Charles was tempted to deprive himself of sleep for the pleasure of
bedabbling his pale silk stockings with dew, but vanity killed romance
and the fresh light enchanted a still unruffled couch. So he flung his
coat over a chair, and the heavy pockets chinked as they fell back
against the taper legs. His prayers were all to rosy Aurora when the
fragrant linen sheets flowed like water over his parched brows.
Sleep could not pass the melodious batteries of many birds, and Lovely's
brain had captured something of the time's clarity. The clock has many
secret hours, but those who would know them must follow their slow
pilgrimage wide awake. What castles men build to the pipes of the
morning!
The world was waking up. Outside the talk of hostlers grew so loud that
the birds fled from the inn yard to the still deserted bowling green.
Soon he heard the jangle of pails, the swish of mops and from time to
time the sound of a horse's hoof striking the cobbles with a clap. In
the distance a post-horn endowed the air with silver tongues. Charles
followed its course along the London road. He pictured the cumbrous
vehicle swinging in its straps between the black February hedgerows. He
saw the postillions blinking sleepy eyes to the Eastern sun. He saw the
great London road like a tape-measure unfolded from the gilded case that
was London. Already he was at Knightsbridge watching some townbred maid
gathering cresses in the little stream. Now he was spurring the horses
to a fine lather, for he could see the grooms in a black knot by the
_White Horse_ cellars. In a trice he was taking the air in St. James'
Street, and then suddenly he was a little boy picking his way through
Westminster mud beside his mother who was carrying a bouquet of violets
to their narrow house near St. John's Church. And now it was winter, and
the sea-coal was burning sullenly: there were no violets, and heavy on
the leaden afternoon he heard the bell tolling in Millbank Gaol. "God
save the poor soul, the marshes will be icy cold to-night," said his
mother, and he knew that some prisoner had escaped.
"How late your father is," she went on as she opened a cupboard, set in
the panelled wall, to reach for plates and dishes. Then she told him to
get out the candlesticks--beautiful silver candlesticks with swan-like
necks and curious mazy lines around their bases. The candlesticks were
nowhere to be found.
"Where can they be?" exclaimed his mother, pausing to help in the
search. Then he heard a sigh and was told to ask Mrs. Gruffle, the
landlady, for the brass bed-chamber candlesticks. He rather liked these:
there was always a delightful quagmire of grease in the little plate
where the socket rested--grease that could be moulded into queer little
pliable shapes, with shreds of tobacco stuck around for fur. When he
came back to the parlour, he saw his father with his legs on the bars of
the grate.
"They had to go, my dear, they had to go," the latter was saying.
"They were my mother's."
"I know, I know, but z----ds' You wouldn't have me fail Dicky
Claribut?"
"But sure they were not worth----"
"Oons! I pledged my best buckles to him; the candlesticks were for his
gentleman. I'm devilish sorry, my dear, but, 'faith, 'twas not to be
avoided, and here's young Charles! Charles, my boy, never play, or, if
you do, play deep and win."
"Don't put such ideas into the boy's mind," said his mother anxiously.
"Oddslife, my dear, be very sure the ideas are there already."
"How can you have the heart to persist when you know...."
"The heart, madam?" interrupted his father. "Let me tell you that the
hearts of the Lovelys are all of a piece--and 'tis cardboard."
Our hero came to his elegant self with a start and was back in Curtain
Wells with hot eyelids, and thoughts continually racing over the flowery
wall-paper.
It was not long, however, before he was once more in pursuit of the
past.
And now he was seated beside his handsome father in a chariot. They were
both in mourning and he thought how well the black frogged riding-coat
became his parent. As for himself, his black sattin breeches set his
teeth on edge as he tried to scratch his knee.
"Where are we going?" he was asking.
"To your mother's brother, Sir George Repington of Repington Hall."
"That's the man whose letters made her cry?"
"The same, young Charles," said Mr. Lovely, ogling a dairymaid through
his black-rimmed perspective, as the object of his glances shrank into a
hedge, powdered with cow-parsley, and closed her eyes against the dust
of their chariot.
