The Passionate Elopement
Vernon noticed the richness of Mr. Lovely's attire, made a rough
calculation of the value of his buckles, brooches and solitaire, and
answered very politely he hoped so indeed.
"I've not yet seen you at the _Blue Boar_, Sir. We make up a pleasant
party in the old Coffee-Room every night. There's young Tom Chalkley of
the Foot, Tony Clare, Peter Wingfield, Jack Winnington, Harry Golightly
of Campbell's Grey Dragoons, Blewforth of the _Lively_, and as many more
of us pass the time very pleasantly over some tolerable Port and very
excellent Burgundy."
"I doubt the company is delightful."
"'I faith, that's very true for when the wine makes us loquacious, d----
e, we sing, and when it makes us mum, why, d----e, the dice-box talks
for us. You'll join us, Sir?" he added, turning to Mr. Harthe-Brusshe.
"Proud," murmured that gentleman pensively regarding the rich scum
slowly hardening over the plate of soup to be attacked next.
"Let me see," said Charles, "to-night we must positively keep quiet in
deference to the Beau. Monday night I've promised to go to the
Assembly."
"What's that?" said Mr. Anthony Clare, a florid young gentleman on the
opposite side of the table. "Blewforth!" he called out to a naval
officer farther along. "Charles has forsook letters and is going to try
life for a change."
"Good G----," said the Lieutenant solemnly. "Charles crowding all canvas
after a petticoat?"
Charles looked somewhat disconcerted by this immediate perception of his
motives.
"I 'faith, you're in the wrong, Blewforth," he protested, "'tis to
please Ripple and that's the whole truth of the matter."
A roar of laughter greeted this excuse, and every young gentleman in
hearing vowed to exchange dice for dancing on Monday night.
"I saw Charles leave a note at a house in the Western Colonnade,"
remarked Ensign Chalkley of the Foot.
"A Valentine for a hundred guineas," said Clare.
"Name the charmer," shouted Blewforth, "name her, and egad, she shall be
the toast of the afternoon."
Mr. Vernon felt relieved. Somehow he had half suspected Lovely was in
pursuit of Miss Courteen. If he had not decided to wear purple sattin on
the day before and buried himself in the closet to extricate the suit,
he would have been still more suspicious of Lovely. The latter ignored
the friendly jeers.
"Shall we say Wednesday night, Sir?"
"I shall be honoured."
"May I beg the favour of your name, Sir? 'Tis customary with us to elect
our associates.'
"My name is Vernon. Francis Vernon of the Crescent, Curtain Wells--and
London."
It was Charles' turn to display apprehension. Here was a man well
dressed, of genteel appearance, living in the Crescent.
"Ah! the Crescent! I once had a notion to lodge there myself."
"'Tis a quiet position," said Vernon.
"So much the better for my Muse."
"You are a poet, Sir?"
"I have a metrical fancy."
"Try the Colonnade, Charles," bellowed the Lieutenant, "and your Muse'll
speedily become the most famous Toast of the time."
"Blewforth owns a spy-glass," said some one.
"I wish he would own a mirrour," said Charles, "his wig is infamous."
"His head is swollen since the w-war," stammered little Peter Wingfield,
"or else he was w-wounded in the wig." Blewforth, impervious to
smoaking, gave a loud guffaw.
Lovely and Vernon agreed to meet on the following Wednesday and the
conversation moved on general lines till the silver hammer of the Mayor
summoned the company to attend to the toasts. The eyes of the room were
on him as away up at the high table, he rose burly and majestick.
"Mr. Alderman Jobbins," he proclaimed, "the King!" Mr. Jobbins, the
youngest of the city fathers, blessed his sovereign with unctuous pride,
and the toast was drunk amid acclamations whose echo was drowned in
broken glass. Curtain Wells knew when to borrow from military manners.
Then the assembly tilted on its chairs after filling new glasses, and
composed itself to listen to Beau Ripple who had risen, monocle in hand.
When the murmur of delighted anticipation had sighed itself out on the
wings of a loud 'Hush,' the Great little Man with indescribable suavity
begged the company's permission to say a few words.
"Mr. Mayor, my lords, and gentlemen, may I say citizens? (a voice, 'You
may') for I think I am giving utterance to the sentiments of this
salubrious town when I protest that upon an occasion of such unique
interest and such immense significance, we no longer recognize any
distinction between visitors and residents (loud applause). We are
assembled this morning in order to honour a man for whom no honour is
sufficient. We are celebrating the twenty-first consecutive winter at
Curtain Wells of Sir Jeremy Dummer (loud cheers). He has been faithful
to us, gentlemen. Each year towards the close of the equinoctial gales,
his coach has clattered over the cobbles of Curtain Wells. Each year he
has alighted at the door of Number Seventeen, the Crescent. Each year he
has torn himself away from the gaiety of London in order to set us an
example of perseverance. Each year his arrival has encouraged other
gentlemen of grave address to put their faith in the cleansing springs
of Chalybeate. To be sure, his gout is as virulent as ever, but has he
despaired? No (cheers). Has he tried other remedies? No (cheers). He has
only been the more firmly convinced of the profound malignity of his
disorder and the more resolutely determined to annoy it by any and every
means in his power (continued applause). Twenty-one years ago Curtain
Wells was a different place. We had, it is true, this Civick Hall. We
had Crescent and Colonnade, Curtain Garden and Curtain Rotunda, Curtain
Wells and Curtain Pump Room, Curtain Hill and Curtain Dale. But we had
not your respected Mayor. In those days he was a younger, shall I add, a
more foolish man? I myself was still overshadowed by the reputation of
my great predecessor Beau Melon whose alabaster bust consecrates the
Assembly Rooms.
