If cards are the devil's playthings, wet days are certainly his select
playtime; and all the days before the Chinese Masquerade were very wet
indeed. The Exquisite Mob returned from the Pump Room remarkably
depressed in spirit. The forenoons passed away in the coffee-houses and
the shops, but in the afternoons when it was wont to exercise itself and
air its modes the stuffy parlours of Curtain Wells became vastly
tiresome.
The result was that all the young gentlemen played very hard and very
deep and very late, and Mr. Charles Lovely hardest, deepest, and latest
of all. The old gentlemen all found their gout teazed them more
lamentably. Even Beau Ripple grew tired of reading the Epodes of Horace
and the Letters of Tully to his grey Angora cat. The ladies played
Quadrille and talked scandal, while some of them, I grieve to say,
supplied a foundation for much of the gossip.
Candlelight intrigues flourished, and there were not a few tragedies in
porcelain, when some Sir John Vulcan, returning too soon from his
favourite coffee-house, caught my Lady Venus in too ardent converse with
some young Ensign Mars. Very red grew the gallant Ensign--near as red as
his coat, while Sir John blustered and swore so loud that he almost
cracked the walls with his fox-hunting voice, and my lady Venus
fluttered her fan to the pace of her dainty heart, tinkling out
exquisite little lies as soulless as unreal, but quite as fascinating as
some frail musical box. And the trio acted and declaimed their
time-honoured parts to a keyhole audience of lady's maid and
gentleman's gentleman.
Very diverting the footmen of Curtain Wells found the story that
evening, and very savoury it was voted below stairs--nearly as savoury
as the stewed trotters over which it was related.
And so the days went by.
Pitter-pat went the rain on the window-panes, pitter-pat went the cards
on the card tables, pitter-pat went the spoons in the coffee-cups,
pitter-pat went my lady's shoes across the floor to watch for the third
person, pitter-pat went many fans and many hearts.
Mrs. Courteen decked herself in the rosiest sattins, bade Betty close
the shutters, draw the curtains and light the candles. Then she composed
herself to read the last number of the _Prattler_ until a knock at the
door announced the arrival of Mr. Gregory Moon and Major Constantine
Tarry. Both vowed that their enchantress looked vastly well, and nodded
agreement with her assertion that she believed she had a very fresh
colour, no doubt due to the tonick air of the Wells.
"It flushes one merely to go upstairs," she declared. "I vow I take as
much exercise in going up and down stairs as I do in taking my morning
saunter to the Pump Room." The climb was euphemistically known as the
Saunter. "Lud, lud," continued the widow, "complexions are droll
things."
"Monstrous elusive, ma'am," said the Justice rather gloomily.
"Ha, ha," yapped the Major, "I pickled my skin in the Low Countries."
"That would be injudicious for a delicate surface. Height, Major,"
sighed Mrs. Courteen, "height! How we pine for it. Mortals! Dear! Dear!"
"I remember I once examined a vagabond who claimed to have been there,"
remarked Mr. Moon. "We ordered him a whipping."
"What became of him?" asked Mrs. Courteen.
"I believe he died shortly afterwards. Well! well! Kill or cure! Kill or
cure!"
The widow flashed her white shoulders in an elaborate shudder.
"Talking of kill or cure," exclaimed the Major, jumping up, "did I ever
repeat my tale of the Hessian captain?"
"Probably," said Mr. Moon mildly.
"What do you mean, sir?"
"You are somewhat inclined to repetition, sir."
Mrs. Courteen hurriedly assured Major Tarry that she for one had
positively never heard it.
"He did not say 'have you heard my story, ma'am,' the Justice went on in
the calm voice of despair. "He said 'have I repeated it?' I merely
remarked that he probably has--dozens of times!"--Mr. Moon burst out in
the nearest approach to a passionate enunciation that he ever attained.
"I vow you do him an injustice. Pray tell us the story, Major," and the
widow tapped the sword-arm of the infuriated soldier three times. The
painted chicken-skin fell with so persuasive a touch that the Apple sank
to its normal position and, having turned his back on Mr. Moon, the
Major began his tale.
"Well, Madam, you must know that in the year ... but before I tell this
story, I should like to give you some idea of the disposition of his
Majesty's forces."
Mrs. Courteen sighed. She knew what giving an idea of the disposition of
the forces meant. It was useless to protest however, for the Major was
already marching round the room in search of appropriate furniture.
He instantly declared that Mr. Moon's chair was necessary to the
illustration.
"Pray excuse me, sir!" he rapped out.
The Justice, with a reproachful glance at Mrs. Courteen, moved
ponderously to the couch.
"Well, Madam, here are Thistleton's Dragoons," and he gave a twist to
the chair as he spoke.
"Oh, yes! Very droll!" said Mrs. Courteen.
"Here," the Major continued, seizing another chair and planting it
vigorously down by the couch, "here is Buckley's Foot."
"Mine, sir," said the Justice.
"Your what, sir?"
"My foot, sir, not Buckfeast's."
The Major withered his rival with an eloquent silence.
"Here am I," he said, snatching from the mantelpiece a diminutive
Worcester shepherdess and placing it between the two chairs.
The widow gazed anxiously at the pastoral soldier. It belonged to the
owner of the house.
"Here is Tournai. You'll pardon me, sir, but I should be obliged if you
would hand me the couch," said the Major fiercely.
The Justice moved wearily to the window-seat. That, at all events, was a
fixture, he reflected gratefully.
After much exertion Tarry succeeded in moving the couch in front of the
door, so that if the piece of furniture in question was a poor
representation of what it was intended to convey, it certainly made of
Mrs. Courteen's front parlour something very like an impregnable
fortress.
"I should be glad to give you some idea of the enemy's earthworks," said
the Major with a covetous glance in the direction of the chintz
window-curtains.
Mrs. Courteen's fleeting expression of dismay warned him to prune the
luxuriance of his examples, and as at that moment a tap at the door
necessitated the instant surrender of Tournai to admit Mrs. Betty
farther operations were stopped. Moreover the sudden capitulation
involved the fracture of the Worcester shepherdess which, as Mr. Moon
sardonically supposed, served to illustrate the point of the story.
"You're killed, Tarry; you're dead as mutton. I doubt a cure is
inconceivable."
Betty held a note in her hands.
"From Bow Ripple," she whispered excitedly.
_Chapter the Thirteenth_