Then, without any warning, they were driving through a stately park, and
as they turned a corner, Mr. Lovely senior exclaimed "Good G...! A
cemetery indeed!" Charles looked up and saw a field full of small
cypresses with rank grass growing between them.
His father, who was looking rather pale, signed to the postboy to stop,
and "Charles," said he, "do you go on up to the Hall, knock at the door
and ask for your uncle, Sir George Repington. I'll wait for you here."
As he set out in obedience to his father he heard him mutter. "This was
the very place. I swear this was the place, and not an apple tree left."
And then Charles diminutive enough in his black suit with miniature
small-sword of cut steel, was asking two enormous footmen in
canary-coloured velvet for Sir George Repington. They looked at him and
laughed.
"My uncle," said Charles solemnly.
And they laughed again, but one of them murmured, 'This way,' and walked
up a very wide and very slippery staircase, while Charles stumped up
behind him. Half way, his sword belt came undone, and the sword
clattered down upon the polished oak stairs with a noise that seemed to
resound a dozen times through the quiet house. As he did not dare to
keep the canary-coloured gentleman waiting, he picked up the toy weapon,
clutched it tight in his left hand and entered a big dark room where a
gentleman with iron grey close cropped hair sat reading in a chair with
a very tall back, his wig balanced upon his toes.
"What the d----l's this?" asked the grey gentleman jumping up.
"Your honour's nephew," said the yellow gentleman.
"Eh! what! leave us, sirrah," and "What do you want?" he said, turning
to Charles.
Charles could only watch the long furrow over his nose and wonder how
deep it was, when the grey gentleman caught sight of the small sword.
"Eh! what the d----l! give me that," and snatching the weapon, he broke
it over his knee and flung it into the grate.
"Please, sir, my father sent me to see you."
"Who's he?"
"Valentine Lovely, sir."
"Good G----! Good G----!" muttered the old gentleman. "And Mrs. Lovely?
Did she send you too?"
"Mrs. Lovely's dead, sir."
The grey gentleman looked across the room at a large painting of a girl
in a white dress skipping with a rope of roses.
"Please, sir," said young Charles, "I think that is Mrs. Lovely."
"It was, boy; it was."
"I wish I had known her then," said Charles.
"Is your name George, boy?" inquired the grey gentleman in a tone that
was half eager.
"No, sir, 'tis Charles--after the Prince of Wales."
"A Papist, eh?" said the grey gentleman bitterly.
"George was too honest a name for that scoundrel. Well, boy, you can
stay."
"Please, sir, I'd rather go back to my father," said the boy. "He's
waiting for me."
"Then go and be d----d," said the grey gentleman, and he walked over to
the window.
Poor little Charles was left standing alone in the big room. He waited a
moment, but as the grey gentleman did not turn his head, he edged his
way towards the great door. When he reached it, he looked round at his
uncle. The latter was still staring out of the window. The child gave a
puzzled sigh and with both hands succeeded in turning the handle. The
clocks seemed to tick very loudly as he breathlessly closed the door and
set out to descend the wide staircase. The canary-coloured gentlemen
having vanished he could hold on to the balustrade with both hands
without shame. As he crossed the green sunlit lawn, a blackbird flew
into the shrubbery with a shrill note of alarm.
Then he was in the chariot with his father, and this time he was really
fast asleep.
And now he was boy and man at once. The picture of the girl with roses
became his mother as he had known her, pale and sad. Then it would
change and become Miss Phyllida Courteen, strangely like his mother; and
sometimes the Queen of Diamonds would be mopping and mowing in a frame
of golden Georges.
At last these many dancing visions forsook his brain, and he slept a
dreamless sleep, not waking until high noon of a wet and gusty day. When
he reached the coffee-room, he found Mr. Francis Vernon perusing the
latest edition of Mr. Hoyle, and as the weather was dirty, agreed to
give Mr. Francis Vernon his revenge.
This favour was accorded in the handsomest manner possible and when,
late in the afternoon, the young gentlemen all returned from hunting,
Mr. Charles Lovely owed Mr. Francis Vernon rather more than he could
very easily pay.
No doubt the latter's success is to be ascribed to his opportune
purchase of the latest edition of Mr. Hoyle.
_Chapter the Twelfth_