The Pit Town Coronet Volume I Part 1

The Pit Town Coronet.

Volume I.

by Charles James Wills.

CHAPTER 1.

IN THE ROSE GARDEN.

Big Reginald Haggard had been exceedingly attentive to the elder of two very pretty girls of the name of Warrender. Both families came from the eastern counties. The Warrenders had inhabited The Warren, or at all events the older portion of the house, for nearly four centuries. They were harmless people. They manfully stuck to their ancestral acres of fat Ess.e.x land. The present head of the family farmed the greater part of the estate himself, as his fathers had done before him. Many a Warrender had held the rich living of King's Warren, and the parson, whoever he might be, and the reigning Squire Warrender were always the two greatest men in King's Warren village and parish.

In the rather old-fas.h.i.+oned garden at The Warren sat a young lady, an open book upon her lap; the book was not a novel, it was an argumentative work, a book which dealt with the social problems of the day. But, alas! the book which Georgina Warrender had brought out with the serious intention of reading, for the Warrenders of either s.e.x, though always soft-hearted, were a hard-headed race, lay upside down upon her lap. The fact is that she was weighing a man in the balance, an interesting occupation for a lady, and, alas! finding him a little wanting. Georgie Warrender had received a great deal of attention during the London season. Her people were well-to-do, the ancestral freeholds were unenc.u.mbered, her family was eminently respectable and well known, her connections unimpeachable; but Miss Warrender's princ.i.p.al attraction to those who had the privilege of her acquaintance outside the world of b.a.l.l.s, dinner parties and musical evenings, was the st.u.r.dy open-heartedness of her character, which often distinguishes well brought-up young ladies who have been reared in an atmosphere at once intelligent and healthy, but not ultra-intellectual. Miss Warrender had no craze. She played and sang sufficiently well, but not well enough to be a terror to the home circle. She drew and sketched, as a pastime, but she had no desire to compete with professional artists, nor was her conversation interlarded with the jargon of the craft. Her reading had been carefully directed by her governess, Miss Hood, who had remained to discharge the onerous duties of chaperon, guide, philosopher, and, above all, friend to Georgie Warrender and her cousin Lucy.

Lucy Warrender was Georgie's cousin on the father's side. Colonel Warrender, as the younger brother, was naturally intended for the family living of King's Warren. But fiery young George Warrender declined the Church altogether, so he was sent to Hailybury, and then he became a soldier of John Company, and was soon known as Fighting George Warrender, and by dint of following his own bent attained the colonelcy of a native regiment. Then he had a good determined shake at the paG.o.da tree. And then he made a fool of himself, for just as he had come down to Bombay, having made up his mind to take two years' leave, he was smitten by the blonde beauty of a newly-imported "spin," fresh from the boarding-school; and being an impulsive man, Colonel George Warrender married the little boarding-school miss, and changed his mind about his furlough. Within a year his daughter Lucy was born. And then the cholera came to Bebreabad, swept off Colonel Warrender and his pale-faced child-wife; and the little Lucy, his orphan daughter, came home at once in charge of an ayah in the Company's s.h.i.+p "Lord Clive." On her arrival Squire Warrender pitied the little misery, as she was called by everybody, and treated her as his own daughter. There was but two years'

difference between the girls, and they looked upon each other as sisters. The squire's wife had died within a year of his daughter's birth, so that practically neither of the cousins had ever known a mother's care. Squire Warrender's wife had been a local beauty, and her portrait, which hung in Mr. Warrender's study, represented a loveliness of no common type.

Both the girls rode well, but neither was horsey nor doggy. One of the greatest attractions in everybody's eyes about Georgie Warrender was her openness; she never had a secret from Miss Hood, her father, or her cousin. In fact, secrecy was foreign to her nature. As to her appearance, she was a fine, well-developed, thoroughly English girl, fully justifying the raptures and rhapsodies of her numerous admirers.

But it is not with her appearance that we are at present concerned, but with the subject of her meditations.

That subject was a serious one, for in her pocket was a formal proposal from Reginald Haggard, whom she had known as "Big Reginald Haggard" from her childhood. It is probably an axiom that every English girl, under ordinary circ.u.mstances, accepts her first offer; the reason of this is not very manifest, but it is nevertheless a fact, and its being a fact is doubtless one of the causes of the numerous ill-a.s.sorted matches that constantly take place. But Miss Warrender, now twenty years of age, had been an exception to the rule. During her first and successful London season, now just over, she had refused three serious offers. The first was from an impecunious young barrister, who had attained some repute in the literary world, and had very nearly killed himself in the process.

