The Passionate Elopement
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.