AT THE CASTLE.
The Haggards were heartily glad to leave town. The nasty scandal at the Pandemonium had been particularly irritating to Haggard personally. "Thank God," he said to himself, "the head of the family will probably never hear of it, unless Hetton should go out of his way to tell him; but I don't think he'd do that, he's not too particular himself, so it would be only a case of the pot calling the kettle, after all. It wasn't my fault. How could I know the young idiot was drugging himself with Chartreuse? I was too much interested in the game. Besides, some one was bound to have his money sooner or later; in fact," pondered the big man, "I've been rather ill-used, when I come to think of it. It's just my luck."
Just his luck! Yes, it was just his luck; just his luck to squander every farthing he possessed, and to be pitied by everybody when deported to do the best he could for himself. Just his luck to have what the Americans call a "high-old time" in Mexico, to hunt, to shoot, to enjoy the free wild life and absence of restraint in America. Just his luck to thoroughly clear out that wealthy gambler Don Emanuel Garcia, at poker; but then Haggard had all the qualifications for a poker player: he had the very luck which he grumbled at; good temper, for your thoroughly selfish man is far too fond of himself ever to be other than good-tempered; his "cheek" was unlimited, and in the big "flutter" with the Mexican, he had also had good cards. Given good luck, good temper, good "cheek," and good cards, a poker player is always invincible; so the Americans say, and they ought to know. Just his luck to become the possessor of a large sum of ready cash, when valuable land was going a-begging; just his luck at that precise moment to invest his easily-got winnings in the Mexican ranches and pastures, now worth ten times what they cost him. Just his luck to come home at the right moment to be accepted by the loveliest girl in Essex, a girl whose beauty had now even received the imprimatur of so fastidious a judge as his Royal Highness. Just his luck to be adored by his young wife, and looked upon by her as a king of men; to be clothed in purple and fine raiment, with the possibility of a peerage and the possession of immense wealth in the future. But he was quite right in carping at her, for fortune, like other fickle jades, is more likely to be true if steadily abused.
The two girls, his wife and her cousin, interrupted his soliloquy. The gaieties of the season had, if possible, rendered Georgie's beauty still more perfect. A succession of recherché entertainments, of concerts, balls and routs, and their attendant late hours and excitement, had given the young wife that almost indefinable stamp of delicate refinement for which we have no word, which is so seldom seen in England, and which the Italians call morbidezza.
But there was no morbidezza about Lucy; she, too, had shone, perhaps with a certain amount of reflected lustre; but she had shone, she had dazzled. When a very young woman is exceedingly good-looking, no prude, and prepared to go any lengths, being at the same time perfectly heartless, she is bound to be a success, and Lucy had been a great success. The Duc de la Houspignolle, the French Ambassador in London, that duke who was so much missed from the cotillions at the Tuileries of his imperial mistress, had pronounced Lucy pétillante. M. Barbiche, his second secretary, the best valseur of the season, had declared that Miss Warrender was the lightest stepper in town. "She make my heart to beat as it never beat before," said the young diplomatist to his chief; "but she is not distinguished like her cousin, she is a woman. I think her cousin is only a goddess after all. They are cold, these married English. I suppose it is the 'spleen.'"
"You'll get back your roses, old woman, at the Castle," said Haggard to his wife. "I think we've both had about enough of it," said he, as he poured out a brandy and soda. "I'm getting rather sick of seeing my wife twirled round like a teetotum by a succession of well-dressed idiots, while twenty more noodles round me are all saying how very charming she is, and consequently hating and envying me. It's all devilish fine for you girls, but I really think I shall enjoy a fortnight's dulness and the counting of possible chickens which may never be hatched at Walls End. Anyhow, one will get one's rubber."
"And I shall have two new strings to my bow in the shape of Hetton and his cousin. By-the by, what is Hetton like? One can't judge of a man at a wedding breakfast," said Lucy.
"Oh, horsey; when you say that you say everything."
"I've a good mind to upset all your plans, Reginald, after all," said the girl. "Lady Hetton would look well on my cards. And then I should come in for the Walls End diamonds. By-the-way, are the Walls End diamonds black diamonds?"
