The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Pit Town Coronet, Volume II (of 3), by Charles James Wills

THE
PIT TOWN CORONET:
A Family Mystery.

BY
CHARLES J. WILLS,

AUTHOR OF

IN THE LAND OF THE LION AND SUN, ETC.

IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.

WARD AND DOWNEY,
12, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, LONDON, W.C.
1888

[The right of translation is reserved, and the Dramatic Copyright protected.]

PRINTED BY
KELLY AND CO., GATE STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS, W.C.;
AND MIDDLE MILL, KINGSTON-ON-THAMES.

CONTENTS

THE PIT TOWN CORONET.

CHAPTER I.

A HORRIBLE SCANDAL.

Dull as the life of the little château on the lake necessarily was, yet Georgie Haggard did not suffer from ennui seemed in fact to rather revel in the quietude, and to luxuriate in the seclusion of the Swiss villa, after the fatigues and excitements of a busy London season and the turmoil and the incidental worries which must always attend an extended foreign tour, even when it is taken for pleasure, and when expense is no object. The position of the villa was sufficiently romantic; behind it were the snow-covered Alps, Mont Blanc always clearly visible; and all in front stretched the lake with its glorious blue water of that intense azure which is only seen on this Geneva lake. Why it should be so very blue is, and always will be, a mystery; of course it has been explained by scientific people in various manners satisfactory to themselves, but the fact remains that the lake is of a deeper blue than any other European water, and strange to say the intense colour is just as apparent in the shallowest parts. One may row over a place not more than a yard deep, where the bottom is clearly perceptible, but the waters are as blue as ever, a deep unnatural ultramarine blue, a blue which is seen only here and in the choicest specimens of the Oriental turquoise.

The establishment at the Villa Lambert consisted of the permanent staff of the place, the aged Savoyard and his wife, who spoke an abominable and unintelligible patois; these two people were the Gibeonites of the villa. At earliest dawn the pair rose and toiled till an hour after sunset. The man worked in the garden, broke the firewood, drew water from the well, attended to the ponies, and wore the face of a martyr. The woman got through the labours of four ordinary English servants, she was cook, housekeeper, housemaid, and an entire staff in herself; she spoke to no one save her morose husband and Haggard's polyglot Swiss servant; she scrubbed, she polished her numerous brazen pots and pans till they shone like mirrors; every particle of woodwork in the house was washed and polished by her, till it resembled that seen in the Dutch village of Broek. But the great delight of the pair was the waxing and polishing of the curious inlaid parquet flooring of the salon which looked upon the lake. Lucy Warrender had been considerably surprised when she saw this process for the first time. A strange hissing noise, which continued for some minutes, gradually diminished in intensity, and then ceased altogether, only to recommence with renewed vigour, surprised the two girls as they sat at breakfast. "What can it be, Georgie?" she remarked in astonishment to her cousin.

"It's in the next room, I think, dear," said the young matron; "but it's very easy to see." She opened the door of the salon. Husband and wife, with portentous gravity, the woman having her skirts well tucked up, their arms a-kimbo, were apparently skating up and down the room. To them it was evidently a very serious business; they never smiled, but the perspiration streamed from their foreheads as they flew up and down. A large flat brush was attached to each foot of either. They were polishing the floor, and their appearance was sufficiently ludicrous. Lucy looked at her cousin; the absurdity of the scene was too much for her; she closed the door and laughed till she cried.

Mrs. Haggard's maid was an invaluable servant, who understood her duties and never seemed to forget anything. Hephzibah seldom spoke; perhaps, like the parrot in the story, she thought the more. The girl was in her way religious. That valuable work, once so popular but now so seldom seen, "The Dairyman's Daughter," was her only literature, but she seemed to be never tired of reading it.

Capt, the valet, was equally quiet in his way, equally dull. He did not disdain to manufacture dainty little dishes for his young mistresses. He would row them about upon the lake. He was steward, footman, and general factotum. He never opened his mouth unless he was spoken to, and between him and Hephzibah there appeared to be a good understanding; as the reader is aware they were "keeping company."

Georgie and her cousin led quiet uneventful lives. They drove, they boated, they wandered in their large garden; but they made no new acquaintances, and they lived the lives of hermits. Once a week there was some slight excitement as to the arrival of news from the absent husband; his letters came with praiseworthy regularity. He had arrived safely in Mexico; the value of his property had increased enormously. He was in treaty with half-a-dozen persons for the sale of his estates. He cursed the delays of the Mexican lawyers, who seemed to do nothing but smoke big cigars and swing themselves to sleep all day in hammocks. He pathetically bemoaned the unavoidable separation from his dear Georgie. He wasn't having a bad time of it, the sport was undeniable. He had had a week with a friend at a place with an unpronounceable name. Then he described the delights of the opera house, and the great success of the new French dancer, Mademoiselle De Bondi. It seemed a pity to close finally, when land was going up in value every day, and so on, and so on, and he was his dear Georgie's affectionate husband. This was the burden of all his communications, one letter was very much like another. Haggard was evidently enjoying himself, and his affectionate Georgie, though longing for his return, did not grudge him his pleasures.

Strange to say, though by force of circumstances thrown into an eternal tête-à-tête, the cousins never quarrelled. Georgie read and re-read her husband's letters. Lucy devoured one yellow-covered novel after another, and time crept slowly on. They had been four months at the Swiss villa.

It was the end of August. The two girls, they were but girls, sat on the terrace which overhung the lake. The sun was setting, as they sat dreamily gazing upon the lovely scene, which had even distracted Lucy's attention from the last naturalistic novel, which lay open on her lap. As she looked intently at the blue waters of the lake she sighed deeply. Georgie turned towards her and was startled to see that her lovely dark brown eyes were filled with tears! Georgie placed her arm softly round the girl's neck, for she dearly loved her cousin, and gently said, "What ails you, darling?"

But Lucy answered never a word, a violent burst of weeping was her only reply.

Lucy, never over strong at any time, had lately caused her cousin considerable anxiety; womanlike, Lucy fought against the growing weakness; till now she had hidden her increasing melancholy under an appearance of forced gaiety, which had not deceived her cousin, but only increased her alarm.

The elder girl knelt at Lucy's feet—her own Lucy whom she still looked upon in her heart as a little child.

"Does anything worry you, darling?" she said.

No answer.

"Trust me, Lucy; we are always friends, let me share this trouble."

"I can't," faltered the girl, as she gnawed her lips, which trembled and turned pale; "I think I shall drown myself."

Then Georgie took the blanched hand of the motherless girl, and entreated her.

"Do tell me, darling; you must tell me, Lucy. Something is preying on your mind; trust me, do trust me, pet."

Not then did Lucy Warrender tell her trouble to her cousin. But that night, unwillingly and ungraciously enough, she told her grief. Pale as a ghost, her fingers intertwined in a convulsive grip, she knelt by her cousin's bed and told her shameful story. She made her pitiful appeal. With dilated eyes, Georgina listened in terror to Lucy's confidence. It was the old tale. Lucy was about to become a mother; this was all she told. Was it not enough? She looked imploringly up at her cousin as she whispered:

"You can save me, Georgie, if you will—if you love me, as I know you do; and if you won't, there is nothing left for me but the lake, the cold, cruel lake." Here she laughed hysterically, and nestled to her cousin's breast.

The elder girl was struck dumb. The shame of it, the bitter shame of this accursed thing.

There was a silence, only broken by the monotonous ticking of the carved Swiss clock and the deep sobs of the kneeling girl. There was a sudden whiz of spinning wheels—"Cuckoo! cuckoo!" screamed the little painted bird derisively, as he appeared for an instant from his tiny box to mark the hour. Both girls started at the inauspicious interruption.

"I save you, my darling! How can I save you? And father, poor father. Oh, Lucy! how could you—how could you so deceive us all? But he must be sent for—who is the man? He must marry you—he will marry you, of course, at once, this gentleman!"

But Lucy only sobbed the more.

"He will never marry me, Georgie. You can save me, you alone!"

She never named the man.

They talked on far into the night; and as they wept and whispered, the painted wooden demon ever and again sprang from his box and startled them with his discordant cry,

"Cuckoo! cuckoo!"

How could she refuse? Much against her will at last she yielded; she agreed to deceive the absent husband who trusted her—that heartless husband whom she idolized. From that day forward the sound of a cuckoo clock—the voice of the bird himself, as she heard him in the woods—sounded in her ear as the cry of a mocking devil. Little did she dream that, in weakly yielding to her cousin's piteous entreaty, she was sowing the seed of which she and hers should reap the bitter harvest.

