The Passionate Elopement
"But never, never," proclaimed Mrs. Grindle swelling like Mr. Handel's
_Largo_, "have I known a young gentleman want to turn his bachelor bed
into a ploughed field. Mr. Lovely, sir, I'll trouble you to say if this
is your planting or did you wish to insinuate that your bed was not made
this morning?"
"Mrs. Grindle, madam," replied the accused, "you have heard of beds and
you have heard of garden-beds. Mine is a garden-bed. A Parterre
impromptu, a Landskip in miniature, a Bucolick of slumber, a dimity
Eclogue. In a word--but pray, Mrs. Grindle, my dear Mrs. Grindle, out
of regard for me rehabilitate that jacynth without a word to Mr. Daish,
and I, out of regard for you, will certainly pay for the washing of the
bedspread."
Mr. Lovely smiled so very engagingly and looked so completely innocent
of any desire to insinuate anything except Mrs. Grindle's good-nature
that the housekeeper gave way, condescended to smile and, as she
retired, threw a quick glance in the direction of a mirrour to notice
the angle of her snowy cap.
Having reduced Mrs. Grindle to affableness, Mr. Lovely turned his smile
towards the Beau. The latter had watched with much satisfaction the
progress of his favourite's negociations, thinking to himself that a man
who could circumvent such a dragon as the housekeeper would be very well
able to keep in order the most self-assertive of Duchesses. He began to
relent his indignation and, as Lovely smiled at him, to see in his late
impetuousness no more than the natural activity of a jolly young man.
Moreover, for a certain reason, he had a genuine affection for the
rogue, and was glad to perceive his high spirits.
"I came here this morning in the hope of a serious conversation with
some of your friends. Are they--are they in the--er--taproom?"
"They're all gone after maids."
"Tut, tut, I wish I could make it plain that Curtain Wells exists for
the continence, not the encouragement of appetites."
"You must blame the sun, dear Beau."
"In view of the many pleasant hours I have spent basking in the warmth,
I should not presume to do anything so ungrateful. But I will remark
that the Sun in his human guises is not to be considered a beneficial
example to young men at a stage in the history of mankind when maidens
are no longer able to transform themselves into umbrageous laurels, thus
rendering impertinent and inconvenient what at first seemed appropriate
and inevitable. I allude, sir, to the legend of Apollo and Madam Daphne.
However, my dear Charles--" here the Beau laid three tapered jewelled
fingers upon the extremity of Mr. Lovely's left shoulder.
"You overwhelm me, sir, with your condescension. The omission of the
surname by Beau Ripple, is the bestowal of a title."
"Very well put, Charles," said the older man contentedly. "'Fore Gad!
you do me credit. Snuff, sir?"
Charles (we may follow the lead of Mr. Ripple) was now veritably
astonished. Never could he recall such an instance of the Beau's
condescension towards a man of his years; and he dipped his fingers into
the proffered snuff-box with greater bashfulness than he would have
displayed towards the powder-box of Titania.
"However, though the rest of our young gentlemen are--after maids," the
Beau stumbled over the crudity of the phrase, "I am happy to see that
you are engrossed by the seemlier pastime of horticulture." Was it fancy
or did Charles really see his mentor blow a tuft of swansdown from his
cuff? "I wish," the latter went on, "to remonstrate with you on the
indecorous character of your midnight entertainments. Owls, under
providence, are allowed to shriek and hoot after sundown, but there
seems no reason for extending to men the privilege accorded by a Divine
Creator to owls. In short, Mr. Lovely, there has been the--there has
been an atrocious hurly-burly in this house every night of late. Pray do
not interrupt me," he added as Charles made a protesting movement. "I
have the fullest Data for my general observations."
"Youth, dear Beau, hot-headed, open-handed Youth."
"Yes, yes, I know something of Youth's anatomy from a personal
experience of the happy state, but Youth, Mr. Lovely, is a mighty
inadequate justification for a circular scar on the forehead of one of
our most respected and silver-tongued watchmen--a scar inflicted by the
unconsumed but necessary concomitant of a quart of Burgundy."
"It was an accident, sir, young Tom Chalkley of the Foot----"
"I have observed, Mr. Lovely, that if one of these missiles happens to
strike the body against which it is aimed the result is invariably an
accident whereas if the missile goes wide of the mark it is a d----d
poor shot. But it cannot go on, Mr. Lovely. It shall not go on. The
residents acting in conjunction with the visitors reserve the right to
expel summarily any person who causes publick offence, and I, as their
accredited representative, should be in the highest degree culpable if I
allowed it to go on. Consequently, my dear Charles, I appeal to you as
to one possessed of some influence over the more violent spirits, to do
all in your power of persuasion to prevent it from going on."
Now as the successful quart bottle had been thrown by our hero, and as
he was usually the chief agent in promoting a disturbance, it is evident
that Mr. Ripple secured his unparalleled authority as much by tact as by
severity.
"Dear Beau, you shall be obliged," said Charles, "and now pray tell me
who wears a white swansdown tippet and lives hard by the Great House."
"I am not accustomed to observe the minor variations in feminine
costume," answered Mr. Ripple with some austerity.
"Nay! But a hermit froze to his psalter must have noticed her,"
protested the younger man.
"The analogy is incomplete."
"I shall be at the Assembly on Monday night."
"You could not be more worthily employed."
"And I shall effect an introduction under your patronage."
