"The Warren,
"May 2nd, 18—.
"My dear Child,
"Lucy's letter announcing the happy event took me so much by surprise that I could do little more than formally congratulate you. As you say, I gave you no news whatever; to tell you the truth, there was very little to give; but, my dear child, you will have to come home immediately and see how the old man is getting on for yourself. The fact is that I have had a long letter from my friend Pit Town, who is greatly pleased and delighted at the birth of your boy. He alludes, my dear, to the possibility—and unlikelier things have happened—of the little fellow some day coming into his title, and what will go with it—his immense wealth. He suggests, as he delicately puts it, that he should like to see the little chap at once; but, my dear, what he really means is that the little Lucius should be seen in the flesh. When you were managing your little surprise for your husband and me, my dear, you forgot that the little stranger was the direct heir to an earldom, and that though it is exceedingly improbable that my grandchild will ever be a peer, still stranger things have happened. Baby should certainly be in evidence.
"My old friend Pit Town has written me quite an affectionate letter, and he has succeeded in considerably altering my ideas on the subject of what he calls your husband's peccadillo at Rome. When I was a young man, of course such things were frequent occurrences; but manners are changed now. You will forgive me, my dear, when I say that I think your husband has already sown a sufficiently large crop of wild oats. Let us hope his new responsibilities will sober him; I trust they may. You will hear nothing more on this matter in future, rest assured, nor shall I ever mention it to your husband.
"Pit Town thinks, and so do I, that you had better come home at once. The old man, my dear, has been very miserable without you both for the last few months; and The Warren has not seemed the same place since its young mistresses have been away.
"Lucy tells me to give you all the gossip. You will be amused to hear that the vicar's wife goes about declaring that I am on the point of a marriage with Miss Hood. The fact is, my dear, that I might have given you a mother in the form of Miss Anastatia Dodd, and I fear that, by the ladies at the Vicarage, I am looked upon as a designing old man. I need not tell you that I had no idea of paying our dear old friend the very poor compliment of making her an offer of my heart and hand, but Mrs. Dodd will have it that it is so, and as her husband says, it's no use arguing with her. When we meet, the vicar's wife greets me with a snort of indignation. I fear that this is old wives' talk. You will be glad to hear——"
Here, the letter ran off into home matters, interesting enough perhaps to the girls, but trifles which in no way concern this history. The old man wound up by declaring his intense desire to see both the cousins and his "dear grandchild" as soon as possible. He also gave an affectionate message from Lord Pit Town asking them both to make an indefinite stay at Walls End Castle.
Such was the letter from the old squire that reached the ladies in their temporary home upon the Swiss lake.
Somehow or other the maternal rôle, which had been so suddenly thrown upon Georgina, had become not ungrateful to her. Perhaps she found some sort of consolation in lavishing endearments upon the unconscious infant, the little Lucius who lay asleep upon her lap. As for his real mother, she took very little notice of the child. Whether it was pure heartlessness, or whether what had been first policy had now become a sort of second nature, it is difficult to say. Lucy had begun by posing as the child's aunt, and she played the part to the life. As for Georgie, probably the maternal instinct was strongly developed in her; it usually is in women who are naturally affectionate; perhaps it began in pity, but it was very evident now, both to her cousin and to Hephzibah Wallis, that young Mrs. Haggard was excessively fond of the little child of shame. Suddenly placed in her extraordinary position, separated from the father whom she loved and the unworthy husband whom she idolized, without a friend or confidant, subdued by the master mind of her cousin, is it to be wondered at that the young wife would sit for hours nursing the unconscious cause of all her woes?
The cousins presented a remarkable contrast. As for Lucy, the flush of health was on her cheek, her eyes sparkled with the triumph of her recent escape and her delight at the success of her own machinations. Her clear voice might be heard ringing through the house as it trilled forth the little French chansons of more than dubious propriety that she loved so well.
"Don't sulk, Georgie," she would say, and with a laugh she would place her hand on her hip and imitating the gesture of Theresa, then still in vogue, she would warble:
"Je suis l'heureuse gardeuse de l'ours."
"Yes, you are a bear, Georgie, and twice as sulky." But Georgie, paler than usual, dark rings round her eyes, would lie flaccidly in her lounge chair, the infant on her lap, and decline to be galvanized even into momentary life by her cousin's taunts or innuendoes. There she would sit for hours together, gazing into space, the silent victim of another's fault. Why did she not rebel? Why did she not insist on informing her husband at least of her cousin's lapse, of her ignoble stratagem? Probably because she was too conscientious. With some few people truth-telling is a sort of religion, a kind of Obi, a fetish; so it was with young Mrs. Haggard. She had promised, nay she had sworn. A voice, more awful than that of the Veiled Prophet, ever cried in her ear, "Thy oath, thy oath." Deception, so hateful to her truthful soul, she was compelled to carry on even against her trusting husband. Many a time and oft had she pleaded, with tears, to the remorseless girl who looked so soft and yielding. But the tender lines of Lucy's voluptuous figure covered a marble heart.
"Reginald would never betray you, darling," she had said. "He would do anything for my sake, for us and for this poor little thing." Here her eyes filled with tears as she kissed the unconscious infant in her arms.
"It's no use, Georgie, you've promised, and I shan't release you. You are a most interesting young mother. You look the part; there is a sort of matronly dignity about you, Georgie, that I could never hope to attain. Don't plague me," she continued. "As for telling Reginald or any soul alive, I'd die first; and mind you I mean it, it's no idle talk. If you ever should be so cruel as to tell my secret, our secret—if you should dare to tell it, even to hint it, Georgie"—and here the lovely eyes seemed to scintillate with suppressed fury—"you would bid good-bye to me, at all events in this world," and then she would go off into a half hysterical laugh.
At first scenes such as these were frequent, but Georgie gradually ceased to plead. She had reluctantly now accepted her position, and recognized her cousin's determination as immutable.
Lucy had read her uncle's letter aloud, eagerly breaking the seal; for her cousin had drifted into a state of listless apathy, a kind of dull indifference, from which even a letter from her much-loved father failed to rouse her. No look of interest, no answering smile lit up her once bright features as Lucy read the letter, interlarding it, as was her way, with a running fire of comment. When she came to the invitation to the Castle she could not restrain the exuberance of her delight, but clapped her hands in girlish glee.
