Майн Рид
The Child Wife
Chapter Seventy.
A Skilful Driver
“Mrs Girdwood at home?” he asked, addressing himself to the janitor of the hotel.
“I’ll see, sir,” answered the man, making him an obsequious bow, and hurrying away to the office.
The hall-keeper remembered the gent, who carried such good cigars, and was so liberal with them. He had been pleased with his appearance then. He liked it better now in a new coat, unquestionably a Poole, with pants, boots, and tile to correspond. Besides, he had glanced through the glass-door, and seen the cabriolet with its top-booted tiger. To the owners of such he was instinctively polite; but more so to Mr Swinton, remembering his choice cigars.
The ex-guardsman waited for his return with some anxiety. The cabriolet, tiger included, had cost him a “sov.” It would be awkward, if the twenty shillings had been laid out in vain.
He was relieved at the return of the Clarendon Cerberus.
“Mrs Girdwood and fambly are in, sir. Shall I send up your card?”
“Please do.”
And Swinton, drawing out the bit of pasteboard, handed it over to the official.
A servant more active upon his limbs carried it upstairs.
“Nice lady, sir, Mrs Girdwood?” remarked the hall-keeper, by way of “laying pipe” for a perquisite. “Nice fambly all on ’em; ’specially that young lady.”
“Which of them?” asked Swinton, thinking it no harm to strengthen his friendship with the official. “There are two.”
“Well, both on ’em for that matter, sir. They be both wonderful nice creeturs.”
“Ah! true. But you’ve expressed a preference. Now which may I ask, is the one you refer to as specially nice?”
The janitor was puzzled. He did not know which it would be most agreeable to the gentleman to hear praised.
A compromise suggested itself.
“Well, sir; the fair un’s a remarkable nice young lady. She’s got sich a sweet temper, an’s dreadfully good-lookin’, too. But, sir, if it come to a question of beauty, I shed say – in course I ain’t much of a judge – but I shed say the dark ’un’s a splendiferous creetur!”
The janitor’s verdict left his judgment still somewhat obscure. But Mr Swinton had no time to reflect upon it Mrs Girdwood not caring for expense, occupied a suite of apartments on the first floor; and the messenger soon returned.
He brought the pleasing intelligence, that the gentleman was to be “shown up.”
There was an empressement in the servant’s manner, that told the visitor he would be made welcome.
And he was; Mrs Girdwood springing up from her seat, and rushing to the door to receive him.
“My lord! Mr Swinton, I beg your pardon. A whole week, and you’ve not been near us! We were all wondering what had become of you. The girls here, had begun to think – shall I say it, girls?”
Both Julia and Cornelia looked a little perplexed. Neither was aware of what she had “begun to think” about the absence of Mr Swinton.
“Aw – do tell me, by all means!” urged he, appealing to Mrs Girdwood. “I’m vewy much intewested to know. It’s so kind of the young ladies to think of me at all – a paw fawlorn bachelor!”
“I shall tell you then, Mr Swinton, if you promise not to be offended!”
“Offended! Impawsible?”
“Well, then,” continued the widow, without thinking more of the permission asked of “her girls,” “we thought that some terrible affair had happened. Excuse me for calling it terrible. It would only be so to your numerous lady friends.”
“What, pway?”
“That you’d been getting married!”
“Mawied! To whom?”
“Oh, sir; you need scarcely ask. Of course to the Honourable and very beautiful Miss Courtney.”
Swinton smiled. It was a smile somewhat resembling a grin. A terrible affair had happened to him; but not quite so bad as being married to the Honourable Geraldine Courtney – otherwise Kate the coper!
“Aw, ladies!” he replied in a self-deprecating tone, “you do me too much honaw. I am far from being a favowite with the lady in question. We are no gweat fwiends, I ashaw you.”
The assurance seemed gratifying to Mrs Girdwood and a little to Julia. Cornelia did not appear to care for it, one way or the other.
“Fact is,” continued Swinton, following up the advantage gained by the incidental allusion to the Honourable Geraldine, “I’ve just this moment come from qua’lling with her. She wished me to take her out faw a dwive. I wefused.”