"That very much depends."
"On my good behaviour?" asked Charles.
"On the immunity of my watchmen from further assaults."
"Dear Beau, we are all targets of a--" he hesitated, "of a dimpled
nudity or an empty bottle. Love and a bottle, there's the world."
"The flesh, I think, sir."
"I 'faith, Satan must have a fine sieve if he can separate the pair."
"I am no theologian."
"Then you'll present me?" persisted Charles.
"You will protect my watchmen?" demanded the Beau.
"On Monday night?" urged Charles.
"Every night," added the Beau. "Unconditional surrender is my ultimatum.
But I hope I know how to display generosity towards a vanquished enemy.
You will attend the Publick Breakfast awarded to Sir Jeremy Dummer?"
"Truly I----"
"Tut, tut, I insist. My old friend Lord Cinderton arrives to-day with
his invalid son, George Harthe-Brusshe. I should like the young man to
see your cherry and trout-pink cuffs."
"Too unseasonable a combination of colours for breakfast."
"Pshaw! your appearance will give a fillip to his impoverished
appetite."
"I 'faith, I believe I know how to flavour my conversation with Attick
salt, but I swear I never dressed myself for the Role of condiment."
The conversation was soon entirely of sauces.
_Chapter the Fourth_
CURTAIN MAZE
The Maze at Curtain Wells was always considered one of the principal
sights of the place. Holding this reputation, it was naturally the least
frequented. Visitors either went there the second day after their
arrival or scuttled round it with a competent escort in the twenty-four
hours that preceded their departure. But since no one went there twice
and since all the visitors and residents of the Wells were perfectly
familiar with the various shrines, its invariable emptiness may easily
be apprehended. In summer the gardens of which it was a feature were
thronged at the fashionable hours. There was also a Rotunda similar to
if less grandiose than the famous Rotunda at Ranelagh Garden. This had
not long been in existence, and was only used for balls and masquerades
through May and June, when the Maze was spangled with lamps for the
delight of the dancers. Even so, very few availed themselves of the
shelter of its yew-hedges and always spent the rest of the evening in
trying to find their way out, being lucky if they succeeded in making a
somewhat ruffled appearance during the last Cotillon.
To Curtain Garden went Miss Phyllida Courteen and Madam Betty her maid:
to Curtain Garden they were going when they passed Mr. Charles Lovely at
the coffee-room window.
Betty belonged to a type of womanhood that grows with age, increased fat
and pursiness, into a nurse such as Mr. Shakespeare drew in _Romeo and
Juliet_. If she had been brought up in a disreputable purlieu of the
town, she would have become a personally chaste procuress but, nurtured
among the buttercups, she merely had a perpetual desire to see her
pretty young mistress aflame through the careless progress of some gay
spark or other. Whatever there was of passion in her meadow-born soul
fed itself on objective embraces. She was never a maid for a
kissing-gate at long shadow time, but when she saw Phyllida's heart
flutter with quick emotion before the approach of Mr. Vernon, a
primitive phrenzy set her cheeks aglow and fired her eyes to a livelier
blue. She adored her mistress with a precocious maternity but,
paradoxically enough, without any of the mother's jealousy of a lover
near to his possession. Vernon with his pale face and slightly sinister
demeanour had caught her fancy. 'Let him mate with my pretty one,' she
would say to herself, 'blossom of apple looks most rare and sweet under
a grey sky of clouds.' It was this anxiety to provide a physical match
for Phyllida which had led her to encourage Vernon's addresses, and her
mistress to pay heed to his vows. Her greatest delight was to stand,
watching against interruption, in the next alley to the lovers. Here she
would thrill her imagination with the thought of frail and timid fingers
in the clasp of a strong white hand. The sudden interposition of Mr.
Lovely vexed her. Certainly he was handsome enough, but too much of a
piece with Phyllida; they might have been brother and sister. Moreover,
he was always laughing.
"A man who always laughs is as bad as a dog who always wags his tail.
Neither is fit for a maid," she grumbled to Phyllida as they stepped
briskly along beneath the tall poplars that fringed the road leading to
the entrance of Curtain Garden.
"Truly I vow he has a romantick air," protested Phyllida.
"La! what's romantick? 'Tis no more than reading a book on the shady
side of the street." Betty tossed a contemptuous head.
"Indeed, Betty, I think 'tis a great deal more than that. To be
romantick, child, is to have a noble heart, and to have a noble
heart----"
"'Is to lead the Venite on a Sunday morning," interrupted the maid.
"No! 'tis not."
"Well! 'tes to kneel very obstreperous."
"'Tis no such a thing," said Phyllida, stamping on the pavement.
By this time, they had reached the famous wrought-iron gates of the
principal entrance, where an old man in an enormous three-cornered hat
and long heavily laced surtout walked up and down. Sometimes he would
stop and, over gnarled hands twisted round the ivory crook of his cane,
stare fiercely at the stamped effigies of AEsculapius and Flora while he
addressed the presiding deities in a wheezy monotone.
"Curtain Garden! Curtain Garden! Lads and lasses, ye'll grow old. Fit
for maids is Curtain Garden." Thus having droned a warning to Olympus,
he would resume his walk.
In two months the broad gravelled path which he guarded would be
thronged by the Exquisite Mob, but at present his only audience on fine
days was composed of Phyllida and Betty. On wet days, when not even they