Chapter Fifty Six.

Chapter Fifty Six.A Dress Rehearsal.The revolutionary leader who had taken up his residencevis-à-visto the McTavish villa, and whose politics were so offensive to its royal lessee, was no other than the ex-dictator of Hungary.The new tenant had been made aware of this before entering upon occupation. Not by his landlord, but the man under whose instructions he had taken the house.The proximity of the refugee headquarters was partly the cause of Mr McTavish being so anxious to go out. It was the sole reason why Swinton had shown himself so anxious to come in!Swinton had this knowledge, and no more. The motive for putting him in possession had not yet been revealed to him. He had been instructed to take that particular house,coûte que coûte; and he had taken it as told, at a cost of two hundred pounds.His patron had provided him with a cheque for three hundred. Two had gone into the pocket of McTavish; the other remained in his own.He had got installed in his new domicile; and seated with a cigar between his lips—a real Havanna—was reflecting upon the comforts that surrounded him. How different that couch, with its brocaded cover, and soft cushions, from the hard horse-hair sofa, with its flattened squab! How unlike these luxurious chairs to the sharp skeletons of cane, his wife had reason to remember! While congratulating himself on the change of fortune, he was also bethinking him of what had led to it. He had a tolerably correct idea ofwhyhe had been so favoured.But for what purpose he had been placed in the villa, or the duty there required of him, he was still ignorant.He could only conjecture that he had something to do with Kossuth. Of this he was almost certain.He was not to remain long in the dark about his duties. At an interview on the morning of that day, his patron had promised to send him full instructions—by a gentleman who should “come up in the course of the evening.”Swinton was shrewd enough to have a thought as to who this gentleman would be; and it inspired him to a conversation with his wife, of a nature peculiar as confidential.“Fan?” he said, taking the cigar from his teeth, and turning towards the couch, on which that amiable creature was reclining.“Well; what is it?” responded she, also removing a weed from between her pretty lips, and pouting the smoke after it.“How do you like our new lodgings, love? Better than those at Westbourne?”“You don’t want me to answer that question, Dick?”“Oh, no. Not if you don’t wish. But you needn’t snap and snarl so.”“I am not snapping or snarling. It’s silly of you to say so.”“Yes, everything’s silly I say, or do either. I’ve been very silly within the last three days. To get into a cosy crib like this, with the rent paid twelve months in advance, and a hundred pounds to keep the kitchen! More to come if I mistake not. Quite stupid of me to have accomplished all this?”Fan made no rejoinder. Had her husband closely scanned her countenance at that moment, he might have seen upon it a smile not caused by any admiration of his cleverness.She had her own thoughts as to what and to whom he was indebted for the favourable turn in his fortunes.“Yes; much more to come,” said he, continuing the hopeful prognostic. “In fact, Fan, our fortune’s made, or will be, if you only do—”“Do what?” she asked, seeing that he hesitated. “What do you want me to do next?”“Well, in the first place,” drawled he, showing displeasure at her tone, “get up and dress yourself. I’ll tell you what I want afterwards.”“Dress myself! There’s not much chance of that, with such rags as are left me!”“Never mind the rags. We can’t help it just now. Besides, love, you look well enough for anything.”Fan tossed her head, as if she cared little for the compliment.“Arrange the rags, as you call ’em, best way you can for to-night. To-morrow, it will be different. We shall take a stroll among the milliners and mantua-makers. Now, girl, go; do as I tell you!”So encouraged, she rose from the couch, and turned towards the stairway that conducted to her sleeping apartment.She commenced ascending.“Put on your best looks, Fan!” said her husband, calling after her. “I expect a gentleman, who’s a stranger to you; and I don’t wish him to think I’ve married a slut. Make haste, and get down again. He may be in at any moment.”There was no response to show that the rude speech had given offence. Only a laugh, sent back from the stair-landing.Swinton resumed his cigar, and sat waiting.He knew not which would be heard first—a ring at the gate-bell, or the rustling of silk upon the stairway.He desired the latter, as he had not yet completed the promised instructions.He had not much more to say, and a moment would suffice:He was not disappointed: Fan came first. She came sweeping downstairs, snowy with Spanish chalk, and radiant with rouge.Without these she was beautiful, with them superb.Long usage had made them almost a necessity to her skin; but the same had taught her skill in their limning. Only a connoisseur could have distinguished the paint upon her cheeks from the real and natural colour.“You’ll do,” said Swinton, as he scanned her with an approving glance.“For, what, pray?” was the interrogatory.It was superfluous. She more than conjectured his meaning.“Sit down, and I’ll tell you.”She sat down.He did not proceed at once. He seemed under some embarrassment. Even he—the brute—was embarrassed!And no wonder, with the vile intent in his thoughts—upon the tip of his tongue; for he intendedcounselling her to shame!Not to the ultimate infamy, but to the seeming of it.Only the seeming; and with the self-excuse of this limitation, he took courage, and spoke.He spoke thus:“Look here, Fan. The gentleman I’m expecting, is the same that has put us into this little snuggery. It’s Lord —. I’ve told you what sort of a man he is, and what power he’s got. He can do wonders for me, and will, if I can manage him. But he’s fickle and full of conceit, as all of his kind. He requires skilful management; and you must assist me.”“I assist you! In what way?”“I only want you to becivilto him. You understand me?”Fan made no reply; but her glance of assumed incredulity told of a perfect comprehension!The ringing of the gate-bell interrupted the chapter of instructions.

The revolutionary leader who had taken up his residencevis-à-visto the McTavish villa, and whose politics were so offensive to its royal lessee, was no other than the ex-dictator of Hungary.

The new tenant had been made aware of this before entering upon occupation. Not by his landlord, but the man under whose instructions he had taken the house.

The proximity of the refugee headquarters was partly the cause of Mr McTavish being so anxious to go out. It was the sole reason why Swinton had shown himself so anxious to come in!

Swinton had this knowledge, and no more. The motive for putting him in possession had not yet been revealed to him. He had been instructed to take that particular house,coûte que coûte; and he had taken it as told, at a cost of two hundred pounds.

His patron had provided him with a cheque for three hundred. Two had gone into the pocket of McTavish; the other remained in his own.

He had got installed in his new domicile; and seated with a cigar between his lips—a real Havanna—was reflecting upon the comforts that surrounded him. How different that couch, with its brocaded cover, and soft cushions, from the hard horse-hair sofa, with its flattened squab! How unlike these luxurious chairs to the sharp skeletons of cane, his wife had reason to remember! While congratulating himself on the change of fortune, he was also bethinking him of what had led to it. He had a tolerably correct idea ofwhyhe had been so favoured.