"Bother Hetton; you've got about as much chance with him as with the old man, my dear," for it annoyed Haggard to see the slightest cloud to his prospects, even were it no bigger than a man's hand.
"Anyhow, there are two bachelors, Reginald, besides his lordship, who is hardly a bachelor, being, I suppose, wedded to art."
"Oh! three, my dear; you have forgotten my father; he, too, is aged, but impressionable. If you'll only talk about pigs, Lucy, and manifest an intelligent interest, especially in black ones, you can put my nose out of joint most effectually!"
"I should make a stern stepmother, Reginald."
"Of course, injusta noverca, and all the rest of it, I suppose. I don't know about the sternness, my dear, but I can answer for the crispness."
"Thank you for nothing, Reginald; however, I shall certainly take a dip in the lucky-bag at the Castle."
"By Jove, Lucy! there's Wolff for you."
"And who is Wolff?" asked his wife.
"Wolff, my dear, is the toad-eater. In the old days every great man kept a toad-eater; sometimes his functions were highly paid—Wolff's are, I fancy. A dish of toads of the largest and most repulsive variety used to be offered one by one to the big man's relatives and guests. A good many would partake of them. It was the toad-eater's office to devour the remainder with apparent gusto."
"Reginald, you're a wretch! and I don't believe a word of it," said Lucy.
Haggard yawned, drained his glass, and they retired to prepare themselves for the journey to Walls End Castle, which was to take place on the morrow.
Lord Pit Town was determined, on this occasion at least, to break through the rule which he had stringently observed since his return to Walls End Castle. For many years no lady had graced the great old house with her presence. It was considerably to Justice Haggard's astonishment that he heard of the invitation to his son and his son's wife. "Hetton won't like it," he muttered to himself, as with the point of his stick he gently titillated the back of one of his favourite black pigs. The animal stood perfectly still, grunting with suppressed delight. "Hetton will be decidedly savage," mused the old gentleman. "I wonder whether Reginald will get something in the will?" pondered his father, his eyes fixed on the black pig's ears. "He's a lucky beggar, Reginald, a very lucky beggar, and Warrender's daughter is more than he deserves." Few fathers think that any woman is more than their son deserves, particularly when that son is an only son, wealthy, and a possible heir to a peerage; but we may take it that Justice Haggard knew pretty well what his son deserved, and that when he considered Georgie "more than his son deserved," Justice Haggard was probably right. If the prodigal really had his deserts he would still be chewing husks with the Mexican swine—husks which the magnificent specimen of the porcine race who was so delightedly submitting to the caresses of the Justice's stick would doubtlessly have indignantly rejected. "I wonder why," continued the meditating Justice, "Hetton don't marry?" Perhaps Mademoiselle Zizine, of the French theatre, was the reason—who knows? Hetton didn't go into society, not that society wouldn't have been very glad to receive Lord Hetton, being Lord Hetton, even if he had been a Siamese twin or a Spotted Boy, which he wasn't. But Lord Hetton found that society cost money, and only placed an additional barrier between him and the object of his ambition—the blue ribbon of the turf. Hence when Lord Hetton sought distraction from race meetings and Tattersall's, he found it in the society of Mademoiselle Zizine and her like.
Evidently the question of why Hetton didn't marry perplexed the Justice; he paused in his attentions to the pig; the animal, who was black but comely, missing the accustomed caress, gave a little snort of impatience. "Bother Hetton!" said the Justice, administering a sudden and unexpected prod to that tender but irritable skin. The injured and indignant animal gave vent to a succession of eldritch screams. The callous Justice passed on to the next stye, immersed in thought.
