when it still remembers the
inconsiderable passions of your dolls."
"It does not matter, sir," the Beau interrupted in a voice tremulous with
well-bred anger. "It does not matter what the world thinks of me, so long as
my puppets comport themselves with taste and discretion."
"You fool," shouted Charles, "the wires are twisted."
It is improbable that any one had ever shouted in this tall white room
before, and the lustres shivered at the unwonted sound, while a diminutive
Dresden shepherdess, fragile as a sea-shell, lost her head, which rolled into
the grate with a tinkle of dismay.
"Leave my house," said the Beau.
"Ay! and you dislike to be told that your show will presently appear
ludicrous."
"Leave my house."

"Good G——! Ripple. I know I have been to blame; I know my story
seems to you absurd; but, by Heaven! I swear those cursed lines were never
writ by me, and since Vernon wrote them, why, z——ds, man! Can't you
see his intention?"
"Leave my house."
"Very well, sir, your obedient servant."
With a very grand bow, Mr. Lovely took his leave of the Great little Man.
When he was gone, the Beau stooped to pick up the head of the
diminutive Dresden shepherdess.
"Tut-tut, I doubt the join will be plainly visible," he murmured to himself.

Chapter the Twenty-seventh

TIME FOR REFLECTION

M R. LOVELY left the Great House enraged with the owner, with
Society and, to say truth, with his own heroick self.
I do not think he was very wildly in love with Miss Courteen, but I
do believe he was sincerely vexed with himself for letting her fall into
Vernon's power. For a moment he seriously pondered the wisdom of
warning her mother of the lengths to which the affair had gone, but upon
reflection shrank from a step which would savour, in the eyes of the world,
of ill-bred intrusion. After all, the girl was nothing to him, and her
reputation—plague on her reputation! I trust you observe the unheroick
aftermath of heroick Burgundy. Such bathos of indifference would have
sounded strange in the days preceding this forenoon.
Just then my lady Bunbutter went by in her capacious chair and Charles
prepared to make an elaborate bow, but her ladyship merely stared at him in
cold disdain, and he was forced to buckle his shoe to save his countenance.
"So everybody knows," said Charles to himself, "Well! I shall always
regard Curtain Wells with affection and remember it with regret."
He walked down the Colonnade where Miss Morton lived and, as he
passed the house, thought with half a smile of Valentine Day. It seemed a
century ago—that merry morning. Soon he was in the fields, where the
hedges were splashed with the silver of blackthorn in profuse bloom.
He crossed a winding path, begun and ended with a notched and scrabbled
kissing-gate, and, passing through a small plantation where the daffodils
grew tall, went up a rounded hillside along whose clear-cut horizon great
fleecy clouds moved solemnly. He stopped for a moment to glance back at
Curtain Wells with the March sun spangling the rain-wet roofs before he
dipped with a sigh into one of those serene valleys that are only found in
England—valleys whose slopes are often darkened by the long shadows of
sheep and cattle, whose hollows are bright with moist grass and in summer
fragrant with spearmint and creamy meadowsweet.

He took the devious course of a narrow stream and knew the grave
delights of rural meditation; yet somehow the image of Phyllida danced
before him all the time and whenever he paused, the wind far away over the
hillside had a melancholy and foreboding sound.
He met an elderly gentleman—a parson by the colour of his cloth—who
was poking some decayed herbage with a long cane. The elderly gentleman
looked up as Charles went by, gave him a 'very good morning,' and said he
believed he had seen an adder enter the herbage.
"Indeed," said Charles, who thought the information given demanded an
attitude of respectful surprize.
"But nothing amazes me after that wonderful February. When I tell you
that half an hour ago I saw an Orange Tip butterfly, you will understand that
nothing amazes me."
Charles left the Elderly Gentleman still investigating the decayed herbage
reputed to contain an adder, and found himself envying a mind that could
invest a day with such easy fame. He had seen an Orange Tip butterfly. Had
he met grey-eyed Athene, or beheld the roses and doves of Cytherea, the
day would scarcely have held a more splendid memory.
He envied the Elderly Gentleman. To be sure, with a Stoick complacency,
he had announced that nothing strange in the natural order could startle him
after that wonderful February, but his tone of triumphant excitement
foretold an entry in his diary that very night, perhaps was the prelude to a
paragraph in the Gentleman's Magazine.
He began to imagine the Elderly Gentleman sipping his Port before the
Rectory fire, on his knees an open Concordance whose pages were
illuminated by dancing butterflies, precocious heralds of the scented spring.
He heard the dignified butler told of his reverend master's lucky discovery,
heard him asked to hand down the calf-bound diary of such and such a
faded year, heard the Elderly Gentleman's chuckle when he found, as he
suspected, that the date in his own experience was unprecedented and
finally heard him order a bottle of the Port in bin twelve, the first-fruits of
the Assiento Agreement.
Charles fell to comparing himself to the Elderly Gentleman, greatly to his
own disadvantage.
Certainly the image of Phyllida danced before him in the water meadows,
eluded him at every turn and twist of the little stream, and beckoned him

