There stood Beau Ripple dancing and d--g, while a monologue with appropriate action went somehow like this:
_Beau._ D---- all buttons for being round.
Then he danced.
_Beau._ D---- all pins for dropping upon the floor and the chambermaids for not picking them up, and my own feet for treading on them.
Then he danced again.
_Beau._ D---- all beds for being wide.
Then he danced.
_Beau._ D---- my eyes, I shall be late for the waters.
Then he danced to his mirrour. And the mirrour showed a man of ripe age with smooth round face and a pair of very blue eyes.
_Beau._ And d---- you, Ripple, for a clumsy old fool.
Hereupon the Great little Man beamed at himself, for the nature of him was so truly kind that he could not be crossed by himself for long, and as for the world, his severity never upset the balance of a well-turned phrase. He was an urbane man, one who had presumably lived all his life in prim and decorous cities but, since he will preside over this story of mine, we shall learn more about him as we go along.
Further round the Crescent, Mrs. Choke let furnished apartments to valetudinarian bachelors, and in one of the brightest of these, Mr. Francis Vernon sat before his looking glass contemplatively combing his wig. His closely cropped curly hair accentuated the lines of a profile already inclined to sharpness, just as his red lips enhanced the surrounding paleness of his complexion. He combed his wig very much as a man strokes a cat. The caress half-felt loses itself in speculation, and just now Mr. Vernon was gazing at the wrought-iron balcony of the opposite house where Miss Phyllida Courteen, all swansdown and rosy cheeks, was plucking half a dozen snowdrops from a bough-pot. These were to be enclosed in a note and sent by the hand of the first pleasant-looking passer-by to Miss Sukey Morton in the Western Colonnade. And the aforesaid Miss Morton would, in the estimation of Miss Courteen, simper and blush and confide in her dear Phyllida that, though she had known he admired her and indeed, had proffered her a dropped fan more than once at the Monday Assemblies, yet never, _never_ had she for a moment imagined that he would _dare_ to send her a Valentine, and if he had, she would have _died_ rather than take it, yes, _died_, for _what_ she would do when she passed him next Monday evening, she could not _think_, especially as he was _known_ to be partial to her, and her Mechlin pinner was quite ruined by the _abominable_ wax-candles they would use just because the P---- of W---- was not coming that year after all.
Miss Courteen was so much charmed by this loquacious dream that she began to compose an appropriate verse destined to be wrapped round the green stalks of the flowers.
_The snowdrop's white_ _And so are you. . ._
The smallest foot in the world beat time upon the balcony making the iron bars on which she stood vibrate in twanging chords, but failed to summon from the caves of Poesy an echo worthy of the snowdrop's white.
"The last line is monstrous easy," she thought.
_The bluebell's blue!_ and the accumulation of liquids and labials has enchanted her mouth to such a delicious pout that Mr. Vernon is leaning forward and combing his wig more contemplatively than ever, for, although he cannot see his charmer's lips, he feels sure from the attitude of her whole body that her face is infernally captivating, and the memory of her last whispered good-bye assails him and kindles a leaping flame at the back of his hazel eyes.
Such a merciless regard as ours penetrates to the heart and we know that Mr. Vernon is wondering what on earth will come of his affair with Miss Courteen, and speculating how much she will inherit, and whether matrimony is quite so expensive a joy as his friends make out. The thought of money writes an ugly twisted line across his high smooth forehead, and this line broadens into a hundred little tributary lines as he thinks of his debts. So he brings himself back to the obstacles of life in rather a gloomy frame of mind and faces the necessity of his toilet in such a depression of spirits that he selects a suit to match his mood. And that is the reason why Mr. Francis Vernon wore purple sattin on Valentine morning.
All this while, Miss Courteen is quite unable to invent that odious third line, and though she taps her foot to aerial musick and pulls a chestnut curl right over her nose and twists it round her fingers and wonders whether 'white' is a notably difficult word to rhyme, she never succeeds, and just when she has almost succeeded, her mother's voice sounds from the floor above. This disposes of inspiration altogether, for though her mother's voice is very melodious and sounds prodigiously pleasant as it murmurs 'Spadille' or 'Manille' over the card-tables, it will allow no competition, and drives all invisible musick far away.
