Chapter Twenty Nine.
The Lost Lord.
Ten days after Mrs Girdwood had taken her departure from the Clarendon Hotel, a gentleman presented himself to the door-porter of that select hostelry, and put the following inquiry:
“Is there a family stopping here, by name Girdwood—a middle-aged lady, with two younger—her daughter and niece; a negro woman for their servant?”
“There was such a fambly—about two weeks ago. They’ve paid their bill, and gone away.”
The janitor laid emphasis on the paying of the bill. It was his best evidence of the respectability of the departed guests.
“Do you know where they’ve gone?”
“Haven’t an idea, sir. They left no address. They ’pear to be Yankees—’Mericans, I mean,” said the man, correcting himself, in fear of giving offence. “Very respectable people—ladies, indeed—’specially the young ’uns. I dare say they’ve gone back to the States. That’s what I’ve heerd them call their country.”
“To the States! Surely not?” said the stranger, half questioning himself. “How long since they left the hotel?”
“About a fortnight ago—there or thereabout. I can look at the book and tell you?”
“Pray do!”
The Cerberus of the Clarendon—to an humble applicant for admission into that aristocratic establishment not much milder than he of the seven heads—turned into his box, and commenced examining the register of departures.
He was influenced to this civility by the aspect of the individual who made the request. To all appearance a “reg’lar gentleman,” was the reflection he had indulged in.
“Departures on the 25th,” spoke he, reading from the register: “Lord S— and Lady S—; the Hon. Augustus Stanton; the Duchess of P—; Mrs Girdwood and fambly—that’s them. They left on the 25th, sir.”
“The 25th. At what hour?”
“Well, that I can’t remember. You see, there’s so many goin’ and comin’. From their name being high up on the list, I d’say they went by a mornin’ train.”
“You’re sure they left no note for any one?”
“I can ask inside. What name?”
“Swinton—Mr Richard Swinton.”
“Seems to me they inquired for that name, several times. Yes, the old lady did—the mother of the young ladies, I mean. I’ll see if there’s a note.”
The man slippered off towards the office, in the interior of the hotel; leaving Mr Swinton, for it was he, upon the door-mat.
The countenance of the ex-guardsman, that had turned suddenly blank, again brightened up. It was at least gratifying to know that he had been inquired for. It was to be hoped there was a note, that would put him on their trace of travel.
“No, not any,” was the chilling response that came out from the official oracle. “None whatever.”
“You say they made inquiries for a Mr Swinton. Was it from yourself, may I ask?” The question was put seductively, accompanied by the holding out of a cigar-case.
“Thank you, sir,” said the flattered official, accepting the offered weed. “The inquiries were sent down to me from their rooms. It was to ask if a Mr Swinton had called, or left any card. They also asked about a lord. They didn’t give his name. There wasn’t any lord—leastwise not for them.”
“Were there any gentlemen in the habit of visiting them? You’ll find that cigar a good one—I’ve just brought them across the Atlantic. Take another? Such weeds are rather scarce here in London.”
“You’re very kind, sir. Thank you!” and the official helped himself to a second.
“Oh, yes; there were several gentlemen used to come to see them. I don’t think any of them were lords, though. They might be. The ladies ’peared to be very respectable people. I d’say highly respectable.”
“Do you know the address of any of these gentlemen? I ask the question because the ladies are relatives of mine, and I might perhaps find out from some of them where they are gone.”
“They were all strangers to me; and to the hotel. I’ve been at this door for ten years, and never saw one of them before.”
“Can you recollect how any of them looked?”
“Yes; there was one who came often, and used to go out with the ladies. A thick-set gent with lightish hair, and round full face. Sometimes there was a thin-faced man along with him, a younger gent. They used to take the two young ladies a-ridin’—to Rotten Row; and I think to the Opera.”
“Did you learn their names?”
“No, sir. They used to go and come without giving a card; only the first time, and I didn’t notice what name was on it. They would ask if Mrs Girdwood was in, and then go upstairs to the suite of rooms occupied by the fambly. They ’peared to be intimate friends.”
Swinton saw he had got all the information the man was capable of imparting. He turned to go out, the hall-keeper obsequiously holding the door.
Another question occurred to him.
“Did Mrs Girdwood say anything about coming back here—to the hotel I mean?”
“I don’t know, sir. If you stop a minute I’ll ask.”
Another journey to the oracle inside; another negative response.
“This is cursed luck!” hissed Swinton through his teeth, as he descended the hotel steps and stood upon the flags below. “Cursed luck!” he repeated, as with despondent look and slow, irresolute tread he turned up the street of “our best shopkeepers.”
“Lucas with them to a certainty, and that other squirt! I might have known it, from their leaving New York without telling me where they were going. They must have followed by the very next steamer; and, hang me, if I don’t begin to think that that visit to the gambling-house was a trap—a preconceived plan to deprive me of the chance of getting over after her. By the living G— it has succeeded! Here I am, after months spent in struggling to make up the paltry passage money! And here they are not; and God knows where they are! Curse upon the crooked luck!”
Mr Swinton’s reflections will explain why he had not sooner reported himself at the Bond Street hotel, and show the mistake Mrs Girdwood had made, in supposing he had “cut” them.