"In those days, gentlemen, coaches very rarely exceeded the rate of four
miles an hour, and as you have heard, the new Machine proposes to travel
at an uniform speed of six. Twenty-one years! This valetudinarian
majority should make the youngest of us pause and reflect. Twenty-one
years of Chalybeate (a groan from the back of the room).
"Mr. Mayor, my lords and gentleman, I propose the health of Sir Jeremy
Dummer and venture to assert that the time-honoured toast was never
before fraught with such significance. The health of Sir Jeremy Dummer!
It is in order to commemorate his health that we are assembled. Gout
has done many ill deeds, ruined many tempers, spoiled many legs, but for
this at least we should be grateful---- it has afforded us the spectacle
of a gallant gentleman faithful to his earliest prescription, hopeful of
an ultimate cure and charitable to the town of his adoption. (Loud and
prolonged applause.) One moment, gentlemen: let me add that the guest of
this entertainment has expressed a desire to present the town with a new
set of mugs for the publick fountains." (Volleys of applause.)
Beau Ripple after leading the toast with three very urbane Huzzas
resumed his seat, and Sir Jeremy Dummer doddered up to make his reply.
As it consisted chiefly of a long and detailed account of his symptoms
and extended over half an hour, and as you, with knowledge of his speedy
death, will not bear it with the slumberous equanimity of his
contemporaries, I shall not recount it. It is enough to say that when it
was concluded, everybody woke with a start and cheered vociferously.
Then the Mayor proposed the health of Mr. Ripple, and somebody else
proposed the health of the Mayor, and so on until all the dignitaries
had had enough wine drunk to their long life to ensure for every one of
them an undiseased immortality.
When the toasts were finished, the quality adjourned to the Civick
Chamber to meet the ladies over a dish of tea, while the quantity
marched off to put the seal on a great occasion by talking it over in
the various taprooms round the town.
Vernon was not inclined to brave the extension of the affair when he
perceived his new friends cautiously escaping from the Beau. He hated to
be conspicuous, and it was a small pleasure to meet his Phyllida among
the dowagers. Indeed, he was beginning to wish he had been less hasty in
taking lodgings in the Crescent, and the prospect of the _Blue Boar_ was
already alluring enough to make him inquire the price of a room in that
merry house. So he asked if he might take Mr. Lovely's arm.
In the square, the elegant young gentlemen made a bright knot.
"What's to be done?" cried the Lieutenant.
"L-l-let's ride over to B-Baverstock Regis and s-see T-Tony's m-maiden
aunt," stammered little Peter Wingfield.
"Bravo!" shouted Charles.
Clare looked up in surprize. Charles was seldom willing to play the game
of light love. Could that chatter of Blewforth's have gone deeper than
he thought? There was a strange excitement about him--an excitement that
was aroused by something stronger than the civick wine. Was he in love?
Mr. Anthony Clare was puzzled.
"You must know, gentlemen," said Mr. Lovely, "that this maiden aunt is
of a very singular complexion. 'Tis usual, as we are all aware, to look
to maiden aunts for legacies and presents, but this lady, as I know by
the state of Tony's purse, gets more than she gives."
"Fie! Charles," protested his friend, "I vow your point of view
deteriorates." What could be the matter with him?
"Well, gentlemen," he continued, "since you are so set on meeting my
relatives, egad! you shall. We'll ride over to Baverstock to-night;
there are dances in Baverstock Barn, and the maids--maiden-aunts will
all be there. You'll come Charles?"
"Not another word. I'll lead the love-chase or, shall we say, the legacy
hunt."
"And you, sir?" Clare continued with a bow to Vernon.
After a moment's hesitation due, no doubt, to bashfulness, the latter
assented, and in a trice the whole party went whooping and holloaing in
the direction of the _Blue Boar_.
And all this time, Phyllida was counting the kisses in her teacup while
she watched Miss Sukey Morton search energetically for strangers.
_Chapter the Sixth_
BAVERSTOCK BARN
Vernon left his companions at the door of his lodgings in order to adapt
his dress to the road, having settled with them to meet presently at the
_Blue Boar_ where a horse was to be saddled in readiness. He wondered
while pulling on his riding-boots what was the monetary value of his new
friends. They talked of play; but was it high enough to make their
fellowship worth joining? They were all apparently expensive in their
tastes and habits, but seemed so young and irresponsible. That however
was rather an advantage. They belonged to the World, the World that is
of St. James' Street; yet if they were callow pigeons, why were they
learning to fly to far from the nest which bred them?
Now Mr. Vernon had got hold of a wrong analysis. These young men of
Curtain Wells in spite of their outward freshness were not at all fit
for the table. They had tough breasts beneath an array of fine feathers.
This society of theirs, so remote from the larger society of London,
with a toleration of good and bad alike, was in its essence eclectick,
like a regiment or a college. An air of genial self-satisfaction clung
to it nourished by rules and opinions and traditions which had never
been proved to be false or harmful. The members were all clipped to a
pattern and displayed a wealth of blooms in a prim setting. Even Lovely
straggled too much, and was only allowed to disturb the fellowship on
account of his decorative qualities and because he was evidently only a
strong sport from the conventional habit of growth.