What could she do, poor girl? She felt it was her duty. Who can tell if she erred? If so, it was on mercy's side. Next morning Lucy was herself again; she was once more the buoyant, merry girl, who smiled and chattered, and sang her little scraps of French songs, making the sunshine of the house. The rôles were changed. Never again shall the light of perfect happiness beam in Georgie Haggard's once honest eyes—those eyes now red with weeping, full of the secret sorrow of her cousin's bitter confidence. It is always painful to an honourable mind to play the part of a conspirator, and that thankless rôle was now forced upon poor Georgie—willy-nilly she had to do it. Lucy's fertile brain teemed with plan, with plot, with stratagem; certain of ultimately conquering the scruples of her gentle and loving cousin, she had evidently thought the matter out.

"We ought to trust nobody, you know," said the younger girl, who had suddenly assumed the management of everything. Startled and horrified, Georgie had become in regard to her cousin, that born intriguer, but as clay in the hands of the potter. "No, we ought not to, but we must. If ever a girl in this world could keep her tongue between her teeth, it's that pale Hephzibah of ours, and trust her we must, there's nothing else for it."

Lucy's tongue, once loosed, never seemed to tire. Her despondency and melancholy, her load of carking care, were all transferred as by the wave of a magician's wand to her cousin's shoulders. Alas! that cousin, that patient, loving cousin is perhaps destined to carry to her grave the fardel of another's weakness, the punishment of a worthless woman's fault.

Georgie, from that hour, was a changed girl. No more the once happy, loving eyes gazed on the younger girl with more than a mother's pride. From that day Georgie feared her cousin, and Lucy soon detected the new sentiment which she had unexpectedly inspired. The younger dictated, the elder acquiesced.

"Georgie," she once suddenly said, when they were alone together on the little platform which hung over the blue waters of the lake, "swear to me that you will never betray my secret." She clutched her cousin's hand with fierce insistance and stamped her little foot; "swear to me," she said in a hoarse whisper, "that never by word or letter you will reveal my secret—our secret," she added with a smile. If ever a pretty woman's smile was devilish, Lucy Warrender's was, as she insisted on this partnership in her guilt.

"Have I ever deceived you, Lucy, that you should want me to swear?"

"But you shall swear, Georgie," she reiterated almost savagely. "I have gone too far to hesitate at trifles now, and if you don't, you will never see me more," she added menacingly, as she pointed to the lake. Her little figure seemed to increase in height, so sternly determined was her aspect.

Georgie cowered in mingled anxiety and horror.

"Swear to me," she said, and she emphasized the command, for it was no longer an entreaty, by a fierce clutch at her cousin's wrist, "never to a soul till the day of your death will you breathe a word of it. Swear."

"I do swear it, Lucy," replied the dominated victim, and she buried her face in her hands.

The next day the two English ladies left the Villa Lambert in an open carriage.

The faithful Capt was told to be ready for their return in a few days' time. Considerably to his astonishment, he did not accompany them. As the carriage drove away the valet lighted one of those long and peculiarly nasty cigars which his countrymen seem so much to enjoy. He stood watching the carriage rapt in meditation, and his face wore a puzzled air. Then he did what no economic Switzer has probably done before or since—he actually flung away the still burning abomination. Then he spat upon the ground, and with an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders re-entered the house.

The carriage took the ladies and their maid to a small town, some twelve miles off. They put up at the hotel. Next morning they took tickets by the steamer to Geneva, but less than half-way they got out at a small village, Auray, a little place totally devoid of interest, a mere hamlet never visited by the tourist; here they took a lodging, humble enough, but clean, in the house of a well-to-do widow. It was from this lodging that Georgie posted a letter containing the following advertisement, which appeared in the Times:

"At the Villa Lambert, Canton of Geneva, Switzerland, the wife of Reginald Haggard, Esq., of a son. August 20, 18—."

The cousins exchanged rôles. Lucy became Madame Haggard, while Georgie was addressed by the discreet Hephzibah as Mademoiselle Warrender.

The whole thing had evidently been carefully planned by Lucy for some time previously. She had even with infinite art written numerous letters to their relatives and friends, in which she dilated upon the strange reticence of "dear Georgie" as to the whole matter. Needless to say these letters were all dated from the Villa Lambert. In her letter to Haggard, and in her more formal communication to the head of the family, the old earl at Walls End Castle, she explained how her cousin had kept the whole matter secret as a surprise for her husband; and how she, the guileless Lucy, had been unwillingly compelled to participate in the deception. All was thus satisfactorily explained as the whim of the young wife.

How she had purchased the silence of the invaluable maid it is difficult to say, whether by bribes, promises or cajolery; but Hephzibah Wallis was the servant of the Warrenders, born and bred on their land, discreet and silent.

In ten days they returned to the villa, Mrs. Haggard wrapped up as a young convalescent mother; the little bastard clothed in purple and fine linen as became his expectations as Reginald Haggard's heir. Georgie was pale, great black rings surrounded her eyes; she leant heavily on the arm of the invaluable Capt, as she stepped out of the carriage which had conveyed her from the nearest wharf. But Lucy's cheery laugh, though it failed to bring a smile to the face of her cousin, soon dominated the inhabitants of the Villa Lambert. Hephzibah, full of that added dignity which every woman assumes as the guardian of an infant, sat enthroned before a blazing fire, for in Switzerland in August the evenings are chilly. It was her custom never to address Mr. Capt, save on official matters, when a third person was present. On the present occasion she went further than this, for she declined even to answer him.

Capt had bustled about, had brought in the luggage, had handed their letters to his mistresses, had received the thanks of Miss Lucy Warrender for his tasteful floral decoration of the little salon, and had then suddenly subsided into an attitude of respectful admiration in front of Haggard's supposed heir. To no man or male person, save perhaps to their own fathers or their medical attendants, are very young infants objects of interest; we may therefore safely presume that Mr. Capt was either really wrapped up in the severe charms of the student of the "Dairyman's Daughter," or that he had some occult and ulterior reason for remaining to study the little group at the fireside.

"Ah, madame," exclaimed the major-domo, as he washed his hands in the air, "you will not think it a liberty when I respectfully felicitate you." But no answering smile appeared on Mrs. Haggard's face.

"Certainly not," burst in the younger girl; "you are the first of our friends to do so, Capt," she said, with an almost perceptible emphasis on the word; "but we are both of us knocked up with the bustle, so get us some tea at once."

The humbly sympathizing friend became once more the respectful servant, and hurried away to carry out his young mistress's behest.

"Rouse yourself, Georgie," exclaimed the younger girl impatiently, "you really look very little like the mother of a possible heir to an earldom," she maliciously added.

But Georgie made no reply to her cousin's taunt, she merely extended her colourless hands towards the blazing fire of logs.

A pile of letters lay upon the table; one by one Lucy's active fingers tore them open, one by one she read them to her silent cousin, enlivening them with a running fire of comment. As she read each one aloud, she planted a fresh dagger in her cousin's heart, but she went steadily on with an occupation which seemed congenial.

They were the usual formal congratulations for the most part: one, from the old squire, gently blamed his daughter for not having taken her father into her confidence; "but the ways of women, my dear, are mysterious, and I suppose that explains it." As Lucy read the words the tears ran down her cousin's face.

One other letter yet remained; it was addressed in a crabbed hand; its contents were as follows:

"Walls End Castle.

"My dear Child,

"Miss Warrender's letter has quite taken me by surprise; I had not the slightest inkling that I should have so soon to congratulate you both on the happy event. It gives me great pleasure to do so; though I have known you, my dear, for so short a time, you have inspired me with feelings of the liveliest affection. I need not say I am greatly gratified to hear that it is a little boy. The great terror of my old age, the not unremote possibility of the extinction of my house, which always preyed upon my mind, is now removed. I shall hope to welcome the little man here ere long, and with affectionate remembrance to your cousin,

"I am, my dear child,

"Yours affectionately,

"Pit Town."

The ladies had retired for the night. A heavy mist hung over the lake, but a red spark moved slowly up and down the little terrace in front of the Villa Lambert; the spark indicated the presence of Mr. Capt, who was awaiting with lover-like impatience the arrival of the discreet Hephzibah. At length she appeared, muffled in a heavy shawl.

"Have done, do, Capt," said the maiden with indignation, as the valet imprinted a salute on her pallid lips.

"I haven't commenced, my beloved, yet," retorted he. "Will it be an indiscretion to hope that Miss Hephzibah has enjoyed herself, and that the separation from her beloved Maurice has produced ever so slight a depression?" said he as he attempted to take her hand.

"Stuff," replied the Englishwoman with an indignant snort.

Here the conversation took a distinctly amatory turn, and would probably hardly interest the reader. But, under the influences of the blind god, the stern student of the "Dairyman's Daughter" seemed to thaw. She took the proffered arm of her adorer, and, like all women in love, seemed to derive a pleasure from the peculiarly pungent aroma of his cigar.

