The Passionate Elopement
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
John 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