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.