The Passionate Elopement

"On the contrary, nephew, you chose to go back to your father." "Why wasn't he admitted, too?" "Because," replied the uncle, "on a former occasion I was unfortunately compelled to invite your father to leave my house." "By what right?" Sir George raised his eyebrows. "Truly, nephew, I think you are indiscreet for a young man of such fashion." "I have the right to know," Charles burst out. "In all that I can remember of my childhood, you stood like a shadow in the corner of the room, you were the nightmare that haunted my pillow. You used to write sometimes--oh! I can remember your letters in their fat pursy envelopes. I can smell the sealing wax, black sealing wax, now. My father would go out with an oath and my mother would sit by a window with your letter in her lap, weeping, weeping." "Did she weep, boy?" "Ah! that pleases you, eh?" "No, no, I was thinking what a laugh she had once--what a laugh. I expect I was hard--I was--Charles, nephew, give me your hand--I----" The old man faltered in his speech and, as if the room were dark, groped for our hero's hand; the latter drew back. "No! thank 'ee, Uncle, once is enough." The old man did not heed the insult. "Perhaps I understand your feelings, boy, I've read your poems." Charles was touched for a moment, but hardened himself as he thought of that wide staircase down which, clutching the balustrade with both hands, he had stumbled alone. A child does not easily forgive a slight, and Charles still regarded his uncle with the eyes of a child. "Did she speak of me before she died?" murmured the old man with a wistful eagerness. "She may have spoken," said Mr. Lovely, "the fever was high." "Or laugh--before she died? Nephew! to-night a young woman came to this inn alone. She smiled like my sister, she laughed like my--like your mother and like your mother she went away with the wrong man." "What do you mean?" cried Charles too much startled by the sudden violence of his uncle's speech to resent the criticism of his father. "And you have ridden in pursuit? Then you are her lover--eh? She's played you false as Joan played Roger false, and you are riding after her, and you will shoot him and marry her, and bring her to Repington Hall. 'Fore Heaven, I would give all my fortune to hear that laughter ripple along the lonely corridors of Repington Hall. They used to sit in the sunny window seat; and he would lean over the sill to pluck the roses that blew beneath. I cut the tree down when he was killed, and in the orchard where Lovely murdered him I planted cypresses." "Murdered him?" cried Charles impressed against his will by the old man's passion. "Aye, murdered him. Roger was no swordsman, he was a gentle kindly creature who loved old books and old friends, that's why I cannot understand Belladine, why did Belladine let him fight, and what became of--Good G----!" said the old man, "he's come back." Charles looked up and, seeing only Beau Ripple standing in the doorway, concluded that his uncle was gone mad. "A pinch of snuff, George?" said Mr. Ripple. "Thank'e, William," said Sir George. "This is my nephew, William--young Charles Lovely." "We are already very good friends," said the Beau. The exchange of courtesies effected by the Beau with that unfailing tact which characterized his least actions shed a new serenity over the situation and, though Charles was completely puzzled by a surprizing junction of personalities, he, too, with a profound instinct for the correct attitude, bore a part in what was apparently nothing more out of the way than a conversational episode in a social evening; yet three twigs in a whirlpool do not jostle one another much more roughly than the same three twigs in a puddle. "How's the gout, George? You threatened at one time to become an easy prey to our physical Alectro." "Better, William, thankee, far better. I found that hard work kept it off; or else I grew to drink less Port. I've dined solitary for a round number of years now." "Your uncle looks well, Charles. Egad, I believe after all gold is better than iron for a man's health whatever the apothecaries tell us. Where is Clare?--a good fellow that friend of yours, Charles. I like Mr. Clare." Tony came in from the stables at that moment and was presented to Sir George Repington. He had often heard Charles rail against his uncle, but, perceiving no strain in the relation between them, entered yhe gathering with an easy grace, and gave a very humorous account of their departure from the Wells. "Tut, tut," exclaimed Mr. Ripple, for Ripple he must remain, since as Ripple he achieved immortality. "Tut, tut, I cannot have these riotous assemblies. This comes of leaving Curtain Wells. By the way, where is Mrs. Courteen?" "She has an audience, sir," said Clare, "and is, therefore, as happy as can be expected under the circumstances." "Who is Mrs. Courteen?" This from Sir George. "A lady in whose company I have set out upon a very restless adventure. Cupid, George, has been shooting his arrows of late, without much regard to our mortal comfort. I believe the young rogue was unduly elated by the success of his Valentines." "Sure, you aren't abroad on a love-affair, too, William?" "Not of my own, George, but I have an onus in the matter. Some one has stolen a porcelain shepherdess from my booth in Vanity Fair." "That would be the young woman with whom I supped to-night in this inn. Her name was Courteen." "What! then we all have an interest in this matter, and can discuss the proper conduct of it over the very excellent supper whose arrival I anticipate without apprehension. This is a capital house, George." "The landlord is an oddity," said Clare, "called me tulip and onion in a breath, and begged to be allowed to brush the mud off my boots which he said was a famous manure for carnation gillyflowers. I 