"I see fresh triumphs, Georgie," she said, "with my prophetic eye. You will complete your subjugation of the old lord, and the philosophic Dr. Wolff will certainly propose to me. As for the heirs, they shall all sigh in chorus, from Lord Hetton to your father-in-law. But it is you who ought to be troubled by the suitors, patient Penelope that you are. I suppose uncle's letter must be taken as a royal mandate, and that we must leave here at once. I shan't be sorry to leave this place; there have been no sunny memories of foreign lands for us here, have there, Georgie?" she said, with some little show of affection, as she placed her hand upon her cousin's shoulder. But young Mrs. Haggard shrank from her touch with an almost imperceptible shudder.
Since Mr. Capt's mysterious departure from the Villa Lambert things had not gone on so pleasantly as under the reign of that invaluable domestic. Lucy Warrender at least had missed the thousand and one delicate attentions of the valet. The various little appetizing kickshaws that he was in the habit of concocting for the delectation of his young mistresses had disappeared. The living rooms and the table service no longer presented the attractive appearance they had done under his superintendence. But worst of all, Hephzibah Wallis distinctly sulked; no other word will express the condition of that love-lorn maid. Bereft of her admirer, her study of that depressing masterpiece, "The Dairyman's Daughter," became more intense; her very presence was a kind of blight as she silently performed her duties in her usual mechanical way. Never over strong, the loss of her lover was painfully apparent in Hephzibah's appearance: her muddy complexion became almost ghastly in its sallowness, and her pale lips grew almost colourless. That the girl was ill was very evident, but the fact did not seem to dawn upon Mrs. Haggard, whilst Lucy Warrender, who was in the habit of looking upon servants very much as pieces of furniture which could be replaced when worn out, troubled herself very little about the matter.
Miss Warrender, now the master-spirit of the establishment, did not hesitate. She answered her uncle's letter announcing their immediate departure for The Warren. As she playfully put it: "We must hurry home, uncle, or Miss Hood will devour you, body and bones; but we must travel by easy stages as Georgie seems not over strong, and we must be careful with baby. As for Hephzibah I have no patience with her; but people of her class are always helpless."
Two days afterwards they were on their way home. Travelling is not such a very fatiguing process after all. The ladies, the baby and the maid had a compartment of the sleeping car to themselves and journeyed comfortably enough. They arrived safely at their hotel in the Rue de la Paix, and then Hephzibah Wallis broke down. Tired as she was herself, Georgie Haggard nursed her like a sister; all night long she sat by the girl's bedside and watched the movements of the pale lips, which seemed to be eternally attempting to articulate, but though the lips moved ceaselessly no sound came from them. The maid's condition alarmed Mrs. Haggard; there was evidently something more than mere fatigue; great beads of perspiration stood on the forehead, the hands were cold as ice and seemed to pick irritably and aimlessly at the coverlid. Gradually the mutterings of the sick girl became louder.
Georgie attempted to rouse her, but in vain; she placed her ear to her moving lips.
"It's no use, Maurice, you'll get nothing out of me." This was all she heard, and it was evident to her mind that in her delirium Hephzibah was holding an imaginary conversation with her faithless lover.
All through the long weary night Georgie Haggard continued her watch by the bedside, moistening the girl's lips with water and wetting her burning forehead with Eau de Cologne. In the next room Lucy Warrender slept peacefully, and ever and anon her cousin would enter to take an anxious glance at the sleeping infant. The maternal instinct, which had so strangely remained dormant in the child's real mother, was abnormally developed, as we have said, in Georgie Haggard. At dawn, as Mrs. Haggard turned down the gas and admitted a little of the cold, cruel, grey light of early morning, she became thoroughly alarmed at the appearance of her patient; still the ever-restless fingers continued to search for the invisible crumbs, but they were colder now, and the finger tips were almost blue. Georgie hurriedly rang the bell. After some time a half-dressed chambermaid appeared. A messenger was dispatched in haste to summon a doctor. Lucy Warrender, very much against the grain, had left her couch and, head and shoulders muffled in a shawl, stood gazing at the dying woman with contracted brow. It was evident to both girls that a terrible change had come over Hephzibah Wallis; the lips no longer moved, but were strained tightly over the teeth, which were painfully apparent; while the breathing, which though rapid had previously been tranquil, was now harsh, extremely loud and often interrupted.
And now a doctor hurriedly entered the room. He was a dapper little Frenchman and had arrived in evident haste. Bowing to the ladies, he gave a perceptible start when he perceived the appearance of his patient. Taking his watch from his fob he felt the poor girl's pulse. Then he shook his head ominously. Placing a stethoscope over the region of the heart, he listened for a few seconds.
"Madame," he said, "I can do nothing; she is beyond all human skill. Alas, I fear that in a few moments she will pass away."
Even Lucy Warrender's hard heart was filled with horror.
"Can nothing be done, doctor? can you suggest no remedy? is there really no hope for her?" said Mrs. Haggard.
"Alas! no, madame, the mischief has gone too far; it is an old case of heart disease. Did she complain of ill health to you?"
"She has never been strong, doctor, and she has had a great deal to trouble her lately," said Lucy.
Suddenly, while they were yet speaking, the face of the dying girl assumed a placid expression; the lips trembled convulsively and then a happy smile gradually appeared. The smile remained, the lips gently parted and then the eyes slowly opened, but in them there was no speculation, for Hephzibah Wallis had ceased to breathe; she had peacefully passed away. The faithful girl was gone, carrying with her the carefully guarded secret of her young mistresses.
As the French doctor drew the sheet over the dead girl's face, a ghastly smile, almost of satisfaction, might have been seen on Lucy's countenance. Both girls sobbed bitterly; but let us do Miss Warrender justice, her tears were tears of genuine sorrow, but her grief was tempered with a sort of awful content, that now at least her secret was buried in the solemn silence of the grave.
The next few days were passed in a sort of melancholy bustle; a letter had to be written to break the painful news to the poor old mother at King's Warren. Poor Hephzibah was buried, her two young mistresses following their faithful servant to the grave.
