HER OWN PEOPLE
By Mrs. B. M. CROKER
Author of
"Diana Barrington," "Beyond the Pale,"
"Peggy of the Bartons," "Terence,"
"The Catspaw," etc.
London:
Hurst and Blackett, Limited
Paternoster House, E.C.
DEDICATION.
TO
EDITH M. VINCENT,
WITH THE AUTHOR'S LOVE
[Illustration: "God pardon me and give me rest."]
HER OWN PEOPLE
CHAPTER I
"Oh yes! I know what it is to be hard up myself! I'm hard up now!--but
I'll help you in another way. You must marry, Malcolm, my boy! Leave it
to me, and I'll find you a rich wife!"
In making the foregoing boastful promise, Sir Horace Haig raised a
naturally harsh voice, and all but shouted his officious announcement.
The empty air seemed to echo the words, "rich wife"--"rich wife," their
regular measured tread to repeat, "rich wife"--"rich wife," as the two
men, uncle and nephew, hurried down a by-street in Homburg.
There was good reason for haste, a neighbouring clock was chiming
the hour, and already they were unfashionably late for the morning
ceremonies at the Elisabeth Brunnen.
"But----" began the prospective Benedict, in a doubtful tone.
"My grandfather used to say," interrupted his uncle, in a loud
authoritative key, "that a man should marry young, and marry often. He
had four wives!"
"And you, sir, have not had one!" rejoined his companion, with
unexpected audacity.
"Oh--ah--well, yes--that is true--but the fact is, I had an unhappy
love affair--(a fiction invented on the spot)--a--a--blighted life--a
blighted life!!--it is a--a painful subject."
Here Sir Horace suddenly turned into a narrow footpath, where, as it
was necessary to walk in single file, awkward questions were evaded, or
postponed.
The subject of "a blighted life" was a spruce, straight-backed
gentleman of sixty, with a large hooked nose, and two keen little blue
eyes, sheltered by a pair of beetling brows; he dressed in a careful
middle-aged style, and wore his clothes, and his years, with ease.
Sir Horace was the seventh Baronet--a resolute old bachelor, who
enjoyed a comfortable income, and was on the committee of the Bellona
Club. He claimed an immense acquaintance, and was fairly popular, being
recognised as a fine judge of a vintage, or a cook, and one of the best
bridge players in London. It is painful to add that he was incredibly
selfish, and never expended a shilling on any more deserving object
than Horace Haig, Baronet, and yet, in a hearty jovial fashion, he
contrived to extract an astonishing amount of hospitality and favours,
from other people!
Such an individual was naturally the last man in the world to trouble
himself respecting his relations--and above all, his poor relations.
Nevertheless, on the present occasion he was accompanied by his nephew
and heir. Indeed it was in answer to his uncle's warm invitation (but
not at his expense) that Captain Haig was visiting Homburg before
rejoining his regiment in India.
Malcolm Haig was a well-set-up young officer, with a pair of merry blue
eyes, and a touch of sunshine in his closely cropped locks. Sir Horace
introduced, with an air of bland complacency, a kinsman who did him
credit, made no demands on his patience, nor yet upon his pocket. All
the same, he had excellent reason to know that Malcolm was "hard up."
His private means were nominal, and he was about to conclude a year's
leave in England--a year's leave is often an expensive luxury. Under
such circumstances his banker's account would be uncomfortably low--in
fact, Malcolm had said as much. Sir Horace was disposed to exert his
social influence, and endeavour to do the poor young fellow a good
turn. He was handsome and well born; if his purse was lean, he had an
adventurous spirit and a susceptible heart.
As uncle and nephew followed the winding path which led to the
far-famed Elisabeth Well, the latter was struck by the exceptional
beauty of their surroundings, the admirably-kept greensward, the shady
trees and flowering shrubs, on which the early dew was still glistening.
There was a delicious perfume of roses in the air, and the inspiriting
sound of a string band in the near distance.
