CHAPTER II.
THE CROQUET PARTY.
Everybody agreed that the day had been a success. The lawn at The Warrenwas an ideal croquet-lawn, large, level, and daisyless. It was an oldlawn, and was carefully watered. What better place, then, for the localtournament to be fought out upon, than the old lawn at The Warren.
At last the final game has been played. The day had been excessivelywarm. Everybody was sitting in the shade discussing the claret-cup, thesyllabubs, the strawberries and cream, and the home-made confectionery,that were so freely pressed upon the large and rather miscellaneousassemblage which filled the old-fashioned grounds of Diggory Warrender.The owner of this archaic name we have met for an instant in thepreceding chapter. He was a hale old country gentleman, a J.P. for hiscounty, and universally liked. Perhaps there was more of the yeoman thanthe squire about old Mr. Warrender. Though he farmed many acres, yet hedid so at a profit, strange to say. But perhaps this is hardly to bewondered at when it is remembered that the acres were his own, and thatconsequently there was no rent to pay.
Mr. Warrender, who rather scorned claret-cup, was about to discuss themerits of a foaming tankard of home-brewed ale. The ale was good;perhaps it tasted the better to old Warrender as he drank it from thesilver tankard of the time of Charles I., which bore the name and armsof his ancestor, Diggory Warrender, _armiger_, of that epoch.
"Won't you try some, Lord Spunyarn?" old Warrender said; "It has made methe man I am," and certainly this statement was a flaming testimonialto the merits of the Warren ale; for old Warrender, who stood six feetin his socks, seemed to be all muscle, while his white and perfectteeth, he being a man of sixty-five, proved that, at all events as yet,physical decay had not set in, in the master of The Warren.
But Lord Spunyarn shook his head as he signed to the butler to give himwhat he termed a B. and S.
"Beer is too bulky for me, Warrender," said the spindle-shankednobleman, as he stretched out his shapely but rather shaky hand for thepanacea. "I object to bulk, Warrender, on principle; it is my terror ofbecoming a welterweight that made me go in for athletics. Why, look atmy father, and they had to make a hole in the wall to get mygrandfather's coffin out of the house. No, Warrender, mind and muscleare my strong points."
And so they were in Lord Spunyarn's own idea. Spunyarn was perpetuallyin training. He was ever matched against somebody, or against that verysuccessful competitor, Father Time. But Spunyarn was never "fit," to usea sporting term. Naturally of a weakly constitution, his originally punyform had been carefully educated and developed at the great publicschool where athletics, "tone," and Latin verse, are the only subjectsseriously taught. Spunyarn had failed to catch the "tone," Latin versewas a closed book to him, but he stuck to athletics. The name of LordSpunyarn was constantly to be seen in the sporting prints, and thoughSpunyarn pluckily struggled along, coming in last in the foot races,being knocked about in the middle-weight boxing matches (knockings aboutwhich, to his credit it must be said, he bore with the patience of amartyr), yet, with all his sufferings, no single trophy as yet adornedLord Spunyarn's rooms in Jermyn Street.
To-day Spunyarn had been beaten in the croquet tournament, and hispartner had put down their united failure to the presence of LordSpunyarn, while Spunyarn himself when they were beaten simply remarked,"Great mistake not taking the matutinal B. and S., you know." Thishardly consoled the smart young lawyer, his lordship's partner, for hisday's loss of time, his hotel bill, and his new and elaborate morningkit; still, he had had the honour of playing with a lord.
But metal more attractive soon compelled Spunyarn's attention, for hiseyes fell upon the two pretty Warrender girls as they tripped towardsthe aged host, both hanging on the willing arms of the new Essex lion,Reggie Haggard.
Big Reginald Haggard was the ideal of the country maiden. He was nothideously beautiful, as it has become the fashion to depict the heroesof modern romance. It may at once be said that Haggard was undeniablygood-looking. His long black moustache gave him, in the eyes of theladies assembled at The Warren, the necessary romantic air. What isvery much to the point in such matters was the fact that he was alsoextremely well dressed. He had the military neatness without themilitary swagger, and for the first time in his life Haggard's well-cutclothes were paid for, to the unspeakable pleasure and astonishment ofhis tailor. For Reginald Haggard, who eight years ago had left thepaternal mansion an expatriated black sheep, had returned a man ofcomparative wealth. Turned loose a mere boy in London, his money hadbeen spent, as young men about town usually spend their money. Thatyoung but very fashionable club, the Pandemonium, that club which has anoyster cellar in its basement, which keeps open all night, and at whichshilling cigars are _de rigueur_, had been the cause of most of youngHaggard's embarrassments. At the Pandemonium Haggard had made theacquaintance of Captains Spotstroke and Pool, half-pay; thatacquaintance had naturally proved expensive. Bets were made and paid.Haggard was introduced to the bill-discounting fraternity, and had evenlunched with the great Hyam Hyams; which fact shows how deep he was inthe books of that great connoisseur and money-lender. As a rule Hyams'sbusiness lay only with members of the aristocracy, but Reginald Haggardwas accepted as a client because he was distantly related to the Earl ofPit Town. Three lives, three good lives, stood between Haggard and thechildless earl. There are such things as contingent post-obits. In theseprecarious commodities the fortune of Mr. Hyam Hyams had been made,under the astute advice of his solicitor, Mr. Morris Israels, ofBloomsbury Square, and it was to these precious securities that hisdealings with young Haggard were confined. But at length Hyams wouldadvance no more. Haggard, at an alarming sacrifice, parted with hisjewellery, bid his family farewell, and quitted Essex for South America.At the expiration of eight years Haggard returned as a landedproprietor, the owner of numerous ranches, and of countless flocks andherds. His liabilities in England consisted solely of his debt to HyamHyams. This debt, however, was only payable in the rather unlikelycontingency of his succeeding to the earldom of Pit Town. Also, much inopposition to the wishes of that respected solicitor, Mr. MorrisIsraels, a power had been reserved to Reginald Haggard to pay off boththe principal and its interest at any time, in the extremely unlikelyevent of his ever having the money to do so. Such was Haggard's positionwhen he became engaged, as has been narrated, to Georgina, SquireWarrender's handsome daughter, at the end of her first and triumphantLondon season. It has been noted that among Georgie's numerous and mostassiduous admirers had been our friend Spunyarn. He had proposed to andbeen rejected by Georgie, but they still remained sworn friends.
