Charles said he would ride on to the _Basket of Roses_ and bid the
landlord prepare a supper against the arrival of the rest. Clare stayed
behind to protect the Beau from the hysterical excitement of Mrs.
Courteen, who would not be pacified by anything less formidable than an
armed escort. She had made up her mind that highwaymen were abroad,
refused to allow the chaise to drive fast lest they might gallop unaware
into a thieves' ambush, and alarmed herself with so many imaginary
bogies that she almost succeeded in making Mr. Ripple fire point blank
at Mr. Anthony Clare's shadow looming huge in the hedgerow.
Charles reached the _Basket of Roses_ not long after the departure of
the lovers, and on hearing the news immediately spurred his grey horse
to pursuit. For a couple of miles he plunged along a road that was
almost a swamp, fired to greater exertions each minute by the sight of
the ruts made by the chariot in front. Suddenly his horse began to go
lame; the road grew worse; the ruts proved to be those of a country
waggon. He was riding in the wrong direction, so he turned his grey
round and walked her back to the inn. While he was inquiring into the
possibility of securing a fresh mount, a voice from the parlour called
out to know if any person was inquiring into the whereabouts of a young
woman.
"She supped alone with the old gentleman," whispered Mrs. Tabrum.
Charles was not proof against a natural curiosity, and decided to wait
at the inn till the arrival of the others. He ascertained that Vernon
had changed horses so it was evident that he intended to post as fast
as possible Eastward. His own horse must be tended if they were to
proceed that night. There was no other in the stables, and as he was
sure of catching the chariot before morning, he felt there would be no
harm in learning why Phyllida had supped at a wayside inn, alone with an
elderly gentleman. What was Vernon about meanwhile? Why had he not
accompanied her? Charles ordered supper and stepped into the Travellers'
Room.
"You were asking about a certain young woman," said Sir George, fixing
him with deep set eyes of cold steel.
"I was indeed, sir," answered Mr. Lovely pulling forward an armchair
into the blaze and stretching his damp legs towards the genial warmth.
"My name is Repington," said the old gentleman.
"Eh! What?"
"Sir George Repington."
Charles stared at him.
"And mine, sir, is Lovely, Charles Lovely."
"My nephew--humph--'tis your existence which has attracted me so many
miles West."
"I did not think you knew of my existence," said Charles half sneering.
"You never condescended to inform your uncle of your movements."
"Sir," said the nephew, a smile of bitter recollection twisting the
corners of his mouth. "I did not flatter myself that any attention on my
side was welcome."
"What! you remember our only interview?"
"I was eight years old, sir."
"Is that a date in youth's short calendar that breeds a specially
sensitive disposition of mind?"
"You turned me out of your house."
"On the contrary, nephew, you chose to go back to your father."
"Why wasn't he admitted, too?"
"Because," replied the uncle, "on a former occasion I was unfortunately
compelled to invite your father to leave my house."
"By what right?"
Sir George raised his eyebrows.
"Truly, nephew, I think you are indiscreet for a young man of such
fashion."
"I have the right to know," Charles burst out. "In all that I can
remember of my childhood, you stood like a shadow in the corner of the
room, you were the nightmare that haunted my pillow. You used to write
sometimes--oh! I can remember your letters in their fat pursy envelopes.
I can smell the sealing wax, black sealing wax, now. My father would go
out with an oath and my mother would sit by a window with your letter in
her lap, weeping, weeping."
"Did she weep, boy?"
"Ah! that pleases you, eh?"
"No, no, I was thinking what a laugh she had once--what a laugh. I
expect I was hard--I was--Charles, nephew, give me your hand--I----"
The old man faltered in his speech and, as if the room were dark, groped
for our hero's hand; the latter drew back.
"No! thank 'ee, Uncle, once is enough."
The old man did not heed the insult.
"Perhaps I understand your feelings, boy, I've read your poems."
Charles was touched for a moment, but hardened himself as he thought of
that wide staircase down which, clutching the balustrade with both
hands, he had stumbled alone. A child does not easily forgive a slight,
and Charles still regarded his uncle with the eyes of a child.
"Did she speak of me before she died?" murmured the old man with a
wistful eagerness.
"She may have spoken," said Mr. Lovely, "the fever was high."
"Or laugh--before she died? Nephew! to-night a young woman came to this
inn alone. She smiled like my sister, she laughed like my--like your
mother and like your mother she went away with the wrong man."
