It was Wednesday night; over forty men sat down to the house-dinner at the Pandemonium Club. As usual the dinner was recherché, for the Pandemonium chef enjoyed a world-wide reputation. It is to be feared that the attractions of the house-dinner were not the sole inducement to many of those sitting there. A house-dinner always secured a large party in the card-room afterwards, and though the Pandemonium was a celebrated dining club, it was notoriously also a gambling one. Though the Pandemonium was a gambler's paradise, and many scandals had occurred there, yet the dirty linen had been always washed at home, and the exact details of these affairs had never leaked out. Young Spooner, of the Foreign Office, Sir John Spooner's, the Warwickshire baronet, eldest son, had certainly left London as fourth secretary to the Teheran Embassy, where he still remained; while Rolls, a briefless barrister, who was fond of backing himself at the whist table, had taken his name off the books, though he had honourably paid his losses, and suddenly accepted the not over-brilliant position of an Assistant-Judgeship on the Gold Coast: pay there was high and promotion rapid, but no one had ever been known to live long enough to take a pension.
Magnums of the driest and most expensive champagne seemed to be the favourite beverage. But the whisters as a rule drank claret, in anticipation of the more serious business that was sure to follow the weekly house-dinner. Captains Spotstroke and Pool were equally careful; the rest of those present drank freely. The elaborate dessert was followed by a general move. Old Sir Peter Growler and Canon Drivel, D.D., retired to the smoke-room, where they retailed their old, but exceedingly improper anecdotes, to a select circle of the very youngest men. In the billiard-room, pool at half sovereign lives, was commenced, and promised to run into the small hours—a sure harvest for Captains Spotstroke and Pool. In confidence it may be said that Spotstroke's little place in the south of Ireland only existed in his own imagination, his rents being entirely derived from his skill with his cue, and the certain income that he extracted from the very safe little book that he made on most of the great events of the year. A small contingent of the members hurried off to applaud the successful comic opera of the hour.
The card-room attracted its usual habitués, these sat down to whist; and if an unskilled unfortunate joined the fatal tables, he soon had reason to regret his temerity. Pound points were habitually played at the Pandemonium, and as the evening went on, though the points never varied, betting among the players and the "gallery" usually became extremely heavy. Discussions never arose at the whist tables of this rather fast club, for the players had Cavendish and Pole at their fingers' ends. General Pepper, C.B., had raised his eyes in unfeigned astonishment and horror, when an old Worcestershire baronet, his partner, once made a reference to Hoyle, and professed himself unacquainted with "the Peter." Needless to say, the Worcestershire baronet had returned to his ancestral acres a sadder but a wiser man. He showed his wisdom in giving the Pandemonium card-room a very wide berth for the rest of his days. He subsequently had the good sense to join the comic opera division, and to finish his evenings with the undeniable oysters, for which the Pandemonium is so celebrated. No one was ever seen at this well-known club after lunch time or before dinner, save a few miserable veterans, to whom perpetual whist was a necessity. The bulk of the servants even, only commenced their daily duties at dusk, while the steward never appeared till the dinner hour; but then he, poor man, had to be to the fore all night, for it was a stern rule in the card-room that I O U's were never seen, the play being always for ready money, in notes and gold. Mr. Levison, the amiable steward (originally from Hamburg), had a very Pactolus ready for the accommodation, for a consideration, of his numerous masters, in his iron safe. Levison's relations think he will cut up well at his death; Levison's relations are right.
It is one in the morning. Though it is in the height of summer the Pandemonium card-room is cool; they burn wax candles here, and gas is absolutely banished from this particular chamber of the club, where fortunes are sometimes lost and won. In most club card-rooms smoking is not permitted, but at the Pandemonium it is the fashion to smoke everywhere. One whist table only is at work; General Pepper and three old hands of the same kidney are hard at it. The four old men rub their blear old eyes at the conclusion of each deal, and then pull down their faultless cuffs over their eager and bony old hands. The card table profitably occupies some six to eight hours daily of these old fellows' attention. There is not much harm in it after all. Probably none of them are very much the better or very much the worse at the end of the year; their sole ambition is the saving of a game, particularly when there is a good "gallery" to admire their efforts. One dreaded Nemesis awaits these men—the inevitable day when memory will begin to fail, and they shall trump their partner's best card. Or the still more horrible apprehension of dimness of sight; for a pair of wicked old eyes will not last for ever; then the unhappy old player will begin to revoke, and find himself perforce relegated to "bumble-puppy," or to whiskey-and-water and solemn slumbers in the smoke -room, or, more horrible still, the prolonged society of Sir Peter Growler and Canon Drivel, D.D.
Rule XXXV. of the club states that "Cards, chess and billiards may be played. The sum played for shall not exceed one pound points; no play is permitted after two a.m." Rule XXXVI. says, "No game of hazard shall on any account be played in the club-house." Rule XXXVII. sternly goes on to assert that "any deviation from the last two rules shall be attended with expulsion." Truly good and moral regulations. But these Draconic laws are, unfortunately, a dead letter. Nothing is said in them about bets. As in all clubs, only members enter the card-room; and most of the members come to "flutter," as they term it, and to "flutter" heavily.
