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at his express desire, and Hetton noticed with a feeling of secret indignation that the antiquated Broadwood grand had been replaced by a magnificent Erard.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.