"ECSTASY!"
"...From thy rose-red lips my name
Floweth; and then, as in a swoon,
With dinning sound my ears are rife,
My tremulous tongue faltereth,
I lose my colour, I lose my breath,
I drink the cup of a costly death,
Brimm'd with delirious draughts of warmest life!"
Some few days after Christmas, little Miss Pimpernell gave a small
evening party for the especial delectation of those who had so
meritoriously assisted in the decoration of the church.
Of course, it was not at all like the "barty" the celebrated Hans
Breitman "giv'd" to his friends for the imbibition of "lager beer" ad
libitum; but still, one may feel inclined to exclaim, in the exquisite
broken words of that worthy, "Where am dat barty now?" For, time has
worked its usual changes; and all of us have long since been divided,
separated, scattered, and dispersed to the four winds of heaven, so to
speak, to the severance of old ties, and all kindred associations.
I had not had the slightest inkling that the "little affair" was about
to "come off" beforehand. I had met Miss Pimpernell out the very
morning of the day on which it took place; yet--sly old lady that she
was--she hardly gave me a hint of her social intent.
She certainly said that she had a little surprise in store for me; but
when I pressed her to learn what that "something" was, she preserved a
provoking reticence, declining to enlighten me any further. "No,
Frank," she said in her cheery way, "it is of no use your trying to coax
me with your `dear Miss Pimpernell,' or think to flatter me into
divulging my news by false compliments paid to my shabby old bonnet!
No, you shall hear it all in good time, so don't be impatient. I won't
tell you another word now, my boy, there!" she added finally, trotting
off on her parochial rounds and leaving me in suspense until the
evening, to exercise my imagination regarding her contemplated
"surprise."
Then, however, I was let into the secret; and the party was all the more
pleasurable from coming quite unexpectedly. I always like doing things
on the spur of the moment, without premeditation. If you look out for
anything long beforehand, it is apt to pall on the palate when it
arrives within your reach. "Unlooked-for blessings" are generally twice
as grateful as those which you are led to expect--so, at least, I have
found them.
On my return home from a walk in the evening, I found a little note of
invitation awaiting me, in which Miss Pimpernell requested me to come
round to the vicarage precisely at eight, "dressed all in my best," like
the impassioned lover of "Sally in our Alley," as she "expected a few
friends." She added in a postscript, underlined with one of her
characteristic dashes, that _Miss Clyde_ would be there, if that would
be any further inducement for me.
Oh Miss Pimpernell, you machiavellian old lady! I would not have
thought you could have practised such great dissimulation. Would Min's
presence be any further inducement to me! Wouldn't it? Oh, dear no,
certainly not!
In ten minutes' time I was dressed en regle and at the vicarage.
It was quite a nice little party. Not one too many, and not a single
discordant element. Old ladies and gentlemen seemed to have been
rigidly tabooed, with the exception, naturally, of our host and hostess,
the vicar and his sister; for Lady Dasher, owing to some fortunate
conjuncture of circumstances, was unable to come: Miss Spight was busy
at home, entertaining an elderly relative who had suddenly thrown
herself on her hospitality; while Mr Mawley was at Oxford enjoying the
season with sundry dogmatic Fellows of his own calibre. Minus these
charmers, our gathering was pretty much what it had been down in the old
school-room at the decorations. There were the Dasher girls, two young
collegians from Cambridge--ex-pupils of the vicar--to entertain Bessie
and Seraphine, Lizzie Dangler, Horner with his inseparable eye-glass and
faultless toilet, Baby Blake for _his_ entertainment--Miss Pimpernell
was a wise caterer--Min, and myself.
Our hostess had so planned that we should all pair off, each lady having
her cavalier, as she said, in the good old-fashioned way. She planned
very ably, as we had one of the pleasantest evenings imaginable, without
any stiffness or formality or being forced to make a toil of enjoyment,
in the customary manner of most fashionable reunions: we were not
"fashionable," thank goodness. But we had "a good time" of it, as young
America says, all the same.
