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The Child Wife

Chapter Fifty Four.
A Desirable Neighbourhood

Lying west of the Regent’s Park, and separated from it by Park Road, is a tract of land sparsely studded with those genteel cottages which the Londoner delights to invest with the more aristocratic appellation of “villas.”

Each stands in its own grounds of a quarter to half an acre, embowered in a shrubbery of lilacs, laburnums, and laurels.

They are of all styles of architecture known to ancient or modern times. And of all sizes; though the biggest of them, in real estate value, is not worth the tenth part of the ground it occupies.

From this it may be inferred that they are leaseholds, soon to lapse to the fee-simple owner of the soil.

The same will explain their generally dilapidated condition, and the neglect observable about their grounds.

It was different a few years ago; when their leases had some time to run, and it was worth while keeping them in repair. Then, if not fashionable, they were at least “desirable residences”; and a villa in Saint John’s Wood (the name of the neighbourhood) was the ambition of a retired tradesman. There he could have his grounds, his shrubbery, his walks, and even six feet of a fish-pond. There he could sit in the open air, in tasselled robe and smoking-cap, or stroll about amidst a Pantheon of plaster-of-paris statues – imagining himself a Maecenas.

Indeed, so classic in their ideas have been the residents of this district, that one of its chief thoroughfares is called Alpha Road, another Omega Terrace.

Saint John’s Wood was, and still is, a favourite place of abode for “professionals” – for the artist, the actor, and the second-class author. The rents are moderate – the villas, most of them, being small.

Shorn of its tranquil pleasures, the villa district of Saint John’s Wood will soon disappear from the chart of London. Already encompassed by close-built streets, it will itself soon be covered by compact blocks of dwellings, rendering the family of “Eyre” one of the richest in the land.

Annually the leases are lapsing, and piles of building bricks begin to appear in grounds once verdant with close-cut lawn grass, and copsed with roses and rhododendrons.

Through this quarter runs the Regent’s Canal, its banks on both sides rising high above the water level, in consequence of a swell in the ground that required a cutting. It passes under Park Road, into the Regent’s Park, and through this eastward to the City.

In its traverse of the Saint John’s Wood district, its sides are occupied by a double string of dwellings, respectively called North and South Bank, each fronted by another row with a lamp-lit road running between.

They are varied in style; many of them of picturesque appearance, and all more or less embowered in shrubbery.

Those bordering on the canal have gardens sloping down to the water’s edge, and quite private on the side opposite to the tow-path – which is the southern.

Ornamental evergreens, with trees of the weeping kind, drooping over the water, render these back-gardens exceedingly attractive. Standing upon the bridge in Park Road, and looking west up the canal vista, you could scarce believe yourself to be in the city of London, and surrounded by closely packed buildings extending more than a mile beyond.

In one of the South Bank villas, with grounds running back to the canal, dwelt a Scotchman – of the name McTavish.

He was but a second-class clerk in a city banking-house; but being a Scotchman, he might count upon one day becoming chief of the concern.

Perhaps with some foreshadowing of such a fortune, he had leased the villa in question, and furnished it to the extent of his means.

It was one of the prettiest in the string – quite good enough for a joint-stock banker to live in, or die in. McTavish had determined to do the former; and the latter, if the event should occur within the limits of his lease, which extended to twenty-one years.

The Scotchman, prudent in other respects, had been rash in the selection of his residence. He had not been three days in occupation, when he discovered that a notorious courtesan lived on his right, another of less celebrity on his left, while the house directly fronting him, on the opposite side of the road, was occupied by a famed revolutionary leader, and frequented by political refugees from all parts of the disturbed world.

McTavish was dismayed. He had subscribed to a twenty-one years’ lease, at a full rack-rental; for he had acted under conjugal authority in taking the place.

Had he been a bachelor the thing might have signified less. But he was a benedict, with daughters nearly grown up. Besides he was a Presbyterian of the strictest sect – his wife being still tighter laced than himself. Both, moreover, were loyalists of the truest type.

His morality made the proximity of his right and left hand neighbours simply intolerable – while his politics rendered equally a nuisance the revolutionary focus in his front.

There seemed no escape from the dilemma, but to make sacrifice of his dearly-bought premises, or drown himself in the canal that bordered them at the back.

As the drowning would not have benefitted Mrs McTavish, she persuaded him against this idea, and in favour of selling the lease.

Alas, for the imprudent bank clerk! nobody could be found to buy it – unless at such a reduced rate as would have ruined him.

He was a Scotchman, and could not stand this. Far better to stick to the house.

And for a time he stuck to it.

There seemed no escape from it, but by sacrificing the lease. It was a tooth-drawing alternative; but could not be avoided.

As the husband and wife were discussing the question, canvassing it in every shape, they were interrupted by a ring at the gate-bell. It was the evening hour; when the bank clerk having returned from the city, was playing paterfamilias in the bosom of his family.

Who could be calling at that hour? It was too late for a ceremonial visit. Perhaps some unceremonious acquaintance from the Land of Cakes, dropping in for a pipe, and a glass of whisky-toddy?

“There’s yin ootside weeshes to see ye, maister.”

This was said by a rough-skinned damsel – the “maid-of-all-work” – who had shown her freckled face inside the parlour door, and whose patois proclaimed her to have come from the same country as McTavish himself.

“Wishes to see me! Who is it, Maggie?”

“Dinna ken who. It’s a rank stranger – a quare-lookin’ callant, wi’ big beard, and them sort o’ whiskers they ca’ moostachoes. I made free to axe him his bisness. He sayed ’twas aboot taakin’ the hoos.”

“About taking the house?”

“Yis, maister. He sayed he’d heared o’ its bein’ to let.”

“Show him in!”