"Coming, dear mamma," says Phyllida just as Mr. Vernon decides to wear purple and just as we step out of Mrs. Choke's front door thinking it can no longer be indiscreet to follow our Muses to the scene of Mrs. Courteen's toilet.
As we cross the road glittering in the sunshine with last night's rain, we see a tall young gentleman writing busily in a set of ivory tablets as he strolls quietly along the pavement. Mr. Lovely, the young gentleman, looks up very quickly as a three-cornered note flutters down and lodges in a fold of his ruffles. Miss Courteen who felt the note falling, and thinks that after all she need not make more than a pretty attempt to save it, peers over the railing into the upturned face of the young gentleman who bows very low and sweeps his hat round in a very grand curve, and begs to apologize for the awkwardness of his ruffles in thus intercepting a lady's note. And you and I, my inquisitive companion, stand still for a moment and watch the picture, remembering it is merry Valentine morn. The maid with wide eyes and crimson cheeks nestling in swansdown and the young man of the laughing expectant face, in his peach-coloured velvet suit, seem somehow to have caught the spirit of the day: they make us think of broken stiles, of hedges heavy with may, of blue and white April noons, of lambs, and children with pinafores a-flutter gathering cowslip-posies on a wind-washed down, and of all the old and dear delights of Spring.
Says Phyllida, "Oh! pray pardon my clumsiness."
And "Madam," says he very gallantly, "I'm incredibly obliged, for you've given me a rhyme."
"Oh! pray tell me--was it to 'white'?"
"Nay! 'twas harder than that," he murmurs.
"But I think that is monstrous difficult."
"Bright, sight, light," (cheerfully) "height," (regretfully) "night," (hopefully) and "fight," (fiercely).
"Indeed," adds Phyllida, "I thought of every one of them, but not one would fit the sense."
The young gentleman who is a rhymester himself, grows interested. "Might I," says he, "without impertinence inquire your necessity?"
"Sure, 'tis for a Valentine," and as Mr. Lovely's face darkens, she hurriedly adds, "for a young lady, a friend of mine, you'll see the direction writ on the flap."
His face clears again and he asks,
"You wish it delivered?"
"Oh, sir! how did you guess?"
"By accident, ma'am, or a happy intuition, I stepped out to take the air this fine morning, and chance has discovered for me an incontrovertible excuse for such idle exercise. To be footman to a sister of the Muses is surely appropriate service for a poet."
"Then you are a poet?"
"My publisher affirms it."
"How romantick truly!" but the tail of the sigh is interrupted by her mother's voice, and she has bare time to murmur her thanks, drop a genteel curtsey and vanish. As for Mr. Lovely he has registered a vow to attend the Monday Assembly next week instead of sitting down to Hazard at the _Blue Boar_ Inn.
Abovestairs all is confusion because Mrs. Courteen cannot make up her mind between yellow lutestring and orange silk. Phyllida whose heart is full of the dancing springtide thinks her dear mamma should wear the brightest colours and the richest stuffs in the world.
"For if you would only allow the curtains to be drawn back, you would see what a golden morning it is outside," she complains to her mother who answers:
"Women of fashion, Phyllida, dress by candlelight for candlelight."
Betty the maid, agrees with her young mistress, "Sweet, pretty dear lamb," as she asseverates in Hampshire accents, "Orange silk, say I, and God bless the gaulden sun."
Mrs. Courteen who is sitting nearly half-undressed and quite incapable of forming a decision, bids Betty go and find out Thomas' opinion. Thomas is the family footman and a great critick of men, women, and religions. Presently Betty comes back and says that Tammas would prefar yaller.
"Why, Betty, why?"
"Because," answers the maid, "he says silks are for the vain and abominable and lutestrings have a pleasant twang and savour of the psalmist."
So Mrs. Courteen turns from yellow sack to orange sack and from primrose-quilted petticoat to apricock-quilted petticoat in despair, till at last Betty asks triumphantly: