Майн Рид
The Child Wife
Chapter Fifty Eight.
Improved Prospects
To those who take no note of social distinctions, Swinton’s scheme in relation to Julia Girdwood will appear grotesque. Not so much on account of its atrocity, but from the chances of its success seeming so problematical.
Could he have got the girl to love him, it would have changed the aspect of affairs. Love breaks down all barriers; and to a mind constituted as hers, no obstacle could have intervened – not even the idea of danger.
She did not love him; but he did not know it. A guardsman, and handsome to boot, he had been accustomed to facile conquests. In his own way of thinking, the time had not arrived when these should be deemed difficult.
He was no longer in the Guards; but he was still young, and he knew he was still handsome English dames thought him so. Strange if a Yankee girl should have a different opinion!
This was the argument on his side; and, trusting to his attractions, he still fancied himself pretty sure of being able to make a conquest of the American – even to making her the victim of an illegal marriage.
And if he should succeed in his bigamous scheme, what then? What use would she be as a wife, unless her mother should keep that promise he had overheard: to endow her with the moiety of her own life-interest in the estate of the deceased storekeeper?
To many Julia Girdwood against her mother’s wish would be a simple absurdity. He did not dread the danger that might accrue from the crime. He did not think of it. But to become son-in-law to a woman, whose daughter might remain penniless as long as she herself lived, would be a poor speculation. A woman, too, who talked of living another half-century! The jest was not without significance; and Swinton thought so.
He felt confident that he could dupe the daughter into marrying him; but to get that half-million out of the mother, he must stand before the altar as a lord!
These were Mrs Girdwood’s original conditions. He knew she still adhered to them. If fulfilled, she would still consent; but not otherwise.
To go on, then, the sham incognito must be continued – the deception kept up.
But how?
This was the point that puzzled him.
The impersonation had become difficult. In Newport and New York it had been easy; in Paris still easier; but he was at length in London, where such a cheat would be in danger of being detected.
Moreover, in his last interview with the ladies, he had been sensible of some change in their behaviour toward him – an absence of the early congeniality. It was shown chiefly by Mrs Girdwood herself! Her warm friendship suddenly conceived at Newport, continued in New York, and afterwards renewed in Paris, appeared to have as suddenly grown cool.
What could be the cause? Had she heard anything to his discredit? Could she have discovered the counterfeit? Or was she only suspicious of it?
Only the last question troubled him. He did not think he had been found out. He had played his part skilfully, having given no clue to his concealed title. And he had given good reasons for his care in concealing it.
He admitted to himself that she had cause for being suspicious. She had extended hospitality to him in America. He had not returned it in Europe, for reasons well-known.
True, he had only met his American acquaintances in Paris; but even there, an English lord should have shown himself more liberal; and she might have felt piqued at his parsimony.
For similar reasons he had not yet called upon them in London.
On the contrary, since his return, he had purposely kept out of their way.
In England he was in his own country; and why should he be living under an assumed name? If a lord, why under straitened circumstances? In Mrs Girdwood’s eyes these would be suspicious circumstances.
The last might be explained – by the fact of their being poor lords, though not many. Not many, who do not find the means to dress well, and dine sumptuously – to keep a handsome house, if they feel disposed.
Since his return from the States, Swinton could do none of these things. How, then, was he to pass himself off for a lord – even one of the poorest?
He had almost despaired of being able to continue the counterfeit; when the patronage of a lord, real and powerful, inspired him with fresh hope. Through it his prospects had become entirely changed. It had put money in his purse, and promised more. What was equally encouraging, he could now, in real truth, claim being employed in a diplomatic capacity. True, it was but as a spy; but this is an essential part of the diplomatic service!
There was his apparent intimacy with a distinguished diplomatic character – a nobleman; there would be his constant visits to the grand mansion in Park Lane – strange if with these appearances in his favour he could not still contrive to throw dust in the eyes of Dame Girdwood!
Certainly his scheme was far from hopeless. By the new appointment a long vista of advantages had been suddenly disclosed to him; and he now set himself to devise the best plan for improving them.
Fan was called into his counsels; for the wife was still willing. Less than ever did she care for him, or what he might do. She, too, had become conscious of brighter prospects; and might hope, at no distant day, to appear once more in Rotten Row.