"I say," began the young man, now walking beside his companion, "I had
no idea that Homburg was like this--half park, half garden, and so
pretty."
"Hadn't you!" rejoined his uncle gruffly; "well, I suppose it is! This
is my twenty-seventh season--I've got over my first raptures by this
time."
"I don't believe I could ever come back to the same place twenty-seven
times."
"Think it argues a lack of originality? It would depend on its
attractions. You don't want to go back to Perapore twenty-seven times,
eh?"
"By Jove, no--nor twice!" he answered, with emphasis.
"But here it is different, my boy. It is good for one's liver, it is
gay, and, as you remark, pretty. There is any amount of entertaining;
dinners and luncheons; there is golf and tennis. I meet the people
I know--or want to know. In short, Homburg has become an agreeable
habit, which there is no occasion to relinquish. And here we are!" he
announced, as they emerged from a shady walk into a wide and crowded
promenade.
At one end of this promenade was the celebrated well, at present
closely invested by a number of votaries, who were sipping their first
glass, or waiting to be served by the active, blue-gowned maidens.
Here were young and old, society folk and nobodies, a Russian Grand
Duke stood elbow to elbow with a Scotch grocer, and the Countess of
Marmalade was patiently waiting till Cora Sans Souci was served.
As soon as Sir Horace had swallowed his glass (he took it warm), and
having vainly urged his nephew to pledge him in another, he carried him
off to stroll up and down, between the bandstand and the jewellers'
shops. As they sauntered along he saluted almost every second person,
and indicated the chief notabilities to his relation.
"Here comes the Duke of Luxembourg," and he swept off his hat, "getting
very shaky on his pins, poor old boy. This man passing now with the
lady in the Ascot frock is De Jeers, the great Jew financier. She
is Lady Merrythought, and getting all she can out of him, I'll lay
long odds. The pale girl in the white linen gown is the notorious
'Sauta'--the Spanish dancer. She stabbed a man with a hat pin the other
day. This couple comparing prescriptions are the Bishop of Timbucktoo
and Dooley, the steeplechase jock. The lady with the herd of Borzois
is the Duchess of Valetta, and the little woman with the brown poodle
is Madame Cuzco; that poodle is a European celebrity, and has his own
manservant and barber. Now let us go and sit on one of the seats and
watch the madding crowd."
"All right," assented his nephew, "they certainly are a
wonderfully-mixed lot! Look at these two swarthy giantesses--regular
six-footers--a most formidable couple!"
"Oh, the Misses Rookes--twins. They go by the name of the 'Powerful'
and the 'Terrible'!"
Captain Haig laughed aloud.
"Yes," resumed his mentor, "and this little dressy woman, with
tremendous knee action, who prances alongside of the rosy-cheeked
youth, is Mrs. Waller, with her third husband. They are known as 'the
Skipper and the Boy'!"
"Splendid!" ejaculated the other.
"And that red-faced man yonder is Turnbull, the great traveller. He is
called 'the Crimson Rambler!' Rather good, eh?"
"Rather--but who are these coming now?--this girl and the squat old
woman--walking in a sort of crowd, with a dog?"
"Oh, that is Madame de Godez--Madame de Gaudy they call her--a
fabulously wealthy widow. She always reminds me of a toad, with her
dark, mottled face, bright black eyes, and huge chinless mouth. Madame
is a personage here, as you may see. Gives wonderful dinners and
picnics, subscribes to everything, and is quite in the smart set!"
"Great Scotland!" ejaculated his listener, "why, she looks for all the
world like an old Portuguese half-caste!"
"She is Portuguese, I believe; of blue, not black, blood."
"And the girl?--she is a jewel, if the other is a toad. The princess
and the witch. What do they call her here?"
"Miss Chandos. She is Madame's adopted daughter, and lives with old de
Godez--goes everywhere, and has a good time."
"What do you call a good time?" questioned Captain Haig as his eyes
followed the de Godez group.
