HAGGARD COMES INTO HIS OWN.
Old Justice Haggard had died rather suddenly. He had been ailing for several weeks; as his son had remarked, his handwriting had been the first symptom of the breakdown. His articulation, too, had become thickened, and one evening he was found seated in his chair by his study fire speechless, his face painfully drawn on one side; within an hour he had peacefully passed away.
The king was dead, long live the king. Reginald Haggard came into his own. But though Haggard had talked of settling down into a county magnate in the case of his father's death, when that event happened he failed to do so.
"I couldn't stand it, you know. The dreadful dinners and the dreadful people would have finished me, I think," he had said.
So after the funeral, Haggard returned to The Warren, but not before he had given the old steward final and definite instructions, which caused that worthy man's hair to almost stand on end.
"Cunningham," he said, "if you want to remain on the estate as my steward, you'll have to alter the state of things here. My father, you know, muddled along in a happy-go-lucky sort of way. As long as his pigs took the first prize at the county shows he was happy. That was his ambition. Now, Cunningham, you'll have to make the place pay. There are a lot of old servants, old pensioners and old horses, all eating their heads off here, and doing no work. You'll have to make a clean sweep of the lot. Were I to attempt to do it myself they'd worry my life out. Now I want you to act as a buffer. From your decisions there is to be no appeal. They are to look to you, and not to me. As I said, the place must be made to pay, that's the first point; the second is, that I am not to be bothered. It used to amuse my father to sit in his justice-room every morning and to be perpetually receiving and answering letters from all sorts of people about the place. That sort of thing won't suit me. You know as well as I do that my father got nothing out of the place."
"Sir——" began the Scotchman.
"Wait till I have done, Cunningham, and you will see that you have nothing to say. I know what you are going to tell me. That it is my duty to come and live in this place, with these yokels, to have the ague at least twice a year, as my father did before me, and to ask my friends down in September to shoot my partridges. Those were my father's views, they're not mine. As to the house, I shall let it, and I shall do the same with the shooting. With regard to the property, if you can get an income out of it for me, well and good; if you can't, I don't suppose anybody can; and in that case I intend to be shot of the whole bag of tricks."
"Ye wud'na think of pairting with the property, sir," said the astonished steward; "it's been your fathers' before you for centuries."
"It must pay me three per cent., Cunningham, or I shall assuredly sell it. Of course any legal liability I have I must fulfil; but there's been a good deal too much sentiment lately in the management of the place. My father was fond of pigs and paupers; I can't say I care for either. You will grant no new leases except at their full value. If Dick can't get a living out of a farm, that's no reason for letting him have it rent free. The estate must be improved, Cunningham—as a property. You understand me, I take it?"
"I could'na fail to do that, Mr. Reginald."
The steward carried out his instructions. It is needless to say that Reginald Haggard became unpopular. Ash Priory was let; the old servants, those few who had any work left in them, got new and harder places at less wages; those who were past work went into the poor-house. The Haggard estate actually returned three per cent on its market value, and everybody in the neighbourhood of the Priory agreed that Mr. Cunningham the steward was an exceedingly hard man.
Haggard was very particular about one thing. A large diamond-shaped hatchment on which the arms of the Haggards were emblazoned came down from town and was duly affixed over the principal entrance to the Priory.
"It's to stay up for a year mind, Cunningham, tenant or no tenant, and then you can take it down and burn it if you like."
The death of Justice Haggard caused the postponement of the proposed visit to Walls End Castle, and it was not till more than a year afterwards that the old earl's eyes were gladdened by the sight of his favourite, his great-nephew's wife.
During the year of mourning, Georgie Haggard presented her husband with a son. The child had been born at The Warren. Their recent mourning had effectually prevented the Haggards from going much into society, so rather against the grain, Haggard had consented to remain the guest of his father-in-law, varying the monotony of his long stay at The Warren by an occasional run up to town. At first he had proposed a furnished house, but he had been warned by the local practitioner that it would be unwise and imprudent to subject his wife to unnecessary fatigue, or to let her lose the benefit of the air of her native place. There was not much fuss made on the arrival of the little George; he, poor little chap, was provided with a humble attendant from the village, Fanchette being still retained to minister to the wants, whims and foibles of the elder child.
Miss Lucy Warrender had enjoyed the successive delights of two London seasons; she went everywhere, she was as much admired as ever. Lucy Warrender was not a mere beauty to be stared at; she was a brilliant conversationalist and possessed considerable powers of repartee. She had an artless way of administering cruel stabs to her female acquaintances which frequently turned them into enemies. When Mrs. Charmington had innocently asked her whether she considered her proposed appearance upon the stage infra dig., she had replied that she thought her friend couldn't do better, "for," added she gently, "they tell me, dear Mrs. Charmington, that actresses never grow old." Lucy Warrender had not been without her triumphs; she had had several offers, and good offers too, but she refused them all, and Lucy Warrender was Lucy Warrender still. Excitement was an absolute necessity to Lucy; there was a persistent craving in her mind for something new, and a ceaseless round of amusement was what she could not do without. Many girls would have knocked up from the effects of continuous late hours, heated rooms and high living, but Lucy seemed to thrive upon it. She was now nearly two-and-twenty, and from the time she had been able to think she had never troubled herself about anybody's comfort but her own. The maternal instinct had never been awakened in her; she petted the little Lucius simply because he was good-looking, and because she knew that a well-dressed, good-looking young person engaged in petting a child who is also well-dressed and good-looking is a pleasant and picturesque object. Just in the same way she was accustomed to hang on her uncle's arm and gaze up into his face, not because she cared one iota for her uncle, but because she considered it an effective tableau. The sole reason that Lucy Warrender never accepted any of the good offers which she received was, that she thought herself better off as her own mistress. If Lucy Warrender had been a man, she would have been one of those wholly unobjectionable persons, one of those single-minded individuals, whose life is passed in trying to get the greatest possible amount of personal enjoyment out of this world. As we know, Lucy was not troubled with what is called a heart; true she had made what she now considered a mistake at the outset, but she had burnt her fingers so severely that from that time she was never likely again to lapse from her religion of self-worship. When they had first returned from Switzerland, she had had considerable cause for anxiety, for the fear of being found out had troubled her a good deal, but that shadow had gradually passed away and the whole affair now seemed to her merely like a troubled dream, which she still remembered in a vague sort of way.
Happy, tranquil and contented, Miss Lucy Warrender, looking fresh as a rose, sat down to the well-furnished breakfast-table at The Warren and turned over in a meditative manner the three or four letters which had arrived for her by the morning's post. Miss Warrender was a wise young woman; she always ate her breakfast first and postponed the perusal of her correspondence till the meal was over. She put her letters in her pocket, as was her custom, and did full justice to the substantial meal which graced the squire's board; at its conclusion, provided with one of her favourite yellow-coloured novels, she lounged into the garden prepared to get through the morning with the least possible amount of trouble to herself. She sat down in a shady nook of the rose garden and read two of her letters, gossipy effusions from female acquaintances; then she took up the last letter, which was on thin paper and addressed in a legible but foreign-looking hand. She opened it carelessly, but as her eyes fell upon the contents she drew herself up, suddenly the colour left her lips. This was what she read:
"131, Gerard Street, Soho.
"Madame,
"I trust you will excuse the liberty I take in addressing you on a little matter which concerns myself. Circumstances compelled me to leave the service of Mr. Haggard while you and madame were at the Villa Lambert. I have now, madame, to trespass on your kindness, in asking you to assist me in my present intention of re-entering that gentleman's service. I have no reason to believe, madame, that during the time I acted as Mr. Haggard's valet I failed to give satisfaction. It is to ask you to use your kind influence with my former master that I now address you. His valet, I understand, is about to leave him. It probably is in your power, madame, to enable me to obtain my old position once more. Should you feel inclined to use your influence in my behalf I shall be for ever grateful. I may tell you, madame, that business took me to the village of Auray; what I learned at Auray I shall look upon as a secret confided to my honour. I shall write to Mr. Haggard to-day to apply for the situation. Trusting, madame, that you will give me your powerful aid in this matter, I remain,
"Very respectfully,
"Your humble servant,
"Maurice Capt.
"P.S.—It will be unnecessary to answer this letter, as I feel I can count upon your generosity."
There was no mistake. Lucy had taken every precaution; she had looked upon the old scandal as dead and comfortably buried, buried in the grave of the Parisian cemetery in which lay the unfortunate Hephzibah.
