Mr. Ripple ate very modishly. One would have said he had watched the honied meals of many butterflies. For all his fork's fastidious action, it managed to pick the best of a Fricassee. Rounds, ribs, and sirloins, he deplored.
Sir Jeremy Dummer evidently felt that his sensibility to the honour awarded to him deserved practical gratitude. He eat voraciously. The old fighting spirit abode in him for a space and he handled his knife like his hanger. He slashed at every course that came along, but, accuracy being impaired by muscular fatigue, he was content to swallow much of his food whole.
Sir Jeremy Dummer ate:
Two plates of turtle soup.
The better part of a codfish.
The wing of a capon.
The wing of a duck.
The breast of a pullet.
A hot buttered apple dumpling and two or three slices of ham which he had not noticed before.
Sir Jeremy Dummer drank:
Two tankards of old ale.
One bottle of Madeira.
Two bottles of Port.
And on the following day, Sir Jeremy Dummer died. He had always been famous for trencher-play until condemned by Oboe to milky sustenance to which through twenty-one winter seasons he never willingly yielded. This commemoration of his abstinence was his opportunity and his revenge. Could he have made a worthier end? For my own part, I should not presume to say so.
Meanwhile, unconscious of this premature obituary, Sir Jeremy Dummer enjoyed the breakfast amazingly. At first he was inclined to peevishness through not being seated upon a sufficiently high chair. Mr. Daish, however, with ready tact secured one of the Civick cushions and so enabled Sir Jeremy, comfortably ensconced in crimson velvet, to eat his last breakfast at ease.
Mr. Lovely having made the acquaintance of the Honourable George Harthe-Brusshe, by whom he had seated himself at the particular request of Mr. Ripple, discussed with animation the food on his plate and the last foppery of the town. Mr. Harthe-Brusshe, a lantern jawed young gentleman with a sincere devotion to turtle-soup, observing that Mr. Lovely was about to leave his portion, begged him to hand it over. Charles who invariably encouraged every man's idiosyncrasy sent the word down the table to pass up every neglected plateful. This request was readily granted and presently Mr. Harthe-Brusshe found himself surrounded by half-a-dozen portions. Thereupon he declined all other dishes and was faithful to soup for the rest of the meal.
"I suppose you find the difference in temperature sufficient variety?" asked Mr. Lovely in a tone of great interest.
"That's so, Sir," replied the other as he refused beef and veal for the sake of a moderately warm fifth plate of soup.
"I doubt you keep a bottle of it always to hand," remarked Lovely.
"It would tire me too much. It tires me to keep things to hand."
Here the Honourable George Harthe-Brusshe sighed with exhaustion and seemed to desire silence.
Charles turned to his other neighbour who happened to be Mr. Francis Vernon.
"Are you making a sojourn here, Sir?"
Vernon noticed the richness of Mr. Lovely's attire, made a rough calculation of the value of his buckles, brooches and solitaire, and answered very politely he hoped so indeed.
"I've not yet seen you at the _Blue Boar_, Sir. We make up a pleasant party in the old Coffee-Room every night. There's young Tom Chalkley of the Foot, Tony Clare, Peter Wingfield, Jack Winnington, Harry Golightly of Campbell's Grey Dragoons, Blewforth of the _Lively_, and as many more of us pass the time very pleasantly over some tolerable Port and very excellent Burgundy."
"I doubt the company is delightful."
"'I faith, that's very true for when the wine makes us loquacious, d---- e, we sing, and when it makes us mum, why, d----e, the dice-box talks for us. You'll join us, Sir?" he added, turning to Mr. Harthe-Brusshe.
"Proud," murmured that gentleman pensively regarding the rich scum slowly hardening over the plate of soup to be attacked next.
"Let me see," said Charles, "to-night we must positively keep quiet in deference to the Beau. Monday night I've promised to go to the Assembly."
"What's that?" said Mr. Anthony Clare, a florid young gentleman on the opposite side of the table. "Blewforth!" he called out to a naval officer farther along. "Charles has forsook letters and is going to try life for a change."
"Good G----," said the Lieutenant solemnly. "Charles crowding all canvas after a petticoat?"
Charles looked somewhat disconcerted by this immediate perception of his motives.
"I 'faith, you're in the wrong, Blewforth," he protested, "'tis to please Ripple and that's the whole truth of the matter."