"And how did we pass our time, my Hephzibah; did we amuse ourselves? Have you nothing to tell me, my beloved, nothing to confide to me?"

The lady's maid shook her head. "Except that I've been worked off my legs as you may suppose, what can I have to tell you?"

"Ah!" remarked the valet. "I can fancy that my Hephzibah always fulfils her duties to her mistress, but perhaps my too perfect angel forgets that between betrothed persons there should be no secrets."

"You don't mean to say you're jealous, Capt?" she exclaimed, as she raised her face to his.

"My love, you are discretion itself; I know you never betray a secret."

"If I had one, Capt, you would worm it out of me," she said with a smile and a perceptible pressure on his arm.

"Yes, my love, I should worm it out," he replied with intention.

Hephzibah took no notice of this remark.

"The mist is very damp, and I am very tired, Maurice; I must be going in; my mistress will wonder what has become of me, so good-night."

The valet kissed the girl. "Good-bye, my love," he said. "I think you had better have trusted me. Good-bye."

"Good-night, or good-bye, if you prefer it, Mr. Capt," replied the lady's maid with dignity.

"Good-bye, my dear, good-bye, till we meet again."

Hephzibah hurried into the house.

The valet continued his walk up and down the little terrace; he was immersed in thought, he still smoked his cigar, but unconsciously; he was suddenly roused from his reflections by the fire almost touching his lips. With a curse, he flung the end into the waters, and watched it disappear with a hiss. Then he walked briskly into the house.

The next morning Mr. Capt had disappeared. There was nothing wrong with the plate. On the carefully arranged breakfast table lay an envelope directed to Mrs. Haggard; it contained the man's account book, balanced to a farthing; a small sum of money due from him to his mistress, and his keys.

"What does he mean by this?" said Lucy to her cousin.

Mrs. Haggard made no answer, but turning to Hephzibah, she said coldly, "Where is Capt?"

"Please, ma'am, I don't know; he's taken his things with him, and I think he is gone. I hope there is nothing wrong," said the girl, her pale face working with suppressed emotion.

Then Mrs. Haggard fainted.

CHAPTER II.

AT THE PARSONAGE.

In King's Warren Parsonage the vicar's wife was seated at her little table. Before her was a handsome service of real Queen Anne plate; the square-looking teapot with its solid ebony handle, and the bowl and jug to match, for in those days they were sugar bowls and not sugar basins. Mrs. Dodd was not alone; she had two visitors, old Mrs. Wurzel and her inseparable companion, Miss Grains. The tea was good and strong, the cream perfection; all three ladies were in the best of temper. As a rule even the most cantankerous women are placable after afternoon tea. No man had ever partaken of Mrs. Dodd's tea in her own peculiar sanctum; that honour was reserved for those of her own sex, her cronies, her fellow-workers. In this little room the village scandals were threshed out, in this room the female scholars of the Sunday school received what Mrs. Dodd was pleased to call a few words of advice and admonition. What the mysterious advice was that Mrs. Dodd imparted, who can tell? One thing is certain, as they left the Vicarage they always wept, all save Jemima Ann Blogg the defiant; she alone had shed no tears.

"It's very sad," said the vicar's wife, "but I don't think any other course is open to me. I never looked upon Hephzibah Wallis as flighty; in fact, she was undoubtedly the steadiest of all my girls. It's really enough to break the old mother's heart. Why they should always want to go out of service and into matrimony I can't think; but I suppose they are all the same; but this is the climax. The creature actually declares that she has engaged herself to a foreigner."

The eyes of the other two members of the council of three were raised in mingled astonishment and horror.

"Yes, it's too true," continued the vicaress; "but I shall not hesitate in my duty, which is plain: she must be saved from the foreigner and herself. I'll read you her letter.

"'Villa Lambert.

"'Dear Mother,

"'You will be glad to hear that we are all well. We are living in what they call a villa, and though I like quiet the life is very dull. All through our travels Mr. Capt, who, as you know, is Mr. Haggard's own man, has been very attentive to me; he has asked me to marry him. I think it only right, dear mother, to consult you and father before saying yes. I should tell you that we are much attached to each other. Mr. Capt is very respectable, and very clever, too, for a foreigner. He is a Swiss gentleman. I'm sure you would like to hear him talk, though he's sometimes rather difficult to understand, as he uses so many dictionary words. I suppose it will have to be a long engagement, for, as you know, service is no heritage, and we are both in service. What Mr. Capt wishes me to do is to be married to him here at once, which he says would be much nicer than being engaged; but I don't think it would be right to keep it from mistress, as she has been so kind. Please let me have an answer by return, as Mr. Capt is very anxious. Give my love to father, and hoping this finds you both well,

"'I am,

"'Your loving daughter,

"'Hephzibah Wallis.'"

"Poor thing," exclaimed the stout Miss Grains, for she felt a ready sympathy, as an engaged young woman, with the whole of the rest of her sex who were in a similar position.

"Poor thing, indeed," cried the vicaress, "shameless thing, I call her; a girl who has been educated under my own eyes, who was actually confirmed in this very parish, calmly proposes to degrade herself, her parents and me by secretly marrying a disgusting foreigner, for foreigners are disgusting, as a rule. I shall forbid it, I shall distinctly forbid it; it's a duty I owe to dear Georgie. I am disappointed in Hephzibah Wallis."

"I'm afraid, Mrs. Dodd, it will be difficult to save the girl; here we are in King's Warren, while she is in Switzerland, and no doubt the man makes love to her," insinuated Mrs. Wurzel.

"Ah, yes," said the brewer's daughter softly, as she thought of her own little flirtation with the sallow French master, whose classes she had attended.

"They may be fascinating," said Mrs. Wurzel spitefully, "but they always smell of tobacco and never cut their nails."

Alas! the accusation was too true as regards the French master, at all events, and the brewer's daughter was temporarily extinguished.

"To a person in the position of Hephzibah Wallis," said the vicar's wife magisterially, "the length of their nails is of little importance; it's their want of principle that I object to; as for this creature Capt, like the rest of them he is, I suppose, an atheist, or perhaps worse, a Papist, for when he was here with his master he never once came inside the church. Goody Wallis has asked me to write to her, and I shall certainly do so at once, distinctly forbidding it. I haven't mentioned the matter to Anastatia, for she is so weak and romantic that she's quite capable of writing herself to the girl and inciting her to rebellion."

Here she carefully folded the letter and replaced it in her writing desk.

"And your sister-in-law's own affair, dear Mrs. Dodd, is it an indiscretion to ask you if it is settled yet?" said old Mrs. Wurzel with sympathetic interest.

"Stacey Dodd, Mrs. Wurzel, is, I regret to say, of a secretive nature; she does not confide in me. No, her own sister-in-law is the last person whom she would trust. But I believe, mind I do not state it as a fact, but I have reason to believe that she has refused the squire; his age was an obstacle, you know, and then Lucy would have been a difficulty. I don't think it would quite have been a bed of roses; that girl would have been a very serious responsibility indeed."

A discreet tap was heard at the door.

The vicar never presumed to enter his wife's room without knocking; he evidently had something to communicate. He saluted the ladies and commenced his tale at once.

"A dreadful thing has happened. I have just returned from The Warren, where I left the squire in a natural state of violent indignation."

The ladies expressed their curiosity.

The portly vicar continued:

"Oh, there's no secret about it, the country is ringing with it."

Then he read the paragraph in The Sphere, with which the reader is acquainted.

"Then, Mr. Dodd, we may understand that Georgina is the wife of a murderer," said Mrs. Dodd.

"Well, my dear, not exactly that; you see they say he received great provocation, so he was bound to go out with him, I suppose."

"Then my husband, a beneficed clergyman of the Church of England, approves of duelling, and is actually the champion of the—the—the assassin."

The vicar's wife was fond of strong words; this was the strongest one she knew of, so she used it.

"Well, but, my dear, consider the circumstances."

"No circumstances can excuse a murder, Mr. Dodd. I hope he won't come here; don't let him dare to offer me his blood-stained hand; his mere presence would be enough to contaminate the whole village. Will they hang him?" she asked with interest.

"Oh, Mrs. Dodd," said the brewer's daughter, clasping her hands, for the thought that she herself had witnessed the marriage of this interesting criminal thrilled her very soul.

"Of course she will leave him at once," continued the vicar's wife; "were the case my own," she said, "I should not hesitate for an instant."

A slight smile rippled across the broad countenance of the vicar; perhaps it passed through his mind that were he not a clergyman there might yet be a means of escape for him.

"It is of men such as this," cried the indignant vicar's wife, "that Shakespeare speaks. Yes," she said clenching her fingers, "every honest hand should hold a whip to lash the rascal naked through the world."

"It would be a highly indecent spectacle, my dear," said the vicar with a chuckle.

"I am speaking figuratively, Mr. Dodd."

"Of course, my dear, of course. In the meanwhile old Warrender is horribly angry, as well he may be."

The ladies' little meeting now broke up. Old Mrs. Wurzel hastened to the stationer's to order a copy of The Sphere and all the society papers, then, bursting with the news, she proceeded to call upon the Misses Sleek to tell her tale.

By midnight every soul in King's Warren was in possession of the fact that Georgie Haggard's husband had fought a duel and had killed his man.

The Misses Sleek did not hesitate to express to each other when retiring for the night their united opinion that Mrs. Haggard was a very lucky girl.

"I always said he was a hero," said the younger sister with a sigh, and then she went to sleep to dream of him.

It is a moot question as to who can claim the title of esquire. Now a-days everybody is Mr., Mrs., or Miss. But Mrs. Dodd was uncompromising; in her mind servants, labourers and criminals should be addressed by their Christian and surname, and no more. When she was unaware of the name she was accustomed to address all males by the epithet "man." There is something very scathing, very exasperating too, in being addressed in this way. Had poor Hephzibah herself been actually in the flesh at King's Warren, Mrs. Dodd would, undoubtedly, have addressed her as "girl;" as it was she merely adopted the Spartan mode which is used by judges at a jail delivery. The tone of the judgment, for we can hardly call it a letter, will be best seen if given at length:

"Hephzibah Wallis,

"Your poor mother came to me in great trouble yesterday bringing with her the flippant, the almost indecent letter, which you had thought proper to send her. Little did I think, Hephzibah Wallis, when I placed in your hands the beautiful copy of the 'Dairyman's Daughter,' which I had intended should be your guide through life, and which you afterwards so hypocritically informed me you frequently perused, that I was patronizing a girl who was about to rush headlong to her own destruction. If I remember rightly, the dairyman's daughter was a sickly person like yourself, but she would never have degraded herself by even hinting at an immoral marriage with a foreigner; nor would she have ever dared to propose such an abomination to her own mother as a marriage which should be kept secret from her mistress and from the wife of her parochial clergyman. I shall not, then, shrink, Hephzibah Wallis, from the duty of warning you. Except among the upper classes marriages with foreigners always end in misery; and it is extremely doubtful whether such unions in the eyes of heaven are marriages at all. I have repeatedly pointed out to my girls at the Sunday school, and to you among the number, that no young woman in domestic service should think of entering upon the marriage state till she is past all work. I was pained to see by your letter that you have evidently hardened your heart, and I am aware that the deaf adder will not listen to the voice of the charmer, charm he (or she) never so wisely. I know that you are exposed to the dangerous fascinations of a designing foreign manservant, who, to use your own expression, only addresses you in 'dictionary words;' no doubt such language is apt to turn the head of any young woman. But let me tell you, Hephzibah Wallis, that you will have a far greater chance of happiness in this world, and the next, as the wife of an English deaf mute of high principle, than you would have if married (even in the unlikely contingency of such a marriage turning out to be legal) to any foreigner, however eloquent, who is of course, as all such people are, wholly irreligious.

"If this letter, as I trust it may, should be the means of softening your heart and so saving you from the ruin to which you are evidently hastening, it will not have been written in vain. I grudge no trouble in the duty that Providence has forced upon me of superintending the lives of any of my girls. You of course are subject to great temptations, but you must never forget your duty to me and to your mistress, particularly now that she (your unhappy mistress) is, as I hear with pain and consternation, the wife of a murderer. I trust that you will frequently read this letter when in doubt or temptation, and that it may be the means of preserving you is the earnest desire of

"Your well-wisher,

"Cecilia Dodd."

Mrs. Dodd posted her letter herself, and to make assurance doubly sure she registered it.

When at lunch with her husband she broke to him the fact that she had written a letter "full of kind advice," as she phrased it, "to that flighty creature, Goody Wallis's daughter."

"It's a troublesome and anxious duty, Mr. Dodd," she said, "to look after them all; but I try to shield all my girls from possible harm, and this one evidently meditated making a fool of herself."

"You are always judicious, my dear," said the vicar.

"This house and this parish would not be what they are, Mr. Dodd, were it not for me."

"My love, I am fully sensible of my great good fortune."

"John," said the vicar's wife as soon as they were alone, "one of us ought to write to that poor thing."

"What poor thing, my dear?"

"I mean the squire's unhappy daughter," she said.

"Good heavens, Cecilia, for goodness sake, let her alone."

"Leave her alone in the hour of her tribulation! Mr. Dodd, is that your advice as a clergyman, or is it your other entity, the man of the world, who speaks?"

"Common prudence, my dear, suggests discretion."

"And who shall listen to the whisper of prudence, when common duty speaks so loudly, Mr. Dodd?"

"My dear, 'too many cooks spoil the broth,' is a homely saying."

"A vulgar proverb, Mr. Dodd."

"But full of wisdom, my dear, as are most proverbs. I think there is another culinary hint, too, that I remember, 'It is good not to introduce one's finger into one's neighbour's pie.'"

"And is the murderer, then, to escape with impunity, Mr. Dodd? Is he to have at least no moral punishment; is the indignant finger of outraged society not to be pointed at him; is he with impunity to go out to slay whomsoever he will; and is there to be no Nemesis for such as he?"

"Oh, as much as you like, my dear; but there's no reason why you should personally represent outraged society."

"If I felt it a duty, Mr. Dodd, I should certainly represent outraged society, and Nemesis too, if I pleased."

"Of course, my dear, of course, and doubtless con amore."

"John!" said the indignant wife.

But the vicar, having fired the last shot in his locker, had fled.

Fortunately Mrs. Dodd's time for the next fortnight was pretty well taken up. What with visitors who came to her to ascertain what they called the real truth; what with answering the innumerable inquiries of her large circle of acquaintance on what was now getting to be known as the "Haggard Scandal," Mrs. Dodd was fully occupied. It was a happy thing for Georgie; the young wife remained in ignorance of her husband's escapade. She was spared the threatened letter of advice and admonition.

Not one word did old Warrender breathe to his daughter of the matter.

The details of the affair however, that is to say of the actual meeting itself, were pretty well known in town. General Pepper had no cause for reticence. Men who had barely nodded to him before, now amicably grasped the warrior's hand, and asked him to the most recherché dinners; and his inevitable description of the duel, at dessert, usually formed the feature of the evening. Cards of invitation from the most distinguished personages rained down upon the fortunate veteran in profusion. Report said that he had even lunched with the Commander-in-Chief. His cronies at the Pandemonium accused him of assuming an air of habitual arrogance. Captain Spotstroke swore that the general had cut him in St. James's Street.

But in London the lives of chance lions are short; people began to forget the Haggard duel and to cease to long for the presence of General Pepper, C.B. Grosvenor Square ceased to invite him to her banquets, though he was still a welcome guest in the mansions of Bayswater and Maida Vale.

As for Lord Pit Town, he was of the old school. He ascertained, from a reliable source of information, that Haggard had not been the aggressor. For a gentleman to go out with another gentleman before breakfast, to settle their mutual differences, seemed to him the most natural thing in life. The faithful Wolff too, as a graduate of a German university, had been a fighter of duels in his youth. Wrapped in the bandages, the pads, the plastrons, and the guards customary on such occasions, he and the other young fellows had pluckily stood up to chop at each others' faces, on what those enthusiasts were pleased to term the field of honour. Their eternal occupation in the new galleries soon caused Haggard and his duel to be forgotten by both, and, save in King's Warren parish itself, the whole matter ceased to be remembered.

Perhaps the very last mention of the affair, even there, was made by Miss Sleek, upon a rather memorable occasion to her father.

The young ladies at "The Park," notwithstanding their undeniable good looks and good temper, had failed to find admirers, at least eligible admirers, in King's Warren. Over-dressed young men, generally beaux of Capel Court, used to be brought down to stay from Saturday till Monday, to beguile the tedium of the girls' lives, by their indulgent papa. But the golden youth of the Stock Exchange found little favour in the eyes of the Misses Sleek. Generally at the second or third visit the gaily-clad young men would propose to one sister or the other, but both girls still remained heart-whole, and their father was not over anxious to lose them.

"My dears," said he one evening to his daughters, "Dabbler's coming down to-morrow. I do want you to be civil to Dabbler."

Now Dabbler was a widower; he was not of prepossessing appearance, and his h's troubled him, but Dabbler was a warm man. The Misses Sleek on hearing their father's announcement looked at each other in a meaning manner; to do them justice, perhaps because they had plenty of money themselves, perhaps because they were both rather romantically inclined, neither coveted the honour of consoling the unhappy Dabbler for his rather recent loss.