In the centre of the room is an oval table; some dozen men are sitting at it; as many more stand behind their chairs. Two many-branched candelabra, holding wax lights, brilliantly illuminate the game. Young Lamb, who six months ago ran a "tick" for "tuck" at Eton, and trembled coram pædagogo, sits, his eyes bloodshot, as, with nails driven into his palms, he watches, in an anguish of excitement, the movements of the dealer. Young Lamb's big cigar has been out long ago; but he pulls hard at it, wholly unaware of the fact. It is easy enough to distinguish, among those who smoke at least, the more innocent from the habitual gamblers; the cigars of these latter, even at the most exciting crises, are steadily smoked at a uniform rate, while the new hand is continually taking a light, as often blowing sudden vast clouds, or his cigar all unknown to him goes out, as has been described. Your young player, too, sits with his feet tucked tightly under his chair; he never moves them, and consequently suffers much from that hitherto undescribed disease—that awful pain across the knees, which, for want of a better name, may be called "gamblers' rheumatism." Are you quite sure you have never suffered from this rather common disorder, gentle reader, at least, if you be of the male sex? Perhaps you may remember having occasionally walked home through the rain, utterly cleared out, without even the needful silver for a cab, with a dry throat, and finding out for the first time what "gamblers' rheumatism" really means. If so, it is to be hoped that, wise man as you are, the first attack of this disorder was also your last. But at the Pandemonium matters never went to the extremity of a member suffering the degradation of having to walk home in the rain. Was not kind Mr. Levison ever to the fore, with his neat little rouleaux of sovereigns, and his fat pocket-book full of new and crisp bank-notes? Levison, as he sat at the little table in the corner, on which were writing materials and many packs of new cards, never refused a loan in so many words. "I wouldn't go on if I were you, sir; the luck's dead against you to-night; I wouldn't go on, indeed I wouldn't." This was his invariable formula. It meant that the astute Hebrew declined to do business on any terms. No one ever argued with Levison; all understood that this particular phrase was final. The unhappy applicant was naturally obliged to temporarily retire from the game, at all events for that night. No man would have been idiot enough to have asked a loan from a fellow player; that would have been quite contrary to the unwritten code of ethics of the Pandemonium Club: fathers have flinty hearts, but no fathers are so proverbially flinty-hearted as the fathers of the card-room.
Among the players were the usual club habitués. They are much the same everywhere, the only difference being their clothes. The viveurs at the Pandemonium, in their faultless evening dress; the gommeux at Monte Carlo, in their tall collars and their shiny boots; the Bohemians, in their tobacco-scented and eccentric garments; or the thieves playing at sixpenny loo in St. Luke's—all these people are at heart the same. But we must not class in this unclean category Lord Spunyarn and his friend Haggard, who were both playing at the big table. Haggard merely played for the excitement, and Spunyarn because it was a lesser bore to play than to look on.
The game was baccarat.
The table is covered with a tightly-stretched green cloth, which is divided by yellow lines into fourteen spaces; two larger ones in the centre of the table are the places of the banker and the croupier; twelve other spaces of a smaller size indicate the seats of the rest of the players, or "punters," as they are technically termed. The table is full, as has been stated: a bank has just been terminated, and the banker retires, having lost the whole amount of his bank. The croupier, who is, of course, a professional—a bald Frenchman, nominally one of the card-room waiters—looks round the table with the air of an auctioneer. "Fifty pounds—seventy-five—a hundred—two hundred—two hundred and fifty—three hundred; thank you, sir. Mr. Haggard takes the bank, gentlemen, at three hundred pounds."
Haggard rises with a smile, seats himself in the dealer's vacant place, opposite the croupier; he places in front of him a pile of gold and notes. With the rapidity of one of Messrs. Coutts' young men, the French croupier counts the money; he arranges the gold in little piles, and the notes in three little heaps, placing a small paper-weight on each heap. Then the croupier tears open two packets of new cards, flinging the old ones into a waste-paper basket at his side. He invites various players to make the cards; this is done in rather a perfunctory manner. With a sort of huge paper-knife the Frenchman passes the cards to Haggard, and as he does so, remarks in a clear, but mechanical voice: "Gentlemen, the bank is opened for three hundred pounds." Haggard takes the cards, and, dividing them into two equal parts, rapidly shuffles them, by raising a corner of each parcel simultaneously, and letting the corners slip with a rapid "brrr." Evidently, from the dexterity and precision with which this feat is accomplished, Georgie Warrender's affianced lover is no novice. He hands the cards to his right-hand neighbour, who carefully cuts them; each player puts forth his stake towards the middle of the table, in front of the space allotted him. These stakes are gold only as yet, and no man's venture seems over five pounds. Haggard takes up about a sixth part of the cards. "Gentlemen," cries the croupier, "the game is made." Haggard places a card to the left, for that half of the table; another at his right, for the other half; a third one he takes himself: he repeats the process. The croupier slips the blade of his huge paper-knife underneath the two cards which are on either side of the dealer, and deposits them, unexposed, with marvellous adroitness, before the punter on either side whose turn it is to play. Court cards and tens count as nothing, the ace as one; should the player make either eight or nine he invariably rests contented, and exhibits it; if below eight, he exercises his fancy or discretion, and takes or refuses a third card. Then Haggard turns up his own hand, doing precisely the same. He has drawn a knave and a six; he takes another card; this turns out to be an ace. "I have seven," he says. The player to his right holds eight, the player to his left has only six—the right side wins, the left side loses. In an instant the croupier, with his huge paper-knife, sweeps up the cards, and, with the rapidity of a conjuring trick, he casts them into a wooden bowl in the middle of the table; then he rapidly sweeps off all the stakes on one side of the table; with equal celerity he places each man's winnings before the players on the other side. There are no quarrels, and no mistakes. Everybody is terribly polite. And so the game goes on.
Though the amount played for is serious, a good deal of rather bald conversation and chaff goes on. There is a considerable amount of give and take. If any one has lost his temper, as well as his money, he takes good care not to show it; to do so here would be indeed bad form. Young Lamb has already paid several visits to Mr. Levison's little table. Haggard's deal goes on, no very startling coup coming off, but it has been a good bank as yet, for the pile in front of Haggard has increased to nearly six hundred pounds. Young Lamb having gnawed his extinguished cigar till it somewhat resembles a quid, and having consequently swallowed a considerable amount of nicotine, flings it away with a curse. As the last note of his last loan from Levison is swept up by the remorseless pelle (for so the gigantic paper-knife is technically termed), Lamb gives an order to the waiter, and pays another visit to the smiling little Jew. Their business is rapidly transacted; Lamb redeems some half-dozen I O U's which he had previously given to the steward, hurriedly signs a formal-looking instrument, which is duly witnessed, and stuffs into his breast-pocket a big roll of notes, which he does not even stop to count. "I do hope you'll be careful, sir," remarks the steward to Lamb in an affectionate whisper, and in the tone of an anxious mother to her favourite child. Lamb returns to his seat at the table; he has lost eight hundred pounds already, but the bulgey lump in his breast-pocket is another five thousand pounds. The waiter places by his side a small gueridon on which is a little carafe of green Chartreuse and a liqueur-glass; he also hands to the young fellow a box of big full-flavoured cigars, of the brand of Anselmo del Valle. Lamb fills his case, and lights this the ne plus ultra of a soothing weed.
