Chapter Seventy Six.
A Modest Demand.
The aspect of his protégé, as he stepped inside the room, was anything but reassuring to the sexagenarian deceiver.
On the contrary, his pale cheeks became paler, his white lips whiter. There was something in the ex-guardsman’s eye and air that bespoke a man having a grievance!
More than that, a man determined on its being righted. Nor could his lordship mistake that it was against himself. The bold, almost bullying, attitude of his visitor, so different from that hitherto held by him, showed that, whatever might be his suit, it was not to be pressed with humility.
“What is it, my dear Swinton?” asked his scared patron, in a tone of pretended conciliation. “Is there anything I can do for you to-day? Have you any business?”
“I have; and a very disagreeable business at that.” In the reply, “his lordship” did not fail to remark the discourteous omission of his title.
“Indeed?” he exclaimed, without pretending to notice it. “Disagreeable business? With whom?”
“With yourself, my lord.”
“Ah! you surprise—I do not understand you, Mr Swinton.”
“Your lordship will, when I mention a little circumstance that occurred last Friday afternoon. It was in a street south side of Leicester Square.” It was as much as his lordship could do to retain his seat. He might as well have risen; since the start he gave, on hearing the name, told that he knew all about the “little circumstance.”
“Sir—Mr Swinton! I do not comprehend you!”
“You do—perfectly?” was Swinton’s reply, once more disrespectfully omitting the title. “You should know,” he continued, “since you were in that same street, at the same time.”
“I deny it.”
“No use denying it. I chanced to be there myself, and saw you. And, although your lordship did keep your lordship’s face well turned away, there can be no difficulty in swearing to it—neither on my part nor that of the gentleman who chanced to be along with me; and who knows your lordship quite as well as I.”
There was title enough in this speech, but coupled with too much sarcasm.
“And what if I was in — Street at the time you say?” demanded the accused in a tone of mock defiance.
“Not much in that. — Street’s as free to your lordship as to any other man. A little more free, I suspect. But then, your lordship was seen to come out of a certain house in that respectable locality, followed by a lady whom I have also good reason to know, and can certainly swear to. So can the friend who was with me.”
“I cannot help ladies following me out of houses. The thing; I presume, was purely accidental.”
“But not accidental her going in along with you—especially as your lordship had shown her the courtesy to hand her out of a cab, after riding some way through the streets with her! Come, my lord, it’s of no use your endeavouring to deny it. Subterfuge will not serve you. I’ve been witness to my own dishonour, as have several others besides. I seek reparation.”
If all the thrones in Europe had been at that moment tumbling about his ears, the arch-conspirator of crowned heads would not have been more stunned by the délabrement. Like his celebrated prototype, he cared not that after him came the deluge; but a deluge was now threatening himself—a deep, damning inundation, that might engulf not only a large portion of his fortune, but a large measure of his fame!
He was all the more frightened, because both had already suffered from a shock somewhat similar.
He knew himself guilty, and that it could be proved!
He saw how idle would be the attempt to justify himself. He had no alternative but to submit to Swinton’s terms; and he only hoped that these, however onerous, might be obtained without exposure.
The pause that had occurred in the conversation was positively agonising to him. It was like taking the vulture from his liver, when Swinton spoke again, in a tone that promised compromise.
“My lord,” he said, “I feel that I am a dishonoured man. But I’m a poor man, and cannot afford to go to law with your lordship.”
“Why should you, Mr Swinton?” asked the nobleman, hastily catching at the straw thus thrown out to him. “I assure you it is all a mistake. You have been deceived by appearances. I had my reasons for holding a private conversation with the lady you suspect; and I could not just at the moment think of anywhere else to go.”
It was a poor pretence; and Swinton received it with a sneer. His lordship did not expect otherwise. He was but speaking to give his abused protégé a chance of swallowing the dishonour.
“You’re the last man in the world,” he continued, “with whom I should wish to have a misunderstanding. I’d do anything to avoid it; and if there be any service I may render you, name it. Can you think of anything I may do?”
“I can, my lord.”
“What is it you would wish?”
“A title. Your lordship can bestow it?” This time the nobleman started right out of his chair, and stood with eyes staring, and lips aghast. “You are mad, Mr Swinton!”
“I am not mad, my lord! I mean what I say.”
“Why, sir, to procure you a title would create a scandal that might cost me my reputation. The thing’s not to be thought of. Such honours are only bestowed upon—”
“Upon those who do just such services as I. All stuff, my lord, to talk of distinguished services to the State. I suppose that’s what you were going to say. It may do very well for the ears of the unwashed; but it has no meaning in mine. If merit were the means of arriving at such distinction, we’d never have heard of such patents of nobility as Lord B—, and the Earl of C—, and Sir H. N—, and some threescore others I could quote. Why, my lord, it’s the very absence of merit that gave these gentlemen the right to be written about by Burke. And look at Burke himself, made ‘Sir Bernard’ for being but the chronicler of your heraldry. Pretty, pretty service to the State, that is! I’m sure I’ve as good right as he.”
“I don’t deny that, Mr Swinton. But you know it’s not a question of right, but expediency.”
“So be it, my lord. Mine is just such a case.”
“I tell you I dare not do it.”
“And I tell you, you dare! Your lordship may do almost anything. The British public believe you have both the power and the right, even to make the laws of the land. You’ve taught them to think so; and they know no better. Besides, you are at this moment so popular. They think you perfection!”
“Notwithstanding that,” rejoined his lordship, without noticing the sneer, “I dare not do what you wish. What! get you a tide! I might as well talk about dethroning the queen, and proclaiming you king in her stead.”
“Ha! ha! I don’t expect any honour quite so high as that I don’t want it, your lordship. Crowns, they say, make heads uneasy. I’m a man of moderate aspirations. I should be contented with a coronet.”
“Madness, Mr Swinton!”
“Well; if you can’t make me a lord like yourself, it’s within bounds for me to expect a baronetcy. I’ll even be content with simple knighthood. Surely your lordship can get me that?”
“Impossible!” exclaimed the patron, in an agony of vexation. “Is there nothing else you can think of? A post—an office?”
“I’m not fit for either. I don’t want them. Nothing less than the title, my lord.”
“It’s only a title you want?” asked the nobleman, after a pause, and as if suddenly impressed with some idea that promised to serve him. “You say you’re not particular? Would that of a Count satisfy you?”
“How could your lordship procure that? There are no Counts in England?”
“But there are in France.”
“I know it—a good many of them; more than have means to support the titles.”
“Never mind the means. The title will secure them to a man of your talents. You may be one of the number. A French Count is still a Count. Surely that title would suit you?”
Swinton seemed to reflect.
“Perhaps it would. You think your lordship could obtain it for me?”
“I am sure of it. He who has the power to bestow such distinctions is my intimate personal friend. I need not tell you it is France’s ruler.”
“I know it, my lord.”
“Well, Mr Swinton; say that a French countship will satisfy you, and you shall have it within a week. In less time, if you choose to go to Paris yourself.”
“My lord, I shall be too glad to make the journey.”
“Enough, then. Call upon me to-morrow. I shall have a letter prepared that will introduce you, not only to the Emperor of France, but into the ranks of France’s nobility. Come at ten o’clock.”
It is scarce necessary to say that Swinton was punctual to the appointment; and on that same day, with a heart full of rejoicing, made the journey from Park Lane to Paris.
Equally delighted was his patron at having secured condonation at such a cheap rate, for what might otherwise have proved not only a costly case but a ruinous scandal.
In less than a week from this time, Swinton crossed the threshold of the South Bank Villa, with a patent of countship in his pocket.