along this secluded valley; but his own heart did not beat with the proper
amount of answering fervour.
Six weeks ago when he saw her first, all swansdown and blushes, he had
been duly elated. She had occupied much of his meditations ever since, but
he had no sensation of triumph, no delight in the great fact of her existence.
Perhaps that was because she belonged to the world. The butterfly had
belonged, as a phenomenon, to the Elderly Gentleman alone. To the rest of
mankind it was a legend. The discovery would be recorded in print, but the
discovery itself would flutter in secret pale wings powdered with vivid
gold, and this March morning would remain a permanent fact in that
Elderly Gentleman's heart. He would suffer no disillusion. If others saw that
butterfly, why, then, he would enjoy the discussion of it, whether in the
Gentleman's Magazine beneath a learned pseudonym or over two or three
glasses of Port, with details long drawn out to protract the delicious
memory.
The ink is faded on the pages of those calf-bound diaries, the Latin
epitaph on the Elderly Gentleman's tombstone is now nearly illegible, but
since he went down to Elysium alert and heedful of the changing seasons, I
believe that his spirit still listens on summer eves to the blackbirds in his
beloved orchard and observes with interest and curiosity each separate
harebell that blossoms above his mortal remains.
Charles went on his way with much the same thoughts about the Elderly
Gentleman as I have set down for my own, and continued to envy his gift of
youth.
Presently he met Margery of Baverstock Farm.
Let me remind you, she was the wench to whom Mr. Anthony Clare had
paid light court back in the winter. Charles reproved him for his behaviour
and apparently his friend had given up his addresses, for the milkmaid
looked happy and blooming and seemed not at all displeased to giggle over
a hazel wand at Mr. Charles Lovely.
"Good morning, Margery."
"Oh, good morning, zur," said Margery.
"No longer with Farmer Hogbin?"
"I be with Farmer Hogbin's brother Jahn to High Corner Farm."
"And happy?"

"Oh, 'ess, proud and happy."
"Seen Mr. Clare lately?"
Margery blushed expansively.
"Oh! naw! I an't seen him since Baverstock Barn. I be courting."
"Eh, indeed," said Charles, "and who is the shepherd?"
"Wully Pearce."
"And you'll be married soon?"
"Come barley harvest—'ess."
"I will dance at your wedding, Margery."
"We shaänt have daäncing, because Wully says it leads to what oughtn't to
happen."
Charles made a wry face.
"Going to wed a Puritan, eh?"
"Nay," said the buxom maid. "He's carter to Farmer Jahn Hogbin."
"Then, surely, he will let you have a merry junketing at the bride-ale."
"Naw, indeed an' he wawnt, because his sister Molly when they were
thrawing the stocking last year fell on her back, and Wully's fam'ly is a
proud and proper fam'ly and Wully says we mun be married wi' no such
nonsense."
This long proclamation of propriety made Margery quite breathless, so
Charles, with a bow and the present of a crown, passed on his way.
Margery's case gave him more food for meditation. There was a buxom hale
wench with the bloom of a peach, throwing away her ample charms upon a
puritanical clod whose only ambition seemed to be the preservation of a
mealy-mouthed decorum. Pshaw! such prime beauty deserved a better fate.
Such a wedding as hers should have made old wives' fireside gossip for a
score of years and the tale of it quickened the hearts of every lover and his
lass that listened beneath the golden summer moon. Had he the control of
the ceremony, by Heaven! they should have danced the dawn in, and every
man and every maid should have gone to sleep with a face as pale as the
morning sky. It was ridiculous that young Cupid should be breeched for the
bidding of a lubberly half-baked ploughboy.
And yet, to be honest with himself, was not he behaving in much the same
way as the despised Wully Pearce? Was not his chief objection to Vernon