"Dutch courage, Lammy, my boy," remarked Spunyarn, as he calmly helps himself to one of the youth's cigars.
"You'd be doing the same, Shirtings, if you'd been hit at this beast of a game as I have."
"Shirtings" was the playful name bestowed on the noble lord, in reference to the well-known fact that the Spunyarn money had been made in a Manchester cotton mill, and with that money it was said that the Spunyarn title had been paid for; the first gentleman in Europe not disdaining such bargains. Lamb swallows a second glass of his panacea. The real fact is that the boy likes it because it is sweet, the after-taste indistinctly resembling the distant memories of the peppermint bull's-eyes of his early youth. But green Chartreuse unhappily is not innocent; it is more than a spirit, it is a powerful drug. Fired by this second draught, his tired eyes already a ferrety red, his mouth dry with the tobacco, the drink and the excitement, Lamb in a rasping voice shouts, "Banco."
There is a sudden hush. The whist players, who had finished for the evening, hurry to the baccarat table; the other players, some of whom had already staked their money, reluctantly withdraw their various amounts. The croupier announces, intoning as does a high-church curate, "There is seven hundred and forty pounds in the bank, gentlemen."
Lamb with shaking fingers places the required amount in front of him. Haggard, the dealer, apparently unconcerned, continues the game. There is a dead silence. Neither dealer or punter take a third card. The cards are turned. The dealer has an eight and king, the punter a five and three. A tie. The perspiration stands on young Lamb's face; again his cigar goes out. The croupier pushes the seven hundred and forty pounds of the unlucky player a foot nearer to the bank. The next coup will decide the matter. If Lamb wins, he will get his own money back, if he loses, then his money is gone for good. Again a dead silence, again the cards are dealt; this time the bank wins; there is a loud noise of excited talking, above which rises the monotonous chant of the croupier, "There is fourteen hundred and eighty pounds in the bank, gentlemen."
The wretched young man persistently exercises his right of crying "Banco," and so practically going double or quits each time. But "the cards never forgive," and as a rule Dame Fortune is relentless to the reckless player. Three more coups are played, each of which the banker, that is to say Haggard, wins. At the end of the third coup, Lamb loses, at a single blow, nearly three thousand pounds; he calls the steward to his side, a short whispered conversation takes place. "Five thousand nine hundred and twenty pounds in the bank." Again the young fellow repeats his fatal "Banco," as he stakes a fresh pile of notes handed to him by the obsequious Jew. Again he loses. Haggard has won, of him alone, eleven thousand pounds. Nobody feels inclined to go on; every one is rather scandalized, for it is apparent to all that the boy has become suddenly, thoroughly intoxicated.
"Damned shame, I call it," growled old General Pepper, who in his heart envied Haggard his luck. "Why, the man's drunk, beastly drunk, sir."
Haggard rises, glaring at old Pepper in a menacing manner. "Am I to regard your remark as any insinuation upon me, General Pepper?" he said fiercely.
"I say it's a damned shame," repeated the veteran.
The hubbub became general. What was to be done? Of course, there would be a scandal, but in the eyes of most men at the Pandemonium Club, Haggard was not to be blamed, he was merely to be envied. Probably the real fact was that the weak young fellow was suddenly carried off his legs by the repeated draughts of the fiery cordial, the effect of which only became apparent to the on-lookers after the final bet had been made and the game had recommenced. Who shall cast a stone, then, at Haggard? He merely backed his luck, as the saying is. There was nothing unfair about the matter. But the nasty part of the whole thing was, that Haggard had won eleven thousand pounds from a weak-headed boy. The society newspapers for the week alluded to the matter in veiled, but unmistakable terms. And when Haggard announced to his friend Spunyarn his intention of returning to America, to realize his property, on the termination of his wedding tour, the young lord acquiesced in that decision, casually remarking, "It would be as well if you fought shy a bit, you know, old man, for I am heartily sick of being bothered about the baccarat matter, and of looking in the paper to see if that young prig Lamb has hung himself. Ta ta, you lucky beggar. I shall be to the fore at your diggings to-morrow, in the regulation shiny boots." They parted.
Next day Reginald Haggard was to lead Georgina Warrender to the altar, and Spunyarn's allusion to shiny boots merely referred to the fact that he was to be his friend Haggard's best man.
In newspaper descriptions of the last moments of celebrated criminals, we constantly read that "the unfortunate man did full justice to a substantial meal;" but nobody ever yet heard of a bridegroom who had any appetite for his breakfast; his own real breakfast is meant, and not the elaborate entertainment which follows close upon the ceremony. Reginald Haggard and his friend, Lord Spunyarn, were the vicar's guests at King's Warren Parsonage, but in vain did Mrs. Dodd press upon Haggard the numerous dainties with which her hospitable board was provided. Haggard was in a state of suppressed excitement, and he couldn't eat a mouthful. They were a cheerful enough party though, and Lord Spunyarn made up for his friend's deficiencies, for the young nobleman had an almost Homeric appetite. Justice Haggard, Reginald's father, and Lord Hetton, who had passed the night at the "Dun Cow," were present, for the sporting nobleman was supposed to represent the head of the family, his father, Lord Pit Town; and though he looked upon the whole matter as a very great nuisance indeed, still it was a family function at which his presence was a matter of course.
That breakfast at the Parsonage seemed interminable to Haggard, but even clerical breakfasts must have an end, and at length Mrs. Dodd rose, to the general relief of all present. There were yet two mortal hours to get through, and the men of the party sought the cool shades of the vicarage garden.