What did we do?
Well, then, there were none of those abominable "round games," which,
unless they descend to vulgar romping, are the dreariest attempts at
conviviality possible to conceive; none of those dreadful and much-to-
be-avoided exactions and remissions of "forfeits," that plunge everybody
into embarrassing situations, and destroy, instead of creating,
sociability; none of those stock--so-called--"drawing-room
entertainments;" in fact, which always result in hopeless boredom. But,
we had a little music and part-singing: a little lively, general chit-
chat, in which all could join and each take a share: a few anecdotes
well told--a complete success, to be brief, in making us all feel
perfectly natural and at ease, for we were allowed to do and say exactly
what we pleased in moderation.
Each of us was made to feel that his or her absence would have detracted
from the happiness of the rest; and _that_ is the true art of treating
one's guests--an art which both the vicar and Miss Pimpernell had
apparently studied to perfection, although it really proceeded from
their natural good-heartedness.
But, amongst our company I had almost forgotten to enumerate the name of
Monsieur Parole d'Honneur, one of the nicest of French emigres and a
dear friend of the vicar's; one known to most of us, also, for many
years.
Perhaps you may chance to remember the noise that the great Barnard
extradition case made in the newspapers--and, indeed, all over England
too, for that matter--in the year 1859?
You don't? Why, it nearly led to a war between France and Britain! Did
you never hear how the fiercely-moustachioed Gallic colonels swaggered
about the Boulogne cafes, loud in their denunciations of perfidious
Albion, while smoking their endless cigarettes and sipping their
poisonous absinthe; and how, but for the staunch fidelity of the ill-
fated Emperor Napoleon--since deserted by his quondam ally--and the
jaunty pluck of our then gallant premier, brave "old Pam"--whose loss we
have had ample reason, oftentimes of late, to deplore--there might have
been a sudden rupture of that "entente cordiale" between the two
nations, which was cemented in the Crimea, and expired but a couple of
years ago under the besieged walls of Paris?
Ah! that was a time when the whilom "Cupid's" boast, "Civis Anglicanus
sum," was not an empty claim, as it is in these days of poverty-stricken
"retrenchments," and senile forfeitures of all that made England great
and grand through five hundred years of history!
But the Barnard case--you must have heard of that, surely? It was just
about the period when the wonderful volunteer fever commenced to rage
with such intense earnestness over here; and when our "valuable
auxiliary forces"--as amateur military critics in the House are so fond
of repeating--were first instituted, in the fear of a second invasion of
this sacred realm of liberty. We did not then place much reliance on
the "streak of silver sea," when in the direct face of danger, as a
great "statesman" would have us do now that it no longer confronts us!
Ha, at last you recollect, eh? I need not prompt your memory any
further.
Bien. It was at this period that Monsieur Parole d'Honneur was advised
in high official circles that it would be for the benefit of his health
if he quitted French soil for awhile. He had been known to have once
been intimately associated with Mazzini, and that gentleman was supposed
to be implicated in the Orsini affair--when an attempt was made against
Napoleon's life in the Place d'Opera; so, as Parole d'Honneur had
likewise been heard to speak rather unguardedly at a political club of
patriots to which he belonged, the prefectorial mind "putting that and
that together," very reasonably presumed that our friend must have some
connection with the bomb conspirators. The consequences were, that
Parole d'Honneur was told to quit Paris instantly, and leave France
itself within four-and-twenty hours,--although he was innocent of the
slightest knowledge concerning the plot.
However, there was no help for it. Prefects are not in the habit of
discussing their suspicions with suspected persons; and thus he had to
bid adieu to his country in a hurry. He thereupon shook off its dust
from his papier-mache-soled boots, coming to England, in the manner of
his compatriots, to earn his livelihood as a teacher of languages.
