Chapter Eleven.Ball-Room Emotions.In addition to the “bar” at which you settle your hotel account, the Ocean House has another, exclusively devoted to drinking.It is a snug, shady affair, partially subterranean, and reached by a stairway, trodden only by the worshippers of Bacchus.Beyond this limited circle its locality is scarcely known.In this underground region the talk of gentlemen, who have waxed warm over their cups, may be carried on ever so rudely, without danger of its reaching the delicate ears of those fair sylphs skimming through the corridors above.This is as it should be; befitting a genteel establishment, such as the Ocean House undoubtedly is; adapted also to the ascetic atmosphere of New England.The Puritan prefers taking his drink “on the quiet.”On ball nights, the bar-room in question is more especially patronised, not only by the guests of the House, but outsiders from other hotels, and “the cottages.”Terpsichore is a thirsty creature—one of the best customers of Bacchus; and, after dancing, usually sends a crowd of worshippers to the shrine of the jolly god.At the Ocean House balls, drink can be had upstairs, champagne and other light wines, with jellies and ices; but only underground are you permitted to do your imbibing to the accompaniment of a cigar.For this reason many of the gentlemen dancers, at intervals, descended the stairway that led to the drinking-saloon.Among others was Maynard, smarting under his discomfiture.“A brandy smash!” he demanded, pausing in front of the bar.“Of all men, Dick Swinton!” soliloquised he while waiting for the mixture. “It’s true, then, that he’s been turned out of his regiment. No more than he deserved, and I expected. Confound the scamp! I wonder what’s brought him out here? Some card-sharping expedition, I suppose—arazziaon the pigeon-roosts of America! Apparently under the patronage of Girdwoodmère, and evidently in pursuit of Girdwoodfille. How has he got introduced to them? I’d bet high they don’t know much about him.”“Brandy smash, mister?”“Well!” he continued, as if tranquillised by a pull at the iced mixture and the narcotic smell of the mint. “It’s no business of mine; and after what’s passed, I don’t intend making it. They can have him at their own price.Caveat emptor. For this littlecontretempsI needn’t blame him, though I’d give twenty dollars to have an excuse for tweaking his nose!”Captain Maynard was anything but a quarrelsome man. He only thought in this strain, smarting under his humiliation.“It must have been the doing of the mother, who for a son-in-law prefers Mr Swinton to me. Ha! ha! ha! If she only knew him as I do?”Another gulp out of the glass.“But the girl was a consenting party. Clearly so; else why should she have hung fire about giving me an answer? Cut out by Dick Swinton! The devil?”A third pull at the brandy smash.“Hang it! It won’t do to declare myself defeated. They’d think so, if I didn’t go back to the ball-room! And what am I to do there? I don’t know a single feminine in the room and to wander about like some forlorn and forsaken spirit would but give them a chance for sneering at me. The ungrateful wretches! Perhaps I shouldn’t be so severe on the little blonde I might dance with her? But, no! I shall not go near them. I must trust to the stewards to provide me with something in the shape of a partner.”He once more raised the glass to his lips, this time to be emptied.Then, ascending the stairs, he sauntered back to the hall-room.He was lucky in his intercession with the gentlemen in rosettes. He chanced upon one to whom his name was not unknown; and through the intercession of this gentleman found partners in plenty.He had one for every dance—waltz, quadrille, polka, and schottishe—some of the “sweetest creatures” on the floor.In such companionship he should have forgotten Julia Girdwood.And yet he did not.Strange she should continue to attract him! There were others fair as she—perhaps fairer; but throughout the kaleidoscopic changes of that glittering throng, his eyes were continually searching for the woman who had given him only chagrin. He saw her dancing with a man he had good reason to despise—all night long dancing with him, observed by everybody, and by many admired.In secret unpleasantness Maynard watched this splendid woman; but it was the acmé of bitterness when he saw her give ear to the whisperings of Richard Swinton, and lean her cheek upon his shoulder as they whirled around the room, keeping time to the voluptuous strains of the Cellarius.Again occurred to him the same thought: “I’d give twenty dollars to have an excuse for tweaking his nose!”He did not know that, at less cost, and without seeking it, he was near to the opportunity.Perhaps he would have sought it, but for a circumstance that turned up just in time to tranquillise him.He was standing by the entrance, close to a set screen. The Girdwoods were retiring from the room, Julia leaning on the arm of Swinton. As she approached the spot he saw that her eyes were upon him. He endeavoured to read their expression. Was it scornful? Or tender?He could not tell. Julia Girdwood was a girl who had rare command of her countenance.Suddenly, as if impressed by some bold thought, or perhaps a pang of repentance, she let go the arm of her partner, dropping behind, and leaving him to proceed with the others. Then swerving a little, so as to pass close to where Maynard stood, she said, in a hurried half-whisper:“Very unkind of you to desert us!”“Indeed!”“You should have come back for an explanation,” added she, reproachfully. “I could not help it.”Before he could make reply she was gone; but the accent of reproach left tingling in his ear was anything but disagreeable.“A strange girl this!” muttered he, in astonished soliloquy. “Most certainly an original! After all, perhaps, not so ungrateful. It may have been due to the mother.”
In addition to the “bar” at which you settle your hotel account, the Ocean House has another, exclusively devoted to drinking.
It is a snug, shady affair, partially subterranean, and reached by a stairway, trodden only by the worshippers of Bacchus.
Beyond this limited circle its locality is scarcely known.
In this underground region the talk of gentlemen, who have waxed warm over their cups, may be carried on ever so rudely, without danger of its reaching the delicate ears of those fair sylphs skimming through the corridors above.
This is as it should be; befitting a genteel establishment, such as the Ocean House undoubtedly is; adapted also to the ascetic atmosphere of New England.
The Puritan prefers taking his drink “on the quiet.”
On ball nights, the bar-room in question is more especially patronised, not only by the guests of the House, but outsiders from other hotels, and “the cottages.”
Terpsichore is a thirsty creature—one of the best customers of Bacchus; and, after dancing, usually sends a crowd of worshippers to the shrine of the jolly god.
At the Ocean House balls, drink can be had upstairs, champagne and other light wines, with jellies and ices; but only underground are you permitted to do your imbibing to the accompaniment of a cigar.
For this reason many of the gentlemen dancers, at intervals, descended the stairway that led to the drinking-saloon.
Among others was Maynard, smarting under his discomfiture.
“A brandy smash!” he demanded, pausing in front of the bar.
“Of all men, Dick Swinton!” soliloquised he while waiting for the mixture. “It’s true, then, that he’s been turned out of his regiment. No more than he deserved, and I expected. Confound the scamp! I wonder what’s brought him out here? Some card-sharping expedition, I suppose—arazziaon the pigeon-roosts of America! Apparently under the patronage of Girdwoodmère, and evidently in pursuit of Girdwoodfille. How has he got introduced to them? I’d bet high they don’t know much about him.”
“Brandy smash, mister?”
“Well!” he continued, as if tranquillised by a pull at the iced mixture and the narcotic smell of the mint. “It’s no business of mine; and after what’s passed, I don’t intend making it. They can have him at their own price.Caveat emptor. For this littlecontretempsI needn’t blame him, though I’d give twenty dollars to have an excuse for tweaking his nose!”
Captain Maynard was anything but a quarrelsome man. He only thought in this strain, smarting under his humiliation.
“It must have been the doing of the mother, who for a son-in-law prefers Mr Swinton to me. Ha! ha! ha! If she only knew him as I do?”
Another gulp out of the glass.
“But the girl was a consenting party. Clearly so; else why should she have hung fire about giving me an answer? Cut out by Dick Swinton! The devil?”
A third pull at the brandy smash.
“Hang it! It won’t do to declare myself defeated. They’d think so, if I didn’t go back to the ball-room! And what am I to do there? I don’t know a single feminine in the room and to wander about like some forlorn and forsaken spirit would but give them a chance for sneering at me. The ungrateful wretches! Perhaps I shouldn’t be so severe on the little blonde I might dance with her? But, no! I shall not go near them. I must trust to the stewards to provide me with something in the shape of a partner.”
He once more raised the glass to his lips, this time to be emptied.
Then, ascending the stairs, he sauntered back to the hall-room.
He was lucky in his intercession with the gentlemen in rosettes. He chanced upon one to whom his name was not unknown; and through the intercession of this gentleman found partners in plenty.
He had one for every dance—waltz, quadrille, polka, and schottishe—some of the “sweetest creatures” on the floor.
In such companionship he should have forgotten Julia Girdwood.
And yet he did not.
Strange she should continue to attract him! There were others fair as she—perhaps fairer; but throughout the kaleidoscopic changes of that glittering throng, his eyes were continually searching for the woman who had given him only chagrin. He saw her dancing with a man he had good reason to despise—all night long dancing with him, observed by everybody, and by many admired.
In secret unpleasantness Maynard watched this splendid woman; but it was the acmé of bitterness when he saw her give ear to the whisperings of Richard Swinton, and lean her cheek upon his shoulder as they whirled around the room, keeping time to the voluptuous strains of the Cellarius.
Again occurred to him the same thought: “I’d give twenty dollars to have an excuse for tweaking his nose!”
He did not know that, at less cost, and without seeking it, he was near to the opportunity.
Perhaps he would have sought it, but for a circumstance that turned up just in time to tranquillise him.