“Refused!” exclaimed Mrs Girdwood, in surprise. “Oh! Mr Swinton! Refused such a beautiful lady. So accomplished too! How could you?”
“Well, madam, as I’ve told you, Miss Courtney and I are not bwother and sister. Besides, I dwove her out yesterday, and that should pwead my excuse. To-day I ordered my horse – my best one – just faw a special purpose. I hope I shall not be disappointed?”
“What purpose?” inquired Mrs Girdwood, her visitor’s remark having suggested the question. “Excuse me, sir, for asking.”
“I hope, madam, yaw will excuse me for telling yaw. In a conversation that occurred some days ago, yaw daughter expressed a wish to take a wide in one of our English cabwiolets. Am I wight, Miss Girdwood?”
“True,” assented Julia, “I did. I have a curiosity to be driven behind one of those high-stepping steeds!”
“If yaw will do me the fayvaw to look out of this window, I think yaw will see one that answers the descwiption.”
Julia glided up to the window; her mother going along with her. Miss Inskip did not stir from her seat.
Swinton’s turn-out was seen upon the street below: a cabriolet with a coat of arms upon the panel – a splendid horse between the shafts, pawing the pavement, chafing his bit, flinging the froth over his shining counter, and held in place by a miniature groom in top-boots and buckskins.
“What a pretty equipage?” exclaimed Julia. “I’m sure it must be pleasant to ride in?”
“Miss Girdwood; if yaw will do me the honaw – ”
Julia turned to her mother, with a glance that said: “May I?”
“You may,” was the look given back by Mrs Girdwood. How could she refuse? Had not Mr Swinton denied the Honourable Geraldine, and given the preference to her daughter? An airing would do her good. It could do her no harm, in the company of a lord. She was free to take it.
Mrs Girdwood signified her consent; and Julia hastened to dress for the drive.
There was frost in the air; and she came back from her room enveloped in costly furs.
It was a cloak of sea-otter, coquettishly trimmed, and becoming to her dark complexion. She looked superb in it.
Swinton thought so, as with hopeful heart, but trembling hand, he assisted her into the cabriolet!
The drive was round the Park, into Kensington Gardens, and then back to the Clarendon.
But not till after Mr Swinton had passed along Park Lane, and stopped at the door of a great nobleman’s residence.
“It is very wude of me, Miss Girdwood,” said he, “but I have a call to make on his lawdship by appointment; and I hope yaw will kindly excuse me?”
“By all means,” said Julia, delighted with her accomplished cavalier, who had shown himself such a skilful driver.
“One moment – I shall not allow his lordship to detain me more than a moment.”
And Swinton sprang out; surrendering the reins to his groom, already at the horse’s head.
He was true to his promise. In a short time he returned – so short, that his lordship could scarce have done more than bid him the time of day.
In truth he had not seen the nobleman, nor intended seeing him either. It was a counterfeit call; and went no further than a word or two exchanged with the house steward inside the hall.
But he did not tell this to his fair companion in the cabriolet; and she was driven back into Bond Street, and landed triumphantly at the Clarendon, under the eyes of her mother, admiring her from the window.
When that lady had an account of the drive in general, but more especially of the call that had been made, her respect for Mr Swinton was still further increased. He was surely the thing sought for! And Julia began to think so too.
Chapter Seventy One.
A Quiet Hotel
By the drive Swinton believed himself to have achieved a grand success; and he determined to lose no time in following it up.
The ground seemed now well under him – enough to support him in making the proposal so long deferred.
And in less than three days from that time, he called at the Clarendon, and made it.
Favoured by an opportunity in which he found her alone, it was done direct to the young lady herself.
But the answer was not direct – nor definite in any way. It was neither a “yes” nor a “no.” He was simply referred to her mother.
The equivocation was not exactly to his taste. It certainly seemed strange enough. Still, though a little chagrined, he was not altogether discomforted by it; for how could he anticipate refusal in the quarter to which he had been referred?
Obedient to the permission given him, he waited upon Girdwood mère; and to her repeated the proposal with all the eloquent advocacy he could command.
If the daughter’s answer had not been definite, that of the mother was; and to a degree that placed Mr Swinton in a dilemma.