based on the latter's reputation as a man of intrigue? It was Phyllida's
attraction to Vernon that made him indignant. Had she chosen to bestow
herself on a middle-aged squire with acres and a gaunt square hall and a
pack of hounds, would he have been at all seriously disconcerted by the
prospect? And Vernon could have no honest love for her, because if a man
means to wed a young woman, he does not stigmatize her behaviour in
scurrilous verses, even to secure an advantage over a supposed rival. Or
does he—when he is not quite a gentleman?
Then occurred to him the story he had heard many years ago of a thin
unhappy-looking woman who had spoken kindly to him at some crowded
Al Fresco entertainment where he and his father and mother had gone one
fine July afternoon. He had asked about her as they drove home to the
lodgings, and he remembered his mother's warning finger, while his father
laughed over Lord B—— and Mrs. D——.
At the end of the tale his mother, a gentle Christian soul, had said it served
the baggage right, and bade him never talk to people to whom he had not
been presented by his parents. No doubt the circumstances of the two cases
were totally different, but he connected them vaguely in his mind.
Moreover, without any doubt, Phyllida had caught his fancy. She disturbed
his view. Yet there was nothing that singled her out from a dozen handsome
young women with whom he had danced, whose existence save as a bevy
he no longer recognized. Still, whatever he thought about the affair, his
opinion would never again be invited and, disinherited by Beau Ripple, he
must consider his own position with an eye to the future.
He was bracing himself preparatory to this great mental effort, when he
perceived round the next bend of the stream Mr. Anthony Clare, pensively
leaning against the rugged stem of a pollard willow-tree.
"Tony," said Charles, "Ripple has dismissed me."
"I know," said his friend, "your writ of banishment, signed, sealed and
delivered, is pasted on the window of every coffee-house and occupies a
large and distinguished space in the vestibule of the Assembly Rooms.
What do you propose to do?"
"I might hire myself out to the amiable Hogbin as carter."
"Pshaw," said Tony, "be serious."
"Or I might take to the road."

"Nonsense, man."
"Nay! I vow such a career has many advantages for a poor man, since he
may live and, what is more, die at the public charge."
"You are not in earnest, Charles?" said Mr. Clare, laying an anxious hand
upon his friend's wrist.
"And why not, i' faith?"
"What would you gain by such an impulse of folly?"
"My livelihood and, as I said, very possibly my funeral expenses."
"Such flippancy is ill-timed," said Mr. Clare, who was a serious young
man and spent much of his leisure with the theory of estate-management.
"Nay! I am not treating the matter as a jest, but truly considering the
benefit of adopting such a novel method of existence in these hard times."
"Novel!" said Clare, with a scoffing laugh. "Novel! why, every ne'er-do-
weel blackguard for the past hundred years has tried this novel method of
existence and every one of them has come at last to the same windy death."
"Oh, as to the last scene," interrupted Charles, "indeed I vow 'tis the best
in the play, for it never fails to please the populace, and sure in this dull
world a man should try to give a little amusement; I hold that the author of
a diverting comedy and the thief who makes a brave exit are the truest
benefactors of humanity."
"All this is very pretty fooling, but leads nowhere," said Clare, who had a
proposal to make and was vexed by Charles' levity.
"But ponder, Tony, the Gothick atmosphere of such an escapade. Imagine
the moated grange, the haunted lane, the shadowy coppice, the phantastick
oaths and gestures, the pursuit by moonlight, the clatter of hoofs, the jingle
of spurs—all this appeals to an aspect of my character too long subdued by
the bonds of convention and the trammels of polite society."
"But, you fool, you would be taken at once. You have no cant of the road
and, as a Dilettante, would certainly be regarded with odious suspicion by
every regular highway-man between Berwick and Dover. Oddslife, I'll not
argue with you further, for I do not believe you mean a word of what you
say, and, harkee, I have a plan that will suit either of us better than your cut-
throat Braggadocio."
As a matter of fact, Charles had once or twice thought quite seriously of
taking to the road. After all, it was in accordance with every precedent of

