Read Ebook: The Pit Town Coronet: A Family Mystery Volume 1 (of 3) by Wills C J Charles James

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Ebook has 508 lines and 40719 words, and 11 pages

pay off both the principal and its interest at any time, in the extremely unlikely event of his ever having the money to do so. Such was Haggard's position when he became engaged, as has been narrated, to Georgina, Squire Warrender's handsome daughter, at the end of her first and triumphant London season. It has been noted that among Georgie's numerous and most assiduous admirers had been our friend Spunyarn. He had proposed to and been rejected by Georgie, but they still remained sworn friends.

The two girls, the elder of whom was but twenty, her cousin being two years younger, presented a striking contrast. Georgie was a remarkably fine girl of the true English type. Three centuries of Warrenders, a family which began as yeomen, but soon took its place in the squirearchy of its county, had transmitted to Georgie that healthy type, that sound physique and that clear complexion, which is seen only in England; and even in England, only among healthy rustics, or the women of those families of the upper class who habitually pass the greater portion of the year out of London. Not that Georgie Warrender was a mere rustic beauty, as her taper hands and tiny feet showed. It takes a good foot to look well in a walking shoe, and even in the trying walking shoe Georgie's foot was unmistakably a good one. Her clear blue eyes were honest and sympathetic; Georgie Warrender looked every one straight in the face, she had evidently nothing to conceal, nothing to be ashamed or afraid of. The two girls had been carefully educated, the "ologies" having been wisely omitted. Georgie's magnificent chestnut bronze hair was her great attraction. It is needless to say that a lock of it was in Haggard's pocket-book, and that one of Haggard's raven curls was worn in Georgie's locket. The engagement was an open one. There was no self-consciousness about either of the parties. They were both evidently proud of it.

"As usual, and I suppose my own fault, though my last serious failure was certainly not my fault, but entirely due to you, Miss Warrender."

"It was certainly not your lordship's misfortune," smiled the young lady.

The dinner that evening at The Warren was a cheerful one; the humours of the day were described with biting satire by the gentle Lucy. She it was who had cruelly incited the stout vicar to elephantine gambols, to the intense disgust and annoyance of his angular wife. Who but Lucy could have caused the coldness between young farmer Wurzel and his affianced bride, Miss Grains, the brewer's daughter? Who but Lucy, as she sat on the shafts of the horse-roller, listening with apparently rapt attention to the lucubrations of young Wurzel on the subject of shorthorns. Perhaps the clasped hands and the ecstatic look were hardly necessary, for even so interesting a subject as stockbreeding. But Lucy had noted, out of the corner of her watchful eye, the arrival of Miss Grains, indignant and perspiring.

"You'll excuse him, Miss Warrender, it's more thoughtlessness than want of manners; but he oughtn't to be taking up your time like this," cried the brewer's daughter, as she bore off her reluctant prize. To this day nothing will ever persuade the buxom mother of farmer Wurzel's fine young family that her William was not actually audacious enough to propose to Miss Lucy Warrender, and that his attentions were favourably received. So often has poor William Wurzel been twitted on this matter that he has come to look upon himself as a very Lothario, rescued at the right moment.

THE VILLAGE DORCAS.

The big room at King's Warren Parsonage was already fairly well filled. Old Mrs. Wurzel and the buxom but not too well-favoured heiress of the house of Grains were at the head of the table. Old Mrs. Wurzel was a personage in her way; she it was who made the annual contract with the local linen-draper; she it was who, as an adept learned in the art, officiated at the awful ceremony of "cutting-out"; she it was who, with infinite trouble, obtained for the school children those antiquated straw bonnets of a forgotten type, which were the despair of the juvenile village beauties. She herself had worn them in her youth, and they were the proper bonnets for "growing girls." But, alas! Nemesis had arrived; the head coverings worn in country places thirty years ago had become once more the fashion, and the little maids from school had been voted by Spunyarn "quite smart people." It was Mrs. Wurzel who with her own fair but energetic hands had, with her famous cutting-out scissors, shorn away the luxuriant but obnoxious fringe which Jemima Ann Blogg, the poacher's daughter, had appeared in at the Confirmation. Jemima Ann had violently resisted, but her struggles were in vain; in this case the sheep had not been dumb when in the hands of the shearer: the daughter of the village Radical had returned to her father's roof weeping, but shorn. It is true that old Mrs. Wurzel had reluctantly paid to Blogg the sum of five pounds, under the threat of a summons for assault, but the honest fellow had honourably kept her secret as he had promised, and Mrs. Wurzel's reputation, as the champion of virtue and respectability, had in no way suffered, though she had paid her five pounds for it.

The vicar's wife, whose principal characteristics were her interest in missionary work and the saliency of her angles, was a mere priestess in the little circle of which old Mrs. Wurzel was the permanent archdruidess. Vicars' wives had come and gone, but all had submitted, some after a brief struggle, to old Mrs. Wurzel's sway. But Mrs. Dodd, the present vicar's wife, retained the precious prerogative of choosing the book to be read at the monthly Dorcas. Mrs. Dodd's choice was invariably the biography of some missionary; and she did her best to carry out the idea that a Dorcas meeting should provide self-mortification for the ladies present, in the shape of coarse work for the fingers and repellent reading for the mind.

The village Dorcas was that happy neutral ground where the various ranks of society met on an equality. Here might be seen the three good-looking and well-educated daughters of the local draper. Nice girls these, but under the baleful shadow, the bitter blight of trade. For country places are very conservative: the squire looks down on the yeoman, the doctor and the lawyer, all three of whom consider themselves considerably taller in social stature than the tenant farmer, who in his turn will eat no bread and drink no water in the houses of those Rechabites, the tradesmen. All these people, however, join in despising the rich stockbroker who has recently purchased the pretentious place which he calls "The Park;" the gates of which are almost celestial, being of bright gilded iron work. The unfortunate inhabitant of "The Park," notwithstanding his well-appointed barouche and his men in livery, is but a pariah. For not a year ago, till the big corner occurred in Mex. Rails in which he made his pile, little Sleek, of Sleek and Dabbler, of Throgmorton Street, had "been to business" every morning. Sleek now passes his time in good works, he takes a great interest in local affairs, and, unless he flings the whole matter up in a rage, he may yet become a justice of the peace. Sleek finds it far harder work than fortune-making; but he pursues his Will-o'-the-Wisp with untiring energy. So do we all. It is for this, that Sleek contributes so liberally to the local charities. It is for this, that the two Misses Sleek, clad in shining raiment of needlework, are seated at the big table, pursuing the unromantic occupation of hemming huckaback towels of a more than Spartan coarseness. But something has been already gained by the monthly martyrdom; Mrs. Dodd and her sister-in-law the ethereal Anastatia address them as "dear," and they have a bowing acquaintance, which they energetically attempt to increase, with, the Misses Warrender.

Within this charmed circle the veterinary surgeon's womankind and the grocer's daughters also dare to tread, but they are there merely on sufferance. The line must be drawn somewhere, and the vicar's wife, as did her predecessor, drew it at that man of blood, the harmless Kubble, the local butcher. He and the rest of those shut out from Paradise sought their enjoyment, and a perhaps more congenial society, at those buttery banquets, the tea meetings of the local Little Bethel. Thus, as in most country places, Dissent was at a premium among the humbler classes, and possibly the continued assertion of their position by the clergy of the State has had a good deal to do with the spread of Dissent in other villages than King's Warren.

There were at least a dozen ladies seated round the big table at the Parsonage. Our friends Lucy and Georgina were among the number, their simple muslins strikingly contrasting with the more elaborate garments of the Misses Sleek. Anastatia Dodd fluttered round the workers, as they plied their busy needles; she "gave out" the various garments, or portions thereof, of mysterious shape; and as she did so whispered her little word of welcome, her little chirrup of harmless gossip to each. Mrs. Dodd who sat at the bottom of the table as vice-chairmaness, now opened a thick black book in which various markers of coloured paper had been inserted. "I think we are all here," she said, as she put on her spectacles in a determined manner, and ominously cleared her throat. Nobody disputed this proposition; the hum of conversation ceased.

"I think we left off at the second appendix, which contained letters from the wife of the lamented subject of the biography. I will now continue.

"'Quashi-Bungo, "'July 21st, 18--.

"'DEAREST MARY,

Here one of the Miss Sleeks coughed, but the broad grin on her face subsided instantly under the severe look which Mrs. Dodd gave her over her spectacles. After a short pause and a snort of indignation, the vicar's wife continued:

"'I have been the blessed instrument, dear Mary, of a great work in this country. M'Bongo and his whole court are now clothed, I am happy to say, at least to a certain extent. The greater portion of the royal garments have been obtained from me; unfortunately I have been compelled to take payment in cattle and grain. You remember my scarlet rep underskirt, the one I wore so much during our last winter in dear old England; with a little alteration at the waist, to which I have added a green velvet collar, and an additional placket hole , and wearing my galoshes, M'Bongo attended service here yesterday for the first time. Both garment and galoshes were quite useless to me in this hot country. William was unable to persuade him to remove the cockaded hat, which he, in his benighted way, looks upon as a royal crown; but as my husband's is the only other hat in the country, this does not perhaps much matter. William has thus been happily able to report to the society the approaching conversion of M'Bongo and his imminent civilization. The poor king, however, complains much of the heat, and I am sorry to say only wears these robes on ceremonial occasions. Still it has been a great, great comfort to us both.

"'Yours lovingly,

"'AMELIA REES.'

"Many such interesting letters were received from our self-sacrificing countrywoman up to the death of her husband and fellow-worker. The sad end of the mission to King M'Bongo has been narrated in the body of this work. But Mrs. Rees was loth to leave her sphere in Africa, and is now happily married to Alonzo P. Jones, an energetic coloured Baptist minister, of Cape Coast Castle."

There was a universal sigh of relief.

"I wonder whether she wears the ear-rings?" remarked the elder Miss Sleek pertly.

"Perhaps they were the attraction to Alonzo P. Jones," suggested her sister, as she triumphantly folded and smoothed her second completed towel.

"It's always the way with them," sighed Miss Grains, who suffered from a complication of romantic tendency and very tight stays. "It's the money that attracts them, and possibly Mrs. Rees might have been Mrs. Rees to the end of the chapter, if it hadn't been for the ear-rings and the sale of her old clothes for countless flocks and herds."

"In fact, a robbing of Peter to pay Paul," suggested Lucy Warrender, but without raising her eyes from her work.

The needle of the archdruidress broke, as she shook her head viciously at the scoffer. "Ah, my dear, you shouldn't laugh at sacred things," said the elder lady.

"But I don't look upon Mrs. Rees as a sacred thing," cried Lucy, not to be intimidated.

"A person no one would wish to know," chimed in Miss Sleek.

"Ah, but think how she loved the blacks, and gave herself up to them," cooed the vicaress, in a tone intended at the same time to convey instruction and reproof.

"Nasty thing," retorted Lucy, with biting sarcasm. "I suppose it was because she loved the blacks and gave herself up to them, that she married the energetic negro ranter with the dreadful name."

This proved too much for Mrs. Dodd. "I am surprised and ashamed, Lucy Warrender, at your attempt to depreciate the noble self-immolation of dear Mrs. Jones. Of course it is a great privilege to be married to a clergyman, a very precious privilege, but when he is a negro and a Baptist--hum--I suppose I must say clergyman, then a woman's life must be indeed a martyrdom."

"I suppose he beats her?" asked one of the draper's daughters of the experienced Mrs. Wurzel.

"I sincerely trust he does," broke in the irreverent Lucy.