But for what purpose he had been placed in the villa, or the duty there required of him, he was still ignorant.

He could only conjecture that he had something to do with Kossuth. Of this he was almost certain.

He was not to remain long in the dark about his duties. At an interview on the morning of that day, his patron had promised to send him full instructions—by a gentleman who should “come up in the course of the evening.”

Swinton was shrewd enough to have a thought as to who this gentleman would be; and it inspired him to a conversation with his wife, of a nature peculiar as confidential.

“Fan?” he said, taking the cigar from his teeth, and turning towards the couch, on which that amiable creature was reclining.

“Well; what is it?” responded she, also removing a weed from between her pretty lips, and pouting the smoke after it.

“How do you like our new lodgings, love? Better than those at Westbourne?”

“You don’t want me to answer that question, Dick?”

“Oh, no. Not if you don’t wish. But you needn’t snap and snarl so.”

“I am not snapping or snarling. It’s silly of you to say so.”

“Yes, everything’s silly I say, or do either. I’ve been very silly within the last three days. To get into a cosy crib like this, with the rent paid twelve months in advance, and a hundred pounds to keep the kitchen! More to come if I mistake not. Quite stupid of me to have accomplished all this?”

Fan made no rejoinder. Had her husband closely scanned her countenance at that moment, he might have seen upon it a smile not caused by any admiration of his cleverness.

She had her own thoughts as to what and to whom he was indebted for the favourable turn in his fortunes.

“Yes; much more to come,” said he, continuing the hopeful prognostic. “In fact, Fan, our fortune’s made, or will be, if you only do—”

“Do what?” she asked, seeing that he hesitated. “What do you want me to do next?”

“Well, in the first place,” drawled he, showing displeasure at her tone, “get up and dress yourself. I’ll tell you what I want afterwards.”

“Dress myself! There’s not much chance of that, with such rags as are left me!”

“Never mind the rags. We can’t help it just now. Besides, love, you look well enough for anything.”

Fan tossed her head, as if she cared little for the compliment.

“Arrange the rags, as you call ’em, best way you can for to-night. To-morrow, it will be different. We shall take a stroll among the milliners and mantua-makers. Now, girl, go; do as I tell you!”

So encouraged, she rose from the couch, and turned towards the stairway that conducted to her sleeping apartment.

She commenced ascending.

“Put on your best looks, Fan!” said her husband, calling after her. “I expect a gentleman, who’s a stranger to you; and I don’t wish him to think I’ve married a slut. Make haste, and get down again. He may be in at any moment.”

There was no response to show that the rude speech had given offence. Only a laugh, sent back from the stair-landing.

Swinton resumed his cigar, and sat waiting.

He knew not which would be heard first—a ring at the gate-bell, or the rustling of silk upon the stairway.

He desired the latter, as he had not yet completed the promised instructions.

He had not much more to say, and a moment would suffice:

He was not disappointed: Fan came first. She came sweeping downstairs, snowy with Spanish chalk, and radiant with rouge.

Without these she was beautiful, with them superb.

Long usage had made them almost a necessity to her skin; but the same had taught her skill in their limning. Only a connoisseur could have distinguished the paint upon her cheeks from the real and natural colour.

“You’ll do,” said Swinton, as he scanned her with an approving glance.

“For, what, pray?” was the interrogatory.

It was superfluous. She more than conjectured his meaning.

“Sit down, and I’ll tell you.”

She sat down.

He did not proceed at once. He seemed under some embarrassment. Even he—the brute—was embarrassed!

And no wonder, with the vile intent in his thoughts—upon the tip of his tongue; for he intendedcounselling her to shame!

Not to the ultimate infamy, but to the seeming of it.

Only the seeming; and with the self-excuse of this limitation, he took courage, and spoke.

He spoke thus:

“Look here, Fan. The gentleman I’m expecting, is the same that has put us into this little snuggery. It’s Lord —. I’ve told you what sort of a man he is, and what power he’s got. He can do wonders for me, and will, if I can manage him. But he’s fickle and full of conceit, as all of his kind. He requires skilful management; and you must assist me.”

“I assist you! In what way?”

“I only want you to becivilto him. You understand me?”

Fan made no reply; but her glance of assumed incredulity told of a perfect comprehension!

The ringing of the gate-bell interrupted the chapter of instructions.

Chapter Fifty Seven.Patron and Protégé.The ringing of the bell did not cause Mr Swinton to start. It might have done so had he been longer in his new residence. His paper “kites” were still carried about London, with judgments pinned on to them; and he might have supposed that the bearer of one of them was bringing it home to him.But the short time he had been installed in the McTavish villa, with the fact that a visitor was expected, rendered him comparatively fearless; and his composure was only disturbed by a doubt, as to whether the ringer of the bell was his patron, or only a deputy sent with the promised instructions.The maid-of-all-work, that day hastily engaged, was despatched to answer the ring. If it was an elderly gentleman, tall and stoutish, she was to show him in at once, and without parley.On opening the gate, a figure was distinguished outside. It was that of a gentleman. He was enveloped in an ample cloak, with a cap drawn over his ears. This did not prevent the servant from seeing that he was tall and stoutish; while the gleam of the hall-lamp, falling on his face, despite a dyed whisker, showed him to answer the other condition for admittance.“Mr Swinton lives here?” he asked, before the gate-opener could give him invitation to enter.“He does, sir. Please to walk in.”Guided by the girl, the cloaked personage threaded through the lilacs and laurestinas, stepped on to the little piazza, on which Mr McTavish had oft smoked his pipe; and was at length shown into the apartment where Swinton awaited him.The latter was alone—his wife having retired by instructions.On the entrance of his visitor, Mr Swinton started up from his seat, and advanced to receive him.“My lord!” said he, shamming a profound surprise, “is it possible I am honoured by your presence?”“No honour, sir; no honour whatever.”“From what your lordship said, I was expecting you to send—”“I have come instead, Mr Swinton. The instructions I have to give are upon a matter of some importance. I think it better you should have them direct from ‘myself.’ For this reason I present myself, as you see, inpropria persona.”“That’s a lie!” thought Swinton, in reference to the reason.Of course he kept the thought to himself His reply was:“Just like what is said of your lordship. By night, as by day, always at work—doing service to the State. Your lordship will pardon me for speaking so freely?”“Don’t mention it, my dear sir. The business between us requires that we both speak freely.”“Excuse me for not having asked your lordship to take a seat!”“I’ll take that,” promptly responded the condescending nobleman, “and a cigar, too, if you’ve got one to spare.”“Fortunately I have,” said the delighted Swinton. “Here, my lord, are some sold to me for Havanas. I can’t answer for their quality.”“Try one of mine?”The patron pulled a cigar-case out of the pocket of his coat. The cloak and cap had been left behind him in the hall.Theprotégéaccepted it with a profusion of thanks.Both sat down, and commenced smoking.Swinton, thinking he had talked enough, waited for the great man to continue the conversation.He did so.“I see you’ve succeeded in taking the house,” was the somewhat pointless remark.“I am in it, my lord,” was the equally pointless reply.More to the purpose was the explanation that followed:“I regret to inform your lordship that it has cost a considerable sum.”“How much?”“I had to take it for a whole year—at a rent of two hundred pounds.”“Pooh! never mind that. It’s for the service of the State. In such matters we are obliged to make liberal disbursement. And now, my dear sir, let me explain to you why it has been taken, and for what purpose you have been placed in it.”Swinton settled down into an attitude of obsequious attention.His patron proceeded:“Directly opposite lives a man, whose name is already known to you.”Without the name being mentioned, the listener nodded assent. He knew it was Kossuth.“You will observe, ere long, that this man has many visitors.”“I have noticed that already, my lord. All day they have been coming and going.”“Just so. And among them are men of note; many who have played an important part in the politics of Europe. Now, sir; it is deemed convenient,for the cause of order, that the movements of these men should be known; and for this it is necessary that a watch be kept upon them. From Sir Robert Cottrell’s recommendation, we’ve chosen you for this delicate duty. If I mistake not, sir, you will know how to perform it?”“My lord, I make promise to do my best.”“So much then for the general purpose. And now to enter a little more into details.”Swinton resumed his listening attitude.“You will make yourself acquainted with the personal appearance of all who enter the opposite house; endeavour to ascertain who they are; and report on their goings and comings—taking note of the hour. For this purpose you will require two assistants; whom I authorise you to engage. One of them may appear to act as your servant; the other, appropriately dressed, should visit you as an intimate acquaintance. If you could find one who has access to the camp of the enemy, it would be of infinite importance. There are some of these refugees in the habit of visiting your neighbour, who may not be altogether his friends. You understand me?”“I do, your lordship.”“I see, Mr Swinton, you are the man we want. And now for a last word. Though you are to take note of the movements of Kossuth’s guests, still more must you keep your eye upon himself. Should he go out, either you or your friend must follow and find where he goes to. Take a cab if necessary; and on any such occasion reportdirectly and without losing time. Make your report to my private secretary; who will always be found at my residence in Park Lane. This will be sufficient for the present. When you are in need of funds, let my secretary know. He has orders to attend to the supply department. Any further instructions I shall communicate to you myself. I may have to come here frequently; so you had better instruct your servant about admitting me.”“My lord, would you accept of a key? Excuse me for asking. It would save your lordship from the disagreeable necessity of waiting outside the gate, and perhaps being recognised by the passers, or those opposite?”Without showing it, Swinton’s patron was charmed with the proposal. The key might in time become useful, for other purposes than to escape recognition by either “the passers or those opposite.” He signified his consent to accept it.“I see you are clever, Mr Swinton,” he said, with a peculiar, almost sardonic smile. “As you say, a key will be convenient. And now, I need scarce point out to you the necessity of discretion in all that you do. I perceive that your windows are furnished with movable Venetians. That is well, and will be suitable to your purpose. Fortunately your own personal appearance corresponds very well to such an establishment as this—a very snug affair it is—and your good lady—ah! by the way, we are treating her very impolitely. I owe her an apology for keeping you so long away from her. I hope you will make it for me, Mr Swinton. Tell her that I have detained you on business of importance.”“My lord, she will not believe it, unless I tell her whom I’ve had the honour of receiving. May I take that liberty?”“Oh! certainly—certainly. Were it not for the hour, I should have asked you to introduce me. Of course, it is too late to intrude upon a lady.”“There’s no hour too late for an introduction to your lordship. I know the poor child would be delighted.”“Well, Mr Swinton, if it’s not interfering with your domestic arrangements, I, too, would be delighted. All hours are alike to me.”“My wife is upstairs. May I ask her to come down?”“Nay, Mr Swinton; may I ask you to bring her down?”“Such condescension, my lord! It is a pleasure to obey you.”With this speech, half aside, Swinton stepped out of the room; and commenced ascending the stairway.He was not gone long. Fan was found upon the first landing, ready to receive the summons.He returned almost too soon for his sexagenarian visitor, who had placed himself in front of the mantel mirror, and was endeavouring with dyed locks to conceal the bald spot upon his crown!The introduction was followed by Mr Swinton’s guest forgetting all about the lateness of the hour, and resuming his seat. Then succeeded a triangular conversation, obsequious on two rides, slightly patronising on the third; becoming less so, as the speeches were continued; and then there was an invitation extended to the noble guest to accept of some refreshment, on the plea of his long detention—a courtesy he did not decline.And the Abigail was despatched to the nearest confectionery, and brought back sausage rolls and sandwiches, with a Melton Mowbray pie; and these were placed upon the table, alongside a decanter of sherry; of which his lordship partook with as much amiable freedom as if he had been a jolly guardsman!And it ended in his becoming still more amiable; and talking to Swinton as to an old bosom friend; and squeezing the hand of Swinton’s wife, as he stood in the doorway repeatedly bidding her “good-night”—a bit of by-play that should have made Swinton jealous, had the hall-lamp been burning bright enough for him to see. He only guessed it, and was not jealous!“She’s a delicious creature, that!” soliloquised the titledroué, as he proceeded to the Park Road, where a carriage, drawn up under the shadow of the trees, had been all the while waiting for him. “And a trump to boot! I can tell that by the touch of her taper fingers.”“She’s a trump and a treasure!” was the almost simultaneous reflection of Swinton, with the same woman in his thoughts—his own wife!He made it, after closing the door upon his departing guest; and then, as he sat gulping another glass of sherry, and smoking another cigar, he repeated it with the continuation:“Yes; Fan’s the correct card to play. What a stupid I’ve been not to think of this before! Hang it! it’s not yet too late. I’ve still got hold of the hand; and this night, if I’m not mistaken, there’s a game begun that’ll give me all I want in this world—that’s Julia Girdwood.”The serious tone in which the last three words were spoken told he had not yet resigned his aspirations after the American heiress.

The ringing of the bell did not cause Mr Swinton to start. It might have done so had he been longer in his new residence. His paper “kites” were still carried about London, with judgments pinned on to them; and he might have supposed that the bearer of one of them was bringing it home to him.

But the short time he had been installed in the McTavish villa, with the fact that a visitor was expected, rendered him comparatively fearless; and his composure was only disturbed by a doubt, as to whether the ringer of the bell was his patron, or only a deputy sent with the promised instructions.

The maid-of-all-work, that day hastily engaged, was despatched to answer the ring. If it was an elderly gentleman, tall and stoutish, she was to show him in at once, and without parley.

On opening the gate, a figure was distinguished outside. It was that of a gentleman. He was enveloped in an ample cloak, with a cap drawn over his ears. This did not prevent the servant from seeing that he was tall and stoutish; while the gleam of the hall-lamp, falling on his face, despite a dyed whisker, showed him to answer the other condition for admittance.

“Mr Swinton lives here?” he asked, before the gate-opener could give him invitation to enter.

“He does, sir. Please to walk in.”

Guided by the girl, the cloaked personage threaded through the lilacs and laurestinas, stepped on to the little piazza, on which Mr McTavish had oft smoked his pipe; and was at length shown into the apartment where Swinton awaited him.

The latter was alone—his wife having retired by instructions.

On the entrance of his visitor, Mr Swinton started up from his seat, and advanced to receive him.

“My lord!” said he, shamming a profound surprise, “is it possible I am honoured by your presence?”

“No honour, sir; no honour whatever.”

“From what your lordship said, I was expecting you to send—”

“I have come instead, Mr Swinton. The instructions I have to give are upon a matter of some importance. I think it better you should have them direct from ‘myself.’ For this reason I present myself, as you see, inpropria persona.”

“That’s a lie!” thought Swinton, in reference to the reason.

Of course he kept the thought to himself His reply was:

“Just like what is said of your lordship. By night, as by day, always at work—doing service to the State. Your lordship will pardon me for speaking so freely?”

“Don’t mention it, my dear sir. The business between us requires that we both speak freely.”

“Excuse me for not having asked your lordship to take a seat!”

“I’ll take that,” promptly responded the condescending nobleman, “and a cigar, too, if you’ve got one to spare.”

“Fortunately I have,” said the delighted Swinton. “Here, my lord, are some sold to me for Havanas. I can’t answer for their quality.”

“Try one of mine?”

The patron pulled a cigar-case out of the pocket of his coat. The cloak and cap had been left behind him in the hall.

Theprotégéaccepted it with a profusion of thanks.

Both sat down, and commenced smoking.

Swinton, thinking he had talked enough, waited for the great man to continue the conversation.

He did so.

“I see you’ve succeeded in taking the house,” was the somewhat pointless remark.

“I am in it, my lord,” was the equally pointless reply.

More to the purpose was the explanation that followed:

“I regret to inform your lordship that it has cost a considerable sum.”

“How much?”

“I had to take it for a whole year—at a rent of two hundred pounds.”

“Pooh! never mind that. It’s for the service of the State. In such matters we are obliged to make liberal disbursement. And now, my dear sir, let me explain to you why it has been taken, and for what purpose you have been placed in it.”

Swinton settled down into an attitude of obsequious attention.

His patron proceeded:

“Directly opposite lives a man, whose name is already known to you.”

Without the name being mentioned, the listener nodded assent. He knew it was Kossuth.

“You will observe, ere long, that this man has many visitors.”

“I have noticed that already, my lord. All day they have been coming and going.”

“Just so. And among them are men of note; many who have played an important part in the politics of Europe. Now, sir; it is deemed convenient,for the cause of order, that the movements of these men should be known; and for this it is necessary that a watch be kept upon them. From Sir Robert Cottrell’s recommendation, we’ve chosen you for this delicate duty. If I mistake not, sir, you will know how to perform it?”

“My lord, I make promise to do my best.”

“So much then for the general purpose. And now to enter a little more into details.”

Swinton resumed his listening attitude.

“You will make yourself acquainted with the personal appearance of all who enter the opposite house; endeavour to ascertain who they are; and report on their goings and comings—taking note of the hour. For this purpose you will require two assistants; whom I authorise you to engage. One of them may appear to act as your servant; the other, appropriately dressed, should visit you as an intimate acquaintance. If you could find one who has access to the camp of the enemy, it would be of infinite importance. There are some of these refugees in the habit of visiting your neighbour, who may not be altogether his friends. You understand me?”

“I do, your lordship.”

“I see, Mr Swinton, you are the man we want. And now for a last word. Though you are to take note of the movements of Kossuth’s guests, still more must you keep your eye upon himself. Should he go out, either you or your friend must follow and find where he goes to. Take a cab if necessary; and on any such occasion reportdirectly and without losing time. Make your report to my private secretary; who will always be found at my residence in Park Lane. This will be sufficient for the present. When you are in need of funds, let my secretary know. He has orders to attend to the supply department. Any further instructions I shall communicate to you myself. I may have to come here frequently; so you had better instruct your servant about admitting me.”

“My lord, would you accept of a key? Excuse me for asking. It would save your lordship from the disagreeable necessity of waiting outside the gate, and perhaps being recognised by the passers, or those opposite?”

Without showing it, Swinton’s patron was charmed with the proposal. The key might in time become useful, for other purposes than to escape recognition by either “the passers or those opposite.” He signified his consent to accept it.

“I see you are clever, Mr Swinton,” he said, with a peculiar, almost sardonic smile. “As you say, a key will be convenient. And now, I need scarce point out to you the necessity of discretion in all that you do. I perceive that your windows are furnished with movable Venetians. That is well, and will be suitable to your purpose. Fortunately your own personal appearance corresponds very well to such an establishment as this—a very snug affair it is—and your good lady—ah! by the way, we are treating her very impolitely. I owe her an apology for keeping you so long away from her. I hope you will make it for me, Mr Swinton. Tell her that I have detained you on business of importance.”

“My lord, she will not believe it, unless I tell her whom I’ve had the honour of receiving. May I take that liberty?”

“Oh! certainly—certainly. Were it not for the hour, I should have asked you to introduce me. Of course, it is too late to intrude upon a lady.”

“There’s no hour too late for an introduction to your lordship. I know the poor child would be delighted.”

“Well, Mr Swinton, if it’s not interfering with your domestic arrangements, I, too, would be delighted. All hours are alike to me.”

“My wife is upstairs. May I ask her to come down?”

“Nay, Mr Swinton; may I ask you to bring her down?”

“Such condescension, my lord! It is a pleasure to obey you.”

