Her own people

"Oh yes! I know what it is to be hard up myself! I'm hard up now!--but I'll help you in another way. You must marry, Malcolm, my boy! Leave it to me, and I'll find you a rich wife!"

In making the foregoing boastful promise, Sir Horace Haig raised a naturally harsh voice, and all but shouted his officious announcement. The empty air seemed to echo the words, "rich wife"--"rich wife," their regular measured tread to repeat, "rich wife"--"rich wife," as the two men, uncle and nephew, hurried down a by-street in Homburg.

There was good reason for haste, a neighbouring clock was chiming the hour, and already they were unfashionably late for the morning ceremonies at the Elisabeth Brunnen.

"But----" began the prospective Benedict, in a doubtful tone.

"My grandfather used to say," interrupted his uncle, in a loud authoritative key, "that a man should marry young, and marry often. He had four wives!"

"And you, sir, have not had one!" rejoined his companion, with unexpected audacity.

"Oh--ah--well, yes--that is true--but the fact is, I had an unhappy love affair--(a fiction invented on the spot)--a--a--blighted life--a blighted life!!--it is a--a painful subject."

Here Sir Horace suddenly turned into a narrow footpath, where, as it was necessary to walk in single file, awkward questions were evaded, or postponed.

The subject of "a blighted life" was a spruce, straight-backed gentleman of sixty, with a large hooked nose, and two keen little blue eyes, sheltered by a pair of beetling brows; he dressed in a careful middle-aged style, and wore his clothes, and his years, with ease.

Sir Horace was the seventh Baronet--a resolute old bachelor, who enjoyed a comfortable income, and was on the committee of the Bellona Club. He claimed an immense acquaintance, and was fairly popular, being recognised as a fine judge of a vintage, or a cook, and one of the best bridge players in London. It is painful to add that he was incredibly selfish, and never expended a shilling on any more deserving object than Horace Haig, Baronet, and yet, in a hearty jovial fashion, he contrived to extract an astonishing amount of hospitality and favours, from other people!

Such an individual was naturally the last man in the world to trouble himself respecting his relations--and above all, his poor relations. Nevertheless, on the present occasion he was accompanied by his nephew and heir. Indeed it was in answer to his uncle's warm invitation (but not at his expense) that Captain Haig was visiting Homburg before rejoining his regiment in India.

Malcolm Haig was a well-set-up young officer, with a pair of merry blue eyes, and a touch of sunshine in his closely cropped locks. Sir Horace introduced, with an air of bland complacency, a kinsman who did him credit, made no demands on his patience, nor yet upon his pocket. All the same, he had excellent reason to know that Malcolm was "hard up." His private means were nominal, and he was about to conclude a year's leave in England--a year's leave is often an expensive luxury. Under such circumstances his banker's account would be uncomfortably low--in fact, Malcolm had said as much. Sir Horace was disposed to exert his social influence, and endeavour to do the poor young fellow a good turn. He was handsome and well born; if his purse was lean, he had an adventurous spirit and a susceptible heart.

As uncle and nephew followed the winding path which led to the far-famed Elisabeth Well, the latter was struck by the exceptional beauty of their surroundings, the admirably-kept greensward, the shady trees and flowering shrubs, on which the early dew was still glistening.

There was a delicious perfume of roses in the air, and the inspiriting sound of a string band in the near distance.

"I say," began the young man, now walking beside his companion, "I had no idea that Homburg was like this--half park, half garden, and so pretty."

"Hadn't you!" rejoined his uncle gruffly; "well, I suppose it is! This is my twenty-seventh season--I've got over my first raptures by this time."

"I don't believe I could ever come back to the same place twenty-seven times."

"Think it argues a lack of originality? It would depend on its attractions. You don't want to go back to Perapore twenty-seven times, eh?"

"By Jove, no--nor twice!" he answered, with emphasis.

"But here it is different, my boy. It is good for one's liver, it is gay, and, as you remark, pretty. There is any amount of entertaining; dinners and luncheons; there is golf and tennis. I meet the people I know--or want to know. In short, Homburg has become an agreeable habit, which there is no occasion to relinquish. And here we are!" he announced, as they emerged from a shady walk into a wide and crowded promenade.

At one end of this promenade was the celebrated well, at present closely invested by a number of votaries, who were sipping their first glass, or waiting to be served by the active, blue-gowned maidens.

Here were young and old, society folk and nobodies, a Russian Grand Duke stood elbow to elbow with a Scotch grocer, and the Countess of Marmalade was patiently waiting till Cora Sans Souci was served.

As soon as Sir Horace had swallowed his glass (he took it warm), and having vainly urged his nephew to pledge him in another, he carried him off to stroll up and down, between the bandstand and the jewellers' shops. As they sauntered along he saluted almost every second person, and indicated the chief notabilities to his relation.

"Here comes the Duke of Luxembourg," and he swept off his hat, "getting very shaky on his pins, poor old boy. This man passing now with the lady in the Ascot frock is De Jeers, the great Jew financier. She is Lady Merrythought, and getting all she can out of him, I'll lay long odds. The pale girl in the white linen gown is the notorious 'Sauta'--the Spanish dancer. She stabbed a man with a hat pin the other day. This couple comparing prescriptions are the Bishop of Timbucktoo and Dooley, the steeplechase jock. The lady with the herd of Borzois is the Duchess of Valetta, and the little woman with the brown poodle is Madame Cuzco; that poodle is a European celebrity, and has his own manservant and barber. Now let us go and sit on one of the seats and watch the madding crowd."

"All right," assented his nephew, "they certainly are a wonderfully-mixed lot! Look at these two swarthy giantesses--regular six-footers--a most formidable couple!"

"Oh, the Misses Rookes--twins. They go by the name of the 'Powerful' and the 'Terrible'!"

Captain Haig laughed aloud.

"Yes," resumed his mentor, "and this little dressy woman, with tremendous knee action, who prances alongside of the rosy-cheeked youth, is Mrs. Waller, with her third husband. They are known as 'the Skipper and the Boy'!"

"Splendid!" ejaculated the other.

"And that red-faced man yonder is Turnbull, the great traveller. He is called 'the Crimson Rambler!' Rather good, eh?"

"Rather--but who are these coming now?--this girl and the squat old woman--walking in a sort of crowd, with a dog?"

"Oh, that is Madame de Godez--Madame de Gaudy they call her--a fabulously wealthy widow. She always reminds me of a toad, with her dark, mottled face, bright black eyes, and huge chinless mouth. Madame is a personage here, as you may see. Gives wonderful dinners and picnics, subscribes to everything, and is quite in the smart set!"

"Great Scotland!" ejaculated his listener, "why, she looks for all the world like an old Portuguese half-caste!"

"She is Portuguese, I believe; of blue, not black, blood."

"And the girl?--she is a jewel, if the other is a toad. The princess and the witch. What do they call her here?"

"Miss Chandos. She is Madame's adopted daughter, and lives with old de Godez--goes everywhere, and has a good time."

"What do you call a good time?" questioned Captain Haig as his eyes followed the de Godez group.

"She has everything money can purchase, each wish forestalled, boundless admiration, forty-guinea frocks, and as many proposals of marriage as there are days in the week."

"Oh, I say, come!" expostulated his nephew.

"Well, I know for a fact that she refused Dormer Lisle and Tubby Coote, and, they say, Lord Caraway. Observe that young officer in the Frankfort Dragoons rushing on his fate, and the dark, foreign-looking chap leading the dog is Prince Tossati, an Italian prince, long pedigree, lean purse!"