That night Lucy Warrender stole softly into the empty room. With her own hands Miss Warrender carefully went through all the dead girl's little possessions, and she removed every letter and paper to her own room. Then she locked the door and carefully scrutinized everything, but not one scrap of writing did she find which compromised either herself or her cousin in the slightest degree. There were a few notes which had been written to the girl by her mistresses at odd times, and had been carefully treasured by the abigail. There was a little box of carved wood which contained a photograph, the likeness of the faithless Capt. Lucy cast it into the flames, and from the fire, as it turned and twisted like a living thing, the face seemed to glare at her menacingly. There was nothing more save the letter from the vicar's wife. Lucy perused it with a smile, and crushing it into a ball she tossed it into the fire.
Then she returned into the dead girl's room and replaced all that remained. Taking a glance at her sleeping cousin, whom her proceedings had not disturbed, she herself quietly retired to rest.
Next day the girls were busily employed. From a crowd of applicants they had to select a nurse for the little Lucius. Their choice fell upon a handsome Norman peasant woman dressed in the becoming, though peculiar, costume of her race. She wore the tall white cap of filmy cambric, ironed in the elaborate manner with which we are all familiar; she wore too a massy pair of gold ear-rings and a heavy gold cross, which indicated that her people were well-to-do. Fanchette was evidently a paragon of neatness; no spot of dust could be seen on her short dress of French merino, or on the little woollen shawl pinned closely over her shoulders. She spoke no word of English and seemed rather taciturn; the only anxiety she manifested was as to the amount of her remuneration. Her references were undeniable. She was the picture of health, a magnificent animal.
Probably what most recommended her to the critical mind of Miss Warrender was her impassive taciturnity.
Fanchette was installed at once. She expressed her readiness to proceed to England, informing the girls that all countries were the same to her as she had no relatives and her homme was serving in Algeria.
Nothing detained the party further in Paris, and they prepared to start for King's Warren the next day.
A letter from the Parsonage reached them that evening; it was from Mrs. Dodd, the vicar's wife.
"King's Warren Parsonage.
"Dear Miss Warrender,
"On receipt of your letter I hurried over to Goody Wallis's cottage to break to her the sad news of Hephzibah's death. Strange to say it did not take her by surprise; she told me that the girl had been ailing for several years. Of course these things do not affect people of her class to the same extent as educated persons; but it was plain enough that she was much grieved. As you can suppose I did my best to console her. I pointed out to the poor old thing that her daughter had been saved from the degradation of a marriage with a foreign person; strange to say, this appeared to give her no comfort: she did not seem so well disposed as usual to listen to good advice. So I took my leave, lending her a copy of Lawe's 'Serious Call.'
"Your uncle is quite excited at your approaching arrival, and is burning to see the little Lucius. I suppose, my dear, that this very unusual name has been selected out of compliment to you, but my husband says that he is probably called after the celebrated Irish baronet, the head of the O'Trigger family.
"I cannot express to you, my dear, my feelings of horror and indignation when I heard of the awful occurrence at Rome. Between ourselves I should think it would be better for all parties, particularly for his poor ill-used wife, if your brother-in-law remained in America. Personally, I regret to say that I shall never be able to receive him again. I'm sorry to add that my husband does not look upon the matter in the same serious light, but he was always frivolous, even for a clergyman.
"I may tell you that you are both coming back none too soon, for the squire, always a weak-minded man, seems now to be quite under the thumb of Miss Hood. That lady does not hesitate now to give herself airs to which I, for one, will never tamely submit; and I hope your cousin will take steps on her arrival to at once assert her position.
"With love to Georgie and kind regards from the vicar,
"I am, dear Miss Warrender,
"Affectionately yours,
"Cecilia Dodd."
The next morning the sisters were driven with Fanchette and the baby to the station of the Northern Railway, and they left for England by the tidal train.
When Georgie was ushered into the state room at The Warren, though she was horribly tired, she protested, but all to no purpose.
"It's no use, my dear; the wheels of time never go backwards. You will never be Georgie Warrender again, for she has developed into a personage—Mrs. Haggard is a personage of consideration." So said Miss Hood as she welcomed Georgie to the quarters set apart for her, Fanchette and the boy.
Summer is always enjoyable in a country house, and probably it is only after an extended absence from England that one can thoroughly appreciate the delights of English country life. To both girls the change was pleasant, to Lucy especially; the Villa Lambert had been to her a very punishment, for there had been no one to talk to. But Lucy had found an ally, a mine of information, a fund of amusement, an appreciative audience all combined, in her cousin's French bonne. Naturally the foreigner looked upon England as a veritable land of Egypt, a house of bondage; equally naturally, she determined to spoil the Egyptians whenever she should have the opportunity. In her mind, as is the case with all the working classes in France, the English were objects of derision and ridicule, as well as hereditary enemies. Fanchette felt very much like a wolf turned loose in a sheep-fold: the wolf cannot foregather with the sheep; and the animal's delight may be fancied when it discovers that one at least of the flock, under the snowiest and most innocent-looking of fleeces, is, like herself, a wolf after all. Is it to be wondered at, then, that Fanchette clung to Miss Warrender? The pair thoroughly understood each other. Every Frenchwoman at heart is an intriguer, here again was a similarity of tastes and pursuits.
No successor had as yet been appointed to Hephzibah Wallis. The little Lucius, like most infants of his tender age, passed the greater portion of his day in sleep, and Fanchette being an active person, willingly devoted the large proportion of spare time on her hands to Reginald Haggard's wife.
It is hardly to be wondered at that old Squire Warrender, who idolized his daughter, should make a fool of himself over the little Lucius. He even brushed up his archaic French for the sake of inquiring directly after the child's health from Fanchette. But Fanchette was only Fanchette to the two girls and the squire; to the rest of the inhabitants of The Warren she soon became "Mamzell;" this brevet, or to be more correct, local rank, she first earned by her own personal heroism. Johnny Chubb, the oldest of The Warren coachman's boys, was detected by the bonne in a series of hideous grimaces. She promptly seized Johnny by the ear. Johnny's ears were large, projecting, and of a healthy crimson. As she twisted his great red ear, the agonized cries of Johnny became heartrending. "Demand of me, then, pardon, little cancer," cried the indignant bonne in her native idiom. "Say, I pray you to pardon me, Mademoiselle Fanchette."
