THE CROQUET PARTY.
Everybody agreed that the day had been a success. The lawn at The Warren was an ideal croquet-lawn, large, level, and daisyless. It was an old lawn, and was carefully watered. What better place, then, for the local tournament to be fought out upon, than the old lawn at The Warren.
At last the final game has been played. The day had been excessively warm. Everybody was sitting in the shade discussing the claret-cup, the syllabubs, the strawberries and cream, and the home-made confectionery, that were so freely pressed upon the large and rather miscellaneous assemblage which filled the old-fashioned grounds of Diggory Warrender. The owner of this archaic name we have met for an instant in the preceding chapter. He was a hale old country gentleman, a J.P. for his county, and universally liked. Perhaps there was more of the yeoman than the squire about old Mr. Warrender. Though he farmed many acres, yet he did so at a profit, strange to say. But perhaps this is hardly to be wondered at when it is remembered that the acres were his own, and that consequently there was no rent to pay.
Mr. Warrender, who rather scorned claret-cup, was about to discuss the merits 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 the silver tankard of the time of Charles I., which bore the name and arms of his ancestor, Diggory Warrender, armiger, of that epoch.
"Won't you try some, Lord Spunyarn?" old Warrender said; "It has made me the man I am," and certainly this statement was a flaming testimonial to the merits of the Warren ale; for old Warrender, who stood six feet in his socks, seemed to be all muscle, while his white and perfect teeth, 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 him what he termed a B. and S.
"Beer is too bulky for me, Warrender," said the spindle-shanked nobleman, as he stretched out his shapely but rather shaky hand for the panacea. "I object to bulk, Warrender, on principle; it is my terror of becoming a welterweight that made me go in for athletics. Why, look at my father, and they had to make a hole in the wall to get my grandfather's coffin out of the house. No, Warrender, mind and muscle are my strong points."
And so they were in Lord Spunyarn's own idea. Spunyarn was perpetually in training. He was ever matched against somebody, or against that very successful competitor, Father Time. But Spunyarn was never "fit," to use a sporting term. Naturally of a weakly constitution, his originally puny form had been carefully educated and developed at the great public school where athletics, "tone," and Latin verse, are the only subjects seriously taught. Spunyarn had failed to catch the "tone," Latin verse was a closed book to him, but he stuck to athletics. The name of Lord Spunyarn was constantly to be seen in the sporting prints, and though Spunyarn pluckily struggled along, coming in last in the foot races, being knocked about in the middle-weight boxing matches (knockings about which, to his credit it must be said, he bore with the patience of a martyr), yet, with all his sufferings, no single trophy as yet adorned Lord Spunyarn's rooms in Jermyn Street.
To-day Spunyarn had been beaten in the croquet tournament, and his partner had put down their united failure to the presence of Lord Spunyarn, while Spunyarn himself when they were beaten simply remarked, "Great mistake not taking the matutinal B. and S., you know." This hardly consoled the smart young lawyer, his lordship's partner, for his day's loss of time, his hotel bill, and his new and elaborate morning kit; still, he had had the honour of playing with a lord.
But metal more attractive soon compelled Spunyarn's attention, for his eyes fell upon the two pretty Warrender girls as they tripped towards the 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 not hideously beautiful, as it has become the fashion to depict the heroes of modern romance. It may at once be said that Haggard was undeniably good-looking. His long black moustache gave him, in the eyes of the ladies assembled at The Warren, the necessary romantic air. What is very much to the point in such matters was the fact that he was also extremely well dressed. He had the military neatness without the military swagger, and for the first time in his life Haggard's well-cut clothes were paid for, to the unspeakable pleasure and astonishment of his tailor. For Reginald Haggard, who eight years ago had left the paternal mansion an expatriated black sheep, had returned a man of comparative wealth. Turned loose a mere boy in London, his money had been spent, as young men about town usually spend their money. That young but very fashionable club, the Pandemonium, that club which has an oyster cellar in its basement, which keeps open all night, and at which shilling cigars are de rigueur, had been the cause of most of young Haggard's embarrassments. At the Pandemonium Haggard had made the acquaintance of Captains Spotstroke and Pool, half-pay; that acquaintance had naturally proved expensive. Bets were made and paid. Haggard was introduced to the bill-discounting fraternity, and had even lunched with the great Hyam Hyams; which fact shows how deep he was in the books of that great connoisseur and money-lender. As a rule Hyams's business lay only with members of the aristocracy, but Reginald Haggard was accepted as a client because he was distantly related to the Earl of Pit Town. Three lives, three good lives, stood between Haggard and the childless earl. There are such things as contingent post-obits. In these precarious commodities the fortune of Mr. Hyam Hyams had been made, under the astute advice of his solicitor, Mr. Morris Israels, of Bloomsbury Square, and it was to these precious securities that his dealings with young Haggard were confined. But at length Hyams would advance no more. Haggard, at an alarming sacrifice, parted with his jewellery, bid his family farewell, and quitted Essex for South America. At the expiration of eight years Haggard returned as a landed proprietor, the owner of numerous ranches, and of countless flocks and herds. His liabilities in England consisted solely of his debt to Hyam Hyams. This debt, however, was only payable in the rather unlikely contingency of his succeeding to the earldom of Pit Town. Also, much in opposition to the wishes of that respected solicitor, Mr. Morris Israels, a power had been reserved to Reginald Haggard to pay off both the principal and its interest at any time, in the extremely unlikely event of his ever having the money to do so. Such was Haggard's position when he became engaged, as has been narrated, to Georgina, Squire Warrender's handsome daughter, at the end of her first and triumphant London season. It has been noted that among Georgie's numerous and most assiduous admirers had been our friend Spunyarn. He had proposed to and been rejected by Georgie, but they still remained sworn friends.