The two girls, the elder of whom was but twenty, her cousin being twoyears younger, presented a striking contrast. Georgie was a remarkablyfine girl of the true English type. Three centuries of Warrenders, afamily which began as yeomen, but soon took its place in the squirearchyof its county, had transmitted to Georgie that healthy type, that soundphysique and that clear complexion, which is seen only in England; andeven in England, only among healthy rustics, or the women of thosefamilies of the upper class who habitually pass the greater portion ofthe year out of London. Not that Georgie Warrender was a mere rusticbeauty, as her taper hands and tiny feet showed. It takes a good foot tolook well in a walking shoe, and even in the trying walking shoeGeorgie's foot was unmistakably a good one. Her clear blue eyes werehonest and sympathetic; Georgie Warrender looked every one straight inthe face, she had evidently nothing to conceal, nothing to be ashamed orafraid of. The two girls had been carefully educated, the "ologies"having been wisely omitted. Georgie's magnificent chestnut bronze hairwas her great attraction. It is needless to say that a lock of it was inHaggard's pocket-book, and that one of Haggard's raven curls was wornin Georgie's locket. The engagement was an open one. There was noself-consciousness about either of the parties. They were both evidentlyproud of it.
Lucy was in many respects the exact opposite of her cousin. Lucy was ablonde; pretty, rather in the American style. But unlike most Americanbeauties, far from being a m
ere skeleton in a skin, Lucy was a plump,well-developed specimen of the dreamy blonde. In type she much resembledthe descriptions of Madame de Pompadour in her youth, before she hadseen and captivated the great-grandson of the Grand Monarque. She was_mignonne_, no other word will express it. Her strong points were herpink and white complexion, her masses of wavy golden hair, her darkeyebrows and her magnificent hazel eyes; those dark dreamy eyes in whichlurked latent fires. Young as she was, Lucy well knew how to use thoseeyes, and the way in which she gazed into the face of her cousin'sbetrothed seemed to detract nothing from his happiness. But in the sameway she gazed into Spunyarn's face, it was not mere looking, it was"gazing." So she had gazed into the local general-practitioner's eyeswhen that poor young man looked at her tongue for the first time. It wasLucy Warrender's burning glance that had temporarily made the villagedoctor a discontented man, and had caused him to style his mid-dayhashed mutton "muck."
In direct contrast, too, to her cousin's, was Lucy's mind. She was not agirl who could be loved by other girls. Save when employed in "gazing"_she_ never looked any one straight in the face. The servants, our sternand acute judges, said that "Miss Lucy wasn't to be trusted, but thatMiss Georgie was as good as gold." As usual, the servants were right.
"Unsuccessful again, Lord Spunyarn," said Lucy, dropping him an ironicalcourtesy, and making a provoking little _moue_.
"As usual, and I suppose my own fault, though my last serious failurewas certainly not my fault, but entirely due to you, Miss Warrender."
"It was certainly not your lordship's misfortune," smiled the younglady.
Haggard and his _fiancee_ seemed to have a good deal to say to eachother, but probably like that of most engaged persons, theirconversation was merely childish.
And now the little crowd of players and spectators came to make their_adieux_. For in the country people still retain the fashion of biddingtheir hosts good-bye. Nay, more, they are in the habit of even thankingthem for their entertainment, and for the pleasure they have received:whereas your fashionable, having had all there is to have, and eatenand drank of what seemeth unto him good, carefully rejecting the less_recherche_ viands, simply disappears. He was, and is not.