But Johnny only screamed the louder, for Johnny did not understand French, and Johnny was in pain. Fanchette, being a determined Frenchwoman, went on with the twisting; like Sir Reginald Hugh de Bray she certainly would have twisted it on till she twisted it off; in vain did Johnny, in his ineffectual struggles, turn head over heels more than once; the relentless Frenchwoman never let go his soft and ruddy ear. She continued her injunctions to the boy, addressing him in many of the choicest flowers of abuse with which her language abounds, that he should beg mademoiselle's pardon. He did so at last, for even the endurance of a British boy breaks down at the idea of losing an ear.
"I begs yer pardon, Mamzell," he said sulkily, as he clapped his hand to the injured member, to assure himself that it was still attached to his head.
From that day Fanchette ceased to be "Frenchy" to Johnny, she became "Mamzell." At first, as a joke, the Warren servants gave her the title derisively; from them it spread to the villagers, and gradually all King's Warren called her "Mamzell" in sober earnest.
The atmosphere of home, the healthy English air, and above all the quiet and regularity of the life at The Warren, combined with the hope of the approaching return of her husband, all had a beneficial effect on Georgie Haggard's physical health. Her lost colour gradually began to return, her step regained somewhat of its former elasticity, but she courted solitude, and seldom spoke. It was with difficulty she could be persuaded to go outside the grounds. Even the gossip of the vicar's wife, or the genial chat of the vicar himself, failed to interest her. The change was apparent to everybody. But King's Warren opinion was generally formed by the active mind of Mrs. Dodd. Mrs. Dodd had decided that the poor thing was fretting for her husband; she considered that Mrs. Haggard deserved her sympathy, and so King's Warren looked on Mrs. Haggard as a "poor thing," and duly sympathized. Old Warrender himself became gradually less anxious, and accepted the general verdict.
Weeks rolled into months. The sale of estates, even in Mexico, ends at last. Haggard, who had returned to the capital, found the weather getting unpleasantly hot; there was nothing further to detain him, and he vouchsafed to announce his return to the wife of his bosom. Strange to say, to the astonishment of all but Lucy, young Mrs. Haggard continued to "fret."
In that same rose garden, on the very bench on which she had sat awaiting Reginald's arrival on that momentous morning when she had consented to be his wife, Georgina now sat once more, but not alone. By her side was the bonne, and upon the bonne's lap, wrapped in tranquil slumbers, lay the little Lucius. The young wife sat gazing at the infant, and as she sat she tried hard to come to a decision upon the course she should pursue. On the one side lay the path of duty. Should she make a clean breast of the matter? should she take her husband into her confidence? Should she ask him to give his name to the child of her cousin's shame? Or if she did so, could she for a moment suppose that he would for one instant listen to so monstrous a proposition? Of course there was her duty to be considered, her duty towards her husband, her duty towards her cousin; of what she owed herself she thought but little. But then she had sworn, and to some people, and Georgie was one of these, an oath remains ever binding. She felt herself securely caught, bound hand and foot in the net of intrigue, the meshes of which were so skilfully woven by her cousin's treacherous hands. Her mouth was sealed. Could she look forward with any pleasure to her husband's return? could it cause her aught but apprehension and a deadly fear that she, an innocent woman, was to pass the rest of her life in guarding a horrible secret, not her own, and in betraying her husband's confidence? But she had given her word; keep it she must, at whatever cost.
How different had been her feelings on that well-remembered day, as she sat alone, in maiden meditation, and awaited her would-be lover's advent. Then there had been no anxiety in her anticipations of their meeting. It was very different now. A dreadful terror filled her heart; the fear of nameless horrors caused her hands to become cold and clammy. Should she appeal to his generosity? should she make an end of the whole ghastly story? If she could only nerve herself to do so, that was the one way out of the maze of doubt, the sole possible road to Georgie's future happiness. What right had Lucy to wreck her life? Hers was the sin; on her head let it be visited. But Georgie felt that she had gone too far already; the first step, that dangerous first step, in the path of deception had been unhappily taken. In her natural anxiety to shield her cousin she had yielded to her imperious demands. She had entered upon the lane of trickery, in which there is no turning back. She felt herself but a ship on a sea of troubles, whose helm was guided by that experienced sailor, her cousin Lucy.
The little Lucius, the helpless centre of all the dark intrigue, clad in his garments of needlework, slept the sleep of innocence upon Fanchette's lap. Most women having so much cause would have hated the child, but to hate was not in Georgie Haggard's affectionate nature.
The sleepy mid-day silence of the rose garden was broken by the sound of wheels, but no flush of pleasure reddened Georgie's cheek as she heard the bustle of her husband's arrival.
Just as once before big Reginald Haggard strode down the gravel walk, so once more Georgie now saw him advancing in the blaze of sunlight, but not alone. With him walked her father, with a cheerful face, while on his arm hung the light-hearted Lucy, all smiles and happy blushes, her ringing musical laugh joyously heralding his advent.
But Haggard seemed to have no eyes for any one but Georgie; his face wreathed in smiles, he hurriedly advanced to greet her, and then for an instant nature triumphed. Georgie burst into tears, and rushing into his arms, husband and wife were locked in a long embrace. But the momentary oblivion of her trouble ceased when Georgie left her husband's arms and caught her cousin's eye.
Lucy's finger was pressed to her lips. What the gesture meant young Mrs. Haggard knew only too well.
"If you don't moderate your transports you will commit the unpardonable crime, Reginald, for you will wake the baby," said Lucy.
It was too late. The child, with a gentle sigh, opened his eyes and stared around him. But Haggard, absorbed in his first meeting with his wife, did not seem to observe him. Lucy snatched up the little bundle of lace and embroideries, and exhibited him triumphantly.
"Have you no eyes, Reginald?" she cried. "Pray reserve some, at least, of your transports for the object of universal adoration."
As Haggard gazed on the pair he thought they made a pretty picture, with their background of foliage.