"Pull yourself together, old man," said Spunyarn to his friend, for Haggard was looking pale and miserable; "you're as sulky as a bear with a sore head. It's quite unnecessary to pose as a hero of romance. What's up with you, man; boots too tight?"
"I'll be hanged if I can tell you what's up," said his friend, "but this I know, I'm confoundedly depressed."
"Perhaps it's your natural timidity," said the other.
"Don't chaff, Shirtings; you're a very good fellow, you know, but I'm not in a laughing humour."
"Well, you needn't sulk all the same," said Spunyarn; "take my advice and have a glass of brandy."
Justice Haggard looked far more like a bridegroom than his son; the old gentleman, in his blue frock coat, his blue bird's-eye neckerchief, and with a flower in his button-hole, was the picture of health and happiness; while his white hat, which was cocked a little on one side, completed his festal appearance. He gave his son a hearty smack on the back.
"When I married your mother, Reginald, my boy, I was as jolly as a man could be; why, there's nothing to be alarmed about, unless you've lost the ring, you know; and the ladies wouldn't let you off with that excuse, for there's always the key of the church door in case of an emergency."
Haggard forced a smile.
"The ring's safe enough, father," he said.
"Don't worry him, gentlemen," cried the vicar; "it's only natural. I've had a good deal of experience with bridegrooms; believe me, it's the general symptom. I felt just the same when I was married myself; but it's nothing to preaching one's first sermon. It's all very well for you to talk, Haggard; but I'll be bound we were both just as miserable as our young friend, though we've forgotten all about it now. But here comes my wife with the sacrificial emblems."
There was no compromise about Mrs. Dodd, as she advanced straight to the bride-groom and proceeded to firmly secure a large white favour to his breast. The rest of the party were soon similarly decorated.
"There's one comfort, we haven't far to go," said Lord Hetton. "I feel we look rather like a parcel of fools."
"At all events, we haven't any time to lose," suggested the vicar, as he looked at his watch; "and, unless we mean to keep the bride waiting, we had better be off."
The whole party passed through the little wicket, crossed the churchyard, which was thronged with the whole population of King's Warren in its Sunday best, and entered the church, and the bridegroom and his friends at once took their place at the altar rails.
If Georgie Warrender had acted with proper decorum, she would have wept upon her father's bosom; but this ill-regulated young person did nothing of the kind. They must have been all very glad to get rid of her at The Warren, for nobody shed a single tear; there was a great deal of running about; the young person from the West End milliner's, her mouth full of pins, issued innumerable orders in a muffled whisper; and Miss Lucy Warrender and her three fellow bridesmaids appeared completely attired, at least half-a-dozen times, to submit themselves to old Warrender's inspection in the drawing-room quite half-an-hour before the carriages drew up at the door to take them to the church.
Georgie was not sufficiently old-fashioned to be married in a bonnet. Even a plain girl looks well in white, and Georgie was not a plain girl by any means. Of course, according to all proper precedent she ought to have rushed into her father's arms, and with floods of tears have bid him a touching farewell. What she did do, however, as she entered the room, was to rapidly advance and affectionately embrace him, then she stepped back and dropped him a low courtesy.
"Shall I do, papa?" she said with a loving smile.
"My dear, you're a credit to all of us," said the old gentleman, and her appearance certainly justified the ecstatic looks of Miss Hood, the four bridesmaids, and the young person from the West End.
Georgie was fully conscious of her privileges. No woman can twice in her life dress in white satin and orange blossoms, and if she mars the effect by the regulation tears, it is quite certain that there must be a screw loose somewhere. There was a great deal of tittering, smiling, and blushing; but the squire glanced at the clock, Lucy handed the bridal bouquet to her cousin, then the squire gave his daughter his arm, and, preceded by the bridesmaids, the little procession entered the carriages, and five minutes' drive brought them to the church.
Haggard, when he cast his eyes upon Georgie Warrender, seemed to regain his composure at once; there must have been a terrible amount of forwardness about this young lady, for according to rule and the pictures in the illustrated papers, her eyes should have been fixed upon the ground; and as the latest etiquette book says, "the bride should only acknowledge the bridegroom's presence by an assumption of shrinking timidity suitable to the occasion." But the bride smiled at Haggard, and so did the vicar, and so did the four bridesmaids.
The Reverend John Dodd didn't take long in tying the knot. The village organist had distinguished himself by his florid rendering of the Wedding March. As Lord Spunyarn gave his arm to Lucy Warrender, he almost felt as if he had been married himself, and that it was a rather pleasant process than otherwise.
"It's rather rough on us, Miss Warrender, having to play second fiddle," he said, while they were standing in the vestry during the signing of the register.
"Well, we can look upon it as a dress rehearsal, Lord Spunyarn; but we mustn't forget that it is a solemn moment, for I see that Mrs. Dodd is looking this way."
The bells were clashing merrily from the village spire as the party passed out of the church porch. As Haggard handed his wife into the carriage, she appeared still lost to all sense of the proprieties, for she nodded and smiled in every direction at the King's Warren villagers, among whom she had grown up; even poor Blogg, the poacher, and his hoyden daughter, Jemima Ann, were not unnoticed. And the patriarchal blessing of the village veteran, "Master" Jasper, as he was called (who had represented King's Warren on the field of glory some five-and-forty years before, and stood bobbing his palsied head, arrayed in his holiday garment, a linen ephod or smock frock, to which his Waterloo medal was proudly affixed), was given heartily enough. "God bless 'ee, Missy," cried the old man in the shrill cracked voice of age, as he pressed up to the carriage window.
"Thank you, Jasper," said the girl with a sunny smile. Strange to say, those two words gave the old fellow more pleasure than the thought of the unlimited potations he knew he would enjoy that afternoon at the squire's expense.