She ground her little white teeth, as she saw the spectre rise once more in a new and uncompromising shape; an unpleasant feeling of utter helplessness filled her soul. Had her successful intrigues been all to no purpose after all? She had no doubt in her own mind as to what it was that Maurice Capt had learnt at the village of Auray. Capt had not written to ask her for money; she felt that he would probably name the price for his silence later on. In the meantime, she knew that the humble request of the Swiss valet was a politely-worded command which she dared not disobey; and she dreaded his presence, filled with the horrid fear of its consequences. It was even possible, she thought, that her cousin in her sudden terror might incontinently make a clean breast of the whole matter to her husband, or even to the squire. When one has felt perfectly secure, it is extremely painful to see all one's carefully-elaborated combinations instantaneously collapse. As has been said, Lucy Warrender was in the habit of looking upon servants as mere furniture, but here was a piece of furniture suddenly developed into a most substantial bogey.
At first Lucy was disposed to take her cousin into her confidence, but then she thought, and thought rightly, that Georgina would make a very bad conspirator. Perhaps after all the valet might consent to be bribed; she remembered with pleasure that he was discretion itself, so she calmly resolved to adopt what doctors call an expectant policy; that is to say, to do nothing at all, and to patiently await the turn of events.
She was not kept long in suspense. While they were at dinner that evening, Haggard mentioned to the squire that he had just received a letter from his old servant.
"I think the confounded impudence of that rascal Capt has something almost sublime in it. He bolts in a mysterious manner when he was left in charge of the girls, and now he calmly proposes to come back to me again."
"Of course you won't think of taking him," replied the squire.
"Take him, I'd see him hanged first, as he will be one of these days, if he gets his deserts. Why, Georgie, what's the matter?"
And well might Haggard exclaim, for young Mrs. Haggard was staring at her husband, her eyes wild with terror.
"How terribly stupid you men are; don't you see that she's fainting, Reginald," cried Lucy as she hurried to her cousin's side. "The heat's something dreadful, and it has quite overcome her," said the sympathizing cousin, as she cleverly covered Georgie's retreat from the room.
In a few minutes she reappeared.
"It was nothing after all, as I supposed. She is lying down, and will be herself again very shortly. What was it you were saying, Reginald, about Capt?"
"Oh, I had forgotten the rascal; merely that he coolly suggests that I should take him on again. He wasn't a bad servant, you know, quite what a servant should be—a mere machine. I wonder what made him bolt in that unaccountable way, Lucy?"
"Didn't we tell you?" said the girl. "It was some lovers' quarrel between him and Hephzibah; she was never the same girl after he disappeared; quite a little back-stairs comedy."
"Which turned into a tragedy though when the poor girl died," said the squire; "I suppose when he bolted she broke her heart."
"You are getting quite romantic, uncle," said Lucy; "people in her class of life don't break their hearts, they only do their work worse than usual."
"I know one thing," said Haggard, "he was the best man I ever had, and if it wasn't for his confounded cheek, I should be glad to get him back. I suppose if I did though he'd commence upon Fanchette, and turn her head."
"I fancy Fanchette can take very good care of herself. I don't think you need hesitate on her account if you really want him," carelessly threw in Miss Warrender.
"It wouldn't be a bad idea," said Haggard meditatively. "My present fellow insists on smoking my cigars, and absolutely declines to wear my new boots. I hate wearing boots for the first time. I think I'll give the fellow a chance after all."
A week afterwards Maurice Capt was installed. To Lucy's intense astonishment, not one word did he breathe to her of his researches at the secluded village of Auray. But she felt that they understood one another. Gradually she came to the conclusion that she had bought the valet's silence at a very cheap price. He was glad to get back his good place, and that was probably all he wanted; he dropped no hint or innuendo of his discoveries, if he had made any, and he made no attempt at blackmailing.
Mademoiselle Fanchette was at first very attentive to the valet, and seemed to think less than ever of the "homme" in Algeria. But Mr. Capt, though very courteous to Fanchette, did not respond to her advances; perhaps he was yet sorrowing for the dead Hephzibah. Still Fanchette secured a gossip to whom she could confide her numerous troubles, and Haggard felt that he had done wisely in having once more obtained the invaluable services of the faithful Swiss.