Having the highest recommendations, he easily obtained as much
employment as he wanted, and devoted himself to giving conversational
lectures to a circle of collegiate establishments lying in different
parts of London, which he visited bi-weekly, or so, in turn. Amongst
these was one in our suburb; hence, first an acquaintance and then a
lasting friendship sprung up between him and the vicar, both taking to
each other immensely through their large-hearted philosophy; thus, too,
I also got acquainted with one of the brightest, cheeriest, kindest
Gauls of many that I have had the happiness of knowing.
At the time of which I write, Parole d'Honneur was a very happy emigre,
despite his enforced exile in the land of fogs. Indeed, he was an exile
no longer in the strict sense of the word, as he had received permission
to go back to France whenever he pleased; a permission of which he had
already availed himself, having paid a visit, in company with me, to
Paris, the previous month, at the time when I had been so miserable and
despondent about not meeting Min again. However, he had become so fond
of England and things English, from his long enforced residence here,
that he avowed his determination of living and dying amongst us--that
is, unless his country and "the cause" should have need of his services.
On the evening of Miss Pimpernell's little party, this patriotic
gentleman, in the presence of ladies, whom he reverenced with a knight-
errant's devotion and homage, was the life of our circle. He carried an
aroma of fun and light-heartedness about him that was simply contagious.
He sang Beranger's ditties with a verve and elan that brought back
bonny Paris and student days to those of us who were acquainted with
them. One moment he played exquisite bits from Mozart on his violin, to
the accompaniment of the vicar's violoncello, that were most entrancing;
the next, scraped away at some provoking tarantella that almost set the
whole of us dancing, in defiance of the proprieties generally observed
at the vicarage.
We were asking each other riddles and conundrums. Monsieur Parole
suddenly bethought him of one. "Ah, ha!" he said, "I heard one good
reedel ze ozer day. A leetle mees at one of my academies told it me.
Young ladies, why is ze old gentlemans, le diable, zat is--"
"O-oh! Monsieur Parole!" ejaculated Miss Pimpernell.
"Your pardon, Mees Peemple," said Monsieur Parole--he never could give
her the additional syllable to her name--"Your pardon, Mees Peemple; but
we wiz call hims somesing else. Why is--ah, ha! I have got hims. Why
is Lucifers like, when riding sur un souris, on a mouse, like the very
same tings? You gives him up? Ah, ha! I t'ought you would never guess
him!" he continued, on our professing our ignorance of the solution.
"Because he is synonime!--vat you calls sin-on-a-mouse! Ha, ha, ha!"
and he burst into a chuckle of his merry laughter.
This reminded Horner of one. "Bai-ey Je-ove!" he said, after a long
pause. "I--ah, came akwass a vewy good one the othah day--ah. A blind
beggah had a bwoth-ah, and the bwoth-ah died; now, what welation was--
ah, the blind beggah to the--ah, dead beggah?"
"His sister, of course," said Bessie Dasher, promptly.
"Weally," said Horner, who usually put on most of his _w_ and _r_ ish
airs when in the presence of ladies in evening costume: in the day he
sometimes spoke more plainly. "Weally, how clevah you ah! I asshaw
you, I didn't gwess it for neawy a week--ah!"
"I can quite believe _that_!" said Seraphine, wickedly.
"Did you ever hear any of Praed's charades?" I asked Min.
"No," she said. "Do you recollect some?"
"Ah," put in the vicar, "Praed was a clever fellow; and a true poet,
too."
"Indeed?" said Min. "I have heard his name, but I've never seen
anything that he wrote. Do you recollect any of his charades, Mr
Lorton?" she asked again, turning to me.
"I think I remember one," I said, repeating those three spirited verses
which are well-known, beginning "Come from my First, ay, come!"
"How beautiful the lines are!" said Min; "but it seems a pity that they
should be thrown away on a mere charade."
"That was exactly Praed's way," said the vicar. "I remember well, when
I was a young man at college, what a stir his name made, and what great
things were predicted of him, that he never lived to realise."
"He died young, did he not?" asked Min.
"Yes," said the vicar, "in his thirty-second year. If he had lived, he
would probably have been one of the foremost men in England to-day."