With this speech, half aside, Swinton stepped out of the room; and commenced ascending the stairway.

He was not gone long. Fan was found upon the first landing, ready to receive the summons.

He returned almost too soon for his sexagenarian visitor, who had placed himself in front of the mantel mirror, and was endeavouring with dyed locks to conceal the bald spot upon his crown!

The introduction was followed by Mr Swinton’s guest forgetting all about the lateness of the hour, and resuming his seat. Then succeeded a triangular conversation, obsequious on two rides, slightly patronising on the third; becoming less so, as the speeches were continued; and then there was an invitation extended to the noble guest to accept of some refreshment, on the plea of his long detention—a courtesy he did not decline.

And the Abigail was despatched to the nearest confectionery, and brought back sausage rolls and sandwiches, with a Melton Mowbray pie; and these were placed upon the table, alongside a decanter of sherry; of which his lordship partook with as much amiable freedom as if he had been a jolly guardsman!

And it ended in his becoming still more amiable; and talking to Swinton as to an old bosom friend; and squeezing the hand of Swinton’s wife, as he stood in the doorway repeatedly bidding her “good-night”—a bit of by-play that should have made Swinton jealous, had the hall-lamp been burning bright enough for him to see. He only guessed it, and was not jealous!

“She’s a delicious creature, that!” soliloquised the titledroué, as he proceeded to the Park Road, where a carriage, drawn up under the shadow of the trees, had been all the while waiting for him. “And a trump to boot! I can tell that by the touch of her taper fingers.”

“She’s a trump and a treasure!” was the almost simultaneous reflection of Swinton, with the same woman in his thoughts—his own wife!

He made it, after closing the door upon his departing guest; and then, as he sat gulping another glass of sherry, and smoking another cigar, he repeated it with the continuation:

“Yes; Fan’s the correct card to play. What a stupid I’ve been not to think of this before! Hang it! it’s not yet too late. I’ve still got hold of the hand; and this night, if I’m not mistaken, there’s a game begun that’ll give me all I want in this world—that’s Julia Girdwood.”

The serious tone in which the last three words were spoken told he had not yet resigned his aspirations after the American heiress.

Chapter Fifty Eight.Improved Prospects.To those who take no note of social distinctions, Swinton’s scheme in relation to Julia Girdwood will appear grotesque. Not so much on account of its atrocity, but from the chances of its success seeming so problematical.Could he have got the girl to love him, it would have changed the aspect of affairs. Love breaks down all barriers; and to a mind constituted as hers, no obstacle could have intervened—not even the idea of danger.She did not love him; but he did not know it. A guardsman, and handsome to boot, he had been accustomed to facile conquests. In his own way of thinking, the time had not arrived when these should be deemed difficult.He was no longer in the Guards; but he was still young, and he knew he was still handsome English dames thought him so. Strange if a Yankee girl should have a different opinion!This was the argument on his side; and, trusting to his attractions, he still fancied himself pretty sure of being able to make a conquest of the American—even to making her the victim of an illegal marriage.And if he should succeed in his bigamous scheme, what then? What use would she be as a wife, unless her mother should keep that promise he had overheard: to endow her with the moiety of her own life-interest in the estate of the deceased storekeeper?To many Julia Girdwood against her mother’s wish would be a simple absurdity. He did not dread the danger that might accrue from the crime. He did not think of it. But to become son-in-law to a woman, whose daughter might remain penniless as long as she herself lived, would be a poor speculation. A woman, too, who talked of living another half-century! The jest was not without significance; and Swinton thought so.He felt confident that he could dupe the daughter into marrying him; but to get that half-million out of the mother, he must stand before the altar as alord!These were Mrs Girdwood’s original conditions. He knew she still adhered to them. If fulfilled, she would still consent; but not otherwise.To go on, then, the shamincognitomust be continued—the deception kept up.But how?This was the point that puzzled him.The impersonation had become difficult. In Newport and New York it had been easy; in Paris still easier; but he was at length in London, where such a cheat would be in danger of being detected.Moreover, in his last interview with the ladies, he had been sensible of some change in their behaviour toward him—an absence of the early congeniality. It was shown chiefly by Mrs Girdwood herself! Her warm friendship suddenly conceived at Newport, continued in New York, and afterwards renewed in Paris, appeared to have as suddenly grown cool.What could be the cause? Had she heard anything to his discredit? Could she have discovered the counterfeit? Or was she only suspicious of it?Only the last question troubled him. He did not think he had been found out. He had played his part skilfully, having given no clue to his concealed title. And he had given good reasons for his care in concealing it.He admitted to himself that she had cause for being suspicious. She had extended hospitality to him in America. He had not returned it in Europe, for reasons well-known.True, he had only met his American acquaintances in Paris; but even there, an English lord should have shown himself more liberal; and she might have felt piqued at his parsimony.For similar reasons he had not yet called upon them in London.On the contrary, since his return, he had purposely kept out of their way.In England he was in his own country; and why should he be living under an assumed name? If a lord, why under straitened circumstances? In Mrs Girdwood’s eyes these would be suspicious circumstances.The last might be explained—by the fact of their being poor lords, though not many. Not many, who do not find the means to dress well, and dine sumptuously—to keep a handsome house, if they feel disposed.Since his return from the States, Swinton could do none of these things. How, then, was he to pass himself off for a lord—even one of the poorest?He had almost despaired of being able to continue the counterfeit; when the patronage of a lord, real and powerful, inspired him with fresh hope. Through it his prospects had become entirely changed. It had put money in his purse, and promised more. What was equally encouraging, he could now, in real truth, claim being employed in a diplomatic capacity. True, it was but as aspy; but this is an essential part of the diplomatic service!There was his apparent intimacy with a distinguished diplomatic character—a nobleman; there would be his constant visits to the grand mansion in Park Lane—strange if with these appearances in his favour he could not still contrive to throw dust in the eyes of Dame Girdwood!Certainly his scheme was far from hopeless. By the new appointment a long vista of advantages had been suddenly disclosed to him; and he now set himself to devise the best plan for improving them.Fan was called into his counsels; for the wife was still willing. Less than ever did she care for him, or what he might do. She, too, had become conscious of brighter prospects; and might hope, at no distant day, to appear once more in Rotten Row.If, otherwise, she had a poor opinion of her husband, she did not despise his talent for intrigue. There was proof of it in their changed circumstances. And though she well knew the source from which their sudden prosperity had sprung, she knew, also, the advantage, to a woman of her propensities, in being awife. “United we stand, divided we fall,” may have been the thought in her mind; but, whether it was or not, she was still ready to assist her husband in accomplishing a second marriage!With the certificate of the first, carefully stowed away in a secret drawer of her dressing-case, she had nothing to fear, beyond the chance of a problematical exposure.She did not fear this, so long as there was a prospect of that splendid plunder, in which she would be a sharer. Dick had promised to be “true as steel,” and she had reciprocated the promise.With a box of cigars, and a decanter of sherry between them, a programme was traced out for the further prosecution of the scheme.