It has been stated that the King's Warreners were divided into two religious camps—the upper classes and the labourers going to church, while the smaller tradespeople sat under the Reverend Boanerges Smiter, an eloquent young Baptist minister, who had wrestled in vain for thirty years of his life with cruel letter H. It was the dream of Mr. Smiter's life to empty the old-fashioned pews of the parish church. With this intention he worked hard; he preached, he lectured, he even at considerable trouble obtained a sort of reputation as a pulpit comedian, but he forgot that the seats of Gilgal Chapel were hard, while the old baize-lined pews at King's Warren Church were high and comfortable, and seemed to say to their occupants, "Here your slumbers will be undisturbed," also that the vicar never preached for more than twenty minutes. Rev. B. Smiter (for somehow or other the definite article is always left out before the title of a dissenting minister) was an ingenious man. It was through his exertions that Gilgal stood proudly upon its own freehold, and that it possessed actual cash at the bank. When Mr. Smiter first came to King's Warren the funds of Gilgal Chapel were in a very bad state indeed. The community was in debt for rent, the pastor lived in a little lodging in the village, his stipend was of the smallest, and the chapel was badly out of repair. But Rev. Boanerges Smiter was equal to the occasion. He was the original inventor of the Great Avalanche System. He got into his little pulpit one day, and he preached his great sermon on the text "Ask and ye shall have," and then he explained to his hearers the details of the Great Avalanche System. He told them, what they well knew, that they were in King's Warren a comparatively small body of relatively poor people. "Many a time and oft," said he, "have my predecessors stood here, and urged you, my dear brothers and sisters, to give to the needs of this chapel. My predecessors have ever resembled the young ravens in their persistent cry, 'Give, Give;' and you, my dear brothers and sisters, have given, you've responded manfully, but what has been the result? Gilgal is as badly off as ever. We are but a small handful of Israelites in a great land of Egypt, and we are oppressed by Pharaoh; for Pharaoh, clad in purple and fine linen, takes tithes of all we possess." (Did he refer to poor Jack Dodd as Pharaoh?) "But you will all remember that Moses ordered the children of Israel to spoil the Egyptians, and it will be our duty, nay our privilege, to do to these modern Egyptians as did our prototypes, the children of Israel, to Pharaoh and his subjects. What does Gilgal want? Gilgal wants to be out of debt. Gilgal wants a suitable residence for its pastor. Gilgal wants a new roof, and Gilgal would be all the better for a new organ. Now, my friends, did the Egyptians assist the unfortunate Israelites? Not a bit of it. Why they wouldn't even give them straw to make their bricks with. But though they wouldn't give them any straw, yet they yielded up to them after a time their jewels of silver and their jewels of gold, for we read that the Israelites spoiled the Egyptians. I am going to ask you for your charity, and I am going to head the subscription myself. Don't be cast down, my friends, at the single shilling which your pastor is about to subscribe. I trust that we shall obtain the roof, the freehold, the suitable residence for the pastor, nay, even the organ; for fifteen hundred pounds will do all this. Fifteen hundred pounds seems a large sum to you, my brethren, but it is easily to be obtained. And remark the pleasant fact that it will be obtained from the Egyptians. It is your charity I ask, but not your money, for the charity I require is simply vicarious. Let me go more into detail and make myself thoroughly understood. How is an avalanche first formed? A tiny mass of snow slips down from the top of some lofty mountain; that tiny mass is my original shilling. As the mass falls, it sets in motion other portions larger than itself. Gradually at first, and slowly, the little heap slides down the steep declivity. Its velocity increases, as does its volume—it at length becomes irresistible; enormously and indefinitely multiplied, it at last reaches the valley, no longer a tiny mass of snow, but a vast avalanche, which carries all before it, trees, rocks, and even villages being torn away by the irresistible force of the tremendous aggregation. Such is the Great Avalanche System. I am 'A,' and I subscribe a shilling. I now call upon four of you to stand up, each in his place, and you four will each contribute but a humble shilling."
All the adults in the congregation of Gilgal stood up as one man.
"No, my friends," said the pastor, "I need but four, but four female friends. Four of my sisters will be my 'B's,' my busy bees; each 'B' will select four 'C's,' from each of whom she will obtain a shilling. She will register their names and addresses, and request them to do as she herself has done, and each four 'D's' to contribute a similar amount; and so on, my friends, through all the letters of the alphabet.
"The human heart is hard. There are many of us who would look twice at that shilling if we were asked for it as a simple contribution. But it is not a simple contribution, for it carries with it a privilege—it enables the person who has paid his or her shilling to exact a similar amount from four personal friends; and though the original giver has contributed but a single shilling, that giver has the pleasure of handing in an amount which is practically incalculable. I know the world, my brethren, and I know that as a rule the world is very glad indeed to get off for a shilling. Alas, many of the most active contributors to the numerous Missionary Societies of this country never put a single penny into the missionary boxes with which they are always glad to be provided; for the missionary box is an outward and visible sign of respectability, and a perpetual rod in pickle for friends, relatives, and rebellious children.