The Warrender girls were surrounded by a cluster of artless maidens;these shook hands and kissed, after the manner of their kind, and asthey were more or less intimate with their hostesses. "He is perfect,quite perfect," whispered the rector's romantic sister, as she squeezedGeorgie's hand, "but, oh, I do hope that you are sure of his principles,Georgie, dear, for in marriage so much depends, dear, upon principles."As Haggard's only principles were his personal comfort, filliped by thegentle stimulus of frequent flirtations, was Georgie quite right inreplying, "Oh, dear Miss Dodd, I am quite sure of his principles?"Gradually the miscellaneous gathering took its departure. No man or maleperson left the premises without one of Lucy's fatal _oeillades_; eachone of the stronger sex, too, received a rather more than necessarypressure of her soft and dimpled hand. Many among the elders, nay, thepatriarchs even, felt their pulses quicken at the unexpected pressureand the sly bright glances; it made them feel, not as if they weresmitten with the good looks of Lucy Warrender, but as if she herself hadbeen captivated by the prepossessing appearance and manners of eachspecial victim. That was the art of it.
The dinner that evening at The Warren was a cheerful one; the humours ofthe day were described with biting satire by the gentle Lucy. She it waswho had cruelly incited the stout vicar to elephantine gambols, to theintense disgust and annoyance of his angular wife. Who but Lucy couldhave caused the coldness between young farmer Wurzel and his affiancedbride, Miss Grains, the brewer's daughter? Who but Lucy, as she sat onthe shafts of the horse-roller, listening with apparently rapt attentionto the lucubrations of young Wurzel on the subject of shorthorns.Perhaps the clasped hands and the ecstatic look were hardly necessary,for even so interesting a subject as stockbreeding. But Lucy had noted,out of the corner of her watchful eye, the arrival of Miss Grains,indignant and perspiring.
"You'll excuse him, Miss Warrender, it's more thoughtlessness than wantof manners; but he oughtn't to be taking up your time like this," criedthe brewer's daughter, as she bore off her reluctant prize. To this daynothing will ever persuade the buxom mother of farmer Wurzel's fineyoung family that her William was not actually audacious enough topropose to Miss Lucy Warrender, and that his attentions were favourablyreceived. So often has poor William Wurzel been twitted on this matterthat he has come to look upon himself as a very Lothario, rescued at theright moment.
In the drawing-room things went on much as they always do in countrydrawing-rooms in the hot weather. The girls sang; Miss Hood, theirchaperon, played the inevitable Chopin; but (as, unlike zoophites,chaperons cannot be cut in two pieces, and yet live) Miss Hood felt ither duty to leave Lucy, and to follow into the verandah Haggard and his_fiancee_. Perhaps, after all, this may have been rather a relief to thelovers, for they had had a long innings that day, no one having presumedto disturb the numerous _tetes-a-tete_ of the engaged couple.
Squire Warrender sat asleep in his chair, his face covered by a bigbrown bandanna, so that actually Spunyarn and Lucy were practicallyalone. But the young lord didn't attempt to renew his attentions toLucy. In his own mind Spunyarn perhaps felt that he was well out of it.Lucy, a past-mistress in the art of flirtation, was delicious as afriend; as a sweetheart there would have been two sides to the question;but Lucy Warrender as a wife would have been simply appalling andimpossible. Lucy's bygone escapade with her uncle's second footman--forfailing high game, Lucy Warrender was not above captivating even asecond footman--had been carefully hushed up. It was the cause of thepoor young man's receiving a month's wages on the spot and hisdismissal. For Miss Hood had detected him in passing a very pink-lookingletter to Lucy Warrender. Pinker far than the letter were the face andears of the guilty domestic, as he placed the intercepted missive inMiss Hood's hands, on her sternly ordering him to do so. Of course theletter was shown to Mr. Warrender; he was very angry under thecircumstances. But the letter of the unfortunate Joseph, though it hadcaused him many agonies in its composition, was comic in the extreme. Itwas full of what the writer called "pottery;" it was the poor youngfellow's first love letter. Alas, it was a mere answer to a letter ofLucy's; _she_ had commenced the correspondence; it was she who hadthrown the handkerchief.
Needless to say Lucy was deported at once, and Madame Planchette's,_nee_ Jones, finishing establishment in the Champs Elysees received afresh pupil. Lucy's _minauderies_ could now only be practised on herown sex. But even there the girl succeeded in setting the whole house bythe ears; and causing the sudden dismissal of the Italian professor, agifted Piedmontese, with a gigantic head of black curly hair and longbut dirty nails. At the end of a year she returned to her uncle's roof,having achieved an intimate acquaintance with French _argot_; heraccent, however, was undeniable. Miss Warrender, too, now added to heralready dangerous fascinations the charms of a French manner and aParisian accent. But her persistent secret studies of the works ofFlaubert, Zola and Co. probably had not improved her mind. As soon asMiss Hood left the room, Lucy seized the opportunity, on finding herselfthus practically alone with Lord Spunyarn, to give him a rather floridrendering of "_C'est dans le nez que ca me chatouille_," in which sheout-heroded Herod, and was even more piquante and suggestive than MadameChaumont herself. However, it did Spunyarn at all events no harm, Frenchbeing a sealed book to him. The strains of the syren at last woke heruncle, and brought back Miss Hood, who suggested that it was late. Andthe party broke up at last at her instigation.