Great were the preparations at Walls End Castle, and greater still the astonishment of the old housekeeper when she heard that the winter house party was to be graced with the presence of ladies. Not that what were termed the state apartments were in any way disturbed. The old show rooms were left to the mice and ghosts, but the more modern suites were all to be occupied. My lady's own rooms had been allotted to Haggard and his wife. The rather Spartan simplicity of the late Lady Pit Town had made her own rooms sombre, if not grim. It had been a labour of love with the old lord to change all this. The æsthetic gentleman Messrs. Spick and Span, the great upholsterers, had sent down, had been severely snubbed by Dr. Wolff; the upholsterer had submitted elaborate coloured pictures of his idea, his firm's idea, of what a suite of rooms should be. Part of that idea was sham bric-à-brac, the rest was carte blanche to Messrs. Spick and Span. "We should like," said that well-dressed and self-satisfied individual, "to turn out a job worthy of our house's reputation and that of his lordship. We should suggest that the boudoir be hung with Japanese embroideries; of course, there would be an Aubusson carpet, and we should cover the whole flooring"—which Mr. Veneer contemptuously indicated with his umbrella—"with our patent parquet; probably a mediæval pattern would be the most suitable. We should restore the ceiling and liven up the mouldings with a free use of gold; in fact, my advice in the matter is, that his lordship should place himself entirely in our hands. Of course, money's no object. His lordship cannot do better than to rely upon the taste of our Mr. Spick."
"I do not think it shall be so, my friend," Wolff had replied. "You will put fresh and pretty papers on the walls. Your hangings must be of chintz, of pretty chintz, and you will put a cheerful carpet on the floor. As for furniture, there is plenty of that here, but the chairs and the sofas you shall provide; one thing only you shall remember—they shall be comfortable. His lordship will sit in every chair; if it is not comfortable it will go back. As for the ceiling you shall not touch him."
Messrs. Spick and Span's representative was wounded in his tenderest point, but his firm carried out the order to the letter. The old lord had sat in each chair and was satisfied. The ceiling, which represented the triumph of Venus, by Verrio, was left untouched. If we were permitted to penetrate the secret mysteries of the bedchamber, we should make the reader's mouth water by telling of the toilet table, which was stamped "Riesener," and bore the mark, "Meubles de la reine." We should tell of the ormolu mounts of the little table, and how it really once belonged to Marie Antoinette. All the decorative furniture of this suite of rooms had been carefully selected by the old lord from the vast accumulation of such things that Walls End Castle contained. For several weeks he and Dr. Wolff had pottered about the set of rooms that were to be graced by Georgie's presence. When, to Wolff's astonishment, the priceless Meissonier, "The Gray Musketeer," was selected as the one picture to adorn the boudoir, he attempted a remonstrance.
"Nothing can be too good for her, Wolff," said the earl, as he smiled upon the picture.
Other rooms had been set apart for Lucy, but their arrangement had been left to Wolff.
It was evident to the German doctor that his patron looked forward to his great-niece's visit with pleasure. On the day of her arrival, for the first time in his life, Lord Pit Town failed to visit the new galleries.
At dinner, Hetton himself was surprised at the amount of attention paid to Georgie by the head of the house. Haggard did not attempt to conceal his satisfaction. Lucy Warrender, ever ready for mischief, feigned an intense interest in racing matters, but failed to draw Lord Hetton. That guileless bachelor, Mr. Haggard, of the Home Office, proved more amenable to her fascinations; he knew that he should get his rubber after dinner, and Miss Warrender's conversation helped to while away the time until what was to him the real business of life should commence. As for the Justice he was in the best of humours, he enjoyed his dinner, he enjoyed his wine. But the '34 port was so good that he revoked twice, to the indignation and despair of his unhappy brother and partner.
The girls sang to the old man at his express desire, and Hetton noticed with a feeling of secret indignation that the antiquated Broadwood grand had been replaced by a magnificent Erard.