To those who take no note of social distinctions, Swinton’s scheme in relation to Julia Girdwood will appear grotesque. Not so much on account of its atrocity, but from the chances of its success seeming so problematical.

Could he have got the girl to love him, it would have changed the aspect of affairs. Love breaks down all barriers; and to a mind constituted as hers, no obstacle could have intervened—not even the idea of danger.

She did not love him; but he did not know it. A guardsman, and handsome to boot, he had been accustomed to facile conquests. In his own way of thinking, the time had not arrived when these should be deemed difficult.

He was no longer in the Guards; but he was still young, and he knew he was still handsome English dames thought him so. Strange if a Yankee girl should have a different opinion!

This was the argument on his side; and, trusting to his attractions, he still fancied himself pretty sure of being able to make a conquest of the American—even to making her the victim of an illegal marriage.

And if he should succeed in his bigamous scheme, what then? What use would she be as a wife, unless her mother should keep that promise he had overheard: to endow her with the moiety of her own life-interest in the estate of the deceased storekeeper?

To many Julia Girdwood against her mother’s wish would be a simple absurdity. He did not dread the danger that might accrue from the crime. He did not think of it. But to become son-in-law to a woman, whose daughter might remain penniless as long as she herself lived, would be a poor speculation. A woman, too, who talked of living another half-century! The jest was not without significance; and Swinton thought so.

He felt confident that he could dupe the daughter into marrying him; but to get that half-million out of the mother, he must stand before the altar as alord!

These were Mrs Girdwood’s original conditions. He knew she still adhered to them. If fulfilled, she would still consent; but not otherwise.

To go on, then, the shamincognitomust be continued—the deception kept up.

But how?

This was the point that puzzled him.

The impersonation had become difficult. In Newport and New York it had been easy; in Paris still easier; but he was at length in London, where such a cheat would be in danger of being detected.

Moreover, in his last interview with the ladies, he had been sensible of some change in their behaviour toward him—an absence of the early congeniality. It was shown chiefly by Mrs Girdwood herself! Her warm friendship suddenly conceived at Newport, continued in New York, and afterwards renewed in Paris, appeared to have as suddenly grown cool.

What could be the cause? Had she heard anything to his discredit? Could she have discovered the counterfeit? Or was she only suspicious of it?

Only the last question troubled him. He did not think he had been found out. He had played his part skilfully, having given no clue to his concealed title. And he had given good reasons for his care in concealing it.

He admitted to himself that she had cause for being suspicious. She had extended hospitality to him in America. He had not returned it in Europe, for reasons well-known.

True, he had only met his American acquaintances in Paris; but even there, an English lord should have shown himself more liberal; and she might have felt piqued at his parsimony.

For similar reasons he had not yet called upon them in London.

On the contrary, since his return, he had purposely kept out of their way.

In England he was in his own country; and why should he be living under an assumed name? If a lord, why under straitened circumstances? In Mrs Girdwood’s eyes these would be suspicious circumstances.

The last might be explained—by the fact of their being poor lords, though not many. Not many, who do not find the means to dress well, and dine sumptuously—to keep a handsome house, if they feel disposed.

Since his return from the States, Swinton could do none of these things. How, then, was he to pass himself off for a lord—even one of the poorest?

He had almost despaired of being able to continue the counterfeit; when the patronage of a lord, real and powerful, inspired him with fresh hope. Through it his prospects had become entirely changed. It had put money in his purse, and promised more. What was equally encouraging, he could now, in real truth, claim being employed in a diplomatic capacity. True, it was but as aspy; but this is an essential part of the diplomatic service!

There was his apparent intimacy with a distinguished diplomatic character—a nobleman; there would be his constant visits to the grand mansion in Park Lane—strange if with these appearances in his favour he could not still contrive to throw dust in the eyes of Dame Girdwood!

Certainly his scheme was far from hopeless. By the new appointment a long vista of advantages had been suddenly disclosed to him; and he now set himself to devise the best plan for improving them.

Fan was called into his counsels; for the wife was still willing. Less than ever did she care for him, or what he might do. She, too, had become conscious of brighter prospects; and might hope, at no distant day, to appear once more in Rotten Row.

If, otherwise, she had a poor opinion of her husband, she did not despise his talent for intrigue. There was proof of it in their changed circumstances. And though she well knew the source from which their sudden prosperity had sprung, she knew, also, the advantage, to a woman of her propensities, in being awife. “United we stand, divided we fall,” may have been the thought in her mind; but, whether it was or not, she was still ready to assist her husband in accomplishing a second marriage!

With the certificate of the first, carefully stowed away in a secret drawer of her dressing-case, she had nothing to fear, beyond the chance of a problematical exposure.

She did not fear this, so long as there was a prospect of that splendid plunder, in which she would be a sharer. Dick had promised to be “true as steel,” and she had reciprocated the promise.

With a box of cigars, and a decanter of sherry between them, a programme was traced out for the further prosecution of the scheme.