“Sir!” said she, “we feel very much honoured – both myself and daughter. But your lordship will excuse me for pointing out to you, that, in making this proposal, you appear to have forgotten something.”
“Pway what, madam, may I ask?”
“Your lordship has not made it in your own name; nor have you yet told us your title. Until that is done, your lordship will see, how absurd it would be for either my daughter, or myself, to give you a decisive answer. We cannot!”
Mrs Girdwood did not speak either harshly, or satirically. On the contrary, she unburdened herself in the most conciliatory tone – in fear of offending his lordship, and causing him to declare “off.”
She was but too anxious to secure him – that is, supposing him to be a lord. Had she known that he was not, her answer would have been delivered in very different terms; and the acquaintance between her and Mr Swinton would have ended, with as little ceremony as it had begun.
It seemed on the edge of such termination, as the pseudo-lord, stammering in his speech, endeavoured to make rejoinder.
And not much farther off, when this was made, and the old excuse still pleaded for preserving that inexplicable incognito!
Swinton was in truth taken by surprise; and scarce knew what to say.
But the American mother did; and in plain terms told him, that, until the title was declared, she must decline the proffered honour of having him for a son-in-law!
When it was made known, he might expect a more categorical answer.
Her tone was not such as to make him despair. On the contrary, it clearly indicated that the answer would be favourable, provided the conditions were fulfilled.
But then, this was sufficient for despair. How was he to make her believe in his having a title?
“By possessing it?” he said to himself, as, after the fruitless interview, he strode off from the Clarendon Hotel. “By possessing it,” he repeated. “And, by heavens! I shall possess it, as sure as my name’s Swinton!”
Farther on he reflected:
“Yes! that’s the way. I’ve got the old rout in my power! Only needs one step more to secure him. And he shall give me whatever I ask – even to a title!”
“I know he can’t make me a lord; but he can a knight or a baronet. It would be all the same to her; and with ‘Sir’ to my name, she will no longer deny me. With that, I shall get Julia Girdwood and her two hundred thousand pounds!”
“By heaven! I care more for her, than her money. The girl has got into my heart. I shall go mad, if I fail to get her into my arms?”
Thus wildly reflecting, he continued to traverse the streets: down Bond Street, along Piccadilly, into the neighbourhood of Leicester Square.
As if the devil had turned up to aid him in his evil designs, an episode occurred in exact consonance with them. It seemed an accident – though who could tell that it was one; since it might have been prearranged?
He was standing by the lamp-post, in the centre of the Piccadilly Circus, when a cab drove past, containing two fares – a lady and gentleman.
Both were keeping their faces well back from the window; the lady’s under a thick veil; while that of the gentleman was screened by a copy of the Times newspaper held cunningly in hand, as if he was intensely interested in the perusal of some thundering leader!
In spite of this, Swinton recognised the occupants of the cab – both of them. The lady was his own wife; the gentleman his noble patron of Park Lane!
The cab passed him, without any attempt on his part to stay it. He only followed, silently, and at a quick pace.
It turned down the Haymarket, and drew up by the door of one of those quiet hotels, known only to those light travellers who journey without being encumbered with luggage.
The gentleman got out; the lady after; and both glided in through a door, that stood hospitably open to receive them.
The cabman, whose fare had been paid in advance, drove immediately away.
“Enough!” muttered Swinton, with a diabolical grin upon his countenance. “That will do. And now for a witness to make good my word in a court of – Ha! ha! ha! It will never come to that.”
Lest it should, he hastened to procure the witness. He was just in the neighbourhood to make such a thing easy. He knew Leicester Square, its every place and purlieu; and among others one where he could pitch upon a “pal.”
In less than fifteen minutes’ time, he found one; and in fifteen more, the two might have been seen standing at the corner of – Street, apparently discussing of some celestial phenomenon that absorbed the whole of their attention!
They had enough left to give to a lady and gentleman, who shortly after came out of the “quiet hotel” – the lady first, the gentleman at an interval behind her.
They did not discover themselves to the lady, who seemed to pass on without observing them.
But as the gentleman went skulking by, both turned their faces towards him.