The two girls, the elder of whom was but twenty, her cousin being two years younger, presented a striking contrast. Georgie was a remarkably fine girl of the true English type. Three centuries of Warrenders, a family which began as yeomen, but soon took its place in the squirearchy of its county, had transmitted to Georgie that healthy type, that sound physique and that clear complexion, which is seen only in England; and even in England, only among healthy rustics, or the women of those families of the upper class who habitually pass the greater portion of the year out of London. Not that Georgie Warrender was a mere rustic beauty, as her taper hands and tiny feet showed. It takes a good foot to look well in a walking shoe, and even in the trying walking shoe Georgie's foot was unmistakably a good one. Her clear blue eyes were honest and sympathetic; Georgie Warrender looked every one straight in the face, she had evidently nothing to conceal, nothing to be ashamed or afraid of. The two girls had been carefully educated, the "ologies" having been wisely omitted. Georgie's magnificent chestnut bronze hair was her great attraction. It is needless to say that a lock of it was in Haggard's pocket-book, and that one of Haggard's raven curls was worn in Georgie's locket. The engagement was an open one. There was no self-consciousness about either of the parties. They were both evidently proud of it.
Lucy was in many respects the exact opposite of her cousin. Lucy was a blonde; pretty, rather in the American style. But unlike most American beauties, far from being a mere skeleton in a skin, Lucy was a plump, well-developed specimen of the dreamy blonde. In type she much resembled the descriptions of Madame de Pompadour in her youth, before she had seen and captivated the great-grandson of the Grand Monarque. She was mignonne, no other word will express it. Her strong points were her pink and white complexion, her masses of wavy golden hair, her dark eyebrows and her magnificent hazel eyes; those dark dreamy eyes in which lurked latent fires. Young as she was, Lucy well knew how to use those eyes, and the way in which she gazed into the face of her cousin's betrothed seemed to detract nothing from his happiness. But in the same way she gazed into Spunyarn's face, it was not mere looking, it was "gazing." So she had gazed into the local general-practitioner's eyes when that poor young man looked at her tongue for the first time. It was Lucy Warrender's burning glance that had temporarily made the village doctor a discontented man, and had caused him to style his mid-day hashed mutton "muck."
In direct contrast, too, to her cousin's, was Lucy's mind. She was not a girl who could be loved by other girls. Save when employed in "gazing" she never looked any one straight in the face. The servants, our stern and acute judges, said that "Miss Lucy wasn't to be trusted, but that Miss Georgie was as good as gold." As usual, the servants were right.
"Unsuccessful again, Lord Spunyarn," said Lucy, dropping him an ironical courtesy, and making a provoking little moue.
"As usual, and I suppose my own fault, though my last serious failure was certainly not my fault, but entirely due to you, Miss Warrender."
"It was certainly not your lordship's misfortune," smiled the young lady.
