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Volume III: see https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42169
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.
CHAP. PAGE
I.--A HORRIBLE SCANDAL 1
II.--AT THE PARSONAGE 27
III.--HOW THEY CAME HOME 51
IV.--THE RETURN OF THE WANDERER 73
V.--THE MISSES SLEEK DROP IN 94
VI.--THE SLEEKS IN ARCADIA 117
VII.--HAGGARD COMES INTO HIS OWN 138
VIII.--THE VICAR TRIES PUFFIN 167
IX.--MR. PUFFIN HUNTS A BUTTERFLY 190
X.--A RATHER SHADY CHARACTER 213
XI.--ESAU WAS THE FIRSTBORN 236
XII.--IN ST. JOHN'S WOOD 276
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_. She 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.