"Of course we shall be civil, papa," said the elder girl; "we always are civil to Mr. Dabbler."

The father smiled upon his dutiful children and gave no further sign.

On the Saturday Mr. Dabbler arrived. He was very attentive to both girls, neither of whom showed any desire to monopolize his society. On the Sunday afternoon the conversation turned on the recent duel at Rome. The ladies defended Haggard's conduct, while Mr. Dabbler laughed at duels and duellists, and stated his conviction that "that fellow Haggard deserved to be 'ung." Whereupon both girls were highly indignant; they rapturously commended Haggard's valiant behaviour. Unfortunate Dabbler, now upon his mettle, declared that "should he ever want satisfaction, his solicitor should get it for him."

The girls retorted at once "that in their eyes such a course was detestable, that they could never even respect, much less like, any one who professed such sentiments."

Dabbler, who had rather hesitated between his partner's daughters, and who, in his own mind, had decided that he had but to come, to see and to conquer, was a man used to arrive at determinations at once. From that instant he made up his mind that neither of the Misses Sleek would suitably fill the vacant place at the head of his dining-table.

As the two men went to town on the Monday by the fast morning train, Sleek, as he unfolded his Times, turned with a smile to his partner.

"Well, Dab," he said, "which is the lucky one?"

"They won't 'ave me, my boy," replied the other philosophically.

"And why not, in the name of common sense, pray?" replied his partner in some astonishment.

"Because I'm not a Nero," returned Dabbler with a sigh.

"What?" said Sleek.

"We will not continue this conversation, Mr. Sleek," said Dabbler solemnly, and both gentlemen buried themselves in their newspapers.

CHAPTER III.

HOW THEY CAME HOME.

"The Warren,

"May 2nd, 18—.

"My dear Child,

"Lucy's letter announcing the happy event took me so much by surprise that I could do little more than formally congratulate you. As you say, I gave you no news whatever; to tell you the truth, there was very little to give; but, my dear child, you will have to come home immediately and see how the old man is getting on for yourself. The fact is that I have had a long letter from my friend Pit Town, who is greatly pleased and delighted at the birth of your boy. He alludes, my dear, to the possibility—and unlikelier things have happened—of the little fellow some day coming into his title, and what will go with it—his immense wealth. He suggests, as he delicately puts it, that he should like to see the little chap at once; but, my dear, what he really means is that the little Lucius should be seen in the flesh. When you were managing your little surprise for your husband and me, my dear, you forgot that the little stranger was the direct heir to an earldom, and that though it is exceedingly improbable that my grandchild will ever be a peer, still stranger things have happened. Baby should certainly be in evidence.

"My old friend Pit Town has written me quite an affectionate letter, and he has succeeded in considerably altering my ideas on the subject of what he calls your husband's peccadillo at Rome. When I was a young man, of course such things were frequent occurrences; but manners are changed now. You will forgive me, my dear, when I say that I think your husband has already sown a sufficiently large crop of wild oats. Let us hope his new responsibilities will sober him; I trust they may. You will hear nothing more on this matter in future, rest assured, nor shall I ever mention it to your husband.

"Pit Town thinks, and so do I, that you had better come home at once. The old man, my dear, has been very miserable without you both for the last few months; and The Warren has not seemed the same place since its young mistresses have been away.

"Lucy tells me to give you all the gossip. You will be amused to hear that the vicar's wife goes about declaring that I am on the point of a marriage with Miss Hood. The fact is, my dear, that I might have given you a mother in the form of Miss Anastatia Dodd, and I fear that, by the ladies at the Vicarage, I am looked upon as a designing old man. I need not tell you that I had no idea of paying our dear old friend the very poor compliment of making her an offer of my heart and hand, but Mrs. Dodd will have it that it is so, and as her husband says, it's no use arguing with her. When we meet, the vicar's wife greets me with a snort of indignation. I fear that this is old wives' talk. You will be glad to hear——"

Here, the letter ran off into home matters, interesting enough perhaps to the girls, but trifles which in no way concern this history. The old man wound up by declaring his intense desire to see both the cousins and his "dear grandchild" as soon as possible. He also gave an affectionate message from Lord Pit Town asking them both to make an indefinite stay at Walls End Castle.

Such was the letter from the old squire that reached the ladies in their temporary home upon the Swiss lake.

Somehow or other the maternal rôle, which had been so suddenly thrown upon Georgina, had become not ungrateful to her. Perhaps she found some sort of consolation in lavishing endearments upon the unconscious infant, the little Lucius who lay asleep upon her lap. As for his real mother, she took very little notice of the child. Whether it was pure heartlessness, or whether what had been first policy had now become a sort of second nature, it is difficult to say. Lucy had begun by posing as the child's aunt, and she played the part to the life. As for Georgie, probably the maternal instinct was strongly developed in her; it usually is in women who are naturally affectionate; perhaps it began in pity, but it was very evident now, both to her cousin and to Hephzibah Wallis, that young Mrs. Haggard was excessively fond of the little child of shame. Suddenly placed in her extraordinary position, separated from the father whom she loved and the unworthy husband whom she idolized, without a friend or confidant, subdued by the master mind of her cousin, is it to be wondered at that the young wife would sit for hours nursing the unconscious cause of all her woes?

The cousins presented a remarkable contrast. As for Lucy, the flush of health was on her cheek, her eyes sparkled with the triumph of her recent escape and her delight at the success of her own machinations. Her clear voice might be heard ringing through the house as it trilled forth the little French chansons of more than dubious propriety that she loved so well.

"Don't sulk, Georgie," she would say, and with a laugh she would place her hand on her hip and imitating the gesture of Theresa, then still in vogue, she would warble:

"Je suis l'heureuse gardeuse de l'ours."

"Yes, you are a bear, Georgie, and twice as sulky." But Georgie, paler than usual, dark rings round her eyes, would lie flaccidly in her lounge chair, the infant on her lap, and decline to be galvanized even into momentary life by her cousin's taunts or innuendoes. There she would sit for hours together, gazing into space, the silent victim of another's fault. Why did she not rebel? Why did she not insist on informing her husband at least of her cousin's lapse, of her ignoble stratagem? Probably because she was too conscientious. With some few people truth-telling is a sort of religion, a kind of Obi, a fetish; so it was with young Mrs. Haggard. She had promised, nay she had sworn. A voice, more awful than that of the Veiled Prophet, ever cried in her ear, "Thy oath, thy oath." Deception, so hateful to her truthful soul, she was compelled to carry on even against her trusting husband. Many a time and oft had she pleaded, with tears, to the remorseless girl who looked so soft and yielding. But the tender lines of Lucy's voluptuous figure covered a marble heart.

"Reginald would never betray you, darling," she had said. "He would do anything for my sake, for us and for this poor little thing." Here her eyes filled with tears as she kissed the unconscious infant in her arms.

"It's no use, Georgie, you've promised, and I shan't release you. You are a most interesting young mother. You look the part; there is a sort of matronly dignity about you, Georgie, that I could never hope to attain. Don't plague me," she continued. "As for telling Reginald or any soul alive, I'd die first; and mind you I mean it, it's no idle talk. If you ever should be so cruel as to tell my secret, our secret—if you should dare to tell it, even to hint it, Georgie"—and here the lovely eyes seemed to scintillate with suppressed fury—"you would bid good-bye to me, at all events in this world," and then she would go off into a half hysterical laugh.

At first scenes such as these were frequent, but Georgie gradually ceased to plead. She had reluctantly now accepted her position, and recognized her cousin's determination as immutable.

Lucy had read her uncle's letter aloud, eagerly breaking the seal; for her cousin had drifted into a state of listless apathy, a kind of dull indifference, from which even a letter from her much-loved father failed to rouse her. No look of interest, no answering smile lit up her once bright features as Lucy read the letter, interlarding it, as was her way, with a running fire of comment. When she came to the invitation to the Castle she could not restrain the exuberance of her delight, but clapped her hands in girlish glee.

"I see fresh triumphs, Georgie," she said, "with my prophetic eye. You will complete your subjugation of the old lord, and the philosophic Dr. Wolff will certainly propose to me. As for the heirs, they shall all sigh in chorus, from Lord Hetton to your father-in-law. But it is you who ought to be troubled by the suitors, patient Penelope that you are. I suppose uncle's letter must be taken as a royal mandate, and that we must leave here at once. I shan't be sorry to leave this place; there have been no sunny memories of foreign lands for us here, have there, Georgie?" she said, with some little show of affection, as she placed her hand upon her cousin's shoulder. But young Mrs. Haggard shrank from her touch with an almost imperceptible shudder.

