(OF 3)***


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      Project Gutenberg has the other two volumes of this work.
      Volume I: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42167
      Volume III: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42169





THE PIT TOWN CORONET:

A Family Mystery.

by

CHARLES J. WILLS,

Author of
"In the Land of the Lion and Sun," etc.

In Three Volumes.

VOL. II.







Ward and Downey,
12, York Street, Covent Garden, London, W.C.
1888

[The right of translation is reserved, and the Dramatic Copyright
protected.]

Printed by
Kelly and Co., Gate Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields, W.C.;
and Middle Mill, Kingston-on-Thames.




CONTENTS.


  CHAP.                                    PAGE

     I.--A HORRIBLE SCANDAL                   1

    II.--AT THE PARSONAGE                    27

   III.--HOW THEY CAME HOME                  51

    IV.--THE RETURN OF THE WANDERER          73

     V.--THE MISSES SLEEK DROP IN            94

    VI.--THE SLEEKS IN ARCADIA              117

   VII.--HAGGARD COMES INTO HIS OWN         138

  VIII.--THE VICAR TRIES PUFFIN             167

    IX.--MR. PUFFIN HUNTS A BUTTERFLY       190

     X.--A RATHER SHADY CHARACTER           213

    XI.--ESAU WAS THE FIRSTBORN             236

   XII.--IN ST. JOHN'S WOOD                 276




  THE PIT TOWN CORONET.




  CHAPTER I.

  A HORRIBLE SCANDAL.


Dull as the life of the little chateau on the lake necessarily was, yet
Georgie Haggard did not suffer from _ennui_. She seemed in fact to
rather revel in the quietude, and to luxuriate in the seclusion of the
Swiss villa, after the fatigues and excitements of a busy London season
and the turmoil and the incidental worries which must always attend an
extended foreign tour, even when it is taken for pleasure, and when
expense is no object. The position of the villa was sufficiently
romantic; behind it were the snow-covered Alps, Mont Blanc always
clearly visible; and all in front stretched the lake with its glorious
blue water of that intense azure which is only seen on this Geneva lake.
Why it should be so very blue is, and always will be, a mystery; of
course it has been explained by scientific people in various manners
satisfactory to themselves, but the fact remains that the lake is of a
deeper blue than any other European water, and strange to say the
intense colour is just as apparent in the shallowest parts. One may row
over a place not more than a yard deep, where the bottom is clearly
perceptible, but the waters are as blue as ever, a deep unnatural
ultramarine blue, a blue which is seen only here and in the choicest
specimens of the Oriental turquoise.

The establishment at the Villa Lambert consisted of the permanent staff
of the place, the aged Savoyard and his wife, who spoke an abominable
and unintelligible patois; these two people were the Gibeonites of the
villa. At earliest dawn the pair rose and toiled till an hour after
sunset. The man worked in the garden, broke the firewood, drew water
from the well, attended to the ponies, and wore the face of a martyr.
The woman got through the labours of four ordinary English servants, she
was cook, housekeeper, housemaid, and an entire staff in herself; she
spoke to no one save her morose husband and Haggard's polyglot Swiss
servant; she scrubbed, she polished her numerous brazen pots and pans
till they shone like mirrors; every particle of woodwork in the house
was washed and polished by her, till it resembled that seen in the Dutch
village of Broek. But the great delight of the pair was the waxing and
polishing of the curious inlaid parquet flooring of the _salon_ which
looked upon the lake. Lucy Warrender had been considerably surprised
when she saw this process for the first time. A strange hissing noise,
which continued for some minutes, gradually diminished in intensity, and
then ceased altogether, only to recommence with renewed vigour,
surprised the two girls as they sat at breakfast. "What can it be,
Georgie?" she remarked in astonishment to her cousin.

"It's in the next room, I think, dear," said the young matron; "but it's
very easy to see." She opened the door of the _salon_. Husband and wife,
with portentous gravity, the woman having her skirts well tucked up,
their arms a-kimbo, were apparently skating up and down the room. To
them it was evidently a very serious business; they never smiled, but
the perspiration streamed from their foreheads as they flew up and down.
A large flat brush was attached to each foot of either. They were
polishing the floor, and their appearance was sufficiently ludicrous.
Lucy looked at her cousin; the absurdity of the scene was too much for
her; she closed the door and laughed till she cried.

Mrs. Haggard's maid was an invaluable servant, who understood her duties
and never seemed to forget anything. Hephzibah seldom spoke; perhaps,
like the parrot in the story, she thought the more. The girl was in her
way religious. That valuable work, once so popular but now so seldom
seen, "The Dairyman's Daughter," was her only literature, but she seemed
to be never tired of reading it.

Capt, the valet, was equally quiet in his way, equally dull. He did not
disdain to manufacture dainty little dishes for his young mistresses. He
would row them about upon the lake. He was steward, footman, and general
factotum. He never opened his mouth unless he was spoken to, and between
him and Hephzibah there appeared to be a good understanding; as the
reader is aware they were "keeping company."

Georgie and her cousin led quiet uneventful lives. They drove, they
boated, they wandered in their large garden; but they made no new
acquaintances, and they lived the lives of hermits. Once a week there
was some slight excitement as to the arrival of news from the absent
husband; his letters came with praiseworthy regularity. He had arrived
safely in Mexico; the value of his property had increased enormously. He
was in treaty with half-a-dozen persons for the sale of his estates. He
cursed the delays of the Mexican lawyers, who seemed to do nothing but
smoke big cigars and swing themselves to sleep all day in hammocks. He
pathetically bemoaned the unavoidable separation from his dear Georgie.
He wasn't having a bad time of it, the sport was undeniable. He had had
a week with a friend at a place with an unpronounceable name. Then he
described the delights of the opera house, and the great success of the
new French dancer, Mademoiselle De Bondi. It seemed a pity to close
finally, when land was going up in value every day, and so on, and so
on, and he was his dear Georgie's affectionate husband. This was the
burden of all his communications, one letter was very much like another.
Haggard was evidently enjoying himself, and his affectionate Georgie,
though longing for his return, did not grudge him his pleasures.

Strange to say, though by force of circumstances thrown into an eternal
_tete-a-tete_, the cousins never quarrelled. Georgie read and re-read
her husband's letters. Lucy devoured one yellow-covered novel after
another, and time crept slowly on. They had been four months at the
Swiss villa.

It was the end of August. The two girls, they were but girls, sat on the
terrace which overhung the lake. The sun was setting, as they sat
dreamily gazing upon the lovely scene, which had even distracted Lucy's
attention from the last naturalistic novel, which lay open on her lap.
As she looked intently at the blue waters of the lake she sighed deeply.
Georgie turned towards her and was startled to see that her lovely dark
brown eyes were filled with tears! Georgie placed her arm softly round
the girl's neck, for she dearly loved her cousin, and gently said, "What
ails you, darling?"

But Lucy answered never a word, a violent burst of weeping was her only
reply.

Lucy, never over strong at any time, had lately caused her cousin
considerable anxiety; womanlike, Lucy fought against the growing
weakness; till now she had hidden her increasing melancholy under an
appearance of forced gaiety, which had not deceived her cousin, but only
increased her alarm.

The elder girl knelt at Lucy's feet--her own Lucy whom she still looked
upon in her heart as a little child.

"Does anything worry you, darling?" she said.

No answer.

"Trust me, Lucy; we are always friends, let me share this trouble."

"I can't," faltered the girl, as she gnawed her lips, which trembled and
turned pale; "I think I shall drown myself."

Then Georgie took the blanched hand of the motherless girl, and
entreated her.

"Do tell me, darling; you must tell me, Lucy. Something is preying on
your mind; trust me, do trust me, pet."

Not then did Lucy Warrender tell her trouble to her cousin. But that
night, unwillingly and ungraciously enough, she told her grief. Pale as
a ghost, her fingers intertwined in a convulsive grip, she knelt by her
cousin's bed and told her shameful story. She made her pitiful appeal.
With dilated eyes, Georgina listened in terror to Lucy's confidence. It
was the old tale. Lucy was about to become a mother; this was all she
told. Was it not enough? She looked imploringly up at her cousin as she
whispered:

"You can save me, Georgie, if you will--if you love me, as I know you
do; and if you won't, there is nothing left for me but the lake, the
cold, cruel lake." Here she laughed hysterically, and nestled to her
cousin's breast.

The elder girl was struck dumb. The shame of it, the bitter shame of
this accursed thing.

There was a silence, only broken by the monotonous ticking of the
carved Swiss clock and the deep sobs of the kneeling girl. There was a
sudden whiz of spinning wheels--"Cuckoo! cuckoo!" screamed the little
painted bird derisively, as he appeared for an instant from his tiny box
to mark the hour. Both girls started at the inauspicious interruption.

"I save you, my darling! How can I save you? And father, poor father.
Oh, Lucy! how could you--how could you so deceive us all? But _he_ must
be sent for--who is the man? He must marry you--he will marry you, of
course, at once, _this gentleman_!"

But Lucy only sobbed the more.

"He will never marry me, Georgie. You can save me, you alone!"

She never named the man.

They talked on far into the night; and as they wept and whispered, the
painted wooden demon ever and again sprang from his box and startled
them with his discordant cry,

  "Cuckoo! cuckoo!"

How could she refuse? Much against her will at last she yielded; she
agreed to deceive the absent husband who trusted her--that heartless
husband whom she idolized. From that day forward the sound of a cuckoo
clock--the voice of the bird himself, as she heard him in the
woods--sounded in her ear as the cry of a mocking devil. Little did she
dream that, in weakly yielding to her cousin's piteous entreaty, she was
sowing the seed of which she and hers should reap the bitter harvest.

What could she do, poor girl? She felt it was her duty. Who can tell if
she erred? If so, it was on mercy's side. Next morning Lucy was herself
again; she was once more the buoyant, merry girl, who smiled and
chattered, and sang her little scraps of French songs, making the
sunshine of the house. The _roles_ were changed. Never again shall the
light of perfect happiness beam in Georgie Haggard's once honest
eyes--those eyes now red with weeping, full of the secret sorrow of her
cousin's bitter confidence. It is always painful to an honourable mind
to play the part of a conspirator, and that thankless _role_ was now
forced upon poor Georgie--willy-nilly she had to do it. Lucy's fertile
brain teemed with plan, with plot, with stratagem; certain of ultimately
conquering the scruples of her gentle and loving cousin, she had
evidently thought the matter out.

"We ought to trust nobody, you know," said the younger girl, who had
suddenly assumed the management of everything. Startled and horrified,
Georgie had become in regard to her cousin, that born intriguer, but as
clay in the hands of the potter. "No, we ought not to, but we must. If
ever a girl in this world could keep her tongue between her teeth, it's
that pale Hephzibah of ours, and trust her we must, there's nothing else
for it."

Lucy's tongue, once loosed, never seemed to tire. Her despondency and
melancholy, her load of carking care, were all transferred as by the
wave of a magician's wand to her cousin's shoulders. Alas! that cousin,
that patient, loving cousin is perhaps destined to carry to her grave
the fardel of another's weakness, the punishment of a worthless woman's
fault.

Georgie, from that hour, was a changed girl. No more the once happy,
loving eyes gazed on the younger girl with more than a mother's pride.
From that day Georgie feared her cousin, and Lucy soon detected the new
sentiment which she had unexpectedly inspired. The younger dictated, the
elder acquiesced.

"Georgie," she once suddenly said, when they were alone together on the
little platform which hung over the blue waters of the lake, "swear to
me that you will never betray my secret." She clutched her cousin's hand
with fierce insistance and stamped her little foot; "swear to me," she
said in a hoarse whisper, "that never by word or letter you will reveal
my secret--_our_ secret," she added with a smile. If ever a pretty
woman's smile was devilish, Lucy Warrender's was, as she insisted on
this partnership in her guilt.

"Have I ever deceived you, Lucy, that you should want me to swear?"

"But you shall swear, Georgie," she reiterated almost savagely. "I have
gone too far to hesitate at trifles now, and if you don't, you will
never see me more," she added menacingly, as she pointed to the lake.
Her little figure seemed to increase in height, so sternly determined
was her aspect.

Georgie cowered in mingled anxiety and horror.

"Swear to me," she said, and she emphasized the command, for it was no
longer an entreaty, by a fierce clutch at her cousin's wrist, "never to
a soul till the day of your death will you breathe a word of it.
Swear."

"I do swear it, Lucy," replied the dominated victim, and she buried her
face in her hands.

The next day the two English ladies left the Villa Lambert in an open
carriage.

The faithful Capt was told to be ready for their return in a few days'
time. Considerably to his astonishment, he did not accompany them. As
the carriage drove away the valet lighted one of those long and
peculiarly nasty cigars which his countrymen seem so much to enjoy. He
stood watching the carriage rapt in meditation, and his face wore a
puzzled air. Then he did what no economic Switzer has probably done
before or since--he actually flung away the still burning abomination.
Then he spat upon the ground, and with an exaggerated shrug of his
shoulders re-entered the house.

The carriage took the ladies and their maid to a small town, some
twelve miles off. They put up at the hotel. Next morning they took
tickets by the steamer to Geneva, but less than half-way they got out at
a small village, Auray, a little place totally devoid of interest, a
mere hamlet never visited by the tourist; here they took a lodging,
humble enough, but clean, in the house of a well-to-do widow. It was
from this lodging that Georgie posted a letter containing the following
advertisement, which appeared in the _Times_:

    "At the Villa Lambert, Canton of Geneva, Switzerland, the wife
    of Reginald Haggard, Esq., of a son. August 20, 18--."

The cousins exchanged _roles_. Lucy became Madame Haggard, while Georgie
was addressed by the discreet Hephzibah as Mademoiselle Warrender.

The whole thing had evidently been carefully planned by Lucy for some
time previously. She had even with infinite art written numerous letters
to their relatives and friends, in which she dilated upon the strange
reticence of "dear Georgie" as to the whole matter. Needless to say
these letters were all dated from the Villa Lambert. In her letter to
Haggard, and in her more formal communication to the head of the family,
the old earl at Walls End Castle, she explained how her cousin had kept
the whole matter secret as a surprise for her husband; and how she, the
guileless Lucy, had been unwillingly compelled to participate in the
deception. All was thus satisfactorily explained as the whim of the
young wife.

How she had purchased the silence of the invaluable maid it is difficult
to say, whether by bribes, promises or cajolery; but Hephzibah Wallis
was the servant of the Warrenders, born and bred on their land, discreet
and silent.

In ten days they returned to the villa, Mrs. Haggard wrapped up as a
young convalescent mother; the little bastard clothed in purple and fine
linen as became his expectations as Reginald Haggard's heir. Georgie
was pale, great black rings surrounded her eyes; she leant heavily on
the arm of the invaluable Capt, as she stepped out of the carriage which
had conveyed her from the nearest wharf. But Lucy's cheery laugh, though
it failed to bring a smile to the face of her cousin, soon dominated the
inhabitants of the Villa Lambert. Hephzibah, full of that added dignity
which every woman assumes as the guardian of an infant, sat enthroned
before a blazing fire, for in Switzerland in August the evenings are
chilly. It was her custom never to address Mr. Capt, save on official
matters, when a third person was present. On the present occasion she
went further than this, for she declined even to answer him.

Capt had bustled about, had brought in the luggage, had handed their
letters to his mistresses, had received the thanks of Miss Lucy
Warrender for his tasteful floral decoration of the little _salon_, and
had then suddenly subsided into an attitude of respectful admiration in
front of Haggard's supposed heir. To no man or male person, save perhaps
to their own fathers or their medical attendants, are very young infants
objects of interest; we may therefore safely presume that Mr. Capt was
either really wrapped up in the severe charms of the student of the
"Dairyman's Daughter," or that he had some occult and ulterior reason
for remaining to study the little group at the fireside.

"Ah, madame," exclaimed the major-domo, as he washed his hands in the
air, "you will not think it a liberty when I respectfully felicitate
you." But no answering smile appeared on Mrs. Haggard's face.

"Certainly not," burst in the younger girl; "you are the first of our
friends to do so, Capt," she said, with an almost perceptible emphasis
on the word; "but we are both of us knocked up with the bustle, so get
us some tea at once."

The humbly sympathizing friend became once more the respectful servant,
and hurried away to carry out his young mistress's behest.

"Rouse yourself, Georgie," exclaimed the younger girl impatiently, "you
really look very little like the mother of a possible heir to an
earldom," she maliciously added.

But Georgie made no reply to her cousin's taunt, she merely extended her
colourless hands towards the blazing fire of logs.

A pile of letters lay upon the table; one by one Lucy's active fingers
tore them open, one by one she read them to her silent cousin,
enlivening them with a running fire of comment. As she read each one
aloud, she planted a fresh dagger in her cousin's heart, but she went
steadily on with an occupation which seemed congenial.

They were the usual formal congratulations for the most part: one, from
the old squire, gently blamed his daughter for not having taken her
father into her confidence; "but the ways of women, my dear, are
mysterious, and I suppose that explains it." As Lucy read the words the
tears ran down her cousin's face.

One other letter yet remained; it was addressed in a crabbed hand; its
contents were as follows:

                    "Walls End Castle.

    "MY DEAR CHILD,

    "Miss Warrender's letter has quite taken me by surprise; I had
    not the slightest inkling that I should have so soon to
    congratulate you both on the happy event. It gives me great
    pleasure to do so; though I have known you, my dear, for so
    short a time, you have inspired me with feelings of the
    liveliest affection. I need not say I am greatly gratified to
    hear that it is a little boy. The great terror of my old age,
    the not unremote possibility of the extinction of my house,
    which always preyed upon my mind, is now removed. I shall hope
    to welcome the little man here ere long, and with affectionate
    remembrance to your cousin,

            "I am, my dear child,
                "Yours affectionately,
                    "PIT TOWN."

The ladies had retired for the night. A heavy mist hung over the lake,
but a red spark moved slowly up and down the little terrace in front of
the Villa Lambert; the spark indicated the presence of Mr. Capt, who was
awaiting with lover-like impatience the arrival of the discreet
Hephzibah. At length she appeared, muffled in a heavy shawl.

"Have done, do, Capt," said the maiden with indignation, as the valet
imprinted a salute on her pallid lips.

"I haven't commenced, my beloved, yet," retorted he. "Will it be an
indiscretion to hope that Miss Hephzibah has enjoyed herself, and that
the separation from her beloved Maurice has produced ever so slight a
depression?" said he as he attempted to take her hand.

"Stuff," replied the Englishwoman with an indignant snort.

Here the conversation took a distinctly amatory turn, and would probably
hardly interest the reader. But, under the influences of the blind god,
the stern student of the "Dairyman's Daughter" seemed to thaw. She took
the proffered arm of her adorer, and, like all women in love, seemed to
derive a pleasure from the peculiarly pungent aroma of his cigar.

"And how did we pass our time, my Hephzibah; did we amuse ourselves?
Have you nothing to tell me, my beloved, nothing to _confide_ to me?"

The lady's maid shook her head. "Except that I've been worked off my
legs as you may suppose, what can I have to tell you?"

"Ah!" remarked the valet. "I can fancy that my Hephzibah always fulfils
her duties to her mistress, but perhaps my too perfect angel forgets
that between betrothed persons there should be no secrets."

"You don't mean to say you're jealous, Capt?" she exclaimed, as she
raised her face to his.

"My love, you are discretion itself; I know you never betray a secret."

"If I had one, Capt, _you_ would worm it out of me," she said with a
smile and a perceptible pressure on his arm.

"Yes, my love, I _should_ worm it out," he replied with intention.

Hephzibah took no notice of this remark.

"The mist is very damp, and I am very tired, Maurice; I must be going
in; my mistress will wonder what has become of me, so good-night."

The valet kissed the girl. "Good-bye, my love," he said. "I think you
had better have trusted me. Good-bye."

"Good-night, or good-bye, if you prefer it, Mr. Capt," replied the
lady's maid with dignity.

"Good-bye, my dear, good-bye, _till we meet again_."

Hephzibah hurried into the house.

The valet continued his walk up and down the little terrace; he was
immersed in thought, he still smoked his cigar, but unconsciously; he
was suddenly roused from his reflections by the fire almost touching his
lips. With a curse, he flung the end into the waters, and watched it
disappear with a hiss. Then he walked briskly into the house.

The next morning Mr. Capt had disappeared. There was nothing wrong with
the plate. On the carefully arranged breakfast table lay an envelope
directed to Mrs. Haggard; it contained the man's account book, balanced
to a farthing; a small sum of money due from him to his mistress, and
his keys.

"What does he mean by this?" said Lucy to her cousin.

Mrs. Haggard made no answer, but turning to Hephzibah, she said coldly,
"Where is Capt?"

"Please, ma'am, I don't know; he's taken his things with him, and I
think he is gone. I hope there is nothing wrong," said the girl, her
pale face working with suppressed emotion.

Then Mrs. Haggard fainted.




  CHAPTER II.

  AT THE PARSONAGE.


In King's Warren Parsonage the vicar's wife was seated at her little
table. Before her was a handsome service of _real_ Queen Anne plate; the
square-looking teapot with its solid ebony handle, and the bowl and jug
to match, for in those days they were sugar bowls and not sugar basins.
Mrs. Dodd was not alone; she had two visitors, old Mrs. Wurzel and her
inseparable companion, Miss Grains. The tea was good and strong, the
cream perfection; all three ladies were in the best of temper. As a rule
even the most cantankerous women are placable after afternoon tea. No
man had ever partaken of Mrs. Dodd's tea in her own peculiar sanctum;
that honour was reserved for those of her own sex, her cronies, her
fellow-workers. In this little room the village scandals were threshed
out, in this room the female scholars of the Sunday school received what
Mrs. Dodd was pleased to call a few words of advice and admonition. What
the mysterious advice was that Mrs. Dodd imparted, who can tell? One
thing is certain, as they left the Vicarage they always wept, all save
Jemima Ann Blogg the defiant; she alone had shed no tears.

"It's very sad," said the vicar's wife, "but I don't think any other
course is open to me. I never looked upon Hephzibah Wallis as flighty;
in fact, she was undoubtedly the steadiest of all my girls. It's really
enough to break the old mother's heart. Why they should always want to
go out of service and into matrimony I can't think; but I suppose they
are all the same; but this is the climax. The creature actually declares
that she has engaged herself to a foreigner."

The eyes of the other two members of the council of three were raised
in mingled astonishment and horror.

"Yes, it's too true," continued the vicaress; "but I shall not hesitate
in my duty, which is plain: she must be saved from the foreigner and
herself. I'll read you her letter.

                    "'Villa Lambert.

