The Pit Town Coronet Volume Ii Part 9

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! s.h.i.+rtings, 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.suredly 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 d.i.c.k 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 princ.i.p.al 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 pract.i.tioner 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 un.o.bjectionable persons, one of those single-minded individuals, whose life is pa.s.sed 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-wors.h.i.+p. 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 pa.s.sed 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-coloured 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. Circ.u.mstances compelled me to leave the service of Mr. Haggard while you and madame were at the Villa Lambert. I have now, madame, to trespa.s.s on your kindness, in asking you to a.s.sist 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 cla.s.s 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.