The Passionate Elopement
And now the Beau, whose urbanity had been restored by Horace and roast
duck, entertained Mrs. Courteen with delightful tales of fashionable
society. The most violent jolt no longer availed to upset the balance of
his sentences. The widow was deeply impressed by Mr. Ripple's charming
behaviour and, though she could not appreciate his anecdotes at their
value, was put into a very pleasant disposition of mind by a
half-fledged fancy that the Great little Man was slowly succumbing to
her ample fascination. As for little Pridgeon, his diminutive inside was
so replete with cordials and old Jamaica rum that he was quite
impervious to the weather and he sang a large number of country ballads
in a very engaging Alto voice.
Suddenly, as they were driving over a wild stretch of commonland, dotted
with huge clumps of gorse and a number of stunted and wind-bent
thorn-trees, the chaise stopped with a jerk, spoiling the climax of one
of the Beau's best stories, describing how he had compelled the Duchess
of Hereford to apologize to a flower girl.
"What's the matter?" he cried out.
"Nothing," said Pridgeon, "but we're just underneath the gallows with a
very notorious reskel swingin' over our heads--reg'lar old scarecrow he
is--can't you hear the chains, y'r honour? He's bobbin' about in the
wind like a cork in a puddle."
"Drive on, rogue," commanded Mr. Ripple sternly.
"It 'ud be a pity not to see 'im. Blue Jenkins vas his name--I'll hold
up one of the lamps and you can take a good look at 'im. There was
hundreds used to walk 'ere of a Sunday afternoon when he was just
turned off, ecod, y'r honour ought to take a look at him."
"Will you drive on, sirrah!"
Suddenly Mrs. Courteen uttered a loud scream; and very uncanny it
sounded in the tempest.
"What in the name of--what's the matter?" exclaimed Mr. Ripple.
"I hear horses," said Mrs. Courteen, and screamed again.
Pridgeon cocked up his ears.
"She's right," he shouted. "There's a couple of 'em coming up behind
us!"
"Good G----! Highwaymen!" said Mrs. Courteen, clinging to Mr. Ripple.
The latter did not lose his presence of mind.
"Drive on, you puppy! I'll see to the priming of my pistols." With these
words the Courageous little Man dived between the widow's agitated legs
and groped for the elegant walnut case of his exquisitely chased
pistols.
"'Tain't no good," shouted Pridgeon, as he lashed the horse to a gallop.
"'Tis only a mile afore we reaches Long Hill and they'll catch us
walkin' there."
"I warn you, madam," said Mr. Ripple calmly, while the postchaise
rattled through the storm, "I warn you that I shall certainly shoot
once, if not twice."
But Mrs. Courteen had fainted away and only half a dozen pins released
from their responsibleness whispered a faint and ineffective answer.
_Chapter the Thirty-third_
THE HIGHWAYMEN
The rumour of Phyllida's elopement took definite shape just as the
candles were being lighted for the nuts and wine. It lent quite a
flavour even to the inferior Port that disgraced most of the
dinner-tables at Curtain Wells. And if a flavour was lent to moderately
bad wine, what a truly celestial aroma was given off by the fragrant
pots of tea in the parlours. Curtain Wells was always famous for the
finest blends, and I venture to think that the sad affair of Miss
Courteen inspired every hostess to a perfection of art unequalled before
or since. Never were the gentlemen so quick to follow the ladies from
the spent dinner. Moreover, the absence of Beau Ripple permitted a
recklessness of conjecture, a venom of Innuendo that would have made the
rumour famous, even had it proved devoid of the slightest foundation.
Many inclined to the theory that Mr. Ripple had arranged the prologue to
suit himself, and vowed they had seen fervent stares exchanged between
him and Mrs. Courteen. One inventive young gentleman started a report
that Mr. Vernon was the Pretender; but this was contradicted by old Lady
Loch Lomond who, having been one of the ladies-in-waiting at St.
Germain's and watched the young prince in his bath, was positive that
Mr. Vernon did not resemble him at all. The young gentleman's ingenious
suggestion lent a momentary glamour to the heroine of the affair, but
with the destruction of his story by Lady Loch Lomond, publick attention
was again concentrated upon Beau Ripple. An extravagant explanation of
his roundabout method of courtship was found in a whispered legend that
in early youth he had married one of the daughters of the Grand Turk
and escaping from the turbaned alliance four months afterwards through
the friendly offices of a fig merchant from Smyrna who smuggled him out
of the Bosphorous and landed him at Lyme Regis in Dorsetshire, had spent
the rest of his enforced celibacy in dread of vengeful scimitars.
Then somebody remembered the codicil to Squire Courteen's will, and the
story of young Mr. Standish who left the neighbourhood in such a hurry.
One of the abetters of this last tale mentioned that Mr. Ripple was
badly in need of money, and finally everybody agreed that here at last
was the true explanation of the yellow chaise. The Beau was trying to
make up his losses by wedding Mrs. Courteen secretly so that the lawyers
should not lay violent hands upon her inheritance. This was such a
satisfactory and circumstantial account that everybody sat down to
Quadrille without their play being the more distracted than usual.
Meanwhile the author of the latest explanation went from house to house
to burble the news in the company of his two witnesses. The three of
them were received everywhere with acclamation as soon as it transpired
they were the bearers of the authoritative account; and though they were
all of them bores of the finest calibre, they enjoyed a considerable
popularity which compensated for all the slights and snubs they had
received in the past at the hands of rank and fashion. Having discovered
their talents, they all three existed for ever afterwards on the sources
of false information and published books of memoirs and thought
themselves great men and, in fact, are to this very day consulted by
social historians.