McTavish sprang to his feet, overturning the chair on which he had been seated. Mrs M., and her trio of flaxen-haired daughters, scuttled off into the back parlour – as if a tiger was about to be uncaged in the front one.

They were not so frightened, however, as to hinder them from, in turn, flattening their noses against a panel of the partition door, and scrutinising the stranger through the keyhole.

“How handsome he is!” exclaimed Elspie, the eldest of the girls.

“Quite a military-looking man!” said the second, Jane, after having completed her scrutiny. “I wonder if he’s married.”

“Come away from there, children?” muttered the mother. “He may hear you, and your papa will be very angry. Come away, I tell you?”

The girls slunk back from the door, and took seats upon a sofa.

But their mother’s curiosity had also to be appeased; and, with an example that corresponded ill with her precept, she dropped down upon her knees, and first placing her eye, and afterward her ear, to the keyhole, listened to every word spoken between her husband and his strange visitor with the “whiskers called moostachoes.”

Chapter Fifty Five.
A Tenant Secured

The visitor thus introduced to the South Bank villa was a man of about thirty years of age, with the air and demeanour of a gentleman.

The city clerk could tell him to be of the West End type. It was visible in the cut of his dress, the tonsure of his hair, and the joining of the moustache to his whiskers.

“Mr McTavish, I presume?” were the words that came from him, as he passed through the parlour door.

The Scotchman nodded assent. Before he could do more, the stranger continued:

“Pardon me, sir, for this seeming intrusion. I’ve heard that your house is to let.”

“Not exactly to let. I’m offering it for sale – that is, the lease.”

“I’ve been misinformed then. How long has the lease to run, may I ask?”

“Twenty-one years.”

“Ah! that will not suit me. I wanted a house only for a short time. I’ve taken a fancy to this South Bank – at least, my wife has; and you know, sir – I presume you’re a married man – that’s everything.”

McTavish did know it, to a terrible certainty: and gave an assenting smile.

“I’m sorry,” pursued the stranger. “I like the house better than any on the Bank. I know my wife would be charmed with it.”

“It’s the same with mine,” said McTavish.

“How you lie?” thought Mrs Mac, with her ear at the keyhole.

“In that case, I presume there’s no chance of our coming to terms. I should have been glad to take it by the year – for one year, certain – and at a good rent.”

“How much would you be inclined to give?” asked the lessee, bethinking him of a compromise.

“Well; I scarcely know. How much do you ask?”

“Furnished, or unfurnished?”

“I’d prefer having it furnished.”

The bank clerk commenced beating his brains. He thought of his pennies, and the objection his wife might have to parting with them. But he thought also, of how they had been daily dishonoured in that unhallowed precinct.

Even while reflecting, a paean of spasmodic revelry, heard on the other side of the paling, sounded suggestive in his ears?

It decided him to concede the furniture, and on terms less exacting than he might otherwise have asked for.

“For a year certain, you say?”

“I’ll take it for a year; and pay in advance, if you desire it.”

A year’s rent in advance is always tempting to a landlord – especially a poor one. McTavish was not rich, whatever might be his prospects in regard to the presidency of the bank.

His wife would have given something to have had his ear at the opposite orifice of the keyhole; so that she could have whispered “Take it?”

“How much, you ask, for the house furnished, and by the year?”

“Precisely so,” answered the stranger.

“Let me see,” answered McTavish, reflecting. “My own rent unfurnished – repairs covenanted in the lease – price of the furniture – interest thereon – well, I could say two hundred pounds per annum.”

“I’ll take it at two hundred. Do you agree to that?”

The bank clerk was electrified with delight. Two hundred pounds a year would be cent-per-cent on his own outlay. Besides he would get rid of the premises, for at least one year, and along with them the proximity of his detestable neighbours. Any sacrifice to escape from this.

He would have let go house and grounds at half the price.

But he, the stranger, was not cunning, and McTavish was shrewd. Seeing this, he not only adhered to the two hundred, but stipulated for the removal of some portion of his furniture.

“Only a few family pieces,” he said; “things that a tenant would not care to be troubled with.”

The stranger was not exacting, and the concession was made.

“Your name, sir?” asked the tenant intending to go out.

“Swinton,” answered the tenant who designed coming in. “Richard Swinton. Here is my card, Mr McTavish; and my reference is Lord – .”

The bank clerk took the card into his trembling fingers. His wife, on the other side of the door, had a sensation in her ear resembling an electric shock.

A tenant with a lord – a celebrated lord – for his referee!

She could scarce restrain herself from shouting through the keyhole:

“Close with him, Mac!”

But Mac needed not the admonition. He had already made up his mind to the letting.

“How soon do you wish to come in?” he asked of the applicant.

“As soon as possible,” was the answer. “To-morrow, if convenient to you.”

“To-morrow?” echoed the cool Scotchman, unaccustomed to such quick transactions, and somewhat surprised at the proposal.

“I own it’s rather unusual,” said the incoming tenant. “But, Mr McTavish, I have a reason for wishing it so. It’s somewhat delicate; but as you are a married man, and the father of a family, – you understand?”

“Perfectly!” pronounced the Scotch paterfamilias, his breast almost turning as tender as that of his better half then sympathetically throbbing behind the partition door.

The sudden transfer was agreed to. Next day Mr McTavish and his family moved out, Mr Swinton having signed the agreement, and given a cheque for the year’s rent in advance – scarce necessary after being endorsed by such a distinguished referee.

Chapter Fifty Six.
A Dress Rehearsal

The revolutionary leader who had taken up his residence vis-à-vis to 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 of why he 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 intended counselling 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 be civil to 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, in propria 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.

The protégé accepted 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 report directly 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 titled roué, 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.