The Pit Town Coronet Volume Ii Part 6

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

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

Georgie's heart beat like a sledge-hammer at the heedless remark. Should she tell him at once, or finally make up her mind to pa.s.s the rest of her 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 duty to 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 cry when they see a stranger."

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

Young Mrs. Haggard called the _bonne_, who advanced at the summons, her coa.r.s.e, but handsome, peasant features lighted by a smile.

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

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

This appreciative remark did evidently not refer to the baby. Many wives would have resented this openly-expressed tribute to Mademoiselle Fanchette's personal attractions, but Georgie was neither surprised nor disgusted. She was accustomed to her husband's ways; often and often, on their marriage trip, had her Reginald drawn her attention to the real or supposed charms of other women. It was a way he had. He didn't admire scenery; he hated pictures; architecture, and especially ruins, were to him abominations. But he did admire the s.e.x. The pegs on which he hung his memory were pretty faces and pretty figures. He would refer to events and places in an original way of his own, as, "The day we met that cardinal's niece with the eyes," or, "Where we saw the American girl with the hair." At first, in their married life, these remarks had a sort of sting in them, but at last Georgie had come to regard them as a sort of proof of the big man's affection. She felt that they were a sign of confidence, that she was endeared to him by the far higher t.i.tle of comrades.h.i.+p, that she was, in fact, what in his language he would dignify by the appellation of his "chum."

Fanchette dropped a courtesy. Fanchette continued to beam, for Fanchette saw that she was appreciated by Monsieur. In fact, the appreciation was mutual; and Fanchette compared her new master, and not unfavourably, either, with the proverbial _pompier_ of her native country.

There is a cla.s.s of men ever ready to chatter with servants, particularly if they are of prepossessing appearance. To this cla.s.s Mrs.

Haggard's husband belonged. He would have been delighted to compliment the _bonne_, but, alas! his linguistic powers failed him. He rose, however, to his feet, and, with true British pluck, employed the few words of Anglo-French he knew; these he accompanied with appropriate pantomime.

"_Enfant_," he said, pointing to the child. "_Mon_," he continued, indicating himself. "_Mon enfant_," he triumphantly added, with an air of jubilant proprietors.h.i.+p.

"_Mais a.s.surement, monsieur!_" cried the _bonne_, and then she went off into a flood of mingled praise of the infant, of her mistress, of her new master, and of herself. The child, whose eyes were open, was held aloft 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 in the excitement of her husband's return, came back to her face. The decision--the fatal decision--she felt was now irrevocable. From that moment she knew that her life was to be pa.s.sed in the carrying out of Lucy's plot. There could be no drawing back now. As she thought of all this, 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 the husband's attention from the infant and herself.

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

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

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

CHAPTER V.

THE MISSES SLEEK DROP IN.

It was certainly a great deal to Haggard's credit that he remained tranquilly at The Warren for the s.p.a.ce of three whole weeks. It was the London season--just that time of year when flat-racing was at its height; and at all the great meetings the Pandemonium set was conspicuous. It might have been that he really liked his wife's society, and that he found that the only way of getting her all to himself was, as he was pleased to call it, to bury himself alive at King's Warren. It has been said before that Haggard objected to the _role_ of Beauty's Husband, but he had found that in town it was w.i.l.l.y-nilly forced upon him. He felt it trying that the instant Georgie showed herself in their box at the play, the gla.s.ses of all the somebodies and half the n.o.bodies would be immediately levelled at her. Haggard was by no means a jealous man. He was one of those who thoroughly enjoy being a "popper-in" at the boxes of friends where beauty sits triumphant. He had admired and rather laughed at the stoical philosophy of some of his married friends, who were accustomed to calmly go off to enjoy their brandies and sodas, under such circ.u.mstances, leaving their wives the centre of a little circle of admirers--a circle of which he himself was often a prominent ornament. But, though not a jealous man, he considered it wise, when at the play, to be particularly attentive to Georgie.

Haggard believed in sheep dogs to a certain extent, but he believed still more in the actual presence of the shepherd himself. But his experiences of the last London season as a married man had convinced him that the life of Corydon, particularly at the play, was not an existence of unalloyed bliss. To Mrs. Charmington and her smart set, Haggard's devotion to his wife was particularly touching: in vain would they beckon him, or point to a vacant seat at their sides, with their fans; like Love's Sentinel, sweet was the watch he kept, but, to tell the truth, it bored him horribly.

It is undoubtedly pleasing to a man to find that his choice is appreciated by all his friends, but it is rather trying to a married man when he leaves his wife, even for a few moments, at a garden party, or the inclosure of a race-course, on his return to always find her, by no fault of her own, be it remembered, surrounded by a rapidly-increasing throng of enthusiastic admirers. So Haggard resigned himself, with considerable philosophy, to the innocent delights of country life and the dulness of King's Warren.

At all events, it had the refres.h.i.+ng charm of novelty: there was the fis.h.i.+ng, and the King's Warren trout stream was a good one. Before he had filled his creel at the pretty stream that artists used to come to paint, the girls would come down to count the spoil and walk with him through the cool lane, to conduct this most fortunate of men back to the squire's well-supplied breakfast table. Then the model husband would pa.s.s the morning in a lounge chair in the shadiest corner of the rose garden, with a big cigar in his mouth, contemplating with lazy satisfaction his prize baby and his handsome wife, while the fair-haired Lucy would swing in the Mexican hammock he had brought her as a souvenir of his American experiences, gaily singing her little sc.r.a.ps of rather risky French songs, which, though he did not understand them, always amused him. The little songs, too, appeared to give intense delight to Mademoiselle Fanchette; that muscular specimen of womanhood would shake with inward laughter, and fluently compliment her younger mistress.