outlawry. As soon as a man was banished from Society, he should
compensate himself for the discomfort he incurred. Tony, however, now
came forward with a project which, while it preserved much of the charm of
highway robbery, held none of its dangers or difficulties. He suggested that
since neither he nor Charles had very many ties to attach them fast to
Curtain Wells, they should spend a year in making the Grand Tour of the
British Islands.
Charles objected on the score of money.
"I have three hundred guineas," said Clare. "That will equip us with all
that we require as travellers, and I am sure the world will entertain us for
our pleasant appearance and company."
"In fact we are to become beggars—in velvet gowns," Charles
commented.
"Adventurers, knights at arms, what you will," added Clare.
Charles was enraptured with the idea, so deeply enraptured that he saw no
absurdity in grave Mr. Anthony Clare setting out upon such a career of
folly. In fact, it seemed the most natural thing in the world for his friend to
spend three hundred guineas on a whim. He himself would have spent
treble that sum (had he possessed it) in order to the exploitation of such a
witty, ingenious and romantick method of wasting time.
"We must equip ourselves for the parts we are about to play. There must
be no shilly-shally, and above all no one must think us anything but
eccentrick men of fashion, itinerant beaux, fops on pilgrimage, wandering
wits."
"The last phrase is unfortunate," said Clare. Charles laughed hugely.
By this time Phyllida had faded like a summer joy, Vernon was forgotten,
nothing mattered except this new and exceedingly entertaining project.
"What is the first thing to be done?" inquired Clare.
"Egad, what should always precede any undertaking of importance—a
visit to the tailor."
The two young men beneath a sky growing rapidly overcast, walked
quickly through the lush meadows towards Curtain Wells, discussing as
they went the merits of rival tailors with infinite vivacity.
Meanwhile in the Crescent, our heroine was engaged upon much the same
problem. Possibly the reason that so many timid young women have been

brave enough to plunge into an elopement, is the obfuscation of the real
issue, the vital stakes, by the need of deciding what they shall leave behind
to console their abandoned virtue.
So it was, at any rate, with Phyllida. She was deterred from soft regrets by
the desperate necessity of making up her mind between the charms of a
muslin frock overlaid with pink rosebuds and a muslin frock sprigged with
the palest blue forget-me-nots.
There were a thousand sentiments that might well have restrained her
from the wild step she was taking, but everything was forgotten for a trifle;
and when finally she slipped out of the door, the only living creature for
whom she indulged herself in the luxury of a protracted farewell, was
Thomasina the tabby cat, and that was considerably interrupted by the
attenuated miaouws of a large family lately arrived. Even Ponto the spaniel
had sidled off to a favourite heap of rubbish. Pray do not suppose I am
sneering at Phyllida. Heaven forbid that you or I should sneer at a young
woman, however impetuous, however foolish. Still, I cannot help observing
that the heroism of most heroick actions is to be sought for in the obscure
preliminaries to a grand event. Phyllida had known the agony of making up
her mind through many a firelit, sleepless night. When the moment arrived
for carrying out her resolve, she spent most of the forenoon reading the
advertizement of a fashionable mantua-maker. As to her devices for getting
rid of her mother and Betty and the landlady and Thomas and Miss Sukey
Morton, who called to inquire whether Mrs. Featherbrain's new novel was
called The Affectionate Aunt or The Disconsolate Uncle,—why, they were
as old as the first writer of tales and I will not weary you with their
repetition. And why should I delay you with the narrative of the attempt to
open her mother's jewel-case with a bodkin and a silver paper-knife? Like
most toilet receptacles, it was very easily broken.
She hurried down the Crescent with a small parcel of cloaths wrapped up
in brown paper and tied with a green ribbon. If you are anxious to know
what was inside, I will refer you to Miss Howe, Mr. Richardson's Miss
Howe, to whom Miss Clarissa Harlowe confided a parcel of much the same
dimensions and contents.
She did not forget her swansdown muff nor her swansdown tippet, and
altogether she looked just the same as she looked a good many pages ago
and was flushed to just the same frail hue of carmine.