"`Whom the gods love, die young,'" quoted I grandiloquently, like
Mawley.
"True," said the vicar. "There is more philosophy in that, than in most
of those old Pagan beliefs: there is a glimmering of Christianity about
the saying."
"I wonder," said Miss Pimpernell, "whether there is any connection
between it and the text, `Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth'?"
"I can't say, my dear," said the vicar, "if you are right in this
instance; but there is often a great similarity between different parts
of the Bible and the utterances of profane writers."
"Have you ever noticed, sir," said Min, "how David says in the Psalms
that `all the foundations of the world are out of course;' while
Shakespeare makes Hamlet observe that `the world is out of joint'?"
"Yes," said the vicar, "and there are many other parallels that could be
drawn from Shakespeare. He was frequently indebted to the inspired
volume for his reflections; whether wittingly or unknowingly, I cannot
say."
"I think," said I, "that Douglas Jerrold's celebrated bon mot about
Australia must be put down to the same source. He said, if you
remember, speaking of the prolific nature of the soil of the new
continent, `Tickle her with a hoe, and she will laugh with a harvest;'
and in the Psalms we have the verse, `The valleys also shall stand so
thick with corn, that they shall laugh and sing.'"
"It is debatable," said the vicar, "whether we should ascribe these
striking resemblances to unconscious plagiarism or to similarity of
thought."
"We will have to agree with Solomon," said I, "that there is nothing new
under the sun!"
"True enough, Frank," said the vicar. "From the explorations at Nineveh
and at Pompeii, we have already learnt that the ancients well knew of
what we in our pride long ascribed to modern inquiry and research."
Miss Pimpernell here calling upon her brother and Monsieur Parole for
some more of their concerted music, they sat down to a sonata of
Beethoven. The remainder of us broke up into little coteries; Min and I
having a long quiet talk, under cover of the deep tones of the vicar's
violoncello, in a corner by the piano, where we entrenched ourselves for
some time undisturbed.
What did we say?
I'm sure I can't tell you. Probably we talked about the weather and the
crops; the prospects of the coming season; the expected new tenor at the
opera, who was said to rival Orpheus and put Mario into the shade; or,
peradventure, we discussed political economy, grumbling over the high
price of meat and the general expenses of housekeeping! But, please put
yourself in our place, and you will be able, I have no doubt, to imagine
all we could possibly have found to chat about, much better, probably,
than I can describe it. I will merely say for your guidance, without
entering into details, that it was happiness, rapture to me, to be only
beside her--will that enlighten you at all?
Later on, came supper.
After that we had some part-singing of good old glees, like "The Chough
and Crow," "Here in cool Grot," and the ever-beautiful "Dawn of Day."
We then separated, after the pleasantest of evenings, when it was close
on midnight:--Miss Pimpernell's party had been emphatically a social
success.
Of course I walked home with Min. I had been so much with her of late,
that I somehow or other began to look upon her as my own property; and
was jealous of the interference of anyone else. You should have seen
how I glared at Horner when he suggested, good-naturedly enough, that
Min should go round, by the way that the Dasher girls and the others
went, under his escort! How overjoyed I was when she politely declined
the offer, saying that, as her mamma was sitting up for her, she must
hurry home by the shortest way!
She looked like a little fairy, tripping along beside me through the
fresh-looking frozen snow, her dark dress and scarlet petticoat showing
out in strong relief against the glittering white of the roadway. The
moon was shining brightly, so that it was as light as day; and I could
see her face distinctly as she looked up into mine every now and then to
answer some remark. Her honest, lustrous, grey eyes sparkled with fun,
while a little ripple of silvery laughter came occasionally from the
rosebud-parted coral lips! We chatted merrily, exchanging notes
touching the enjoyments of the evening.
We gradually approached her door. I was telling her that, instead of
mere days, I seemed to have known her for years and could not affect to
treat her as a stranger.
She said that she looked upon me almost as an old friend already.
I asked her if she would let me abandon the formal appellation of "Miss
Clyde," and call her "Min?"