The Passionate Elopement
coat, staring up to a balcony over whose railing dimpled the most
enchanting face in England.
"This was your mother, boy," said Sir George almost timidly, breaking in
upon his dreams.
Very tenderly, Charles took the locket from the old man, and the sight
of the fresh young face brought back to his mind queer old nursery
rhymes, and his mother's voice and the smell of a pot of musk and the
cries of London coming in through an open window. There was a mist over
Charles' eyes and a lump in Charles' throat as he shook his uncle's
hand.
The latter wondered at himself for having been content to remain so long
without the consolation of an acknowledged heir. For all these years, he
had worked without an object. Now the great house of Repington and Son
should be incorporated with some equally famous house and a delightful
leisure was at last imaginable.
It warmed the old man's heart to hear Charles declare the importance of
immediate pursuit, to hear him shout for his horse to be saddled, lame
or sound, to see Mr. Clare look to the priming of the pistols and when,
on the threshold of departure, the old man saw his nephew pick up the
swansdown muff and cram it into the deep pocket of his great cloak, he
could scarcely forbear a loud huzza, such vigour and determination were
plainly visible on his nephew's attractive countenance.
One incident, just before he set out, served to chill our hero's fervour
and discount his conviction of success. He was coming back from the
stable and, as he passed the staircase that led to the bedchambers,
perceived Mrs. Courteen beckoning from the corridor. He stopped to bow;
and in a tone where politeness and condolence and hopefulness were
pleasantly mingled, as good as promised the speedy restoration of Miss
Phyllida Courteen.
"Sir," said the mother, "you are generous indeed to a fallen young
woman."
Our hero frowned at this description of his love.
"And equally generous," she continued, "towards the fault."
Charles made a movement, but the widow plaintively ignored the
interruption.
"They have told me of your generous resolve, but I would warn you, Mr.
Lovely, that interference in these matters is generally disastrous. The
child has done wrong--I do not wish to extenuate her crime--for crime
it is when you consider her mother's indulgence of every whim. I know
nothing of the eligibleness of the gentleman in whose company she has
chosen to shock the sensibility of her mother's small and select circle
of intimate friends."
Charles began to fidget.
"He may for all I know be a man of fashion, of rank, of fortune. He may,
on the other hand, be a play-actor, an attorney's clerk, or a journeyman
tinker. In either case it seems unlikely he will make an offer of
marriage. Pray do not put such an idea into his head. Marriages forced
upon reluctant suitors commonly turn out unhappy for both parties."
The widow must have been immensely in earnest, monstrously eager to
secure her ambition, for never before had her speech betrayed such power
of coherent expression.
"Let her go on her way," said the mother. "Let her find out for herself
the results of rebellion; when the villain deserts her, she may not be
quite so unwilling to stone the damsons next August. Let her learn her
lesson, Mr. Lovely, and pray do not persuade her to come back. Her
reputation is tarnished; and I am not at all inclined to bear the burden
of her ill-behaviour, as I should do, Mr. Lovely, as I certainly should
do since the world is censorious, and apt to visit the sins of the
children upon the heads of the father, as the Bible says."
Charles could scarcely believe that Mrs. Courteen was in earnest.
He knew her for a worldly-minded woman, careless of everything save her
own pleasures, but for such depths of callousness he was not prepared.
"Indeed, madam," he said coldly, "my only excuse for obtruding my
presence upon Miss Courteen at such a time is my sincere hope that she
will honour my solicitous regard with the bestowal of her hand."
"The child must be punished," insisted the mother.
"Indeed, madam, I venture to think we may safely leave that office to
the small and select circle of your intimate friends."
"I cannot understand what attracts--" Mrs. Courteen began, then changed
to "what makes men so generous."
Mr. Lovely regarded her contemptuously.
"So I should think."
"Cruel Mr. Lovely," moaned the widow, "Cruel to suggest that I am
ungenerous. Why, I have never mentioned the pearls which were taken out
of my jewel-case."
"They say that Miss Courteen's necklace vastly becomes her mother."
"Do they, indeed, sir?" said the widow with an affected sigh.
Charles made an impatient gesture.
"Do you imagine, madam, that I am going to tire a good-hearted horse for
the sake of allowing you to bask in the flattery of your friends? By
G----! I tell you that one of 'em is already dead--shot for the sake of
that daughter whose ruin you contemplate so tranquilly."
The widow turned pale.
"At any rate," Charles continued; "at any rate, the little Major with
all his strut died like a cock of the game."
"The Major dead," half screamed the widow; and even that information, so
brutally delivered, provided the thought that now more than ever was it
necessary to prevent Phyllida's marriage.
"Aye, dead! He'll be here in the morning when the Wells waggon arrives."
Charles turned away from the widow, thinking how impossible it was to
believe that a mother could be so heartless. The desire to cherish
Phyllida surged over him in a wave of tenderness; but when presently he
and Clare set out from the inn-door, under the tail of the storm-cloud
shedding stars in slow retreat across the sky, he felt Despair upon his
heels and pondered the infamy of this beautiful world. Poor hero! he was
a gamester even in his emotions and, having staked his hope in one wild
throw, was fearfully watching the issue. What a maddening melody the
cubes made when rattled by the hands of Fate.