If, otherwise, she had a poor opinion of her husband, she did not despise his talent for intrigue. There was proof of it in their changed circumstances. And though she well knew the source from which their sudden prosperity had sprung, she knew, also, the advantage, to a woman of her propensities, in being a wife. “United we stand, divided we fall,” may have been the thought in her mind; but, whether it was or not, she was still ready to assist her husband in accomplishing a second marriage!
With the certificate of the first, carefully stowed away in a secret drawer of her dressing-case, she had nothing to fear, beyond the chance of a problematical exposure.
She did not fear this, so long as there was a prospect of that splendid plunder, in which she would be a sharer. Dick had promised to be “true as steel,” and she had reciprocated the promise.
With a box of cigars, and a decanter of sherry between them, a programme was traced out for the further prosecution of the scheme.
Chapter Fifty Nine.
A Distinguished Dinner-Party
It was a chill November night; but there was no coldness inside the South Bank Cottage – the one occupied by Mr Richard Swinton.
There was company in it.
There had been a dinner-party, of nine covers. The dinner was eaten; and the diners had returned to the drawing-room.
The odd number of nine precluded an exact pairing of the sexes. The ladies out-counted the gentlemen, by five to four.
Four of them are already known to the reader. They were Mrs Swinton, Mrs Girdwood, her daughter and niece. The fifth was a stranger, not only to the reader, but to Mrs Girdwood and her girls.
Three of the gentlemen were the host himself Mr Louis Lucas, and his friend Mr Spiller. The fourth, like the odd lady, was a stranger.
He did not appear strange to Mrs Swinton; who during the dinner had treated him with remarkable familiarity, calling him her “dear Gustave”; while he in turn let the company know she was his wife!
He spoke with a French accent, and by Swinton was styled “the count.”
The strange lady appeared to know him – also in a familiar way. She was the Honourable Miss Courtney – Geraldine Courtney.
With such a high-sounding name, she could not look other than aristocratic.
She was pretty as well, and accomplished; with just that dash of freedom, in speech and in manner, which distinguishes the lady of haut ton from the wife or daughter of a “tradesman.”
In Miss Courtney it was carried to a slight excess. So a prudish person might have thought.
But Mrs Girdwood was not prudish – least of all, in the presence of such people. She was delighted with the Honourable Geraldine; and wondered not at her wild way – only at her amiable condescensions!
She was charmed also with the count, and his beautiful countess.
His lordship had done the correct thing at last – by introducing her to such company. Though still passing under the assumed name of Swinton – even among his own friends – the invitation to that dinner-party disarmed her of suspicion. The dinner itself still more; and she no longer sought to penetrate the mystery of his incognito.
Besides, he had repeated the plea that hitherto satisfied her. Still was it diplomacy!
Even Julia was less distant with him. A house handsomely furnished; a table profusely spread; titled guests around it; well-dressed servants in waiting – all this proved that Mr Swinton was somebody. And it was only his temporary town residence, taken for a time and a purpose – still diplomacy. She had not yet seen his splendid place in the country, to which he had given hints of an invitation.
Proud republican as Julia Girdwood was, she was still but the child of a parvenu.
And there was something in the surroundings to affect her fancy. She saw this man, Mr Swinton, whom she had hitherto treated slightingly, now in the midst of his own friends, behaving handsomely, and treated with respect. Such friends, too! all bearing titles – all accomplished – two of them beautiful women, who appeared not only intimate with, but complaisant toward him!
Moreover, no one could fail to see that he was handsome. He had never looked better, in her eyes, than on that evening. It was a situation not only to stir curiosity, but suggest thoughts of rivalry.
And perhaps Julia Girdwood had them. It was the first time she had figured in the company of titled aristocracy. It would not be strange if her fancy was affected in such presence. Higher pride than hers has succumbed to its influence.
She was not the only one of her party who gave way to the wayward influences of the hour, and the seductions of their charming host Mr Lucas, inspired by repeated draughts of sherry and champagne, forgot his past antipathies, and of course burned to embrace him. Mr Lucas’s shadow, Spiller, was willing to do the same!
Perhaps the only one of Mrs Girdwood’s set who preserved independence, was the daughter of the Poughkeepsie shopkeeper. In her quiet, unpretending way, Cornelia showed dignity for superior to that of her own friends, or even the grand people to whom they had been presented.
But even she had no suspicion of the shams that surrounded her. No more than her aunt Girdwood did she dream that Mr Swinton was Mr Swinton; that the countess was his wife; that the count was an impostor – like Swinton himself playing a part; and that the Honourable Geraldine was a lady of Mrs Swinton’s acquaintance, alike accomplished and equally well-known in the circles of Saint John’s Wood, under the less aristocratic cognomen of “Kate the coper.” Belonging to the sisterhood of “pretty horse-breakers,” she had earned this sobriquet by exhibiting superior skill in disposing of her cast steeds!
