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."