"So that's the little chap," he said carelessly.
"And is that all you have to say to him?" cried Lucy. "No wonder you make him cry, Reginald," for the child, at the sight of a stranger, had burst into a succession of sturdy yells, which, at all events, showed the strength of his lungs.
But even when a man is confronted for the first time with his firstborn, he probably does not manifest the amount of interest which is expected by the female mind. The little Lucius was speedily consigned to his nurse's arms; she disappeared with him down a shady walk, carefully protecting, as is the way with French nurses, the child's complexion and her own by means of a big sunshade.
"Come, uncle," said Lucy. "We have to prepare the roast veal to celebrate the prodigal's return. Besides, Georgie and Reginald must have hundreds of things to tell each other; we shall only be treated to the second edition of a gentleman's travels in America. I suppose the first will be for private circulation only. I fear Georgie won't have much to say in return, for our dull life at the château will have little to interest a man." This was said trippingly upon the tongue, but it was said with intention, and the look which accompanied it caused poor Mrs. Haggard to drop her eyes, while a slight flush suffused her cheeks.
"Two can't play gooseberry, you know, uncle; it is a rôle that, like the daisy-picker's, cannot be divided."
Old Warrender rose with a smile, and Lucy dropped the pair a profound courtesy.
"Farewell, Strephon. Good-bye, Chloe. You would both make a pretty picture in sylvan costume, but in your nineteenth century clothes you look terribly prosaic."
"Lovers still though, I think, my dear; lovers still, please God," muttered the old man, as he gave his arm to Lucy.
The pair were left alone.
Were this history mere fable Reginald would at once have proceeded to possess himself of his pretty wife's unresisting hand; he would have pressed it to his lips with rapture. What he really did was to take his case from his pocket, provide himself with a large and uncommonly fullflavoured cigar, which he lighted with much care and deliberation.
"You must have found it beastly dull at that hole, Georgie," he remarked at length; "how on earth did you get through your time?"
Should she tell him? Could she tell him how she had got through that terrible time? Her honest nature urged her to it; but Georgie's love for Haggard, deep as it was, was not untinged with fear. Her gentler spirit was dominated by Lucy's strong will. Her intense respect for her promise, the promise snatched from her in the moment of her excitement and tribulation, quelled the impulse.
"Of course it was dull without you, Reginald. But you, at all events, have enjoyed yourself. How brown you've got," she said, gazing up at him with her old look of girlish rapture.
The look did it. Woman's admiration was ever meat and drink to big Reginald Haggard, particularly the admiration of a pretty woman. Now Georgie was a very pretty woman. Accustomed as he was to open appreciation by the sex, it never seemed to pall on him. Though most men expect it, or at least the semblance of it, as a sort of right from their wives, and consequently cease to value it, yet Haggard, not having seen Georgie for many months, was evidently pleased.
"Yes, we had plenty of sun out there," he said, as he passed his hand meditatively over his shaven chin. "It was hot, beastly hot. But they weren't a bad lot out there, you know," and then he went off into a long description.
Nothing pleases a man better than to talk to his own wife about himself, except, perhaps, when privileged to enlarge upon the same delightful subject to somebody else's wife. So Haggard ran on; but even personal experiences must have an ending, and Haggard, at the height of good humour, condescended to compliment his wife upon the little Lucius.
"Capital little chap that, Georgie," he said. "Howled awfully when he saw me. I suppose they all do, though?"
Georgie's heart beat like a sledge-hammer at the heedless remark. Should she tell him at once, or finally make up her mind to pass the rest of her life as a cheat, and the accomplice of that arch-cheat, her cousin? Alas! for her, her impulse was smothered by what she considered her duty to Lucy.
She laughed a little hollow laugh—a poor little, weak, stagey giggle. "I fancy he's much like other children," she said; "they always do cry when they see a stranger."
"Let's have a good look at him, old girl," said her husband with a smile.
Young Mrs. Haggard called the bonne, who advanced at the summons, her coarse, but handsome, peasant features lighted by a smile.
The proprieties must be observed even in the presence of a bonne, and Haggard's hand, which had somehow stolen round his wife's waist, now discreetly sought the shelter of his coat pocket.
"Monstrous fine creature, by Jove!" said the husband, as he emitted a vast cloud of smoke.
This appreciative remark did evidently not refer to the baby. Many wives would have resented this openly-expressed tribute to Mademoiselle Fanchette's personal attractions, but Georgie was neither surprised nor disgusted. She was accustomed to her husband's ways; often and often, on their marriage trip, had her Reginald drawn her attention to the real or supposed charms of other women. It was a way he had. He didn't admire scenery; he hated pictures; architecture, and especially ruins, were to him abominations. But he did admire the sex. The pegs on which he hung his memory were pretty faces and pretty figures. He would refer to events and places in an original way of his own, as, "The day we met that cardinal's niece with the eyes," or, "Where we saw the American girl with the hair." At first, in their married life, these remarks had a sort of sting in them, but at last Georgie had come to regard them as a sort of proof of the big man's affection. She felt that they were a sign of confidence, that she was endeared to him by the far higher title of comradeship, that she was, in fact, what in his language he would dignify by the appellation of his "chum."
Fanchette dropped a courtesy. Fanchette continued to beam, for Fanchette saw that she was appreciated by Monsieur. In fact, the appreciation was mutual; and Fanchette compared her new master, and not unfavourably, either, with the proverbial pompier of her native country.
There is a class of men ever ready to chatter with servants, particularly if they are of prepossessing appearance. To this class Mrs. Haggard's husband belonged. He would have been delighted to compliment the bonne, but, alas! his linguistic powers failed him. He rose, however, to his feet, and, with true British pluck, employed the few words of Anglo-French he knew; these he accompanied with appropriate pantomime.
"Enfant," he said, pointing to the child. "Mon," he continued, indicating himself. "Mon enfant," he triumphantly added, with an air of jubilant proprietorship.
"Mais assurément, monsieur!" cried the bonne, and then she went off into a flood of mingled praise of the infant, of her mistress, of her new master, and of herself. The child, whose eyes were open, was held aloft in triumph, and he stared at Haggard with a wondering gaze.
Haggard clapped his hands at the child in undisguised pleasure.
As Georgie sat upon the bench she wistfully watched the little drama, and gradually the old look of terror, which seemed to have left her in the excitement of her husband's return, came back to her face. The decision—the fatal decision—she felt was now irrevocable. From that moment she knew that her life was to be passed in the carrying out of Lucy's plot. There could be no drawing back now. As she thought of all this, the colour left her face, and the strength her limbs.
The sharp eye of the bonne saw that she was almost fainting.
"Monsieur, madame se trouve mal!" she exclaimed, distracting the husband's attention from the infant and herself.
"What's amiss, George," he cried. "You are not ill, dear?" he said with unusual solicitude.
But Georgie declared that it was nothing. "I think the heat upsets me," she said with an effort.
Just then the clash of the luncheon bell was heard, and Haggard gave his wife his arm. She leaning heavily on it, the pair slowly proceeded towards the house, followed by the bonne, solacing the infant with the rather inappropriate strain of:
It was certainly a great deal to Haggard's credit that he remained tranquilly at The Warren for the space of three whole weeks. It was the London season—just that time of year when flat-racing was at its height; and at all the great meetings the Pandemonium set was conspicuous. It might have been that he really liked his wife's society, and that he found that the only way of getting her all to himself was, as he was pleased to call it, to bury himself alive at King's Warren. It has been said before that Haggard objected to the rôle of Beauty's Husband, but he had found that in town it was willy-nilly forced upon him. He felt it trying that the instant Georgie showed herself in their box at the play, the glasses of all the somebodies and half the nobodies would be immediately levelled at her. Haggard was by no means a jealous man. He was one of those who thoroughly enjoy being a "popper-in" at the boxes of friends where beauty sits triumphant. He had admired and rather laughed at the stoical philosophy of some of his married friends, who were accustomed to calmly go off to enjoy their brandies and sodas, under such circumstances, leaving their wives the centre of a little circle of admirers—a circle of which he himself was often a prominent ornament. But, though not a jealous man, he considered it wise, when at the play, to be particularly attentive to Georgie. Haggard believed in sheep dogs to a certain extent, but he believed still more in the actual presence of the shepherd himself. But his experiences of the last London season as a married man had convinced him that the life of Corydon, particularly at the play, was not an existence of unalloyed bliss. To Mrs. Charmington and her smart set, Haggard's devotion to his wife was particularly touching: in vain would they beckon him, or point to a vacant seat at their sides, with their fans; like Love's Sentinel, sweet was the watch he kept, but, to tell the truth, it bored him horribly.
It is undoubtedly pleasing to a man to find that his choice is appreciated by all his friends, but it is rather trying to a married man when he leaves his wife, even for a few moments, at a garden party, or the inclosure of a race-course, on his return to always find her, by no fault of her own, be it remembered, surrounded by a rapidly-increasing throng of enthusiastic admirers. So Haggard resigned himself, with considerable philosophy, to the innocent delights of country life and the dulness of King's Warren.
At all events, it had the refreshing charm of novelty: there was the fishing, and the King's Warren trout stream was a good one. Before he had filled his creel at the pretty stream that artists used to come to paint, the girls would come down to count the spoil and walk with him through the cool lane, to conduct this most fortunate of men back to the squire's well-supplied breakfast table. Then the model husband would pass the morning in a lounge chair in the shadiest corner of the rose garden, with a big cigar in his mouth, contemplating with lazy satisfaction his prize baby and his handsome wife, while the fair-haired Lucy would swing in the Mexican hammock he had brought her as a souvenir of his American experiences, gaily singing her little scraps of rather risky French songs, which, though he did not understand them, always amused him. The little songs, too, appeared to give intense delight to Mademoiselle Fanchette; that muscular specimen of womanhood would shake with inward laughter, and fluently compliment her younger mistress. "Ah!" she would say, "if mademoiselle had only been a poor girl, what a position! all Paris would be at the feet of the beautiful miss. Why, the café-concerts would be struggling to possess her. Ah, what an enviable position!"
Stimulated by this honest praise, Lucy Warrender would delight her little audience with "La Vénus aux Carottes," or some other well-known ditty of a similar nature. Old Warrender would lean on his daisy-spud a pleased spectator of the Arcadian scene. It delighted him to observe Haggard's suddenly awakened delight in the simple pleasures of country life, and the old gentleman's admiration of Monsieur, Madame and Bébé was unbounded.
The afternoons were enlivened by the unceremonious dropping in of sympathetic visitors; the Reverend John Dodd and his wife were welcome guests, and tea in the garden became quite a function.
It was a standing rule at The Warren that Thursday afternoon was a sort of special day. On Thursdays it was the custom to turn up at the squire's garden for afternoon tea. The men were always in a minority, for most of the gilded youth of King's Warren were of too timid a nature to put in an appearance. Occasionally young Mr. Wurzel, dragged thither by his bride-elect, the sentimental Miss Grains, would come, but he felt like a fish out of water, seldom opened his mouth, and passed most of his time in gazing, with respectful admiration, upon Miss Lucy Warrender; an annoying fact which did not escape the observation of his mother's sharp old eyes, and which caused considerable indignation in the troubled breast of the brewer's daughter. The vicar's curate was, of course, a standing dish; other curates from adjacent parishes, too, would appear and disappear, but they met with little encouragement, for Miss Warrender didn't affect a liking for parsons. Even the short-sighted High-church deacon from the next parish, who spoke of himself as a "Celibate," and "vowed to heaven" and habitually got himself up to resemble a Roman Catholic priest, failed to move her worldly little heart; the Reverend Hopley Porter would have been more in her line, mild curates were not at all in her way. The Misses Sleek, too, freely availed themselves of their entrée to The Warren, and those young ladies were ever on their best behaviour. They were not bad-looking girls, and though both rather fast, while at The Warren they affected a demure primness which made them not unattractive. They patiently submitted to the continual snubbings of the vicar's wife, and to the little sarcasms with which they were occasionally favoured by Miss Warrender. They humbled themselves in dust and ashes to Miss Hood, and seldom made any reference to that patient money-grubber, their papa. With effusive affection they always addressed the squire as "dear Mr. Warrender," and sought favour in Georgie Haggard's eyes by an ecstatic worship of the little Lucius.
