AT THE CASTLE.
The Haggards were heartily glad to leave town. The nasty scandal at the
Pandemonium had been particularly irritating to Haggard personally.
"Thank God," he said to himself, "the head of the family will probably
never hear of it, unless Hetton should go out of his way to tell him;
but I don't think he'd do that, he's not too particular himself, so it
would be only a case of the pot calling the kettle, after all. It wasn't
my fault. How could I know the young idiot was drugging himself with
Chartreuse? I was too much interested in the game. Besides, some one was
bound to have his money sooner or later; in fact," pondered the big man,
"I've been rather ill-used, when I come to think of it. It's just my
luck."
Just his luck! Yes, it was just his luck; just his luck to squander
every farthing he possessed, and to be pitied by everybody when deported
to do the best he could for himself. Just his luck to have what the
Americans call a "high-old time" in Mexico, to hunt, to shoot, to enjoy
the free wild life and absence of restraint in America. Just his luck to
thoroughly clear out that wealthy gambler Don Emanuel Garcia, at poker;
but then Haggard had all the qualifications for a poker player: he had
the very luck which he grumbled at; good temper, for your thoroughly
selfish man is far too fond of himself ever to be other than
good-tempered; his "cheek" was unlimited, and in the big "flutter" with
the Mexican, he had also had good cards. Given good luck, good temper,
good "cheek," and good cards, a poker player is always invincible; so
the Americans say, and they ought to know. Just his luck to become the
possessor of a large sum of ready cash, when valuable land was going
a-begging; just his luck at that precise moment to invest his easily-got
winnings in the Mexican ranches and pastures, now worth ten times what
they cost him. Just his luck to come home at the right moment to be
accepted by the loveliest girl in Essex, a girl whose beauty had now
even received the _imprimatur_ of so fastidious a judge as his Royal
Highness. Just his luck to be adored by his young wife, and looked upon
by her as a king of men; to be clothed in purple and fine raiment, with
the possibility of a peerage and the possession of immense wealth in the
future. But he was quite right in carping at her, for fortune, like
other fickle jades, is more likely to be true if steadily abused.
The two girls, his wife and her cousin, interrupted his soliloquy. The
gaieties of the season had, if possible, rendered Georgie's beauty
still more perfect. A succession of _recherché_ entertainments, of
concerts, balls and routs, and their attendant late hours and
excitement, had given the young wife that almost indefinable stamp of
delicate refinement for which we have no word, which is so seldom seen
in England, and which the Italians call _morbidezza_.
But there was no _morbidezza_ about Lucy; she, too, had shone, perhaps
with a certain amount of reflected lustre; but she had shone, she had
dazzled. When a very young woman is exceedingly good-looking, no prude,
and prepared to go any lengths, being at the same time perfectly
heartless, she is bound to be a success, and Lucy had been a great
success. The Duc de la Houspignolle, the French Ambassador in London,
that duke who was so much missed from the cotillions at the Tuileries of
his imperial mistress, had pronounced Lucy _pétillante_. M. Barbiche,
his second secretary, the best valseur of the season, had declared that
Miss Warrender was the lightest stepper in town. "She make my heart to
beat as it never beat before," said the young diplomatist to his chief;
"but she is not distinguished like her cousin, she is a woman. I think
her cousin is only a goddess after all. They are cold, these married
English. I suppose it is the 'spleen.'"
"You'll get back your roses, old woman, at the Castle," said Haggard to
his wife. "I think we've both had about enough of it," said he, as he
poured out a brandy and soda. "I'm getting rather sick of seeing my wife
twirled round like a teetotum by a succession of well-dressed idiots,
while twenty more noodles round me are all saying how very charming she
is, and consequently hating and envying me. It's all devilish fine for
you girls, but I really think I shall enjoy a fortnight's dulness and
the counting of possible chickens which may never be hatched at Walls
End. Anyhow, one will get one's rubber."
"And I shall have two new strings to my bow in the shape of Hetton and
his cousin. By-the by, what is Hetton like? One can't judge of a man at
a wedding breakfast," said Lucy.
"Oh, horsey; when you say that you say everything."
"I've a good mind to upset all your plans, Reginald, after all," said
the girl. "Lady Hetton would look well on my cards. And then I should
come in for the Walls End diamonds. By-the-way, are the Walls End
diamonds black diamonds?"