The wedding breakfast very much resembled the similar festivities at which most of us have assisted. The usual speeches were made, nobody seemed very much inclined to eat, but everybody's health was drunk; and I think it was rather a relief to all present when young Mrs. Haggard appeared in travelling dress, ready to quit, for the first time in her life, the happy home of her childhood. Then, and then only, did the young person from the West End millinery establishment remove the pins from her mouth, which enabled her to swallow a much needed glass of sherry; and then the squire's voice failed him, and he saw his daughter rather dimly as he pressed her to his heart for the last time upon the steps. The bridesmaids relieved their feelings by many salutes and much tittering. As the carriage moved off there was a perfect shower of satin slippers, and it wasn't till it got quite out of King's Warren village that the bride was able to leave off bowing and kissing her hand to her numerous well-wishers.
Then the wedding party broke up into little groups in the garden; at first they didn't amalgamate; the men smoked, and came to the universal conclusion that Haggard was a lucky beggar; while the ladies talked over the interesting details of the ceremony. Old Warrender retired to his study in a rather excited frame of mind, excusing himself on the ground of his age.
And now everybody turned out with a feeling of intense relief to witness the rejoicings on the village green. The school children were there enjoying rustic games in a somewhat half-hearted manner, for they had partaken with the appetites of young boa constrictors of the squire's hospitality, and each of them had a brand new shilling or half-crown in his or her pocket, according to age. A cricket-match was in progress, but the bowling and batting were extremely wild, thanks to The Warren strong beer. But soon the Rev. John Dodd imparted fresh vigour into the proceedings. The youths and maids pulled themselves together on his approach; the more bibulous among the men left the proximity of the big barrels of strong ale, over which the squire's head gardener was presiding. Lovers, who had been promenading arm-in-arm, separated for the moment by mutual consent, the swains touched their forelocks to the vicar, while Phyllis and Chloe smoothed their skirts and courtesied low to Mrs. Dodd as Lady Paramount. But the vicar meant that they should enjoy themselves, and he whispered to the squire, the squire nodded, and the vicar called loudly for Blogg.
"Where's your father, Jemima Ann?" he said to the poacher's daughter, who, in all the glories of a pink print dress and a much beribboned straw hat, had gone off into a succession of courtesies.
"Please, sir, he's gone to fetch it," she said.
At that moment the sound of a fiddle was heard, and the smiling rascal who played it, stopping his melody for an instant, made a low and sweeping bow, which took in the vicar, the squire and the gentry generally. Then he clapped his fiddle under his chin and without more ado struck up "Bobbing Joan."
"That's right, my man," said the vicar, "you couldn't do better. Now men, now girls."
But not one of them stirred.
"Goodness me!" cried the vicar, and then he forgot himself. Could Mrs. Dodd believe her eyes? Her husband seized Jemima Ann Blogg by the hand.
"Come, gentlemen, set them a good example," he said, and he commenced to turn Miss Blogg violently round. Before her father had got through another two bars of "Bobbing Joan," every soul on the green had commenced to gyrate, the frown died off Mrs. Dodd's face, as she too began to turn with slow but majestic movements, her hand clasped by old Warrender's, her virtuous waist encircled by his aged though still vigorous arm. Lord Spunyarn pounced upon Lucy Warrender, Lord Hetton seized another bridesmaid, Justice Haggard somehow got possession of a third; every village Jack gripped his Jill, and all the parish of King's Warren, gentle and simple, twirled with one accord to the fine old tune of "Bobbing Joan." Once started there was no stopping them, the fun became fast and furious, and I fancy that it was with some regret that the wedding party itself, having set the ball a-rolling, retired to the more dignified festivities which awaited them in the great drawing room at The Warren.
It wasn't a large party; they were most of them Warrenders and Haggards, and offshoots and branches of those prolific trees, or people connected with the families from old association or friendship, but there were quite enough of them to fill the big drawing-room. Old Biggs, the family solicitor, who had come down to The Warren the day previously about the settlements, and Blatherwick, of Lincoln's Inn, who had fought him tooth and nail over every item, in the interest of the Haggard family, got their rubber; but both the legal lights had soon declared that it was impossible to play whist with dance music ringing in their ears. The lawyers looked rather sheepishly at each other when they found themselves vis-à-vis in a quadrille, Miss Hood having honoured the one, while Stacey Dodd clung lovingly to the arm of old Mr. Blatherwick. Of course it was most unprofessional, but they probably kept their indiscretions to themselves, and no doubt charged them to their clients under the head of "sundry attendances." As for the Reverend John Dodd he seemed to be everywhere at once, no one refused the Reverend John. When the youngest and best-looking of the bridesmaids told him that she was danced off her feet the clerical Lothario overpersuaded her in a few seconds, and round they went like a couple of dancing dervishes, being the last to hold the floor.
But even wedding parties must come to an end, though it was midnight before they finally broke up, and at last Justice Haggard and Lord Hetton walked over to their rooms at the "Dun Cow."
"It went off wonderfully well," said Hetton to the Justice.
"Capital, capital," assented the bridegroom's father. "It's a great weight off my mind, you know, Hetton. Reginald's been an awful anxiety, but he's a lucky beggar, he manages somehow to always turn up trumps."
"Yes," remarked his lordship, "that's been his principal occupation since I've known him."
"Boys will be boys, my dear fellow; he'll sober down now, of course he will. I know I did when I married," said the Justice.
"I'll tell you what it is, Justice. Warrender's daughter is a very plucky girl; if she had known half you and I know, Justice, she would have thought twice about it."
"The reformed rake, cousin, makes proverbially the best husband. Why, 'pon my word," continued the Justice, "when I was a young fellow I was a regular devil."
Lord Hetton blew out a big volume of smoke, and looked at his companion with some curiosity.
When an old gentleman, in the fulness of his heart, tells you that he's been a regular devil, you are bound to believe him, particularly if he's a Justice of the Peace.