"Ah!" she would say, "if mademoiselle had only been a poor girl, what a position! all Paris would be at the feet of the beautiful miss. Why, the _cafe-concerts_ would be struggling to possess her. Ah, what an enviable position!"

Stimulated by this honest praise, Lucy Warrender would delight her little audience with "La Venus aux Carottes," or some other well-known ditty of a similar nature. Old Warrender would lean on his daisy-spud a pleased spectator of the Arcadian scene. It delighted him to observe Haggard's suddenly awakened delight in the simple pleasures of country life, and the old gentleman's admiration of Monsieur, Madame and Bebe was unbounded.

The afternoons were enlivened by the unceremonious dropping in of sympathetic visitors; the Reverend John Dodd and his wife were welcome guests, and tea in the garden became quite a function.

It was a standing rule at The Warren that Thursday afternoon was a sort of special day. On Thursdays it was the custom to turn up at the squire's garden for afternoon tea. The men were always in a minority, for most of the gilded youth of King's Warren were of too timid a nature to put in an appearance. Occasionally young Mr. Wurzel, dragged thither by his bride-elect, the sentimental Miss Grains, would come, but he felt like a fish out of water, seldom opened his mouth, and pa.s.sed most of his time in gazing, with respectful admiration, upon Miss Lucy Warrender; an annoying fact which did not escape the observation of his mother's sharp old eyes, and which caused considerable indignation in the troubled breast of the brewer's daughter. The vicar's curate was, of course, a standing dish; other curates from adjacent parishes, too, would appear and disappear, but they met with little encouragement, for Miss Warrender didn't affect a liking for parsons. Even the short-sighted High-church deacon from the next parish, who spoke of himself as a "Celibate," and "vowed to heaven" and habitually got himself up to resemble a Roman Catholic priest, failed to move her worldly little heart; the Reverend Hopley Porter would have been more in her line, mild curates were not at all in her way. The Misses Sleek, too, freely availed themselves of their _entree_ to The Warren, and those young ladies were ever on their best behaviour. They were not bad-looking girls, and though both rather fast, while at The Warren they affected a demure primness which made them not unattractive. They patiently submitted to the continual snubbings of the vicar's wife, and to the little sarcasms with which they were occasionally favoured by Miss Warrender. They humbled themselves in dust and ashes to Miss Hood, and seldom made any reference to that patient money-grubber, their papa.

With effusive affection they always addressed the squire as "dear Mr.

Warrender," and sought favour in Georgie Haggard's eyes by an ecstatic wors.h.i.+p of the little Lucius.

"Don't you think you could manage it for us, Miss Hood? It's not a formal affair, and we are so anxious it should be a success. We shall have none but nice people, and it is so terribly dull at The Park: we shall only allow pa to ask three of his friends, and they are quite old gentlemen. I really couldn't ask dear Mr. Warrender myself, nor could Connie, and we are both terribly afraid of Lucy." So spoke the elder Miss Sleek in appealing tones.

"Do help us, Miss Hood," chimed in the younger sister.

"My dear, I don't see why you should be afraid of Miss Warrender," said good-natured Miss Hood, giving that young lady her full t.i.tle.

"Oh but, dear Miss Hood, she always laughs at us; only just now she inquired after that poor afflicted Mr. Dabbler. I knew she was laughing at us, and so did Connie, and then she said something dreadful in French about an a.s.s and two bundles of hay; I'm sure we're not like bundles of hay," said the girl with an indignant sob. "But we neither mind a joke from dear Miss Warrender, do we, Connie?"

"But we should be such a party, my dears."

"Oh, that would only make it more delightful," cried the girl with triumphant eyes, as she noticed the slight indication of capitulation in Miss Hood's voice. "We're neighbours after all, you know, and haymaking too; why, the squire goes to Mr. Wurzel's harvest home. Nothing but the haymaking, and a little dance afterwards; oh, we should be _so_ grateful."

"What's that about a little dance?" cried Georgie's husband with unaffected interest.

"Oh, Mr. Haggard, it's nothing; it's only an idea of pa's; it's our haymaking, you know, and we've been asking Miss Hood if The Warren won't honour us for once in a way."

Both girls fixed their eyes appealingly on Haggard's face.

The squire's son-in-law was quite aware that the wealthy Mr. Sleek was a _parvenu_. He knew that old Warrender would no more dine at The Park than he would think of attending the services of the Dissenting minister; but he himself was already beginning to feel rather hipped with the novelty of his quiet life at The Warren.

"Come, my dear Miss Sleek? of course we'll come. Georgie," he said to his wife, "Miss Sleek is good enough to ask us to her father's place.

We'll be only too glad, of course."

With Georgie to yield to her husband's slightest wish was a second nature.

"Certainly, Reginald, if you wish it. I shall be very pleased," she added, though with an effort.

"It'll be great fun, I'm sure," exclaimed Haggard; "but you'll have mercy, Miss Sleek: you won't work us so hard at the haymaking as to knock us up for the promised dance, and you'll keep one little dance for me, won't you?" he added with cool familiarity.