Ding-dong went St. Simon's husky clock, ding-dong, ding-dong.
Pitter-pat went Phyllida's heart and pitter-pitter-pitter-pitter-pat went
Phyllida's heart when, exactly opposite the toy-shop, she saw a post chariot
and four bay horses and two postillions staring very intently at the sky.
It struck Phyllida how clever it was of her dear Amor to chuse such a time
and such a place; for all the world was engaged in directing the start of the
Invincible Stage Coach that ploughed once a week between Curtain Wells
and London.
Tootle-a-tootle-a-tootle went the long brass horn of the guard and plump-
plump went two large parcels into his basket and crack-crack went the
coachman's long whip, and 'Now then Miss, jump in,' said one of the post-
boys, still staring intently at the March sky, and before Phyllida knew where
she was, she found herself sitting on a rather damp cushion with a peacock-
blue riding hood lined with swansdown on the seat beside her, but no sign
of Mr. Francis Amor.
In dismay she put her head out of the window and cried to the nearest
postillion.
"Mr. Harmor's followin' on 'orseback," he said, with a thumping thwack
on the ribs of his mount and a vicious prod with his rusty spurs.
Phyllida drew back with tears of disappointment starting to her wide blue
eyes; but before she could make up her mind to stop the chariot and never
elope again, she caught the glance of Thomas in open-mouthed amazement.
Instinctively, she pulled the musty curtains close, and, lifting the leather
flap at her back, could not help laughing aloud to see dignified Thomas
mopping his brow with his right hand and waving his tall cane with the left;
and just as the chariot tore round the corner of the street, she saw that
Thomas had knocked off Lord Cinderton's grey beaver hat. The Love Chase
had begun.

Chapter the Twenty-eighth

THE LOVE CHASE

J OHN GILPIN never rode so fast through Edmonton as, on that
memorable afternoon in March, Major Constantine Tarry pounded over
the cobbles of Curtain High Street. His scarlet uniform was very bright
against the huge iron-grey steed on whose broad back he nodded with hat
pressed down as far as his fierce prickly eyebrows, with pigtail bobbing to
the motion and with sword whose martial clangour recalled every famous
battle in the history of the world. He was conversing with the widow when
Thomas burst upon them with the news of Phyllida's elopement.
"Gone, gone!" wailed the footman. "Oh Tyre! Oh Sidon! Hittites on
horseback and two Amorites in a chariot!"
"What the d——l do you mean, sir?" snapped the Major, "who is gone?"
"Miss Phyllida," groaned Thomas.
"Gone," breathed the widow, and the odour of diffused Sanspareil
permeated the room.
"Gone where?" shouted the Major.
"To the desert beyond Jordan," answered the footman.
"With what viper in sheep's clothing?" gasped Mrs. Courteen.
"Which way, which way, sirrah?" interrupted practical Major Tarry.
"Lunnon," ejaculated Thomas, fainting into the arms of a chair.
This was why the inhabitants of the Wells saw a veteran of the Low
Countries shaken up like a cherry in a basket. The sedate glories of the town
were never more nicely displayed than on this famous occasion. From each
bow-windowed shop came forth a bland shopkeeper and half a dozen
inquisitive customers.
The little Miss Pettitoes trilled in bird-like accents: 'What an adventure!'
and returned to a counter spangled with their gay little purchases, for the
Miss Pettitoes were twin sisters and to-morrow was their birthday.