"She has everything money can purchase, each wish forestalled,
boundless admiration, forty-guinea frocks, and as many proposals of
marriage as there are days in the week."
"Oh, I say, come!" expostulated his nephew.
"Well, I know for a fact that she refused Dormer Lisle and Tubby
Coote, and, they say, Lord Caraway. Observe that young officer in the
Frankfort Dragoons rushing on his fate, and the dark, foreign-looking
chap leading the dog is Prince Tossati, an Italian prince, long
pedigree, lean purse!"
Captain Haig stared intently at the group, which had halted to greet
some friends within a few yards of his seat--at the stout old woman,
who had no chin or neck to speak of, but a shrewd, piercing eye--a
bargaining eye--and a far-reaching, authoritative voice. She was
dressed with great magnificence, in a crimson and black foulard, and
in her ears blazed two large diamonds. There was something tragic in
the intensity of the effort and the insufficiency of the result; for
all her pains Madame de Godez was merely an ugly old woman who waddled
like a duck. During her progress she talked incessantly in a high
falsetto--chiefly to a man who strolled beside her--listening with an
air of reverent attention, his head bent, his hands loosely clasped
behind his back. It would be difficult to imagine a more complete
contrast than that presented by Madame de Godez and her niece. Miss
Chandos was a tall and graceful demoiselle, who moved with deliberate,
indolent gait; her flowing white gown was studiously plain; she wore
no ornaments, and few would have cast a second glance at her large
black hat. It was a certain air of personal distinction which arrested
attention, for if her toilet was simple, her carriage was regal. Her
head was firmly set upon a long white throat, and the face beneath the
shady hat was unquestionably beautiful. The girl's complexion indicated
the morn and dew of youth; her features were cut with the precision of
a cameo; her eyes and hair were dark, and both were glorious.
The young lady's manner was considerably more animated than her
movements. She talked and laughed gaily and uninterruptedly, with a
slim, sallow cavalier (obviously her bondslave) who conducted Madame's
morose-looking pet by a long leather strap.
This animal was an elderly terrier, who did not appreciate these
early promenades where he was restrained from speaking to his own
species--and was secretly dosed with nasty waters. He loathed the
foreign food, foreign manners, foreign tongue--he never met an English
pal, or enjoyed a day's good English sport. Oh, where were the rabbits,
the cats, the friends and the enemies of his youth? He was an ill-used,
expatriated animal, as surly and injured as any other old gentleman
compelled to reside on the Continent against his inclination. Madame
de Godez invariably addressed the poor creature as "Dog Darling," for
she was passionately attached to him, despite his churlish humours; but
he remained his own dog, and nobody's darling, as he was half-dragged,
half-led, in the train of a triumphal progress.
Captain Haig's eyes dwelt long on this particular group, and his
uncle, noting the fact, made a sudden and startling remark.
"Malcolm, my boy, that girl would be the very wife for you!" and when
he had enunciated this opinion, he coughed, and gave his neat washing
tie an emphatic twitch.
"Wife for me, sir?" repeated his relative, "but I'm not looking for
one!"
"No! well it is never too late to mend--and fully time you were making
a search. Handsome heiresses won't fall into your mouth, and nothing
but an heiress will suit. I may live till I'm ninety, you know--and,
anyway, I'm a poor man. Don't wait till you are a stiff, stocky old
fellow, for, if you do, you _may_ wait. But now, when you are a
smart-looking chap, and I can give you a shove, is your time. There is
a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to
_a_ fortune."
"I don't think a lady with a fortune would care to swelter in India,"
remarked his companion, "and I could not bring myself to live at home
on my wife's money."
"Hut-tut-tut!" exclaimed Sir Horace, and his eyebrows assumed an
expression which invariably struck terror to the hearts of club
waiters. "That sort of talk is bosh! It's of no consequence which has
the coin, so long as it's _there_--and I could show you a dozen men who
live quite happily with wealthy wives--and haven't a rap of their own!"