He was standing by the entrance, close to a set screen. The Girdwoods were retiring from the room, Julia leaning on the arm of Swinton. As she approached the spot he saw that her eyes were upon him. He endeavoured to read their expression. Was it scornful? Or tender?
He could not tell. Julia Girdwood was a girl who had rare command of her countenance.
Suddenly, as if impressed by some bold thought, or perhaps a pang of repentance, she let go the arm of her partner, dropping behind, and leaving him to proceed with the others. Then swerving a little, so as to pass close to where Maynard stood, she said, in a hurried half-whisper:
“Very unkind of you to desert us!”
“Indeed!”
“You should have come back for an explanation,” added she, reproachfully. “I could not help it.”
Before he could make reply she was gone; but the accent of reproach left tingling in his ear was anything but disagreeable.
“A strange girl this!” muttered he, in astonished soliloquy. “Most certainly an original! After all, perhaps, not so ungrateful. It may have been due to the mother.”
Chapter Twelve.“Après le Bal.”The ball was almost over; the flagged and flagging dancers rapidly retiring. The belles were already gone, and among them Julia Girdwood. Only the wallflowers, yet comparatively fresh, were stirring upon the floor. To them it was the time of true enjoyment; for it is they who “dance all night till broad daylight.”Maynard had no motive for remaining after Miss Girdwood was gone. It was, in truth, she who had retained him. But with a spirit now stirred by conflicting emotions, there would be little chance of sleep; and he resolved, before retiring to his couch, to make one more sacrifice at the shrine of Bacchus.With this intent, he again descended the stairway leading to the cellar saloon.On reaching the basement, he saw that he had been preceded by a score of gentlemen, who, like himself, had come down from the ball-room.They were standing in knots—drinking, smoking, conversing.Scarce giving any of them a glance, he stepped up to the bar, and pronounced the name of his drink—this time plain brandy and water.While waiting to be served a voice arrested his attention. It came from one of three individuals, who, like himself, had taken stand before the counter, on which were their glasses.The speaker’s back was toward him, though sufficient of his whisker could be seen for Maynard to identify Dick Swinton.His companions were also recognisable as the excursionists of the row-boat, whose dog he had peppered with duck-shot.To Mr Swinton they were evidently recent acquaintances, picked up perhaps during the course of the evening; and they appeared to have taken as kindly to him as if they, too, had learnt, or suspected him to be a lord!He was holding forth to them in that grand style of intonation, supposed to be peculiar to the English nobleman; though in reality but the conceit of the stage caricaturist and Bohemian scribbler, who only know “my lord” through the medium of their imaginations.Maynard thought it a little strange. But it was many years since he had last seen the man now near him; and as time produces some queer changes, Mr Swinton’s style of talking need not be an exception.From the manner in which he and his two listeners were fraternising, it was evident they had been some time before the bar. At all events they were sufficiently obfuscated not to notice new-comers, and thus he had escaped their attention.He would have left them equally unnoticed, but for some words striking on his ear that evidently bore reference to himself.“By-the-way, sir,” said one of the strangers, addressing Swinton, “if it’s not making too free, may I ask you for an explanation of that little affair that happened in the ball-room?”“Aw—aw; of what affair do yaw speak, Mr Lucas?”“Something queer—just before the first waltz. There was a dark-haired girl with a diamond head-dress—the same you danced a good deal with—Miss Girdwood I believe her name is—and a fellow with moustache and imperial. The old lady, too, seemed to have a hand in it. My friend and I chanced to be standing close by, and saw there was some sort of a scene among you. Wasn’t it so?”“Scene—naw—naw. Only the fellaw wanted to have a spin with the divine queetyaw, and the lady preferred dancing with yaw humble servant. That was all, gentlemen, I ashaw yaw.”“We thought there had been a difficulty between him and you. It looked devilish like it.”“Not withme. I believe there was a misunderstanding between him and the young lady. The twuth is, she pweaded a pwevious engagement, which she didn’t seem to have upon her cawd. For my part I had nothing to do with the fellaw—absolutely nothing—did not even speak to him.”“You looked at him, though, and he at you. I thought you were going to have it out between you, there and then!”“Aw—aw; he understands me bettaw—that same individual.”“You knew him before, then?”“Slightly, vewy slightly—a long time agaw.”“In your own country, perhaps? He appears to be an Englishman.”“Naw—not a bit of it. He’s a demmed Iwishman.”Maynard’s ears were becoming rapidly hot.“What was he on your side?” inquired the junior of Swinton’s new acquaintances, who appeared quite as curious as the older one.“What was he! Aw—aw, faw that matter nothing—nothing.”“No calling, or profession?”“Wah, yas; when I knew the fellaw he was an ensign in an infantry wegiment. Not one of the cwack corps, yaw knaw. We should not have weceived him in ours.”Maynard’s fingers began to twitch.“Of course not,” continued the “swell.”“I have the honaw, gentlemen, to bewong to the Gawds—Her Majesty’s Dwagoon Gawds.”“He has been in our service—in one of the regiments raised for the Mexican war. Do you know why he left yours?”“Well, gentlemen, it’s not for me to speak too fweely of a fellaw’s antecedents. I am usually cautious about such matters—vewy cautious, indeed.”“Oh, certainly; right enough,” rejoined the rebuked inquirer; “I only asked because it seems a little odd that an officer of your army should have left it to take service in ours.”“If I knew anything to the fellaw’s qwedit,” continued the Guardsman, “I should be most happy to communicate it. Unfawtunately, I don’t. Quite the contwawy!”Maynard’s muscles—especially those of his dexter arm—were becoming fearfully contracted. It wanted but little to draw him into the conversation. One more such remark would be sufficient; and unfortunately for himself, Mr Swinton made it.“The twuth is, gentlemen,” said he, the drink perhaps having deprived him of his customary caution—“the twuth is, that Mr Ensign Maynard—or Captain Maynard, as I believe he now styles himself—was kicked out of the Bwitish service. Such was the report, though I won’t be wesponsible for its twuth.”“It’s a lie!” cried Maynard, suddenly pulling off his kid glove, and drawing it sharply across his traducer’s cheek. “A lie, Dick Swinton! And if not responsible for originating it, as you say youshallbe for giving it circulation. There never was such a report, and you know it, scoundrel!”Swinton’s cheek turned white as the glove that had smitten it; but it was the pallor of fear rather than anger.“Aw—indeed! you there, Mr Maynard! Well—well; I’m sure—you say it’s not twue. And you’ve called me a scoundwell! And yaw stwuck me with yaw glove?”“I shall repeat the word and the blow. I shall spit in your face, if you don’t retract!”“Wetwact!”“Bah! there’s been enough pass between us. I leave you time to reflect. My room is 209, on the fourth storey. I hope you’ll find a friend who won’t be above climbing to it. My card, sir!”Swinton took the card, and with fingers that showed trembling gave his own in exchange. While with a scornful glance, that comprehended both him and his acolytes, the other faced back to the bar, coolly completed his potation, and, without saying another word, reascended the stairway.“You’ll meet him, won’t you?” asked the older of Swinton’s drinking companions.It was not a very correct interrogatory; but, perhaps, judging by what had passed, the man who put it may have deemed delicacy superfluous.“Of cawse—of cawse,” replied he of Her Majesty’s Horse Guards, without taking note of the rudeness. “Demmed awkward, too!” he continued, reflectingly. “I am here a stwanger—no fwend—”“Oh, for that matter,” interrupted Lucas, the owner of the Newfoundland dog, “there need be no difficulty. I shall be most happy to act as your second.”The man who thus readily volunteered his services was as arrant a poltroon as could have been found about the fashionable hostelry in which the conversation was taking place—not excepting Swinton himself. He, too, had good cause for playing principal in a duel with Captain Maynard. But it was safer to be second; and no man knew this better than Louis Lucas.It would not be the first time for him to act in this capacity. Twice before had he done so, obtaining by it a sort of borrowedéclatthat was mistaken for bravery. For all this he was in reality a coward; and though smarting under the remembrance of his encounter with Maynard, he had allowed the thing to linger without taking further steps. The quarrel with Swinton was therefore in good time, and to his hand.“Either I, or my friend here,” he added.“With pleasure,” assented the other.“Thanks, gentlemen; thanks, both! Exceedingly kind of you! But,” continued Swinton in a hesitating manner, “I should be sowy to bwing either of you into my scwape. There are some of my old comwades in Canada, sarving with their wegiments. I shall telegwaph to them. And this fellaw must wait. Now, dem it! let’s dwop the subject, and take anothaw dwink.”All this was said with an air of assumed coolness, of which not even the drinks already taken could cover the pretence. It was, in truth, but a subterfuge to gain time, and reflect upon some plan to escape without calling Maynard out.There might be a chance, if left to himself; but once in the hands of another, there would be no alternative but to stand up.These were the thoughts rapidly coursing through Mr Swinton’s mind, while the fresh drinks were being prepared.As the glass again touched his lips, they were white and dry; and the after-conversation between him and his picked-up acquaintances was continued on his part with an air of abstraction that told of a terrible uneasiness.It was only when oblivious with more drink that he assumed his swagger; but an hour afterward, as he staggered upstairs, even the alcoholic “buzzing” in his brain did not hinder him from having a clear recollection of the encounter with the “demmed Iwishman!”Once inside his own apartment, the air of the nobleman a as suddenly abandoned. So, too, the supposed resemblance in speech. His talk was now that of a commoner—intoxicated. It was addressed to his valet, still sitting up to receive him.A small ante-chamber on one side was supposed to be the sleeping-place of this confidential servant. Judging by the dialogue that ensued, he might be well called confidential. A stranger to the situation would have been surprised it listening to it.“A pretty night you’ve made of it!” said the valet, speaking more in the tone of a master.“Fact—fac—hic’p! you speak th’ truth, Frank! No—not pretty night. The very reverse—a d-damned ugly night.”“What do you mean, you sot?”“Mean—mee-an! I mean the g-gig-game’s up. ’Tis, by Jingo! Splend’d chance. Never have such ’nother. Million dollars! All spoiled—th’ infernal fella!”“What fellow?”“Who d’ye ’spose I’ve seen—met him in the ball—ball—bar-room—down below. Let’s have another drink! Drinks all round—who’s g-gig-goin’ drink?”“Try and talk a little straighter! What’s this about?”“Whas’t ’bout? What sh’d be about? Him—hic’p! ’bout him.”“Him! who?”“Who—who—who—why, Maynard. Of course you know Maynard? B’long to the Thirty—Thirty—Don’t reclect the number of regiment. No matter for that. He’s here—the c-c-confounded cur.”“Maynard here!” exclaimed the valet, in a tone strange for a servant.“B’shure he is! Straight as a trivet, curse him! Safe to spoil everything—make a reg’lar mucker of it.”“Are you sure it was he?”“Sure—sure! I sh’d think so. He’s give me good reason, c-curse ’im!”“Did you speak to him?”“Yes—yes.”“What did he say to you?”“Not much said—not much. It’s what he’s—what he’s done.”“What?”“Devil of a lot—yes—yes. Never mind now. Let’s go to bed, Frank. Tell you all ’bout in the morning. Game’s up. ’Tis by J-Jupiter!”As if incapable of continuing the dialogue—much less of undressing himself—Mr Swinton staggered across to the bed; and, sinking down upon it, was soon snoring and asleep.It might seem strange that the servant should lie down beside him, which he did. Not after knowing that the little valet was his wife! It was the amiable “Fan” who thus shared the couch of her inebriate husband.