Since Mr. Capt's mysterious departure from the Villa Lambert things had not gone on so pleasantly as under the reign of that invaluable domestic. Lucy Warrender at least had missed the thousand and one delicate attentions of the valet. The various little appetizing kickshaws that he was in the habit of concocting for the delectation of his young mistresses had disappeared. The living rooms and the table service no longer presented the attractive appearance they had done under his superintendence. But worst of all, Hephzibah Wallis distinctly sulked; no other word will express the condition of that love-lorn maid. Bereft of her admirer, her study of that depressing masterpiece, "The Dairyman's Daughter," became more intense; her very presence was a kind of blight as she silently performed her duties in her usual mechanical way. Never over strong, the loss of her lover was painfully apparent in Hephzibah's appearance: her muddy complexion became almost ghastly in its sallowness, and her pale lips grew almost colourless. That the girl was ill was very evident, but the fact did not seem to dawn upon Mrs. Haggard, whilst Lucy Warrender, who was in the habit of looking upon servants very much as pieces of furniture which could be replaced when worn out, troubled herself very little about the matter.

Miss Warrender, now the master-spirit of the establishment, did not hesitate. She answered her uncle's letter announcing their immediate departure for The Warren. As she playfully put it: "We must hurry home, uncle, or Miss Hood will devour you, body and bones; but we must travel by easy stages as Georgie seems not over strong, and we must be careful with baby. As for Hephzibah I have no patience with her; but people of her class are always helpless."

Two days afterwards they were on their way home. Travelling is not such a very fatiguing process after all. The ladies, the baby and the maid had a compartment of the sleeping car to themselves and journeyed comfortably enough. They arrived safely at their hotel in the Rue de la Paix, and then Hephzibah Wallis broke down. Tired as she was herself, Georgie Haggard nursed her like a sister; all night long she sat by the girl's bedside and watched the movements of the pale lips, which seemed to be eternally attempting to articulate, but though the lips moved ceaselessly no sound came from them. The maid's condition alarmed Mrs. Haggard; there was evidently something more than mere fatigue; great beads of perspiration stood on the forehead, the hands were cold as ice and seemed to pick irritably and aimlessly at the coverlid. Gradually the mutterings of the sick girl became louder.

Georgie attempted to rouse her, but in vain; she placed her ear to her moving lips.

"It's no use, Maurice, you'll get nothing out of me." This was all she heard, and it was evident to her mind that in her delirium Hephzibah was holding an imaginary conversation with her faithless lover.

All through the long weary night Georgie Haggard continued her watch by the bedside, moistening the girl's lips with water and wetting her burning forehead with Eau de Cologne. In the next room Lucy Warrender slept peacefully, and ever and anon her cousin would enter to take an anxious glance at the sleeping infant. The maternal instinct, which had so strangely remained dormant in the child's real mother, was abnormally developed, as we have said, in Georgie Haggard. At dawn, as Mrs. Haggard turned down the gas and admitted a little of the cold, cruel, grey light of early morning, she became thoroughly alarmed at the appearance of her patient; still the ever-restless fingers continued to search for the invisible crumbs, but they were colder now, and the finger tips were almost blue. Georgie hurriedly rang the bell. After some time a half-dressed chambermaid appeared. A messenger was dispatched in haste to summon a doctor. Lucy Warrender, very much against the grain, had left her couch and, head and shoulders muffled in a shawl, stood gazing at the dying woman with contracted brow. It was evident to both girls that a terrible change had come over Hephzibah Wallis; the lips no longer moved, but were strained tightly over the teeth, which were painfully apparent; while the breathing, which though rapid had previously been tranquil, was now harsh, extremely loud and often interrupted.

And now a doctor hurriedly entered the room. He was a dapper little Frenchman and had arrived in evident haste. Bowing to the ladies, he gave a perceptible start when he perceived the appearance of his patient. Taking his watch from his fob he felt the poor girl's pulse. Then he shook his head ominously. Placing a stethoscope over the region of the heart, he listened for a few seconds.

"Madame," he said, "I can do nothing; she is beyond all human skill. Alas, I fear that in a few moments she will pass away."

Even Lucy Warrender's hard heart was filled with horror.

"Can nothing be done, doctor? can you suggest no remedy? is there really no hope for her?" said Mrs. Haggard.

"Alas! no, madame, the mischief has gone too far; it is an old case of heart disease. Did she complain of ill health to you?"

"She has never been strong, doctor, and she has had a great deal to trouble her lately," said Lucy.

Suddenly, while they were yet speaking, the face of the dying girl assumed a placid expression; the lips trembled convulsively and then a happy smile gradually appeared. The smile remained, the lips gently parted and then the eyes slowly opened, but in them there was no speculation, for Hephzibah Wallis had ceased to breathe; she had peacefully passed away. The faithful girl was gone, carrying with her the carefully guarded secret of her young mistresses.

As the French doctor drew the sheet over the dead girl's face, a ghastly smile, almost of satisfaction, might have been seen on Lucy's countenance. Both girls sobbed bitterly; but let us do Miss Warrender justice, her tears were tears of genuine sorrow, but her grief was tempered with a sort of awful content, that now at least her secret was buried in the solemn silence of the grave.

The next few days were passed in a sort of melancholy bustle; a letter had to be written to break the painful news to the poor old mother at King's Warren. Poor Hephzibah was buried, her two young mistresses following their faithful servant to the grave.

That night Lucy Warrender stole softly into the empty room. With her own hands Miss Warrender carefully went through all the dead girl's little possessions, and she removed every letter and paper to her own room. Then she locked the door and carefully scrutinized everything, but not one scrap of writing did she find which compromised either herself or her cousin in the slightest degree. There were a few notes which had been written to the girl by her mistresses at odd times, and had been carefully treasured by the abigail. There was a little box of carved wood which contained a photograph, the likeness of the faithless Capt. Lucy cast it into the flames, and from the fire, as it turned and twisted like a living thing, the face seemed to glare at her menacingly. There was nothing more save the letter from the vicar's wife. Lucy perused it with a smile, and crushing it into a ball she tossed it into the fire.

Then she returned into the dead girl's room and replaced all that remained. Taking a glance at her sleeping cousin, whom her proceedings had not disturbed, she herself quietly retired to rest.

Next day the girls were busily employed. From a crowd of applicants they had to select a nurse for the little Lucius. Their choice fell upon a handsome Norman peasant woman dressed in the becoming, though peculiar, costume of her race. She wore the tall white cap of filmy cambric, ironed in the elaborate manner with which we are all familiar; she wore too a massy pair of gold ear-rings and a heavy gold cross, which indicated that her people were well-to-do. Fanchette was evidently a paragon of neatness; no spot of dust could be seen on her short dress of French merino, or on the little woollen shawl pinned closely over her shoulders. She spoke no word of English and seemed rather taciturn; the only anxiety she manifested was as to the amount of her remuneration. Her references were undeniable. She was the picture of health, a magnificent animal.

Probably what most recommended her to the critical mind of Miss Warrender was her impassive taciturnity.

Fanchette was installed at once. She expressed her readiness to proceed to England, informing the girls that all countries were the same to her as she had no relatives and her homme was serving in Algeria.

Nothing detained the party further in Paris, and they prepared to start for King's Warren the next day.

A letter from the Parsonage reached them that evening; it was from Mrs. Dodd, the vicar's wife.

"King's Warren Parsonage.

"Dear Miss Warrender,

"On receipt of your letter I hurried over to Goody Wallis's cottage to break to her the sad news of Hephzibah's death. Strange to say it did not take her by surprise; she told me that the girl had been ailing for several years. Of course these things do not affect people of her class to the same extent as educated persons; but it was plain enough that she was much grieved. As you can suppose I did my best to console her. I pointed out to the poor old thing that her daughter had been saved from the degradation of a marriage with a foreign person; strange to say, this appeared to give her no comfort: she did not seem so well disposed as usual to listen to good advice. So I took my leave, lending her a copy of Lawe's 'Serious Call.'

"Your uncle is quite excited at your approaching arrival, and is burning to see the little Lucius. I suppose, my dear, that this very unusual name has been selected out of compliment to you, but my husband says that he is probably called after the celebrated Irish baronet, the head of the O'Trigger family.

"I cannot express to you, my dear, my feelings of horror and indignation when I heard of the awful occurrence at Rome. Between ourselves I should think it would be better for all parties, particularly for his poor ill-used wife, if your brother-in-law remained in America. Personally, I regret to say that I shall never be able to receive him again. I'm sorry to add that my husband does not look upon the matter in the same serious light, but he was always frivolous, even for a clergyman.

"I may tell you that you are both coming back none too soon, for the squire, always a weak-minded man, seems now to be quite under the thumb of Miss Hood. That lady does not hesitate now to give herself airs to which I, for one, will never tamely submit; and I hope your cousin will take steps on her arrival to at once assert her position.