Chapter Fifty Nine.A Distinguished Dinner-Party.It was a chill November night; but there was no coldness inside the South Bank Cottage—the one occupied by Mr Richard Swinton.There was company in it.There had been a dinner-party, of nine covers. The dinner was eaten; and the diners had returned to the drawing-room.The odd number of nine precluded an exact pairing of the sexes. The ladies out-counted the gentlemen, by five to four.Four of them are already known to the reader. They were Mrs Swinton, Mrs Girdwood, her daughter and niece. The fifth was a stranger, not only to the reader, but to Mrs Girdwood and her girls.Three of the gentlemen were the host himself Mr Louis Lucas, and his friend Mr Spiller. The fourth, like the odd lady, was a stranger.He did not appear strange to Mrs Swinton; who during the dinner had treated him with remarkable familiarity, calling him her “dear Gustave”; while he in turn let the company know she was hiswife!He spoke with a French accent, and by Swinton was styled “the count.”The strange lady appeared to know him—also in a familiar way. She was the Honourable Miss Courtney—Geraldine Courtney.With such a high-sounding name, she could not look other than aristocratic.She was pretty as well, and accomplished; with just that dash of freedom, in speech and in manner, which distinguishes the lady ofhaut tonfrom the wife or daughter of a “tradesman.”In Miss Courtney it was carried to a slight excess. So a prudish person might have thought.But Mrs Girdwood was not prudish—least of all, in the presence of such people. She was delighted with the Honourable Geraldine; and wondered not at her wild way—only at her amiable condescensions!She was charmed also with the count, and his beautiful countess.His lordship had done the correct thing at last—by introducing her to such company. Though still passing under the assumed name of Swinton—even among his own friends—the invitation to that dinner-party disarmed her of suspicion. The dinner itself still more; and she no longer sought to penetrate the mystery of hisincognito.Besides, he had repeated the plea that hitherto satisfied her. Still was it diplomacy!Even Julia was less distant with him. A house handsomely furnished; a table profusely spread; titled guests around it; well-dressed servants in waiting—all this proved that Mr Swinton was somebody. And it was only his temporary town residence, taken for a time and a purpose—still diplomacy. She had not yet seen his splendid place in the country, to which he had given hints of an invitation.Proud republican as Julia Girdwood was, she was still but the child of aparvenu.And there was something in the surroundings to affect her fancy. She saw this man, Mr Swinton, whom she had hitherto treated slightingly, now in the midst of his own friends, behaving handsomely, and treated with respect. Such friends, too! all bearing titles—all accomplished—two of them beautiful women, who appeared not only intimate with, but complaisant toward him!Moreover, no one could fail to see that he was handsome. He had never looked better, in her eyes, than on that evening. It was a situation not only to stir curiosity, but suggest thoughts of rivalry.And perhaps Julia Girdwood had them. It was the first time she had figured in the company of titled aristocracy. It would not be strange if her fancy was affected in such presence. Higher pride than hers has succumbed to its influence.She was not the only one of her party who gave way to the wayward influences of the hour, and the seductions of their charming host Mr Lucas, inspired by repeated draughts of sherry and champagne, forgot his past antipathies, and of course burned to embrace him. Mr Lucas’s shadow, Spiller, was willing to do the same!Perhaps the only one of Mrs Girdwood’s set who preserved independence, was the daughter of the Poughkeepsie shopkeeper. In her quiet, unpretending way, Cornelia showed dignity for superior to that of her own friends, or even the grand people to whom they had been presented.But even she had no suspicion of the shams that surrounded her. No more than her aunt Girdwood did she dream that Mr Swinton was Mr Swinton; that the countess was his wife; that the count was an impostor—like Swinton himself playing a part; and that the Honourable Geraldine was a lady of Mrs Swinton’s acquaintance, alike accomplished and equally well-known in the circles of Saint John’s Wood, under the less aristocratic cognomen of “Kate the coper.” Belonging to the sisterhood of “pretty horse-breakers,” she had earned this sobriquet by exhibiting superior skill in disposing of her cast steeds!Utterly ignorant of the game that was being played, as of the players, Mrs Girdwood spent the evening in a state approaching to supreme delight Mr Swinton, ever by her side, took the utmost pains to cancel the debt of hospitality long due; and he succeeded in cancelling it.If she could have had any suspicion of his dishonesty, it would have been dispelled by an incident that occurred during the course of the evening.As it was an episode interrupting the entertainment, we shall be excused for describing it.The guests in the drawing-room were taking tea and coffee, carried round to them by the savants—a staff hired from a fashionable confectionery—when the gate-bell jingled under the touch of a hand that appeared used to the pulling of it.“I can tell that ring,” said Swinton, speaking loud enough for his guests to hear him. “I’ll lay a wager it’s Lord —.”“Lord —!”The name was that of a distinguished nobleman—more distinguished still as a great statesman! Swinton’s proclaiming it caused his company a thrill—the strangers looking incredulous.They had scarce time to question him before a servant, entering the room, communicated something in a whisper.“His lordship is it?” said the master, in a muttered tone, just loud enough to reach the ear of Mrs Girdwood. “Show him into the front parlour. Say I shall be down in a second. Ladies and gentlemen?” he continued, turning to his guests, “will yaw excuse me for one moment—only a moment? I have a visitor who cannot well be denied.”They excused him, of course; and for a time he was gone out of the room.And of course his guests were curious to know who was the visitor, who “could not well be denied.”On his return they questioned him; the “countess,” with an imperative earnestness that called for an answer.“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” said their amiable entertainer, “if yaw insist upon knowing who has been making this vewiy ill-timed call upon me, I suppose I must satisfy yaw kewyosity. I was wight in my conjectyaw. It was Lord —. His lawdship simply dwopped in upon a matter of diplomatic business.”“Oh! it was Lord —!” exclaimed the Honourable Geraldine.“Why didn’t you ask him in here? He’s a dear old fellow, as I know; and I’m sure he would have come. Mr Swinton! I’m very angry with you?”“’Pon honaw! Miss Courtney, I’m vewy sorry; I didn’t think of it, else I should have been most happy.”“He’s gone, I suppose?”“Aw, yas. He went away as soon as he undawstood I had company.”And this was true—all true. The nobleman in question had really been in the front parlour, and had gone off on learning what was passing upstairs in the drawing-room.He had parted, too, with a feeling of disappointment, almost chagrin; though it was not diplomatic business to which the villa was indebted for his visit.However fruitless his calling had proved to him, it was not without advantage to Mr Swinton.“The man who receives midnight visits from a lord, and that lord a distinguished statesman, must either be a lord himself,or a somebody!”This was said in soliloquy by the retail storekeeper’s widow, as that night she stretched herself upon one of the luxurious couches of the “Clarendon.”About the same time, her daughter gave way to a somewhat similar reflection.

It was a chill November night; but there was no coldness inside the South Bank Cottage—the one occupied by Mr Richard Swinton.

There was company in it.

There had been a dinner-party, of nine covers. The dinner was eaten; and the diners had returned to the drawing-room.

The odd number of nine precluded an exact pairing of the sexes. The ladies out-counted the gentlemen, by five to four.

Four of them are already known to the reader. They were Mrs Swinton, Mrs Girdwood, her daughter and niece. The fifth was a stranger, not only to the reader, but to Mrs Girdwood and her girls.

Three of the gentlemen were the host himself Mr Louis Lucas, and his friend Mr Spiller. The fourth, like the odd lady, was a stranger.

He did not appear strange to Mrs Swinton; who during the dinner had treated him with remarkable familiarity, calling him her “dear Gustave”; while he in turn let the company know she was hiswife!

He spoke with a French accent, and by Swinton was styled “the count.”