"Bother Hetton; you've got about as much chance with him as with the old
man, my dear," for it annoyed Haggard to see the slightest cloud to his
prospects, even were it no bigger than a man's hand.
"Anyhow, there are two bachelors, Reginald, besides his lordship, who is
hardly a bachelor, being, I suppose, wedded to art."
"Oh! three, my dear; you have forgotten my father; he, too, is aged, but
impressionable. If you'll only talk about pigs, Lucy, and manifest an
intelligent interest, especially in black ones, you can put my nose out
of joint most effectually!"
"I should make a stern stepmother, Reginald."
"Of course, _injusta noverca_, and all the rest of it, I suppose. I
don't know about the sternness, my dear, but I can answer for the
crispness."
"Thank you for nothing, Reginald; however, I shall certainly take a dip
in the lucky-bag at the Castle."
"By Jove, Lucy! there's Wolff for you."
"And who is Wolff?" asked his wife.
"Wolff, my dear, is the toad-eater. In the old days every great man kept
a toad-eater; sometimes his functions were highly paid--Wolff's are, I
fancy. A dish of toads of the largest and most repulsive variety used to
be offered one by one to the big man's relatives and guests. A good
many would partake of them. It was the toad-eater's office to devour the
remainder with apparent gusto."
"Reginald, you're a wretch! and I don't believe a word of it," said
Lucy.
Haggard yawned, drained his glass, and they retired to prepare
themselves for the journey to Walls End Castle, which was to take place
on the morrow.
Lord Pit Town was determined, on this occasion at least, to break
through the rule which he had stringently observed since his return to
Walls End Castle. For many years no lady had graced the great old house
with her presence. It was considerably to Justice Haggard's astonishment
that he heard of the invitation to his son and his son's wife. "Hetton
won't like it," he muttered to himself, as with the point of his stick
he gently titillated the back of one of his favourite black pigs. The
animal stood perfectly still, grunting with suppressed delight. "Hetton
will be decidedly savage," mused the old gentleman. "I wonder whether
Reginald will get something in the will?" pondered his father, his eyes
fixed on the black pig's ears. "He's a lucky beggar, Reginald, a very
lucky beggar, and Warrender's daughter is more than he deserves." Few
fathers think that any woman is more than their son deserves,
particularly when that son is an only son, wealthy, and a possible heir
to a peerage; but we may take it that Justice Haggard knew pretty well
what his son deserved, and that when he considered Georgie "more than
his son deserved," Justice Haggard was probably right. If the prodigal
really had his deserts he would still be chewing husks with the Mexican
swine--husks which the magnificent specimen of the porcine race who was
so delightedly submitting to the caresses of the Justice's stick would
doubtlessly have indignantly rejected. "I wonder why," continued the
meditating Justice, "Hetton don't marry?" Perhaps Mademoiselle Zizine,
of the French theatre, was the reason--who knows? Hetton didn't go into
society, not that society wouldn't have been very glad to receive Lord
Hetton, being Lord Hetton, even if he had been a Siamese twin or a
Spotted Boy, which he wasn't. But Lord Hetton found that society cost
money, and only placed an additional barrier between him and the object
of his ambition--the blue ribbon of the turf. Hence when Lord Hetton
sought distraction from race meetings and Tattersall's, he found it in
the society of Mademoiselle Zizine and her like.
Evidently the question of why Hetton didn't marry perplexed the Justice;
he paused in his attentions to the pig; the animal, who was black but
comely, missing the accustomed caress, gave a little snort of
impatience. "Bother Hetton!" said the Justice, administering a sudden
and unexpected prod to that tender but irritable skin. The injured and
indignant animal gave vent to a succession of eldritch screams. The
callous Justice passed on to the next stye, immersed in thought.
Great were the preparations at Walls End Castle, and greater still the
astonishment of the old housekeeper when she heard that the winter house
party was to be graced with the presence of ladies. Not that what were
termed the state apartments were in any way disturbed. The old show
rooms were left to the mice and ghosts, but the more modern suites were
all to be occupied. My lady's own rooms had been allotted to Haggard and
his wife. The rather Spartan simplicity of the late Lady Pit Town had
made her own rooms sombre, if not grim. It had been a labour of love
with the old lord to change all this. The æsthetic gentleman Messrs.