Mr. Baliol had admired Miss Warrender, had made careful inquiries as to her father's position, had discovered that the two girls would probably be the old man's heiresses, and had promptly proposed to Georgie. He had been as promptly refused. Mr. Baliol was in no wise disconcerted. He immediately proceeded to dedicate his new novel, "A Woman's Fickle Heart," "to Miss G---- W----, in token of respectful admiration." Baliol scored another success at the circulating libraries, and at once ceased to trouble himself any more about Miss G---- W----.

Georgina's second proposal was of a more serious nature. Young Lord Spunyarn had made her an offer. Lord Spunyarn desired an ornamental wife. To him the ideal Lady Spunyarn was a young person respectably connected, good-tempered, and of prepossessing appearance. Not one iota did Spunyarn care for money, birth or brains; of money he had plenty and to spare: as to birth, was he not Lord Spunyarn? as to brains, clever women were considered bores by his lords.h.i.+p. The young n.o.bleman liked Georgie Warrender, and he liked her people. Though rejected, rather to his astonishment, it made no difference in his friends.h.i.+p with the family. "It's an awful bore, you know. Unluckily they all know it at the club--I mean that I was going to make you an offer--and I heard that one of the society journals had the announcement of our engagement already in type. You see, I was to have dined here to-morrow. If you don't mind, I'll come all the same." He did come, did full justice to the dinner, sat next to Georgie, whom he took down, and the pair, thoroughly heartwhole, had a great deal to say to each other.

Georgina's next experience was of a more comic character; her conquest was no longer a n.o.bleman, but a "n.o.ble." Jones di Monte-Ferrato was a Maltese n.o.ble. He possessed certain rights of n.o.bility in the island, his income was derived from the sale of Maltese oranges; in fact he was the t.i.tular head of Jones and Co., the well-known fruit house of Thames Street. In Thames Street, Jones di Monte-Ferrato said nothing about his n.o.bility, he was "our Mr. Jones." But on his visiting cards was a portentous crown, and Jones di Monte-Ferrato habitually wore a coloured _boutonniere_ in his frock coat; being red, this decoration was popularly supposed to be the Legion of Honour: it had been purchased however, and purchased cheaply, from the Pope. Jones' n.o.bility carried him far in Maida Vale and Bayswater. Needless to tell, Miss Warrender would have nothing to say to him.

To say that Georgie Warrender was perfectly heartwhole as she unfolded Haggard's letter, is nothing but the truth. Of course she liked young Haggard, but so did every one. Haggard had enjoyed an extraordinary popularity. Related as he was to the Earl of Pit Town, he was a welcome guest in the best houses. He had been a dancing man, and could dance well, was exceedingly good-looking, and consequently a catch at the small and earlies and also at more elaborate entertainments. When a very young man he had been a detrimental, having rapidly dissipated his little fortune. Penniless, he went to America; in eight years he returned, well off, as good-looking as ever, and with the possibility, the extremely unlikely possibility, of one day succeeding to the earldom of Pit Town. There are some men who always fall on their feet, some men for whom fortune is never tired of turning up trumps; Haggard was one of these men. When it is said that Haggard was a man of the world in its broadest sense, nothing remains to tell. If he had a religion at all it was the wors.h.i.+p of his own dear self. Big Reginald remembered Georgie Warrender as a chit of twelve; he met her again one of the brightest ornaments of London society; he heard her spoken of there as handsome Miss Warrender; and just as he would have longed for a very valuable hunter to carry his sixteen stone to hounds, so he desired to obtain Georgie's hand; because without doubt she was the handsomest, healthiest, pleasantest and most unexceptionable girl it had ever been his good fortune to come across.

The letter seemed honest enough, it was short and to the point.

"DEAR MISS WARRENDER,

"You will probably not be surprised at my addressing you on a subject important to us both. We have known each other since the time when you were a little girl and I was a big bad boy. I don't trouble you with business matters, but I have spoken to Mr. Warrender and fully satisfied him on that head. It is with his approbation that I ask you to become my wife. I know that the very remote possibility of a coronet will not weigh with you, but I do think you ought to let it count against my disadvantages. You will get this at breakfast time. I shall ride over about eleven to urge my suit in person; may I hope that your good nature will spare me the negative I doubtless deserve, and that you will give me a chance?

"Yours very affectionately,

"REGINALD HAGGARD."

As Georgie replaced the letter in its envelope she blushed; had Haggard been indifferent to her she would not have hung out this signal of distress. It is impossible to follow the course of reasoning of a woman's mind. Georgie Warrender was no raw girl to be caught by the mere good looks of big Reginald. But first impressions go a great way; she remembered the young fellow in the reckless daring of his first youth; she remembered, too, her feeling of pity when she heard of the prodigal's banishment to a far country to feed the proverbial swine.