Just at this moment the door was hurriedly opened, and the Reverend John Dodd entered the room. He was a stout man, his principal characteristics being an intense pleasure in ladies' society, and an obliviousness of the fact that he was no longer the pale slim young curate of earlier days. A life of almost absolute inactivity, which was forced upon him by his wife's jealousy of the rest of the sex, had rendered the muscular young Dodd of Oriel a perfect Daniel Lambert. Little irreverent boys from the village corners were in the habit of shouting "Jumbo" at the poor vicar. He was accustomed to pursue them, but in vain; a stern chase is proverbially a long chase, and poor Mr. Dodd's futile efforts to capture his persecutors had become a bye-word. But the Reverend John Dodd's weak point, the red rag to the bull, the bee in his bonnet, was his devotion to the fair sex. Handsome Jack Dodd, as he had been once called, in his undergraduate and curate days, had been accustomed to find his attentions very highly appreciated. The habit grew on him, love-sick maidens sighed, and love-sick maidens wept, but all in vain. Handsome Jack Dodd, a very clerical butterfly, flitted from flower to flower. His admiration was freely, openly, ardently expressed for every variety of female beauty. Was Jack Dodd a flirt? Not a bit of it; he was merely a fancier, just as there are pigeon fanciers and poultry fanciers; so Handsome Jack Dodd was a fancier, an admirer, a worshipper of the entire female sex: that is to say, the select specimens of it. What he could have seen in Canon Drivel's daughter who can say? though, when he married Cecilia Drivel, she was a well-known light of London. She it was who, in the severity of her classic and rather imperial beauty, had posed to Mahlstick, R.A., for his well-known picture of Judith with the head of Holofernes. Alas! for poor Jack Dodd, he had assisted at the numerous sittings. He it was who had had the honour of sitting for the headless trunk of Holofernes. To lie prone on a bedstead of any period, and have nothing to do for two mortal hours but gaze on the classic proportions of any lady--for Mahlstick was a strict disciplinarian and discouraged conversation--is enough to seal the fate of any man, even if he were of a less inflammable type than Handsome Jack. Miss Drivel was her father's only daughter, and ambitious; but four seasons, during which she was much admired, but never once received a serious offer, had warned the waning beauty not to neglect her opportunities. Miss Drivel was a lady of no imagination and strong will; the interest of her father, a notorious pluralist, was very great: Cecilia Drivel was determined to marry Dodd. She did so, and her victim became her obedient slave, and was duly inducted to the fat living of King's Warren. In all things Jack Dodd, as the weaker vessel, yielded to his wife. He had but one drawback in her eyes, he retained his passion, his innocent passion, for the fair sex. At the shrine of beauty he remained a constant and ecstatic worshipper. This was Mrs. Dodd's cross, and she had to bear it. An idle life at King's Warren Parsonage, and frequent dinner parties, for the Reverend John Dodd was a popular man, had caused Handsome Jack to expand into a very Falstaff. Alas, anxiety had had precisely the reverse effect upon the vicar's wife. The once statuesque "Judith" had disappeared, and Mrs. Dodd's characteristics were now high principle and bone.

"Busy as usual, my dear," said the vicar to his wife, as he proceeded to welcome each member of the female bevy in turn, devoting perhaps a little more time than was necessary to handsome Miss Warrender and her cousin.

Mrs. Dodd closed the thick black book with a slap. "I suppose work is over now for the day; you really should not intrude on our Dorcas, John," she said in a severe tone.

"My dear, it is my duty to encourage my parishioners in good works, nay, it is my pleasure," replied the parson.

"No one doubts it, Mr. Dodd," said the vicaress in an icy manner.

But Mrs. Dodd was evidently in a minority. The ladies crowded round their popular vicar. It is easy to spoil a man, and the Reverend John Dodd had been much spoilt by his parishioners, and seemed to like the process.

And now a whispered conference took place between the Misses Sleek. With smiles and conscious blushes, the elder sister addressed the vicar. "Oh, dear Mr. Dodd, we do so want you to do us a favour," she faltered.

"Granted, my dear young lady, granted before it is asked."

"And wear them too," chimed in her sister.

In an elaborate box, from which Miss Sleek rapidly tore the paper in which it was wrapped, and hurriedly opened, lay a dozen bands of the latest ecclesiastical fashion.

"Oh ladies, dear ladies, so you equip your faithful knight for the fray; accept my grateful thanks, my very grateful thanks," sighed the vicar.

"So pleased you like them, dear Mr. Dodd," chorused the stockbroker's daughters.

The triumphs of decorative millinery were passed from hand to hand.

"They never made these," muttered old Mrs. Wurzel to herself, as she critically held one up to the light. "The minxes," she inwardly added. Mrs. Wurzel was quite right; they had been supplied, regardless of cost, from Messrs. Rochet and Stole's well-known establishment.

"Ah," purred Lucy Warrender, "the ladies used to arm their knights with their own fair hands in the days of chivalry."

The parson laughed. "And have the days of chivalry departed, ladies?" he said, protruding his head, much as the unconscious aldermanic turtle is said to protrude his, when awaiting the fatal stroke.

Conny Sleek, the younger and bolder of the two, looked at her sister; the elder girl nodded maliciously.

Conny stepped smilingly forward, and proceeded to affix the band around the vicar's massive throat.

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