Read The Pit Town Coronet: A Family Mystery, Volume 2 (of 3) Page 4


  CHAPTER IV.

  THE RETURN OF THE WANDERER.

  When Georgie was ushered into the state room at The Warren, though shewas horribly tired, she protested, but all to no purpose.

  "It's no use, my dear; the wheels of time never go backwards. You willnever be Georgie Warrender again, for she has developed into apersonage--Mrs. Haggard is a personage of consideration." So said MissHood 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 onlyafter an extended absence from England that one can thoroughlyappreciate the delights of English country life. To both girls thechange was pleasant, to Lucy especially; the Villa Lambert had been toher a very punishment, for there had been no one to talk to. But Lucyhad found an ally, a mine of information, a fund of amusement, anappreciative audience all combined, in her cousin's French _bonne_.Naturally the foreigner looked upon England as a veritable land ofEgypt, a house of bondage; equally naturally, she determined to spoilthe Egyptians whenever she should have the opportunity. In her mind, asis the case with all the working classes in France, the English wereobjects of derision and ridicule, as well as hereditary enemies.Fanchette felt very much like a wolf turned loose in a sheep-fold: thewolf cannot foregather with the sheep; and the animal's delight may befancied when it discovers that one at least of the flock, under thesnowiest and most innocent-looking of fleeces, is, like herself, a wolfafter all. Is it to be wondered at, then, that Fanchette clung to MissWarrender? The pair thoroughly understood each other. Every Frenchwomanat heart is an intriguer, here again was a similarity of tastes andpursuits.

  No successor had as yet been appointed to Hephzibah Wallis. The littleLucius, like most infants of his tender age, passed the greater portionof his day in sleep, and Fanchette being an active person, willinglydevoted the large proportion of spare time on her hands to ReginaldHaggard's wife.

  It is hardly to be wondered at that old Squire Warrender, who idolizedhis daughter, should make a fool of himself over the little Lucius. Heeven brushed up his archaic French for the sake of inquiring directlyafter the child's health from Fanchette. But Fanchette was onlyFanchette to the two girls and the squire; to the rest of theinhabitants of The Warren she soon became "Mamzell;" this brevet, or tobe more correct, local rank, she first earned by her own personalheroism. Johnny Chubb, the oldest of The Warren coachman's boys, wasdetected by the _bonne_ in a series of hideous grimaces. She promptlyseized Johnny by the ear. Johnny's ears were large, projecting, and of ahealthy crimson. As she twisted his great red ear, the agonized cries ofJohnny became heartrending. "Demand of me, then, pardon, little cancer,"cried the indignant _bonne_ in her native idiom. "Say, I pray you topardon me, Mademoiselle Fanchette."

  But Johnny only screamed the louder, for Johnny did not understandFrench, and Johnny was in pain. Fanchette, being a determinedFrenchwoman, went on with the twisting; like Sir Reginald Hugh de Brayshe certainly would have twisted it on till she twisted it off; in vaindid Johnny, in his ineffectual struggles, turn head over heels more thanonce; the relentless Frenchwoman never let go his soft and ruddy ear.She continued her injunctions to the boy, addressing him in many of thechoicest flowers of abuse with which her language abounds, that heshould beg mademoiselle's pardon. He did so at last, for even theendurance 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 tothe injured member, to assure himself that it was still attached to hishead.

  From that day Fanchette ceased to be "Frenchy" to Johnny, she became"Mamzell." At first, as a joke, the Warren servants gave her the titlederisively; from them it spread to the villagers, and gradually allKing's Warren called her "Mamzell" in sober earnest.

  The atmosphere of home, the healthy English air, and above all the quietand regularity of the life at The Warren, combined with the hope of theapproaching return of her husband, all had a beneficial effect onGeorgie Haggard's physical health. Her lost colour gradually began toreturn, her step regained somewhat of its former elasticity, but shecourted solitude, and seldom spoke. It was with difficulty she could bepersuaded to go outside the grounds. Even the gossip of the vicar'swife, or the genial chat of the vicar himself, failed to interest her.The change was apparent to everybody. But King's Warren opinion wasgenerally formed by the active mind of Mrs. Dodd. Mrs. Dodd had decidedthat the poor thing was fretting for her husband; she considered thatMrs. Haggard deserved her sympathy, and so King's Warren looked on Mrs.Haggard as a "poor thing," and duly sympathized. Old Warrender himselfbecame gradually less anxious, and accepted the general verdict.