Spick and Span, the great upholsterers, had sent down, had been severely
snubbed by Dr. Wolff; the upholsterer had submitted elaborate coloured
pictures of his idea, his firm's idea, of what a suite of rooms should
be. Part of that idea was sham _bric-à-brac_, the rest was _carte
blanche_ to Messrs. Spick and Span. "We should like," said that
well-dressed and self-satisfied individual, "to turn out a job worthy of
our house's reputation and that of his lordship. We should suggest that
the boudoir be hung with Japanese embroideries; of course, there would
be an Aubusson carpet, and we should cover the whole flooring"--which
Mr. Veneer contemptuously indicated with his umbrella--"with our patent
_parquet_; probably a mediæval pattern would be the most suitable. We
should restore the ceiling and liven up the mouldings with a free use of
gold; in fact, my advice in the matter is, that his lordship should
place himself entirely in our hands. Of course, money's no object. His
lordship cannot do better than to rely upon the taste of our Mr.
Spick."
"I do not think it shall be so, my friend," Wolff had replied. "You will
put fresh and pretty papers on the walls. Your hangings must be of
chintz, of pretty chintz, and you will put a cheerful carpet on the
floor. As for furniture, there is plenty of that here, but the chairs
and the sofas you shall provide; one thing only you shall remember--they
shall be comfortable. His lordship will sit in every chair; if it is not
comfortable it will go back. As for the ceiling you shall not touch
him."
Messrs. Spick and Span's representative was wounded in his tenderest
point, but his firm carried out the order to the letter. The old lord
had sat in each chair and was satisfied. The ceiling, which represented
the triumph of Venus, by Verrio, was left untouched. If we were
permitted to penetrate the secret mysteries of the bedchamber, we should
make the reader's mouth water by telling of the toilet table, which was
stamped "Riesener," and bore the mark, "_Meubles de la reine_." We
should tell of the ormolu mounts of the little table, and how it really
once belonged to Marie Antoinette. All the decorative furniture of this
suite of rooms had been carefully selected by the old lord from the vast
accumulation of such things that Walls End Castle contained. For several
weeks he and Dr. Wolff had pottered about the set of rooms that were to
be graced by Georgie's presence. When, to Wolff's astonishment, the
priceless Meissonier, "The Gray Musketeer," was selected as the one
picture to adorn the boudoir, he attempted a remonstrance.
"Nothing can be too good for her, Wolff," said the earl, as he smiled
upon the picture.
Other rooms had been set apart for Lucy, but their arrangement had been
left to Wolff.
It was evident to the German doctor that his patron looked forward to
his great-niece's visit with pleasure. On the day of her arrival, for
the first time in his life, Lord Pit Town failed to visit the new
galleries.
At dinner, Hetton himself was surprised at the amount of attention paid
to Georgie by the head of the house. Haggard did not attempt to conceal
his satisfaction. Lucy Warrender, ever ready for mischief, feigned an
intense interest in racing matters, but failed to draw Lord Hetton. That
guileless bachelor, Mr. Haggard, of the Home Office, proved more
amenable to her fascinations; he knew that he should get his rubber
after dinner, and Miss Warrender's conversation helped to while away the
time until what was to him the real business of life should commence. As
for the Justice he was in the best of humours, he enjoyed his dinner, he
enjoyed his wine. But the '34 port was so good that he revoked twice, to
the indignation and despair of his unhappy brother and partner.
The girls sang to the old man at his express desire, and Hetton noticed
with a feeling of secret indignation that the antiquated Broadwood grand
had been replaced by a magnificent Erard.
