"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: