The Child Wife

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.

Chapter Sixty Two.

Unsociable Fellow-Travellers

The train by which Maynard travelled made stop at the Sydenham Station, to connect with the Crystal Palace.

The stoppage failed to arouse him from the reverie into which he had fallen – painful after what had passed.

He was only made aware of it on hearing voices outside the carriage, and only because some of these seemed familiar.

On looking out, he saw upon the platform a party of ladies and gentlemen.

The place would account for their being there at so late an hour – excursionists to the Crystal Palace – but still more, a certain volubility of speech, suggesting the idea of their having dined at the Sydenham Hotel.

They were moving along the platform, in search of a first-class carriage for London.

As there were six of them, an empty one would be required – the London and Brighton line being narrow gauge.

There was no such carriage, and therefore no chance of them getting seated together. The dining party would have to divide.

“What a baw!” exclaimed the gentleman who appeared to act as the leader, “a dooced baw! But I suppose there’s no help for it. Aw – heaw is a cawage with only one in it?”

The speaker had arrived in front of that in which Maynard sate —solus, and in a corner.

“Seats for five of us,” pursued he. “We’d better take this, ladies. One of us fellaws must stow elsewhere.”

The ladies assenting, he opened the door, and stood holding the handle.

The three ladies – there were three of them – entered first.

It became a question which of the three “fellaws” was to be separated from such pleasant travelling-companions – two of them being young and pretty.

“I’ll go,” volunteered he who appeared the youngest and least consequential of the trio.

The proposal was eagerly accepted by the other two – especially him who held the handle of the door.

By courtesy he was the last to take a seat. He had entered the carriage, and was about doing so; when all at once a thought, or something else, seemed to strike him – causing him to change his design.

“Aw, ladies!” he said, “I hope yaw will pardon me for leaving yaw to go into the smoking cawage. I’m dying for a cigaw.”

Perhaps the ladies would have said, “Smoke where you are;” but there was a stranger to be consulted, and they only said:

“Oh, certainly, sir.”

If any of them intended an additional observation, before it could have been made he was gone.

He had shot suddenly out upon the platform, as if something else than smoking was in his mind!

They thought it strange – even a little impolite.

“Mr Swinton’s an inveterate smoker,” said the oldest of the three ladies, by way of apologising for him.

The remark was addressed to the gentleman, who had now sole charge of them.

“Yes; I see he is,” replied the latter, in a tone that sounded slightly ironical.

He had been scanning the solitary passenger, in cap and surtout, who sate silent in the corner.

Despite the dim light, he had recognised him; and felt sure that Swinton had done the same.

His glance guided that of the ladies; all of whom had previous acquaintance with their fellow-passenger. One of the three started on discovering who it was.

For all this there was no speech – not even a nod of recognition. Only a movement of surprise, followed by embarrassment.

Luckily the lamp was of oil, making it difficult to read the expression on their faces.

So thought Julia Girdwood; and so too her mother.

Cornelia cared not. She had no shame to conceal.

But Louis Lucas liked the obscurity; for it was he who was in charge.

He had dropped down upon the seat, opposite to the gentleman who had shot his Newfoundland dog!

It was not a pleasant place; and he instantly changed to the stall that should have been occupied by Mr Swinton.

He did this upon pretence of sitting nearer to Mrs Girdwood.

And thus Maynard was left without a vis-à-vis.

His thoughts also were strange. How could they be otherwise? Beside him, with shoulders almost touching, sate the woman he had once loved; or, at all events, passionately admired.

It was the passion of a day. It had passed; and was now cold and dead. There was a time when the touch of that rounded arm would have sent the blood in hot current through his veins. Now its chafing against his, as they came together on the cushion, produced no more feeling than if it had been a fragment from the chisel of Praxiteles!

Did she feel the same?

He could not tell; nor cared he to know.

If he had a thought about her thoughts, it was one of simple gratitude. He remembered his own imaginings, as to who had sent the star flag to protect him, confirmed by what Blanche Vernon had let drop in that conversation in the covers.

And this alone influenced him to shape, in his own mind, the question, “Should I speak to her?”

His thoughts charged back to all that had passed between them – to her cold parting on the cliff where he had rescued her from drowning; to her almost disdainful dismissal of him in the Newport ball-room. But he remembered also her last speech as she passed him, going out at the ball-room door; and her last glance given him from the balcony!

Both words and look, once more rising into recollection, caused him to repeat the mental interrogatory, “Should I speak to her?”

Ten times there was a speech upon his tongue; and as often was it restrained.

There was time for that and more; enough to have admitted of an extended dialogue. Though the mail train, making forty miles an hour, should reach London Bridge in fifteen minutes, it seemed as though it would never arrive at the station!

It did so at length without a word having been exchanged between Captain Maynard and any of his quondam acquaintances! They all seemed relieved, as the platform appearing alongside gave them a chance of escaping from his company!

Julia may have been an exception. She was the last of her party to get out of the carriage, Maynard on the off side, of course, still staying.

She appeared to linger, as with a hope of still being spoken to. It was upon her tongue to say the word “cruel”; but a proud thought restrained her; and she sprang quickly out of the carriage to spare herself the humiliation!

Equally near speaking was Maynard. He too was restrained by a thought – proud, but not cruel.

He looked along the platform, and watched them as they moved away. He saw them joined by two gentlemen – one who approached stealthily, as if not wishing to be seen.

He knew that the skulker was Swinton; and why he desired to avoid observation.

Maynard no more cared for the movements of this man – no more envied him either their confidence or company. His only reflection was:

“Strange that in every unpleasant passage of my life this same party should trump up – at Newport; in Paris; and now near London, in the midst of a grief greater than all!”

And he continued to reflect upon this coincidence, till the railway porter had pushed him and his portmanteau into the interior of a cab.

The official not understanding the cause of his abstraction, gave him no credit for it.