"What do you mean?" cried Charles too much startled by the sudden
violence of his uncle's speech to resent the criticism of his father.
"And you have ridden in pursuit? Then you are her lover--eh? She's
played you false as Joan played Roger false, and you are riding after
her, and you will shoot him and marry her, and bring her to Repington
Hall. 'Fore Heaven, I would give all my fortune to hear that laughter
ripple along the lonely corridors of Repington Hall. They used to sit in
the sunny window seat; and he would lean over the sill to pluck the
roses that blew beneath. I cut the tree down when he was killed, and in
the orchard where Lovely murdered him I planted cypresses."
"Murdered him?" cried Charles impressed against his will by the old
man's passion.
"Aye, murdered him. Roger was no swordsman, he was a gentle kindly
creature who loved old books and old friends, that's why I cannot
understand Belladine, why did Belladine let him fight, and what became
of--Good G----!" said the old man, "he's come back." Charles looked up
and, seeing only Beau Ripple standing in the doorway, concluded that his
uncle was gone mad.
"A pinch of snuff, George?" said Mr. Ripple.
"Thank'e, William," said Sir George. "This is my nephew, William--young
Charles Lovely."
"We are already very good friends," said the Beau.
The exchange of courtesies effected by the Beau with that unfailing tact
which characterized his least actions shed a new serenity over the
situation and, though Charles was completely puzzled by a surprizing
junction of personalities, he, too, with a profound instinct for the
correct attitude, bore a part in what was apparently nothing more out of
the way than a conversational episode in a social evening; yet three
twigs in a whirlpool do not jostle one another much more roughly than
the same three twigs in a puddle.
"How's the gout, George? You threatened at one time to become an easy
prey to our physical Alectro."
"Better, William, thankee, far better. I found that hard work kept it
off; or else I grew to drink less Port. I've dined solitary for a round
number of years now."
"Your uncle looks well, Charles. Egad, I believe after all gold is
better than iron for a man's health whatever the apothecaries tell us.
Where is Clare?--a good fellow that friend of yours, Charles. I like Mr.
Clare."
Tony came in from the stables at that moment and was presented to Sir
George Repington.
He had often heard Charles rail against his uncle, but, perceiving no
strain in the relation between them, entered yhe gathering with an easy
grace, and gave a very humorous account of their departure from the
Wells.
"Tut, tut," exclaimed Mr. Ripple, for Ripple he must remain, since as
Ripple he achieved immortality.
"Tut, tut, I cannot have these riotous assemblies. This comes of leaving
Curtain Wells. By the way, where is Mrs. Courteen?"
"She has an audience, sir," said Clare, "and is, therefore, as happy as
can be expected under the circumstances."
"Who is Mrs. Courteen?" This from Sir George.
"A lady in whose company I have set out upon a very restless adventure.
Cupid, George, has been shooting his arrows of late, without much regard
to our mortal comfort. I believe the young rogue was unduly elated by
the success of his Valentines."
"Sure, you aren't abroad on a love-affair, too, William?"
"Not of my own, George, but I have an onus in the matter. Some one has
stolen a porcelain shepherdess from my booth in Vanity Fair."
"That would be the young woman with whom I supped to-night in this inn.
Her name was Courteen."
"What! then we all have an interest in this matter, and can discuss the
proper conduct of it over the very excellent supper whose arrival I
anticipate without apprehension. This is a capital house, George."
"The landlord is an oddity," said Clare, "called me tulip and onion in a
breath, and begged to be allowed to brush the mud off my boots which he
said was a famous manure for carnation gillyflowers. I 'faith, the old
boy made me feel devilish unclean."
Mrs. Tabrum came in to say the widow would not take supper with the
gentlemen. She was much fatigued, and would be glad to retire to bed if
Mr. Pipple--or was it Ripple--had no objection.
"None whatsoever," replied the latter in a pensive tone of voice. He was
meditating rather sadly upon the circumscription of human fame.
A mere five-and-twenty miles from Curtain Wells, and already there was a
doubt as to whether he were Pipple or Ripple.
"The widow don't intend to proceed," said Charles, when Mrs. Tabrum had
curtseyed her way out.
"She is a foolish woman," said the Beau.
"But you are not going to leave the daughter to her fate," asked Sir
George. "As you----" he stopped.
Charles looked up; Mr. Ripple gravely took a pinch of snuff. "I think,"
said the former, "that I shall be more likely to catch the chariot.