  Weeks rolled into months. The sale of estates, even in Mexico, ends atlast. Haggard, who had returned to the capital, found the weathergetting unpleasantly hot; there was nothing further to detain him, andhe vouchsafed to announce his return to the wife of his bosom. Strangeto say, to the astonishment of all but Lucy, young Mrs. Haggardcontinued to "fret."

  In that same rose garden, on the very bench on which she had satawaiting Reginald's arrival on that momentous morning when she hadconsented to be his wife, Georgina now sat once more, but not alone. Byher side was the _bonne_, and upon the _bonne's_ lap, wrapped intranquil slumbers, lay the little Lucius. The young wife sat gazing atthe infant, and as she sat she tried hard to come to a decision upon thecourse she should pursue. On the one side lay the path of duty. Shouldshe make a clean breast of the matter? should she take her husband intoher confidence? Should she ask him to give his name to the child of hercousin's shame? Or if she did so, could she for a moment suppose that hewould for one instant listen to so monstrous a proposition? Of coursethere was her duty to be considered, her duty towards her husband, herduty towards her cousin; of what she owed herself she thought butlittle. But then she had sworn, and to some people, and Georgie was oneof these, an oath remains ever binding. She felt herself securelycaught, bound hand and foot in the net of intrigue, the meshes of whichwere so skilfully woven by her cousin's treacherous hands. Her mouth wassealed. Could she look forward with any pleasure to her husband'sreturn? could it cause her aught but apprehension and a deadly fear thatshe, an innocent woman, was to pass the rest of her life in guarding ahorrible 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 shesat alone, in maiden meditation, and awaited her would-be lover'sadvent. Then there had been no anxiety in her anticipations of theirmeeting. 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 wholeghastly story? If she could only nerve herself to do so, that was theone way out of the maze of doubt, the sole possible road to Georgie'sfuture happiness. What right had Lucy to wreck her life? Hers was thesin; on her head let it be visited. But Georgie felt that she had gonetoo far already; the first step, that dangerous first step, in the pathof deception had been unhappily taken. In her natural anxiety to shieldher cousin she had yielded to her imperious demands. She had enteredupon the lane of trickery, in which there is no turning back. She feltherself but a ship on a sea of troubles, whose helm was guided by thatexperienced sailor, her cousin Lucy.

  The little Lucius, the helpless centre of all the dark intrigue, clad inhis garments of needlework, slept the sleep of innocence uponFanchette's lap. Most women having so much cause would have hated thechild, 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 ofwheels, but no flush of pleasure reddened Georgie's cheek as she heardthe bustle of her husband's arrival.

  Just as once before big Reginald Haggard strode down the gravel walk, soonce more Georgie now saw him advancing in the blaze of sunlight, butnot alone. With him walked her father, with a cheerful face, while onhis arm hung the light-
hearted Lucy, all smiles and happy blushes, herringing musical laugh joyously heralding his advent.

  But Haggard seemed to have no eyes for any one but Georgie; his facewreathed in smiles, he hurriedly advanced to greet her, and then for aninstant nature triumphed. Georgie burst into tears, and rushing into hisarms, husband and wife were locked in a long embrace. But the momentaryoblivion of her trouble ceased when Georgie left her husband's arms andcaught 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 unpardonablecrime, Reginald, for you will wake the baby," said Lucy.

  It was too late. The child, with a gentle sigh, opened his eyes andstared around him. But Haggard, absorbed in his first meeting with hiswife, did not seem to observe him. Lucy snatched up the little bundle oflace 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, withtheir 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 youmake him cry, Reginald," for the child, at the sight of a stranger, hadburst into a succession of sturdy yells, which, at all events, showedthe 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 expectedby the female mind. The little Lucius was speedily consigned to hisnurse's arms; she disappeared with him down a shady walk, carefullyprotecting, as is the way with French nurses, the child's complexion andher own by means of a big sunshade.

  "Come, uncle," said Lucy. "We have to prepare the roast veal tocelebrate the prodigal's return. Besides, Georgie and Reginald must havehundreds of things to tell each other; _we_ shall only be treated to thesecond edition of a gentleman's travels in America. I suppose the firstwill be for private circulation only. I fear Georgie won't have much tosay in return, for our dull life at the chateau will have little tointerest a man." This was said trippingly upon the tongue, but it wassaid 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, likethe daisy-picker's, cannot be divided."

  Old Warrender rose with a smile, and Lucy dropped the pair a profoundcourtesy.

  "Farewell, Strephon. Good-bye, Chloe. You would both make a prettypicture in sylvan costume, but in your nineteenth century clothes youlook 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 topossess himself of his pretty wife's unresisting hand; he would havepressed it to his lips with rapture. What he really did was to take hiscase from his pocket, provide himself with a large and uncommonlyfullflavoured cigar, which he lighted with much care and deliberation.