"What an adventure!" they trilled to each other over a dish of Hyson and
'What an adventure!' they trilled as they kissed each other 'good-night' and
went each to their bed chambers, identical save for the ribbons of their
fascinating little spinster night-caps.
"Hurrah! hurrah!" shouted the boys, as they pushed the maids into the
puddles the better to follow so surprizing a cavalier.
"Rot me!" said Mr. Golightly of the Grey Dragoons, as he lifted his
tortoise-shell rimmed monocle to his supercilious left eye, and 'Rot you!' he
ejaculated, as an enthusiastick trio of youth sheltered between his
remarkably tight-breeched legs.
"Shall we make such an impressive entrance, d'ye think?" asked Mr.
Lovely, as he and Mr. Clare came out of Mr. Canticle's shop, followed by
Mr. Canticle himself and Mr. Canticle's apprentice loaded with a huge
brown-paper parcel.
"Good day, Canticle," said Charles.
"Good day, Mr. Lovely, good day, sir, and depend on't, grey will be the
modish colour for gentlemen of quality; and I beg you not to be uneasy
about the light-blue lining. That, sir, I venture to predict, will supply the
exact touch of genteel eccentricity that consorts so amiably with the
friendly madness of the season. I envy you, gentlemen, I envy you; and I
beg to wish you many a pleasant adventure. The cut of that riding-coat, Mr.
Lovely, will enthral the most fastidious glance, and as for your breeches,
Mr. Clare, I should perhaps be considered boastful if I said that they impart
a tone, sir, a very distinguished tone to the landskip. Good day, gentlemen."
The two young gentlemen laughed over Mr. Canticle's prophecies, and
excused his loquacity because he had been a limner till the vogue for
foreign painters compelled him to apply his art in another direction.
It was certainly a stroke of irony that the offer of a sartorial uncle should
make him, a very tolerable exponent of nudity, take up the occupation of
devizing cloaths.
By this time, Major Tarry's coat-tails were flapping to hedge-row winds,
and his astonishing course was less universally regarded; although, even in
open country, the clamorous transit caused much confusion to itinerant
carters, while a pair of blackbirds forsook their hardly built nest and retired
in voluble dismay to the densest coppice between Baverstock Regis and
Curtain Wells.

Mr. Jeremy Daish met our hero with a very lugubrious expression, as he
strolled into the coffee-room.
"What has your honour been doing to enrage Mr. Ripple? Oh, Mr. Lovely,
read this."
Charles took the proffered note, and half-smiling, half-sighing, perused his
decree of banishment.

THE GREAT HOUSE.
CURTAIN WELLS, PRIDIE KAL. AP.
MR. DAISH,—The uncomfortable events of Wednesday evening compel me
to announce that I cannot contemplate with equanimity the protracted
Sojourn of Mr. Lovely at your hitherto peaceful House. I have no desire to
inflict upon you the invidious course of summary Ejection, but at the same
time I am bound to invite a trifle less cordiality in your Reception of all
young gentlemen unperturbed by the Gout. The town of Curtain Wells exists
for the supply of hygiastick Waters; and, since red wine is a notorious
antidote to chalybeate, my civick brother the Mayor begs me to point out
that we cannot lend our patronage to a house which studiously encourages
the circulation of this antipathetick Beverage. In expectation, Mr. Daish,
that you will presently reconstruct at once your list of wines and your list of
visitors,
I am, Mr. Daish, your obliged
HORACE RIPPLE.

"Console yourself, Daish," said our hero, as he handed back the Beau's
exquisitely written epistle, "Mr. Clare and I propose to make a long
excursion into the country this very afternoon. Have the goodness to order
our horses to be in the yard at six o'clock."
"Certainly, your honour, but I hope that nothing I may have said or done
or hinted—or—or—or—" poor Mr. Daish stumbled over the awkwardness
of the interview, and was more like a Cremona violin than ever, a violin
whose strings were snapping one by one.
"Console yourself, Daish," said our hero with an incredibly magnanimous
air, "you are not to blame. You must know, Daish, that for a long time past I