What's o'clock?"
"Half-past ten," said Clare. "Your horse must rest an hour or two yet;
I'll ride with you."
"That would be wiser," said Sir George eagerly. "Then nobody will say
Charles took an unfair advantage of him. Although--" Again he stopped in
a sentence, and again Mr. Ripple took a pinch of snuff.
It was strange how Sir George had identified himself with Phyllida's
fortunes. It seemed as if he were staking his hope of a happy old age
upon the result of this love chase. The meeting with Phyllida had filled
up the rift which time and disappointment had created. He felt that
fortune owed him reparation for his sister's loss; and could not help
thinking what an appropriate instrument of the Fates had risen up in the
person of his nephew. Sir George Repington had become so much accustomed
in his large financial experience to the theory of just exchange that he
was inclined to put too blind a confidence in the scales, and was too
sure that the balance would adjust itself at some time or other. His
nephew had not shown himself greatly enraptured by this late
reconciliation, and Sir George had been lonely long enough. He was
anxious at eventide for company. Death came suddenly like a clock that
strikes in the night, and Sir George was afraid of the grey dawn
stealing over the tree tops through the gaunt windows of Repington Hall.
When the time came for him to face the vast uneasy realms of
immortality, he would like to feel that somewhere on this small green
earth, some hand would wave a sorrowful, a last farewell. He would
cherish these two lovers; the maid would bring him and Charles together
in friendship and charity. Everything pointed to a fortunate issue. He
no longer brooded resentfully over calamities that were forgotten long
ago. Belladine had come back. He and Belladine would sit on the sloping
Repington lawns. June was in front of them. Already, like balm upon the
old man's wounded heart, there stole the murmurous peace of the longest
day. He saw the golden light, and the long shadows of the elms. He heard
the caw of homing rooks and the flutter of thrushes in the great Hall
shrubberies. In dignity and in rustick ease he would move with measured
meditative steps like an English squire to his last account--not
account, that savoured too much of Throgmorton Street--to his last bed,
his virtues recorded in a Latin eulogy and for a memorial Charles and
Phyllida, perhaps a grandson George, certainly four weeping cherubs to
guard the four corners of his cenotaph.
Our hero was in that state when a host of conflicting emotions fight for
the mastery. So much had happened in this eventful day. Everything and
everybody appeared in a new perspective. Beau Ripple, seen by the
firelight of the Travellers' Room, was no longer the exquisite despot of
a world in miniature, the impersonal porcelain monarch, the rarest and
most valuable piece in an universe of Bric-a-brac. He was in some way
connected with the tragedy of his uncle's early life. The sovereign
marionette of amber and tortoise-shell, of perfumes and pomades, whom
Charles had known hitherto, was only an elegant exterior. Underneath
the sattin, it seemed, there lived a man--one Belladine, of whose
existence Fashion was ignorant. The well-dressed Attitude called Horace
Ripple would be revered long after his decease. His epigrams would be
quoted. He would represent a period in the frivolous archives of Curtain
Wells, but Belladine whose heart had quickened to something more vital
than a pretty measure, Belladine who had known tears and laughter,
Belladine the Man would be forgotten. Charles pondered with passionate
commiseration the myriad heartaches of poor humanity that were once
esteemed worthy of exaggeration until a new intrigue caught the publick
tongue, and contemplated regretfully the inevitable and gradual
insignificance of all scandal. Truly, it was more consoling to regard
Beau Ripple, that inexplicable phenomenon, than try to gain the
acquaintance of Mr. William Belladine who had once played an important
part in his uncle's life.
The latter, too, was different. He had only existed in Charles' mind as
an aversion of childhood, but Charles no longer objected to sleep in the
dark--the habit had come to him unconsciously. After all he owed Sir
George Repington no grudge; it would be absurd to cherish an animosity
that was based on a jejune domestick patriotism. The time had long gone
by when he thought his own father the finest gentleman in the world. Yet
was not this power of taking so much for granted, this passive
acceptance of change and decline, a surrender of his youth? Was he, in
fact, already divesting himself of all passionate reality? Charles
experienced the despair of the devout man whose faith deserts him. He
wrestled with his doubts and suddenly (it seemed a miracle) beheld on
the ingle seat a swansdown muff. Youth returned--a harlequin with the
supple wand of illusion. He stood once more in peach-coloured velvet
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_