    "'DEAR MOTHER,

    "'You will be glad to hear that we are all well. We are living
    in what they call a villa, and though I like quiet the life is
    very dull. All through our travels Mr. Capt, who, as you know,
    is Mr. Haggard's own man, has been very attentive to me; he has
    asked me to marry him. I think it only right, dear mother, to
    consult you and father before saying yes. I should tell you that
    we are much attached to each other. Mr. Capt is very
    respectable, and very clever, too, for a foreigner. He is a
    Swiss gentleman. I'm sure you would like to hear him talk,
    though he's sometimes rather difficult to understand, as he uses
    so many dictionary words. I suppose it will have to be a long
    engagement, for, as you know, service is no heritage, and we are
    both in service. What Mr. Capt wishes me to do is to be married
    to him here at once, which he says would be much nicer than
    being engaged; but I don't think it would be right to keep it
    from mistress, as she has been so kind. Please let me have an
    answer by return, as Mr. Capt is very anxious. Give my love to
    father, and hoping this finds you both well,

            "'I am,
                "'Your loving daughter,
                    "'HEPHZIBAH WALLIS.'"

"Poor thing," exclaimed the stout Miss Grains, for she felt a ready
sympathy, as an engaged young woman, with the whole of the rest of her
sex who were in a similar position.

"Poor thing, indeed," cried the vicaress, "shameless thing, I call her;
a girl who has been educated under my own eyes, who was actually
confirmed in this very parish, calmly proposes to degrade herself, her
parents and me by secretly marrying a disgusting foreigner, for
foreigners are disgusting, as a rule. I shall forbid it, I shall
distinctly forbid it; it's a duty I owe to dear Georgie. I am
disappointed in Hephzibah Wallis."

"I'm afraid, Mrs. Dodd, it will be difficult to save the girl; here we
are in King's Warren, while she is in Switzerland, and no doubt the man
makes love to her," insinuated Mrs. Wurzel.

"Ah, yes," said the brewer's daughter softly, as she thought of her own
little flirtation with the sallow French master, whose classes she had
attended.

"They may be fascinating," said Mrs. Wurzel spitefully, "but they always
smell of tobacco and never cut their nails."

Alas! the accusation was too true as regards the French master, at all
events, and the brewer's daughter was temporarily extinguished.

"To a person in the position of Hephzibah Wallis," said the vicar's wife
magisterially, "the length of their nails is of little importance; it's
their want of principle that I object to; as for this creature Capt,
like the rest of them he is, I suppose, an atheist, or perhaps worse, a
<DW7>, for when he was here with his master he never once came inside
the church. Goody Wallis has asked me to write to her, and I shall
certainly do so at once, distinctly forbidding it. I haven't mentioned
the matter to Anastatia, for she is so weak and romantic that she's
quite capable of writing herself to the girl and inciting her to
rebellion."

Here she carefully folded the letter and replaced it in her writing
desk.

"And your sister-in-law's own affair, dear Mrs. Dodd, is it an
indiscretion to ask you if it is settled yet?" said old Mrs. Wurzel with
sympathetic interest.

"Stacey Dodd, Mrs. Wurzel, is, I regret to say, of a secretive nature;
she does not confide in me. No, her own sister-in-law is the last person
whom she would trust. But I believe, mind I do not state it as a fact,
but I have reason to believe that she has refused the squire; his age
was an obstacle, you know, and then Lucy would have been a difficulty. I
don't think it would quite have been a bed of roses; that girl would
have been a very serious responsibility indeed."

A discreet tap was heard at the door.

The vicar never presumed to enter his wife's room without knocking; he
evidently had something to communicate. He saluted the ladies and
commenced his tale at once.

"A dreadful thing has happened. I have just returned from The Warren,
where I left the squire in a natural state of violent indignation."

The ladies expressed their curiosity.

The portly vicar continued:

"Oh, there's no secret about it, the country is ringing with it."

Then he read the paragraph in _The Sphere_, with which the reader is
acquainted.

"Then, Mr. Dodd, we may understand that Georgina is the wife of a
murderer," said Mrs. Dodd.

"Well, my dear, not exactly that; you see they say he received great
provocation, so he was bound to go out with him, I suppose."

"Then my husband, a beneficed clergyman of the Church of England,
approves of duelling, and is actually the champion of the--the--the
assassin."

The vicar's wife was fond of strong words; this was the strongest one
she knew of, so she used it.

"Well, but, my dear, consider the circumstances."

"No circumstances can excuse a murder, Mr. Dodd. I hope he won't come
here; don't let him dare to offer me his blood-stained hand; his mere
presence would be enough to contaminate the whole village. Will they
hang him?" she asked with interest.

"Oh, Mrs. Dodd," said the brewer's daughter, clasping her hands, for the
thought that she herself had witnessed the marriage of this interesting
criminal thrilled her very soul.

"Of course she will leave him at once," continued the vicar's wife;
"were the case my own," she said, "I should not hesitate for an
instant."

A slight smile rippled across the broad countenance of the vicar;
perhaps it passed through his mind that were he not a clergyman there
might yet be a means of escape for him.

"It is of men such as this," cried the indignant vicar's wife, "that
Shakespeare speaks. Yes," she said clenching her fingers, "every honest
hand should hold a whip to lash the rascal naked through the world."

"It would be a highly indecent spectacle, my dear," said the vicar with
a chuckle.

"I am speaking figuratively, Mr. Dodd."

"Of course, my dear, of course. In the meanwhile old Warrender is
horribly angry, as well he may be."

The ladies' little meeting now broke up. Old Mrs. Wurzel hastened to the
stationer's to order a copy of _The Sphere_ and all the society papers,
then, bursting with the news, she proceeded to call upon the Misses
Sleek to tell her tale.

By midnight every soul in King's Warren was in possession of the fact
that Georgie Haggard's husband had fought a duel and had killed his man.

The Misses Sleek did not hesitate to express to each other when
retiring for the night their united opinion that Mrs. Haggard was a very
lucky girl.

"I always said he was a hero," said the younger sister with a sigh, and
then she went to sleep to dream of him.

It is a moot question as to who can claim the title of esquire.
Now a-days everybody is Mr., Mrs., or Miss. But Mrs. Dodd was
uncompromising; in her mind servants, labourers and criminals should be
addressed by their Christian and surname, and no more. When she was
unaware of the name she was accustomed to address all males by the
epithet "man." There is something very scathing, very exasperating too,
in being addressed in this way. Had poor Hephzibah herself been actually
in the flesh at King's Warren, Mrs. Dodd would, undoubtedly, have
addressed her as "girl;" as it was she merely adopted the Spartan mode
which is used by judges at a jail delivery. The tone of the judgment,
for we can hardly call it a letter, will be best seen if given at
length:

    "HEPHZIBAH WALLIS,

    "Your poor mother came to me in great trouble yesterday bringing
    with her the flippant, the almost indecent letter, which you had
    thought proper to send her. Little did I think, Hephzibah
    Wallis, when I placed in your hands the beautiful copy of the
    'Dairyman's Daughter,' which I had intended should be your guide
    through life, and which you afterwards so hypocritically
    informed me you frequently perused, that I was patronizing a
    girl who was about to rush headlong to her own destruction. If I
    remember rightly, the dairyman's daughter was a sickly person
    like yourself, but _she_ would never have degraded herself by
    even hinting at an immoral marriage with a foreigner; nor would
    she have ever dared to propose such an abomination to her own
    mother as a marriage which should be kept secret from her
    mistress and from the wife of her parochial clergyman. I shall
    not, then, shrink, Hephzibah Wallis, from the duty of warning
    you. Except among the upper classes marriages with foreigners
    always end in misery; and it is extremely doubtful whether such
    unions in the eyes of heaven are marriages at all. I have
    repeatedly pointed out to my girls at the Sunday school, and to
    you among the number, that no young woman in domestic service
    should think of entering upon the marriage state till she is
    past all work. I was pained to see by your letter that you have
    evidently hardened your heart, and I am aware that the deaf
    adder will not listen to the voice of the charmer, charm he (or
    she) never so wisely. I know that you are exposed to the
    dangerous fascinations of a designing foreign manservant, who,
    to use your own expression, only addresses you in 'dictionary
    words;' no doubt such language is apt to turn the head of any
    young woman. But let me tell you, Hephzibah Wallis, that you
    will have a far greater chance of happiness in this world, and
    the next, as the wife of an English deaf mute of high principle,
    than you would have if married (even in the unlikely contingency
    of such a marriage turning out to be legal) to any foreigner,
    however eloquent, who is of course, as all such people are,
    wholly irreligious.

    "If this letter, as I trust it may, should be the means of
    softening your heart and so saving you from the ruin to which
    you are evidently hastening, it will not have been written in
    vain. I grudge no trouble in the duty that Providence has forced
    upon me of superintending the lives of any of my girls. You of
    course are subject to great temptations, but you must never
    forget your duty to me and to your mistress, particularly now
    that she (your unhappy mistress) is, as I hear with pain and
    consternation, the wife of a murderer. I trust that you will
    frequently read this letter when in doubt or temptation, and
    that it may be the means of preserving you is the earnest desire
    of

                "Your well-wisher,
                    "CECILIA DODD."

Mrs. Dodd posted her letter herself, and to make assurance doubly sure
she registered it.

When at lunch with her husband she broke to him the fact that she had
written a letter "full of kind advice," as she phrased it, "to that
flighty creature, Goody Wallis's daughter."

"It's a troublesome and anxious duty, Mr. Dodd," she said, "to look
after them all; but I try to shield all my girls from possible harm, and
this one evidently meditated making a fool of herself."

"You are always judicious, my dear," said the vicar.

"This house and this parish would not be what they are, Mr. Dodd, were
it not for me."

"My love, I am fully sensible of my great good fortune."

"John," said the vicar's wife as soon as they were alone, "one of us
ought to write to that poor thing."

"What poor thing, my dear?"

"I mean the squire's unhappy daughter," she said.

"Good heavens, Cecilia, for goodness sake, let her alone."

"Leave her alone in the hour of her tribulation! Mr. Dodd, is that your
advice as a clergyman, or is it your other entity, the man of the world,
who speaks?"

"Common prudence, my dear, suggests discretion."

"And who shall listen to the whisper of prudence, when common duty
speaks so loudly, Mr. Dodd?"

"My dear, 'too many cooks spoil the broth,' is a homely saying."

"A vulgar proverb, Mr. Dodd."

"But full of wisdom, my dear, as are most proverbs. I think there is
another culinary hint, too, that I remember, 'It is good not to
introduce one's finger into one's neighbour's pie.'"

"And is the murderer, then, to escape with impunity, Mr. Dodd? Is he to
have at least no moral punishment; is the indignant finger of outraged
society not to be pointed at him; is he with impunity to go out to slay
whomsoever he will; and is there to be no Nemesis for such as he?"

"Oh, as much as you like, my dear; but there's no reason why you should
personally represent outraged society."

"If I felt it a duty, Mr. Dodd, I should certainly represent outraged
society, and Nemesis too, if I pleased."

"Of course, my dear, of course, and doubtless _con amore_."

"John!" said the indignant wife.

But the vicar, having fired the last shot in his locker, had fled.

Fortunately Mrs. Dodd's time for the next fortnight was pretty well
taken up. What with visitors who came to her to ascertain what they
called the real truth; what with answering the innumerable inquiries of
her large circle of acquaintance on what was now getting to be known as
the "Haggard Scandal," Mrs. Dodd was fully occupied. It was a happy
thing for Georgie; the young wife remained in ignorance of her husband's
escapade. She was spared the threatened letter of advice and admonition.

Not one word did old Warrender breathe to his daughter of the matter.

The details of the affair however, that is to say of the actual meeting
itself, were pretty well known in town. General Pepper had no cause for
reticence. Men who had barely nodded to him before, now amicably grasped
the warrior's hand, and asked him to the most _recherche_ dinners; and
his inevitable description of the duel, at dessert, usually formed the
feature of the evening. Cards of invitation from the most distinguished
personages rained down upon the fortunate veteran in profusion. Report
said that he had even lunched with the Commander-in-Chief. His cronies
at the Pandemonium accused him of assuming an air of habitual arrogance.
Captain Spotstroke swore that the general had cut him in St. James's
Street.

But in London the lives of chance lions are short; people began to
forget the Haggard duel and to cease to long for the presence of General
Pepper, C.B. Grosvenor Square ceased to invite him to her banquets,
though he was still a welcome guest in the mansions of Bayswater and
Maida Vale.

As for Lord Pit Town, he was of the old school. He ascertained, from a
reliable source of information, that Haggard had not been the aggressor.
For a gentleman to go out with another gentleman before breakfast, to
settle their mutual differences, seemed to him the most natural thing in
life. The faithful Wolff too, as a graduate of a German university, had
been a fighter of duels in his youth. Wrapped in the bandages, the pads,
the plastrons, and the guards customary on such occasions, he and the
other young fellows had pluckily stood up to chop at each others' faces,
on what those enthusiasts were pleased to term the field of honour.
Their eternal occupation in the new galleries soon caused Haggard and
his duel to be forgotten by both, and, save in King's Warren parish
itself, the whole matter ceased to be remembered.

Perhaps the very last mention of the affair, even there, was made by
Miss Sleek, upon a rather memorable occasion to her father.

The young ladies at "The Park," notwithstanding their undeniable good
looks and good temper, had failed to find admirers, at least eligible
admirers, in King's Warren. Over-dressed young men, generally beaux of
Capel Court, used to be brought down to stay from Saturday till Monday,
to beguile the tedium of the girls' lives, by their indulgent papa. But
the golden youth of the Stock Exchange found little favour in the eyes
of the Misses Sleek. Generally at the second or third visit the
gaily-clad young men would propose to one sister or the other, but both
girls still remained heart-whole, and their father was not over anxious
to lose them.

"My dears," said he one evening to his daughters, "Dabbler's coming down
to-morrow. I do want you to be civil to Dabbler."

Now Dabbler was a widower; he was not of prepossessing appearance, and
his h's troubled him, but Dabbler was a warm man. The Misses Sleek on
hearing their father's announcement looked at each other in a meaning
manner; to do them justice, perhaps because they had plenty of money
themselves, perhaps because they were both rather romantically
inclined, neither coveted the honour of consoling the unhappy Dabbler
for his rather recent loss.

"Of course we shall be civil, papa," said the elder girl; "we always are
civil to Mr. Dabbler."

The father smiled upon his dutiful children and gave no further sign.

On the Saturday Mr. Dabbler arrived. He was very attentive to both
girls, neither of whom showed any desire to monopolize his society. On
the Sunday afternoon the conversation turned on the recent duel at Rome.
The ladies defended Haggard's conduct, while Mr. Dabbler laughed at
duels and duellists, and stated his conviction that "that fellow Haggard
deserved to be 'ung." Whereupon both girls were highly indignant; they
rapturously commended Haggard's valiant behaviour. Unfortunate Dabbler,
now upon his mettle, declared that "should he ever want satisfaction,
his solicitor should get it for him."

The girls retorted at once "that in their eyes such a course was
detestable, that they could never even respect, much less like, any one
who professed such sentiments."

Dabbler, who had rather hesitated between his partner's daughters, and
who, in his own mind, had decided that he had but to come, to see and to
conquer, was a man used to arrive at determinations at once. From that
instant he made up his mind that neither of the Misses Sleek would
suitably fill the vacant place at the head of his dining-table.

As the two men went to town on the Monday by the fast morning train,
Sleek, as he unfolded his _Times_, turned with a smile to his partner.

"Well, Dab," he said, "which is the lucky one?"

"They won't 'ave me, my boy," replied the other philosophically.

"And why not, in the name of common sense, pray?" replied his partner in
some astonishment.

"Because I'm not a Nero," returned Dabbler with a sigh.

"What?" said Sleek.

"We will not continue this conversation, Mr. Sleek," said Dabbler
solemnly, and both gentlemen buried themselves in their newspapers.




  CHAPTER III.

  HOW THEY CAME HOME.


                 "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 _role_, 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.




  CHAPTER IV.

  THE RETURN OF THE WANDERER.


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 chateau 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 _role_ 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 assurement, 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:

    "Rien n'est sacre pour un sapeur--bebe.
    Non, rien n'est sacre pour un sapeur."




  CHAPTER V.

  THE MISSES SLEEK DROP IN.


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 _role_ 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
_cafe-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 Venus 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 Bebe
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 _entree_ 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. _A 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.




  CHAPTER VI.

  THE SLEEKS IN ARCADIA.


There had been a succession of battles royal between the Misses Sleek
and their papa over the haymaking party. Mr. Sleek had drawn up a long
list of guests, among whom prominently figured the names of most of the
gilded youth of the Stock Exchange. Sleek was determined at all hazards
to make what he called a "splash." He felt that in getting old Warrender
and his daughter to The Park, he was in reality receiving his passport
into county society. It had been gall and wormwood to the head of the
firm of Sleek and Dabbler to find that in King's Warren village, except
among the tradesmen whom he patronized, for no fault of his own, he had
remained a social pariah. In vain had he subscribed liberally to the
local charities, the coal club, and the various other institutions of
the place. He was annoyed that, when walking with young farmer Wurzel,
village heads would be uncovered in every direction; and yet when he,
Sleek, the head of a well-known firm, was alone, a surly nod or a
fraternal smile was the only recognition accorded to him. He was
naturally anxious, then, that his haymaking and the subsequent dance
should be an important affair. But his daughters had manifested an
obstinacy totally unexpected.

The family council of three had met in solemn conclave. Miss Sleek had
read to her father a long list of King's Warren people, and he had
cheerfully nodded his approval at each name submitted for his
approbation.

"Can't be better, can't be better, my dear," smiled the father. "I don't
think you've left a soul out. But we mustn't forget my friends. I tell
you what it is, girls, when I do a thing I like to do it well, and I
mean to do this thing in style. None of your negus and stale sponge
cakes for me. I shall give 'em real turtle from Birch's, and as for
fizz, they shall swim in it if they like. Dry Monopole for the men, and
Duc de Montebello for the ladies; women hate dry champagne, they like it
sweet, for it fizzes longer, and they don't care a hang for the head in
the morning. Montebello will suit the vicar's wife and the married
ladies down to the boots. There's nothing like fizz, it makes 'em all so
friendly; and as for music, I've secured Toot and Kinney. Kinney himself
will come and conduct, and do the solos on the cornet. I'm going to
arrange for a special, girls, to bring the whole party down and take 'em
back to town at six a.m."

His eldest daughter suddenly put a stop to his enthusiasm by asking him
rather coldly, "who the train was to bring down."

"Why, my friends, of course; who else?"

"But, dear papa, we don't know your friends, at least, many of them; and
I'm afraid, and so is Connie," she added with a sickly smile, "that
perhaps they wouldn't amalgamate."

Much as King Lear looked when he first detected the real natures of
Regan and Goneril, so did Mr. Sleek gaze in horror on his two rebellious
daughters.

"Bosh!" he exclaimed with indignation. "Do you mean to tell me that
after romping together all the afternoon in the hay, and getting their
skins full of my champagne, they won't amalgamate, as you call it? Why,
they'll be calling each other by their Christian names before supper
time."

But the sisters showed no signs of yielding.

"I tell you what it is, girls," said their father in anger, "you're a
pair of ungrateful minxes. Don't 'pa' me," he added at the duet of
deprecation that followed. "My daughters are going to dance with a
lord," he continued with tragic fervour, "and their poor old father
isn't good enough for them."

Mr. Sleek did not go to business that morning. A terrible ceremony that
lasted a good hour and a half was gone through. Mr. Sleek's list, which
had originally contained over a hundred names, was shorn of its fair
proportions, till but a little handful of the least objectionable
remained. With the eloquence of a Cicero and the skill of an
attorney-general, Miss Sleek "showed cause" against everybody. Though he
fought hard he had to yield, for the girls were two to one. But he did
not give in without a struggle, and he fought loyally for the absent
Dabbler, but the girls were inexorable.

"Mr. Dabbler is too dreadful, papa. I'm sure he'd forget himself, and he
would insist on dancing."

Now both the Misses Sleek had a vivid recollection of poor Dabbler's
terpsichorean efforts at a certain Guildhall ball. Not contented with
walking through his square dances, as is the lazy custom now-a-days, Mr.
Dabbler had _danced_ them with a vigour and ingenuity which would have
assuredly brought down the house at a transpontine theatre. Even at the
Guildhall, Dabbler's style was peculiar to himself, and productive of
amazement and delight to all but his partners and those who figured in
the same set. Dabbler was a vigorous dancer. When he set to his partner,
he performed a sort of cellar-flap breakdown; when he stood in the
middle of the quadrille while his _vis-a-vis_ advanced and retired with
the two ladies, he still continued dancing. "To dance implies that a man
is glad," and Dabbler was a cheerful-minded fellow enough, but no lady
danced with him a second time. The eyes of the Misses Sleek flashed with
unaffected rage and horror at the terrible remembrance of that dreadful
night in the City.

There was nothing for it but to yield, and Mr. Sleek, when he had had
time to cool, came to the conclusion that perhaps after all his
daughters were right.

Romping among the haycocks may be very good fun, but the elaborate
toilettes in which he found his daughters arrayed on the eventful
afternoon effectually convinced him that the romping, if romping there
was to be, would be entirely confined to the few juveniles who graced
the entertainment with their presence.

The house was turned inside out. The drawing-room floor had been duly
chalked in elaborate devices; the staff at The Park, in new gowns, caps
and aprons, was reinforced by an army of myrmidons from the City. Huge
blocks of ice decorated the dining-room, and Messrs. Toot and Kinney's
band already discoursed sweet music from the Italian summer-house. The
plump charms of his two daughters were freely displayed in elaborate
Parisian costumes, _merveilleuse_ dresses of striped satin; one girl
affected pink, the other sky blue. So resplendent was their appearance
that the proud father hardly recognized his two buxom daughters in their
gay attire.

But carriages, dog-carts and antediluvian flys began to pour into The
Park. Every lady on her arrival received a bouquet of hot-house flowers,
every gentleman was presented with an elaborate button-hole of orchids.
Not a single invitation had been refused. King's Warren and the region
round about had come to the philosophical conclusion that if Mr. Sleek,
of The Park, was good enough for Squire Warrender, he was good enough
for them. More than this, even those who had once passed the Sleek girls
with a condescending nod, or with their noses high in air, had deigned
to intrigue for invitations; and in the hour of their triumph the girls
had not been ill-natured, nobody had been refused.

There was quite a crowd in the shady corner of the hay-field to watch
the so-called haymaking, a familiar sight enough to the King's
Warreners, and there _was_ romping among the haycocks. But the pastoral
amusement was only indulged in by the children of the village school.
Young Mr. Wurzel, in the shiniest of boots, yellow gloves, a pink tie
and a white hat, his bride-elect, Miss Grains, upon his arm, looked on
approvingly, and it is not to be wondered at if the young fellow's eye
dwelt, somewhat too long for Miss Grains' satisfaction, upon their young
hostesses. The Reverend John Dodd, as usual, was surrounded by a throng
of female worshippers, the party from The Warren was in full force, and
it somewhat astonished the Misses Sleek to note that Georgie and her
cousin were in ordinary afternoon muslin dresses. No doubt the Sleek
family would have been more gratified if, instead of his brown
billycock, Lord Spunyarn had worn his coronet; he probably didn't travel
with it, however.

All went merry as a marriage bell.

