The last ejaculation of Chapter XXXVI will serve as an admirable summary
of the positions in which a number of our characters found themselves on
April the First, in the year whose annals include this small history.
There is a peculiar happiness of choice in making the first day of that
treacherous and feminine month coincide with the humiliation of a large
number of worthy people. We plunge into April with a prodigious
expectation of jollity: we delight in the sound of her name, liquid as
the song of a thrush; we strut in the sunshine, fling off our surtouts,
recline on banks where the painted adder lurks and the East wind cuts
down from the high pastures, and altogether behave in a very foolish
fashion. The heavens have taken a deeper blue; so among the cowslips we
contemplate their azure until a black squall blows along, stings our
rash necks with perilous hailstones and drives us headlong to the
shelter of the pale green hedgerows. There on the drifted leaves of dead
Octobers, we are scratched by the crimson thorns of briers and, slowly
acquiring an extensive rheumatism, wish very sincerely we had never
stirred from the hearth where the wise pages of Montaigne or La
Rochefoucauld lie dog-eared through our precipitate adventure.
Yet, after all, it is better to be a fool in April than a wise man in
November. Pit and boxes hear the ravings of the mad Ophelia with the
sense of superiority secured by plush, but the most of them would be
better men and women for having gathered that nosegay of columbines and
rue.
So drop a tear for Phyllida. She was the heroine of the piece, the
gentlest, tenderest maid. Sorrow has laid his grey fingers upon her
heart and, though she may grow old and wise and wed a squire with
well-tilled acres and spacious hall, to the end of her life a poignant
experience, on which you have been the privileged intruder, will
modulate her lightest laugh with a deeper harmony.
At the _Basket of Roses_ there were April fools that day.
"Charles made up his mind and did no good," said Mr. Ripple. "I
hesitated, and was in no better case. What is one to do?"
Sir George Repington was quite broken up by the affair. Years ago he had
built a bower in April which was destroyed in a morning. In old age,
Spring fooled him again.
Like the heavy footnote of a tragedy, Mr. Moon, lately arrived by the
Wells waggon, employed himself with practical suggestions. Mr. Lovely
must retire over the water for a while, the sooner the better. Mrs.
Courteen and Miss Phyllida must return to Hampshire. He would make
posting arrangements; their baggage must be sent after them. Tarry must
be buried in the parish church at home; he could not allow a neighbour
to lie in a strange churchyard. For once in his life, Mr. Moon was of
real use to a situation and, in the protracted discussions of expedients
for hushing the matter up and conveying the principals safely into
seclusion, the grief of many hearts was temporarily allayed.
"You must come back with me to Curtain Wells, George," decided Mr.
Ripple, "we must not allow the world to invent any more explanations of
the affair. I doubt the wildest rumours are flying round. In a month or
two, Charles can return if he will; meanwhile you and I, George, will
give ourselves the pleasure of paying his debts."
In the dusk of to-morrow's dawn, the vivid yellow chaise of Beau Ripple
rattled over the cobbles of Curtain Wells, and drew up before the Great
House. A dexterous and hurried toilet was performed with Mr. Mink's
assistance and the watchers from the windows, ignorant whether the Great
little Man was returned, were immensely gratified to see him emerge from
his front door, goblet in hand, and wearing a new buff suit of
unparagoned cut with very full trimming round the skirts.
The Exquisite Mob buzzed around the Beau's pedestal with a scarcely
contained curiosity. Mr. Oboe, the Physician, was almost more
subservient than usual, and not a single person inquired after his
neighbour's health or expatiated upon his own. Gog and Magog exposed
their ivory teeth in a permanent smile of welcome, and in the kitchen of
the Great House, Mrs. Binn, the Beau's intelligent cook, prepared a
breakfast of the most savoury character. His ascent to the rostrum
produced an expectant silence.
"My lords, ladies and gentlemen," he began, "I owe you a profound
apology. You will, of course, understand that in my capacity as Master
of the Ceremonies of Curtain Wells, I am under no obligation to any one,
but as Horace Ripple, I feel that my conduct in deserting you yesterday
morning without any notice of my intention deserves an explanation. When
I inform you that a domestick difficulty not entirely unconnected with
my censorious office called for hasty adjustment, you will, I am sure,
pardon me for not divulging the details of a very unfortunate affair. If
I may trespass to such an extent upon your good nature, I should like to
make my late adventure the subject of a short admonition. As you are
aware, I am not accustomed to mingle with the practical politicks of my
matutinal oration any allusion to your moral welfare: I should esteem it
highly impertinent on my part, were I to usurp in such a way the
prerogative of our friend the Rector. Nevertheless I am inclined to make
an exception to my rule this morning, the more so as I feel it my duty
to inform you of my impending resignation."
The Beau raised his monocle in order to regard the consternation of the
Exquisite Mob.