"We were all devils in those days, my dear fellow, but a man outgrows it; he marries, and he lives it down; he takes to a hobby. I did. I can't tell how I drifted into pigs; much in the same way as you drifted into horses, I suppose. You may take my word for it that pigs are far more interesting and far more respectable, though they're expensive, mind you. Yes, they're uncommonly expensive; so are horses for the matter of that," continued the Justice. "Every man has his ideal, you see, Hetton. The perfect pig must ultimately be produced. You mustn't look upon me, you know, as a mere breeder of pigs. I am a benefactor of my species." Here the pair reached the "Dun Cow" and retired to their respective quarters.
So ended Georgie Warrender's wedding-day. As Lord Hetton had remarked, in engaging herself to Haggard she had done a very plucky thing. Marriage is like Mayonnaise sauce, either a great success or an absolute and entire failure. The materials which are blended together to form a perfect whole are dissimilar and have nothing whatever in common, but once really thoroughly amalgamated the result is very happy. Perhaps the marriage celebrated in King's Warren church may turn out well after all. It is to be feared that like the sauce of sauces in the hands of the inexperienced cook, the result is more than doubtful. Fortunatus, though a good fellow enough, is, like his patroness, notoriously fickle. All we have got to do, however, is to make ourselves as comfortable as possible in our stalls. The overture is over, the curtain is about to rise on the drama of Georgie's married life. We haven't a play bill, and don't know whether we are to listen to some pretty pastoral, to a long three-act farce, dignified by the title of a comedy, or whether we are to be thrilled with horror by a gruesome drama of intrigue, limelight effect, and blood. We haven't even seen a review of the piece; the footlights go up with a jump, and now the curtain rises. Let us watch the players.
It was Lord Mayor's Day. Haggard and his wife sat in the little drawing-room of their bijou house in May Fair. The room was prettily furnished, and Georgie had often accused herself of extravagance. The regulation chairs and tables of the furnished house had been banished from Mrs. Haggard's drawing-room. It had been a pleasure to choose the various tasteful specimens of the upholsterer's art. The nesting faculty is perhaps even more strongly developed in young married ladies than in birds; young Mrs. Haggard was no exception to this rule. Many had been the happy pilgrimages made by Georgie and her lover, for Haggard was her lover still, to the great firm in Pall Mall and to the world-famed house in Bond Street.
"Pick up what you like, my dear, and make our drawing-room, your drawing room, as pretty as you please; nothing can be good enough in the little kingdom in which my Georgie deigns to reign."
But sugared compliments and furniture-buying cannot go on for ever. A pile of invitations attested the Haggards' popularity. Dance-giving mammas were anxious to secure the success of their entertainments by obtaining the presence of "lovely Mrs. Haggard."
A well-known professional beauty in the heyday of her charms was "sitting-out" at a great ball, the observed of all observers, in a dos-à-dos causeuse with a Royal Highness.
"And is your Royal Highness also a worshipper at the shrine of budding bucolic beauty? I mean pretty Mrs. Haggard," said the spoilt darling of society, as with a little moue she had indicated Georgie, who entered the room on her husband's arm. The good-natured prince glanced carelessly in the direction indicated; his lazy eyes sparkled as he quickly replied in a tone of reproof:
"Pretty is not the word, Mrs. Charmington; if that is the lady you allude to, she is lovely, absolutely lovely, and must count amongst her admirers every member of the human race who has had the happy privilege of beholding her." His Royal Highness rose.
Mrs. Charmington hastened to spread the report that his Royal Highness was seriously smitten.
"Royals ripen early, I suppose; naturally they age as quickly; perhaps his Royal Highness is arriving at a second childhood, and his heart turns to people of the Dolly the Dairymaid type."
But in her first rage Mrs. Charmington had been weak enough to let out that the prince had called young Mrs. Haggard "lovely." Mrs. Charmington had received her own unsigned patent as a recognized beauty from the discriminating admiration of his Royal Highness. The fiat had gone forth, and Julia Charmington had commenced her reign. The Charmington boot and the Charmington Bouquet were very freely advertised. A reproduction of Mrs. Charmington herself decorated the interior of the omnibuses.
"Why use dangerous cosmetics when Jones' soap retains youth and health for the complexion, and fosters the development of beauty?" Underneath the portrait was a facsimile of Mrs. Charmington's fashionable scrawl, "I owe you so much, so very much. I have never used any other soap than yours. Very faithfully yours, Julia Charmington."
Ill-natured people said that Mrs. Charmington owed a great deal to Messrs. Jones. That the cheque that paid for her well-known turn-out had been signed by the firm; that they had twice paid her dress-maker's bill, when that terrible person had become importunate; that they had settled the account of Monsieur Alphonse, the great coiffeur; that they had paid her husband's debts. Some of them, more imaginative, declared that Mrs. Charmington was even a sleeping partner in the saponaceous firm. But the ill-natured people were quite wrong; it was not Messrs. Jones who paid Mrs. Charmington's bills. Little Jack Charmington, her husband, had a snug four hundred a year of his own, which quite sufficed for his modest needs. Mrs. Charmington's graceful letter had been written by her in a moment of good nature, and, it may be said in confidence, at the instigation, some eight years ago, of Big Reginald Haggard, who had looked on the whole matter as a joke, and who had, at that stormy period of his career, been very much in Mrs. Charmington's confidence. The real fact was that Mrs. Charmington kept Messrs. Jones before the public, and those astute advertisers did the same kind office for the lady.
Thus it was that Georgie became "lovely Mrs. Haggard." This is what the writers of serious books pompously call "the secret history of the whole matter."
Georgie now, to her astonishment, found her movements invariably chronicled in the society journals. It rather annoyed her than otherwise, but her husband was pleased, and that was enough for Georgie.
The lazy giant was sprawling on the most comfortable of the sofas; the pair were alone in the dainty little drawing-room. Young Mrs. Haggard's eyes were full of tears. "Won't you take me with you," she sobbed appealingly, "it's only for six months, Reginald?"