He, too, looked as if he did not see them; but the start given, and the increased speed at which he hurried on out of sight, told that he had recognised at least one of them, with a distinctness that caused him to totter in his steps!
The abused husband made no movement to follow him. So far he was safe; and in the belief that he – or she at least – had escaped recognition, he walked leisurely along Piccadilly, congratulating himself on his bonne fortune!
He would have been less jubilant, could he have heard the muttered words of his protégé, after the latter had parted from his “pal.”
“I’ve got it right now,” said he. “Knighthood for Richard Swinton, or a divorce from his wife, with no end of damages! God bless the dear Fan, for playing so handsomely into my hand! God bless her?”
And with this infamy on his lips, the ci-devant guardsman flung himself into a hansom cab, and hastened home to Saint John’s Wood.
Chapter Seventy Two.
Wanted – A Master!
Having changed from soldier to author, Maynard was not idle in his new avocation.
Book after book came from his facile pen; each adding to the reputation achieved by his first essay in the field of literature:
A few of the younger spirits of the press – that few addicti curare verbis nullius magistri– at once boldly pronounced in their favour: calling them works of genius.
But the older hands, who constitute the members of the “Mutual Admiration Society” – those disappointed aspirants, who in all ages and countries assume the criticism of art and authorship – could see in Maynard’s writings only “sensation.”
Drawing their inspiration from envy, and an influence not less mean – from that magister, the leading journal, whose very nod was trembling to them – they endeavoured to give satisfaction to the despot of the press, by depreciating the efforts of the young author.
They adopted two different modes of procedure: Some of them said nothing. These were the wiser ones; since the silence of the critic is his most eloquent condemnation. They were wiser, too, in that their words were in no danger of contradiction. The others spoke, but sneeringly and with contempt. They found vent for their spleen by employing the terms “melodrama,” “blue-fire,” and a host of hackneyed phrases, that, like the modern slang “sensational,” may be conveniently applied to the most classic conceptions of the author.
How many of the best works of Byron, Shakespeare, and Scott, would escape the “sensation” category?
They could not deny that Maynard’s writings had attained a certain degree of popularity. This had been achieved without their aid. But it was only evidence of the corrupted taste of the age.
When was there an age, without this corrupted taste?
His writings would not live. Of that they were certain!
They have lived ever since; and sold too, to the making of some half-dozen fortunes – if not for himself, for those upon whom he somewhat unwarily bestowed them.
And they promise to abide upon the bookshelves a little longer; perhaps not with any grand glory – but certainly not with any great accumulation of dust.
And the day may come, when these same critics may be dead and the written thoughts of Mr Maynard be no longer deemed merely sensations.
He was not thinking of this while writing them. He was but pursuing a track, upon which the chances of life had thrown him.
Nor was it to him the most agreeable. After a youth spent in vigorous personal exertion – some of it in the pursuit of stirring adventure – the tranquil atmosphere of the studio was little to his taste. He endured it under the belief that it was only to be an episode.
Any new path, promising adventure, would have tempted him from his chair, and caused him to fling his pen into the fire.
None offered; and he kept on writing – writing – and thinking of Blanche Vernon.
And of her he thought unhappily; for he dared not write to her. That was a liberty denied him; not only from its danger, but his own delicate sense of honour.
It would have been denied him, too, from his not knowing her address. He had heard that Sir George Vernon had gone once more abroad – his daughter along with him. Whither, he had not heard; nor did he make much effort to ascertain. Enough for him that abroad or at home, he would be equally excluded from the society of that young creature, whose image was scarce ever absent from his thoughts.
There were times, when it was painfully present; and he sought abstraction by a vigorous exercise of his pen.
At such times he longed once more to take up the sword as a more potent consoler; but no opportunity seemed to offer.
One night he was reflecting upon this – thinking of some filibustering expedition into which he might fling himself – when a knock came to his door, as of some spirit invoked by his wishes.
“Come in!”
It was Roseveldt who answered the summons.
The Count had become a resident of London – an idler upon town – for want of congenial employment elsewhere.
Some fragment of his fortune still remaining, enabled him to live the life of a flaneur, while his title of nobility gave him the entrée of many a good door.
But, like Maynard, he too was pining for an active life, and disgusted to look daily upon his sword, rusting ingloriously in its sheath!