  "You must have found it beastly dull at that hole, Georgie," he remarkedat length; "how on earth did you get through your time?"

  Should she tell him? Could she tell him how she had got through thatterrible time? Her honest nature urged her to it; but Georgie's love forHaggard, deep as it was, was not untinged with fear. Her gentler spiritwas dominated by Lucy's strong will. Her intense respect for herpromise, the promise snatched from her in the moment of her excitementand 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 himwith her old look of girlish rapture.

  The look did it. Woman's admiration was ever meat and drink to bigReginald Haggard, particularly the admiration of a pretty woman. NowGeorgie was a very pretty woman. Accustomed as he was to openappreciation by the sex, it never seemed to pall on him. Though most menexpect it, or at least the semblance of it, as a sort of right fromtheir wives, and consequently cease to value it, yet Haggard, not havingseen Georgie for many months, was evidently pleased.

  "Yes, we had plenty of sun out there," he said, as he passed his handmeditatively over his shaven chin. "It was hot, beastly hot. But theyweren't a bad lot out there, you know," and then he went off into a longdescription.

  Nothing pleases a man better than to talk to his own wife about himself,except, perhaps, when privileged to enlarge upon the same delightfulsubject to somebody else's wife. So Haggard ran on; but even personalexperiences must have an ending, and Haggard, at the height of goodhumour, condescended to compliment his wife upon the little Lucius.

  "Capital little chap that, Georgie," he said. "Howled awfully when hesaw me. I suppose they all do, though?"

  Georgie's heart beat like a sledge-hammer at the heedless remark. Shouldshe tell him at once, or finally make up her mind to pass the rest ofher 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 dutyto 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 crywhen they see a stranger."

  "Let's have a good look at him, old girl," said her husband with asmile.

  Young Mrs. Haggard called the _bonne_, who advanced at the summons, hercoarse, but handsome, peasant features lighted by a smile.

  The proprieties must be observed even in the presence of a _bonne_, andHaggard's hand, which had somehow stolen round his wife's waist, nowdiscreetly sought the shelter of his coat pocket.

  "Monstrous fine creature, by Jove!" said the husband, as he emitted avast cloud of smoke.

  This appreciative remark did evidently not refer to the baby. Many wiveswould have resented this openly-expressed tribute to MademoiselleFanchette's personal attractions, but Georgie was neither surprised nordisgusted. She was accustomed to her husband's ways; often and often, ontheir marriage trip, had her Reginald drawn her attention to the real orsupposed charms of other women. It was a way he had. He didn't admirescenery; he hated pictures; architecture, and especially ruins, were tohim abominations. But he did admire the sex. The pegs on which he hunghis memory were pretty faces and pretty figures. He would refer toevents and places in an original way of his own, as, "The day we metthat cardinal's niece with the eyes," or, "Where we saw the Americangirl with the hair." At first, in their married life, these remarks hada sort of sting in them, but at last Georgie had come to regard them asa sort of proof of the big man's affection. She felt that they were asign of confidence, that she was endeared to him by the far highertitle of comradeship, that she was, in fact, what in his language hewould dignify by the appellation of his "chum."

  Fanchette dropped a courtesy. Fanchette continued to beam, for Fanchettesaw that she was appreciated by Monsieur. In fact, the appreciation wasmutual; 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 complimentthe _bonne_, but, alas! his linguistic powers failed him. He rose,however, to his feet, and, with true British pluck, employed the fewwords of Anglo-French he knew; these he accompanied with appropriatepantomime.

  "_Enfant_," he said, pointing to the child. "_Mon_," he continued,indicating himself. "_Mon enfant_," he triumphantly added, with an airof jubilant proprietorship.

  "_Mais assurement, monsieur!_" cried the _bonne_, and then she went offinto a flood of mingled praise of the infant, of her mistress, of hernew master, and of herself. The child, whose eyes were open, was heldaloft 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 inthe excitement of her husband's return, came back to her face. Thedecision--the fatal decision--she felt was now irrevocable. From thatmoment she knew that her life was to be passed in the carrying out ofLucy's plot. There could be no drawing back now. As she thought of allthis, 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 thehusband's attention from the infant and herself.

  "What's amiss, George," he cried. "You are not ill, dear?" he said withunusual 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 hiswife his arm. She leaning heavily on it, the pair slowly proceededtowards the house, followed by the _bonne_, solacing the infant with therather inappropriate strain of:

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