Haggard and his fiancée seemed to have a good deal to say to each other, but probably like that of most engaged persons, their conversation 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 bidding their hosts good-bye. Nay, more, they are in the habit of even thanking them for their entertainment, and for the pleasure they have received: whereas your fashionable, having had all there is to have, and eaten and drank of what seemeth unto him good, carefully rejecting the less recherché 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 as they were more or less intimate with their hostesses. "He is perfect, quite perfect," whispered the rector's romantic sister, as she squeezed Georgie'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 the gentle stimulus of frequent flirtations, was Georgie quite right in replying, "Oh, dear Miss Dodd, I am quite sure of his principles?" Gradually the miscellaneous gathering took its departure. No man or male person left the premises without one of Lucy's fatal œillades; each one of the stronger sex, too, received a rather more than necessary pressure of her soft and dimpled hand. Many among the elders, nay, the patriarchs even, felt their pulses quicken at the unexpected pressure and the sly bright glances; it made them feel, not as if they were smitten with the good looks of Lucy Warrender, but as if she herself had been captivated by the prepossessing appearance and manners of each special victim. That was the art of it.
The dinner that evening at The Warren was a cheerful one; the humours of the day were described with biting satire by the gentle Lucy. She it was who had cruelly incited the stout vicar to elephantine gambols, to the intense disgust and annoyance of his angular wife. Who but Lucy could have caused the coldness between young farmer Wurzel and his affianced bride, Miss Grains, the brewer's daughter? Who but Lucy, as she sat on the shafts of the horse-roller, listening with apparently rapt attention to 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 want of manners; but he oughtn't to be taking up your time like this," cried the brewer's daughter, as she bore off her reluctant prize. To this day nothing will ever persuade the buxom mother of farmer Wurzel's fine young family that her William was not actually audacious enough to propose to Miss Lucy Warrender, and that his attentions were favourably received. So often has poor William Wurzel been twitted on this matter that he has come to look upon himself as a very Lothario, rescued at the right moment.
In the drawing-room things went on much as they always do in country drawing-rooms in the hot weather. The girls sang; Miss Hood, their chaperon, played the inevitable Chopin; but (as, unlike zoophites, chaperons cannot be cut in two pieces, and yet live) Miss Hood felt it her duty to leave Lucy, and to follow into the verandah Haggard and his fiancée. Perhaps, after all, this may have been rather a relief to the lovers, for they had had a long innings that day, no one having presumed to disturb the numerous têtes-à-tête of the engaged couple.
Squire Warrender sat asleep in his chair, his face covered by a big brown bandanna, so that actually Spunyarn and Lucy were practically alone. But the young lord didn't attempt to renew his attentions to Lucy. 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 a friend; as a sweetheart there would have been two sides to the question; but Lucy Warrender as a wife would have been simply appalling and impossible. Lucy's bygone escapade with her uncle's second footman—for failing high game, Lucy Warrender was not above captivating even a second footman—had been carefully hushed up. It was the cause of the poor young man's receiving a month's wages on the spot and his dismissal. For Miss Hood had detected him in passing a very pink-looking letter to Lucy Warrender. Pinker far than the letter were the face and ears of the guilty domestic, as he placed the intercepted missive in Miss Hood's hands, on her sternly ordering him to do so. Of course the letter was shown to Mr. Warrender; he was very angry under the circumstances. But the letter of the unfortunate Joseph, though it had caused him many agonies in its composition, was comic in the extreme. It was full of what the writer called "pottery;" it was the poor young fellow's first love letter. Alas, it was a mere answer to a letter of Lucy's; she had commenced the correspondence; it was she who had thrown the handkerchief.
Needless to say Lucy was deported at once, and Madame Planchette's, née Jones, finishing establishment in the Champs Elyseés received a fresh pupil. Lucy's minauderies could now only be practised on her own sex. But even there the girl succeeded in setting the whole house by the ears; and causing the sudden dismissal of the Italian professor, a gifted Piedmontese, with a gigantic head of black curly hair and long but dirty nails. At the end of a year she returned to her uncle's roof, having achieved an intimate acquaintance with French argot; her accent, however, was undeniable. Miss Warrender, too, now added to her already dangerous fascinations the charms of a French manner and a Parisian accent. But her persistent secret studies of the works of Flaubert, Zola and Co. probably had not improved her mind. As soon as Miss Hood left the room, Lucy seized the opportunity, on finding herself thus practically alone with Lord Spunyarn, to give him a rather florid rendering of "C'est dans le nez que ça me chatouille," in which she out-heroded Herod, and was even more piquante and suggestive than Madame Chaumont herself. However, it did Spunyarn at all events no harm, French being a sealed book to him. The strains of the syren at last woke her uncle, and brought back Miss Hood, who suggested that it was late. And the party broke up at last at her instigation.