"With love to Georgie and kind regards from the vicar,

"I am, dear Miss Warrender,

"Affectionately yours,

"Cecilia Dodd."

The next morning the sisters were driven with Fanchette and the baby to the station of the Northern Railway, and they left for England by the tidal train.

CHAPTER IV.

THE RETURN OF THE WANDERER.

When Georgie was ushered into the state room at The Warren, though she was horribly tired, she protested, but all to no purpose.

"It's no use, my dear; the wheels of time never go backwards. You will never be Georgie Warrender again, for she has developed into a personage—Mrs. Haggard is a personage of consideration." So said Miss Hood as she welcomed Georgie to the quarters set apart for her, Fanchette and the boy.

Summer is always enjoyable in a country house, and probably it is only after an extended absence from England that one can thoroughly appreciate the delights of English country life. To both girls the change was pleasant, to Lucy especially; the Villa Lambert had been to her a very punishment, for there had been no one to talk to. But Lucy had found an ally, a mine of information, a fund of amusement, an appreciative audience all combined, in her cousin's French bonne. Naturally the foreigner looked upon England as a veritable land of Egypt, a house of bondage; equally naturally, she determined to spoil the Egyptians whenever she should have the opportunity. In her mind, as is the case with all the working classes in France, the English were objects of derision and ridicule, as well as hereditary enemies. Fanchette felt very much like a wolf turned loose in a sheep-fold: the wolf cannot foregather with the sheep; and the animal's delight may be fancied when it discovers that one at least of the flock, under the snowiest and most innocent-looking of fleeces, is, like herself, a wolf after all. Is it to be wondered at, then, that Fanchette clung to Miss Warrender? The pair thoroughly understood each other. Every Frenchwoman at heart is an intriguer, here again was a similarity of tastes and pursuits.

No successor had as yet been appointed to Hephzibah Wallis. The little Lucius, like most infants of his tender age, passed the greater portion of his day in sleep, and Fanchette being an active person, willingly devoted the large proportion of spare time on her hands to Reginald Haggard's wife.

It is hardly to be wondered at that old Squire Warrender, who idolized his daughter, should make a fool of himself over the little Lucius. He even brushed up his archaic French for the sake of inquiring directly after the child's health from Fanchette. But Fanchette was only Fanchette to the two girls and the squire; to the rest of the inhabitants of The Warren she soon became "Mamzell;" this brevet, or to be more correct, local rank, she first earned by her own personal heroism. Johnny Chubb, the oldest of The Warren coachman's boys, was detected by the bonne in a series of hideous grimaces. She promptly seized Johnny by the ear. Johnny's ears were large, projecting, and of a healthy crimson. As she twisted his great red ear, the agonized cries of Johnny became heartrending. "Demand of me, then, pardon, little cancer," cried the indignant bonne in her native idiom. "Say, I pray you to pardon me, Mademoiselle Fanchette."

But Johnny only screamed the louder, for Johnny did not understand French, and Johnny was in pain. Fanchette, being a determined Frenchwoman, went on with the twisting; like Sir Reginald Hugh de Bray she certainly would have twisted it on till she twisted it off; in vain did Johnny, in his ineffectual struggles, turn head over heels more than once; the relentless Frenchwoman never let go his soft and ruddy ear. She continued her injunctions to the boy, addressing him in many of the choicest flowers of abuse with which her language abounds, that he should beg mademoiselle's pardon. He did so at last, for even the endurance of a British boy breaks down at the idea of losing an ear.

"I begs yer pardon, Mamzell," he said sulkily, as he clapped his hand to the injured member, to assure himself that it was still attached to his head.

From that day Fanchette ceased to be "Frenchy" to Johnny, she became "Mamzell." At first, as a joke, the Warren servants gave her the title derisively; from them it spread to the villagers, and gradually all King's Warren called her "Mamzell" in sober earnest.

The atmosphere of home, the healthy English air, and above all the quiet and regularity of the life at The Warren, combined with the hope of the approaching return of her husband, all had a beneficial effect on Georgie Haggard's physical health. Her lost colour gradually began to return, her step regained somewhat of its former elasticity, but she courted solitude, and seldom spoke. It was with difficulty she could be persuaded to go outside the grounds. Even the gossip of the vicar's wife, or the genial chat of the vicar himself, failed to interest her. The change was apparent to everybody. But King's Warren opinion was generally formed by the active mind of Mrs. Dodd. Mrs. Dodd had decided that the poor thing was fretting for her husband; she considered that Mrs. Haggard deserved her sympathy, and so King's Warren looked on Mrs. Haggard as a "poor thing," and duly sympathized. Old Warrender himself became gradually less anxious, and accepted the general verdict.

Weeks rolled into months. The sale of estates, even in Mexico, ends at last. Haggard, who had returned to the capital, found the weather getting unpleasantly hot; there was nothing further to detain him, and he vouchsafed to announce his return to the wife of his bosom. Strange to say, to the astonishment of all but Lucy, young Mrs. Haggard continued to "fret."

In that same rose garden, on the very bench on which she had sat awaiting Reginald's arrival on that momentous morning when she had consented to be his wife, Georgina now sat once more, but not alone. By her side was the bonne, and upon the bonne's lap, wrapped in tranquil slumbers, lay the little Lucius. The young wife sat gazing at the infant, and as she sat she tried hard to come to a decision upon the course she should pursue. On the one side lay the path of duty. Should she make a clean breast of the matter? should she take her husband into her confidence? Should she ask him to give his name to the child of her cousin's shame? Or if she did so, could she for a moment suppose that he would for one instant listen to so monstrous a proposition? Of course there was her duty to be considered, her duty towards her husband, her duty towards her cousin; of what she owed herself she thought but little. But then she had sworn, and to some people, and Georgie was one of these, an oath remains ever binding. She felt herself securely caught, bound hand and foot in the net of intrigue, the meshes of which were so skilfully woven by her cousin's treacherous hands. Her mouth was sealed. Could she look forward with any pleasure to her husband's return? could it cause her aught but apprehension and a deadly fear that she, an innocent woman, was to pass the rest of her life in guarding a horrible secret, not her own, and in betraying her husband's confidence? But she had given her word; keep it she must, at whatever cost.

How different had been her feelings on that well-remembered day, as she sat alone, in maiden meditation, and awaited her would-be lover's advent. Then there had been no anxiety in her anticipations of their meeting. It was very different now. A dreadful terror filled her heart; the fear of nameless horrors caused her hands to become cold and clammy. Should she appeal to his generosity? should she make an end of the whole ghastly story? If she could only nerve herself to do so, that was the one way out of the maze of doubt, the sole possible road to Georgie's future happiness. What right had Lucy to wreck her life? Hers was the sin; on her head let it be visited. But Georgie felt that she had gone too far already; the first step, that dangerous first step, in the path of deception had been unhappily taken. In her natural anxiety to shield her cousin she had yielded to her imperious demands. She had entered upon the lane of trickery, in which there is no turning back. She felt herself but a ship on a sea of troubles, whose helm was guided by that experienced sailor, her cousin Lucy.

The little Lucius, the helpless centre of all the dark intrigue, clad in his garments of needlework, slept the sleep of innocence upon Fanchette's lap. Most women having so much cause would have hated the child, but to hate was not in Georgie Haggard's affectionate nature.

The sleepy mid-day silence of the rose garden was broken by the sound of wheels, but no flush of pleasure reddened Georgie's cheek as she heard the bustle of her husband's arrival.

Just as once before big Reginald Haggard strode down the gravel walk, so once more Georgie now saw him advancing in the blaze of sunlight, but not alone. With him walked her father, with a cheerful face, while on his arm hung the light-hearted Lucy, all smiles and happy blushes, her ringing musical laugh joyously heralding his advent.

But Haggard seemed to have no eyes for any one but Georgie; his face wreathed in smiles, he hurriedly advanced to greet her, and then for an instant nature triumphed. Georgie burst into tears, and rushing into his arms, husband and wife were locked in a long embrace. But the momentary oblivion of her trouble ceased when Georgie left her husband's arms and caught her cousin's eye.

Lucy's finger was pressed to her lips. What the gesture meant young Mrs. Haggard knew only too well.

"If you don't moderate your transports you will commit the unpardonable crime, Reginald, for you will wake the baby," said Lucy.

It was too late. The child, with a gentle sigh, opened his eyes and stared around him. But Haggard, absorbed in his first meeting with his wife, did not seem to observe him. Lucy snatched up the little bundle of lace and embroideries, and exhibited him triumphantly.

"Have you no eyes, Reginald?" she cried. "Pray reserve some, at least, of your transports for the object of universal adoration."

As Haggard gazed on the pair he thought they made a pretty picture, with their background of foliage.

"So that's the little chap," he said carelessly.