Pray remember, before you dismiss the widow to your eternal disdain,
that she may have loved young Mr. Standish, that rugged Squire Courteen
may have been very brutal in his cups, that such a malicious Codicil
might have soured a woman less dependent upon the amenity of life.
Finally, pray remember that she was a woman who did not wrinkle easily,
and the consequent temptations of a deceitful mirrour. Looking-glasses,
like human beings, lie more often than is commonly supposed, but possess
an unlucky reputation for truthfulness which seldom hampers humanity.
Left alone with Sir George, Mr. Ripple took advantage of the opportunity
to explain to his old friend certain events on which the latter had long
brooded in vain.
_Chapter the Thirty-fifth_
THE CUTTING OF A DIAMOND
"And what is your life, William?" asked Sir George Repington, leaning
back in his chair and removing his wig.
"My life, George," replied Mr. Ripple, "is a gem carved by a cunning
workman to stamp any material sufficiently plastick to record an
impression. My life, George, is a conductor of musick. Of itself it
produces no sweet sounds, but evokes a fair harmony from many and
diverse instruments."
"You had ambitions once."
"I have gratified the most of them."
"Yet your life has not been active."
"No?"
"As for example mine has been."
"I do not know, George, that my contemplative existence has produced
less than your phrenzied encounters with mathematical alliances and
numerical intrigues. The manipulation of human beings is quite as
active. We have neither of us done a vast deal."
"I have had a great influence upon the political situation, more than
once," said Sir George proudly.
"So have I," said the Beau.
"Indeed?"
"I have tamed the wives of the most of our ministers."
"But you are not a man of intrigue?"
"Heaven forbid!" said the Beau devoutly. "No, no George, my knowledge of
Olympian intrigue taught me to be wise. I found that the gods never
improved their dignity by amorous descents. To be sure, on one or two
occasions, they made an effort to assert their divinity by dramatical
effects unworthy of a country conjurer, but I do not believe that they
ever recovered from the indiscretion of familiarity with their
inferiors. No! no! George, I am not a man of intrigue."
"Then what is your life? How do you pass your time?"
Sir George Repington had lit a churchwarden pipe and accentuated the
inquiry by waving the long stem. Mr. Ripple took a pinch of snuff and,
settling himself deeper in his chair, began to relate his manner of
existence in a clear and modulated tone that agreed well with the
comfort of the room. The narrative took its own course and reminded one
of the purring of a cat amid the flickering shadows cast by firelight on
a gaudy rug.
"I assumed my present name--Horace Ripple--partly out of respect to the
poet, partly out of respect to my father's mother. Belladine was too
metallick, too lustrous an appellation for a man without any desire to
agitate the peace of the world. Besides, there were other reasons why I
should forget my patronymick. As Horace Ripple, I rode one fine morning
into the town of Curtain Wells, procured a pleasant house in the Eastern
Colonnade and waited upon Beau Melon. The latter received me very
graciously and was pleased to compliment me upon the trimming of my
waistcoat. (I have often contemplated the revival of that auspicious
fashion.) I was lucky enough to render the great Beau a trifling
service, in the matter of adjusting the discordant claims of two
dairymaids who were quarrelling rather loudly over the young Earl
of---- well, his name don't matter. Melon had been entrusted with the
harvesting of the young nobleman's wild oats. After that I was able to
lend him five hundred pounds and half a dozen epigrams, also to put him
in the way of a neat translation of a song by the passionate Catullus,
whereby he secured the hand of the famous, wealthy, and eccentrick
Contessa Dilettante. He married, bequeathed to me his house, his
notebooks, and his goodwill, so that in a paltry five years I succeeded
to the sovereignty of Curtain Wells. Our season endures from October
until June. During that time I am as busy as a monarch should expect to
be. I have made many alterations during the years of my rule; for
instance, the Assemblies once held every Wednesday are now invariably
held every Monday."
"But what the d----l does it matter which day they are held?"
interrupted Sir George.
"Of course, it does not matter. Nothing matters. Nevertheless, George,
when I announced the change, I tell you my throne, for a moment,
tottered. However, I triumphed over the malcontents, and I venture to
think it would take a very bold man to suggest they should ever again be
held upon Wednesday."
"But, my dear William!" said his friend, "this is nonsense. 'Tis absurd
for you to sit there and congratulate yourself as though this were doing
something."
"My dear George," said the Beau very blandly. "Did I not read last year
in the _Intelligence_ that you were agitating yourself confoundedly in
order to secure some great financial advantage by altering the date of
the despatch of bullion to Portugal?"
"You did, William, you did," said Sir George, setting his shoulders back
at the proud thought of a great victory won.
"And what the d----l does it matter whether the ships sail in February
or March?"
"You don't understand--the depression of the markets, the----"
"Precisely so," interrupted Mr. Ripple, "and you, my dear friend, do not
understand the depression of Monday and Tuesday in the time before my
great reform."
"But mine was an affair of international importance."
"And mine was an affair of domestick and social importance. Gadslife, do