"I can't, my darling; it's a beast of a climate, and the mosquitos would eat you up. I shall only be away for six months; you know I have made up my mind to get rid of the whole bag of tricks. It's quite true the land can't run away, but there are always rows and revolutions and smashes going on; you can't trust anybody. Of course, Georgie, I should like you to go; but think of the risk. It won't wash at all. We'll stay over Christmas here in England. I suppose I must take you down to see the old man, and then we'll go straight off to Rome, and finish the winter there. I'm getting rather bored, you know, Georgie, with the fuss people make in town. It's deuced fine fun for you of course."
The fact was that this excellent husband hated playing second fiddle, and he found, to his astonishment, that young Mrs. Haggard's social success had far eclipsed that of Georgie Warrender. As a good-looking young bachelor, though a detrimental, he had been very popular. As a wealthy parti and a sort of lion he had been the fashion himself the previous season, and to his own knowledge his curly hair and big moustache had caused a quicker beating of the heart in many a female breast. But as Beauty's husband he felt out of his element. "You lucky beggar!" had been repeated to him so often that he hated the phrase. Of course, he still admired his wife as the handsomest woman he had ever clapped eyes upon; he wasn't even jealous of the great attention that Georgie habitually received. First, because he knew he could trust her implicitly; but secondly, and this was far the more powerful reason, because he was too much a man of the world ever to render himself ridiculous.
"You know we can have rather a jolly time of it in Rome, Georgie," he said. "You must by this time be as heartily sick of the eternal tête-à-tête as I am. I don't mean that," he said, springing to his feet as he noticed that his young wife shuddered and turned pale; "but the fact is, Georgie, I don't want to be pointed at like poor old Jack Charmington, and I confess, dear," he added with a smile, "that I should like a little more of 'lovely Mrs. Haggard's' society."
A very little crust thrown to the very hungry is always accepted with gratitude. Georgie Haggard brightened up at once. "I suppose I must make the best of it, dear," she said with a pleased smile; "at all events, I shall have you all to myself in Rome."
"Yes; it will be quite a second honey-moon; but I half promised your cousin Lucy that she should join us. It'll be beastly dull for her at The Warren, you see, poor girl; and she doesn't seem to jump at Spunyarn, though he does hang on. Is there any one else in the wind, do you think, Georgie?" he said with some interest.
"No; Lucy seems perfectly heartwhole," replied his wife.
"I often wonder you two hit it off so well," mused Haggard as he gazed into the blue flames that flickered over the little wood fire, for his wife affected a wood fire as more cheerful. "Why, Lucy has been your only serious competitor this season; I wonder you aren't jealous of each other."
"How can you talk such nonsense, Reginald?" the wife replied with a sunny laugh.
"Then you don't mind her coming with us on the Roman trip?"
It showed that Mrs. Haggard had considerable confidence in her own attractions, as she innocently replied, "If you don't mind, why should I, dear?"
"Well, then it's all settled, old girl; we'll put in the dull time in Italy. Old Pit Town knows lots of good people, and would give us letters, I suppose. In the spring I'll just rush across and polish off the Mexican affair."
His gaze again returned to the fire which smouldered on the hearth.
There was a silence.
Gradually Haggard raised his eyes; they rested on his wife, they took her in from head to foot, and seemed to appraise each of her numerous points. The husband's countenance was lighted up by a pleased expression.
"By Jove! Georgie," he said, "people are quite right; you are an uncommonly fine woman."
He kissed her.
It was the kiss of proprietorship, similar to the appreciative pat he would have given to a prize dog or a valuable horse that was his own property.
Yes, Georgie loved the man, and looked up at him with wistful, trusting eyes. She was his, body and soul.
But the door opens, and a peal of merry laughter caused Haggard and his wife to subside into seats on either side of the fireplace.
"Oh, Georgie! I'm so sorry you missed it, it's been such fun, and Mr. Sleek has been so attentive. I really think the two girls thought I was setting my cap at their father. What with the procession outside, and the farce indoors, we've had a delightful morning," cried Lucy Warrender, as she entered the room.
"I fear it was rather a tragedy to poor little Sleek," said Lord Spunyarn, who followed her; "a tiger when a-lashing of his tail was nothing to Sleek. I shall never forget the look he gave me after lunch."
"When inflamed with love and wine, you know," said Lucy pertly. "Behold his scalp."
Lucy triumphantly extended an enormous formal bouquet. Alas, for poor little Sleek! his flowers were carelessly tossed upon the table.
"Oh, they were very confidential, you know," lisped Spunyarn; "I was quite out in the cold."
"Ungrateful man, when you had a window all to yourself, and a smiling Miss Sleek on either side of you, gazing into your eyes. You neglected your opportunities, Lord Spunyarn. Let me tell you that the daughters of my last conquest are two very pretty girls."
"Not when Miss Warrender is present."
"I rather think you forgot Miss Warrender's presence," retorted the coquette.
"Anyhow, two's company and three isn't, you'll all allow that. How happy could I have been with either were t'other dear charmer away."
"Did they both propose to you, Lord Spunyarn?" said Mrs. Haggard with a smile.
"If I were a vain man I should confess that they rather gave themselves away."
"Much as Hanibal Peter Gray did for love of the beautiful cannibal," said Lucy.
"Oh, they were quite safe in my case, not being a mangeur de cœurs," replied the discreet young nobleman. "But my attention was not sufficiently absorbed by those guileless girls that I failed to perceive the doings of the other couple."
"You are quite wrong, as usual. Mr. Sleek was merely explaining who the various people were."
"In that case, Miss Warrender, he might at least have given us all the benefit of his information, instead of conveying it in an inaudible whisper to Miss Warrender's private ear. And he needn't have blushed till he looked like a pickled cabbage."
"It's not fair, Lucy," said Mrs. Haggard reprovingly, with an attempt at matronly dignity.
"Well, you know," laughed the girl, "it wasn't my fault. Spunyarn declined to come to the rescue. There I was, practically tête-à-tête with the man; the noise of the crowd drowned my cries and remonstrances. Besides, after the scalp, and the elaborate lunch which was awaiting us in the middle of the room, I felt myself bound to listen to the voice of the charmer. I was cheered, too, by Lord Spunyarn's masterly defeat of Dabbler. Poor Dabbler!"