have had a curiosity to survey this small green earth, unhampered by
anything more serious than the impulse of the moment. To-night, Daish,
when you retire to rest, when you gather the curtains of your serene bed,
when you hark to the clock in the passage striking the moderate and orderly
hour of ten o'clock, when you reflect with a sigh of proprietary contentment
that you have offended no one in the course of an innkeeper's promiscuous
day, when, in a word, your respectable head sinks into your respectable
pillow, dally for a moment in the imagination of Charles Lovely and
Anthony Clare mocking society, laughing at convention, seated in the
parlour of some remote inn and dozing gratefully before a pile of logs.
"Think of us, Daish, in the cool dusks and azure silences of April, at the
top of some gentle hill whence we can regard with exhilaration the prospect
of a good dinner, a crimson glass, and genial intercourse with travellers.
Behold us in your mind's eye, walking our horses down through the
twilight, as one by one in cottage lattices the candles twinkle and, high
above, the stars betray the night with silver spears. For my part, already I
can hear the evening gossip of housewives, and the babble of children in
small gardens, and clear against the green West, I can see the many lovers
of a little town moving with slow steps along their customary path.
"Thus, my excellent Daish, each solemn nightfall will discover for us a
new world, and, when the sun rises on the merry unknown streets of our
pilgrimage, we shall think to ourselves what a vast number of jolly people
exist in this remarkably jolly world. Oddslife—"Mr. Lovely broke off
—"what a surprizing alliance."
As he looked out of the window, we had better look out of the window
too, and I think you will be quite disposed to agree with Charles when I
show you that vivid yellow chaise drawn by two fiery chestnut horses, and
driven by that extraordinarily diminutive coachman, for inside are seated
Beau Ripple and the Widow Courteen, and neither you nor I nor anybody
else ever saw both so nearly disconcerted.
"Now what the deuce can be the meaning of that?" continued Mr. Lovely.
"Of what you were saying?" inquired Mr. Daish in a deprecating voice.
"The horses! the horses!" was all that Mr. Lovely saw fit to reply.
Major Tarry's earlier progress might well have been the meteor which
heralds a cataclysm, for cataclysm this later apparition certainly was. I vow

the noise of conversation it caused far exceeded anything of the sort that
was ever known.
The Beau found the publicity of such an exit unendurable to his polite
soul. That his sacred chaise, which had once bowled along at a high but
decorous speed in order to meet the H—r A—— t of Great Britain, should
achieve such a vulgar notoriety nearly upset the sit of his waistcoat.
His contemporaries felt the Great little Man's humiliation.
Yet compassion did not prevent them from forming numberless
conjectures as to the cause of this strange affair. Some said 'Debt!'; others
boldly affirmed an intrigue; but as usual nobody guessed the true reason,
which was that beneath a gorgeous exterior lurked the gentlest, kindliest
heart.
When the Widow, with a very noisy tale of seduction, poured forth her
tears upon his cushions, Mr. Ripple instantly reproached himself and
nobody else with the disaster, immediately decided he must atone for his
negligence by immediately ringing his flowered bell-pull and commanding
Magog, who immediately appeared, to run immediately to the stables and
command the immediate harnessing of the royal horses to the royal chaise
and the immediate buttoning of his diminutive coachman's slender gaiters.
It was with a shudder, if a much polished shudder, that he handed Mrs.
Courteen to a place amid the fawn and ivory of the interior of his chaise.
With a barely repressed shudder, too, he observed the dabbled rouge of her
cheeks, and the open mouths of the cits, and the bobbing of heads at
windows, and a horrid bank of black clouds in the extreme South-west that
seemed to betoken a night full of rain, and last but perhaps worst of all, the
lean sign-post 'To London,' a prologue to G—— knows what unendurable
discomfort.
"We have an adventure to hand," said Charles to Clare, as they strolled
across the yard of the Blue Boar. "We'll follow Ripple!"
"Ripple?"
"Ay! Which way did Mr. Ripple's chaise go?" demanded Charles of a knot
of idlers.
"Lunnon Road," they replied unanimously.
"We must get ready at once," declared Charles.
* * *