"My dear young ladies, surely we ought to join in this," said the
Reverend Jack with a smile, addressing his hostesses, as he pointed to
the children who were pelting each other with the perfumed hay.

But the _merveilleuse_ costumes of the Sleek girls were better suited
for looking on than for taking part in the actual performance.

"Oh, we should like it of all things, Mr. Dodd, but _we_ must reserve
ourselves. You see _we_ are almost bound to dance every dance, and there
is so much to do, and so much to see to. But if any one would like to
make hay we should be so pleased, and so would the children."

"You are not haymakers to-day, then, only shepherdesses looking after
an unruly and, I see, rapidly increasing flock. It's a very sweet
pastoral, you only want your crooks to complete the picture. I, too, am
a shepherd, you know; but a shepherd in black and without his crook is
somewhat in the way. With your permission, then, I shall join the
children," said the vicar with a smile.

"The crook will come in time, Dodd; you may depend upon it we shall see
you a bishop one of these days, after all," laughed Haggard
good-naturedly.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Haggard," said a deep voice at his elbow, which
made him start; "thank you so much for attempting to recall my poor
husband from this frivolous scene to higher things. My unhappy husband,
Mr. Haggard," she added in a confidential whisper, "has no ambition.
John Dodd, Mr. Haggard, is, I regret to say, a trifler. It has been the
labour of my life to try and withdraw his mind from frivolities, and to
keep him in the path which would ultimately lead him to what should be
the goal of every clergyman's ambition. Oh, if he would only try to be a
little more like my dear father. If he would only think less of carnal
things," and here the vicaress gave a snort and looked spitefully at the
Misses Sleek, between whom the Reverend Jack still lingered.

The Misses Sleek were plump, the Misses Sleek were pretty, even if they
were a little over-dressed; but to call them "carnal things" was at
least unkind.

"Console yourself, dear Mrs. Dodd," said Haggard with a smile; "the
vicar will be just as attentive to the school children in the hay as he
is to our young hostesses now," he added with intention.

"Too well I know it, Mr. Haggard. And can there be a sadder sight than
to see the vicar of this parish romping in the hay with village
hoydens?"

Haggard's prophecy turned out to be correct, for the vicar threw off his
coat and joined the children; and he, the greatest child of them all,
was soon thoroughly enjoying himself.

Nearly all the ladies were accommodated with seats, all save the Misses
Sleek; they, poor girls, alas, could not sit. One can walk, flirt and
dance in a _Merveilleuse_ costume, but it is next to impossible to sit
down in it. They bore their sufferings with fortitude, however, and,
like the Spartan boy with his fox, concealed their agony.

And now the loud summons of a gong called everybody to the more serious
business of the evening. A big marquee of striped canvas had been
erected; the guests trooped into it. Soon all the little tables were
filled, and everybody did full justice to the delicacies set before
them. After standing in the sun a considerable time, the crowd was not
sorry to eat and drink its fill. The eyes of bashful bucolic youth
began to sparkle with the effects of Mr. Sleek's champagne; rosy cheeks
grew rosier; even the vicar's wife unbent; that blighted maiden, Stacey
Dodd, almost felt her hopes revive under the influence of _pate de foie
gras_, and the immediate proximity of the squire. But, even in the
country, people can't eat and drink for ever; and the marquee was at
last deserted for the superior attractions of the dance.

For that evening, at least, class distinctions were for once forgotten
in King's Warren. Young Mr. Wurzel screwed his courage up so far as to
ask Miss Warrender to dance with him, while the vicar took out the
village schoolmistress, and Mrs. Dodd herself condescended to waltz with
her host. But after her toes had been trodden on three times in a couple
of rounds, she felt that she had already done more than enough; she
danced no more, and relapsed into her old position of tutelary goddess,
or guardian angel, to society in general. Connie and her sister were in
great demand, and the cup of their happiness was filled to overflowing,
each having danced with the real live lord. Young Wurzel having done
enough for honour, did as engaged young men should, and stood up for
dance after dance, as a matter of course, with the object of his
affections.

"I can't dance as _she_ does," whispered the Village Rose in his ear;
"but hold me tight and turn me round quickly, William," she added with a
sigh of satisfaction.

The young farmer did as he was bid, and owing to their united exertions,
they were soon both the colour of a couple of peonies.

The big conservatory had been judiciously only dimly lighted by a few
Chinese lanterns, and by common consent had been given up to the lazy
philanderers, who sought its leafy shades between the dances. Connie
Sleek had volunteered to show the plants to Lord Spunyarn; they were
both tired, and Connie in considerable trepidation managed to sit down
in one of the dimly-lighted nooks, at his good-natured lordship's
suggestion. Spunyarn, however, didn't make love to Connie, but the young
lady felt that she had her chance, and she availed herself of it.

"I've been on my feet since four o'clock, Lord Spunyarn," she said, with
a not unmusical sigh, "and I feel as if I could sit here for ever. Don't
you?" she added.

What is an easy-natured young man to say under such circumstances? Given
an exceptionally substantial collation, warm weather, some dozen round
dances, and nothing particular to do, most men would have probably
replied just as Lord Spunyarn did.

"With you, Miss Sleek? Well, do you know, I believe I could."

Connie Sleek's eyes sparkled like coals of fire. Visions of herself as
Lady Spunyarn presented at Court on her marriage, and patronizing her
elder sister, flitted through her young and innocent but giddy brain.
But his lordship's next remark rather damped her hopes; the descent from
the sublime to the ridiculous is at times a little too sudden.

"By Jove!" said Spunyarn, "I should like to be one of these plants, and
never move out of my pot, with nothing to think of but to look forward
to the time when the gardener would come and syringe me. I wish he'd
come and syringe me now, don't you? _They_ seem to be enjoying
themselves, don't they? Uncommonly, by Jove!" he added, looking towards
the farther end of the conservatory.

The guileless Connie saw a pink mass in the dim shadows opposite her.
The pink mass was evidently her sister. A small incandescent speck,
which sparkled about a foot from where that sister's head would be,
indicated her partner in enjoyment, also that the gentleman was smoking
a cigarette.

"Why, it's Lottie. I wouldn't have her see me here for the world, Lord
Spunyarn. She's a dreadful tease, and I should never hear the last of
it," and here the young lady, exactly upon the principle of the ostrich,
who is said to bury its head in the sand when it wishes to escape
observation, unfolded an enormous blue fan which effectually screened
both herself and her fellow criminal. If Spunyarn had sought a
_tete-a-tete_, he had now got it with a vengeance.

Precisely the same feelings evidently animated the young lady in pink.
She, too, unfurled a big fan. The conversation of both couples for the
next five minutes must have been interesting, for both fans, which were
originally used merely as screens, were frequently violently agitated.

No doubt, the conversation of both pairs was instructive as well as
amusing. Both ladies evidently enjoyed the unhoped-for but
well-deserved rest. Had it not been for an unfortunate disturbing
influence, who can tell but that Connie Sleek might have risen from the
settee Lord Spunyarn's affianced bride. When even a worldly-wise young
peer occupies the half of a seat only intended for one person for fully
five minutes, behind a big fan, beside a becomingly-dressed young woman
of undoubted crispness, and who is not troubled with bashfulness, who
can say of what folly he may not be guilty?

But Providence willed it otherwise; for Mr. Sleek suddenly entered his
conservatory in a state of considerable excitement.

"Gals," he said--when excited, Sleek _pere_ always addressed his
daughters as "gals"--"where on earth is Mr. Haggard? I've been looking
for him everywhere."

The two men rose to their feet; the one behind the pink fan, not much to
Lord Spunyarn's surprise, turned out to be Haggard. But neither young
lady moved; their dresses wouldn't let them, poor things.

"It's pa!" they both exclaimed in a sort of astonished chorus. "Oh, pa,
it's so hot," said the elder girl, regaining her _aplomb_ at once. But
Connie, more indignant, only sighed; she felt, poor girl, that she had
had her chance and lost it. There are moments in girls' lives when even
a father is _de trop_.

"What is it, old fellow?" cried Haggard with unusual condescension as he
advanced.

"I've been looking for you everywhere, Mr. Haggard. Here's a telegram
for you. I hope it's no bad news," he added.

The two girls, with considerable effort and many an ominous crack,
covered, too, with rosy blushes, perhaps from their exertions, had now
managed to regain their feet.

"Oh, I do hope it's nothing dreadful," said the elder girl with pretty
sympathy.

Haggard, as he tore the envelope open and read the telegram with
difficulty by the light of one of the Chinese lanterns, blurted out:

"By Jove! Shirtings, the poor old governor's dead."

There was considerable consternation. The Warren party hurried away, and
though dancing went on, the two young hostesses, perhaps in their
natural grief for their friend's loss, joined in it no more.

As poor Connie wept herself to sleep that night in her sister's arms,
she whispered her tale of sorrow into her ear. Her last words were,
"Lottie, darling, I shall never, never forgive pa."




  CHAPTER VII.

  HAGGARD COMES INTO HIS OWN.


Old Justice Haggard had died rather suddenly. He had been ailing for
several weeks; as his son had remarked, his handwriting had been the
first symptom of the breakdown. His articulation, too, had become
thickened, and one evening he was found seated in his chair by his study
fire speechless, his face painfully drawn on one side; within an hour he
had peacefully passed away.

The king was dead, long live the king. Reginald Haggard came into his
own. But though Haggard had talked of settling down into a county
magnate in the case of his father's death, when that event happened he
failed to do so.

"I couldn't stand it, you know. The dreadful dinners and the dreadful
people would have finished me, I think," he had said.

So after the funeral, Haggard returned to The Warren, but not before he
had given the old steward final and definite instructions, which caused
that worthy man's hair to almost stand on end.

"Cunningham," he said, "if you want to remain on the estate as my
steward, you'll have to alter the state of things here. My father, you
know, muddled along in a happy-go-lucky sort of way. As long as his pigs
took the first prize at the county shows he was happy. That was his
ambition. Now, Cunningham, you'll have to make the place pay. There are
a lot of old servants, old pensioners and old horses, all eating their
heads off here, and doing no work. You'll have to make a clean sweep of
the lot. Were I to attempt to do it myself they'd worry my life out. Now
I want you to act as a buffer. From your decisions there is to be no
appeal. They are to look to you, and not to me. As I said, the place
must be made to pay, that's the first point; the second is, that I am
not to be bothered. It used to amuse my father to sit in his
justice-room every morning and to be perpetually receiving and answering
letters from all sorts of people about the place. That sort of thing
won't suit me. You know as well as I do that my father got nothing out
of the place."

"Sir----" began the Scotchman.

"Wait till I have done, Cunningham, and you will see that you have
nothing to say. I know what you are going to tell me. That it is my duty
to come and live in this place, with these yokels, to have the ague at
least twice a year, as my father did before me, and to ask my friends
down in September to shoot my partridges. Those were my father's views,
they're not mine. As to the house, I shall let it, and I shall do the
same with the shooting. With regard to the property, if you can get an
income out of it for me, well and good; if you can't, I don't suppose
anybody can; and in that case I intend to be shot of the whole bag of
tricks."

"Ye wud'na think of pairting with the property, sir," said the
astonished steward; "it's been your fathers' before you for centuries."

"It must pay me three per cent., Cunningham, or I shall assuredly sell
it. Of course any legal liability I have I must fulfil; but there's been
a good deal too much sentiment lately in the management of the place. My
father was fond of pigs and paupers; I can't say I care for either. You
will grant no new leases except at their full value. If Dick can't get a
living out of a farm, that's no reason for letting him have it rent
free. The estate must be improved, Cunningham--as a property. You
understand me, I take it?"

"I could'na fail to do that, Mr. Reginald."

The steward carried out his instructions. It is needless to say that
Reginald Haggard became unpopular. Ash Priory was let; the old
servants, those few who had any work left in them, got new and harder
places at less wages; those who were past work went into the poor-house.
The Haggard estate actually returned three per cent on its market
value, and everybody in the neighbourhood of the Priory agreed that Mr.
Cunningham the steward was an exceedingly hard man.

Haggard was very particular about one thing. A large diamond-shaped
hatchment on which the arms of the Haggards were emblazoned came down
from town and was duly affixed over the principal entrance to the
Priory.

"It's to stay up for a year mind, Cunningham, tenant or no tenant, and
then you can take it down and burn it if you like."

The death of Justice Haggard caused the postponement of the proposed
visit to Walls End Castle, and it was not till more than a year
afterwards that the old earl's eyes were gladdened by the sight of his
favourite, his great-nephew's wife.

During the year of mourning, Georgie Haggard presented her husband with
a son. The child had been born at The Warren. Their recent mourning had
effectually prevented the Haggards from going much into society, so
rather against the grain, Haggard had consented to remain the guest of
his father-in-law, varying the monotony of his long stay at The Warren
by an occasional run up to town. At first he had proposed a furnished
house, but he had been warned by the local practitioner that it would be
unwise and imprudent to subject his wife to unnecessary fatigue, or to
let her lose the benefit of the air of her native place. There was not
much fuss made on the arrival of the little George; he, poor little
chap, was provided with a humble attendant from the village, Fanchette
being still retained to minister to the wants, whims and foibles of the
elder child.

Miss Lucy Warrender had enjoyed the successive delights of two London
seasons; she went everywhere, she was as much admired as ever. Lucy
Warrender was not a mere beauty to be stared at; she was a brilliant
conversationalist and possessed considerable powers of repartee. She had
an artless way of administering cruel stabs to her female acquaintances
which frequently turned them into enemies. When Mrs. Charmington had
innocently asked her whether she considered her proposed appearance upon
the stage _infra dig._, she had replied that she thought her friend
couldn't do better, "for," added she gently, "they tell me, dear Mrs.
Charmington, that actresses never grow old." Lucy Warrender had not been
without her triumphs; she had had several offers, and good offers too,
but she refused them all, and Lucy Warrender was Lucy Warrender still.
Excitement was an absolute necessity to Lucy; there was a persistent
craving in her mind for something new, and a ceaseless round of
amusement was what she could not do without. Many girls would have
knocked up from the effects of continuous late hours, heated rooms and
high living, but Lucy seemed to thrive upon it. She was now nearly
two-and-twenty, and from the time she had been able to think she had
never troubled herself about anybody's comfort but her own. The maternal
instinct had never been awakened in her; she petted the little Lucius
simply because he was good-looking, and because she knew that a
well-dressed, good-looking young person engaged in petting a child who
is also well-dressed and good-looking is a pleasant and picturesque
object. Just in the same way she was accustomed to hang on her uncle's
arm and gaze up into his face, not because she cared one iota for her
uncle, but because she considered it an effective tableau. The sole
reason that Lucy Warrender never accepted any of the good offers which
she received was, that she thought herself better off as her own
mistress. If Lucy Warrender had been a man, she would have been one of
those wholly unobjectionable persons, one of those single-minded
individuals, whose life is passed in trying to get the greatest possible
amount of personal enjoyment out of this world. As we know, Lucy was not
troubled with what is called a heart; true she had made what she now
considered a mistake at the outset, but she had burnt her fingers so
severely that from that time she was never likely again to lapse from
her religion of self-worship. When they had first returned from
Switzerland, she had had considerable cause for anxiety, for the fear of
being found out had troubled her a good deal, but that shadow had
gradually passed away and the whole affair now seemed to her merely like
a troubled dream, which she still remembered in a vague sort of way.

Happy, tranquil and contented, Miss Lucy Warrender, looking fresh as a
rose, sat down to the well-furnished breakfast-table at The Warren and
turned over in a meditative manner the three or four letters which had
arrived for her by the morning's post. Miss Warrender was a wise young
woman; she always ate her breakfast first and postponed the perusal of
her correspondence till the meal was over. She put her letters in her
pocket, as was her custom, and did full justice to the substantial meal
which graced the squire's board; at its conclusion, provided with one of
her favourite yellow- novels, she lounged into the garden
prepared to get through the morning with the least possible amount of
trouble to herself. She sat down in a shady nook of the rose garden and
read two of her letters, gossipy effusions from female acquaintances;
then she took up the last letter, which was on thin paper and addressed
in a legible but foreign-looking hand. She opened it carelessly, but as
her eyes fell upon the contents she drew herself up, suddenly the
colour left her lips. This was what she read:

                    "131, Gerard Street, Soho.

    "MADAME,

    "I trust you will excuse the liberty I take in addressing you on
    a little matter which concerns myself. Circumstances compelled
    me to leave the service of Mr. Haggard while you and madame were
    at the Villa Lambert. I have now, madame, to trespass on your
    kindness, in asking you to assist me in my present intention of
    re-entering that gentleman's service. I have no reason to
    believe, madame, that during the time I acted as Mr. Haggard's
    valet I failed to give satisfaction. It is to ask you to use
    your kind influence with my former master that I now address
    you. His valet, I understand, is about to leave him. It probably
    is in your power, madame, to enable me to obtain my old position
    once more. Should you feel inclined to use your influence in my
    behalf I shall be for ever grateful. I may tell you, madame,
    that business took me to the village of Auray; what I learned at
    Auray I shall look upon as a secret confided to my honour. I
    shall write to Mr. Haggard to-day to apply for the situation.
    Trusting, madame, that you will give me your powerful aid in
    this matter, I remain,

            "Very respectfully,
                "Your humble servant,
                    "MAURICE CAPT.

    "P.S.--It will be unnecessary to answer this letter, as I feel I
    can count upon your generosity."

There was no mistake. Lucy had taken every precaution; she had looked
upon the old scandal as dead and comfortably buried, buried in the grave
of the Parisian cemetery in which lay the unfortunate Hephzibah.

She ground her little white teeth, as she saw the spectre rise once more
in a new and uncompromising shape; an unpleasant feeling of utter
helplessness filled her soul. Had her successful intrigues been all to
no purpose after all? She had no doubt in her own mind as to what it was
that Maurice Capt had learnt at the village of Auray. Capt had not
written to ask her for money; she felt that he would probably name the
price for his silence later on. In the meantime, she knew that the
humble request of the Swiss valet was a politely-worded command which
she dared not disobey; and she dreaded his presence, filled with the
horrid fear of its consequences. It was even possible, she thought, that
her cousin in her sudden terror might incontinently make a clean breast
of the whole matter to her husband, or even to the squire. When one has
felt perfectly secure, it is extremely painful to see all one's
carefully-elaborated combinations instantaneously collapse. As has been
said, Lucy Warrender was in the habit of looking upon servants as mere
furniture, but here was a piece of furniture suddenly developed into a
most substantial bogey.

At first Lucy was disposed to take her cousin into her confidence, but
then she thought, and thought rightly, that Georgina would make a very
bad conspirator. Perhaps after all the valet might consent to be bribed;
she remembered with pleasure that he was discretion itself, so she
calmly resolved to adopt what doctors call an expectant policy; that is
to say, to do nothing at all, and to patiently await the turn of events.

She was not kept long in suspense. While they were at dinner that
evening, Haggard mentioned to the squire that he had just received a
letter from his old servant.

"I think the confounded impudence of that rascal Capt has something
almost sublime in it. He bolts in a mysterious manner when he was left
in charge of the girls, and now he calmly proposes to come back to me
again."

"Of course you won't think of taking him," replied the squire.

"Take him, I'd see him hanged first, as he will be one of these days, if
he gets his deserts. Why, Georgie, what's the matter?"

And well might Haggard exclaim, for young Mrs. Haggard was staring at
her husband, her eyes wild with terror.

"How terribly stupid you men are; don't you see that she's fainting,
Reginald," cried Lucy as she hurried to her cousin's side. "The heat's
something dreadful, and it has quite overcome her," said the
sympathizing cousin, as she cleverly covered Georgie's retreat from the
room.

In a few minutes she reappeared.

"It was nothing after all, as I supposed. She is lying down, and will be
herself again very shortly. What was it you were saying, Reginald, about
Capt?"

"Oh, I had forgotten the rascal; merely that he coolly suggests that I
should take him on again. He wasn't a bad servant, you know, quite what
a servant should be--a mere machine. I wonder what made him bolt in that
unaccountable way, Lucy?"

"Didn't we tell you?" said the girl. "It was some lovers' quarrel
between him and Hephzibah; she was never the same girl after he
disappeared; quite a little back-stairs comedy."

"Which turned into a tragedy though when the poor girl died," said the
squire; "I suppose when he bolted she broke her heart."

"You are getting quite romantic, uncle," said Lucy; "people in her class
of life don't break their hearts, they only do their work worse than
usual."

"I know one thing," said Haggard, "he was the best man I ever had, and
if it wasn't for his confounded cheek, I should be glad to get him back.
I suppose if I did though he'd commence upon Fanchette, and turn her
head."

"I fancy Fanchette can take very good care of herself. I don't think
you need hesitate on her account if you really want him," carelessly
threw in Miss Warrender.

"It wouldn't be a bad idea," said Haggard meditatively. "My present
fellow insists on smoking my cigars, and absolutely declines to wear my
new boots. I hate wearing boots for the first time. I think I'll give
the fellow a chance after all."

A week afterwards Maurice Capt was installed. To Lucy's intense
astonishment, not one word did he breathe to her of his researches at
the secluded village of Auray. But she felt that they understood one
another. Gradually she came to the conclusion that she had bought the
valet's silence at a very cheap price. He was glad to get back his good
place, and that was probably all he wanted; he dropped no hint or
innuendo of his discoveries, if he had made any, and he made no attempt
at blackmailing.

Mademoiselle Fanchette was at first very attentive to the valet, and
seemed to think less than ever of the "_homme_" in Algeria. But Mr.
Capt, though very courteous to Fanchette, did not respond to her
advances; perhaps he was yet sorrowing for the dead Hephzibah. Still
Fanchette secured a gossip to whom she could confide her numerous
troubles, and Haggard felt that he had done wisely in having once more
obtained the invaluable services of the faithful Swiss.