Utterly ignorant of the game that was being played, as of the players, Mrs Girdwood spent the evening in a state approaching to supreme delight Mr Swinton, ever by her side, took the utmost pains to cancel the debt of hospitality long due; and he succeeded in cancelling it.
If she could have had any suspicion of his dishonesty, it would have been dispelled by an incident that occurred during the course of the evening.
As it was an episode interrupting the entertainment, we shall be excused for describing it.
The guests in the drawing-room were taking tea and coffee, carried round to them by the savants – a staff hired from a fashionable confectionery – when the gate-bell jingled under the touch of a hand that appeared used to the pulling of it.
“I can tell that ring,” said Swinton, speaking loud enough for his guests to hear him. “I’ll lay a wager it’s Lord – .”
“Lord – !”
The name was that of a distinguished nobleman – more distinguished still as a great statesman! Swinton’s proclaiming it caused his company a thrill – the strangers looking incredulous.
They had scarce time to question him before a servant, entering the room, communicated something in a whisper.
“His lordship is it?” said the master, in a muttered tone, just loud enough to reach the ear of Mrs Girdwood. “Show him into the front parlour. Say I shall be down in a second. Ladies and gentlemen?” he continued, turning to his guests, “will yaw excuse me for one moment – only a moment? I have a visitor who cannot well be denied.”
They excused him, of course; and for a time he was gone out of the room.
And of course his guests were curious to know who was the visitor, who “could not well be denied.”
On his return they questioned him; the “countess,” with an imperative earnestness that called for an answer.
“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” said their amiable entertainer, “if yaw insist upon knowing who has been making this vewiy ill-timed call upon me, I suppose I must satisfy yaw kewyosity. I was wight in my conjectyaw. It was Lord – . His lawdship simply dwopped in upon a matter of diplomatic business.”
“Oh! it was Lord – !” exclaimed the Honourable Geraldine.
“Why didn’t you ask him in here? He’s a dear old fellow, as I know; and I’m sure he would have come. Mr Swinton! I’m very angry with you?”
“’Pon honaw! Miss Courtney, I’m vewy sorry; I didn’t think of it, else I should have been most happy.”
“He’s gone, I suppose?”
“Aw, yas. He went away as soon as he undawstood I had company.”
And this was true – all true. The nobleman in question had really been in the front parlour, and had gone off on learning what was passing upstairs in the drawing-room.
He had parted, too, with a feeling of disappointment, almost chagrin; though it was not diplomatic business to which the villa was indebted for his visit.
However fruitless his calling had proved to him, it was not without advantage to Mr Swinton.
“The man who receives midnight visits from a lord, and that lord a distinguished statesman, must either be a lord himself, or a somebody!”
This was said in soliloquy by the retail storekeeper’s widow, as that night she stretched herself upon one of the luxurious couches of the “Clarendon.”
About the same time, her daughter gave way to a somewhat similar reflection.
Chapter Sixty.
A Parting Present
At parting, there had been no “scene” between Sir George Vernon and his seemingly ungrateful guest.
Nor was the interview a stormy one, as they stood face to face under the shadow of the deodara.
Sir George’s daughter had retired from the spot, her young heart throbbing with pain; while Maynard, deeply humiliated, made no attempt to justify himself.
Had there been light under the tree, Sir George would have seen before him the face of a man that expressed the very type of submission.
For some seconds, there was a profound and painful silence.
It was broken by the baronet:
“After this, sir, I presume it is not necessary for me to point out the course you should pursue? There is only one.”
“I am aware of it, Sir George.”
“Nor is it necessary to say, that I wish to avoid scandal?”
Maynard made no reply; though, unseen, he nodded assent to the proposition.
“You can retire at your leisure, sir; but in ten minutes my carriage will be ready to take you and your luggage to the station.”
It was terrible to be thus talked to; and but for the scandal Sir George had alluded to, Maynard would have replied to it by refusing the proffered service.
But he felt himself in a dilemma. The railway station was full four miles distant.
A fly might be had there; but not without some one going to fetch it. For this he must be indebted to his host. He was in a dress suit, and could not well walk, without courting the notice to be shunned. Besides, there would be his luggage to come after him.
There was no alternative but to accept the obligation.
