Chapter Seventy One.
A Quiet Hotel.
By the drive Swinton believed himself to have achieved a grand success; and he determined to lose no time in following it up.
The ground seemed now well under him—enough to support him in making the proposal so long deferred.
And in less than three days from that time, he called at the Clarendon, and made it.
Favoured by an opportunity in which he found her alone, it was done direct to the young lady herself.
But the answer was not direct—nor definite in any way. It was neither a “yes” nor a “no.” He was simply referred to her mother.
The equivocation was not exactly to his taste. It certainly seemed strange enough. Still, though a little chagrined, he was not altogether discomforted by it; for how could he anticipate refusal in the quarter to which he had been referred?
Obedient to the permission given him, he waited upon Girdwood mère; and to her repeated the proposal with all the eloquent advocacy he could command.
If the daughter’s answer had not been definite, that of the mother was; and to a degree that placed Mr Swinton in a dilemma.
“Sir!” said she, “we feel very much honoured—both myself and daughter. But your lordship will excuse me for pointing out to you, that, in making this proposal, you appear to have forgotten something.”
“Pway what, madam, may I ask?”
“Your lordship has not made it in your own name; nor have you yet told us your title. Until that is done, your lordship will see, how absurd it would be for either my daughter, or myself, to give you a decisive answer. We cannot!”
Mrs Girdwood did not speak either harshly, or satirically. On the contrary, she unburdened herself in the most conciliatory tone—in fear of offending his lordship, and causing him to declare “off.”
She was but too anxious to secure him—that is, supposing him to be a lord. Had she known that he was not, her answer would have been delivered in very different terms; and the acquaintance between her and Mr Swinton would have ended, with as little ceremony as it had begun.
It seemed on the edge of such termination, as the pseudo-lord, stammering in his speech, endeavoured to make rejoinder.
And not much farther off, when this was made, and the old excuse still pleaded for preserving that inexplicable incognito!
Swinton was in truth taken by surprise; and scarce knew what to say.
But the American mother did; and in plain terms told him, that, until the title was declared, she must decline the proffered honour of having him for a son-in-law!
When it was made known, he might expect a more categorical answer.
Her tone was not such as to make him despair. On the contrary, it clearly indicated that the answer would be favourable, provided the conditions were fulfilled.
But then, this was sufficient for despair. How was he to make her believe in his having a title?
“By possessing it?” he said to himself, as, after the fruitless interview, he strode off from the Clarendon Hotel. “By possessing it,” he repeated. “And, by heavens! I shall possess it, as sure as my name’s Swinton!”
Farther on he reflected:
“Yes! that’s the way. I’ve got the old rout in my power! Only needs one step more to secure him. And he shall give me whatever I ask—even to a title!”
“I know he can’t make me a lord; but he can a knight or a baronet. It would be all the same to her; and with ‘Sir’ to my name, she will no longer deny me. With that, I shall get Julia Girdwood and her two hundred thousand pounds!”
“By heaven! I care more for her, than her money. The girl has got into my heart. I shall go mad, if I fail to get her into my arms?”
Thus wildly reflecting, he continued to traverse the streets: down Bond Street, along Piccadilly, into the neighbourhood of Leicester Square.
As if the devil had turned up to aid him in his evil designs, an episode occurred in exact consonance with them. It seemed an accident—though who could tell that it was one; since it might have been prearranged?
He was standing by the lamp-post, in the centre of the Piccadilly Circus, when a cab drove past, containing two fares—a lady and gentleman.
Both were keeping their faces well back from the window; the lady’s under a thick veil; while that of the gentleman was screened by a copy of the Times newspaper held cunningly in hand, as if he was intensely interested in the perusal of some thundering leader!
In spite of this, Swinton recognised the occupants of the cab—both of them. The lady was his own wife; the gentleman his noble patron of Park Lane!
The cab passed him, without any attempt on his part to stay it. He only followed, silently, and at a quick pace.
It turned down the Haymarket, and drew up by the door of one of those quiet hotels, known only to those light travellers who journey without being encumbered with luggage.
The gentleman got out; the lady after; and both glided in through a door, that stood hospitably open to receive them.
The cabman, whose fare had been paid in advance, drove immediately away.
“Enough!” muttered Swinton, with a diabolical grin upon his countenance. “That will do. And now for a witness to make good my word in a court of—Ha! ha! ha! It will never come to that.”
Lest it should, he hastened to procure the witness. He was just in the neighbourhood to make such a thing easy. He knew Leicester Square, its every place and purlieu; and among others one where he could pitch upon a “pal.”
In less than fifteen minutes’ time, he found one; and in fifteen more, the two might have been seen standing at the corner of — Street, apparently discussing of some celestial phenomenon that absorbed the whole of their attention!
They had enough left to give to a lady and gentleman, who shortly after came out of the “quiet hotel”—the lady first, the gentleman at an interval behind her.
They did not discover themselves to the lady, who seemed to pass on without observing them.
But as the gentleman went skulking by, both turned their faces towards him.
He, too, looked as if he did not see them; but the start given, and the increased speed at which he hurried on out of sight, told that he had recognised at least one of them, with a distinctness that caused him to totter in his steps!
The abused husband made no movement to follow him. So far he was safe; and in the belief that he—or she at least—had escaped recognition, he walked leisurely along Piccadilly, congratulating himself on his bonne fortune!
He would have been less jubilant, could he have heard the muttered words of his protégé, after the latter had parted from his “pal.”
“I’ve got it right now,” said he. “Knighthood for Richard Swinton, or a divorce from his wife, with no end of damages! God bless the dear Fan, for playing so handsomely into my hand! God bless her?”
And with this infamy on his lips, the ci-devant guardsman flung himself into a hansom cab, and hastened home to Saint John’s Wood.