The Passionate Elopement
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
Not 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'etat, 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
The 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