The place seemed changed. Lord Pit Town appreciated with mingled pleasure and astonishment the brightening influence of the ladies' presence; the party, if not gay, was at least cheerful; the little leaven had leavened the whole lump. They broke up early, satisfied with themselves and with each other. But Hetton's equanimity was again disturbed in the morning when his lordship actually proposed to drive Mrs. Haggard and her cousin in the park. He retired in disgust to his own quarters, where he consoled himself by the inspection of his betting book and the reading of his trainer's last report. Haggard, of the Home Office, in his own room, with two packs of cards, worked out historical games of whist and studied the coups of Lachapelle and the other great masters. Dr. Wolff walked aimlessly up and down the new galleries, and stopping before Bab Chudleigh's portrait, soliloquized, as is the manner of his race, "Ah, lovely English woman, you are but a bainted bortrait, but all men admired you because they could not help it; if all they say be true, Madame Jezebel, you were as bad a woman as lived in your bad old days. Gott in Himmel! but you are very like the leetel Warrender lady. God forbid the leetel lady shall have a heart like yours. No, I wrong that innocent English mädchen. But you are both wunderschön. Hein!" And then the doctor continued his perambulations, and in his dreamy way, he pondered on Lucy's seraphic smile, and on her wealth of golden hair. "Such things are not for me," he thought. "I must go on loving the baintings and the bortraits to the end of the chapter," and then he sat down to write a business letter about Fra Filippo Lippi to old Mr. Creeps. Justice Haggard and his son wandered about the home farm; the father criticized the piggeries, while the son smoked a big cigar and thought of nothing at all.
"Gad! Reginald," said the old man, "there's one thing I can't understand. Pit Town, who looks after most things, neglects these poor beasts in a most shameful way; if ever I came into the title I should make it my first business to pull down the whole range of buildings," here he indicated the piggeries in an indignant manner; "they are a disgrace to the place, sir; the sight of them offends me."
"Well, father, I hope you may, I sincerely hope you may carry out your own ideas here some day," said the dutiful son; "but I don't think the old man cares very much for your hobby, you know."
"Then he neglects his duties, that's all," replied the old gentleman with an indignant snort. "Of course, Pit Town's in the fashion," he continued, "for we hear about nothing but art now-a-days; but I should like to know where he benefits his race. His ambition is a purely selfish one, while mine is distinctly benevolent. The dream of my life, Reginald, is unrealizable. I know that I can never succeed in producing the being I see in my dreams, a perfectly boneless pig; a sort of animated sausage, where fat and lean shall be deliciously blended in the requisite proportions. I know I strive after the unattainable, but still every year I get nearer and nearer to the goal. When I remember, sir, what black pigs were when I was a boy, and what they are now, thanks to my efforts and those of the noble little band of enthusiasts like myself, I feel that I am leaving a lasting monument behind me. Why, only yesterday, sir, when Dr. Wolff pointed out to me what he called a specimen of George Morland's best manner, I felt what giant strides of progress we have made. There were the pigs of his day, represented as great gaunt bony bristly creatures, wallowing at large, sir, in muck and mire. We never see such horrors now; and I actually envied Pit Town the possession of that picture. I should like to hang it up, sir, in my piggeries at The Priory, that the world might look upon what the animal was, and in contrasting him with the superb creatures I possess, appreciate what can be done by care, breeding, feeding, and proper selection. The time will come, Reginald, when every English speaking man or woman who puts a piece of pork or bacon into his mouth will bless the name of Haggard. But these are but ambitious dreams, Reginald, never perhaps to be realized."
The party at Walls End Castle, though its elements were decidedly heterogeneous, was a success. Everybody was sorry to go when they left, and their host regretted the departure of his visitors.
"The place seems quite dull without them, Wolff," he remarked. "I think I shall try to see more of my relatives, but we must make up for lost time, Wolff. Why, since the ladies have been here we have neglected work shamefully."
"It has been a pleasant time, Lord Pit Town, for me, for I love enthusiasm in the young. It has never yet been my fortune to meet with so delightful and innocent a thirst for information as that displayed by the charming Miss Warrender. The soul's confessions of that dear young lady were delightful in their naïve innocence. She has learnt much during her stay here of the canons of true art; it will be to me an ever-to-be-remembered epoch."
The old lord looked up from the great manuscript catalogue raisonné at the German doctor.
"So she made a fool of you too, Wolff, did she?"
"My lord, she respected me too much to attempt to make a fool of me. She, the young neophyte, recognized in me a humble priest of art."
"Ah, Wolff," said the old lord with a look at the great portrait of Barbara Chudleigh, "there are some women who don't even respect doctors of philosophy."