Georgie remembered, too, the triumphant return of that prodigal some six months ago. She had been pleased at the prodigal's attentions, and she knew that many girls, of far greater social pretensions than her own, would willingly have accepted the addresses of the bronzed, curly-headed giant with the big moustache. Perhaps she would have been wiser had she taken counsel with Miss Hood, or had she deliberated more calmly. But Georgie was a self-reliant girl. Even now she heard the measured tread of her lover's hack as he trotted up to the hall door of The Warren. She looked at her watch, it wanted five minutes of the hour. Miss Warrender smiled at her lover's excessive punctuality; his impatience boded well she thought.

Another instant and he is striding down the path of the rose garden; a happy look is on his face, though it is slightly pale with suppressed excitement. Georgie Warrender's pink roses attain a damask hue as she rises to greet him.

Fortune, fickle G.o.ddess, still befriends her favourite. There was no outward sign of hesitation or diffidence about Haggard, as he held out his hand to Miss Warrender.

"It's very good of you to see me; I'm afraid I don't deserve it," he said, seating himself beside her on the rustic bench, and, man-like, commencing to bore holes in the gravel with the stout ash-plant which he carried. Youth and maid decorously continued to gaze upon the ground and to critically study their own foot coverings. Haggard was a man who looked well in any dress, but the grey tweed suit which he wore, the artistic bit of red of his loosely-tied sailor's knot, his big grey felt hat, his leggings also of tweed, even his stout but well-made lace-up boots seem to give the young giant the needful halo of romance. This, the usual morning dress of a young English gentleman in the country, is what is generally selected as the costume of the hero of an Adelphi drama, when that wonderful young man is discovered in his virtuous home prior to the commencement of his numerous sufferings and hair-breadth escapes. As for Georgie, the conventional French muslin set off her faultless figure, a large Leghorn hat protected her delicate complexion from the sun's rays, her magnificent hair was worn in the rather severe Grecian style, but then the big plait at the back was all her own, and the bronze chestnut locks, tightly strained as they were around her head, disclosed the small sh.e.l.l-like ear, that sign of breeding which it is impossible to counterfeit. Probably Georgie Warrender had been right when, as a girl, she had declined to have those pretty ears pierced. If we accept the hypothesis that beauty unadorned is adorned the most, then Georgie in her native loveliness was, indeed, highly decorated. But she was nervous in this formal _tete-a-tete_; this showed itself in her heightened colour, which was still maintained, and in the occasional movement of her delicately fas.h.i.+oned little bronze shoes. As Sir John Suckling said long ago:

"Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice peeped in and out, As though they feared the light."

The quotation is somewhat hackneyed, perhaps; but it ran through Reginald Haggard's mind, as he prodded his stick into the gravel.

"I'm afraid, Miss Warrender, that I have betrayed you into a _tete-a-tete_. Your father wished me luck, and told me I should find you here, while your cousin informed me that we should be _quite_ undisturbed. May I hope that you will give me a chance; that possibly, after a time, I may not altogether be indifferent to you, Georgie?"

Again the rosy flush mantled on the girl's tell-tale cheek. Haggard continued, "Of course you have seen, dear Georgie, that I have been very hard hit this season, for a lazy ne'er-do-weel like myself to dance attendance at every entertainment that Miss Warrender graced with her presence, must have made the state of my affections pretty manifest I suppose. We have known each other a long time. I have never done anything mean or dirty that I know of, Georgie. Of course I was a young fool, and kicked up my heels as young fools do. But I think I have had all the nonsense knocked out of me. My roving life in Mexico and my chase after the almighty dollar have sobered me. Can you trust me, Georgie? I'll be good to you, upon my word I will. Good to you and proud of you, if you'll only give me the chance. You are too clever for me to attempt to argue you into it. But, dear Georgie, I love you as I never loved any woman breathing, and not with the mere pa.s.sing fancy of a boy.

I have seen the world and a good deal of life, the gilded and the seamy sides. Tell me, Georgie. May I hope? Will you give me a chance?"

Georgie looked into his eyes and smiled. He had spoken it trippingly on the tongue, though seemingly spontaneous, it had been well thought out; for Haggard was an actor, a leading gentleman, well experienced in lovers' _roles_. It is not meant by this that Haggard was what the old song calls a "star-breasted villain." But Georgie Warrender was not by any means his first love. Haggard looked upon Georgie as a valuable acquisition; from the physical point of view she was the finest, freshest, fairest girl he had come across. And he coveted her as an amateur covets a picture; that it may belong to him, and that others may fruitlessly desire his pearl of great price. True, no sordid consideration influenced Haggard. Can we call this love? Let us be charitable and do so. But we will also be just and qualify. It was love of the nineteenth century, of the society type.