"Already, my friends, in my mind's eye I see Gilgal standing proudly upon its own freehold, I see it provided with the roof it so much needs, and mentally I already dwell in the comfortable residence allotted to its pastor. I even hear the sweet strains of the much-desired American organ. And all this is no dream; in a few short weeks, my friends, it will be a delightful reality. And what will be our chief incentive to the work? Why the fact that all this money has been obtained, not from the little congregation of Gilgal, but from the Egyptian, from haughty Pharaoh and his countless host."
Then he gave out the hymn.
Rev. Boanerges Smiter was right. The thing came off. The money poured in, and the Reverend Smiter's original shilling was turned, as by the touch of the enchanter's wand, into fifteen hundred pounds. Thirty thousand victims had been indirectly teased and pestered by Smiter, at the least possible amount of trouble to himself; but all had had their revenge, save the last batch, in finding four other shilling victims, and each of them had obtained for a ridiculously small sum a character for active benevolence. Who is there in this wicked world who would not consider a character for active benevolence cheap at a shilling?
It was indirectly due to Rev. B. Smiter that the vicar received the cruel snubbing which was a joke against him in King's Warren for the rest of his natural life. The congregation of Gilgal held open-air meetings upon the village green at the end of summer as a sort of counter demonstration to the harvest festivals of the church. There was no Salvation Army in those days, and in a little place like King's Warren even such a mild excitement as an open-air meeting is very welcome. Besides the real congregation on the village green there was always a considerable gallery of curious onlookers, "scoffers," as they were termed by the "elect." Rev. B. Smiter had been very successful at these meetings. They really did a certain amount of good, for some who had come to laugh remained to pray. In the particular summer to which I am referring Mr. Smiter had gone to the expense of engaging what in theatrical circles would be termed a popular favourite. This was the well-known 'Appy 'Arry.
'Appy 'Arry was a character in his way. He had been a noted pugilist; he had even fought for the championship, and he took the punishment he received on that memorable occasion in a very plucky manner. If 'Arry had won the fight he would doubtless have subsided into the pugilist's well-merited haven of rest—a sporting public house. But the fates willed it otherwise, and 'Arry was converted and took to religion. The man was perfectly sincere, and many a rough fellow owed his conversion from drink and debauchery to 'Appy 'Arry. His was a rude kind of eloquence that went straight to the hearts of the majority of his male hearers. He would retail his exciting experiences as a pugilist and a drunkard with much gusto. He would tell in minute detail the history of his great but unsuccessful struggle for the champion's belt; and as he dilated on the wicked glories of his former life he would say with a pleasant smile, "And was I 'appy, my brothers? No, I was not 'appy, for I hadn't got religion."
Haggard and the vicar were looking on at one of the revival meetings, and 'Appy 'Arry was holding forth with his accustomed fervour.
"I've given it all up now. I don't associate with the swells now. Many's the time, my brethren, as I've had on the gloves with dooks and baronites, and other sporting swells," and here his eye fell upon the amused countenance of the Reverend John Dodd. "Ay, and with fighting parsons, too," he said.
The Reverend Jack blushed.
"But I looks on 'em now as men of sin; they used to be proud to shake 'ands with 'Arry in his bad days, but I've shook 'em off, my brothers, and I don't foregather now with the likes of them. Don't you think it's no yarns I'm telling you, my friends; why, there's one of 'em now, a-looking on. Oh, how I wish that fighting parson was as 'appy as I am now; and if he'd only listen to me in a proper spirit he might be; but he won't, my brethren, and why won't he? Because 'is 'art is 'ard. Many's the merry round I've 'ad with the gloves with 'Andsome Jack Dodd, as is a-standing there. Why, he was one of my backers when I fought the butcher on Moulsey Hurst, and licked him, too, for the matter of that! 'Andsome Jack Dodd was proud to shake 'ands with 'Arry in those days. But will 'Appy 'Arry shake hands with him now? No, my brethren. And for why? Becos he ain't got religion."
And then the preacher sat down, and Haggard and the Rev. John Dodd beat a hasty retreat. Haggard told the story to Mrs. Dodd that very evening. It was a rather mean thing to do, but Haggard was a man of impulse.