"And is that all you have to say to him?" cried Lucy. "No wonder you make him cry, Reginald," for the child, at the sight of a stranger, had burst into a succession of sturdy yells, which, at all events, showed the strength of his lungs.

But even when a man is confronted for the first time with his firstborn, he probably does not manifest the amount of interest which is expected by the female mind. The little Lucius was speedily consigned to his nurse's arms; she disappeared with him down a shady walk, carefully protecting, as is the way with French nurses, the child's complexion and her own by means of a big sunshade.

"Come, uncle," said Lucy. "We have to prepare the roast veal to celebrate the prodigal's return. Besides, Georgie and Reginald must have hundreds of things to tell each other; we shall only be treated to the second edition of a gentleman's travels in America. I suppose the first will be for private circulation only. I fear Georgie won't have much to say in return, for our dull life at the château will have little to interest a man." This was said trippingly upon the tongue, but it was said with intention, and the look which accompanied it caused poor Mrs. Haggard to drop her eyes, while a slight flush suffused her cheeks.

"Two can't play gooseberry, you know, uncle; it is a rôle that, like the daisy-picker's, cannot be divided."

Old Warrender rose with a smile, and Lucy dropped the pair a profound courtesy.

"Farewell, Strephon. Good-bye, Chloe. You would both make a pretty picture in sylvan costume, but in your nineteenth century clothes you look terribly prosaic."

"Lovers still though, I think, my dear; lovers still, please God," muttered the old man, as he gave his arm to Lucy.

The pair were left alone.

Were this history mere fable Reginald would at once have proceeded to possess himself of his pretty wife's unresisting hand; he would have pressed it to his lips with rapture. What he really did was to take his case from his pocket, provide himself with a large and uncommonly fullflavoured cigar, which he lighted with much care and deliberation.

"You must have found it beastly dull at that hole, Georgie," he remarked at length; "how on earth did you get through your time?"

Should she tell him? Could she tell him how she had got through that terrible time? Her honest nature urged her to it; but Georgie's love for Haggard, deep as it was, was not untinged with fear. Her gentler spirit was dominated by Lucy's strong will. Her intense respect for her promise, the promise snatched from her in the moment of her excitement and tribulation, quelled the impulse.

"Of course it was dull without you, Reginald. But you, at all events, have enjoyed yourself. How brown you've got," she said, gazing up at him with her old look of girlish rapture.

The look did it. Woman's admiration was ever meat and drink to big Reginald Haggard, particularly the admiration of a pretty woman. Now Georgie was a very pretty woman. Accustomed as he was to open appreciation by the sex, it never seemed to pall on him. Though most men expect it, or at least the semblance of it, as a sort of right from their wives, and consequently cease to value it, yet Haggard, not having seen Georgie for many months, was evidently pleased.

"Yes, we had plenty of sun out there," he said, as he passed his hand meditatively over his shaven chin. "It was hot, beastly hot. But they weren't a bad lot out there, you know," and then he went off into a long description.

Nothing pleases a man better than to talk to his own wife about himself, except, perhaps, when privileged to enlarge upon the same delightful subject to somebody else's wife. So Haggard ran on; but even personal experiences must have an ending, and Haggard, at the height of good humour, condescended to compliment his wife upon the little Lucius.

"Capital little chap that, Georgie," he said. "Howled awfully when he saw me. I suppose they all do, though?"

Georgie's heart beat like a sledge-hammer at the heedless remark. Should she tell him at once, or finally make up her mind to pass the rest of her life as a cheat, and the accomplice of that arch-cheat, her cousin? Alas! for her, her impulse was smothered by what she considered her duty to Lucy.

She laughed a little hollow laugh—a poor little, weak, stagey giggle. "I fancy he's much like other children," she said; "they always do cry when they see a stranger."

"Let's have a good look at him, old girl," said her husband with a smile.

Young Mrs. Haggard called the bonne, who advanced at the summons, her coarse, but handsome, peasant features lighted by a smile.

The proprieties must be observed even in the presence of a bonne, and Haggard's hand, which had somehow stolen round his wife's waist, now discreetly sought the shelter of his coat pocket.

"Monstrous fine creature, by Jove!" said the husband, as he emitted a vast cloud of smoke.

This appreciative remark did evidently not refer to the baby. Many wives would have resented this openly-expressed tribute to Mademoiselle Fanchette's personal attractions, but Georgie was neither surprised nor disgusted. She was accustomed to her husband's ways; often and often, on their marriage trip, had her Reginald drawn her attention to the real or supposed charms of other women. It was a way he had. He didn't admire scenery; he hated pictures; architecture, and especially ruins, were to him abominations. But he did admire the sex. The pegs on which he hung his memory were pretty faces and pretty figures. He would refer to events and places in an original way of his own, as, "The day we met that cardinal's niece with the eyes," or, "Where we saw the American girl with the hair." At first, in their married life, these remarks had a sort of sting in them, but at last Georgie had come to regard them as a sort of proof of the big man's affection. She felt that they were a sign of confidence, that she was endeared to him by the far higher title of comradeship, that she was, in fact, what in his language he would dignify by the appellation of his "chum."

Fanchette dropped a courtesy. Fanchette continued to beam, for Fanchette saw that she was appreciated by Monsieur. In fact, the appreciation was mutual; and Fanchette compared her new master, and not unfavourably, either, with the proverbial pompier of her native country.

There is a class of men ever ready to chatter with servants, particularly if they are of prepossessing appearance. To this class Mrs. Haggard's husband belonged. He would have been delighted to compliment the bonne, but, alas! his linguistic powers failed him. He rose, however, to his feet, and, with true British pluck, employed the few words of Anglo-French he knew; these he accompanied with appropriate pantomime.

"Enfant," he said, pointing to the child. "Mon," he continued, indicating himself. "Mon enfant," he triumphantly added, with an air of jubilant proprietorship.

"Mais assurément, monsieur!" cried the bonne, and then she went off into a flood of mingled praise of the infant, of her mistress, of her new master, and of herself. The child, whose eyes were open, was held aloft in triumph, and he stared at Haggard with a wondering gaze.

Haggard clapped his hands at the child in undisguised pleasure.

As Georgie sat upon the bench she wistfully watched the little drama, and gradually the old look of terror, which seemed to have left her in the excitement of her husband's return, came back to her face. The decision—the fatal decision—she felt was now irrevocable. From that moment she knew that her life was to be passed in the carrying out of Lucy's plot. There could be no drawing back now. As she thought of all this, the colour left her face, and the strength her limbs.

The sharp eye of the bonne saw that she was almost fainting.

"Monsieur, madame se trouve mal!" she exclaimed, distracting the husband's attention from the infant and herself.

"What's amiss, George," he cried. "You are not ill, dear?" he said with unusual solicitude.

But Georgie declared that it was nothing. "I think the heat upsets me," she said with an effort.

Just then the clash of the luncheon bell was heard, and Haggard gave his wife his arm. She leaning heavily on it, the pair slowly proceeded towards the house, followed by the bonne, solacing the infant with the rather inappropriate strain of:

"Rien n'est sacré pour un sapeur—bébé.

Non, rien n'est sacré pour un sapeur."

CHAPTER V.

THE MISSES SLEEK DROP IN.

It was certainly a great deal to Haggard's credit that he remained tranquilly at The Warren for the space of three whole weeks. It was the London season—just that time of year when flat-racing was at its height; and at all the great meetings the Pandemonium set was conspicuous. It might have been that he really liked his wife's society, and that he found that the only way of getting her all to himself was, as he was pleased to call it, to bury himself alive at King's Warren. It has been said before that Haggard objected to the rôle of Beauty's Husband, but he had found that in town it was willy-nilly forced upon him. He felt it trying that the instant Georgie showed herself in their box at the play, the glasses of all the somebodies and half the nobodies would be immediately levelled at her. Haggard was by no means a jealous man. He was one of those who thoroughly enjoy being a "popper-in" at the boxes of friends where beauty sits triumphant. He had admired and rather laughed at the stoical philosophy of some of his married friends, who were accustomed to calmly go off to enjoy their brandies and sodas, under such circumstances, leaving their wives the centre of a little circle of admirers—a circle of which he himself was often a prominent ornament. But, though not a jealous man, he considered it wise, when at the play, to be particularly attentive to Georgie. Haggard believed in sheep dogs to a certain extent, but he believed still more in the actual presence of the shepherd himself. But his experiences of the last London season as a married man had convinced him that the life of Corydon, particularly at the play, was not an existence of unalloyed bliss. To Mrs. Charmington and her smart set, Haggard's devotion to his wife was particularly touching: in vain would they beckon him, or point to a vacant seat at their sides, with their fans; like Love's Sentinel, sweet was the watch he kept, but, to tell the truth, it bored him horribly.