"Don't you think you could manage it for us, Miss Hood? It's not a formal affair, and we are so anxious it should be a success. We shall have none but nice people, and it is so terribly dull at The Park: we shall only allow pa to ask three of his friends, and they are quite old gentlemen. I really couldn't ask dear Mr. Warrender myself, nor could Connie, and we are both terribly afraid of Lucy." So spoke the elder Miss Sleek in appealing tones.
"Do help us, Miss Hood," chimed in the younger sister.
"My dear, I don't see why you should be afraid of Miss Warrender," said good-natured Miss Hood, giving that young lady her full title.
"Oh but, dear Miss Hood, she always laughs at us; only just now she inquired after that poor afflicted Mr. Dabbler. I knew she was laughing at us, and so did Connie, and then she said something dreadful in French about an ass and two bundles of hay; I'm sure we're not like bundles of hay," said the girl with an indignant sob. "But we neither mind a joke from dear Miss Warrender, do we, Connie?"
"But we should be such a party, my dears."
"Oh, that would only make it more delightful," cried the girl with triumphant eyes, as she noticed the slight indication of capitulation in Miss Hood's voice. "We're neighbours after all, you know, and haymaking too; why, the squire goes to Mr. Wurzel's harvest home. Nothing but the haymaking, and a little dance afterwards; oh, we should be so grateful."
"What's that about a little dance?" cried Georgie's husband with unaffected interest.
"Oh, Mr. Haggard, it's nothing; it's only an idea of pa's; it's our haymaking, you know, and we've been asking Miss Hood if The Warren won't honour us for once in a way."
Both girls fixed their eyes appealingly on Haggard's face.
The squire's son-in-law was quite aware that the wealthy Mr. Sleek was a parvenu. He knew that old Warrender would no more dine at The Park than he would think of attending the services of the Dissenting minister; but he himself was already beginning to feel rather hipped with the novelty of his quiet life at The Warren.
"Come, my dear Miss Sleek? of course we'll come. Georgie," he said to his wife, "Miss Sleek is good enough to ask us to her father's place. We'll be only too glad, of course."
With Georgie to yield to her husband's slightest wish was a second nature.
"Certainly, Reginald, if you wish it. I shall be very pleased," she added, though with an effort.
"It'll be great fun, I'm sure," exclaimed Haggard; "but you'll have mercy, Miss Sleek: you won't work us so hard at the haymaking as to knock us up for the promised dance, and you'll keep one little dance for me, won't you?" he added with cool familiarity.
The girl's face reddened with pleasure as she acquiesced with effusion. And as she thought of the glowing description in the local paper of the forthcoming festivities at The Park, her eyes sparkled with the anticipation of triumph. It would be an epoch in her life to have danced with a peer's great-nephew, with the husband of one of the reigning queens of society. But fresh joys were yet in store for the Misses Sleek.
"You'll let me bring my friend Spunyarn, won't you?" said Haggard; "he's coming down to-morrow."
"Oh, we shall be delighted," chorused the girls, "for we are wofully short of men down here at King's Warren."
The babble of conversation increased. Next morning each member of the group on The Warren lawn had received an elaborate copper-plate invitation to the Misses Sleek's haymaking, and the small and early dance that was to follow it.
The Misses Sleek carried their point; had there been a Mrs. Warrender, their success would have been more than doubtful. Old Warrender himself cared for none of these things; Miss Hood had protested officially, but found herself very much in the position of the unfortunate member who alone protests once a year, as a sort of duty to his constituents, against the sum voted by Parliament to royal princes or princesses on their marriage. Haggard and Lucy evidently looked forward to the haymaking as a relief to the monotony of their existence; as for Georgie, hers was the simple religion of Ruth, "Whither thou goest I will go, thy people shall be my people."
"One must be neighbourly, you know," said the squire, "in a place like this. For my own part, I see no difference now-a-days between the man who makes his money in business and the landowner. I'm sure I don't know what Dodd would do without the Sleeks; he's always ready with a cheque, and the girls seem almost unobjectionable."
What a curious fact it is, that in the eyes of all old men girls are always unobjectionable. Probably from their very age they look upon even the hoydens, the "mannish," and the fast merely as big and rather naughty children; therefore, all the more interesting. Let a girl be thoroughly detested by her own sex—and to be thoroughly detested by her own sex she must at least be tolerably good-looking—she is certain to be the delight of all the old gentlemen of her circle.
Haggard was in a particularly good humour, for he was hourly expecting the arrival of his fidus Achates, Lord Spunyarn. He was impatient to hear all the talk, the gossip and the scandal, which he had missed during his prolonged absence from the Pandemonium Club. Though they don't acknowledge it, your average club man is as great a scandalmonger and gossip as any village crone; but being by nature more cautious than are women, they hardly ever commit themselves upon paper. A yarn is told by A to B, as a yarn; B tells it to C, as a rumour he has heard; C gives it a tail, and imparts it under the seal of secrecy to D; over the whist table, E, F, and G get hold of it, like the rolling snow-ball, considerably increased in magnitude; sly H overhears it and gives it at once into a society journal, where it becomes public property; perhaps it may even result in an action for libel. Let the galled jade wince, our withers are unwrung. Besides, perhaps Haggard was a little nervous as to his reception; since he was last at the Pandemonium he had killed a man, not that that fact troubled his conscience in any way. Now-a-days a gambler is by no means an outcast at a smart club, particularly the lucky man; for he is placed on a sort of moral pedestal by his less successful rivals. Still the Lamb episode was not forgotten at the Pandemonium, and this, coupled with the affair of poor Barbiche, caused Georgie's husband to rather dread the cold shoulder. The presence of Spunyarn too would certainly be a break in the monotony of the life at The Warren.