Meanwhile another rumour was flying furiously round all the shops that
Mr. Lovely was on the verge of making a hurried departure from Curtain
Wells. Mr. Ripple owed nothing to the tradesmen; consequently his yellow
chaise caused no consternation in commercial hearts, but Mr Charles
Lovely owed large amounts. Every shopkeeper in the High Street vowed he
would know the true facts of this reported flight. Under the great
archway of the _Blue Boar_, they pattered--all of them dressed in
snuff-coloured suits and all of them with suspiciously long envelopes
protruding from their left-hand pockets. There was Mr. Crumpett the
Confectioner and Mr. Frieze the Tailor and another tailor called Charges
and a third called Trimmings. There was Mr. Cuffe the hosier, and Mr.
Trinket of one toyshop and Mr. Leonard of another, and Mr. Wheeler the
coach-builder; there was fat Mrs. Leafy of one flower-shop and little
Miss Bunch of the other flower-shop, and old Mrs. Tabby of the ribband
shop, there was Mr. Filigree the Goldsmith, and Mr. Tree the bootmaker,
and Mr. Buckle the saddler, and young Washball the barber's senior
apprentice. In fact, the only creditors absent were Mr. Daish who was at
that very moment listening to a plausible demonstration of Mr. Lovely's
prospects, and the ex-limner Mr. Canticle who would have scorned to
associate himself with such a snuff-coloured rabble and had, moreover,
been paid something on account more lately than the rest.
"What the deuce is this seditious gathering?" exclaimed Lieutenant
Blewforth to little Peter Wingfield as they swung round the corner and
plunged into the voluble assemblage. Suddenly there was a noise of a
window being thrown up, and a stillness fell upon the dingy throng as
they beheld the debonair countenance of our hero.
"Speak up, Charles," bellowed the Lieutenant, "I support your
candidature. D---- e," he muttered to Wingfield, "d----e, if I knew
Charles was a Parliament man."
"L-listen," said Mr. Wingfield, standing on tip-toe and craning his
little neck to hear Charles' views on the political situation.
"Gentlemen," Mr. Lovely began, with a hand gracefully buried in the
opening of his embroidered waistcoat, "Gentlemen, I am sensibly
flattered by this deputation."
A simultaneous grunt acclaimed this remark.
"I say, I am sensibly flattered. It is always a pleasure to--to----"
"Charles'll never be elected, if he talks to 'em so slow," commented Mr.
Blewforth with a shake of his burly head.
"I say, I am sensibly flattered."
"That's all very fine, Mr. Lovely, but what about my bill?" shouted Mr.
Filigree who being better able to stand a loss was bolder than his
companions.
"Ay--yes--to be sure, your money," Charles started off again. "Well,
gentlemen, I say, gentlemen, money is a very wonderful thing. It is the
panacea or cure of all earthly ills, like sleep in the play it knits up
the ravelled sleeve of care. Money! to be sure!"
"He's trying to make 'em swallow the new taxes," said Blewforth sagely.
At that moment somebody twitched Mr. Lovely's coat from behind, and he
retired from the open window; the angry snuff-coloured crowd looked at
each other, conferred for a moment, then pattered quickly back by the
way they had come. From the tangle of their murmured confabulations, two
ominous words floated back to the Lieutenant and little Peter
Wingfield--'Sheriff's Officers!'
It was Clare's announcement of the arrival of Betty in the best parlour
of the _Blue Boar_ that had distracted Charles' attention from his
creditors. He found her trembling from head to foot and playing with the
buttons of her scarlet cloak.
"My young mistress, your honour, my pretty lamb has gone."
"Miss Courteen?"
"Little Miss Phyllida."
"With Vernon."
"No, wi' Amor."
"How long ago?"
"Nigh three hours or more. The Bow and the Widow have galloped after
'em, but what I do say is, 'tis no work to set an old couple to catch a
young couple: oh! your honour, if ever in this sweet Springtime you
loved my dear one, will 'ee follow her now and bring her back to me?"
The news of Phyllida's elopement so crudely announced staggered him,
notwithstanding his anticipation of such an event.
Hitherto his love for the maid had been a pleasant fancy, an impulse to
day-dreams but nothing more material.
That very morning as he wandered in the water-meadows, he had been so
full of the outside effect of his attitude there had been no room for
the personal desire. He had tried to convince himself he was sincerely
anxious for Phyllida's future happiness; but the true position he should
have taken up was a determination to possess her for himself whatever
the cost. She was young and fair, rose-flushed and adorable, and 'twas a
pity to waste so much freshness on Vernon dulled by pleasure and--not
quite well-bred.
Now a sense of personal loss stung him into action. Besides, he and Tony
had vowed to transform life into a gay adventure. Here already was a
quest worthy of their highest hopes.
"I will certainly go," said Charles.
"Ah! you have a true heart."
"Have I, Betty, have I?"
"'Twas on merry Valentine morn, you saw my pretty one."
"So 'twas."
"When thrushes and blackbirds do maate."
"So they say."
"Take it for a sign, will 'ee?"
"I will."
"And say when you come to her and have sent that wagabone packing off to
his Lunnon, say the linnets are piping away down in Hampshire, will
'ee?"
"I will."
"Say that us'll soon be harking for the cuckoo in the greenwood, and
look see, give her this; 'tis a little white daisy I picked. Bid her