It has been stated that the King's Warreners were divided into two
religious camps--the upper classes and the labourers going to church,
while the smaller tradespeople sat under the Reverend Boanerges Smiter,
an eloquent young Baptist minister, who had wrestled in vain for thirty
years of his life with cruel letter H. It was the dream of Mr. Smiter's
life to empty the old-fashioned pews of the parish church. With this
intention he worked hard; he preached, he lectured, he even at
considerable trouble obtained a sort of reputation as a pulpit comedian,
but he forgot that the seats of Gilgal Chapel were hard, while the old
baize-lined pews at King's Warren Church were high and comfortable, and
seemed to say to their occupants, "Here your slumbers will be
undisturbed," also that the vicar never preached for more than twenty
minutes. Rev. B. Smiter (for somehow or other the definite article is
always left out before the title of a dissenting minister) was an
ingenious man. It was through his exertions that Gilgal stood proudly
upon its own freehold, and that it possessed actual cash at the bank.
When Mr. Smiter first came to King's Warren the funds of Gilgal Chapel
were in a very bad state indeed. The community was in debt for rent, the
pastor lived in a little lodging in the village, his stipend was of the
smallest, and the chapel was badly out of repair. But Rev. Boanerges
Smiter was equal to the occasion. He was the original inventor of the
Great Avalanche System. He got into his little pulpit one day, and he
preached his great sermon on the text "Ask and ye shall have," and then
he explained to his hearers the details of the Great Avalanche System.
He told them, what they well knew, that they were in King's Warren a
comparatively small body of relatively poor people. "Many a time and
oft," said he, "have my predecessors stood here, and urged you, my dear
brothers and sisters, to give to the needs of this chapel. My
predecessors have ever resembled the young ravens in their persistent
cry, 'Give, Give;' and you, my dear brothers and sisters, have given,
you've responded manfully, but what has been the result? Gilgal is as
badly off as ever. We are but a small handful of Israelites in a great
land of Egypt, and we are oppressed by Pharaoh; for Pharaoh, clad in
purple and fine linen, takes tithes of all we possess." (Did he refer to
poor Jack Dodd as Pharaoh?) "But you will all remember that Moses
ordered the children of Israel to spoil the Egyptians, and it will be
our duty, nay our privilege, to do to these modern Egyptians as did our
prototypes, the children of Israel, to Pharaoh and his subjects. What
does Gilgal want? Gilgal wants to be out of debt. Gilgal wants a
suitable residence for its pastor. Gilgal wants a new roof, and Gilgal
would be all the better for a new organ. Now, my friends, did the
Egyptians assist the unfortunate Israelites? Not a bit of it. Why they
wouldn't even give them straw to make their bricks with. But though they
wouldn't give them any straw, yet they yielded up to them after a time
their jewels of silver and their jewels of gold, for we read that the
Israelites spoiled the Egyptians. I am going to ask you for your
charity, and I am going to head the subscription myself. Don't be cast
down, my friends, at the single shilling which your pastor is about to
subscribe. I trust that we shall obtain the roof, the freehold, the
suitable residence for the pastor, nay, even the organ; for fifteen
hundred pounds will do all this. Fifteen hundred pounds seems a large
sum to you, my brethren, but it is easily to be obtained. And remark
the pleasant fact that it will be obtained from the Egyptians. It is
your charity I ask, but not your money, for the charity I require is
simply vicarious. Let me go more into detail and make myself thoroughly
understood. How is an avalanche first formed? A tiny mass of snow slips
down from the top of some lofty mountain; that tiny mass is my original
shilling. As the mass falls, it sets in motion other portions larger
than itself. Gradually at first, and slowly, the little heap slides down
the steep declivity. Its velocity increases, as does its volume--it at
length becomes irresistible; enormously and indefinitely multiplied, it
at last reaches the valley, no longer a tiny mass of snow, but a vast
avalanche, which carries all before it, trees, rocks, and even villages
being torn away by the irresistible force of the tremendous aggregation.
Such is the Great Avalanche System. I am 'A,' and I subscribe a
shilling. I now call upon four of you to stand up, each in his place,
and you four will each contribute but a humble shilling."

All the adults in the congregation of Gilgal stood up as one man.

"No, my friends," said the pastor, "I need but four, but four female
friends. Four of my sisters will be my 'B's,' my busy bees; each 'B'
will select four 'C's,' from each of whom she will obtain a shilling.
She will register their names and addresses, and request them to do as
she herself has done, and each four 'D's' to contribute a similar
amount; and so on, my friends, through all the letters of the alphabet.

"The human heart is hard. There are many of us who would look twice at
that shilling if we were asked for it as a simple contribution. But it
is not a simple contribution, for it carries with it a privilege--it
enables the person who has paid his or her shilling to exact a similar
amount from four personal friends; and though the original giver has
contributed but a single shilling, that giver has the pleasure of
handing in an amount which is practically incalculable. I know the
world, my brethren, and I know that as a rule the world is very glad
indeed to get off for a shilling. Alas, many of the most active
contributors to the numerous Missionary Societies of this country never
put a single penny into the missionary boxes with which they are always
glad to be provided; for the missionary box is an outward and visible
sign of respectability, and a perpetual rod in pickle for friends,
relatives, and rebellious children.

"Already, my friends, in my mind's eye I see Gilgal standing proudly
upon its own freehold, I see it provided with the roof it so much needs,
and mentally I already dwell in the comfortable residence allotted to
its pastor. I even hear the sweet strains of the much-desired American
organ. And all this is no dream; in a few short weeks, my friends, it
will be a delightful reality. And what will be our chief incentive to
the work? Why the fact that all this money has been obtained, not from
the little congregation of Gilgal, but from the Egyptian, from haughty
Pharaoh and his countless host."

Then he gave out the hymn.

Rev. Boanerges Smiter was right. The thing came off. The money poured
in, and the Reverend Smiter's original shilling was turned, as by the
touch of the enchanter's wand, into fifteen hundred pounds. Thirty
thousand victims had been indirectly teased and pestered by Smiter, at
the least possible amount of trouble to himself; but all had had their
revenge, save the last batch, in finding four other shilling victims,
and each of them had obtained for a ridiculously small sum a character
for active benevolence. Who is there in this wicked world who would not
consider a character for active benevolence cheap at a shilling?

It was indirectly due to Rev. B. Smiter that the vicar received the
cruel snubbing which was a joke against him in King's Warren for the
rest of his natural life. The congregation of Gilgal held open-air
meetings upon the village green at the end of summer as a sort of
counter demonstration to the harvest festivals of the church. There was
no Salvation Army in those days, and in a little place like King's
Warren even such a mild excitement as an open-air meeting is very
welcome. Besides the real congregation on the village green there was
always a considerable gallery of curious onlookers, "scoffers," as they
were termed by the "elect." Rev. B. Smiter had been very successful at
these meetings. They really did a certain amount of good, for some who
had come to laugh remained to pray. In the particular summer to which I
am referring Mr. Smiter had gone to the expense of engaging what in
theatrical circles would be termed a popular favourite. This was the
well-known 'Appy 'Arry.

'Appy 'Arry was a character in his way. He had been a noted pugilist; he
had even fought for the championship, and he took the punishment he
received on that memorable occasion in a very plucky manner. If 'Arry
had won the fight he would doubtless have subsided into the pugilist's
well-merited haven of rest--a sporting public house. But the fates
willed it otherwise, and 'Arry was converted and took to religion. The
man was perfectly sincere, and many a rough fellow owed his conversion
from drink and debauchery to 'Appy 'Arry. His was a rude kind of
eloquence that went straight to the hearts of the majority of his male
hearers. He would retail his exciting experiences as a pugilist and a
drunkard with much gusto. He would tell in minute detail the history of
his great but unsuccessful struggle for the champion's belt; and as he
dilated on the wicked glories of his former life he would say with a
pleasant smile, "And was I 'appy, my brothers? No, I was not 'appy, for
I hadn't got religion."

Haggard and the vicar were looking on at one of the revival meetings,
and 'Appy 'Arry was holding forth with his accustomed fervour.

"I've given it all up now. I don't associate with the swells now. Many's
the time, my brethren, as I've had on the gloves with dooks and
baronites, and other sporting swells," and here his eye fell upon the
amused countenance of the Reverend John Dodd. "Ay, and with fighting
parsons, too," he said.

The Reverend Jack blushed.

"But I looks on 'em now as men of sin; they used to be proud to shake
'ands with 'Arry in his bad days, but I've shook 'em off, my brothers,
and I don't foregather now with the likes of them. Don't you think it's
no yarns I'm telling you, my friends; why, there's one of 'em now,
a-looking on. Oh, how I wish that fighting parson was as 'appy as I am
now; and if he'd only listen to me in a proper spirit he might be; but
he won't, my brethren, and why won't he? Because 'is 'art is 'ard.
Many's the merry round I've 'ad with the gloves with 'Andsome Jack Dodd,
as is a-standing there. Why, he was one of my backers when I fought the
butcher on Moulsey Hurst, and licked him, too, for the matter of that!
'Andsome Jack Dodd was proud to shake 'ands with 'Arry in those days.
But will 'Appy 'Arry shake hands with him now? No, my brethren. And for
why? Becos he ain't got religion."

And then the preacher sat down, and Haggard and the Rev. John Dodd beat
a hasty retreat. Haggard told the story to Mrs. Dodd that very evening.
It was a rather mean thing to do, but Haggard was a man of impulse.




  CHAPTER VIII.

  THE VICAR TRIES PUFFIN.


It must not be supposed that all the religious activity in King's Warren
was confined to the Dissenters. The Reverend John Dodd was a fine
old-crusted Tory; the world had gone very well with him. He had his
cross, of course, in the shape of his wife Cecilia, and the Reverend B.
Smiter was a very thorn in his flesh; but his living was a good living,
and his peaches and his port wine were unsurpassed in the county. His
archdeacon was an old personal friend of his own, and I am afraid that
the post-prandial conversations of the two when the archdeacon made his
yearly visitations and Mrs. Dodd had left them to themselves, turned
more upon vintages and things of this world than on church matters. But
a young and active bishop, of High Church tendencies, now reigned in
the neighbouring cathedral, and the archdeacon in a friendly manner
suggested to Dodd that it behoved him to set his house in order.

"We must move with the times, Dodd," he said. "The bishop is a man of
six-and-thirty and an enthusiast. I am sorry to say he is no respecter
of persons. There is no doubt, my friend, that dissent has spread in
this parish of late years with frightful rapidity." He spoke of it as if
it were a disease. "What you want is an energetic coadjutor, and you
can't do better than try Puffin. Puffin has been a Missioner, and he is
a wonderful organizer. If you want to be in the bishop's good books you
should try Puffin. He'll take every sort of trouble off your hands; all
you have to do is to give him plenty of rope. He has his peculiarities,
but he is honest in his way, and he did wonders at the East End, where
he nearly killed himself by overwork. You won't keep him long, you
know, for Puffin's a man certain of good preferment. He'll fill your
church, and if anything will stop the insidious progress of dissent in
the place, it's Puffin."

"But, my dear fellow, we are very comfortable as we are. I hate a
clerical firebrand. Why can't we rub along comfortably for the rest of
my time?"

"The days of rubbing along, Dodd, are gone by. As the bishop puts it,
the Church in these latter days must be a Church militant, or it will
cease to exist."

"But it needn't become a Church pugnacious for all that," said Dodd.

"My dear fellow, if we were certain that I should be archdeacon for ever
you might, as you put it, go on rubbing along. But the king who knew not
Joseph has arrived. Our spiritual head is a man who will stand no
nonsense. If you don't follow his lead, he will look upon you as
refractory. Don't be refractory, Dodd; try Puffin. You will find him a
perfect panacea."

"But I don't believe in panaceas," said Dodd; "the fellow will set the
whole place by the ears before he has been here a month. Why, in this
village the aggrieved parishioner does not even exist. If a man doesn't
like the church he takes sittings in the chapel, and there is an end of
the thing."

"My dear fellow, you mistake the matter altogether. Now-a-days, a real,
good, wrong-headed aggrieved parishioner is exactly what you do want. He
keeps you before the public, and brings you to the favourable notice of
your spiritual head."

"But look at the fuss, the letters, and the lawsuits."

"With a new bishop, Dodd, and a man like Puffin at your back, though
there would be lots of fuss, it need not trouble you. Puffin would write
all the letters; and as for the lawsuits, you would win them, and the
costs would not come out of your pocket. Puffin, of course, sails rather
close to the wind, if I may be allowed the expression, but he knows
exactly how far he can go. In fact, Dodd, though he puts his candles
upon the altar he never lights them, except at evensong, and then he
knows he can do so with impunity."

And then they gradually began to talk about the wine.

The result of this conversation was that the Reverend John Dodd hastened
to secure the services of that energetic priest the Reverend Barnes
Puffin.

Mr. Puffin arrived at the Vicarage looking very much like an ordinary
clergyman, save that the round black felt that he wore had a brim of
portentous width; and Mrs. Dodd noticed with some astonishment that the
white tie, which all clergymen of her acquaintance habitually wore, was
conspicuous by its absence, and that the new curate appeared to have put
on his collar wrong side before. At first it was a mystery to her how
he could have got into that collar. There was certainly no visible means
of entrance in front. Puffin wore his hair very long indeed, while the
whole of his face was clean shaven. Mrs. Dodd, too, gave a start when he
proceeded to address her as "his dear sister;" but she was still more
astonished when he removed his long clerical great-coat and she saw that
the Reverend Barnes Puffin was clad in a long black garment with
innumerable little buttons running from his neck to within two inches of
the ground. Around his waist was a long black sash with a silken fringe.
As he gave the vicar's wife his arm, when they went in to dinner, he
suddenly produced from his pocket a little square cap, which he placed
upon his head. He did full justice to the stewed eels, with which the
meal commenced; but he never removed the little cap during the whole of
the entertainment, nor could the vicar and his wife persuade him to
partake of any of the numerous dainties which composed the rest of the
feast. At first he said he wasn't hungry. A curate who refused _entrees_
was a novelty to Mrs. Dodd.

"I fear you are not well, Mr. Puffin," she said as he declined woodcock
on toast.

"Dear Mrs. Dodd, I remember that it is the Eve of St. Radegonde, Virgin
and Martyr."

The vicar and his wife looked at one another; but they respected Mr.
Puffin's prejudices, and ceased to press him.

The next day the reign of the Reverend Barnes Puffin commenced. The old
church, where service had been held as seldom as possible from time
immemorial, was now thrown open daily for matins and evensong. At first
there was no congregation; but the Reverend Barnes Puffin looked up all
the old pensioners, particularly the old women who were in receipt of
parish relief at home, and in his persuasive but forcible way he made
all these poor old people understand that their comforts, for which
they had hitherto given nothing in return, would depend upon good
behaviour, that is to say, going to church. Nor did Mr. Puffin confine
his ministrations to the lower orders. How he managed it I don't know;
but before he had been three months in the place most of the younger
ladies in the parish flocked to the services. I suppose he made love to
them in a quiet, clerical sort of way. The Misses Sleek, looking as
plump and pretty as ever, but dressed with a prim demureness which
considerably astonished their father, were among his first converts; and
they used to hurry to church on foot twice a day with praiseworthy
regularity. They considered themselves well rewarded if the curate
walked home with them occasionally to dinner, and so beatified The Park
by his presence. But Mr. Puffin egregiously failed with Miss Grains.
She, too, had felt inclined at first to place her conscience in Mr.
Puffin's hands; but young Mr. Wurzel, an easy-going fellow enough at
most times, objected to Puffin's addressing his affianced bride, save
from the pulpit, as "his dear sister." He had even told Miss Grains that
he looked upon Mr. Puffin as a "philanderer," and that "he didn't hold
with philanderers." So Miss Grains made no alteration in her costume,
and she turned a deaf ear to Mr. Puffin's ecclesiastical authority.

It was not long before King's Warren Church rejoiced in a surpliced
choir. There was rather a martial clang of hob-nailed boots during the
numerous processions of the choir on Sundays; but the service was
undoubtedly much more imposing than in the old days. Mr. Puffin did
wonders with the small material at his command. He would have made an
admirable stage-manager. He never missed a possible effect, and he
considerably astonished the King's Warreners when he preached his first
funeral sermon. He was a good preacher, and always held the attention of
the congregation. But perhaps some few of them smiled when he led up to
the fact that the silver cord was loosed and the golden bowl broken, in
an ornate and sensational harangue reaching an unexpected climax by
tilting over the tumbler at his side, which fell with a crash and was
shivered in a thousand pieces on the floor. There were no sleepers in
King's Warren Church when the Reverend Barnes Puffin graced the pulpit
after that. And yet Puffin was a sincere man, and worked energetically
according to his lights.

But it was an evil day for the Reverend Barnes Puffin when he felt it to
be his duty to attempt the conversion of Lucy Warrender. She was the one
black sheep of the fold, for she had committed the unpardonable sin--she
had laughed at Mr. Puffin. A girl may differ with a modern parson, she
may argue with him; nay, she may refuse to argue with him at all, but
she must not laugh at him, and Lucy had done this. Had she not
irreverently compared him to Samson, and wickedly declared that she
would like to be a Delilah to shear with her own hands his too redundant
locks? Had she not told him that it was rude to wear the little square
hat, which he persisted in calling a _baretta_, in the presence of
ladies? Had she not openly asserted her belief that he wore a hair shirt
and scourged himself in private? These are only a few of the many crimes
of which Miss Warrender had been guilty. It was evidently the duty of
the Reverend Barnes Puffin to convert Miss Warrender without loss of
time.

Puffin was always well received at The Warren; he amused the squire by
the seriousness of his arguments about trifling things. For every thing
that he did, for every little bob, bow or gesture, the Reverend Barnes
Puffin had a very good reason. Nothing that he did was trifling; it was
always symbolical of something. According to him, for every movement of
his body there was a ritual reason why. It became a sort of custom at
The Warren that as soon as dessert was upon the table, the Reverend
Barnes Puffin was allowed to mount his hobby-horse and wildly career. He
liked to give what he called a little information on sacred things, and
he made the most of his opportunities, for he never had a long innings,
as he always retired with the ladies.

One evening the Reverend Barnes Puffin was seated in the drawing-room at
The Warren conversing with the cousins. Fanchette, in all the pride of
her Norman costume, was bringing the little Lucius to bid his mother
good-night. Now Fanchette, from his cassock, his sash, his _baretta_,
and the collar which had so puzzled poor Mrs. Dodd, had always looked
upon the Reverend Barnes Puffin as a veritable Catholic priest, and
respected him accordingly. She made him a succession of low courtesies,
and placing the little Lucius in his mother's arms, she advanced towards
the curate in a respectful manner. To his intense astonishment she
suddenly dropped on her knees at his side, seized his hand, and covered
it with kisses. Then, in fluent patois, she demanded his blessing. But
the curate, unfortunately, did not understand a word she said. Like most
curates, he was accustomed to the blandishments which are invariably
lavished by the female sex on these most fortunate of men. Interesting
penitents had made eyes at him, had squeezed his hand at parting with
unnecessary pressure, had loaded him with slippers, vestments, and socks
and comforters knitted by their own fair fingers. They had even obtained
interviews, and had wickedly taken the opportunity of the _tete-a-tete_
to make violent love to him; but never, in the whole course of his
clerical experience, had any of his "dear sisters" suddenly dropped on
their knees at his side and violently kissed his hand. Puffin was by no
means a vain man. But what could he think? Here was a foreign woman, of
prepossessing appearance, administering sounding osculations to his
unwilling fingers.

"Ladies, dear ladies," he said, as he rose to his feet, the _bonne_
still clinging to his hand and kissing it furiously, "this is most
irregular." Here he strove with gentle dignity to try to withdraw his
hand, but all to no purpose. "Ladies," he said, blushing violently, and
speaking of Fanchette as if she had been an infuriated bull-terrier,
"call her off. Please call her off."

But the cousins were far too amused at the incident to come to his
assistance. Georgie could not forbear a smile, while Lucy burst into
inextinguishable peals of silvery laughter.

"She wants your blessing, Mr. Puffin, that's all," said Lucy at length.

"Then she should come to church, Miss Warrender," exclaimed Mr. Puffin,
to whose hand the _bonne_ clung, alternately kissing it and gazing up at
him with imploring eyes.

"She thinks you are a Catholic priest," exclaimed Lucy.

"This is too horrible," cried the Reverend Barnes Puffin, as he vainly
struggled to release the imprisoned hand.

"Ah, _mon pere_," vociferated the _bonne_.

"Goodness me, she says I'm her father; pray explain, dear ladies. Is her
mind affected?"

And then Miss Warrender did explain to her.

On hearing that the unhappy curate was not a priest of her own Church,
but only, as Lucy had expressed it, a heretical Protestant pastor,
Fanchette's demeanour changed altogether.

"_Ah, gredin, farceur, monsieur est en travesti. Saperlotte_," she
added, and here she snapped her fingers in the astonished curate's face,
and abruptly left the room.

The curate sank into a chair and wiped his brow with his
pocket-handkerchief.

"Goodness me, ladies," he said, "what a terrible person! I assure you I
didn't mean to exasperate her."

From that day Fanchette ceased her respectful obeisances to the curate,
but his visits to The Warren, where he was always a welcome guest,
became gradually more frequent.

It is human nature after all ever to strive after the impossible, and
Mr. Puffin recognizing in Miss Warrender a young lady who was
essentially of the world worldly, naturally determined to attempt her
conversion. But the spirit of contrariety is ever strongly developed in
the female breast. As the parson became more pertinacious, Miss
Warrender, who was at first rather bored than otherwise by his
eloquence, resolved upon reprisals.

"I'll bet you a new bonnet," she had said to Haggard, "that I make the
Celibate propose to me."

"Not he, my dear," said Georgie's husband with a laugh. "Puffin's not
altogether a fool after all; he's got the run of his teeth in this
house, and he won't care to lose it by making an ass of himself."

"My dear Miss Warrender, my husband's curate considers himself as vowed
to heaven," said Mrs. Dodd, who was present.

"They all do, Mrs. Dodd, till they find metal more attractive. I daresay
even Mr. Dodd considered himself at one time as vowed to heaven."

"There is no analogy, Miss Warrender, between my husband's case and that
of Mr. Puffin. When Mr. Dodd proposed to me, Miss Warrender, he did so
as a beneficed clergyman; and he proposed to the daughter of a dignitary
of the Church. Had Mr. Dodd been a curate, he would not have so far
forgotten his position as to have been guilty of so presumptuous an
act."

"But I'm only Squire Warrender's niece, Mrs. Dodd; there would be no
presumption in my case."

"Don't buoy yourself up with false hopes, Lucy. Were Mr. Puffin to be
guilty of such unseemly folly, it would be my duty, as his vicar's wife,
to seriously remonstrate with him; and should he prove obdurate, even to
dispense with his services. The position of a clergyman's wife, Lucy
Warrender, is full of difficulty and responsibility," she added
sententiously.

"That's what makes me long for it so, Mrs. Dodd. I yearn to feel myself
lifted out of the common ruck of women."

"You are unmaidenly, Lucy Warrender," said the vicar's wife, instantly
assuming her favourite tone of a Lord Chief Justice.

Miss Hood smiled, for she felt that the badinage was sober earnest to
Mrs. Dodd; but she made no remark, for Lucy was long ago out of leading
strings.

When the vicar's wife reached her home, she sent for Mr. Puffin. After
she had shaken hands with him, she came to the point at once.

"I trust you are comfortable here, Mr. Puffin," she said, "and that you
find King's Warren a congenial sphere."

"I do indeed, dear madam," replied the curate. "We have already
accomplished much, but there is yet an abundant field of work in the
place. I am very happy here."

"I have a dreadful communication to make to you, Mr. Puffin. A member of
the congregation has confided to me the disgraceful fact of her personal
infatuation for my husband's curate."

"This is sad, Mrs. Dodd, this is very sad; but it is not wholly
unexpected. Clergymen, as you are aware, dear madam, are constantly
exposed to these annoyances in the course of their ministrations. You
allude, I conclude, to the younger Miss Sleek. I have noticed latterly
her marked assiduity in attendance at church--the most unseasonable
weather has failed to keep her away. I half feared that it would be so.
Alas, girls are apt to forget the priest in the man. But this is a new
kind of experience to me, Mrs. Dodd, for I have found that they usually
first confide their folly to the object of their aspirations."