The place seemed changed. Lord Pit Town appreciated with mingled
pleasure and astonishment the brightening influence of the ladies'
presence; the party, if not gay, was at least cheerful; the little
leaven had leavened the whole lump. They broke up early, satisfied with
themselves and with each other. But Hetton's equanimity was again
disturbed in the morning when his lordship actually proposed to drive
Mrs. Haggard and her cousin in the park. He retired in disgust to his
own quarters, where he consoled himself by the inspection of his betting
book and the reading of his trainer's last report. Haggard, of the Home
Office, in his own room, with two packs of cards, worked out historical
games of whist and studied the _coups_ of Lachapelle and the other
great masters. Dr. Wolff walked aimlessly up and down the new
galleries, and stopping before Bab Chudleigh's portrait, soliloquized,
as is the manner of his race, "Ah, lovely English woman, you are but a
bainted bortrait, but all men admired you because they could not help
it; if all they say be true, Madame Jezebel, you were as bad a woman as
lived in your bad old days. Gott in Himmel! but you are very like the
leetel Warrender lady. God forbid the leetel lady shall have a heart
like yours. No, I wrong that innocent English _mädchen_. But you are
both _wunderschön_. Hein!" And then the doctor continued his
perambulations, and in his dreamy way, he pondered on Lucy's seraphic
smile, and on her wealth of golden hair. "Such things are not for me,"
he thought. "I must go on loving the baintings and the bortraits to the
end of the chapter," and then he sat down to write a business letter
about Fra Filippo Lippi to old Mr. Creeps. Justice Haggard and his son
wandered about the home farm; the father criticized the piggeries,
while the son smoked a big cigar and thought of nothing at all.
"Gad! Reginald," said the old man, "there's one thing I can't
understand. Pit Town, who looks after most things, neglects these poor
beasts in a most shameful way; if ever I came into the title I should
make it my first business to pull down the whole range of buildings,"
here he indicated the piggeries in an indignant manner; "they are a
disgrace to the place, sir; the sight of them offends me."
"Well, father, I hope you may, I sincerely hope you may carry out your
own ideas here some day," said the dutiful son; "but I don't think the
old man cares very much for your hobby, you know."
"Then he neglects his duties, that's all," replied the old gentleman
with an indignant snort. "Of course, Pit Town's in the fashion," he
continued, "for we hear about nothing but art now-a-days; but I should
like to know where he benefits his race. His ambition is a purely
selfish one, while mine is distinctly benevolent. The dream of my life,
Reginald, is unrealizable. I know that I can never succeed in producing
the being I see in my dreams, a perfectly boneless pig; a sort of
animated sausage, where fat and lean shall be deliciously blended in the
requisite proportions. I know I strive after the unattainable, but still
every year I get nearer and nearer to the goal. When I remember, sir,
what black pigs were when I was a boy, and what they are now, thanks to
my efforts and those of the noble little band of enthusiasts like
myself, I feel that I am leaving a lasting monument behind me. Why, only
yesterday, sir, when Dr. Wolff pointed out to me what he called a
specimen of George Morland's best manner, I felt what giant strides of
progress we have made. There were the pigs of _his_ day, represented as
great gaunt bony bristly creatures, wallowing at large, sir, in muck and
mire. We never see such horrors now; and I actually envied Pit Town the
possession of that picture. I should like to hang it up, sir, in my
piggeries at The Priory, that the world might look upon what the animal
was, and in contrasting him with the superb creatures I possess,
appreciate what can be done by care, breeding, feeding, and proper
selection. The time will come, Reginald, when every English speaking man
or woman who puts a piece of pork or bacon into his mouth will bless the
name of Haggard. But these are but ambitious dreams, Reginald, never
perhaps to be realized."
The party at Walls End Castle, though its elements were decidedly
heterogeneous, was a success. Everybody was sorry to go when they left,
and their host regretted the departure of his visitors.
"The place seems quite dull without them, Wolff," he remarked. "I think
I shall try to see more of my relatives, but we must make up for lost
time, Wolff. Why, since the ladies have been here we have neglected
work shamefully."
"It has been a pleasant time, Lord Pit Town, for me, for I love
enthusiasm in the young. It has never yet been my fortune to meet with
so delightful and innocent a thirst for information as that displayed by
the charming Miss Warrender. The soul's confessions of that dear young
lady were delightful in their naïve innocence. She has learnt much
during her stay here of the canons of true art; it will be to me an
ever-to-be-remembered epoch."
The old lord looked up from the great manuscript catalogue _raisonné_ at
the German doctor.
"So she made a fool of you too, Wolff, did she?"
"My lord, she respected me too much to attempt to make a fool of me.
She, the young neophyte, recognized in me a humble priest of art."
"Ah, Wolff," said the old lord with a look at the great portrait of
Barbara Chudleigh, "there are some women who don't even respect doctors
of philosophy."