The ball was almost over; the flagged and flagging dancers rapidly retiring. The belles were already gone, and among them Julia Girdwood. Only the wallflowers, yet comparatively fresh, were stirring upon the floor. To them it was the time of true enjoyment; for it is they who “dance all night till broad daylight.”
Maynard had no motive for remaining after Miss Girdwood was gone. It was, in truth, she who had retained him. But with a spirit now stirred by conflicting emotions, there would be little chance of sleep; and he resolved, before retiring to his couch, to make one more sacrifice at the shrine of Bacchus.
With this intent, he again descended the stairway leading to the cellar saloon.
On reaching the basement, he saw that he had been preceded by a score of gentlemen, who, like himself, had come down from the ball-room.
They were standing in knots—drinking, smoking, conversing.
Scarce giving any of them a glance, he stepped up to the bar, and pronounced the name of his drink—this time plain brandy and water.
While waiting to be served a voice arrested his attention. It came from one of three individuals, who, like himself, had taken stand before the counter, on which were their glasses.
The speaker’s back was toward him, though sufficient of his whisker could be seen for Maynard to identify Dick Swinton.
His companions were also recognisable as the excursionists of the row-boat, whose dog he had peppered with duck-shot.
To Mr Swinton they were evidently recent acquaintances, picked up perhaps during the course of the evening; and they appeared to have taken as kindly to him as if they, too, had learnt, or suspected him to be a lord!
He was holding forth to them in that grand style of intonation, supposed to be peculiar to the English nobleman; though in reality but the conceit of the stage caricaturist and Bohemian scribbler, who only know “my lord” through the medium of their imaginations.
Maynard thought it a little strange. But it was many years since he had last seen the man now near him; and as time produces some queer changes, Mr Swinton’s style of talking need not be an exception.
From the manner in which he and his two listeners were fraternising, it was evident they had been some time before the bar. At all events they were sufficiently obfuscated not to notice new-comers, and thus he had escaped their attention.
He would have left them equally unnoticed, but for some words striking on his ear that evidently bore reference to himself.
“By-the-way, sir,” said one of the strangers, addressing Swinton, “if it’s not making too free, may I ask you for an explanation of that little affair that happened in the ball-room?”
“Aw—aw; of what affair do yaw speak, Mr Lucas?”
“Something queer—just before the first waltz. There was a dark-haired girl with a diamond head-dress—the same you danced a good deal with—Miss Girdwood I believe her name is—and a fellow with moustache and imperial. The old lady, too, seemed to have a hand in it. My friend and I chanced to be standing close by, and saw there was some sort of a scene among you. Wasn’t it so?”
“Scene—naw—naw. Only the fellaw wanted to have a spin with the divine queetyaw, and the lady preferred dancing with yaw humble servant. That was all, gentlemen, I ashaw yaw.”
“We thought there had been a difficulty between him and you. It looked devilish like it.”
“Not withme. I believe there was a misunderstanding between him and the young lady. The twuth is, she pweaded a pwevious engagement, which she didn’t seem to have upon her cawd. For my part I had nothing to do with the fellaw—absolutely nothing—did not even speak to him.”
“You looked at him, though, and he at you. I thought you were going to have it out between you, there and then!”
“Aw—aw; he understands me bettaw—that same individual.”
“You knew him before, then?”
“Slightly, vewy slightly—a long time agaw.”
“In your own country, perhaps? He appears to be an Englishman.”
“Naw—not a bit of it. He’s a demmed Iwishman.”
Maynard’s ears were becoming rapidly hot.
“What was he on your side?” inquired the junior of Swinton’s new acquaintances, who appeared quite as curious as the older one.
“What was he! Aw—aw, faw that matter nothing—nothing.”
“No calling, or profession?”
“Wah, yas; when I knew the fellaw he was an ensign in an infantry wegiment. Not one of the cwack corps, yaw knaw. We should not have weceived him in ours.”
Maynard’s fingers began to twitch.
“Of course not,” continued the “swell.”
“I have the honaw, gentlemen, to bewong to the Gawds—Her Majesty’s Dwagoon Gawds.”
“He has been in our service—in one of the regiments raised for the Mexican war. Do you know why he left yours?”
“Well, gentlemen, it’s not for me to speak too fweely of a fellaw’s antecedents. I am usually cautious about such matters—vewy cautious, indeed.”
“Oh, certainly; right enough,” rejoined the rebuked inquirer; “I only asked because it seems a little odd that an officer of your army should have left it to take service in ours.”
“If I knew anything to the fellaw’s qwedit,” continued the Guardsman, “I should be most happy to communicate it. Unfawtunately, I don’t. Quite the contwawy!”
Maynard’s muscles—especially those of his dexter arm—were becoming fearfully contracted. It wanted but little to draw him into the conversation. One more such remark would be sufficient; and unfortunately for himself, Mr Swinton made it.
“The twuth is, gentlemen,” said he, the drink perhaps having deprived him of his customary caution—“the twuth is, that Mr Ensign Maynard—or Captain Maynard, as I believe he now styles himself—was kicked out of the Bwitish service. Such was the report, though I won’t be wesponsible for its twuth.”
“It’s a lie!” cried Maynard, suddenly pulling off his kid glove, and drawing it sharply across his traducer’s cheek. “A lie, Dick Swinton! And if not responsible for originating it, as you say youshallbe for giving it circulation. There never was such a report, and you know it, scoundrel!”
Swinton’s cheek turned white as the glove that had smitten it; but it was the pallor of fear rather than anger.
“Aw—indeed! you there, Mr Maynard! Well—well; I’m sure—you say it’s not twue. And you’ve called me a scoundwell! And yaw stwuck me with yaw glove?”
“I shall repeat the word and the blow. I shall spit in your face, if you don’t retract!”
“Wetwact!”
“Bah! there’s been enough pass between us. I leave you time to reflect. My room is 209, on the fourth storey. I hope you’ll find a friend who won’t be above climbing to it. My card, sir!”
Swinton took the card, and with fingers that showed trembling gave his own in exchange. While with a scornful glance, that comprehended both him and his acolytes, the other faced back to the bar, coolly completed his potation, and, without saying another word, reascended the stairway.
“You’ll meet him, won’t you?” asked the older of Swinton’s drinking companions.
It was not a very correct interrogatory; but, perhaps, judging by what had passed, the man who put it may have deemed delicacy superfluous.
“Of cawse—of cawse,” replied he of Her Majesty’s Horse Guards, without taking note of the rudeness. “Demmed awkward, too!” he continued, reflectingly. “I am here a stwanger—no fwend—”
“Oh, for that matter,” interrupted Lucas, the owner of the Newfoundland dog, “there need be no difficulty. I shall be most happy to act as your second.”
The man who thus readily volunteered his services was as arrant a poltroon as could have been found about the fashionable hostelry in which the conversation was taking place—not excepting Swinton himself. He, too, had good cause for playing principal in a duel with Captain Maynard. But it was safer to be second; and no man knew this better than Louis Lucas.
It would not be the first time for him to act in this capacity. Twice before had he done so, obtaining by it a sort of borrowedéclatthat was mistaken for bravery. For all this he was in reality a coward; and though smarting under the remembrance of his encounter with Maynard, he had allowed the thing to linger without taking further steps. The quarrel with Swinton was therefore in good time, and to his hand.
“Either I, or my friend here,” he added.
“With pleasure,” assented the other.
“Thanks, gentlemen; thanks, both! Exceedingly kind of you! But,” continued Swinton in a hesitating manner, “I should be sowy to bwing either of you into my scwape. There are some of my old comwades in Canada, sarving with their wegiments. I shall telegwaph to them. And this fellaw must wait. Now, dem it! let’s dwop the subject, and take anothaw dwink.”
All this was said with an air of assumed coolness, of which not even the drinks already taken could cover the pretence. It was, in truth, but a subterfuge to gain time, and reflect upon some plan to escape without calling Maynard out.
There might be a chance, if left to himself; but once in the hands of another, there would be no alternative but to stand up.
These were the thoughts rapidly coursing through Mr Swinton’s mind, while the fresh drinks were being prepared.
As the glass again touched his lips, they were white and dry; and the after-conversation between him and his picked-up acquaintances was continued on his part with an air of abstraction that told of a terrible uneasiness.
It was only when oblivious with more drink that he assumed his swagger; but an hour afterward, as he staggered upstairs, even the alcoholic “buzzing” in his brain did not hinder him from having a clear recollection of the encounter with the “demmed Iwishman!”
Once inside his own apartment, the air of the nobleman a as suddenly abandoned. So, too, the supposed resemblance in speech. His talk was now that of a commoner—intoxicated. It was addressed to his valet, still sitting up to receive him.
A small ante-chamber on one side was supposed to be the sleeping-place of this confidential servant. Judging by the dialogue that ensued, he might be well called confidential. A stranger to the situation would have been surprised it listening to it.
“A pretty night you’ve made of it!” said the valet, speaking more in the tone of a master.
“Fact—fac—hic’p! you speak th’ truth, Frank! No—not pretty night. The very reverse—a d-damned ugly night.”
“What do you mean, you sot?”
“Mean—mee-an! I mean the g-gig-game’s up. ’Tis, by Jingo! Splend’d chance. Never have such ’nother. Million dollars! All spoiled—th’ infernal fella!”
“What fellow?”
“Who d’ye ’spose I’ve seen—met him in the ball—ball—bar-room—down below. Let’s have another drink! Drinks all round—who’s g-gig-goin’ drink?”
“Try and talk a little straighter! What’s this about?”
“Whas’t ’bout? What sh’d be about? Him—hic’p! ’bout him.”
“Him! who?”
“Who—who—who—why, Maynard. Of course you know Maynard? B’long to the Thirty—Thirty—Don’t reclect the number of regiment. No matter for that. He’s here—the c-c-confounded cur.”
“Maynard here!” exclaimed the valet, in a tone strange for a servant.
“B’shure he is! Straight as a trivet, curse him! Safe to spoil everything—make a reg’lar mucker of it.”
“Are you sure it was he?”
“Sure—sure! I sh’d think so. He’s give me good reason, c-curse ’im!”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Yes—yes.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Not much said—not much. It’s what he’s—what he’s done.”
“What?”
“Devil of a lot—yes—yes. Never mind now. Let’s go to bed, Frank. Tell you all ’bout in the morning. Game’s up. ’Tis by J-Jupiter!”
As if incapable of continuing the dialogue—much less of undressing himself—Mr Swinton staggered across to the bed; and, sinking down upon it, was soon snoring and asleep.
It might seem strange that the servant should lie down beside him, which he did. Not after knowing that the little valet was his wife! It was the amiable “Fan” who thus shared the couch of her inebriate husband.
Chapter Thirteen.Challenging the Challenger.“In faith, I’ve done a very foolish thing,” reflected the young Irishman, as he entered his dormitory, and flung himself into a chair. “Still there was no help for it. Such talk as that, even from a stranger like Dick Swinton, would play the deuce with me. Of course they don’t know him here; and he appears to be playing a great part among them; no doubt plucking such half-fledged pigeons as those with him below.“Very likely he said something of the same to the girl’s mother—to herself? Perhaps that’s why I’ve been treated so uncourteously! Well, I have him on the hip now; and shall make him repent his incautious speeches. Kicked out of the British service! Lying cur, to have said it! To have thought of such a thing! And from what I’ve heard it’s but a leaf from his own history! This may have suggested it. I don’t believe he’s any longer in the Guards: else what should he be doing out here? Guardsmen don’t leave London and its delights without strong, and generally disagreeable, reasons. I’d lay all I’ve got he’s been disgraced. He was on the edge of it when I last heard of him.“He’ll fight of course? He wouldn’t if he could help it—I know the sweep well enough for that. But I’ve given him no chance to get out of it. A kid glove across the face, to say nothing of a threat to spit in it—with a score of strange gentlemen looking on and listening! If ten times the poltroon he is, he dare not show the white feather now.“Of course he’ll call me out; and what am I to do for a second? The three or four fellows I’ve scraped companionship with here are not the men—one of them. Besides, none of them might care to oblige me on such short acquaintance?“What the deuce am I to do? Telegraph to the Count?” he continued, after a pause spent in reflecting. “He’s in New York, I know; and know he would come on at once. It’s just the sort of thing would delight thevieux sabreur, now that the Mexican affair is ended, and he’s once more compelled to sheathe his revolutionary sword. Come in! Who the deuce knocks at a gentleman’s door at this unceremonious hour?”It was not yet 5 a.m. Outside the hotel could be heard carriage wheels rolling off with late roisterers, who had outstayed the ball.“Surely it’s too soon for an emissary from Swinton? Come in!”The door opening at the summons, discovered the night-porter of the hotel.“Well! what want you, my man?”“A gentleman wantsyou, sir.”“Show him up!”“He told me, sir, to give you his apologies for disturbing you at so early an hour. It’s because his business is very important.”“Bosh! Why need he have said that?” Dick Swinton’s friend must be a more delicate gentleman than himself!The last speech was in soliloquy, and not to the porter.“He said, sir,” continued the latter, “that having come by the boat—”“By the boat?”“Yes, sir, the New York boat. She’s just in.”“Yes—yes; I heard the whistle. Well?”“That having come by the boat, he thought—he thought—”“Confound it! my good fellow; don’t stay to tell me his thoughts secondhand. Where is he? Show him up here, and let him speak them for himself.”“From New York?” continued Maynard, after the porter had disappeared. “Who of the Knickerbockers can it be? And what business of such importance as to startle a fellow from his sleep at half-past four in the morning—supposing me to have been asleep—which luckily I’m not Is the Empire city ablaze, and Fernando Wood, like a second Nero, fiddling in ruthless glee over its ruins? Ha! Roseveldt?”“Maynard!”The tone of the exchanged salutation told of a meeting unexpected, and after a period of separation. It was followed by a mutual embrace. Theirs was a friendship too fervent to be satisfied with the shaking of hands. Fellow campaigners—as friends—they had stood side by side under the hissing hailstorm of battle. Side by side had they charged up the difficult steep of Chapultepec, in the face of howitzers belching forth their deadly shower of shot—side by side fallen on the crest of the counterscarp, their blood streaming unitedly into the ditch.They had not seen each other since. No wonder they should meet with emotions corresponding to the scenes through which they had passed.Some minutes passed before either could find coherent speech. They only exchanged ejaculations. Maynard was the first to become calm.“God bless you, my dear Count?” he said; “my grand instructor in the science of war. How glad I am to see you!”“Not more than I to see you,cher camarade!”“But say, why are you here? I did not expect you; though strange enough I was this moment thinking of you!”“I’m here to see you—specially you!”“Ah! For what, my dear Roseveldt?”“You’ve said that I instructed you in the science of war. Be it so. But the pupil now excels his teacher—has gone far beyond him in fame. That’s why I’m here.”“Explain yourself, Count!”“Read this. It will save speech. You see it is addressed to yourself.”Maynard took the sealed letter handed to him. It bore the superscription:“Captain Maynard.”Breaking it open, he read:“The committee of German refugees in New York, in view of the late news from Europe, have hopes that freedom is not yet extinguished in their ancient fatherland. They have determined upon once more returning to it, and taking part in the struggle again begun in Baden and the Palatinate. Impressed by the gallantry displayed by you in the late Mexican war, with your protective kindness to their countrymen who served under you—and above all, your well-known devotion to the cause of liberty—they have unanimously resolved to offer you the leadership in this enterprise. While aware of its perils—as also of your courage to encounter them—they can promise you no reward save that of glory and a nation’s gratitude. To achieve this, they offer you a nation’s trust. Say, sir, are you prepared to accept it?”Some half-dozen names were appended, at which Maynard simply glanced. He knew the men, and had heard of the movement.“I accept,” he said, after a few seconds spent in reflection. “You can carry that answer back to the committee.”“Carry back an answer! My dear Maynard, I come to carryyouback.”“Must I go directly?”“This very day. The rising in Baden has begun, and you know revolutions won’t wait for any one. Every hour is important. You are expected back by the next boat. I hope there’s nothing to prevent it? What! There is something?”“There is; something rather awkward.”“Not a woman? No—no! You’re too much of a soldier for that.”“No; not a woman.”As Maynard said this a strange expression came over his countenance, as if he was struggling against the truth.“No—no!” he continued, with a forced smile. “Not a woman. It’s only a man; indeed only a thing in the shape of one.”“Explain, captain! Who, or what is he?”“Well, it’s simply an affair. About an hour ago I slapped a fellow in the face.”“Ha!”“There’s been a ball to-night—in the hotel, here.”“I know it. I met some of the people going away. Well?”“There was a young lady—”“I might have known that, too. Who ever heard of an affair without a lady, young or old, at the bottom of it? But excuse me for interrupting you.”“After all,” said Maynard, apparently changing his tack, “I needn’t stay to tell you about the lady. She had little or nothing to do with it. It occurred in the bar-room after the ball was over, and she in her bed, I suppose.”“Leave her to one side then, and let her sleep.”“I had gone into this bar-room to take a drink, by way of night-cap, and was standing by the counter, when I heard some one making rather free use of my name. Three men were close beside me, talking in a very fast style, and, as I soon discovered, about myself. They had been imbibing a good deal, and did not chance to see me.“One of the three I had known in England, when we were both in the British service.“The other two—Americans I suppose them—I had only seen for the first time some two days ago. Indeed, I had then a little difficulty with them, which I needn’t stay to trouble you about now; though I more than half expected to have had a challenge for that. It didn’t come, however; and you may guess what sort they are.“It was my quondam acquaintance of the English army who was taking liberties with my character, in answer to inquiries the other two were putting to him.”“What was he telling them?”“No end of lies; the worst of them being that I had been kicked out of the British service! Of course it was also his last. After that—”“After that you kicked him out of the bar-room. I fancy I can see you engaged in that little bit of foot practice!”“I was not quite so rude as that. I only slashed him across the cheek with my glove, and then handed him my card.“In truth, when you were announced I thought it washisfriend, and not mine: though, knowing the man as I do, the idea of his sending a messenger so early rather surprised me.“I’m glad you’ve come, Count. I was in a devil of a dilemma—being acquainted with nobody here who could have served me for a second. I suppose I can reckon upon you?”“Oh, that of course,” answered the Count, with as muchinsoucianceas if he had been only asked for a cigar. “But,” he added, “is there no way by which this meeting may be avoided?”It was not any craven thought that dictated the interrogatory. A glance at Count Roseveldt would have satisfied any one of this.Full forty years of age, with moustache and whisker just beginning to show steel-grey, of true martial bearing, he at once impressed you as a man who had seen much practice in the terrible trade of the duello. At the same time there was about him no air either of the bully or bravado. On the contrary, his features were marked by an expression of mildness—on occasions only changing to stern.One of these changes came over them, as Maynard emphatically made answer: “No.”“Sacré!” he said, hissing out a French exclamation. “How provoking! To think such an important matter—the liberty of all Europe—should suffer from such a paltry mischance! It has been well said that woman is the curse of mankind!“Have you any idea,” he continued, after this ungallant speech, “when the fellow is likely to send in?”“Not any. Some time during the day, I take it. There can be no cause for delay that I can think of. Heaven knows, we’re near enough each other, since both are stopping in the same hotel.”“Challenge some time during the day. Shooting, or whatever it may be, to-morrow morning. No railway from here, and boat only once a day. Leaves Newport at 7 p.m. A clear twenty-four hours lost!Sac-r-ré!”These calculations were in soliloquy; Count Roseveldt, as he made them, torturing his great moustache, and looking at some imaginary object between his feet Maynard remained silent.The Count continued hissotto vocespeeches, now and then breaking into ejaculations delivered in a louder tone, and indifferently in French, English, Spanish, and German.“By heavens, I have it?” he at length exclaimed, at the same time starting to his feet. “I have it, Maynard! I have it?”“What has occurred to you, my dear Count?”“A plan to save time. We’ll go back to New York by the evening’s boat!”“Not before fighting! I presume you includethatin your calculations?”“Of course I do. We’ll fight, and be in time all the same.”If Maynard had been a man of delicate susceptibilities he might have reflected on the uncertainty of such a programme.He merely asked for its explanation.“Perfectly simple,” responded the Count. “You are to be the challenged party, and, of course, have your choice both of time and weapons. No matter about the weapons. It’s the time that concerns us so.”“You’d bring off the affair to-day?”“Would, and will.”“How if the challenge arrive too late—in the evening say?”“Carrambo!—to use our old Mexican shibboleth—I’ve thought of that—of everything. The challenge shall come early—mustcome, if your adversary be a gentleman. I’ve hit upon a plan to force it out of him in good time.”“Your plan?”“You’ll write to him—that is, I shall—to say you are compelled to leave Newport to-night; that a matter of grand importance has suddenly summoned you away. Appeal to him, as a man of honour, to send in his invitation at once, so that you may arrange a meeting. If he don’t do so, by all the laws of honour you will be free to go, at any hour you may name.”“That will be challenging the challenger. Will it be correct?”“Of course it will. I’ll be answerable. It’s altogetheren règle—strictly according to the code.”“I agree to it, then.”“Enough! I must set about composing the letter. Being a little out of the common, it will require some thought. Where are your pens and ink?”Maynard pointed to a table, on which were the writing materials.Drawing up a chair, Roseveldt seated himself beside it.Then, taking hold of a pen, and spreading a sheet of “cream laid” before him, he proceeded to write the premonitory epistle, scarce consulting the man most interested in what it might contain. Thinking of the revolution in Baden, he was most anxious to set free his friend from the provoking compromise, so that both might bear the flag of freedom through his beloved fatherland.The note was soon written; a copy carefully taken, folded up, and shoved into an envelope. Maynard scarce allowed the opportunity of reading it!It had to be addressed by his directions, and was sent toMr Richard Swinton, just as the great gong, screaming through the corridors of the Ocean House, proclaimed to its guests the hour fordéjeuner à la fourchette.
“In faith, I’ve done a very foolish thing,” reflected the young Irishman, as he entered his dormitory, and flung himself into a chair. “Still there was no help for it. Such talk as that, even from a stranger like Dick Swinton, would play the deuce with me. Of course they don’t know him here; and he appears to be playing a great part among them; no doubt plucking such half-fledged pigeons as those with him below.
“Very likely he said something of the same to the girl’s mother—to herself? Perhaps that’s why I’ve been treated so uncourteously! Well, I have him on the hip now; and shall make him repent his incautious speeches. Kicked out of the British service! Lying cur, to have said it! To have thought of such a thing! And from what I’ve heard it’s but a leaf from his own history! This may have suggested it. I don’t believe he’s any longer in the Guards: else what should he be doing out here? Guardsmen don’t leave London and its delights without strong, and generally disagreeable, reasons. I’d lay all I’ve got he’s been disgraced. He was on the edge of it when I last heard of him.
“He’ll fight of course? He wouldn’t if he could help it—I know the sweep well enough for that. But I’ve given him no chance to get out of it. A kid glove across the face, to say nothing of a threat to spit in it—with a score of strange gentlemen looking on and listening! If ten times the poltroon he is, he dare not show the white feather now.
“Of course he’ll call me out; and what am I to do for a second? The three or four fellows I’ve scraped companionship with here are not the men—one of them. Besides, none of them might care to oblige me on such short acquaintance?
“What the deuce am I to do? Telegraph to the Count?” he continued, after a pause spent in reflecting. “He’s in New York, I know; and know he would come on at once. It’s just the sort of thing would delight thevieux sabreur, now that the Mexican affair is ended, and he’s once more compelled to sheathe his revolutionary sword. Come in! Who the deuce knocks at a gentleman’s door at this unceremonious hour?”
It was not yet 5 a.m. Outside the hotel could be heard carriage wheels rolling off with late roisterers, who had outstayed the ball.
“Surely it’s too soon for an emissary from Swinton? Come in!”
The door opening at the summons, discovered the night-porter of the hotel.
“Well! what want you, my man?”
“A gentleman wantsyou, sir.”
“Show him up!”
“He told me, sir, to give you his apologies for disturbing you at so early an hour. It’s because his business is very important.”
“Bosh! Why need he have said that?” Dick Swinton’s friend must be a more delicate gentleman than himself!
The last speech was in soliloquy, and not to the porter.
“He said, sir,” continued the latter, “that having come by the boat—”
“By the boat?”
“Yes, sir, the New York boat. She’s just in.”
“Yes—yes; I heard the whistle. Well?”
“That having come by the boat, he thought—he thought—”
“Confound it! my good fellow; don’t stay to tell me his thoughts secondhand. Where is he? Show him up here, and let him speak them for himself.”
“From New York?” continued Maynard, after the porter had disappeared. “Who of the Knickerbockers can it be? And what business of such importance as to startle a fellow from his sleep at half-past four in the morning—supposing me to have been asleep—which luckily I’m not Is the Empire city ablaze, and Fernando Wood, like a second Nero, fiddling in ruthless glee over its ruins? Ha! Roseveldt?”
“Maynard!”
The tone of the exchanged salutation told of a meeting unexpected, and after a period of separation. It was followed by a mutual embrace. Theirs was a friendship too fervent to be satisfied with the shaking of hands. Fellow campaigners—as friends—they had stood side by side under the hissing hailstorm of battle. Side by side had they charged up the difficult steep of Chapultepec, in the face of howitzers belching forth their deadly shower of shot—side by side fallen on the crest of the counterscarp, their blood streaming unitedly into the ditch.
They had not seen each other since. No wonder they should meet with emotions corresponding to the scenes through which they had passed.
