The Pit Town Coronet Volume Ii Part 4

"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 a.s.sured, 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 lavis.h.i.+ng 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 ign.o.ble 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 cla.s.s 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 m.u.f.fled 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 pa.s.s 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 a.s.sumed 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 sc.r.a.p 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 crus.h.i.+ng 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 ma.s.sy 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 impa.s.sive 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 cla.s.s 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.