By the mode in which he made entry, something whispered Maynard, that the time had come when both were to be released from their irksome inaction. The Count was flurried, excited, tugging at his moustache, as if he intended tearing it away from his lip!
“What is it, my dear Roseveldt?”
“Don’t you smell gunpowder?”
“No.”
“There’s some being burnt by this time.”
“Where?”
“In Milan. The revolution’s broke out there. But I’ve no time to talk to you. Kossuth has sent me for you post-haste. He wants you to come at once. Are you ready?”
“You’re always in such haste, my dear Count. But when Kossuth commands, you know my answer. I’m ready. It only needs to put on my hat.”
“On with it then, and come along with me!”
From Portman Square to Saint John’s Wood is but a step; and the two were soon traversing the somewhat crooked causeway of South Bank.
When close to Kossuth’s residence they passed a man who stood, watch in hand, under a street-lamp – as if trying to ascertain the time of night.
They knew he was shamming, but said nothing; and went on, soon after entering the house.
Kossuth was within; and along with him several distinguished Hungarians.
“Captain Maynard!” he exclaimed, stepping out of the circle, and saluting his new-come guest.
Then taking him aside, he said:
“Look at this!”
While speaking, he had placed a slip of paper in Maynard’s hands. It was written in cipher.
“A telegram?” muttered the latter, seeing the hieroglyphics.
“Yes,” said Kossuth, proceeding to translate and explain them. “The revolution has broken out in Milan. It is a rash affair, and, I fear, will end in defeat – perhaps ruin. Mazzini has done it, in direct opposition to my wishes and judgment Mazzini is too sanguine. So are Turr and the others. They count on the Hungarian regiments stationed there, with the influence of my name among them. Giuseppe has taken a liberty with it, by using an old proclamation of mine, addressed to those regiments, while I was still prisoner at Kutayah. He has put it forth at Milan, only altering the date. I wouldn’t so much blame him for that, if I didn’t believe it to be sheer madness. With so many Austrians in the garrison at Milan – above all, those hireling Bohemian regiments – I don’t think there’s a chance of our success.”
“What do you intend doing, Governor?”
“As to that, I have no choice. The game’s begun, and I must take part in it, coûte que coûte. This telegram is from my brave Turr, and he thinks there’s a hope. Whether or no, it will be necessary for me to go to them.”
“You are going then?”
“At once – if I can get there. Therein, my dear sir, lies the difficulty. It is for that I have taken the liberty of sending for you.”
“No liberty, Governor. What can I do for you?”
“Thanks, dear captain! I shall waste no words, but say at once what I want with you. The only way for me to get to Milan is through the territory of France. I might go round by the Mediterranean; but that would take time. I should be too late. Across France then must I go, or not at all.”
“And what is to hinder you from travelling through France?”
“Louis Napoleon.”
“True, he would – I need not have asked the question.”
“He’d be sure to place me under arrest, and keep me so, as long as my liberty is deemed dangerous to the crowned conspirators. He has become their most trusted tipstaff and detective. There’s not one of his sergents-de-ville who has not got my portrait in his pocket. The only chance left me, to run the gauntlet through France, is to travel in disguise. It is for that I want you.”
“How can I assist you, my dear Governor?”
“By making me your servant – your valet du voyage.” Maynard could not help smiling at the idea. The man who had held mastery over a whole nation, who had created an army of two hundred thousand men, who had caused trembling throughout the thrones of Europe – that man to be obsequiously waiting upon him, brushing his coat, handing him his hat, and packing his portmanteau!
“Before you make answer,” continued the ex-Dictator of Hungary, “let me tell you all. If taken in France, you will have to share my prison; if upon Austrian territory, your neck, like my own, will be in danger of a halter. Now, sir, do you consent?” It was some seconds before Maynard made reply; though it was not the halter that hindered him. He was thinking of many other things – among them Blanche Vernon.
Perhaps but for the reminiscence of that scene under the deodara, and its results, he might have hesitated longer – have even turned recreant to the cause of revolutionary liberty!
Its memory but stimulated him to fresh efforts for freedom, and without staying longer, he simply said: “I consent?”