Some minutes passed before either could find coherent speech. They only exchanged ejaculations. Maynard was the first to become calm.
“God bless you, my dear Count?” he said; “my grand instructor in the science of war. How glad I am to see you!”
“Not more than I to see you,cher camarade!”
“But say, why are you here? I did not expect you; though strange enough I was this moment thinking of you!”
“I’m here to see you—specially you!”
“Ah! For what, my dear Roseveldt?”
“You’ve said that I instructed you in the science of war. Be it so. But the pupil now excels his teacher—has gone far beyond him in fame. That’s why I’m here.”
“Explain yourself, Count!”
“Read this. It will save speech. You see it is addressed to yourself.”
Maynard took the sealed letter handed to him. It bore the superscription:
“Captain Maynard.”
Breaking it open, he read:
“The committee of German refugees in New York, in view of the late news from Europe, have hopes that freedom is not yet extinguished in their ancient fatherland. They have determined upon once more returning to it, and taking part in the struggle again begun in Baden and the Palatinate. Impressed by the gallantry displayed by you in the late Mexican war, with your protective kindness to their countrymen who served under you—and above all, your well-known devotion to the cause of liberty—they have unanimously resolved to offer you the leadership in this enterprise. While aware of its perils—as also of your courage to encounter them—they can promise you no reward save that of glory and a nation’s gratitude. To achieve this, they offer you a nation’s trust. Say, sir, are you prepared to accept it?”
Some half-dozen names were appended, at which Maynard simply glanced. He knew the men, and had heard of the movement.
“I accept,” he said, after a few seconds spent in reflection. “You can carry that answer back to the committee.”
“Carry back an answer! My dear Maynard, I come to carryyouback.”
“Must I go directly?”
“This very day. The rising in Baden has begun, and you know revolutions won’t wait for any one. Every hour is important. You are expected back by the next boat. I hope there’s nothing to prevent it? What! There is something?”
“There is; something rather awkward.”
“Not a woman? No—no! You’re too much of a soldier for that.”
“No; not a woman.”
As Maynard said this a strange expression came over his countenance, as if he was struggling against the truth.
“No—no!” he continued, with a forced smile. “Not a woman. It’s only a man; indeed only a thing in the shape of one.”
“Explain, captain! Who, or what is he?”
“Well, it’s simply an affair. About an hour ago I slapped a fellow in the face.”
“Ha!”
“There’s been a ball to-night—in the hotel, here.”
“I know it. I met some of the people going away. Well?”
“There was a young lady—”
“I might have known that, too. Who ever heard of an affair without a lady, young or old, at the bottom of it? But excuse me for interrupting you.”
“After all,” said Maynard, apparently changing his tack, “I needn’t stay to tell you about the lady. She had little or nothing to do with it. It occurred in the bar-room after the ball was over, and she in her bed, I suppose.”
“Leave her to one side then, and let her sleep.”
“I had gone into this bar-room to take a drink, by way of night-cap, and was standing by the counter, when I heard some one making rather free use of my name. Three men were close beside me, talking in a very fast style, and, as I soon discovered, about myself. They had been imbibing a good deal, and did not chance to see me.
“One of the three I had known in England, when we were both in the British service.
“The other two—Americans I suppose them—I had only seen for the first time some two days ago. Indeed, I had then a little difficulty with them, which I needn’t stay to trouble you about now; though I more than half expected to have had a challenge for that. It didn’t come, however; and you may guess what sort they are.
“It was my quondam acquaintance of the English army who was taking liberties with my character, in answer to inquiries the other two were putting to him.”
“What was he telling them?”
“No end of lies; the worst of them being that I had been kicked out of the British service! Of course it was also his last. After that—”
“After that you kicked him out of the bar-room. I fancy I can see you engaged in that little bit of foot practice!”
“I was not quite so rude as that. I only slashed him across the cheek with my glove, and then handed him my card.
“In truth, when you were announced I thought it washisfriend, and not mine: though, knowing the man as I do, the idea of his sending a messenger so early rather surprised me.
“I’m glad you’ve come, Count. I was in a devil of a dilemma—being acquainted with nobody here who could have served me for a second. I suppose I can reckon upon you?”
“Oh, that of course,” answered the Count, with as muchinsoucianceas if he had been only asked for a cigar. “But,” he added, “is there no way by which this meeting may be avoided?”
It was not any craven thought that dictated the interrogatory. A glance at Count Roseveldt would have satisfied any one of this.
Full forty years of age, with moustache and whisker just beginning to show steel-grey, of true martial bearing, he at once impressed you as a man who had seen much practice in the terrible trade of the duello. At the same time there was about him no air either of the bully or bravado. On the contrary, his features were marked by an expression of mildness—on occasions only changing to stern.
One of these changes came over them, as Maynard emphatically made answer: “No.”
“Sacré!” he said, hissing out a French exclamation. “How provoking! To think such an important matter—the liberty of all Europe—should suffer from such a paltry mischance! It has been well said that woman is the curse of mankind!
“Have you any idea,” he continued, after this ungallant speech, “when the fellow is likely to send in?”
“Not any. Some time during the day, I take it. There can be no cause for delay that I can think of. Heaven knows, we’re near enough each other, since both are stopping in the same hotel.”
“Challenge some time during the day. Shooting, or whatever it may be, to-morrow morning. No railway from here, and boat only once a day. Leaves Newport at 7 p.m. A clear twenty-four hours lost!Sac-r-ré!”
These calculations were in soliloquy; Count Roseveldt, as he made them, torturing his great moustache, and looking at some imaginary object between his feet Maynard remained silent.
The Count continued hissotto vocespeeches, now and then breaking into ejaculations delivered in a louder tone, and indifferently in French, English, Spanish, and German.
“By heavens, I have it?” he at length exclaimed, at the same time starting to his feet. “I have it, Maynard! I have it?”
“What has occurred to you, my dear Count?”
“A plan to save time. We’ll go back to New York by the evening’s boat!”
“Not before fighting! I presume you includethatin your calculations?”
“Of course I do. We’ll fight, and be in time all the same.”
If Maynard had been a man of delicate susceptibilities he might have reflected on the uncertainty of such a programme.
He merely asked for its explanation.
“Perfectly simple,” responded the Count. “You are to be the challenged party, and, of course, have your choice both of time and weapons. No matter about the weapons. It’s the time that concerns us so.”
“You’d bring off the affair to-day?”
“Would, and will.”
“How if the challenge arrive too late—in the evening say?”
“Carrambo!—to use our old Mexican shibboleth—I’ve thought of that—of everything. The challenge shall come early—mustcome, if your adversary be a gentleman. I’ve hit upon a plan to force it out of him in good time.”
“Your plan?”
“You’ll write to him—that is, I shall—to say you are compelled to leave Newport to-night; that a matter of grand importance has suddenly summoned you away. Appeal to him, as a man of honour, to send in his invitation at once, so that you may arrange a meeting. If he don’t do so, by all the laws of honour you will be free to go, at any hour you may name.”
“That will be challenging the challenger. Will it be correct?”
“Of course it will. I’ll be answerable. It’s altogetheren règle—strictly according to the code.”
“I agree to it, then.”
“Enough! I must set about composing the letter. Being a little out of the common, it will require some thought. Where are your pens and ink?”
Maynard pointed to a table, on which were the writing materials.
Drawing up a chair, Roseveldt seated himself beside it.
Then, taking hold of a pen, and spreading a sheet of “cream laid” before him, he proceeded to write the premonitory epistle, scarce consulting the man most interested in what it might contain. Thinking of the revolution in Baden, he was most anxious to set free his friend from the provoking compromise, so that both might bear the flag of freedom through his beloved fatherland.
The note was soon written; a copy carefully taken, folded up, and shoved into an envelope. Maynard scarce allowed the opportunity of reading it!
It had to be addressed by his directions, and was sent toMr Richard Swinton, just as the great gong, screaming through the corridors of the Ocean House, proclaimed to its guests the hour fordéjeuner à la fourchette.
Chapter Fourteen.A Request for a Quick Fight.The first shriek of the gong startled Mr Swinton from his slumber.Springing out of his couch, he commenced pacing the floor with an unsteady stride.He was in the dress he had worn at the ball, the straw kids excepted.But he was not thinking either of dress or toilet. His mind was in an agony of excitement that precluded all thoughts about personal appearance. Despite the ringing in his brain, it was clear enough for him to recall the occurrences of the night. Too well did he remember to what he had committed himself.His apprehensions were of a varied character. Maynard knew him of old; and was perhaps acquainted with his later, and less creditable, history. His character would be made known; and his grand scheme frustrated.But this was nothing compared with the other matter upon his mind—the stain upon his cheek—that could only be wiped out at the risk of losing his life.He shivered, as he went staggering around the room. His discomposure was too plain to escape the notice of his wife. In his troubled look she read some terrible tale.“What is it, Dick?” she asked, laying her hand upon his shoulder. “There’s been something unpleasant. Tell me all about it.”There was a touch of tenderness in the tone. Even the scarred heart of the “pretty horse-breaker” had still left in it some vestige of woman’s divine nature.“You’ve had a quarrel with Maynard?” she continued. “Is that it?”“Yes!” hoarsely responded the husband. “All sorts of a quarrel.”“How did it arise?”In speech not very coherent—for the alcoholic tremor was upon him—he answered the question, by giving an account of what had passed—not even concealing his own discreditable conduct in the affair.There was a time when Richard Swinton would not have so freely confessed himself to Frances Wilder. It had passed, having scarce survived their honeymoon. The close companionship of matrimony had cured both of the mutual hallucination that had made them man and wife. The romance of an unhallowed love had died out; and along with it what little respect they might have had for one another’s character. On his side so effectually, that he had lost respect for himself, and he took but little pains to cover the uneasiness he felt—in the eyes of his wedded wife—almost confessing himself a coward.It would have been idle for him to attempt concealing it. She had long since discovered this idiosyncracy in his character—perhaps more than all else causing her to repent the day when she stood beside him at the altar. The tie that bound her to him now was but that of a common danger, and the necessity of self-preservation.“You expect him to send you a challenge?” said she, a woman, and of course ignorant of the etiquette of the duel.“No,” he replied, correcting her. “That must come from me—as the party insulted. If it had only been otherwise—” he went on muttering to himself. “What a mistake not to pitch into him on the spot! If I’d only done that, the thing might have ended there; or at all events left me a corner to creep out of.”This last was not spoken aloud. The ex-guardsman was not yet so grandly degraded as to make such a humiliating confession to his wife. She might see, but not hear it.“No chance now,” he continued to reflect. “Those two fellows present. Besides a score of others, witnesses to all that passed; heard every word; saw the blow given; and the cards exchanged. It will be the talk of the hotel! I must fight, or be for ever disgraced!”Another turn across the room, and an alternative presented itself. It was flight!“I might pack up, and clear out of the place,” pursued he, giving way to the cowardly suggestion. “What could it matter? No one here knows me as yet; and my face might not be remembered. But my name? They’ll get that. He’ll be sure to make it known, and the truth will meet me everywhere! To think, too, of the chance I should lose—a fortune! I feel sure I could have made it all night with this girl. The mother on my side already! Half a million of dollars—the whole one in time! Worth a life of plotting to obtain—worth the risk of a life; ay, of one’s soul! It’s lost if I go; can be won if I only stay! Curse upon my tongue for bringing me into this scrape! Better I’d been born dumb?”He continued to pace the floor, now endeavouring to fortify his courage to the point of fighting, and now giving way to the cowardly instincts of his nature.While thus debating with himself, he was startled by a tapping at the door.“See who it is, Fan,” he said in a hurried whisper. “Step outside; and whoever it is, don’t let them look in.”Fan, still in her disguise of valet, glided to the door, opened it, and looked out.“A waiter, I suppose, bringing my boots or shaving-water?”This was Mr Swinton’s reflection.It was a waiter, but not with either of the articles named. Instead, he was the bearer of an epistle.It was delivered to Fan, who stood in the passage, keeping the door closed behind her. She saw that it was addressed to her husband. It bore no postmark, and appeared but recently written.“Who sent it?” was her inquiry, couched in a careless tone.“What’s that to you, cock-sparrow?” was the rejoinder of the hotel-servant; inclined toward chaffing the servitor of the English gentleman—in his American eyes, tainted with flunkeyism.“Oh, nothing!” modestly answered Frank.“If you must know,” said the other, apparently mollified, “it’s from a gentleman who came by this morning’s boat—a big, black fellow, six feet high, with moustaches at least six inches long. I guess your master will know all about him. Anyhow, that’s all I know.”Without more words, the waiter handed over the letter, and took himself off to the performance of other dudes.Fan re-entered the room, and handed the epistle to her husband.“By the morning boat?” said Swinton. “From New York? Of course, there’s no other. Who can have come thence, that’s got any business with me?”It just flashed across his mind that acceptances given in England could be transmitted to America. It was only a question of transfer, the drawer becoming endorser. And Richard Swinton knew that there were lawyers of the tribe of Levi, who had transactions in this kind of stamped paper, corresponding with each other across the Atlantic.Was it one of his London bills forwarded to the American correspondent, ten days before the day of dishonour?Such was the suspicion that came into his mind while listening to the dialogue outside. And it remained there, till he had torn open the envelope, and commenced reading.He read as follows:“Sir,—As the friend of Captain Maynard, and referring to what occurred between him and you last night, I address you.“Circumstances of an important—indeed, peremptory—character require his presence elsewhere, necessitating him to leave Newport by the boat which takes departure at 8 p.m. Between this and then there are twelve hours of daylight, enough to settle the trifling dispute between you. Captain Maynard appeals to you, as a gentleman, to accept his offer for quick satisfaction. Should you decline it, I, speaking as his friend, and believing myself tolerably well acquainted with the code of honour, shall feel justified in absolving him from any further action relating to the affair, and shall be prepared to defend him against any aspersions that may arise from it.“Until 7:30 p.m.—allowing half an hour to reach the boat—your friend will find me in Captain Maynard’s room.“Yours obediently,—“Rupert Roseveldt.“Count of the Austrian Empire.”Twice, without stopping, did Swinton peruse this singular epistle.Its contents, instead of adding to the excitement of his spirit, seemed to have the effect of tranquillising it.Something like a smile of satisfaction stole over his countenance, white engaged in the second reading.“Fan?” he said, slipping the letter into his pocket, and turning hastily toward his wife, “ring the bell, and order brandy and soda—some cigars, too. And, hark ye, girl: for your life, don’t let the waiter put his nose inside the room, or see into it. Take the tray from him, as he comes to the door. Say to him, besides, that I won’t be able to go down to breakfast—that I’ve been indulging last night, and am so-so this morning. You may add that I’m in bed. All this in a confidential way, so that he may believe it. I have my reasons—good reasons. So have a care, and don’t make a mull of it.”Silently obedient, she rang the bell, which was soon answered by a knock at the door.Instead of calling “Come in?” Fan, standing ready inside the room, stepped out—closing the door after her, and retaining the knob in her hand.He who answered was the same jocular fellow who had called her a cock-sparrow.“Some brandy and soda, James. Ice, of course. And stay—what else? Oh! some cigars. You may bring half a dozen. My master,” she added, before the waiter could turn away, “don’t intend going down to breakfast.”This with a significant smile, that secured James for a parley.It came off; and before leaving to execute the order, he was made acquainted with the helpless condition of the English gent who occupied Number 149.In this there was nothing to surprise him. Mr Swinton was not the only guest under his charge, who on that particular morning required brandy and soda. James rather rejoiced at it, as giving him claim for an increased perquisite.The drink was brought up, along with the cigars, and taken in as directed; the gentleman’s servant giving the waiter no opportunity to gratify curiosity by a sight of his suffering master. Even had the door been left open, and James admitted to the room, he would not have gone out of it one whit the wiser. He could only have told that Frank’s master was still abed, his face buried under the bedclothes!To make sure against surprise, Mr Swinton had assumed this interesting attitude; and for reasons unknown even to his own valet. On the rebolting of the door, he flung off the coverlet, and once more commenced treading the carpet.“Was it the same waiter?” he asked; “he that brought the letter?”“It was—James—you know?”“So much the better. Out with that cork, Fan! I want something to settle my nerves, and make me fit for a good think?”While the wire was being twisted from the soda bottle, he took hold of a cigar, bit off the end, lit, and commenced smoking it.He drank the brandy and soda at a single draught; in ten minutes after ordering another dose, and soon again a third.Several times he re-read Roseveldt’s letter—each time returning it to his pocket, and keeping its contents from Fan.At intervals he threw himself upon the bed, back downward, the cigar held between his teeth; again to get up and stride around the room with the impatience of a man waiting for some important crisis—doubtful whether it may come.And thus did Mr Swinton pass the day, eleven long hours of it, inside his sleeping apartment!Why this manoeuvring, seemingly so eccentric?He alone knew the reason. He had not communicated it to his wife—no more the contents of the lately received letter—leaving her to indulge in conjectures not very flattering to her lord and master.Six brandies and sodas were ordered, and taken in with the same caution as the first. They were all consumed, and as many cigars smoked by him during the day. Only a plate of soup and a crust for his dinner—the dish that follows a night of dissipation. With Mr Swinton it was a day of dissipation, that did not end till 7:30 p.m.At that hour an event occurred that caused a sudden change in his tactics—transforming him from an eccentric to a sane, if not sober, man!
The first shriek of the gong startled Mr Swinton from his slumber.
Springing out of his couch, he commenced pacing the floor with an unsteady stride.
He was in the dress he had worn at the ball, the straw kids excepted.
But he was not thinking either of dress or toilet. His mind was in an agony of excitement that precluded all thoughts about personal appearance. Despite the ringing in his brain, it was clear enough for him to recall the occurrences of the night. Too well did he remember to what he had committed himself.
His apprehensions were of a varied character. Maynard knew him of old; and was perhaps acquainted with his later, and less creditable, history. His character would be made known; and his grand scheme frustrated.
But this was nothing compared with the other matter upon his mind—the stain upon his cheek—that could only be wiped out at the risk of losing his life.
He shivered, as he went staggering around the room. His discomposure was too plain to escape the notice of his wife. In his troubled look she read some terrible tale.
“What is it, Dick?” she asked, laying her hand upon his shoulder. “There’s been something unpleasant. Tell me all about it.”
There was a touch of tenderness in the tone. Even the scarred heart of the “pretty horse-breaker” had still left in it some vestige of woman’s divine nature.
“You’ve had a quarrel with Maynard?” she continued. “Is that it?”