"You pay me a great compliment, Mr. Haggard, a very undeserved compliment. I cannot pretend to be taken by surprise, for, as you say, your attentions _have_ been very marked. What am I to say to you? With a girl it is a very serious matter; for once we give our hearts, at least some of us, Mr. Haggard, we give them for good and all. A mistake once made, in our case, cannot be set right. Our affections once given away to a man, and perhaps afterwards flung aside, then leave us with nothing to bestow but our miserable selves. Are you quite sure you have made up your mind, and that you won't want to change it?" she said, looking up archly in his face.

But his teeth were set, and the muscles of his ma.s.sive jaw were working hard, as he gazed intently on the gravel at his feet. It was evidently no laughing matter with Haggard. The muscles of his jaw had worked in a similar way only a week ago, when he stood on the grand stand at Epsom, and saw the favourite, whom he had backed heavily, almost "collared" on the post; but the favourite had won, and Dark Despair had failed to land the odds of sixty to one laid against him. So had the muscles of Reginald Haggard's jaw worked when he had "bluffed" Don Emmanuel Garcia at the almost historical game of poker, which they had played at Chihuahua. Haggard had only held knave high, about as small a hand as a poker player can hold; he had successfully "bluffed" the Mexican, and won. He is bluffing now, for hearts are trumps at the game that is being played; and we, who look over the cards of both hands, can see that big Reginald's at least is a poor one. Will he win? Of course he will. What chance has Georgie Warrender against so experienced a player? The stakes were Haggard's before he had cut or shuffled the cards.

"Sure, Georgie? of course I'm sure. I may hope, then? I may dare to hope?"

Wise man as he was, he carried the place by a determined rush. He took her hand in his, the taper little fingers were not withdrawn.

"Georgie, darling, how can I thank you? I am not good at this sort of thing."

If he had not attained perfection in the art of love, it was certainly not for want of practice; for if the truth be told, the big Lothario habitually made love to every pretty woman he met; and if there was no pretty woman, then to the least unprepossessing one of those present.

The rest of the conversation went on much as such conversations usually do. Haggard swore eternal constancy. Georgie confessed that she "supposed she did care for him." But this modified sympathy did not satisfy Haggard; he pleaded for something more explicit.

"I have always liked you, Mr. Haggard," she said, for Georgie could not yet bring herself to address her lover by his Christian name; "but I fear I must seem a very poor creature after all the das.h.i.+ng South-American beauties, to say nothing of the many recognized successes of the past season."

"But you were the success of the past season, Georgie. Everybody knows it. Why, they raved about you. You must know very well that Madame Hortense made a little fortune with the 'Warrender' hat."

"Ah, that was Lucy's idea, not mine, Mr. Haggard."

"A very charming idea, Georgie, but never so charming as when you wore it."

Georgie Warrender rose and made him a low courtesy. "I see you deal in sugared compliments," she said.

He got up and offered his arm.

The hideous and sn.o.bbish custom of taking a lady's arm had not then been invented. And to do him justice, even if it had, Haggard was too much of a gentleman to have attempted it. For customs borrowed from the habits of the _demi monde_ would have been sadly out of place with a girl like Georgie Warrender. With her cousin it might have been different; but with Georgie the thing would have been impossible.

As the extent of his own good luck began to dawn upon Haggard, he felt that the world had indeed gone very well with him; for as he had marched down the walk of the old-fas.h.i.+oned rose garden that morning, for the first time in his life he had felt diffident of success; for the first time in his life he now vowed in his fickle mind to be true to the smiling girl who, in the bright glamour of a first love, hung so confidingly on his arm. Of course he vowed eternal constancy. At lovers'

perjuries they say Jove laughs, and well might the whole Olympian chorus have joined in the loud guffaw with which the king of all the G.o.ds doubtlessly greeted the protestations of Fortune's favourite. As each drank deep draughts of the subtle poison from the other's eyes, their glances grew brighter, and they were only awakened from the dream that comes to us all, at least once in our lifetimes, by the imperious clash of the luncheon-bell. Old Mr. Warrender and Lucy appeared upon the lawn, and the broad smile on her father's face and Lucy's merry laugh told the happy pair that they might spare any explanation. Georgie, in the pride of her honest love, disdained to take her hand from the young man's arm.

With womanly dignity she advanced to meet her delighted father. He kissed her on the forehead, and then the blus.h.i.+ng girl took refuge in her cousin's affectionate embrace.

"Be good to her, my boy," said Squire Warrender, his honest voice a little broken as he thought of the old days of his own too short-lived happiness, and of the proud dead beauty, Georgie's mother. It was a short speech, but it rang in Reginald Haggard's ears for many a year.

Will he be good to her? He should be. If not good to her, surely Reginald Haggard will be less than a dog.

CHAPTER II.

THE CROQUET PARTY.