The Passionate Elopement

two inches deep into a pomade compounded of some particularly fine Provencal 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] Mr. 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