He did so, by saying —
“In ten minutes, Sir George, I shall be ready. I make no apology for what has passed. I only hope the time may come, when you will look less severely on my conduct.”
“Not likely,” was the dry response of the baronet, and with these words the two parted: Sir George going back to his guests in the drawing-room, Maynard making his way to the apartment that contained his impedimenta.
The packing of his portmanteau did not occupy him half the ten minutes’ time. There was no need to change his dancing-dress. His surtout would sufficiently conceal it.
The bell brought a male domestic; who, shouldering the “trap,” carried it downstairs – though not without wondering why the gent should be taking his departure, at that absurd hour, just as the enjoyment in the drawing-room had reached its height, and a splendid supper was being spread upon the tables!
Maynard having given a last look around the room, to assure himself that nothing had been overlooked, was about preparing to follow the bearer of his portmanteau, when another attaché of the establishment barred his passage on the landing of the stair.
It was also a domestic, but of different kind, sex, and colour.
It was Sabina, of Badian birth.
“Hush! Mass Maynard,” she said, placing her finger on her lips to impress the necessity of silence. “Doan you ’peak above de breff, an’ I tell you someting dat you like hear.”
“What is it?” Maynard asked, mechanically.
“Dat Missy Blanche lub you dearly – wit all de lub ob her young heart. She Sabby tell so – yesserday – dis day – more’n a dozen times, oba an’ oba. So dar am no need you go into despair.”
“Is that all you have to say?” asked he, though without any asperity of tone.
It would have been strange if such talk had not given him pleasure, despite the little information conveyed by it.
“All Sabby hab say; but not all she got do.”
“What have you to do?” demanded Maynard, in an anxious undertone.
“You gib dis,” was the reply of the mulatto, as, with the adroitness peculiar to her race and sex, she slipped something white into the pocket of his surtout.
The carriage wheels were heard outside the hall-door, gritting upon the gravel.
Without danger of being observed, the departing guest could not stay in such company any longer; and passing a half-sovereign into Sabby’s hand, he silently descended the stair, and as silently took seat in the carriage.
The bearer of the portmanteau, as he shut to the carriage door, could not help still wondering at such an ill-timed departure.
“Not a bad sort of gent, anyhow,” was his reflection, as he turned back under the hall-lamp to examine the half-sovereign that had been slipped into his palm.
And while he was doing this, the gent in question was engaged in a far more interesting scrutiny. Long before the carriage had passed out of the park – even while it was yet winding round the “sweep” – its occupant had plunged his hand into the pocket of his surtout and drawn out the paper that had been there so surreptitiously deposited.
It was but a tiny slip – a half-sheet torn from its crested counterfoil. And the writing upon it was in pencil; only a few words, as if scrawled in trembling haste!
The light of the wax-candles, reflected from the silvered lamps, rendered the reading easy; and with a heart surcharged with supreme joy, he read: —
“Papa is very angry; and I know he will never sanction my seeing you again. I am sad to think we may meet no more; and that you will forget me. I shall never forget you – never!”
“Nor I you, Blanche Vernon,” was the reflection of Maynard, as he refolded the slip of paper, and thrust it back into the pocket of his coat.
He took it out, and re-read it before reaching the railway station; and once again, by the light of a suspended lamp, as he sat solitary in a carriage of the night mail train, up for the metropolis.
Then folding it more carefully, he slipped it into his card-case, to be placed in a pocket nearer his heart; if not the first, the sweetest guage d’amour he had ever received in his life!
Chapter Sixty One.
An Informer
The disappearance of a dancing guest from the midst of three score others is a thing not likely to be noticed. And if noticed, needing no explanation – in English “best society.”
There the defection may occur from a quiet dinner-party – even in a country house, where arrivals and departures are more rare than in the grand routs of the town.
True politeness has long since discarded that insufferable ceremony of general leave-taking, with its stiff bows and stiffer handshakings. Sufficient to salute your host – more particularly your hostess – and bow good-bye to any of the olive branches that may be met, as you elbow your way out of the drawing-room.
This was the rule holding good under the roof of Sir George Vernon; and the abrupt departure of Captain Maynard would have escaped comment, but for one or two circumstances of a peculiar nature.
He was a stranger to Sir George’s company, with romantic, if not mysterious, antecedents; while his literary laurels freshly gained, and still green upon his brow, had attracted attention even in that high circle.