'faith, the old boy made me feel devilish unclean." Mrs. Tabrum came in to say the widow would not take supper with the gentlemen. She was much fatigued, and would be glad to retire to bed if Mr. Pipple--or was it Ripple--had no objection. "None whatsoever," replied the latter in a pensive tone of voice. He was meditating rather sadly upon the circumscription of human fame. A mere five-and-twenty miles from Curtain Wells, and already there was a doubt as to whether he were Pipple or Ripple. "The widow don't intend to proceed," said Charles, when Mrs. Tabrum had curtseyed her way out. "She is a foolish woman," said the Beau. "But you are not going to leave the daughter to her fate," asked Sir George. "As you----" he stopped. Charles looked up; Mr. Ripple gravely took a pinch of snuff. "I think," said the former, "that I shall be more likely to catch the chariot. What's o'clock?" "Half-past ten," said Clare. "Your horse must rest an hour or two yet; I'll ride with you." "That would be wiser," said Sir George eagerly. "Then nobody will say Charles took an unfair advantage of him. Although--" Again he stopped in a sentence, and again Mr. Ripple took a pinch of snuff. It was strange how Sir George had identified himself with Phyllida's fortunes. It seemed as if he were staking his hope of a happy old age upon the result of this love chase. The meeting with Phyllida had filled up the rift which time and disappointment had created. He felt that fortune owed him reparation for his sister's loss; and could not help thinking what an appropriate instrument of the Fates had risen up in the person of his nephew. Sir George Repington had become so much accustomed in his large financial experience to the theory of just exchange that he was inclined to put too blind a confidence in the scales, and was too sure that the balance would adjust itself at some time or other. His nephew had not shown himself greatly enraptured by this late reconciliation, and Sir George had been lonely long enough. He was anxious at eventide for company. Death came suddenly like a clock that strikes in the night, and Sir George was afraid of the grey dawn stealing over the tree tops through the gaunt windows of Repington Hall. When the time came for him to face the vast uneasy realms of immortality, he would like to feel that somewhere on this small green earth, some hand would wave a sorrowful, a last farewell. He would cherish these two lovers; the maid would bring him and Charles together in friendship and charity. Everything pointed to a fortunate issue. He no longer brooded resentfully over calamities that were forgotten long ago. Belladine had come back. He and Belladine would sit on the sloping Repington lawns. June was in front of them. Already, like balm upon the old man's wounded heart, there stole the murmurous peace of the longest day. He saw the golden light, and the long shadows of the elms. He heard the caw of homing rooks and the flutter of thrushes in the great Hall shrubberies. In dignity and in rustick ease he would move with measured meditative steps like an English squire to his last account--not account, that savoured too much of Throgmorton Street--to his last bed, his virtues recorded in a Latin eulogy and for a memorial Charles and Phyllida, perhaps a grandson George, certainly four weeping cherubs to guard the four corners of his cenotaph. Our hero was in that state when a host of conflicting emotions fight for the mastery. So much had happened in this eventful day. Everything and everybody appeared in a new perspective. Beau Ripple, seen by the firelight of the Travellers' Room, was no longer the exquisite despot of a world in miniature, the impersonal porcelain monarch, the rarest and most valuable piece in an universe of Bric-a-brac. He was in some way connected with the tragedy of his uncle's early life. The sovereign marionette of amber and tortoise-shell, of perfumes and pomades, whom Charles had known hitherto, was only an elegant exterior. Underneath the sattin, it seemed, there lived a man--one Belladine, of whose existence Fashion was ignorant. The well-dressed Attitude called Horace Ripple would be revered long after his decease. His epigrams would be quoted. He would represent a period in the frivolous archives of Curtain Wells, but Belladine whose heart had quickened to something more vital than a pretty measure, Belladine who had known tears and laughter, Belladine the Man would be forgotten. Charles pondered with passionate commiseration the myriad heartaches of poor humanity that were once esteemed worthy of exaggeration until a new intrigue caught the publick tongue, and contemplated regretfully the inevitable and gradual insignificance of all scandal. Truly, it was more consoling to regard Beau Ripple, that inexplicable phenomenon, than try to gain the acquaintance of Mr. William Belladine who had once played an important part in his uncle's life. The latter, too, was different. He had only existed in Charles' mind as an aversion of childhood, but Charles no longer objected to sleep in the dark--the habit had come to him unconsciously. After all he owed Sir George Repington no grudge; it would be absurd to cherish an animosity that was based on a jejune domestick patriotism. The time had long gone by when he thought his own father the finest gentleman in the world. Yet was not this power of taking so much for granted, this passive acceptance of change and decline, a surrender of his youth? Was he, in fact, already divesting himself of all passionate reality? Charles experienced the despair of the devout man whose faith deserts him. He wrestled with his doubts and suddenly (it seemed a miracle) beheld on the ingle seat a swansdown muff. Youth returned--a harlequin with the supple wand of illusion. He stood once more in peach-coloured velvet