"No, Mr. Puffin, it is not Miss Sleek to whom I allude; nothing would
surprise me with regard to her. There is no folly that young persons in
her class of life might not be guilty of. It is not the younger Miss
Sleek, though she is an ambitious girl, but the squire's near relative
who has confessed a wicked passion for my husband's curate."

"Gracious me," cried Mr. Puffin. "Can you possibly allude to young Mrs.
Haggard?"

"Mr. Puffin, you forget yourself. No, it is Miss Warrender who has
confided to me her infamous secret."

Mr. Puffin turned pale, then he blushed to the roots of his hair; he
sighed deeply, and then he simpered. The vicar's wife drummed
impatiently upon the table.

"Oh, Mr. Puffin," she said, "you don't mean to say that you reciprocate
this? How often have you protested to me that you were a Celibate, a
priest; and now you do nothing but sit and snigger. I'm grieved; I'm
disappointed in you, Mr. Puffin."

"Dear Mrs. Dodd," said the poor parson, "your communication has taken me
by surprise. At first it horrified me. I am a priest, Mrs. Dodd," he
said, "it is true; but, alas, I also remember that I am a man." He
buried his face in his hands.

Mrs. Dodd sat immovable, looking at the curate with an astonished gaze;
and then she suddenly left the room and slammed the door violently.

The transformation was as thorough as it was sudden; the Reverend Barnes
Puffin had entered that room the humble coadjutor of the vicar's wife;
as he left it, he felt his soul soar into higher regions: as Orientals
put it, "his head was touching the skies." Mrs. Dodd looked out of her
breakfast room window to watch the departure of him who she mentally
termed "the fallen man."

But the fallen man considerably astonished her by the change in his
appearance. Mr. Puffin, who was accustomed to walk slowly and with
downcast eyes, as became a celibate priest, now strode down the drive;
he didn't walk, he strode. He swung his walking-stick defiantly in the
air, and to her astonishment Mrs. Dodd perceived that, ere he left the
place, he committed the brutal act of beheading one of her favourite
poppies with a sort of swashbuckler-stroke that would have done credit
to a Life Guardsman.

Flutter on, happy clerical butterfly, your bliss will be of short
duration; for that careful entomologist, Miss Lucy Warrender, is
already preparing the sharp needle that shall transfix your little
triumphant heart.

Puffin, as he passed through the village, returned the many salutations
he received with joyous bows, and the wiseacres noticed that his broad
brimmed clerical hat was now worn with a triumphant cock.




  CHAPTER IX.

  MR. PUFFIN HUNTS A BUTTERFLY.


The Reverend John Dodd had been more than satisfied with his new curate.
At first the long cassock, the flowing robes, and the rather eccentric
"make up" of the man had been a daily outrage to the vicar's idea of
decency. Mr. Puffin was not the first curate in the vicar's experience
who had sought notoriety by a fantastic dress; but Mr. Puffin worked
hard in the parish, Mr. Puffin was eloquent, and the vicar felt certain
that the Established Church in King's Warren was gaining ground. He was
rather gratified than otherwise to hear that Mr. Puffin had begun to
waver in his ideas about celibacy. Puffin as an engaged man might be
somewhat less divine, but he would be assuredly more human. Dodd himself
didn't see why Mr. Puffin should not become the husband of Miss
Warrender. Puffin was a clergyman, and a gentleman; and the Reverend
John Dodd rubbed his hands as he thought of the inevitable struggle for
mastery which would take place between the pair should the marriage ever
come off. And after all, more unlikely things than this marriage had
happened. Miss Warrender certainly had had her fling, but a girl can't
go on having her fling for ever, and the vicar chuckled as he thought of
Lucy as the Celibate's wife. Unconsciously perhaps the curate had
assumed an air of superiority to his vicar, for as a Celibate he would
naturally look down upon him as a being of a coarser clay, a mere
earthen pot; but this had only amused his good-natured chief, and the
Reverend John Dodd smiled as he thought of the gentle vengeance he might
have, when the enamoured Puffin should take him into his confidence.

He sat down to dinner in the best of tempers. When he perceived that he
was to be regaled with a veal sweetbread with brown sauce, his eyes were
lighted up with a merry twinkle. But he felt that there was something in
the wind; he knew that that delectable propitiatory sacrifice was only
offered to his critical palate on his birthday, when his wife was in a
particularly good temper, or when she had a favour to ask. As he looked
at the partner of his earthly joys, it was plainly apparent to him that
Mrs. Dodd was ruffled; it was not his birthday, so he had a second
helping of the delicacy and made up his mind to yield to the inevitable
demand with the best possible grace. But not till they were alone did
his wife unbosom herself.

"John," she said, "I've come to the conclusion that Mr. Puffin must
leave us; a curate ceases to be of use in a parish the moment he makes
himself ridiculous, and Mr. Puffin tells me that he is determined to
make a fool of himself. I could have passed over his peculiarities,
John," she said, "and his eccentricities in dress; I could even have
forgiven his long hair, in consideration of the immense amount of work
he manages to get through; but he is about to render himself unsuitable.
I approve of ambition in a clergyman; my dear father is an ambitious
man, and he has prospered, though not perhaps according to his great
deserts; but worldly ambition, the thirst for gold, is unbecoming in a
clergyman. To my mind, it is painfully apparent that Mr. Puffin, who
ought to be actuated by far higher motives, is prepared to sacrifice
himself to Lucy Warrender, who is a most objectionable young person, in
order to secure at some future time the presentation to the living of
King's Warren."

The vicar laughed.

"I mean to live for the next twenty years, my dear, and if Puffin
intends to put up with twenty years of Lucy Warrender for the sake of
this living, though it is a fat one, I shall consider that the labourer
will have been worthy of his hire."

"Don't be profane, John," said the lady reprovingly.

"To do Puffin justice, I don't think he is mercenary. Lucy has probably
turned his head."

"John, Mr. Puffin is not of an inflammable nature."

"All curates are of an inflammable nature, my dear; why you turned my
head in your time."

"I trust, Mr. Dodd, that my mental qualities attracted you, and not mere
physical beauty."

"Of course, my dear, of course; but you were a monstrous fine woman
then, and for the matter of that, you are still, Cecilia," said the
vicar, as he helped himself to a third glass of his '47 port.

His wife smiled and smoothed her cap ribbons.

"Don't exceed, John," she said, with a warning gesture, "or Mr. Puffin
may not have to wait twenty years for his preferment after all. You must
admonish him, John; a man of his principles, his pretended principles,
is not suited for married life. He told me himself, that ever since his
ordination he has assumed what he calls a priestly garb. I ask you,
John, how could he be married in a cassock? How could he go on his
honeymoon in it?"

"Well, he could leave it off, my dear."

"But he has declared to me that he never would leave it off. How often
has he sneered at ordinary clerical attire, though he has never dared to
suggest that you should masquerade in, what he calls, proper
ecclesiastical costume."

"There may be reasons, my dear; he may have bandy legs."

"His legs are perfectly indifferent to me, Mr. Dodd. If he wishes to
marry, he should dress like other people."

"You should suggest that to Lucy Warrender, my dear."

"If I thought for a moment, Mr. Dodd, that there was a possibility of
his being the means of rescuing the girl by his own self-sacrifice, I
should not say one word; if he has a taste for martyrdom, it would not
be for me to interfere; but I know that Lucy is only wickedly
encouraging him for the sake of winning the bet of a new bonnet from her
cousin's husband. You must warn and admonish him, John, or he must go.
Stacey would have been a far more suitable partner for him."

"Why didn't you suggest it, my dear?"

"It is not my duty to secure a husband for my sister-in-law, Mr. Dodd."

"You thought it was, in the squire's case, Cecilia."

But the vicar's wife let the taunt pass by unnoticed.

"If you don't admonish him, John, I must. It will be a thankless office,
for the wretched man seems bent on his own destruction."

"Well, he has chosen a particularly pleasant form of suicide, Cecilia."

"Flippancy, Mr. Dodd, is not becoming in a clergyman," said his wife
with a ruffled air, "and it is not good taste for a clergyman to openly
express his admiration for his female parishioners to his wife, and so
violate the sanctity of his own fireside."

"I'm not going to make or meddle in the matter, Mrs. Dodd," said her
husband.

"'Tis a vicar's duty to protect his curate, Mr. Dodd."

"Not when the curate is perfectly well able to take care of himself, my
dear. Besides, there is another point of view; Lucy might do worse."

"Well, John," she replied, "I shall say no more. I can only hope that it
is not in a spirit of professional jealousy that you allow this poor
thoughtless young fellow to rush to his doom." And then she rang for
coffee.

Next day the Reverend Barnes Puffin lunched at The Warren. Being a feast
day he did full justice to the meal. He was overflowing with good
spirits, and as soon as lunch was over he seized the first opportunity
of securing a _tete-a-tete_ with the squire's niece. As Miss Warrender
took the arm of the clergyman, she cast an amused and meaning glance at
Haggard. Little by little the pair wandered away into the secluded rose
garden, and the Reverend Barnes Puffin felt that he had got his chance.

"Do you care for parish work, Miss Warrender?" said the Celibate, after
a few commonplace phrases.

"To tell you the truth, Mr. Puffin, I don't know; I have never tried."

"It is a great privilege, you know," he said. "Has it never occurred to
you, my dear Miss Warrender, that it might be your vocation, your
natural aim in life."

"No, I don't think it ever has, Mr. Puffin," she said. "I did know a
girl once, one of my school friends, she joined a sisterhood; you know I
fancy it was the dress attracted her. She joined a sisterhood, but they
made the poor thing wear dreadful thick shoes like a man's, and she had
to scrub floors, which spoilt her pretty hands; poor child, they have
remained red ever since, and she was glad to marry an army doctor and go
to China with him. I suppose red hands don't matter in China," the girl
said meditatively. "No, I don't think I should care to scrub floors, Mr.
Puffin," and she spread out her taper fingers as though for her own
inspection.

The curate admired the fingers, and observed with satisfaction that they
were undecorated by a prohibitive ring.

"There are other spheres, dear Miss Warrender, than sisterhoods. Our
friend Mrs. Dodd has found a happy and congenial one here in King's
Warren."

"But then she is a clergyman's wife, Mr. Puffin, and a privileged
person."

"It is a privilege, Miss Warrender, a great privilege. I'm glad it
commends itself to you as such."

"Oh, yes; Mrs. Dodd is much to be envied, but then Mrs. Dodd is a very
clever woman; she, Mr. Puffin, has caught her hare."

"And having caught him, Miss Warrender, she has accommodated him to her
own taste."

"Hers is a master mind, Mr. Puffin."

"It is perhaps as easy, my dear young lady, to rule by love as to rule
by fear."

"And much nicer, I should think, Mr. Puffin."

The curate blushed, and then he made an audacious statement.

"Mine is a very accommodating nature, Miss Warrender."

"That's very fortunate for you, Mr. Puffin, for you must have so much
to put up with from the poor people."

"I have lately been engaged, Miss Warrender, in a very serious mental
struggle. I am afraid I have been arrogant. I am afraid that I have
boasted and bragged to my friends and to my parishioners that I was not
as other men are, that my whole soul was given up to duty, that I was a
Celibate, not merely from vocation but from inclination. But my feelings
have undergone a change. At first, dear Miss Warrender, I was
overpowered by a sense of what I considered my own degradation, but that
feeling has entirely passed away. I confess to you that when I first
came here I considered myself on a higher platform to that of most men,
and I supposed that in obstinately refraining from the ordinary lot of
clergymen, I mean marriage, that I was exercising a considerable degree
of self-abnegation, in fact that I was leading a higher life. I now see
that all this was a wicked error. The Church enjoins penance, and I
have come to the conclusion from my intimate acquaintance with the
sufferings of my unfortunate vicar, that instead of making a sacrifice
in abstaining from matrimony I was actually guilty of profound and
calculating selfishness. I see, too, that a married clergyman in giving
up the idea of celibacy secures at least one efficient coadjutor in his
parish work. As you know, Miss Warrender, I am in the habit of acting
upon my convictions."

"Then of course, Mr. Puffin, you will at once seek to secure the hand of
some particularly objectionable person, in order to render the touching
martyrdom you speak of the more meritorious?"

"No, Miss Warrender, I shall not look upon that as a bounden duty. My
position as a Celibate has many advantages from a professional point of
view, for the female portion of my parishioners are enabled to look upon
me as one of themselves."

"Oh, I don't quite think that, Mr. Puffin; of course there is
something--well, epicene about your dress, but then to some minds, you
know, the clerical dress has a great attractiveness. Why the Louis
Quatorze abbes, that we see so much of in comic opera, were terribly
wicked people, you know, Mr. Puffin, and _they_ clung very tightly to
the clerical dress, and so did Tartuffe for the matter of that."

"Dear Miss Warrender, the cleric garb is but a delightful reminiscence
of a past time; there is nothing ridiculous in it. You have the same
thing in the Blue Coat boy, and there is assuredly nothing ridiculous in
a Blue Coat boy."

"Quite the contrary, Mr. Puffin; it is rather romantic than otherwise,
but I can't fancy a full-grown man in yellow stockings, and
a--hem--undivided skirt. By the way, Mr. Puffin, I can give you a
suggestion: if you did really carry out your ideas and marry after all,
you might adopt the Blue Coat costume as a sort of sign of your
apostacy, a kind of _san benito_; you would still be retaining the
mediaeval idea, you see, and be thoroughly distinguishable from Tartuffe
and the wicked abbes we were talking about."

"In matters of dress, Miss Warrender, did I become a married man I
should naturally defer to the wishes of my wife."

"You don't mean to say that you would dress like other people?"

"Yes, Miss Warrender, I should do so, though it would not be without a
pang that I should relinquish what I look upon as the true clerical
garb."

"Don't think of it, Mr. Puffin, don't think of it, for an instant. The
noble savage in his war-paint, his wampum, his feathers and his scalps,
is a dignified object; but dress him in a suit of common clothes and cut
his hair and he ceases to be interesting."

"Do you really think, Miss Warrender, that I should lose influence if I
adopted the costume of ordinary life, should I enter upon the perilous
sea of matrimony?"

"Well, Mr. Puffin, if you dressed like other people and married, I don't
see how, to use your own expression, 'the female members of your
congregation could continue to look upon you as one of themselves,'
because if they did, you see you would be only Mrs. Puffin's sister
after all."

"Yes, I am afraid that is the _reductio ad absurdum_. But we are
wandering away, Miss Warrender; it was about my heart, and not about my
garments, that I sought to converse with you."

"Oh, Mr. Puffin, I should make the worst of confidants; I never by any
chance keep a secret."

"And yet I am ready to trust your discretion, Miss Warrender."

"I confess you rouse my curiosity. Do I know the lady?"

"Yes, Miss Warrender, she is your best friend and your worst enemy."

"Now you intrigue me, Mr. Puffin, for all my acquaintances address me as
their dearest Lucy, and as for my enemies--I've guessed it, Mr. Puffin.
I never had an enemy till Mr. Sleek's hay making. I suppose Miss Connie
Sleek is the bride-elect. Let me congratulate you, Mr. Puffin, but do
tell me one thing, it is so interesting--what are Miss Sleek's ideas
about the clerical garb?"

"I fear you wilfully misunderstand me, Miss Warrender. My aspirations
are higher. I do not think Miss Sleek would ever be the ideal wife for a
clergyman."

"You mystify me, Mr. Puffin."

Mr. Puffin possessed a copy of the "Bab Ballads." He remembered two
lines in them that gave him that hope which they say springs eternal in
the human breast.

    "It isn't so much the lover who woos,
    As the lover's way of wooing."

He remembered that Mr. Gilbert's successful lover came to the point at
once, so, to use a hunting simile, he sat well down in his saddle, and
he hardened his heart.

"Dear Miss Warrender," he said, and there was a certain amount of
dignity about the man, despite his long hair and his eccentric
appearance, "I am only a working clergyman, but I am a gentleman; and I
wish you, for both our sakes, to share my lot."

Here Lucy Warrender cast down her pretty eyes and smiled, for she felt
that she had won Haggard's new bonnet fairly and honestly.

The parson continued, taking heart of grace from the false little smile
upon her lips:

"I'm going to ask you to give up a great deal for the sake of religion,
and for my sake, Miss Warrender. I'm going to ask you to give up the
world, its frivolous enjoyments and its pleasures, and to tread with me
a thorny and toilsome path which leads to higher things. I know my
presumption, Miss Warrender. I know that in trying to do good according
to my lights I often merely succeed in making myself ridiculous. If I am
ridiculous in your eyes, Miss Warrender, you can have but one answer to
give me. But my proposition to you is at least disinterested. I know you
will believe that. I don't ask you for an answer now, Miss Warrender. I
should scorn to snatch a favourable answer from an inexperienced girl."

Lucy gave another little smile.

"Think over what I have said, dear Miss Warrender; if you feel equal to
making the sacrifice, so do I. Take time to think it over."

"No, Mr. Puffin. I have been foolish and wicked, perhaps, if I have
unknowingly encouraged you; but you have spoken honestly enough to me,
and the least you deserve is an honest answer. I am not fit, Mr.
Puffin, to be any man's wife--any honest man's wife--least of all a
clergyman's."

Lucy felt that she had said a little too much, so she hastened to
qualify it.

"I am but a worldly girl. I love pleasure and dissipation; it is my
nature--a nature I can never change. Look on me, Mr. Puffin, as wholly
unworthy of you. Were you to marry me, Mr. Puffin, you would commit an
act that we should both repent. You would degrade yourself to my level;
and, God knows, mine is a very low level. Take my answer as it is meant
Mr. Puffin, in seriousness, and as irrevocable. Forgive me, Mr. Puffin,
and do me one favour. I am utterly bad, Mr. Puffin, but try not to think
unkindly of me, for I have no friends; and, as you told me just now, I
am my own worst enemy."

Tears were standing in the pretty eyes. Lucy Warrender was not acting
now.

The Reverend Barnes Puffin did not press his suit further.

"Good-bye, Miss Warrender," he said, in a choking voice. "But never say
you have no friends. We may never meet again. I have merited my rebuff,
but I thank you for your forbearance. And if you ever need a friend, you
have a faithful one in me."

He pressed her hand and took his leave. As he walked out of the rose
garden with a dejected air, it was very evident that his wooing had not
prospered. But Lucy Warrender never asked Haggard to pay his lost wager.

The Reverend Barnes Puffin bore his misfortune like a man. He felt that
Lucy's determination was final, and that it would be hopeless to try his
luck again with her; but she hadn't laughed at him, and that was
something. Still, Mr. Puffin felt that it behoved him to leave King's
Warren. Just as it is a matter of tradition, an un-written law, that a
ministry when beaten on a great political question goes out of office,
so it is the custom among curates who have been unsuccessful in their
love affairs in the parish, _if the parish is aware of the fact_, to
tender their resignation. The curate sought an interview with the
Reverend John Dodd and announced his decision. The vicar did not attempt
to combat it. A celibate clergyman has many advantages; but a celibate
clergyman who is prepared to renounce his principles ceases to inspire
respect among the female portion of his congregation. As a Celibate,
rapturous maidens will go on sighing and weeping for him, for while he
represents the Unattainable there is something almost saint-like about
him; but as a curate who has been refused by a member of his own
congregation, the nimbus suddenly disappears from his brow; he ceases to
be a modern apostle, and turns out to be an ordinary and unsuccessful
fisherman after all. And this is one reason why the modern fisherman
always carries a creel. Isaac Walton was contented to bring home the
spoils of his art strung upon an osier; but the modern creel conveys an
impression of dignity; the natural supposition is that there is
something in it, hence its popularity.

So the Reverend Barnes Puffin went back to hard work at the east end of
London, and after a time attained the preferment which the archdeacon
had prophesied; but he still retains the celibate garb, and in his
dreams he sees a glorified Lucy Warrender--fair hair, brown eyes and
all--and the lovely vision is quite sufficient for him. He thinks of her
as he fondly fancied her, and looks on her as a sort of guardian angel
still. Who shall grudge him the fond delusion?




  CHAPTER X.

  A RATHER SHADY CHARACTER.


The lower middle classes are a never-failing stalking-horse; we can all
afford to laugh at them as ridiculous, vulgar, improvident and wicked.
Even the mock hero, the good young man who tries to raise himself, has
something comic in him. But we haven't seen anything of the lower orders
in this history as yet, and it is only incidentally that we quit King's
Warren for the grimy neighbourhood of St. Luke's. Just behind the great
hospital for lunatics is Matilda Street. They are all private houses in
Matilda Street, and from the number of brass plates it seems at first a
professional sort of neighbourhood. Most of the houses are evidently
occupied by at least three families, for the right-hand doorpost nearly
always contains three bells, one for each floor. But the brass plates
are not those of lawyers and doctors; many of them indicate the places
of business of working jewellers and watchmakers, and the latter
predominate; dial painters, engine turners, escapement makers, swivel
manufacturers and so on, _ad infinitum_. Then there are pianoforte
tuners, and dealers of many sorts. Those of the plates which have only a
surname upon them, indicate that the place is a lodging house. Though we
are in the black heart of London, in one of the darkest, poorest and
most melancholy quarters, there is a great deal of window gardening
going on; plants of every kind and sort may be seen on the window
ledges, from ground floor to attic; the humble Creeping Jenny is a great
favourite, and it seems to thrive wonderfully in the damp thick
atmosphere. Some of the ground floor windows are discreetly screened by
wonderful specimens of lank spindly geraniums--hapless plants which
have never been known to bloom, but whose sickly-looking leaves of
abnormal pallor struggle towards the light, what little there is of it.
Matilda Street, being in the heart of St. Luke's, naturally contains
many fanciers. Numerous bow-windowed, brass-bound cages, each with its
little bit of turf, are hung outside the windows in all directions, and
the imprisoned skylarks they contain warble away merrily, giving quite a
rural air to Matilda Street, E.C. Seedy-looking men and boys, carrying
tiny square cages carefully tied up in handkerchiefs, are continually
popping in and out; these are the chaffinch fanciers, and each cage
contains a sightless songster, who at his master's command is prepared
to pour forth his simple rural melody at any hour of the day or night in
a long unbroken series of cheeps and chirrups. In Matilda Street lives a
trainer of piping bullfinches, a man who has passed his whole life
turning a melodeon and teaching his pupils the tune of "Rule,
Britannia." Dog-breeding and dog-dealing are favourite occupations in
Matilda Street; mysterious men emerge at dusk, leading dogs and carrying
them in their arms, their pockets, or their bosoms, to exhibit them at
numerous local shows held in neighbouring pot-houses. The little back
yards--they call them gardens in Matilda Street--are filled with sheds
and wondrous home-made constructions, in which fancy poultry and rabbits
are kept. Even the roofs of the houses bristle with pigeon-lofts and
artful-looking structures for the capture of wandering birds. Should a
stray pigeon alight on one of these contrivances, attracted by the hemp
seed which is profusely scattered thereon, or by the presence of a decoy
securely fastened by the leg, a sudden click may be heard, and the bird
finds himself in an instant imprisoned in an artful arrangement of wire
walls, which has closed on him with the rapidity of a conjuring trick.
Matilda Street is a decidedly poor neighbourhood; but, strange to say,
it is a favourite "pitch" for the bogus starving British workman and his
interesting family, when he is upon what he terms the "kinchin lay." The
man generally goes barefoot, his face is half covered by a stubbly crop
of bristles, which pathetically indicate that he cannot even afford the
cheap luxury of the British workman--a ha'penny shave. He doesn't let
his beard grow--that would look far too comfortable; artful gashes in
his trousers exhibit his knees, which appeal in a startling manner to
the feelings of the benevolent; either elbow is clasped to show how he
suffers from the inclemency of the weather; by his side walks his
pattern wife, who always wears a large white apron; she invariably
carries an infant of tender years; at either side of the pair march the
rest of the family. They keep to the centre of the road; the woman
watches the windows of one side of the street, the man those of the
other; and from morning till night they howl a single verse of some hymn
with monotonous obstinacy, varying it with a plaintive lament that
"They've got no work to do." They are quite right in choosing places
like Matilda Street, for there is little or no traffic to interrupt the
effect of the procession; besides, in such a place as this no policeman
would interrupt them; and, strange to say, it is in shy and poor
neighbourhoods that the "kinchin lay" reaps its richest harvest.

