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The Child Wife

“That will be challenging the challenger. Will it be correct?”

“Of course it will. I’ll be answerable. It’s altogether en règle– strictly according to the code.”

“I agree to it, then.”

“Enough! I must set about composing the letter. Being a little out of the common, it will require some thought. Where are your pens and ink?”

Maynard pointed to a table, on which were the writing materials.

Drawing up a chair, Roseveldt seated himself beside it.

Then, taking hold of a pen, and spreading a sheet of “cream laid” before him, he proceeded to write the premonitory epistle, scarce consulting the man most interested in what it might contain. Thinking of the revolution in Baden, he was most anxious to set free his friend from the provoking compromise, so that both might bear the flag of freedom through his beloved fatherland.

The note was soon written; a copy carefully taken, folded up, and shoved into an envelope. Maynard scarce allowed the opportunity of reading it!

It had to be addressed by his directions, and was sent to Mr Richard Swinton, just as the great gong, screaming through the corridors of the Ocean House, proclaimed to its guests the hour for déjeuner à la fourchette.

Chapter Fourteen.
A Request for a Quick Fight

The first shriek of the gong startled Mr Swinton from his slumber.

Springing out of his couch, he commenced pacing the floor with an unsteady stride.

He was in the dress he had worn at the ball, the straw kids excepted.

But he was not thinking either of dress or toilet. His mind was in an agony of excitement that precluded all thoughts about personal appearance. Despite the ringing in his brain, it was clear enough for him to recall the occurrences of the night. Too well did he remember to what he had committed himself.

His apprehensions were of a varied character. Maynard knew him of old; and was perhaps acquainted with his later, and less creditable, history. His character would be made known; and his grand scheme frustrated.

But this was nothing compared with the other matter upon his mind – the stain upon his cheek – that could only be wiped out at the risk of losing his life.

He shivered, as he went staggering around the room. His discomposure was too plain to escape the notice of his wife. In his troubled look she read some terrible tale.

“What is it, Dick?” she asked, laying her hand upon his shoulder. “There’s been something unpleasant. Tell me all about it.”

There was a touch of tenderness in the tone. Even the scarred heart of the “pretty horse-breaker” had still left in it some vestige of woman’s divine nature.

“You’ve had a quarrel with Maynard?” she continued. “Is that it?”

“Yes!” hoarsely responded the husband. “All sorts of a quarrel.”

“How did it arise?”

In speech not very coherent – for the alcoholic tremor was upon him – he answered the question, by giving an account of what had passed – not even concealing his own discreditable conduct in the affair.

There was a time when Richard Swinton would not have so freely confessed himself to Frances Wilder. It had passed, having scarce survived their honeymoon. The close companionship of matrimony had cured both of the mutual hallucination that had made them man and wife. The romance of an unhallowed love had died out; and along with it what little respect they might have had for one another’s character. On his side so effectually, that he had lost respect for himself, and he took but little pains to cover the uneasiness he felt – in the eyes of his wedded wife – almost confessing himself a coward.

It would have been idle for him to attempt concealing it. She had long since discovered this idiosyncracy in his character – perhaps more than all else causing her to repent the day when she stood beside him at the altar. The tie that bound her to him now was but that of a common danger, and the necessity of self-preservation.

“You expect him to send you a challenge?” said she, a woman, and of course ignorant of the etiquette of the duel.

“No,” he replied, correcting her. “That must come from me – as the party insulted. If it had only been otherwise – ” he went on muttering to himself. “What a mistake not to pitch into him on the spot! If I’d only done that, the thing might have ended there; or at all events left me a corner to creep out of.”

This last was not spoken aloud. The ex-guardsman was not yet so grandly degraded as to make such a humiliating confession to his wife. She might see, but not hear it.

“No chance now,” he continued to reflect. “Those two fellows present. Besides a score of others, witnesses to all that passed; heard every word; saw the blow given; and the cards exchanged. It will be the talk of the hotel! I must fight, or be for ever disgraced!”

Another turn across the room, and an alternative presented itself. It was flight!

“I might pack up, and clear out of the place,” pursued he, giving way to the cowardly suggestion. “What could it matter? No one here knows me as yet; and my face might not be remembered. But my name? They’ll get that. He’ll be sure to make it known, and the truth will meet me everywhere! To think, too, of the chance I should lose – a fortune! I feel sure I could have made it all night with this girl. The mother on my side already! Half a million of dollars – the whole one in time! Worth a life of plotting to obtain – worth the risk of a life; ay, of one’s soul! It’s lost if I go; can be won if I only stay! Curse upon my tongue for bringing me into this scrape! Better I’d been born dumb?”