There was a silence for two or three moments, broken only by the buzz
of voices and the strains of the "Valse Bleu." At last the younger man
spoke.
"What sort of a girl is this Miss Chandos?"
"The sort of girl you see. A beautiful creature who carries herself
superbly, knows how to talk, and to walk, and to put on her clothes. As
far as I'm aware, she neither gambles, swears, smokes nor drinks!"
"Good Lord, I should hope not!" ejaculated his nephew.
"But, mind you" (here Sir Horace's tone changed into a graver
key), "she is perfectly sensible of her own value--though affable
and gracious to all. Perhaps a little supercilious to her foreign
slaves--especially the Italian--she has a horror of dusky complexions
and black blood which amounts to a craze."
"Then what about the aunt?" inquired Captain Haig, with rather
malicious significance.
"My dear boy, I've already assured you that Madame is of _sang
azur_--an old Alcantara family. She married a Scotchman who made
a fortune in indigo. The girl has been brought up in England, and
polished abroad. I believe she is twenty-two years of age. From
personal experience I am in a position to inform you that she can keep
her temper, hold her tongue, write a fine hand, and add up a bridge
account."
"Oh, well, that is something."
"The old woman has given her a superior education, and lavished money
on her, and now takes her everywhere, for the pure pleasure of the
reflected glory she enjoys as aunt of the celebrated Miss Chandos! The
girl is her hobby. Instead of cats, china, or old furniture, her craze
is Verona, and she carries her about, and exhibits her, like a prize
animal, enters her for all the big shows, such as this--and when her
property comes in an easy first, looks on with a grin extending from
ear to ear, and for all I know, meeting under her wig!"
Here Sir Horace paused, and struck his cane forcibly on the gravel as
he added:
"Miss Chandos is the beauty here this year; all the world is at her
feet."
"And what does she say to all the world?"
"Nothing particular. Takes it as a matter of course--though she is not
a bit conceited, to give her her due--smiles and laughs, as you see,
and turns to conquests new."
"Such as the chap in the blue coat! Are the poor devils _never_ out of
uniform?"
"Never, except at tennis, and then they change before leaving the
pavilion. Miss Chandos would be a splendid match for some needy baron
or princelet. She will come in for fifteen thousand a year, and the
money is all there--I happen to know it for a fact."
"Fifteen thousand a year--and beauty--will never stoop to a poor
captain in the line!"
"Why not!" argued Sir Horace, "a good-looking chap, a future baronet,
with a pedigree that goes back to the Picts, is not to be despised!"
"He will be despised, all the same," muttered his nephew, in a tone of
sombre conviction.
"And I tell you, you can't do better, Malcolm. I'll present you; it's
an intimate sort of life--we all meet three or four times daily; golf
and picnics are easily arranged. Then there is the Casino Terrace of a
night, and romantic and sequestered walks hard by. In a week you should
be able to report progress. The game lies to your hand!"
"I assure you, sir, I really could not face it; it's too cold-blooded!
too bare-faced--and there is something unnatural in sitting here, on a
bench before breakfast, coolly discussing a possible marriage with a
girl to whom I've never even spoken!"
"A marriage discussed before breakfast is far more likely to be a
success than one arranged after dinner!" responded Sir Horace, with
knitted brows. "I'm afraid you are a fool! What have you against it?"
"Nothing. I admit that Miss Chandos is the prettiest girl I've seen
for ages. I admire her immensely. Now if she had but a few hundreds a
year----"
"She would not do at all," interrupted his uncle impatiently. "Well!
the gods cannot help a man who refuses opportunity. Why should you not
try your luck?"
"What's the good--it will only be adding to her scalps."
"Nothing venture, nothing have," declared Sir Horace, rising as he
spoke. "Come, we must be moving--it is long past the time for my second
glass."
Captain Haig got upon his legs with some reluctance, gave himself a
little shake, stamped down his trousers, and in another moment was
walking away in the footsteps of his mentor.