Matilda Street is essentially a shy neighbourhood--perhaps that is why
the tenant of number 13 has chosen it as his residence. On the
door-plate of number 13 is the simple inscription, "Parsons, agent."
It's rather a puzzle to make out what Mr. Parsons is agent for; no
clients ever come to see him, and he seems to pass the greater part of
his day in smoking a pipe and reading a newspaper. But Mr. Parsons has
his profession--he was born in it, so to speak, and his father was a
professor before him; but his father failed, and his father's
unfortunate failure has been a lesson to him. The real fact is that Mr.
Parson's father was a burglar of the fine old school. His was a life of
vicissitude; and though an ambitious and fairly successful man, the law,
against which he had waged war for many years, got the better of him at
last; and after having passed nearly forty years of his life in Her
Majesty's jails, death at length prevented his obtaining the
ticket-of-leave he had almost earned, and his consequent return to
business.

It is all very well for the majority of us to wonder why Mr. Parsons
didn't attempt to earn an honest livelihood, but we must remember that
he had been brought up to a profession of which most people disapprove
from his earliest infancy. As quite a little fellow he had accompanied
his father on many a successful nocturnal expedition; it had been his
duty to keep watch for the guardians of public order, and to signal
their approach. He had been taught to rapidly dispose of precious
plunder in a neat little crucible, plunged in a fierce fire of coke; as
he got bigger, he it was who sat ready at the corner of the street in a
tax-cart, prepared to rapidly drive off with the "swag" when of a bulky
nature.

But though Mr. Parsons, Senior, had been a clever professor of the
predatory art, though his triumphs had been numerous and his operations
exceedingly brilliant and extensive, he could not be called a success.
To pass forty years of one's life in jail, to be perpetually blackmailed
by one's accomplices, to obtain only a small proportion of one's
legitimate earnings from those rascals the "fences" or dealers in stolen
property, and at last after all to die in prison, is not a brilliant
prospect. Now Mr. Parsons the son was a philosopher. On his father's
death he found himself the possessor of a complete and almost perfect
set of what may be termed his father's trade utensils. There was also a
little secret hoard of valuable gems. Mr. Parsons put his burglarious
implements in a place of safety; he lived abroad upon the proceeds of
his little fortune for some years; and when he came back to England his
own mother, if she had been alive, would not have known him. Then he
settled down at number 13, Matilda Street, and commenced the practice of
his profession upon principles of his own: not as a mere mercenary
occupation, but as a fine art. Mr. Parsons kept well away from his
father's old haunts and from the perfidious acquaintances who had
degraded him and been the cause of his ultimate ruin. Mr. Parsons had no
low tastes; he disliked drink and bad company; he had but one ambition,
and that was to obtain a comfortable competence from the skilful
exercise of his profession. He wisely concluded that it is not
sufficient to commit a successful burglary, if you are afterwards found
out. He was a careful student of the police reports and the trials at
the Central Criminal Court, and the more he studied those interesting
records, the more he became convinced of the wickedness of human nature,
the inefficiency of the police, and the tendency of accomplices to
"split." Mr. Parsons, then, being a thoroughly practical man was also a
theorist; he made several determinations, which he strictly kept to. In
the first place, he came to the conclusion that a suspect is always
watched, and that accomplices, however useful, are extremely dangerous.
So he determined to carry on his profession upon strictly business
principles. Wise man that he was, he appreciated the fable of the hare
and the tortoise. It was better, he thought, to earn a safe and
comfortable living; and he determined, should he ever be so fortunate
as to make a great _coup_, to immediately retire from business. He
trusted to his own clear head, his own clever fingers, and himself. So
he habitually worked alone. He passed his afternoons in "looking round."
His operations were very carefully planned, and generally successfully
carried out.

It will be seen from all this that Mr. Parsons was no common criminal,
but he was a dangerous man for all that; for on his nocturnal
expeditions he was in the habit of carrying an ugly sheath knife, not as
a weapon of offence, be it remembered, but purely as a last resource for
the protection of his own personal liberty.

It was a fine summer afternoon, and Mr. Parsons was lounging through one
of the better streets of St. John's Wood; that neighbourhood,
sarcastically designated "the shady grove of the Evangelist," had
peculiar attractions for Mr. Parsons; it is wealthy, the large houses
stand mostly in their own grounds, and the big well-kept gardens offer
favourable hiding-places to the midnight thief. Mr. Parsons lounged
along, peacefully smoking a briar-root pipe; the houses where the paint
was shabby or the gardens were ill-kept did not attract his attention;
these signs were quite sufficient for him, and in his mind he put their
owners down as "electro." Other houses which were guarded by dogs also
failed to interest him, but Mr. Parsons took more than a passing glance
at Azalea Lodge.

Azalea Lodge stood back some twenty feet from the road way; the entire
outside of the house was painted or grained; there was a great deal of
gilding on the railings, a large gas lamp of the latest construction was
fixed over each of the polished oak gates that formed the entrances to
the little carriage-drive; the carriage-drive itself was asphalted, and
clean as a new pin; the shrubs in the small front garden were
expensive ones, and well pruned and trimmed; beyond the porch
projected a rather elaborate glass structure set in ornamental iron
work, and the centre of the well-whitened stone steps was covered with
striped horsehair matting. Flowering shrubs in pots were ranged up these
steps, while the sides of the porch proper were crammed with them.
Elaborate floral decorations were on every window-ledge; not mere plants
in pots, but great blocks of colour artfully arranged: scarlet geraniums
and calceolarias with glossy-leaved fuchsias of many hues blazed in
frames of blue lobelia, while dwarf ivies, nasturtiums and the pretty
variegated periwinkle hung down in thick festoons, hiding the window
sills. The beds in the front garden were made to show up in startling
contrast to the closely-shaven turf by means of cocoanut fibre, into
which potted flowering plants were plunged in reckless profusion. In one
window of the drawing-room was a quasi-oriental _jardiniere_ in which
stood a large orchid covered with delicate blooms of mauve and yellow;
in the next appeared the top of a parrot's cage of plated metal, on
which sat a tame white cockatoo, who seemed to enjoy the splendour by
which he was surrounded. The very linings of the curtains were of rich
corded silk, and a half open window showed in the dim vista a distant
vision of the heavy frames of numerous oil paintings. From top to bottom
the bedroom windows were discreetly screened by lace curtains tied up
with  ribbon.

All these pretty things have taken somewhat long to describe, but the
eagle eye of Mr. Parsons took them all in at a glance. A fishmonger's
cart stopped at the side door, and Mr. Parsons noticed with satisfaction
that a fine piece of salmon and a lobster were taken into the house by
the purveyor's assistant. Mr. Parsons continued his walk as far as the
next house, which proved to be an empty one and in the hands of the
painters; their ladders and paint pots stood about in every direction,
but the workmen themselves had evidently gone to dinner. Mr. Parsons
shook out the contents of his pipe, pocketed it, and walking up to the
hall door, which stood invitingly open, confidently entered the empty
house; he walked into the drawing-room and on to the open Italian
balcony beyond it, which commanded a view of the grounds of Azalea
Lodge, and then Mr. Parsons stood wrapped in meditation. Something that
he saw at a heavily-barred window on the ground floor of Azalea Lodge
evidently gave him food for reflection. On a table covered with green
baize lay a quantity of elaborate specimens of the silversmith's art,
racing cups and trophies, vases and statuettes of burnished silver were
there in profusion, and a heap of leathers and brushes showed that they
were undergoing the process of cleaning. The eyes of Mr. Parsons
sparkled with satisfaction; he looked round to see if he was observed.
There wasn't a soul in sight. And then Mr. Parsons did a very curious
thing; he gave a low growl, then a little yelp, and then an aggressive
bark like an irritated dog. Then he began to bark again in a louder and
still more defiant manner. But there was no answer to the strange
challenge. Mr. Parsons gave a satisfied smile, walked quietly out of the
empty house, re-lighted his pipe and resumed his walk.

It's hardly likely that Mr. Parsons thought of renting the empty house
next door to Azalea Lodge, but he walked past at least four times that
afternoon. He went home to Matilda Street on the top of an omnibus, and
then, like a respectable man as he was, he sat down to a good
substantial tea.

Before commencing a campaign a great general sits down to think it out.
This is exactly what Mr. Parsons did. The tenant of number 13, Matilda
Street had declared war against Azalea Lodge. From what he had seen, Mr.
Parsons had no doubt whatever in his own mind that, should his campaign
prove successful, he would secure the competence he had yearned for, for
so many years and be able to retire from business altogether.

That night Mr. Parsons visited a public house, paid for a glass of ale,
and consulted the directory. He found that Azalea Lodge was occupied by
Lord Hetton; the name seemed familiar to him; he turned to the landlord,
who was a well-known sporting character, and sought for information.

"Lord Hetton's a political chap, ain't he, Mr. Mason?" said he,
addressing the great man with much humility.

"Not as ever I heard of; why his lordship's a racing man. Every one
knows Lord Hetton--him as owned Dark Despair, and lost the Derby once by
a short head."

"Oh, that's him, is it?" replied Mr. Parsons, "and what's his address
when he's at home?"

"How should I know his address?" said the landlord. "If you wants to
call on him, you might try the Jockey Club, or I shouldn't be surprised
if you was to find him at Tattersall's of a Sunday afternoon; that sort
mostly shows up there. What might you want with him?"

"Oh, it's no great matter," replied Mr. Parsons; "it's only a little bit
of business about a dog," and then he changed the conversation.

"Racing plate," he thought, "there is never any mistake about that;
that's the real genuine article, thank goodness." And then Mr. Parsons,
who was of a sentimental turn of mind and a humble patron of the drama,
sauntered off to the Britannia Theatre, at Hoxton, and derived no small
degree of mental comfort in four hours of the sorrows of "Ada, the
Betrayed."

It has been said that Lord Hetton was an economical man; every farthing
that he could scrape together invariably went to settle his accounts
with his trainer. He had begun life as a pigeon, to all appearances he
would end it as a hawk. Dark rumours of shady things which had been done
in his name rendered men shy of backing his horses. Scandal had said
that the boy who rode Dark Despair, when that animal was beaten on the
post, had pulled the great raking chestnut by his lordship's orders. But
though Lord Hetton had done many shabby things in his time, it was by no
fault of his that Dark Despair failed to win the blue ribbon of the
turf. It is quite possible that the boy who rode the animal had made a
mess of the race at the critical moment, or he may even have been "got
at," but that was not Lord Hetton's opinion or that of his astute
trainer; and the same stunted youth still always rode in his lordship's
colours in any big event in which Lord Hetton's animals might be
engaged. Owner and trainer had neither of them been to blame in the
matter; his lordship had honestly backed Dark Despair, and had had
considerable difficulty in meeting his engagements at the time. There
had even been an execution in Azalea Lodge. Azalea Lodge was the one
luxury that his lordship permitted himself; he looked upon it as his
home, and the titular mistress of Azalea Lodge had been the original
cause of all his differences with his father. Hetton was quite a boy
when he first fell into the toils of the syren; he was not quite fool
enough to marry her, his fear of the old lord prevented that; for her
sake Lord Hetton declined to marry; for her sake he was shut out from
society; and he was a man to be pitied after all, for he hadn't a friend
in the world, and it was with the greatest difficulty that he succeeded
in satisfying her numerous extravagant demands for money. The lady was
_passee_, vulgar, and her temper was almost diabolical; but she still
retained her hold upon Lord Hetton's affections. She had succeeded in
riveting the fetters which bound Lord Hetton to her in a rather original
manner--by an act of generosity for which none of her acquaintances
would have given her credit, least of all his lordship. When he made his
great _fiasco_ with Dark Despair, and the execution was already in
Azalea Lodge, by an impulse of generosity the lady had driven over to
Messrs. Israels, and had pledged with them her entire collection of
valuable jewelry. She had handed the cheque to Lord Hetton, and he did
settle at Tattersall's on the fatal Monday following the race. Lord
Hetton was agreeably astonished; he found, much to his surprise, that he
had one real friend in the world. Is it then to be wondered at that from
that day Lord Hetton clung to his only friend, and that he looked upon
Azalea Lodge as his home? Things went better with Lord Hetton, and he
settled Azalea Lodge and its valuable contents upon the object of his
gratitude.

When anything remained to him after paying his trainer whenever he made
a _coup_, or landed a good stake, he invariably made a thank-offering at
the shrine in St. John's Wood. It was all very wrong, and very wicked,
no doubt, but after all it was perhaps very natural.

It was nine o'clock one Sunday night, and Mr. Parsons was very busy
indeed--he was preparing for the war-path. On his table were arranged a
number of polished steel implements, which looked like surgical
instruments; they were burglar's tools. Half-a-dozen handy bits of
candle and a box of silent matches were quickly placed in his pocket; a
piece of strong Manilla cord some four yards long, with a sharp
three-pronged hook at the end of it, was wrapped around his waist,
beneath his virtuous waistcoat; his plain tweed coat carried numerous
canvas bags lined with washleather in its back. It was a wonderful coat
with innumerable pockets in the inside; in each of these mysterious
receptacles he placed one or other of the implements of his trade; a
short crow-bar in three pieces, which could be screwed together, formed
the last of these, while a big bunch of skeleton keys, a phial full of
oil and another of acid were slipped into his waistcoat pockets. He
popped a pair of loose felt slippers into his hat, calmly lighted his
pipe and proceeded to Old Street. He then called a hansom cab and told
the driver to take him to the Swiss Cottage.




  CHAPTER XI.

  ESAU WAS THE FIRSTBORN.


"Are you trying to tell his fortune, Georgie?" said Haggard as, cigar in
mouth, he entered his wife's little boudoir.

The young mother was sitting in an American rocking-chair, her baby in
her lap. The little creature stared at her in that peculiar way which
infants do when they are being "amused." It wasn't altogether a
meaningless stare, for what it meant was very obvious indeed; this
peculiar look is a threat, and may be translated thus:

"If you do not give me your entire attention, and become thoroughly
absorbed in me, I will rend the air with eldritch screams, and my
piercing cries shall give you the headache you deserve."

"I think I was making a fool of myself, Reginald," said young Mrs.
Haggard; "I certainly was predicting all sorts of good fortune for him,
in baby language."

"Yes, baby language as you call it, is one of women's ridiculous fads;
the child learns it, and he'll have to unlearn it again to pick up the
Queen's English. You don't mean to say that you believe in palmistry,
Georgie?" continued Haggard.

"Well, everybody says there's something in it, Reginald; besides, it's
only an old belief revived, and it's better fun than spirit-rapping,
thought-reading, or Madam Blavatsky."

The husband sat down, and critically inspected the child.

"Poor little devil!" he said; "he's like a young bear with all his
troubles to come. I'll tell you his fortune, Georgie. If he's got brains
he'll have to go and live in the Law Courts, pinching and screwing to
make both ends meet, starving his belly to feed his back, working early
and late, and hoping for the briefs that never come. Perhaps he'll
drift into something, or finding that he can't earn a farthing he may
turn paper stainer in despair, and gradually get a crust by writing dull
farces or novels that nobody reads; in fact he may become a modern Grub
Street free lance. If he is a humbug he'll go into the Church; or he may
want to wear a red coat, or a blue one, and vegetate on his pay and the
trifle he would get from me."

"Poor little fellow," said his wife; "but what has he done to be
disinherited?"

"He's committed the crime of existing, my dear," replied the husband.
"Can't you see, dear, that every farthing we have in the world will have
to go to Lucius, for he will be the head of the family. Gad," he said,
"he may be a peer of the realm, though that's a rather unlikely
contingency. This child, Georgie, is not born in the purple, as is his
elder brother; the one is clay, the other china."

The young mother nervously clutched the child to her breast and
smothered him with kisses.

"Make the most of him, my dear, lavish your affection upon him. Unless
the squire means doing something for him, his fortune is what I have
predicted. Younger sons in England, George, have to live on monkey's
allowance--more kicks than halfpence, and if there are half-a-dozen more
of them, poor little chaps, the fewer halfpence they will get and the
more kicks."

Careless idle words, spoken jestingly, but every one of which went home
like a barbed arrow to the mother's heart. As she buried her face in the
child's neck, she thought of her vow of eternal secrecy to her cousin.
It had been extracted from her when under the influence of intense fear
and horror. Her cousin had only forced a solemn promise from her with
the intention of covering her own ignominy. It would have needed more
than even the diabolical ingenuity of a Machiavel to have extorted from
any mother her adhesion to a conspiracy for the ruin of her own child.
But now she saw to her horror that each and every child she might bear
to her own husband would, as a matter of course, be practically
disinherited in favour of the little bastard. At that instant, there
dawned on her for the first time the remote possible contingency of the
child who was supposed to be Haggard's firstborn son ultimately
inheriting the Pit Town title; that troubled her far less than do the
probabilities of his ultimate succession to the Woolsack affect young
Mr. Briefless when he is first called to the bar. But that each and
every one of her children should by her own deliberate act, and for the
benefit of an interloper, himself but a child of shame, be deprived of
what was legitimately their own, their share of their father's heritage,
did seem a very bitter cup.

"I can tell you one thing, Georgie," said her husband; "your father's
quite of my mind in the matter, and it is our universal respect for the
law of primogeniture that has made England what she is. It's a sort of
natural law of selection, and the survival of the fittest. The eldest
son must be taken care of at the expense of the rest; he is the tribal
chief, his brothers and sisters are but his henchmen and his slaves.
Why, look at the French; since the Code Napoleon, which chopped up the
land into little blocks and gave each child his share, there have been
no great families in France. Money a young fellow can squander, but he
cannot get rid of his ancestral acres, when they are tightly tied up to
come to his eldest son. There's no way out of it, Georgie; the
Warrenders and the Haggards wouldn't content themselves with turning in
their graves, they'd haunt the pair of us, if we hesitated to do the
regulation thing."

On hearing these words, which for the first time in her life brought
the real state of things home to her, it is hardly an exaggeration to
say that young Mrs. Haggard's heart died within her. Was it not her duty
to her child, to her husband, and to herself, to instantly make a clean
breast of the whole mystery? Perhaps it was, but she struggled fiercely
against the natural impulse to adopt this simple course. The fact has
been insisted upon that secrecy was foreign to Georgie Haggard's nature;
she hated deception and the very idea of anything which was underhand.
Had she given way to her natural impulse, and then and there told her
husband the truth, the dark web of intrigue which surrounded her
innocent life would have been torn aside and dispersed at once and for
ever. But with Georgie, unhappily for herself, her promise bound her as
tightly as the most terrible oath. She had promised never to reveal
Lucy's secret, and come what might, should this moral Juggernaut crush
her, her child, and her offspring yet unborn, yet she would be true to
it; her word, once plighted, should be kept to the bitter end.

"I think it's cruel, Reginald," she said, and the tears were in her
eyes, "cruel and wicked too. What has he done, poor little fellow, that
he should be made to inherit a sort of curse?"

But before her husband could answer this very natural objection, the
door was flung violently open and the child Lucius, his face suffused
with angry colour, bounced into the room. To his breast he clutched a
tiny white kitten, it was quite young, its eyes not being yet open.

"Dad," he cried in a tone of rage, "Auntie says I shan't see the tittens
drowned. I do want so much to see them drowned. I hate Auntie Lucy, and
I hate Fanchette."

Fanchette now appeared upon the scene, indignant and out of breath. The
child, tossing the kitten from him, sprung upon Haggard's lap, and again
expressed his intense desire to be present at the execution of the
kittens.

"Dad," he said in a tone of affectionate entreaty, "I never seed a
titten drowned."

Perhaps it was natural after all. Just in the same way as an adult goes
to an execution, because he "never has seen one, you know"--he forgets
that it is "a thing to shudder at not to see"--so the little Lucius was
anxious to assist at the immolation of the kittens.

"No, my man, you mustn't be cruel," and then Haggard attempted to argue
with the child. But the little fellow pleaded, looking up into Haggard's
face with his big brown eyes.

"Me tiss oo, dad," he said, and he did so vehemently. Haggard stroked
the child's long golden curls, and placed him gently on the floor.

"Can't be done, my man," he said. At once the child's face changed and
became frightful to behold; the corners of his mouth went down, the
whites of his eyes became injected, the tears coursed freely down his
cheeks, he clenched his little fists and screamed aloud in his rage and
fury.

"Debil!" he shouted in his passion, and he shook his fists at Haggard in
impotent rage.

"Take him away, Fanchette," said Haggard with a laugh.

The _bonne_ smiled and caught the infuriated child up in her arms.

"_Ah ma foi, monsieur_," she exclaimed, "_apres tout, c'est naturel, il
aime le spectacle, le beau bebe_."

"Well, he's not to have the spectacle, mind that, Fanchette."

The child and the one kitten undoomed to a watery grave were carried off
by the _bonne_.

"That chap's a devil of a temper, Georgie," said the husband with a
laugh. "Case in point, my dear," he continued; "we keep one kitten and
drown the rest, and there doesn't seem anything very horrible about it
after all; and that's what we of the upper classes, Georgie, have
morally to do with our own offspring. It's on exactly that same
principle that little Lucius will have to get our money and our land,
while _that_ poor little chap and his brothers and sisters, if he should
have the misfortune to have any, will have to rub along as best they
can. You and I, Georgie, will have morally to perform the functions of
the stony-hearted gardener."

Haggard kissed his wife, then he ran his hand meditatively over the
infant's soft scalp; he began to whistle a tune, and left the room.