"That event may not occur yet a while; at any rate I shall remain in my
present position during this season. Next October, however, I hope to
present you with a younger, I will not say worthier, successor.
Naturally I shall still spend the greater part of my time in Curtain
Wells, but with the advance of years, I shall wish to be excused from
many of your more nocturnal gaieties. That desire I could not gratify
were I still to hold the reins of responsibleness. However, this is not
an oration of farewell, so I will not longer emphasize the melancholy
topick of mutability.
"The advice I would offer you this morning is, next to the duty of a
regular course of chalybeate, the most important item in human
happiness. My lords, ladies and gentlemen, never meddle with other
people's business when it happens to concern the heart or the soul of a
human creature. Do not, because you are older or because you have read
more widely or because you have travelled across Europe or because you
have dined with a Minister, or because you suffer from any of the
numerous delusions of superiority, do not be too sure that you are
competent to interfere with somebody who has enjoyed none of these
accidental advantages. Admonish the erring child, warn the impetuous
young woman, chide the libertine, reproach the gamester, set an example
of continence to all the world, but abstain from direct interference;
and if an unpleasant doom overwhelms the object of your interest, pray
do not suppose that you would have been able to avert it. My lords,
ladies and gentlemen, you are one and all the genteelest of companions,
but so far as my theology has taken me, you are none of you gods or
goddesses, except in the hyperbole of poetick dedications.
"You have already heard the announcement of your forthcoming
entertainments; let me add to their number with a very cordial
invitation to the Great House, next Tuesday week. Finally, let me add
that during my tenure of office, I shall hope to make these personal
encounters a very frequent delight to your obliged humble servant Horace
Ripple. Oh, and pray let me assure you that my absence yesterday morning
was in no way due to any desire on my part to celebrate the festival of
the First of April. My lords, ladies and gentlemen, your very obedient."
With these words the Great little Man descended from his pedestal, and
was presently in affable conversation with a number of men and women of
rank and fashion.
You will remember that when, it seems an age ago, we first saw Beau
Ripple and the Exquisite Mob, we also met Mr. Vernon and Miss Phyllida
Courteen. For my own part, I feel that the Pump Room on this morning
lacked vitality for all its glitter and stir of elegant movement. I miss
the swansdown muff and the blushing, eager face of Phyllida. I miss
those little notes that dropped like feathers from the wings of Love. I
miss the ingenuous artifice and sweet stratagems of Phyllida and Betty
and for all it would nearly break my heart to see her misery, I would
fain be walking behind them away down in some budding Hampshire lane.
They are still in a postchaise, however, and the musty odour is wringing
her heart with an agony of regret. In what a world of memories will she
live the summer through. The cuckoo will call in the green wood and the
nightingale thrill the moonshine with her passionate song, but Phyllida
will stare into the sun.
In a dip of the billowy downs, the harebells wave from their fragile
stems and ladies' slippers glow with red and orange flames. Far below
you can see the flashing wings of kestrels and hear the lapwing's
desolate cry. The beech trees rustle and in the long dry grass the wind
sighs continually. There she will sit hour after hour in the summer
heat, until she can forget.
And yet, little heroine of a sad tale, I wonder whether you would not
have drooped in London and spent long lonely evenings while the twilight
stole in from the murmurous streets of the city. I wonder whether after
all you were not happier with a flock of rosy children, a portrait by
Mr. Romney, and the most comfortable corner in the great Hall pew. Upon
my soul, I am not competent to give an opinion.
Phyllida's mother certainly thought that everything was for the best. In
her case optimism brought its reward, and she secured Courteen Grange as
a dower house, where she continued for many years to be very spritely
company for all the dowagers and many of the old bachelors in the
neighbourhood. It is perhaps strange she did not marry Mr. Moon, but to
confess the truth, the death of Major Tarry destroyed some of his
charm. Without that brisk veteran to stir his ponderous courtship, the
Justice became wearisome, possibly with greater opportunity of intimacy,
more cautious. No doubt in the course of his legal researches, he came
upon the Codicil to Squire Courteen's Will, and his election to the
Chairmanship of the Bench rendered him oblivious to anything more
trivial than Immortal Renown. If we can judge of his qualities by the
epitaph in the South Aisle of the Church, he united in one person the
austerity of Solon, the severity of Draco, the wisdom of Solomon, and
the domination of Aaron. He never finished his great essay on Peace, but
as his mural biographer justly remarked, 'His was now the Peace that
passeth all Understanding,' so that presumably the publication of his
fragment would have been a superfluous tribute. One particular
distinction belongs to Mr. Moon. He was never made an April fool. And if
the quiet tea-tables of Newton Candover were temporarily disturbed by
the escapade of Miss Phyllida Courteen, why the parson benefited by an
increase in his congregation. But even the most impudent curiosity could
not long survive Mrs. Courteen's circumambient frankness.
_Chapter the Thirty-eighth_