"You'll let me bring my friend Spunyarn, won't you?" said Haggard; "he's coming down to-morrow."
"Oh, we shall be delighted," chorused the girls, "for we are wofully short of men down here at King's Warren."
The babble of conversation increased. Next morning each member of the group on The Warren lawn had received an elaborate copper-plate invitation to the Misses Sleek's haymaking, and the small and early dance that was to follow it.
The Misses Sleek carried their point; had there been a Mrs. Warrender, their success would have been more than doubtful. Old Warrender himself cared for none of these things; Miss Hood had protested officially, but found herself very much in the position of the unfortunate member who alone protests once a year, as a sort of duty to his constituents, against the sum voted by Parliament to royal princes or princesses on their marriage. Haggard and Lucy evidently looked forward to the haymaking as a relief to the monotony of their existence; as for Georgie, hers was the simple religion of Ruth, "Whither thou goest I will go, thy people shall be my people."
"One must be neighbourly, you know," said the squire, "in a place like this. For my own part, I see no difference now-a-days between the man who makes his money in business and the landowner. I'm sure I don't know what Dodd would do without the Sleeks; he's always ready with a cheque, and the girls seem almost unobjectionable."
What a curious fact it is, that in the eyes of all old men girls are always unobjectionable. Probably from their very age they look upon even the hoydens, the "mannish," and the fast merely as big and rather naughty children; therefore, all the more interesting. Let a girl be thoroughly detested by her own sex—and to be thoroughly detested by her own sex she must at least be tolerably good-looking—she is certain to be the delight of all the old gentlemen of her circle.
Haggard was in a particularly good humour, for he was hourly expecting the arrival of his fidus Achates, Lord Spunyarn. He was impatient to hear all the talk, the gossip and the scandal, which he had missed during his prolonged absence from the Pandemonium Club. Though they don't acknowledge it, your average club man is as great a scandalmonger and gossip as any village crone; but being by nature more cautious than are women, they hardly ever commit themselves upon paper. A yarn is told by A to B, as a yarn; B tells it to C, as a rumour he has heard; C gives it a tail, and imparts it under the seal of secrecy to D; over the whist table, E, F, and G get hold of it, like the rolling snow-ball, considerably increased in magnitude; sly H overhears it and gives it at once into a society journal, where it becomes public property; perhaps it may even result in an action for libel. Let the galled jade wince, our withers are unwrung. Besides, perhaps Haggard was a little nervous as to his reception; since he was last at the Pandemonium he had killed a man, not that that fact troubled his conscience in any way. Now-a-days a gambler is by no means an outcast at a smart club, particularly the lucky man; for he is placed on a sort of moral pedestal by his less successful rivals. Still the Lamb episode was not forgotten at the Pandemonium, and this, coupled with the affair of poor Barbiche, caused Georgie's husband to rather dread the cold shoulder. The presence of Spunyarn too would certainly be a break in the monotony of the life at The Warren.
Haggard drove over some five miles on that hot summer day about noon, in the squire's well-appointed dog-cart, to meet his friend Lord Spunyarn, and it was with unaffected pleasure that he shook hands with him upon the platform of the little station. Had they been Frenchmen, they would have rushed into each other's arms and saluted mutually on either cheek. As it was, they merely smiled and nodded, with a mutual, "How are you, old man?" and a careless inquiry from Lord Spunyarn as to the health of "your people" followed as a matter of course. During the five-and-twenty minutes' sharp drive home, they talked of the heat, the crops and the fishing; for the squire's smart groom rendered anything but general conversation impossible: the bay mare, too, was full of oats, and a puller.
Lord Spunyarn was a welcome guest to everybody; the whole party came out to meet him at the door, and with rural hospitality a substantial meal was quickly placed before him. The cool of the afternoon was got through by means of the inevitable croquet; in those days croquet was inevitable wherever there were ladies and a lawn. At The Warren both ladies and lawn were particularly attractive; the ubiquitous curate was conspicuous by his absence; there was a little play, a good deal of small talk, and as usual, Lord Spunyarn was particularly attentive to Lucy Warrender. Now-a-days it is the fashion for the youth of England to leave the spinsters out in the cold, and to affect the society of the more attractive among the married ladies only. But Spunyarn was no lady-killer, and if he had been, there was a certain air about Georgie Haggard, a kind of notice to trespassers, that would have warned off the most determined poacher. His lordship at once resumed his old position of everybody's friend; he chatted with the cousins, he talked politics with old Warrender, he complimented the head gardener; and when Lucy Warrender, assuming a pensive air, inquired if he had no secrets to tell her, he calmly replied:
"There is nothing new, I think, Miss Warrender; nothing new, at least, to you; yours as ever, you know, till death," he added with a little laugh.