It may be very unnatural, it may be very inartistic, but this being
merely a veracious chronicle, it has to be told that Georgie loved the
little Lucius quite as much and with exactly the same affection that she
felt for the infant she fondled on her lap. Totally inexplicable, you
will say; but so it was.

Georgie had never grudged to the little Lucius his share of her own and
her husband's affection. She and her husband were young people; they
might have a large family growing up round them, but they were wealthy,
and they had large expectations, so that a child more or less to people
in their position in life did not very much matter. But to give a little
stranger a full share in the domestic pie is one thing, and to rob one's
own children for the sake of the same little stranger is another. The
more Georgie thought the matter over the more monstrous and impossible
seemed her position. She would make an appeal to her cousin's mercy, to
her cousin's sense of justice. But she felt morally certain that Lucy
would never consent to an _eclaircissement_, or to the making a clean
breast of the whole long-buried scandal to her cousin's husband.

Gradually the infant on her lap, her husband's legitimate heir, dozed
gently off; Mrs. Haggard placed him in his cot and proceeded to darken
the room; as she did so the door opened and her cousin's smiling face
appeared.

"I want to talk to you, Lucy; I want to talk to you about baby," said
Georgie with gravity.

"Nothing the matter with him, dear, I hope, is there?"

"Oh, he's well enough as to his bodily health. It's his future I'm
alarmed about. What do you suppose my husband told me to-day, Lucy? He
told me, as a matter of course, that my baby was to be sacrificed to
Lucius, because, forsooth, Lucius is the elder. I nearly told him then,
Lucy. I _must_ tell him, I shall have to tell him sooner or later."

"And when you do so, Georgie, you will have the satisfaction of seeing
the last of your cousin. When I told you that I would fling myself into
the lake if you betrayed me, it was not the mere idle vapouring of a
foolish girl. I said it, and I meant it. Do you think for one single
instant that your husband would keep my secret? The scandal has blown
over, Georgie; you and I are its sole depositories. My secret and my sin
are both dead, buried for ever in the silent past. You swore you would
never betray me, Georgie, and having sworn it you must keep your oath.
Don't think for an instant that any ambition on my part, Georgie, makes
me wish to see Lucius supplant your children. Oh that he were only dead,
then at all events I should be safe."

Gradually, however, the girl became calmer, her manner to Georgie got
softer and more caressing. "Keep my secret, Georgie dear," she said;
"it'll be another twenty years before your children are men and women. I
may be dead before that, please God I shall. Anyhow there'll be quite
time enough to take your husband into our confidence, if it must be so.
But I couldn't face him yet, and I couldn't face uncle. I must hold you
to your promise, Georgie. You swore never to betray me, and you never
shall."

Reginald Haggard's wife pleaded with the girl; she argued, she
entreated, but she never threatened.

"It may come out after all, Lucy," she said, "and then think of the
shame, the disgrace and the scandal."

"The only way in which it could come out, dear, would be if Capt knew
something about it. He evidently has no suspicion, or he would have come
to us for hush-money long ago. Besides, Georgie, there's hope left to me
yet," and here the girl's face grew almost diabolical as she hissed
across the table in a low whisper, "_Lucius is but a little child, dear;
he may die!_"

"I can't believe, Lucy, that the worst of mothers could deliberately
wish for her own child's death. You took a base advantage of my
affection in entrapping me into a promise of secrecy."

"An oath, my dear."

"An oath or a promise, whichever you like, Lucy. I'll keep your secret,
you may rely on that, whatever it may cost me. But I love the child
(and you know you can trust me, Lucy Warrender), so be you sure of this.
You dared to wish for the child's death. Should any danger menace him
from you--you his own mother, worthless woman that you are--that instant
your secret shall be a secret no longer. I will sacrifice my own
happiness, the future of my own children, to you; for your sake I have
deceived my husband, and I will go on deceiving him, but I will protect
the child's life from you, Lucy Warrender, at whatever cost. Your very
presence is a danger to him. After what you've told me, it is impossible
that you and he can live under the same roof. You hate him, your own
unhappy friendless child. I banish you from his presence, Lucy, from
this day forth."

Lucy Warrender gazed at her cousin in astonishment; their _roles_ were
changed; no longer young Mrs. Haggard looked at her cousin with patient
pleading eyes; her foot beat the floor with suppressed excitement, and
though she never raised her voice, she continued in an angry but
determined tone:

"Yes, Lucy, you must go, and quickly; you shall no longer poison my home
with your presence. You have brought sufficient misery to me and mine."

There was a something in the way young Mrs. Haggard had spoken that
convinced Lucy Warrender of her sincerity.

Her cousin turned and left the room without a word.

That same evening Miss Warrender announced her intention of making a
long-postponed visit to some friends in town. In vain her uncle
remonstrated, and pointed out that her presence was expected with the
rest of the family at Walls End Castle.

"I couldn't stand it, uncle," she said; "we are quiet enough and dull
enough here, heaven knows; but a month at the Castle would be too
dreadful. Besides it is Georgie who is the old lord's favourite. I don't
think I'm in his good books at all. I've put off and put off this visit
so long, that if I don't make it now, I never shall. And even London out
of the season is to my mind preferable to the oppressive magnificence of
the Castle. Lord Pit Town is Reginald's relative, not mine; I should
only be in the way, Uncle."

And so it was arranged.

Lucy went to her friends in town, and from their house she commenced a
round of visits. She corresponded regularly enough with her cousin, and
there was nothing very remarkable about the letters that were
interchanged. Not one word was dropped by either cousin on the subject
of the family secret. Perhaps a letter written about this time from Lord
Spunyarn to his friend Haggard may throw a little light upon the way in
which Miss Warrender amused herself.

            "The Club House,
                "Royal Yacht Squadron, Ryde.
                    "13th August, 18--.

    "DEAR HAGGARD,

    "Here I am swaggering about this place in a blue coat and brass
    buttons, like the other sham sailors. I'm quite out of the hunt
    here, however, for I can't pretend to understand the jargon of
    the thing. Old and new measurements, tonnage, time allowances
    and movable ballast, are all a sealed book to me. Of course I go
    on to the balcony with the other idiots to stare at the matches,
    and, like them, I have to pretend to manifest an intelligent
    interest.

    "To use a nautical simile your wife's cousin is 'carrying on'
    here. If I didn't know her so well I should think she meant
    marrying. Half the men here, including old Marlingspike, the
    venerable commodore, dance attendance upon her from morning till
    night, and she certainly looks a very bright little, tight
    little craft in her nautical get-up, which is the regulation
    thing with the women here. They say that little Jack Hornpiper
    proposed to her the other day; it looks rather like it, for he
    has suddenly started for a lengthened cruise in the
    Mediterranean.

    "I suppose by this you have begun wiring into Pit Town's grouse,
    though I hear he does not keep a very big head of game on the
    place. When Hetton comes into it, it won't be much better, for
    of course all his spare cash will go in horses. I too have an
    invite for Walls End, but it is only just for the festivities,
    which everybody declares are given in honour of your wife and
    her boy, and to spite Hetton. He, of course, is furious. He
    swore at first he wouldn't put in an appearance at all, but a
    good many of the people here are going, and Hetton'll have to
    show, if only to keep his Jews quiet. The Barringtons, who as
    you know were never great favourites, have been quite the rage
    here since Miss Warrender's arrival. They are asked everywhere
    and go everywhere for the lady's sake, which is very good of
    them. The Charmington is going to astonish us all in a
    three-nights engagement at the local theatre; her benefit is
    announced under the special patronage of H.R.H. She has gone off
    terribly, but her hair is more luxuriant and golden than ever.

    "Miss Warrender bids me tell you that she shall make a final
    attempt to _rescue_ Hetton on her arrival at Pit Town's place.
    For your sake, old fellow, I hope she won't succeed, but I have
    known more unlikely things happen even than this.

                "Sincerely yours,
                    "SPUNYARN."

Lucy Warrender enjoyed herself thoroughly during her stay at Ryde. Mr.
Hornpiper's misfortune had been a true bill. Lucy Warrender encouraged
everybody, and it was not her fault if enthusiasts like little Hornpiper
cut short the delightful period of their acquaintance with the lady by
proposing to her.

It has been said that a ship is a prison, to which is added the
possibility of being drowned; this is particularly the case in regard to
a yacht. Theoretically, yachting is a delightful pastime; practically,
it is an exceedingly expensive foible, combining the maximum of probable
discomfort and boredom with the not unremote contingency of possible
danger. Given the most delightful weather, a big and well-found yacht
and a really good cook, given that the cruise has been a short one, that
everybody has done his or her best to make things comfortable; yet how
uncommonly glad we all are to bid our host and his dear delightful
daughters good-bye--and how uncommonly glad they must be to see the last
of us. If any of our friends were to invite us to come and stay with
them and eat tinned provisions for a fortnight, we should indignantly
decline, but if we are asked to do it on board a friend's yacht, we
accept with effusion, and for at least a week or two before we brag of
the high old time we are going to have. I am afraid Lucy Warrender and
her friends the Barringtons were only fine-weather sailors after all,
but they were very popular.

There was no false pride about Lucy Warrender. When she met her old
friend and rival, Mrs. Charmington, upon the pier, she shook hands with
her at once. In the days when Mrs. Charmington was a leader in society,
little Jack Charmington, her husband, had been tacitly ignored; but now
his wife was very glad indeed to have him constantly at her elbow, and
she introduced him to everybody.

"You must know Jack, Miss Warrender," she said, as they shook hands. "I
don't know what I should do without him, my dear," she continued. "He
always leads the applause in front, you know, and he talks to the
professional people for me, when I have the misfortune to meet them in
the daytime."

"Doosid responsible position, Miss Warrender, I can tell you; one needs
a constitution of iron, Miss Warrender; they're so awfully hospitable,
that talking with them first always means drinking with them afterwards.
It's bad enough for my wife to have quitted the scenes of her former
triumphs for the coarser joys of the play-house. But dramatic talent, my
dear young lady, will assert itself. If my wife had been Empress of all
the Russias, sooner or later her destiny would have declared itself, and
she would have sought the only sphere which could content a woman of her
talent and ambition."

Now Mrs. Charmington's talents as an actress were microscopical. She was
good looking, she had a decently good memory, and she was a dogged,
plodding woman, with a good eye to the main chance. Her principle was to
buy a fairly good article, to pay a good price for it, and then to make
her little experiment upon the body of the vile, by hacking her piece
through the provinces, say for six months; and then producing it for a
short London season. There is no doubt that by time and patience it is
possible to get even a little child to recite a piece of poetry with a
certain amount of effect, and so it was with Mrs. Charmington. It must
be remembered first, that Mrs. Charmington did not buy rubbish. She went
to the great Mr. Breitmann, and she made a bargain with him. Breitmann
was a man of five-and-forty; he stood six feet in his stockings, he was
fair, with a quantity of light curly hair, and he had big fat fingers,
which were perpetually playing upon an imaginary pianoforte; when they
weren't running over an invisible keyboard, Mr. William Breitmann was
engaged in extending them separately, one after the other, in a
succession of violent cracks. Now the reason Mrs. Charmington went to
Mr. Breitmann was, that Breitmann was a particularly independent person,
who declined dancing gratuitous attendance upon Mrs. Charmington or
anybody else. In vain had she favoured him with a royal command,
written upon crocodile paper, headed by a magnificent monogram,
illuminated in many colours, in which Mr. Breitmann was informed that
"Mrs. Charmington would be pleased if Mr. Breitmann would kindly call
upon her on Tuesday, at three, as she wished to talk over a matter of
business with him." A rude and cruel answer, short and to the point,
came by return of post:

    "MADAM,

    "I have no business with you.

                "Yours obediently,

                    "W. BREITMANN."

Then she sent an ambassador. Jack Charmington called four times upon the
dramatist at his club, but even then, after bribing the page boy to
indiscreetly admit that the great Breitmann was on the premises, he
still found him sufficiently difficult to approach. As Jack stood in the
little bare den marked "Strangers' Room," he heard voices in loud
talking, with occasional shouts of laughter; then he heard a gruff and
angry voice grunt in an irritated manner, "Charmington, what is
Charmington? I don't know Charmington. Tell him to go to----." And here
a door slammed violently.

The page boy entered the strangers' room and communicated to Mr.
Charmington the fact that the great man was busy.

"Did you tell him I wanted to see him on business?"

"They all say that, sir," replied the boy; "he's a very busy gentleman
Mr. Breitmann, sir, if you please."

Charmington then sat down and wrote a polite note, in which he informed
Mr. Breitmann that he desired a short interview with him on a matter of
vital importance to them both. A second half-crown was administered to
the page boy, and in a few moments the door of the strangers' room was
violently flung open, and Mr. Breitmann himself suddenly burst in.
Breitmann never entered a room, he always burst in. The suddenness of
his entry startled Charmington considerably; he was still more
astonished at the tone in which Breitmann addressed him. That gentleman
carried poor Jack's note in his hand.

"What is your vital business, sir? I have no vital business with you."

"My wife wrote to you, Mr. Breitmann, yesterday, asking you to call on
her."

This only seemed to exasperate Mr. Breitmann still more.

"I have no business with your wife. I am not a ladies' man. Why should I
call on your wife when I have no business? What do you mean by coming
here and bullying me because I won't call on your wife?"

"My wife is a very prominent person, Mr. Breitmann."

"I have seen your wife, sir, and if you wish, I will tell you what I
think of her."

He hardly gave poor little Charmington time to assent to this
proposition, when he continued, his voice changing from a shout to a
scream:

"Sir, your wife is a fool!" Then he proceeded to crack his fingers
violently, one after another. "Now, sir," he continued, "I wish you
good-morning; my time is fully occupied in my businesses and in
protecting my copyrights."

He was about to rush from the room.

"It's about that I wanted to see you," said Jack.

"Have you been infringing my copyrights then?" replied the other in a
terrible voice.

"No, I want to buy one," said Charmington.

"Ah," replied Breitmann, in a calmer tone, "then you _have_ business.
Sit down. What do you want to buy?"

"Well, I don't exactly know," replied Charmington.

"Well, tell me how much you want to spend, five thousand--ten thousand?"

And then they went to business. It was explained to Mr. Breitmann that
Mrs. Charmington was anxious to purchase one of his new and original
dramas, one of those extraordinary combinations of melodramatic
impossibility, which however appeal, and not in vain, to the eye and to
the heart, which never fail to fill the pockets of their fortunate
purchasers, and which have rendered the name of Breitmann a household
word.

For thirty years it had been Mr. Breitmann's misfortune to fight
incompetency in some shape or other. It had fallen to his lot to
manipulate vast armies of theatrical supernumeraries and to teach them
to perform the apparently impossible feat of being in two places at
once. Mr. Breitmann's struggles with the British super had taught him
one great secret: the British super, like the British donkey, never does
what he is told until the person in authority over him loses his temper.
So Breitmann, to avoid loss of time, used to begin by losing his temper
at once; so terrible were his ebullitions of wrath, that nobody ever
attempted to argue with him, and he always carried his point. Finding
his tactics invariably successful within the walls of the theatre, he
adopted them with similar success in ordinary life, and the time he
saved was enormous.

His negotiations with Mrs. Charmington, her husband and her solicitor,
were over in forty-eight hours; a satisfactory bargain was concluded
between them for the purchase of "Ethel's Sacrifice," a melodrama of
thrilling interest, originally written as a novel by Robinson. Robinson
had submitted the manuscript to Breitmann, and then for a fortnight the
pair had "collaborated." What took place during that dreadful fortnight
is only known to the two collaborators. Robinson at its commencement was
a bright-eyed young fellow, full of enthusiasm, poetry and romance; at
the end of the fortnight all the enthusiasm, poetry and romance had been
knocked out of him. "Ethel's Sacrifice" had been altered, tinkered,
transposed, cut and filled with comic incidents of the most every-day
description, incidents from which the poetic soul of the unhappy
Robinson revolted. Then "Ethel's Sacrifice" was gabbled through one
summer's evening at a remote provincial theatre, and "Ethel's
Sacrifice," by Messrs. Robinson and Breitmann, became a marketable
security, duly protected by act of parliament. A nervous invalid left
London for prolonged mental rest and change of scene--that was Robinson;
his collaborator calmly returned to his multifarious business
engagements and the onerous duties of the protection of his innumerable
copyrights.

Now Mr. Breitmann not only sold "Ethel's Sacrifice" to the Charmingtons,
but he sold them the benefits of his own personal skill in its
production. When the bills said that "Ethel's Sacrifice" was produced
under the personal supervision of Mr. William Breitmann, the knowing
ones jumped at once to the correct conclusion that "Ethel's Sacrifice"
would be a success. Mr. Breitmann had stipulated with Mrs. Charmington
that he should not deliver to her the complete drama until she herself
was letter-perfect in the title _role_.

"You're never perfect, you know," he had said to her, "and you won't be
till you've played the thing in the provinces for six months; that's the
curse of amateurs, they never are perfect."

"But I'm not an amateur, Mr. Breitmann," the lady had retorted
indignantly.

"Pardon me, dear lady," he said, "but you are nothing else. You have
played four original parts, specially written for you mind, in the
whole of your stage experience; of course you're an amateur, but you are
a big success. And," and here he cracked his fingers very slowly, "you
are a fine woman, yes, a fine stage presence of a woman," said he
appreciatively, as he looked her all over, much as a dealer might look
over a horse--a dealer who was selling a horse, not a dealer who was
buying one.

Mrs. Charmington fought hard to get hold of the beautiful type-printed
copy of "Ethel's Sacrifice," which young Robinson, in elaborate morning
costume and a flower in his button-hole, had read to her so
delightfully; but all in vain. Mr. Breitmann kept it carefully locked up
in one of the numerous tin boxes which made his rather grim-looking
study so much resemble a lawyer's office.

"You'll find this quite enough to occupy you for the next three months,
my dear," said Breitmann decisively, using the affectionate method of
address invariable in the profession.

The part, which was a formidable little volume, was just about twice as
long as the Church catechism. To do Mrs. Charmington justice she set to
work with a will; she was actually letter-perfect when the play was read
to her company for the first time by Mr. Robinson at the Stoke Pogis
theatre, where the talented little band of actors that supported Mrs.
Charmington were playing at the time.

"At ten on Monday, if you please, ladies and gentlemen," said Robinson,
"we will rehearse Acts I., II. and III. Mr. Breitmann will be present."

Everybody was punctual, and Mr. Breitmann _was_ present. For five mortal
hours he abused the company individually and collectively; he pervaded
the theatre, he shrieked from the lighted rake of gas jets which
illuminated the centre of the stage, he objurgated from the author's
table, he used the most horrible language when he suddenly appeared in
the stalls, he had the presumption to order Mrs. Charmington not to
"mince," and he told her that "it wasn't a time for mincing;" he
insisted on the minuet in the second act being repeated six times, and
then he informed the infuriated stage manager that "it wasn't good
enough even for Whitechapel." But the climax was reached at Mrs.
Charmington's great scene with her leading man, at the conclusion of the
third act. Ethel (Mrs. Charmington) has to fling herself into the arms
of her confiding husband; she proceeded to do so in her usual
perfunctory and society manner.

"Good heavens! madam," shrieked the indignant Breitmann, "that won't do.
Stand here," said he in his ferocious voice, "and look at me." He rushed
at the leading man, he plunged his face into that gentleman's shirt
front, he gripped the gentleman's muscular shoulders with tremendous
energy, and his back went up and down with convulsive sobs.

"There, ma'am," he said triumphantly; "try again." She tried again, but
Breitmann vociferated all the more.

"It's no good, my dear; you must clutch and nestle. I wouldn't give
that," and here he snapped his fingers, "for a woman who can't clutch
and nestle; try it with me."

Breitmann took up the position of the leading man. Mrs. Charmington gave
one tearful glance at her husband, then she rushed into Breitmann's arms
and did her best to clutch and to nestle. But he was not even then
satisfied.

"Go home, my dear," he said, "and practise it with your husband."

What a situation for one who has been a queen of society. When Mrs.
Charmington, almost heart-broken, reached her lodgings she informed her
husband that it was more than she could bear.

"The idea of the wretch actually teaching me my business before my whole
company, and then ordering me to go home and learn to 'clutch and
nestle.'"

"Dev'lish sensible idea I think, Julia," said Charmington, who was in
love with his wife before all things; "you can't do better than begin at
once," and the little man drew himself up to his full height of five
foot six and extended his arms like a mechanical doll.

"Don't remind me of my humiliation, Jack; it's too much, too much to
bear," and the beauty flung herself into an easy chair and burst into
floods of tears.

But Julia Charmington, wise woman that she was, did as she was bid; she
clutched and she nestled all that afternoon, and she had her reward. For
six whole months she delighted all the great provincial towns and
watering-places of the United Kingdom with "Ethel's Sacrifice," and she
reaped a golden harvest. When she came to town for the season she
scored a decided success, and all the leading Dailies joined in the
chorus of adulation. The fair Julia got a good round sum from the
photographers for the right to represent her in her four elaborate
costumes; the particular triumph of the sun-artist being the
representation of her nestling and clutching scene. Even the dramatic
critic of the great morning journal went into ecstasies over this.

"Mrs. Charmington," he said, "has made real progress. It has been the
fashion to go to see this lady from curiosity, but last night she scored
a genuine success in 'Ethel's Sacrifice,' a thrilling melodrama by
Messrs. Breitmann and Robinson, which was seen in London for the first
time. The house was crowded with the well-known faces so familiar to us
at all important _premieres_. In her great scene in the third act, Mrs.
Charmington took every one by surprise. Thoroughly spontaneous and
unaffected, quite free from staginess and straining after effect, the
audience thoroughly appreciated the genuine burst of feeling of the
young wife," and so on, and so on, for a column and a half.

Messrs. Breitmann and Robinson bowed their thanks to an enthusiastic
call; and Breitmann, his face wreathed in smiles and cracking his
fingers violently, as was his custom, whispered to his collaborator,
"She's only a 'mug,' after all, my boy, but I'm proud of her; it's the
nestling and clutching that fetched them." And then he went off to the
Convivial Cannibals, where he ate an enormous tripe supper, and was more
jovial and violent than ever.




  CHAPTER XII.

  IN ST. JOHN'S WOOD.


Lord Hetton was certainly a long-suffering man. It has been stated that
the temper of the mistress of Azalea Lodge was almost diabolical; there
was nothing the pair didn't quarrel over. I believe, originally, their
quarrels were about nothing at all, the mere disagreements of lovers
that are but a renewal of love; the best-tempered and most virtuous have
been known to fight even during their honey-moons: but it is a
dangerous practice, for use is second nature, and quarrelling, like
dram-drinking, grows upon one, and after a while becomes a necessity. I
verily believe had the inhabitants of Azalea Lodge not both been members
of the cultured classes that murder would have been done. But just as
they quarrelled, abused each other, and hurt each other's feelings as
much as possible, so they were each in the habit after a pitched battle
of leaving the field in possession of the victor.