A roar of laughter greeted this excuse, and every young gentleman in hearing vowed to exchange dice for dancing on Monday night.
"I saw Charles leave a note at a house in the Western Colonnade," remarked Ensign Chalkley of the Foot.
"A Valentine for a hundred guineas," said Clare.
"Name the charmer," shouted Blewforth, "name her, and egad, she shall be the toast of the afternoon."
Mr. Vernon felt relieved. Somehow he had half suspected Lovely was in pursuit of Miss Courteen. If he had not decided to wear purple sattin on the day before and buried himself in the closet to extricate the suit, he would have been still more suspicious of Lovely. The latter ignored the friendly jeers.
"Shall we say Wednesday night, Sir?"
"I shall be honoured."
"May I beg the favour of your name, Sir? 'Tis customary with us to elect our associates.'
"My name is Vernon. Francis Vernon of the Crescent, Curtain Wells--and London."
It was Charles' turn to display apprehension. Here was a man well dressed, of genteel appearance, living in the Crescent.
"Ah! the Crescent! I once had a notion to lodge there myself."
"'Tis a quiet position," said Vernon.
"So much the better for my Muse."
"You are a poet, Sir?"
"I have a metrical fancy."
"Try the Colonnade, Charles," bellowed the Lieutenant, "and your Muse'll speedily become the most famous Toast of the time."
"Blewforth owns a spy-glass," said some one.
"I wish he would own a mirrour," said Charles, "his wig is infamous."
"His head is swollen since the w-war," stammered little Peter Wingfield, "or else he was w-wounded in the wig." Blewforth, impervious to smoaking, gave a loud guffaw.
Lovely and Vernon agreed to meet on the following Wednesday and the conversation moved on general lines till the silver hammer of the Mayor summoned the company to attend to the toasts. The eyes of the room were on him as away up at the high table, he rose burly and majestick.
"Mr. Alderman Jobbins," he proclaimed, "the King!" Mr. Jobbins, the youngest of the city fathers, blessed his sovereign with unctuous pride, and the toast was drunk amid acclamations whose echo was drowned in broken glass. Curtain Wells knew when to borrow from military manners.
Then the assembly tilted on its chairs after filling new glasses, and composed itself to listen to Beau Ripple who had risen, monocle in hand.
When the murmur of delighted anticipation had sighed itself out on the wings of a loud 'Hush,' the Great little Man with indescribable suavity begged the company's permission to say a few words.
"Mr. Mayor, my lords, and gentlemen, may I say citizens? (a voice, 'You may') for I think I am giving utterance to the sentiments of this salubrious town when I protest that upon an occasion of such unique interest and such immense significance, we no longer recognize any distinction between visitors and residents (loud applause). We are assembled this morning in order to honour a man for whom no honour is sufficient. We are celebrating the twenty-first consecutive winter at Curtain Wells of Sir Jeremy Dummer (loud cheers). He has been faithful to us, gentlemen. Each year towards the close of the equinoctial gales, his coach has clattered over the cobbles of Curtain Wells. Each year he has alighted at the door of Number Seventeen, the Crescent. Each year he has torn himself away from the gaiety of London in order to set us an example of perseverance. Each year his arrival has encouraged other gentlemen of grave address to put their faith in the cleansing springs of Chalybeate. To be sure, his gout is as virulent as ever, but has he despaired? No (cheers). Has he tried other remedies? No (cheers). He has only been the more firmly convinced of the profound malignity of his disorder and the more resolutely determined to annoy it by any and every means in his power (continued applause). Twenty-one years ago Curtain Wells was a different place. We had, it is true, this Civick Hall. We had Crescent and Colonnade, Curtain Garden and Curtain Rotunda, Curtain Wells and Curtain Pump Room, Curtain Hill and Curtain Dale. But we had not your respected Mayor. In those days he was a younger, shall I add, a more foolish man? I myself was still overshadowed by the reputation of my great predecessor Beau Melon whose alabaster bust consecrates the Assembly Rooms.
"In those days, gentlemen, coaches very rarely exceeded the rate of four miles an hour, and as you have heard, the new Machine proposes to travel at an uniform speed of six. Twenty-one years! This valetudinarian majority should make the youngest of us pause and reflect. Twenty-one years of Chalybeate (a groan from the back of the room).