Haggard drove over some five miles on that hot summer day about noon, in the squire's well-appointed dog-cart, to meet his friend Lord Spunyarn, and it was with unaffected pleasure that he shook hands with him upon the platform of the little station. Had they been Frenchmen, they would have rushed into each other's arms and saluted mutually on either cheek. As it was, they merely smiled and nodded, with a mutual, "How are you, old man?" and a careless inquiry from Lord Spunyarn as to the health of "your people" followed as a matter of course. During the five-and-twenty minutes' sharp drive home, they talked of the heat, the crops and the fishing; for the squire's smart groom rendered anything but general conversation impossible: the bay mare, too, was full of oats, and a puller.
Lord Spunyarn was a welcome guest to everybody; the whole party came out to meet him at the door, and with rural hospitality a substantial meal was quickly placed before him. The cool of the afternoon was got through by means of the inevitable croquet; in those days croquet was inevitable wherever there were ladies and a lawn. At The Warren both ladies and lawn were particularly attractive; the ubiquitous curate was conspicuous by his absence; there was a little play, a good deal of small talk, and as usual, Lord Spunyarn was particularly attentive to Lucy Warrender. Now-a-days it is the fashion for the youth of England to leave the spinsters out in the cold, and to affect the society of the more attractive among the married ladies only. But Spunyarn was no lady-killer, and if he had been, there was a certain air about Georgie Haggard, a kind of notice to trespassers, that would have warned off the most determined poacher. His lordship at once resumed his old position of everybody's friend; he chatted with the cousins, he talked politics with old Warrender, he complimented the head gardener; and when Lucy Warrender, assuming a pensive air, inquired if he had no secrets to tell her, he calmly replied:
"There is nothing new, I think, Miss Warrender; nothing new, at least, to you; yours as ever, you know, till death," he added with a little laugh.
"True knight," she cried, "ever faithful?"
"To you, and to your cousin," he added with a little bow.
"Why, you don't even offer me an undivided affection," said the girl. "I suppose you are reserving yourself for the high jinks at The Park, Lord Spunyarn," she said. "Connie Sleek's a pretty girl, you know, and there are piles of untold gold, but in your case, though, that isn't an inducement."
"I'm too great a snob myself, dear Miss Warrender, at least, by birth, as you know, ever to fall a victim to a financial belle."
"Poor Connie Sleek, if she could only hear you. Depend upon it the dreams of both sisters last night were disturbed by visions of possible promotion. They couldn't restrain their raptures when they learnt that they were to entertain a lord, a real live lord, you know. But you are not to turn their heads, Lord Spunyarn; respect the innocence of our simple village maidens."
"It is that simple village innocence, Miss Warrender, which in your case has caused me to sigh so long in vain."
"Thanks," she said with a low courtesy, "the most sincere compliments are always the most grateful. À propos de rien, how did you leave Mrs. Charmington, Lord Spunyarn?"
"On the wane, decidedly on the wane. I think she will soon be a monarch retiring from business. Your cousin and you extinguished her effectually. There's a little Portuguese Jew, a financial light; he has ducats and a daughter: the ducats are undeniable; the daughter is all eyes, hair and diamonds; she is the last startling novelty of the season, and under royal patronage. There's only one chance for the Charmington to keep herself before the public: she should try the stage. God knows she has brass enough."
"You are all the same, Lord Spunyarn; when we cease to please you laugh at us. I suppose you'll be soon recommending me to try the stage."
"Oh, no, Miss Warrender. You are far too genuine, far too sincere."
Here the conversation was broken off by the exigencies of the game.
The two young men sat smoking late into the night. Haggard narrated his American experience, cursed the dilatoriness of lawyers and land agents; told of his feats by flood and field; praised the hospitality of the natives, the horses and the half-castes; but he didn't say much of Mademoiselle de Bondi, of the Mexico Opera House. And then they talked about the Pandemonium, and Haggard heard with pleasure that his numerous club acquaintances would be delighted to see him.
"Not quite so pleased, I fancy, when they know I have forsworn the pasteboards. That Lamb affair was a scorcher. Besides, Shirtings, you know—I may say it to you without swagger—I find now I've made my pile that it's too big to risk, so I mean to set up as a fogey, and to confine myself to whist at pound points."
"Poor old paterfamilias," exclaimed the sympathizing friend with genuine feeling. "I know, port wine, a J.P.-ship, with a lord-lieutenancy and the gout looming in the distant future."
Haggard gave a groan. "I suppose it'll come to that," said he.
"How are the old man and the pigs? Jolly as usual, eh?"
"Well, the pigs are flourishing, but the governor's out of sorts; he speaks thick, and his handwriting's getting rather groggy; the poor old chap may go off at any moment."
There was a short silence.
"Are you going to speculate yourself, Shirtings? If you were one of the impecunious, there'd be a chance for you to-morrow. Two queens of the snobocracy will entertain us at romping in the hay, with Sir Roger de Coverley to follow. From all I hear it is a land flowing with milk and honey. The people themselves are rather dreadful, but for my own part, after three weeks of enforced tranquility, seeing no one but the old boy, my wife and her cousin, I am in a state of mind that is prepared to be grateful for the smallest mercies. My dear fellow, I positively look forward to it. Another week of the existence I have been leading here, and I verily believe that I shall yearn to dance with my own wife."
"Or even her pretty cousin," chimed in Lord Spunyarn.
But Haggard took no notice of the observation. He chuckled, still tickled with the idea of the absurdity of dancing with Georgie.
"And is Lucy, as of old, to be honoured with your attentions, Shirtings?" said Haggard, who was amusing himself by blowing circles of smoke into the air.
"Between ourselves, my boy, I've thought better of it. I shall remain a respectful admirer, of course; but I don't think the lady would go well in double harness. If I were a devilish good-looking fellow as you are, my boy, I might try it; but I fancy Miss Lucy would prove a handful for any fellow, and I have no ambition to play Jack Charmington's part in a sort of perpetual Palais Royal comedy. Life being too short, you know, old man, it seems hardly good enough."
"Rough on Lucy. I fancy she has looked upon you as lawful prize."
"Oh! she can reckon upon me as a permanent admirer; but without compliment, you know, her cousin rather throws her into the shade."
"Thanks, dear boy; there is no accounting for taste."
As the representative of his father-in-law, Haggard asked his lordship with punctilious hospitality if he would take another peg. Then, with a yawn, he closed the Tantalus with a snap, and the pair retired to rest.