He continued to pace the floor, now endeavouring to fortify his courage to the point of fighting, and now giving way to the cowardly instincts of his nature.

While thus debating with himself, he was startled by a tapping at the door.

“See who it is, Fan,” he said in a hurried whisper. “Step outside; and whoever it is, don’t let them look in.”

Fan, still in her disguise of valet, glided to the door, opened it, and looked out.

“A waiter, I suppose, bringing my boots or shaving-water?”

This was Mr Swinton’s reflection.

It was a waiter, but not with either of the articles named. Instead, he was the bearer of an epistle.

It was delivered to Fan, who stood in the passage, keeping the door closed behind her. She saw that it was addressed to her husband. It bore no postmark, and appeared but recently written.

“Who sent it?” was her inquiry, couched in a careless tone.

“What’s that to you, cock-sparrow?” was the rejoinder of the hotel-servant; inclined toward chaffing the servitor of the English gentleman – in his American eyes, tainted with flunkeyism.

“Oh, nothing!” modestly answered Frank.

“If you must know,” said the other, apparently mollified, “it’s from a gentleman who came by this morning’s boat – a big, black fellow, six feet high, with moustaches at least six inches long. I guess your master will know all about him. Anyhow, that’s all I know.”

Without more words, the waiter handed over the letter, and took himself off to the performance of other dudes.

Fan re-entered the room, and handed the epistle to her husband.

“By the morning boat?” said Swinton. “From New York? Of course, there’s no other. Who can have come thence, that’s got any business with me?”

It just flashed across his mind that acceptances given in England could be transmitted to America. It was only a question of transfer, the drawer becoming endorser. And Richard Swinton knew that there were lawyers of the tribe of Levi, who had transactions in this kind of stamped paper, corresponding with each other across the Atlantic.

Was it one of his London bills forwarded to the American correspondent, ten days before the day of dishonour?

Such was the suspicion that came into his mind while listening to the dialogue outside. And it remained there, till he had torn open the envelope, and commenced reading.

He read as follows:

“Sir, – As the friend of Captain Maynard, and referring to what occurred between him and you last night, I address you.

“Circumstances of an important – indeed, peremptory – character require his presence elsewhere, necessitating him to leave Newport by the boat which takes departure at 8 p.m. Between this and then there are twelve hours of daylight, enough to settle the trifling dispute between you. Captain Maynard appeals to you, as a gentleman, to accept his offer for quick satisfaction. Should you decline it, I, speaking as his friend, and believing myself tolerably well acquainted with the code of honour, shall feel justified in absolving him from any further action relating to the affair, and shall be prepared to defend him against any aspersions that may arise from it.

“Until 7:30 p.m. – allowing half an hour to reach the boat – your friend will find me in Captain Maynard’s room.

“Yours obediently, —

“Rupert Roseveldt.

“Count of the Austrian Empire.”

Twice, without stopping, did Swinton peruse this singular epistle.

Its contents, instead of adding to the excitement of his spirit, seemed to have the effect of tranquillising it.

Something like a smile of satisfaction stole over his countenance, white engaged in the second reading.

“Fan?” he said, slipping the letter into his pocket, and turning hastily toward his wife, “ring the bell, and order brandy and soda – some cigars, too. And, hark ye, girl: for your life, don’t let the waiter put his nose inside the room, or see into it. Take the tray from him, as he comes to the door. Say to him, besides, that I won’t be able to go down to breakfast – that I’ve been indulging last night, and am so-so this morning. You may add that I’m in bed. All this in a confidential way, so that he may believe it. I have my reasons – good reasons. So have a care, and don’t make a mull of it.”

Silently obedient, she rang the bell, which was soon answered by a knock at the door.

Instead of calling “Come in?” Fan, standing ready inside the room, stepped out – closing the door after her, and retaining the knob in her hand.

He who answered was the same jocular fellow who had called her a cock-sparrow.

“Some brandy and soda, James. Ice, of course. And stay – what else? Oh! some cigars. You may bring half a dozen. My master,” she added, before the waiter could turn away, “don’t intend going down to breakfast.”

This with a significant smile, that secured James for a parley.

It came off; and before leaving to execute the order, he was made acquainted with the helpless condition of the English gent who occupied Number 149.

In this there was nothing to surprise him. Mr Swinton was not the only guest under his charge, who on that particular morning required brandy and soda. James rather rejoiced at it, as giving him claim for an increased perquisite.