"'Pon my word, I didn't know it. When we came in there was a fat man messing with the things on the table. He was dressed like a waiter, and he looked like one—a regular City waiter, you know. He held out his hand. Of course, I gave him my hat and coat. He has no business to dress like a waiter and to hold out his hand."
"Lord Spunyarn, he is a common councilman, and he is going to dine with the Lord Mayor," cried Lucy.
"All the same, he has no business to be dressed like a waiter in the morning, if even he be a common councilman and going to dine with the Lord Mayor. Anyhow, he took the hat and coat, and then, thank heaven, he bolted."
"What's Dabbler to him, or he to Dabbler, that he should weep?" misquoted Georgie's husband, who had enjoyed Dabbler's discomfiture.
"It's all very well for you all to laugh, but Mr. Sleek didn't seem to like it at all. What did he mean by saying that Mr. Dabbler was a warm man?" asked Lucy.
"Oh, piles of money of course; all the common councilmen have piles of money," said Spunyarn.
"And do they all dress like waiters in the morning, and then dine with the Lord Mayor?"
"Yes. I suppose it's an old City custom, you know. Anyhow they always dine with the Lord Mayor. That's what they die of."
"And now I have something to tell you, Lucy," said Mrs. Haggard. "It's all been decided. After the Christmas festivities at the Castle we are to go to Rome, and we hope you will come too."
Lucy clapped her hands with girlish glee. "Go with you, Georgie dear? Of course I will. How good of you to ask me." The girl was evidently delighted.
"And have you the heart, Miss Warrender, to leave me, Mr. Sleek, and your other countless admirers, here in England to 'dree our weary weirds alone?'"
And so the idle talk ran on. The Italian trip was discussed, and considerable ignorance of geography was, as is usual, manifested by all present. Lucy expressed her disappointment, on being informed that there were now no brigands in Italy, save those behind the shop counters, or in the choruses of the opera.
A trim maid then brought in the tea equipage, and Georgie did the honours with her usual unaffected grace.
And now Parson Dodd and his sister were announced. The Dodds presented a rather dishevelled appearance. They, too, had seen the Lord Mayor's Show. But the vicar, in a moment of weakness, had yielded to Anastatia's wish to see something of the real Londoner, whom "dear Dickens has described so well," as she had put it.
Great had been her indignation at the want of respect shown to the Reverend John Dodd's cloth. With horror she had heard her brother addressed by a disreputable costermonger in a mangy fur cap, as "Old pal." And though the Reverend John stood all unmoved in the surging crowd, muscular pillar of the Church that he was, it was only by clutching him very tightly that poor Anastatia preserved herself from annihilation. She had seen the Lord Mayor's Show indeed, but at what a price! The long grey cloak which she wore, a sort of semi-religious garb which Miss Dodd, as a clergyman's sister, affected, had been splashed with mud and creased into a thousand wrinkles. Her maiden feet, which had never felt the sacrilegious touch of the toe of obtrusive appreciation, had been trampled on by an exhilarated London mob. And after several hours of agony, just as the Lord Mayor was actually passing, she had heard and felt a horrid rending, crackling sound, and had almost shrieked into her awe-stricken brother's ear, "Oh, Jack, I'm gone at the gathers!" What she meant neither the Reverend John Dodd, or any other male person, could ever truly know. But evidently something dreadful had occurred. "Take me back, Jack; take me back to Mrs. Haggard's at once," the poor little woman had pleaded to the parson. He got her into a cab at last, and they had reached the Haggards' house in May Fair, at which, they were stopping for the night. But Georgie Haggard came to the poor lady's rescue; she and her cousin bore her off to her hostess's own quarters, where she detailed her sufferings to their sympathizing ears. Eau de Cologne was duly dabbed upon her temples, strong tea was administered, but at length the wounded feelings of the vicar's sister found vent in a little gentle fit of sobbing, and she was accordingly put to bed.
"What possessed me I can't imagine," said the Reverend Jack to his two male friends; "we were quite comfortable at first, you know," said poor Jumbo, warm with the remembrance of his numerous humiliations. "I had put Anastatia on a bench; the man made an exceedingly moderate charge of threepence. I gave him sixpence, and strange to say he had no change. I didn't like to be done; the man urged me to occupy one place that was yet vacant; my evil genius prompted me to do so. Alas! I had no sooner stepped upon the frail structure when it suddenly and unaccountably gave way in the middle. I was precipitated to the ground in a sitting posture. Anastatia was fortunately unhurt, but she was much frightened. Those who had paid for the use of the bench demanded their money from me; while the miserable proprietor, who had previously been most respectful, in a truculent manner, and with horrible menaces, claimed a sovereign, and on my declining to comply with his extortionate demand, he actually offered to fight me, me a clergyman of the Church of England. From a sense of justice, I hastened to remunerate those who had been deprived of their coign of vantage, but, alas! the claimants were innumerable; every man and boy in my vicinity declared that he had paid for a place. The mob cheered me with derisive epithets. The climax was reached when a most offensive policeman in a dictatorial manner ordered me to 'Move on.' The Church of England, in my person, was ordered to 'move on.' I attempted to remonstrate, but I and the proprietor of the broken bench were both suddenly propelled by the Jack in-office into a bye street, and I discovered, to my horror, that I had lost Anastatia. Of course I had to satisfy the ruffian's insolent demands, but I did so under protest. The officer, however, now became more civil, and I, fortunately, with his assistance, was able to rescue my sister from the mob. I will take another cup of tea, if you please. Thank you, three lumps. I have seen the Lord Mayor's Show, never again will I assist at that degrading spectacle."
In vain did Haggard and Lord Spunyarn attempt to reassure the indignant vicar. Only on the return of Mrs. Haggard and Lucy did the Reverend John Dodd become comparatively tranquil. Under the soothing influence of beauty, however, the vicar forgot his woes.