But what was deemed undoubtedly peculiar was the mode in which he had made his departure. He had been seen dancing with Sir George’s daughter, and afterward stepping outside with her – through the conservatory, and into the grounds. He had not again returned.
Some of the dancers who chanced to be cooling themselves by the bottom of the stair, had seen his portmanteau taken out, himself following shortly after; while the sound of carriage wheels upon the sweep told of his having gone off for good!
There was not much in all this. He had probably taken leave of his host outside – in a correct ceremonial manner.
But no one had seen him do so; and, as he had been for some time staying at the house, the departure looked somewhat brusque. For certain it was strangely timed.
Still it might not have been remarked upon, but for another circumstance: that, after he was gone, the baronet’s daughter appeared no more among the dancers.
She had not been seen since she had stood up in the valse where she and her partner had been so closely scrutinised!
She was but a young thing. The spin may have affected her to giddiness; and she had retired to rest awhile.
This was the reasoning of those who chanced to think of it.
They were not many. The charmers in wide skirts had enough to do thinking of themselves; the dowagers had betaken themselves to quiet whist in the antechambers: and the absence of Blanche Vernon brought no blight upon the general enjoyment.
But the absence of her father did – that is, his absence of mind. During the rest of the evening there was a strangeness in Sir George’s manner noticed by many of his guests; an abstraction, palpably, almost painfully observable. Even his good breeding was not proof against the blow he had sustained!
Despite his efforts to conceal it, his more intimate acquaintances could see that something had gone astray.
Its effect was to put a damper on the night’s hilarity; and perhaps earlier than would have otherwise happened were the impatient coachmen outside released from their chill waiting upon the sweep.
And earlier, also, did the guests staying at the house retire to their separate sleeping apartments.
Sir George did not go direct to his; but first to his library.
He went not alone. Frank Scudamore accompanied him.
He did so, at the request of his uncle, after the others had said good-night.
The object of this late interview between Sir George and his nephew is made known, by the conversation that occurred between them.
“Frank,” began the baronet, “I desire you to be frank with me.”
Sir George said this, without intending a pun. He was in no mood for playing upon words.
“About what, uncle?” asked Scudamore, looking a little surprised.
“About all you’ve seen between Blanche and this – fellow.”
The “fellow” was pronounced with contemptuous emphasis – almost in a hiss.
“All I’ve seen?”
“All you’ve seen, and all you’ve heard.”
“What I’ve seen and heard I have told you. That is, up to this night – up to an hour ago.”
“An hour ago! Do you mean what occurred under the tree?”
“No uncle, not that I’ve seen something since.”
“Since! Captain Maynard went immediately away?”
“He did. But not without taking a certain thing along with him he ought not to have taken.”
“Taken a certain thing along with him! What do you mean, nephew?”
“That your honoured guest carried out of your house a piece of paper upon which something had been written.”
“By whom?”
“By my cousin Blanche.”
“When, and where?”
“Well, I suppose while he was getting ready to go; and as to the where, I presume it was done by Blanche in her bedroom. She went there after – what you saw.”
Sir George listened to this information with as much coolness as he could command. Still, there was a twitching of the facial muscles, and a pallor overspreading his cheeks, his nephew could not fail to notice.
“Proceed, Frank!” he said, in a faltering voice, “go on, and tell me all. How did you become acquainted with this?”
“By the merest accident,” pursued the willing informant. “I was outside the drawing-room, resting between two dances. It was just at the time Captain Maynard was going off. From where I was standing, I could see up the stairway to the top landing. He was there talking to Sabina, and as it appeared to me, in a very confidential manner. I saw him slip something into her hand – a piece of money, I suppose – just after she had dropped something white into the pocket of his overcoat. I could tell it was paper – folded in the shape of a note.”
“Are you sure it was that?”
“Quite sure, uncle. I had no doubt of it at the time; and said to myself, ‘It’s a note that’s been written by my cousin, who has sent Sabina to give it to him.’ I’d have stopped him on the stair and made him give it up again, but for raising a row in the house. You know that would never have done.”
Sir George did not hear the boasting remark. He was not listening to it His soul was too painfully absorbed – reflecting upon this strange doing of his daughter.
“Poor child!” muttered he in sad soliloquy. “Poor innocent child! And this, after all my care, my ever-zealous guardianship, my far more than ordinary solicitude. Oh God! to think I’ve taken a serpent into my house, who should thus turn and sting me!”
The baronet’s feelings forbade farther conversation; and Scudamore was dismissed to his bed.