The drink was brought up, along with the cigars, and taken in as directed; the gentleman’s servant giving the waiter no opportunity to gratify curiosity by a sight of his suffering master. Even had the door been left open, and James admitted to the room, he would not have gone out of it one whit the wiser. He could only have told that Frank’s master was still abed, his face buried under the bedclothes!

To make sure against surprise, Mr Swinton had assumed this interesting attitude; and for reasons unknown even to his own valet. On the rebolting of the door, he flung off the coverlet, and once more commenced treading the carpet.

“Was it the same waiter?” he asked; “he that brought the letter?”

“It was – James – you know?”

“So much the better. Out with that cork, Fan! I want something to settle my nerves, and make me fit for a good think?”

While the wire was being twisted from the soda bottle, he took hold of a cigar, bit off the end, lit, and commenced smoking it.

He drank the brandy and soda at a single draught; in ten minutes after ordering another dose, and soon again a third.

Several times he re-read Roseveldt’s letter – each time returning it to his pocket, and keeping its contents from Fan.

At intervals he threw himself upon the bed, back downward, the cigar held between his teeth; again to get up and stride around the room with the impatience of a man waiting for some important crisis – doubtful whether it may come.

And thus did Mr Swinton pass the day, eleven long hours of it, inside his sleeping apartment!

Why this manoeuvring, seemingly so eccentric?

He alone knew the reason. He had not communicated it to his wife – no more the contents of the lately received letter – leaving her to indulge in conjectures not very flattering to her lord and master.

Six brandies and sodas were ordered, and taken in with the same caution as the first. They were all consumed, and as many cigars smoked by him during the day. Only a plate of soup and a crust for his dinner – the dish that follows a night of dissipation. With Mr Swinton it was a day of dissipation, that did not end till 7:30 p.m.

At that hour an event occurred that caused a sudden change in his tactics – transforming him from an eccentric to a sane, if not sober, man!

Chapter Fifteen.
A Parting Glance

Any one acquainted with the topography of the Ocean House and its adjuncts, knows that its livery-stable lies eastward – approached by a wide way passing round the southern end.

On that same evening, exactly at half-past seven o’clock, a carriage, issuing from the stable-yard, came rolling along toward the hotel. By the absence of livery coat, and the badgeless hat of the driver, the “hack” was proclaimed; while the hour told its errand. The steamer’s whistle, heard upon the far-off wharf, was summoning its passengers aboard; and the carriage was on its way to the piazza of the hotel to take up “departures.”

Instead of going round to the front, it stopped by the southern end – where there is also a set of steps and a double door of exit.

Two ladies, standing on the balcony above, saw the carriage draw up, but without giving it thought. They were engaged in a conversation more interesting than the sight of an empty hack, or even the speculation as to who was about to be taken by it to the boat. The ladies were Julia Girdwood and Cornelia Inskip; the subject of their converse the “difficulty” that had occurred between Captain Maynard and Mr Swinton, which, having been all day the talk of the hotel, had, of course, penetrated to their apartment.

Cornelia was sorry it had occurred. And, in a way, so also was Julia.

But in another way she was not. Secretly she took credit to herself for being the cause, and for this reason secretly felt gratification. It proved to her, so ran her surmises, that both these men must have had her in their mind as they quarrelled over their cups; though she cared less for the thoughts of Swinton than of Maynard.

As yet she was not so interested in either as to be profoundly anxious about the affair. Julia Girdwood’s was not a heart to be lost, or won, within the hour.

“Do you think they will have a duel?” asked the timid Cornelia, trembling as she put the inquiry.

“Of course they will,” responded the more daring Julia. “They cannot well get out of it – that is, Mr Swinton cannot.”

“And suppose one of them should kill the other?”

“And suppose they do – both of them – kill one another? It’s no business of ours.”

“Oh, Julia! Do you think it is not?”

“I’m sure it isn’t. What have we got to do with it? I should be sorry, of course, about them, as about any other foolish gentlemen who see fit to take too much drink. I suppose that’s what did it.”

She only pretended to suppose this, as also her expressed indifference about the result.

Though not absolutely anxious, she was yet far from indifferent. It was only when she reflected on Maynard’s coolness to her at the close of the ball, that she endeavoured to feel careless about the consequences.

“Who’s going off in this carriage?” she asked, her attention once more drawn to it by the baggage being brought out.