On the very day that Mr. Parsons had left Matilda Street to proceed on
business to the Swiss Cottage, one of these numerous pitched battles had
taken place; the lady had been vanquished, and she, her maid, and her
jewel-case had left for Brighton by the evening train. Lord Hetton sat
alone and tried to do justice to a _recherche_ little dinner, but he
failed, for Hetton was jealous and unhappy; and as he looked at the
vacant chair opposite him, the triumphs of his undeniable cook turned to
Dead Sea apples in his mouth, for, in his mind's eye, he saw the
mistress of Azalea Lodge dining in solitary grandeur in the coffee-room
of a fashionable Brighton hotel, the cynosure of many an admiring eye.
Lord Hetton did not enjoy his dinner.

These two unfortunate people, if the truth be told, really did love each
other very sincerely. As has been said the lady was Lord Hetton's only
friend; of this she had given him very tangible proof in the hour of his
need, and on her part she owed everything she had in the world to his
lordship; but each of the pair was haunted by a special terror--the lady
by the fear that Lord Hetton might marry, his lordship by the dread that
the lady might actually carry out her frequent threat that the next time
she left him it would be never to return. Poor wretch, he would only
have been too glad to have married her, but that outraged society would
have been instantly vindicated by the stoppage of his allowance from the
old earl.

Lord Hetton sat and meditated by his study fire. "By Jove!" thought he,
"it would serve her right if I really did pay her off and married. I
ought to, if it were only to keep out that fellow Haggard and his
brats."

It was ten o'clock. Azalea Lodge was a well-regulated household. The
parlourmaid placed the spirit stand upon the table, and asked his
lordship if he had any further orders. Within half-an-hour the four
women servants of Azalea Lodge were fast asleep, and the thick
baize-covered door, which separated the servants' quarters from the rest
of the house, was securely fastened. And now Lord Hetton sat down to his
writing-table, and he wrote a letter to the solicitor of the mistress of
Azalea Lodge. This was the letter, which was short and to the point:

                    "Azalea Lodge.

    "SIR,

    "I shall be glad if you will call upon me here, as I am desirous
    of washing my hands of your client and of all the associations
    of this place.

                "Yours faithfully,
                    "HETTON."

Now Lord Hetton when he wrote this letter had not the slightest idea of
carrying out the threat contained in it; it was merely his way of
expressing his displeasure--the quickest means he knew of causing the
return of the fugitive from the seaside. It was upon the lines of this
letter that he composed a second epistle full of indignant
recrimination, in which he announced that this, the last rupture, must
be final. "I have long determined," he said, and he chuckled as he wrote
the words, "to shake myself free from what was after all but a boyish
infatuation at the commencement, an entanglement which I feel we both
have been anxious to terminate for some time. Your solicitor will inform
you that I have requested him to take the necessary steps." And as he
folded the letter and placed it in its envelope he smiled. "She'll get
it by the mid-day delivery to-morrow, if they post it the first thing in
the morning, and she'll probably come back in a towering passion by the
four express. I wish she was here now," he continued with a sigh. Lord
Hetton yawned, he looked at his watch, and then he stamped the letters
and laid them out for posting, but circumstances intervened which caused
those two letters not to leave Azalea Lodge.

Lord Hetton lighted his candle and went to bed. In half-an-hour he was
sound asleep, and a dead silence reigned in Azalea Lodge. The crickets
chirped merrily upon the hearth of the housemaid's pantry, where the
remains of a fire still smouldered. But what is that monotonous grating
sound which continues with mechanical regularity? It isn't a kettle
boiling, though it sounds rather like it, for there is an occasional
squeak and then the noise suddenly ceases altogether, only to recommence
again.

Mr. Parsons on reaching the Swiss Cottage had walked straight to Azalea
Lodge. He entered the front garden of the empty house next door to it,
which was still in the hands of the workmen. He flung his three-pronged
hook over the high wall which separated Azalea Lodge from the empty
house. Quickly, noiselessly, and without effort Mr. Parsons reached the
top of the wall; then he removed the three-pronged hook, fixed it on the
near side of the wall, and descended by means of the friendly rope
attached to it into the grounds of Azalea Lodge. He left the rope
hanging, for the return journey might possibly have to be accomplished
in a very hurried manner. When Mr. Parsons stood safely within the outer
defences of the fortress which he had assailed he proceeded to
deliberately remove his boots. The big list slippers which he put on
were perfectly noiseless; they are the professional foot coverings
common to the British thief and to the ghost of Hamlet's father. Then he
walked straight to the pantry window, and shading his eyes with his
hands, carefully took stock of the interior. Mr. Parsons lost no time;
and, skilled mechanic that he was, commenced his work at once. Gripping
his file firmly in both hands, and carefully lubricating its keen edge
with oil, he commenced operations vigorously upon the massive bar of
soft iron, which with five others protected the pantry window; the bar
was at least an inch in diameter and was quite seven feet long. It took
Mr. Parsons a good twenty minutes' hard work to cut through, and beads
of perspiration stood upon the brow of that clever operator long before
the job was finished. Mr. Parsons replaced his files in their special
receptacles in his many-pocketed coat, then he seized the
massive-looking bar just above where he had divided it, he placed a foot
against the window-ledge and tugged with all his might. It's easy enough
to bend a poker between the bars of a kitchen range; it is true that the
kitchen poker is not an inch in diameter, but then neither is it seven
feet long. Mr. Parsons wrenched away with a will, and soon the great bar
was bent almost to a right angle. Mr. Parsons slipped a small palette
knife between the sashes, but Azalea Lodge had been fitted up regardless
of expense, and the window-catch was a patent one which resisted the
efforts of Mr. Parsons; but that gentleman was equal to the occasion; he
took out a piece of diachylon plaister, apparently from the small of his
back, really from one of the numerous receptacles of his professional
coat; he carefully affixed and smoothed the plaister over the top centre
pane of the lower sash, and then he rapidly drew a glazier's diamond
round the pane. Spreading his left hand out upon the middle of the
plaister he struck a smart blow upon his fingers with his right fist; he
had smashed the window, but without noise--there was no crash or rattle
of falling glass. With deliberate care Mr. Parsons effected an opening
in the broken window, in a workmanlike manner, large enough to admit his
right hand, and then with a smile he gently opened Sharp's Patent Safety
window-catch. Mr. Parsons now raised the window-sash with ease, and,
taking his boots in his hand, effected his felonious entry, leaping
lightly and noiselessly into the room. Mr. Parsons placed his boots in
the fender to warm, for nothing is more unpleasant to a careful man than
the putting on of cold boots. And now Mr. Parsons proceeded to carefully
and deliberately wash his hands and to remove from them the grimy traces
of his honest labour; then he lighted a short piece of candle--the match
he used gave forth no warning sound. He examined the lock, the key was
in the door, the projecting end of it he seized with a pair of
peculiarly-made forceps, the key turned noiselessly and with ease. Mr.
Parsons ascended the kitchen stairs and proceeded straight to the
dining-room, for he was no vulgar thief to whom the contents of the
larder of Azalea Lodge would present attractions, but an industrious
tradesman and a keen man of business.

Mr. Parsons was occupied for at least half-an-hour in the dining-room,
for in the massive oak sideboard he found a good deal of portable
property; the patent locks soon yielded to his skilful attack, and the
spoons and forks were rapidly packed by him into the smallest possible
compass and placed in a bag of suitable size. But Mr. Parsons looked in
vain for any sign of the racing plate which had attracted his attention
upon his first visit to Azalea Lodge. He placed the bag containing the
plunder upon the hall table, and then, his lighted end of candle in his
hand, he ascended the stairs. When he reached the first floor he heard
the regular breathing of the sleeping Lord Hetton; he carefully removed
his lordship's boots from the mat and gently tried the door, blowing out
his candle as he did so, for the landing was illuminated by a flicker
of gas, and had his lordship awakened, the light would have betrayed the
intruder. The burglar entered the room without noise, and the heavy
breathing of the sleeper continued without intermission. Mr. Parsons
looked around him; his eyes at once alighted on the object of his
search; in a corner of the room stood a large safe of painted iron of
the most recent construction--Chubbs' Patent Safety. Mr. Parsons was
quite aware of what Chubbs' Patent Safety meant; he knew full well that
a Chubbs' safe would successfully withstand his attempts for a period of
twenty-four hours at least, and that picking the lock would be quite a
hopeless matter. But Mr. Parsons did not despond; he knew that owners of
safes generally keep the key upon their persons. He looked towards the
sleeper; upon a small table at the bedside lay his heavy gold Frodsham
chronograph, to the massive chain of which was attached a long slender
steel key. The burglar possessed himself of the watch and appendages,
knelt down in front of the safe, which yielded to the key, and in a few
moments the Toiler of the Night was busy with Lord Hetton's racing
trophies. There they lay, the glittering, precious baubles, the prizes
for which their owner had schemed ever since his early manhood, the
useless cups, vases, &c., which had cost their fortunate proprietor far
more than their weight in purest gold. The feelings of Mr. Parsons may
be better imagined than described; they must have somewhat resembled
those of Ali Baba when the treasures of the Forty Thieves first met his
astonished eye. Is it to be wondered at then that Mr. Parsons lost his
head for the moment, and that though his eyes were busily employed he
forgot to use his ears; he forgot to note that Lord Hetton's breathing,
which was a heavy snore when he entered the room, was now inaudible.

His lordship, who had been sleeping heavily, had not exactly awakened,
though had he been addressed at the moment he would probably have
answered coherently enough; the fact was that he had been sound asleep
and dreaming a pleasant dream, and in a state of semi-consciousness he
was trying to recall the delightful vision, but it was gone for ever,
and he appealed to his memory in vain. Lying perfectly still on his
back, his lordship half-opened his eyes, and they rested upon the top of
Mr. Parsons' head, which exactly intervened between them and an object
they were accustomed habitually to rest upon, namely, the bright gilded
handle of the Chubbs' safe. But the sleepy eyes closed again, and
reopening half mechanically sought the missing handle. Lord Hetton now
opened his eyes widely enough, and almost thoroughly awake stared,
without moving his head, in search of the accustomed object. He saw the
top of the safe, but he failed to discern the gay lines of green paint
and gilding which decorated the door; then it slowly dawned upon Lord
Hetton's mind that he was no longer dreaming, or even dozing, but that
he was almost wide awake, and that the door of his iron safe was open.
And then his lordship became seriously alarmed. Not that he was by any
means a coward, but it is alarming to awaken from one's tranquil
slumbers and to feel that one may have to fight for one's life and
property against possible unknown odds, and without one's clothes. A man
may feel very brave indeed with his boots on, but take away his clothes
and it considerably reduces his courage. As Lord Hetton became gradually
thoroughly wide awake, he grew alive to the fact, not only that the safe
door was open, but that (what the Divorce Court calls) "a person
unknown" was tampering with its contents. Now perhaps the most prudent
thing that Lord Hetton could have done would have been to have gone to
sleep again, but it never for one moment occurred to his mind to allow
himself to be robbed with impunity. Thoroughly awake at last, Lord
Hetton could with difficulty contain his rage, and it was only by a
powerful exertion of his own will that he did restrain himself from
rushing from his bed and attacking the intruder with his naked fists.
But, he reflected, the thief or thieves were probably armed; he
remembered too that there was no assistance to be obtained in the house
itself, and that there was no means of arousing the neighbourhood. And
then Lord Hetton's mind, which was a cool one, came to a determination.
Very slowly indeed, and perfectly silently, Lord Hetton gradually
stretched out his arm from the bed towards the little table upon which
his watch had lain; but it was not upon the top of the table that his
extended fingers attempted to grasp the object which they sought, but on
a ledge several inches beneath. On that ledge lay a loaded six-chamber
revolver. His lordship's fingers gradually closed upon the butt of the
weapon, gradually and noiselessly he raised it, and with his thumb he
proceeded to cock it.

There was an ominous click.

His lordship sprang from the bed, pistol in hand.

The man Parsons started to his feet with equal celerity, and the two men
stood glaring at each other.

There was an appreciable instance of silence, and each of the
adversaries could hear the loud beating of his own heart.

"You infernal villain, if you don't surrender, I'll blow your brains
out," hissed his lordship.

The burglar made no reply, but placed his right hand in his bosom, and
in an instant his keen cruel sheath knife was raised high above his
head, and without a word, like an infuriated tiger, he rushed upon the
sporting nobleman.

Lord Hetton pulled the trigger, there was a sharp click, that was all.
His lordship swore a bitter oath, as it flashed through his mind that in
his excitement of rage and indignation he had forgotten to withdraw the
safety catch.

There was no time to do it now, for the burglar was upon him. Hetton
struck the man furiously in the face with the butt of the pistol, but
the thief succeeded in avoiding the full force of the blow, and used his
knife with murderous dexterity. The pistol dropped from his lordship's
failing hand, each man had the other by the throat, and the thief
continued to mercilessly hack and stab, for he knew that he was fighting
for liberty, and even life. Gradually he forced his victim down upon the
floor, he placed his knee upon his chest, and tightened his cruel grip
upon the throat of the fallen man. They still glared at each other and
struggled on in horrid silence, but gradually the convulsive clutch of
Lord Hetton's fingers relaxed, the glare of rage and hate disappeared
from his eyes, and its place was taken by a dull leaden stare. For Lord
Hetton was dead.

But not for several minutes did the burglar relax his grip of the dead
man's throat; and then it dawned upon him that he was a murderer, that
in a few short hours justice would be upon his track; and he shuddered
with mingled horror and remorse as he mechanically wiped the blade of
his knife between his fingers, ere he returned it to its sheath.

The man Parsons had been cool and collected enough before, but now he
trembled, and he hurried out upon the landing with anxiety, to listen if
there was any movement in the house. The struggle had been fierce, but
there had been no noise. The murderer was considerably reassured, as he
marked the dead silence that reigned in the place, and then he turned
again towards the door of the fatal bedroom. He hesitated to enter it,
for the wretch, though full of brute courage, feared to look again upon
the face of the victim he had done to death. But there was nothing else
for it; he entered the room in fear and trepidation, he gathered up his
plunder with a shaking hand, and carefully secured it in a Gladstone bag
which lay in the dressing-room; on it were the initials of the master of
Azalea Lodge. Last of all he thrust the watch and chain of the murdered
man into his pocket; then he looked upon the ground and saw with horror
the marks of his own guilty foot-prints in hideous red blurs upon the
gay carpet. He removed his tell-tale felt slippers, and the bag in one
hand, the slippers in the other, and holding the end of the bit of
candle which he had re-lighted high above his head, he regained the
hall. He carefully placed the little parcel which he had left upon the
hall table in the bag, and stuffing a sheep's skin mat and the
blood-stained slippers in as well, he succeeded in deadening the
jangling noise made by the plate. He snatched down an Inverness cape
which hung in the hall and flung it over his arm, and on tiptoe he
gained the housemaid's pantry in safety; he put on his boots and washed
his blood-stained hands. Then he strode down the garden of Azalea Lodge,
carrying in his hand the rope and three-pronged hook by which he had
entered the premises. He scaled several walls with cat-like celerity,
and then secreted himself among the shrubs of the front garden of a
house in a main road of St. John's Wood. From this hiding-place he saw
with satisfaction the infrequent policeman pass on his nocturnal round;
then he put on the Inverness cape, which gave him a rather distinguished
appearance, and walked boldly forth, carrying his Gladstone bag. He
hailed the first hansom he met and drove to Charing Cross; there he took
another cab to Matilda Street. He dismissed the man at the corner, and
reached his lair.

Here the man Parsons disappears from our story. Early dawn saw him on
board the Antwerp boat, and he reached the Continent in safety. No doubt
he had his reward, in this world or the next.

And so Lord Hetton died, unlamented save by his lonely old father at
Walls End Castle and by the woman who firmly believed that the very last
determination of his life had been to cast her off as a worn-out garment
and to "wash his hands" of her for ever. Save to these two persons, and
to those who had had the misfortune to back Lord Hetton's nomination for
the coming Derby, his death made no difference to anybody. We have
forgotten Reginald Haggard; he, lucky fellow, of course benefited, for
it brought him one step nearer to the Pit Town title.

It was after all but a vulgar tragedy, though it made considerable noise
at the time.

When, in the early morning, the housemaid at Azalea Lodge found her
pantry door unlocked, she was alarmed; and when she saw that the window
was open and that one of the protecting iron bars had been wrenched
aside, she very nearly fainted. In her tribulation she hurried to her
fellow servants and informed them of her startling discovery. The four
women were terribly frightened, and it was only after a considerable
amount of persuasion that the cook consented to put on her bonnet and go
in search of the police. While she was absent the three other women
fortified themselves in the kitchen and awaited her return in fear and
trembling. Constable Bulger, 130 D, was soon upon the scene; he examined
the pantry window from the outside, he looked very wisely indeed at the
foot-prints in the soft gravel path, and directed that they should
remain undisturbed; and then he entered the house and proceeded to
interrogate the servants.

"Anything missing, ladies?" he said.

No, nothing was missing in the basement, and the policeman and the
frightened maids ascended to the hall, where the parlourmaid instantly
detected the absence of the Inverness cape.

"There's more gone than that, miss," said Constable Bulger. "They don't
effect a forcible entry now-a-days for the sake of a coat or two; we'd
better look in the dining-room."

The parlourmaid flung open the shutters and drew up the blinds, letting
in the bright sunshine. As the girl turned from the window she gave a
succession of eldritch screams and went off into violent hysterics; for
she saw that the doors of the massive sideboard were standing wide open
and that the empty plate-basket lay upon the floor. Constable Bulger was
perfectly satisfied in his own mind that the parlourmaid, at all events,
had had nothing to do with the burglary which had evidently been
committed. For portly 130 D prided himself, and perhaps with some
justice, on his intimate knowledge of the ways of women. He knew
perfectly well that the dreadful laugh was not simulated, and he was
quite aware of the appropriate remedies.

"Let her lie flat on the floor, ma'am," he said to the cook, "and just
you run for a little water, miss, and be spry," was his command to the
frightened housemaid, who, pale as ashes, was standing in the doorway.
"Is his lordship at home?" said Bulger. "I'd better see him at once.
Just run up and say I am here," added he.

But not one of the women stirred; all three redoubled their assiduities
to the recovering parlourmaid, but each firmly declined to quit the
dining-room, on the ground that "it wasn't a woman's place."

"Just keep your eye on the roadway, one of you," said the constable,
"the sergeant'll be passing directly, and if you see him you'd better
call to him."

And then Constable Bulger undid the button of his truncheon case, not
that he expected to find any one on the premises, but it was as well to
be prepared for the worst, and he then ascended the stairs. One of the
bedroom doors was wide open, and a horrid sight met his astonished eyes.

On the floor lay the murdered master of Azalea Lodge. The face looked
like a waxen mask; the lips were bloodless and of an ashen grey,
slightly parted, leaving the regular teeth of the dead man painfully
apparent. The eyes were wide open and had a terror-stricken look; but
the hands were clenched. The dead man lay in a pool of blood, with which
his white nightdress was stained in many places.

The constable drew his truncheon, looked under the bed and into the
dressing-room; a glance at the open safe told him that it had been
rifled. Then, without in the slightest degree disturbing the dead man
or his surroundings, the constable left the room, locking the door and
placing the key in his pocket. He made a perfunctory search through the
rest of the house, though he knew full well that the murderer had fled;
and as he descended the stairs and rejoined the frightened women, his
sergeant, whom the cook had hailed from the dining-room window, appeared
upon the scene.

In a whisper Bulger communicated to him what had taken place; but while
he was yet speaking shrieks and cries were heard from the dining-room.
Both men hurriedly entered it. The parlourmaid, mad with terror, was
struggling with the other women.

"They have murdered him," she shrieked. "Oh God! they have murdered
him," she reiterated, as she pointed to a great pink stain upon the
ceiling.

There was no need to break to them the dreadful news now. The girl
continued to shriek and point at the awful stain for some minutes, and
then went off in a dead faint.

All that morning a little crowd stopped to whisper and point at Azalea
Lodge. In vain a special policeman entreated them to move on; they
merely passed over to the other side to point and whisper in mingled
excitement and curiosity. The red-coated newsvendors did a thriving
trade in the neighbourhood on that day.

"Special edition. Frightful murder of a nobleman by burglars. Flight of
the murderers. Further horrible details." The red-coated men's harvest
was a precarious one, and they made the most of it; they even succeeded
in selling some of their papers at a shilling a-piece. But the
purchasers were disappointed, for though the newspaper reporters had
swelled their description of what they called "The Tragedy in High Life
in St. John's Wood," into two columns of leaded type, yet nothing more
was to be gained from it all than that the heir to the Pit Town title
had been brutally murdered by a midnight thief, that the assassin had
escaped with his plunder, and as yet had succeeded in baffling the
efforts of the police.

Ere nightfall every police station in the metropolis displayed a
hand-bill headed by the startling word "MURDER," in big black letters,
and offering a reward for the apprehension of a man wearing an Inverness
cape and carrying a Gladstone bag. For days the police stations were
besieged by anxious informers, desirous to give information about men
with Gladstone bags and Inverness capes. Both cabmen came forward, and
the murderer was traced as far as Matilda Street, but here the scent
failed utterly; and though the old lord offered a further and larger
reward, and smug-looking men, in slop clothes and billycock hats, hung
about Matilda Street at all hours of the day and night, yet they failed
to come upon any trace of Lord Hetton's murderer.

Twelve good men and true, his lordship's butcher, baker and candlestick
maker and nine others of the same kidney, found a verdict of "Wilful
Murder;" and two days after the inquest the body of the unhappy nobleman
was conveyed to Walls End Castle and interred with due pomp in the
family vault. The old lord, Mr. Haggard of the Home Office and Reginald
Haggard, followed it to the grave.

Mr. Haggard had had a rather painful interview with a lady dressed in
deep mourning in the dining-room of Azalea Lodge, on the morning of the
removal of his lordship's body. The lady's grief was evidently
unfeigned. When Mr. Haggard had informed her that the dead man had left
her all he had to give, she was in no way consoled, and merely continued
to sob and wring her hands in the bitterness of her grief.

A fortnight afterwards Azalea Lodge was in the hands of an auctioneer.
The first-rate modern furniture, by Gillow, was eagerly inspected by the
curious, and fetched fancy prices. Six months afterwards Lord Hetton's
very existence was forgotten, save by his father and a lady dressed in
deep mourning, who gambled with feverish energy at Monte Carlo, vainly
striving, poor thing, in that way to drown the remembrance of the past.

The wicked man's epitaph, as a rule, may be generally appropriately
written in the pithy words "He was, and is not." Like a stone dropped
into the water he disappears and leaves no trace.


    END OF VOL. II.


PRINTED BY
KELLY AND CO., GATE STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS, W.C.;
AND MIDDLE MILL, KINGSTON-ON-THAMES.




      *      *      *      *      *




Transcriber's note:

Most of the apparent printers' errors have been retained. A few have
been changed, including the one listed below.

Line 3920 in Chapter X where a comma was inserted in the phrase 'he
would secure the competence he had yearned for, for so many years'.



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