“Yes!” hoarsely responded the husband. “All sorts of a quarrel.”
“How did it arise?”
In speech not very coherent—for the alcoholic tremor was upon him—he answered the question, by giving an account of what had passed—not even concealing his own discreditable conduct in the affair.
There was a time when Richard Swinton would not have so freely confessed himself to Frances Wilder. It had passed, having scarce survived their honeymoon. The close companionship of matrimony had cured both of the mutual hallucination that had made them man and wife. The romance of an unhallowed love had died out; and along with it what little respect they might have had for one another’s character. On his side so effectually, that he had lost respect for himself, and he took but little pains to cover the uneasiness he felt—in the eyes of his wedded wife—almost confessing himself a coward.
It would have been idle for him to attempt concealing it. She had long since discovered this idiosyncracy in his character—perhaps more than all else causing her to repent the day when she stood beside him at the altar. The tie that bound her to him now was but that of a common danger, and the necessity of self-preservation.
“You expect him to send you a challenge?” said she, a woman, and of course ignorant of the etiquette of the duel.
“No,” he replied, correcting her. “That must come from me—as the party insulted. If it had only been otherwise—” he went on muttering to himself. “What a mistake not to pitch into him on the spot! If I’d only done that, the thing might have ended there; or at all events left me a corner to creep out of.”
This last was not spoken aloud. The ex-guardsman was not yet so grandly degraded as to make such a humiliating confession to his wife. She might see, but not hear it.
“No chance now,” he continued to reflect. “Those two fellows present. Besides a score of others, witnesses to all that passed; heard every word; saw the blow given; and the cards exchanged. It will be the talk of the hotel! I must fight, or be for ever disgraced!”
Another turn across the room, and an alternative presented itself. It was flight!
“I might pack up, and clear out of the place,” pursued he, giving way to the cowardly suggestion. “What could it matter? No one here knows me as yet; and my face might not be remembered. But my name? They’ll get that. He’ll be sure to make it known, and the truth will meet me everywhere! To think, too, of the chance I should lose—a fortune! I feel sure I could have made it all night with this girl. The mother on my side already! Half a million of dollars—the whole one in time! Worth a life of plotting to obtain—worth the risk of a life; ay, of one’s soul! It’s lost if I go; can be won if I only stay! Curse upon my tongue for bringing me into this scrape! Better I’d been born dumb?”
He continued to pace the floor, now endeavouring to fortify his courage to the point of fighting, and now giving way to the cowardly instincts of his nature.
While thus debating with himself, he was startled by a tapping at the door.
“See who it is, Fan,” he said in a hurried whisper. “Step outside; and whoever it is, don’t let them look in.”
Fan, still in her disguise of valet, glided to the door, opened it, and looked out.
“A waiter, I suppose, bringing my boots or shaving-water?”
This was Mr Swinton’s reflection.
It was a waiter, but not with either of the articles named. Instead, he was the bearer of an epistle.
It was delivered to Fan, who stood in the passage, keeping the door closed behind her. She saw that it was addressed to her husband. It bore no postmark, and appeared but recently written.
“Who sent it?” was her inquiry, couched in a careless tone.
“What’s that to you, cock-sparrow?” was the rejoinder of the hotel-servant; inclined toward chaffing the servitor of the English gentleman—in his American eyes, tainted with flunkeyism.
“Oh, nothing!” modestly answered Frank.
“If you must know,” said the other, apparently mollified, “it’s from a gentleman who came by this morning’s boat—a big, black fellow, six feet high, with moustaches at least six inches long. I guess your master will know all about him. Anyhow, that’s all I know.”
Without more words, the waiter handed over the letter, and took himself off to the performance of other dudes.
Fan re-entered the room, and handed the epistle to her husband.
“By the morning boat?” said Swinton. “From New York? Of course, there’s no other. Who can have come thence, that’s got any business with me?”
It just flashed across his mind that acceptances given in England could be transmitted to America. It was only a question of transfer, the drawer becoming endorser. And Richard Swinton knew that there were lawyers of the tribe of Levi, who had transactions in this kind of stamped paper, corresponding with each other across the Atlantic.
Was it one of his London bills forwarded to the American correspondent, ten days before the day of dishonour?
Such was the suspicion that came into his mind while listening to the dialogue outside. And it remained there, till he had torn open the envelope, and commenced reading.
He read as follows:
“Sir,—As the friend of Captain Maynard, and referring to what occurred between him and you last night, I address you.“Circumstances of an important—indeed, peremptory—character require his presence elsewhere, necessitating him to leave Newport by the boat which takes departure at 8 p.m. Between this and then there are twelve hours of daylight, enough to settle the trifling dispute between you. Captain Maynard appeals to you, as a gentleman, to accept his offer for quick satisfaction. Should you decline it, I, speaking as his friend, and believing myself tolerably well acquainted with the code of honour, shall feel justified in absolving him from any further action relating to the affair, and shall be prepared to defend him against any aspersions that may arise from it.“Until 7:30 p.m.—allowing half an hour to reach the boat—your friend will find me in Captain Maynard’s room.“Yours obediently,—“Rupert Roseveldt.“Count of the Austrian Empire.”
“Sir,—As the friend of Captain Maynard, and referring to what occurred between him and you last night, I address you.
“Circumstances of an important—indeed, peremptory—character require his presence elsewhere, necessitating him to leave Newport by the boat which takes departure at 8 p.m. Between this and then there are twelve hours of daylight, enough to settle the trifling dispute between you. Captain Maynard appeals to you, as a gentleman, to accept his offer for quick satisfaction. Should you decline it, I, speaking as his friend, and believing myself tolerably well acquainted with the code of honour, shall feel justified in absolving him from any further action relating to the affair, and shall be prepared to defend him against any aspersions that may arise from it.
“Until 7:30 p.m.—allowing half an hour to reach the boat—your friend will find me in Captain Maynard’s room.
“Yours obediently,—
“Rupert Roseveldt.
“Count of the Austrian Empire.”
Twice, without stopping, did Swinton peruse this singular epistle.
Its contents, instead of adding to the excitement of his spirit, seemed to have the effect of tranquillising it.
Something like a smile of satisfaction stole over his countenance, white engaged in the second reading.
“Fan?” he said, slipping the letter into his pocket, and turning hastily toward his wife, “ring the bell, and order brandy and soda—some cigars, too. And, hark ye, girl: for your life, don’t let the waiter put his nose inside the room, or see into it. Take the tray from him, as he comes to the door. Say to him, besides, that I won’t be able to go down to breakfast—that I’ve been indulging last night, and am so-so this morning. You may add that I’m in bed. All this in a confidential way, so that he may believe it. I have my reasons—good reasons. So have a care, and don’t make a mull of it.”
Silently obedient, she rang the bell, which was soon answered by a knock at the door.
Instead of calling “Come in?” Fan, standing ready inside the room, stepped out—closing the door after her, and retaining the knob in her hand.
He who answered was the same jocular fellow who had called her a cock-sparrow.
“Some brandy and soda, James. Ice, of course. And stay—what else? Oh! some cigars. You may bring half a dozen. My master,” she added, before the waiter could turn away, “don’t intend going down to breakfast.”
This with a significant smile, that secured James for a parley.
It came off; and before leaving to execute the order, he was made acquainted with the helpless condition of the English gent who occupied Number 149.
In this there was nothing to surprise him. Mr Swinton was not the only guest under his charge, who on that particular morning required brandy and soda. James rather rejoiced at it, as giving him claim for an increased perquisite.
The drink was brought up, along with the cigars, and taken in as directed; the gentleman’s servant giving the waiter no opportunity to gratify curiosity by a sight of his suffering master. Even had the door been left open, and James admitted to the room, he would not have gone out of it one whit the wiser. He could only have told that Frank’s master was still abed, his face buried under the bedclothes!
To make sure against surprise, Mr Swinton had assumed this interesting attitude; and for reasons unknown even to his own valet. On the rebolting of the door, he flung off the coverlet, and once more commenced treading the carpet.
“Was it the same waiter?” he asked; “he that brought the letter?”
“It was—James—you know?”
“So much the better. Out with that cork, Fan! I want something to settle my nerves, and make me fit for a good think?”
While the wire was being twisted from the soda bottle, he took hold of a cigar, bit off the end, lit, and commenced smoking it.
He drank the brandy and soda at a single draught; in ten minutes after ordering another dose, and soon again a third.
Several times he re-read Roseveldt’s letter—each time returning it to his pocket, and keeping its contents from Fan.
At intervals he threw himself upon the bed, back downward, the cigar held between his teeth; again to get up and stride around the room with the impatience of a man waiting for some important crisis—doubtful whether it may come.
And thus did Mr Swinton pass the day, eleven long hours of it, inside his sleeping apartment!
Why this manoeuvring, seemingly so eccentric?
He alone knew the reason. He had not communicated it to his wife—no more the contents of the lately received letter—leaving her to indulge in conjectures not very flattering to her lord and master.
Six brandies and sodas were ordered, and taken in with the same caution as the first. They were all consumed, and as many cigars smoked by him during the day. Only a plate of soup and a crust for his dinner—the dish that follows a night of dissipation. With Mr Swinton it was a day of dissipation, that did not end till 7:30 p.m.
At that hour an event occurred that caused a sudden change in his tactics—transforming him from an eccentric to a sane, if not sober, man!