The cousins, leaning over the balustrade, looked below. Lettered upon a leathern trunk, that had seen much service, they made out the name, “CAPTAIN MAYNARD,” and underneath the well-known initials, “U.S.A.”

Was it possible? Or were they mistaken? The lettering was dim, and at a distance. Surely they were mistaken?

Julia remained with eyes fixed upon the portmanteau. Cornelia ran to her room to fetch a lorgnette. But before she returned with it, the instrument was no longer needed.

Miss Girdwood, still gazing down, saw Captain Maynard descend the steps of the hotel, cross over to the carriage, and take his seat inside it.

There was a man along with him, but she only gave this man a glance. Her eyes were upon the ex-officer of Mexican celebrity, her rescuer from the perils of the sea.

Where was he going? His baggage and the boat-signal answered this question.

And why? For this it was not so easy to shape a response.

Would he look up?

He did; on the instant of taking his seat within the hack.

Their eyes met in a mutual glance, half tender, half reproachful – on both sides interrogatory.

There was no time for either to become satisfied about the thoughts of the other. The carriage whirling away, parted two strange individuals who had come oddly together, and almost as oddly separated – parted them, perhaps for ever!

There was another who witnessed that departure with perhaps as much interest as did Julia Girdwood, though with less bitterness. To him it was joy: for it is Swinton of whom we speak.

Kneeling at the window of his room, on the fourth storey – looking down through the slanted laths of the Venetians – he saw the hack drive up, and with eager eyes watched till it was occupied. He saw also the two ladies below; but at that moment he had no thoughts for them.

It was like removing a millstone from his breast – the relief from some long-endured agony – when Maynard entered the carriage; the last spasm of his pain passing, as the whip cracked, and the wheels went whirling away.

Little did he care for that distraught look given by Julia Girdwood; nor did he stay to listen whether it was accompanied by a sigh.

The moment the carriage commenced moving, he sprang to his feet, turned his back upon the window, and called out:

“Fan!”

“Well, what now?” was the response from his pretended servant.

“About this matter with Maynard. It’s time for me to call him out. I’ve been thinking all day of how I can find a second.”

It was a subterfuge not very skilfully conceived – a weak, spasmodic effort against absolute humiliation in the eyes of his wife.

“You’ve thought of one, have you?” interrogated she, in a tone almost indifferent.

“I have.”

“And who, pray?”

“One of the two fellows I scraped acquaintance with yesterday at dinner. I met them again last night. Here’s his name – Louis Lucas.”

As he said this he handed her a card.

“What do you want me to do with it?”

“Find out the number of his room. The clerk will tell you by your showing the card. That’s all I want now. Stay! You may ask, also, if he’s in.”

Without saying a word she took the card, and departed on her errand. She made no show of alacrity, acting as if she were an automaton.

As soon as she had passed outside, Swinton drew a chair to the table, and, spreading out a sheet of paper, scribbled some lines upon it.

Then hastily folding the sheet, he thrust it inside an envelope, upon which he wrote the superscription:

“Louis Lucas, Esq.”

By this time his messenger had returned, and announced the accomplishment of her errand. Mr Lucas’s room was Number 90, and he was “in.”

“Number 90. It’s below, on the second floor. Find it, Fan, and deliver this note to him. Make sure you give it into his own hands, and wait till he reads it. He will either come himself, or send an answer. If he returns with you, do you remain outside, and don’t show yourself till you see him go out again.”

For the second time Fan went forth as a messenger.

“I fancy I’ve got this crooked job straight,” soliloquised Swinton, as soon as she was out of hearing. “Even straighter than it was before. Instead of spoiling my game, it’s likely to prove the trump card. What a lucky fluke it is! By the way, I wonder where Maynard can be gone, or what’s carried him off in such a devil of a hurry? Ha! I think I know now. It must be something about this that’s in the New York papers. These German revolutionists, chased out of Europe in ’48, who are getting up an expedition to go back. Now I remember, there was a count’s name mixed up with the affair. Yes – it was Roseveldt! This must be the man. And Maynard? Going along with them, no doubt. He was a rabid Radical in England. That’s his game, is it? Ha! ha! Splendid, by Jove! Playing right into my hands, as if I had the pulling of the strings! Well, Fan! Have you delivered the note?”

“I have.”

“What answer? Is he coming?”

“He is.”

“But when?”

“He said directly. I suppose that’s his step in the passage?”

“Slip out then. Quick – quick!”

Without protest the disguised wife did as directed, though not without some feeling of humiliation at the part she had consented to play.