Volume I Part 14 (1/2)

”Trifle with her fiddlesticks,” laughed the girl.

But a knock at the door interrupted them; the discreet Capt entered, bearing a telegram upon a salver.

Mrs. Haggard, to whom the envelope was addressed, tore it open with some anxiety; her face a.s.sumed a pleased expression.

”Order a carriage at once, Capt,” she said.

The valet withdrew to execute the command.

The telegram was from Haggard; it was as follows:

”_Spunyarn and I are on the road, and shall reach Geneva by last train. You had better go to the Villa Lambert and arrange for taking up our quarters there, if you like the place. All well--H._”

Georgie handed the paper to her cousin, the latter clapped her hands with glee. In a woman's life there is nothing more delightful than arranging a home, though it be but a temporary one.

The girls hurried to prepare for their drive. And Mrs. Haggard, after attempting to soothe the wounded feelings of her maid, directed her to accompany them.

With Capt on the box, the young wife and her cousin, and their still ruffled attendant, started on the lovely drive along the margin of the lake for the villa which Haggard had secured, should it meet with their mutual approval, as a home for his wife and cousin during his short projected necessary absence in America.

As seen from the lake the Villa Lambert, which stood quite alone, gave one the idea of the place a poet would choose for his meditations. The villa and its terrace were built of white stone, but a large portion of the walls was covered with ivy. The house itself was embedded in a thickly-wooded garden where the trees were just budding into leaf.

Privacy was evidently what had been aimed at in the arrangement of the place. On looking at it one would instinctively say, _here_ is rest. A large _porte cochere_, which had evidently been long unused, was the chief entrance to the place, and a small wicket, pierced by a grille, and surmounted by a big bell in an iron cage, was the only other means of getting into the garden. The active Capt descended, and seizing the substantial handle rang loudly. The bark of a dog was the only answer, but after repeating the summons several times, the trap in the wicket opened and disclosed the surly face of an old Savoyard. The gifted Capt addressed the old man in numerous dialects, but no answering smile of intelligence illuminated the sulky wooden face; the barred aperture was closed with an angry slam, and Capt instantly recommenced his solo upon the bell. Again the trap opened and a weather-beaten crone answered his summons; at length the door itself was unbarred, and Mr. Capt hastened to a.s.sist his mistresses to alight. He explained to them that the guardians of the villa were a Savoyard and his wife, and that the man was probably deaf, but that the woman had expressed her readiness to show them over the house and grounds.

The garden was full of trees and thick with evergreen shrubs; the walls covered, as they are in most gardens on the Continent, with carefully trained espaliers, many of which were already white with blossom, which promised an abundant crop. Huge clumps of narcissus gave out their heavy odour; it was too early for other flowers, save the China roses and fuchsias, whose bright colours enlivened the place. The beds were bordered, as in many foreign gardens, by pieces of plank painted a bright blue; the paths, so different from our hard trim English gravel walks, were loose s.h.i.+ngle, which had been carefully raked. A goat, chained to a peg, grazed on the unmown lawn; the house itself was jealously shut up, storm blinds and jalousies covering every window.

The uncommunicative old gardener continued his interrupted vocation; his wife, quitting the party and entering the house by a back door, suddenly flung open the windows of the drawing-room, and so admitted the visitors.

There is always an air of discomfort about a furnished house, a kind of grim bareness that suggests an asylum or a prison, rather than a home; and in foreign furnished houses this is specially apparent: there are the regulation amount of chairs and tables it is true; if there are any ornaments they are always either damaged or in bad taste: they generally combine both qualities. It was so at the Villa Lambert; but everything was spotlessly clean, everything was scrupulously cared for; the chairs stood ranged against the wall in a melancholy manner, cruel Philistine-looking chairs and guiltless of cus.h.i.+ons. There were two hard formal-looking couches, with straight backs and spider legs. There was a sort of creepy look about the whole place.

”I wonder where the last proprietor hung himself, dear?” whispered Lucy in her cousin's ear.

But from the rather dismal _salon_ they pa.s.sed into a more cheerful room. As the old housekeeper opened the shutters one by one streams of strong sunlight entered the place; the floor was inlaid wood, the walls were panelled to the ceiling, and elaborately carved; the ceiling itself was of polished wood, beautifully veined; the furniture was of oak, heavy and substantial; attempt at ornament there was none, nor was ornament needed, for from the windows of this room one looked out straight over the blue waters of the lake. The cheerful sound of music came from the deck of a big saloon steamer, bearing its crowd of noisy tourists. On the opposite sh.o.r.e, at Villeneuve, were the wooded grounds of the hotel Byron; Chillon, a white spot in the turquoise sea, was plainly visible to the right. The cousins stepped to the open windows and descended the flight of stairs that led from the centre one; it brought them to a little terrace which overhung the lake.

Lucy clapped her hands with delight, her more staid cousin was rapt in pleased astonishment. In an instant the thousand and one well-known descriptions ran through her mind, and she thought of the impa.s.sioned picture of the palace on the Como lake, which Claude Melnotte had poured into Pauline's delighted ear. Ought she not to be happy? Was not her handsome husband the very ideal Claude?

Both girls were enthusiastic; they spent a long afternoon determining this, arranging that. But spring evenings in Switzerland are chilly; Capt suggested their return to the hotel. They reluctantly bade farewell to the little villa; but during all the long drive back they talked of nothing but the furnis.h.i.+ng of the various rooms, the things that must be had, the things they could not do without. All this was argued _pro_ and _con._; colours were vital matters, fas.h.i.+on equally important; but not one thought did the ladies give themselves as to the cost. Happy girls, they were quite right; money in such a case as this was no object. Lucky are they who have not to count the cost, these are the people who are the real privileged cla.s.ses; it's easy enough not to count the cost at all, in fact it's like a pleasant dream, a dream which has an unpleasant awakening at the shrill sounds of the piper who has to be paid.

The girls sat up till midnight, at which time Haggard and his friend were due from Rome. They were both travel-worn and had not much to tell. Their business in Rome had been transacted. No, they were not hungry; they had dined in the sleeping-car.

The next day, as gently as possible, Haggard broke to his wife the fact that it was inc.u.mbent upon him to start at once for his American property. The blow came not unexpectedly, and Georgie made the best of it. But the husband stayed a couple of days in Geneva; there were papers to sign in reference to the little villa, a pair of ponies had to be bought; and the numerous little matters of business to settle, which somehow or other it falls invariably to the lot of man to transact.

The parting came at last; it took place on the platform of the station.

There is among women always a melancholy satisfaction in seeing the very last of the beloved object. Georgie was no exception to the rule.

Spunyarn, who was to accompany his friend, at a discreet distance was laughing and chatting merrily with the younger girl. True that at one time there had been rumours of an attachment between the pair; we, who are behind the scenes, know that both were perfectly heartwhole.

”Will the train never start, Lord Spunyarn? I'm afraid all this will upset my cousin; these partings are dreadful things after all.”

”Think what my feelings must be, Miss Warrender. I, who have been congratulated by my friends over and over again in reference to my supposed good luck, and who will have now to face the fire of their chaff at my cruel rejection.”

”Your lords.h.i.+p seems to bear it bravely enough.”