The strange lady appeared to know him—also in a familiar way. She was the Honourable Miss Courtney—Geraldine Courtney.

With such a high-sounding name, she could not look other than aristocratic.

She was pretty as well, and accomplished; with just that dash of freedom, in speech and in manner, which distinguishes the lady ofhaut tonfrom the wife or daughter of a “tradesman.”

In Miss Courtney it was carried to a slight excess. So a prudish person might have thought.

But Mrs Girdwood was not prudish—least of all, in the presence of such people. She was delighted with the Honourable Geraldine; and wondered not at her wild way—only at her amiable condescensions!

She was charmed also with the count, and his beautiful countess.

His lordship had done the correct thing at last—by introducing her to such company. Though still passing under the assumed name of Swinton—even among his own friends—the invitation to that dinner-party disarmed her of suspicion. The dinner itself still more; and she no longer sought to penetrate the mystery of hisincognito.

Besides, he had repeated the plea that hitherto satisfied her. Still was it diplomacy!

Even Julia was less distant with him. A house handsomely furnished; a table profusely spread; titled guests around it; well-dressed servants in waiting—all this proved that Mr Swinton was somebody. And it was only his temporary town residence, taken for a time and a purpose—still diplomacy. She had not yet seen his splendid place in the country, to which he had given hints of an invitation.

Proud republican as Julia Girdwood was, she was still but the child of aparvenu.

And there was something in the surroundings to affect her fancy. She saw this man, Mr Swinton, whom she had hitherto treated slightingly, now in the midst of his own friends, behaving handsomely, and treated with respect. Such friends, too! all bearing titles—all accomplished—two of them beautiful women, who appeared not only intimate with, but complaisant toward him!

Moreover, no one could fail to see that he was handsome. He had never looked better, in her eyes, than on that evening. It was a situation not only to stir curiosity, but suggest thoughts of rivalry.

And perhaps Julia Girdwood had them. It was the first time she had figured in the company of titled aristocracy. It would not be strange if her fancy was affected in such presence. Higher pride than hers has succumbed to its influence.

She was not the only one of her party who gave way to the wayward influences of the hour, and the seductions of their charming host Mr Lucas, inspired by repeated draughts of sherry and champagne, forgot his past antipathies, and of course burned to embrace him. Mr Lucas’s shadow, Spiller, was willing to do the same!

Perhaps the only one of Mrs Girdwood’s set who preserved independence, was the daughter of the Poughkeepsie shopkeeper. In her quiet, unpretending way, Cornelia showed dignity for superior to that of her own friends, or even the grand people to whom they had been presented.

But even she had no suspicion of the shams that surrounded her. No more than her aunt Girdwood did she dream that Mr Swinton was Mr Swinton; that the countess was his wife; that the count was an impostor—like Swinton himself playing a part; and that the Honourable Geraldine was a lady of Mrs Swinton’s acquaintance, alike accomplished and equally well-known in the circles of Saint John’s Wood, under the less aristocratic cognomen of “Kate the coper.” Belonging to the sisterhood of “pretty horse-breakers,” she had earned this sobriquet by exhibiting superior skill in disposing of her cast steeds!

Utterly ignorant of the game that was being played, as of the players, Mrs Girdwood spent the evening in a state approaching to supreme delight Mr Swinton, ever by her side, took the utmost pains to cancel the debt of hospitality long due; and he succeeded in cancelling it.

If she could have had any suspicion of his dishonesty, it would have been dispelled by an incident that occurred during the course of the evening.

As it was an episode interrupting the entertainment, we shall be excused for describing it.

The guests in the drawing-room were taking tea and coffee, carried round to them by the savants—a staff hired from a fashionable confectionery—when the gate-bell jingled under the touch of a hand that appeared used to the pulling of it.

“I can tell that ring,” said Swinton, speaking loud enough for his guests to hear him. “I’ll lay a wager it’s Lord —.”

“Lord —!”

The name was that of a distinguished nobleman—more distinguished still as a great statesman! Swinton’s proclaiming it caused his company a thrill—the strangers looking incredulous.

They had scarce time to question him before a servant, entering the room, communicated something in a whisper.

“His lordship is it?” said the master, in a muttered tone, just loud enough to reach the ear of Mrs Girdwood. “Show him into the front parlour. Say I shall be down in a second. Ladies and gentlemen?” he continued, turning to his guests, “will yaw excuse me for one moment—only a moment? I have a visitor who cannot well be denied.”

They excused him, of course; and for a time he was gone out of the room.

And of course his guests were curious to know who was the visitor, who “could not well be denied.”

On his return they questioned him; the “countess,” with an imperative earnestness that called for an answer.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” said their amiable entertainer, “if yaw insist upon knowing who has been making this vewiy ill-timed call upon me, I suppose I must satisfy yaw kewyosity. I was wight in my conjectyaw. It was Lord —. His lawdship simply dwopped in upon a matter of diplomatic business.”

“Oh! it was Lord —!” exclaimed the Honourable Geraldine.

“Why didn’t you ask him in here? He’s a dear old fellow, as I know; and I’m sure he would have come. Mr Swinton! I’m very angry with you?”

“’Pon honaw! Miss Courtney, I’m vewy sorry; I didn’t think of it, else I should have been most happy.”

“He’s gone, I suppose?”

“Aw, yas. He went away as soon as he undawstood I had company.”

And this was true—all true. The nobleman in question had really been in the front parlour, and had gone off on learning what was passing upstairs in the drawing-room.

He had parted, too, with a feeling of disappointment, almost chagrin; though it was not diplomatic business to which the villa was indebted for his visit.

However fruitless his calling had proved to him, it was not without advantage to Mr Swinton.

“The man who receives midnight visits from a lord, and that lord a distinguished statesman, must either be a lord himself,or a somebody!”

This was said in soliloquy by the retail storekeeper’s widow, as that night she stretched herself upon one of the luxurious couches of the “Clarendon.”

About the same time, her daughter gave way to a somewhat similar reflection.

Chapter Sixty.A Parting Present.At parting, there had been no “scene” between Sir George Vernon and his seemingly ungrateful guest.Nor was the interview a stormy one, as they stood face to face under the shadow of thedeodara.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 hisimpedimenta.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 anotherattachéof 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!”“NorI 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 sweetestguage d’amourhe had ever received in his life!

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 thedeodara.

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 hisimpedimenta.

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 anotherattachéof 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!”

“NorI 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 sweetestguage d’amourhe 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 grandroutsof 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 thevalsewhere 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.

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 grandroutsof 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 thevalsewhere 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.

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