The thousand dollars deposited in the New York faro bank was all the money he had in the world; and after taking stock of what might be raised upon his wife’s jewellery, most of which was already under the collateral mortgage of the three golden globes, it was found it would only pay ocean passage for one.
As Fan was determined not to be left behind—Broadway having proved less congenial than Regent Street—the two had to stay in America, till the price of two cabin tickets could be obtained.
With all Mr Swinton’s talent in the “manipulation of pasteboard,” it cost him months to obtain them.
His friend Lucas gone away, he found no more pigeons in America—only hawks!
The land of liberty was not the land for him. Its bird of freedom, type of the falcon tribe, seemed too truly emblematic of its people—certainly of those with whom he had come in contact—and as soon as he could get together enough to pay for a pair of Cunard tickets—second-class at that—he took departure for a clime more congenial, both to himself and his beloved.
They had arrived in London with little more than the clothes they stood in; and taken lodgings in that cheap, semi-genteel neighbourhood where almost every street, square, park, place, and terrace, has got Westbourne for its name.
Toward this quarter Mr Swinton turned his face, after reaching the head of Bond Street; and taking a twopenny “bus,” he was soon after set down at the Royal Oak, at no great distance from his suburban domicile.
“They’re gone!” he exclaimed, stepping inside the late taken apartments, and addressing himself to a beautiful woman, their sole occupant.
It was “Fan,” in a silk gown, somewhat chafed and stained, but once more a woman’s dress! Fan, with her splendid hair almost grown again—Fan no longer disguised as a valet, but restored to the dignity of a wife!
“Gone! From London, do you mean? Or only the hotel?” The question told of her being still in her husband’s confidence. “From both.”
“But you know where, don’t you?”
“I don’t.”
“Do you think they’ve left England?”
“I don’t know what to think. They’ve left the Clarendon on the 25th of last month—ten days ago. And who do you suppose has been there—back and forward to see them?”
“I don’t know.”
“Guess!”
“I can’t.”
She could have given a guess. She had a thought, but she kept it in her own heart, as about the same man she had kept other thoughts before. Had she spoken it, she would have said, “Maynard.”
She said nothing, leaving her husband to explain. He did so, at once undeceiving her.
“Well, it was Lucas. That thick-skulled brute we met in Newport, and afterwards in New York.”
“Ay; better you had never seen him in either place. He proved a useless companion, Dick.”
“I know all that. Perhaps I shall get square with him yet.”
“So they’ve gone; and that, I suppose, will be the end of it. Well, let it be; I don’t care. I’m contented enough to be once more in dear old England!”
“In cheap lodgings like this?”
“In anything. A hovel here is preferable to a palace in America! I’d rather live in a London garret, in these mean lodgings, if you like, than be mistress of that Fifth Avenue house you were so delighted to dine in. I hate their republican country?”
The sentiment was appropriate to the woman who uttered it.
“I’ll be the owner of it yet,” said Swinton, referring not to the country, but the Fifth Avenue house. “I’ll own it, if I have to spend ten years in carrying out the speculation.”
“You still intend going on with it then?”
“Of course I do. Why should I give it up?”
“Perhaps you’ve lost the chance. This Mr Lucas may have got into the lady’s good graces?”
“Bah! I’ve nothing to fear from him—the common-looking brute! He’s after her, no doubt. What of that? I take it he’s not the style to make much way with Miss Julia Girdwood. Besides, I’ve reason to know the mother won’t have it. If I’ve lost the chance in any other way, I may thank you for it, madam.”
“Me! And how, I should like to know?”
“But for you I might have been here months ago; in good time to have taken steps against their departure; or, still better, found some excuse for going along with them. That’s what I could have done. It’s the time we have lost—in getting together the cash to buy tickets for two.”
“Indeed! And I’m answerable for that, I suppose? I think I made up my share. You seem to forget the selling of my gold watch, my rings and bracelets—even to my poor pencil-case?”
“Who gave them to you?”
“Indeed! it’s like you to remember it! I wish I had never accepted them.”
“And I that I had never given them.”
“Wretch!”
“Oh! you’re very good at calling names—ugly ones, too.”
“I’ll call you an uglier still, coward!”
This stung him. Perhaps the only epithet that would; for he not only felt that it was true, but that his wife knew it.
“What do you mean?” he asked, turning suddenly red.
“What I say; that you’re a coward—you know you are. You can safely insult a woman; but when a man stands up you daren’t—no, you daren’t say boo to a goose. Remember Maynard?”
It was the first time the taunt had been openly pronounced; though on more than one occasion since the scenes in Newport, she had thrown out hints of a knowledge of that scheme by which he had avoided meeting the man named. He supposed she had only suspicions, and could know nothing of that letter delivered too late. He had taken great pains to conceal the circumstances. From what she now said, it was evident she knew all.
And she did; for James, the waiter, and other servants, had imparted to her the gossip of the hotel; and this, joined to her own observation of what had transpired, gave the whole story. The suspicion that she knew it had troubled Swinton—the certainty maddened him.
“Say that again!” he cried, springing to his feet; “say it again, and by G—, I’ll smash in your skull?”
With the threat he had raised one of the cane chairs, and held it over her head.
Throughout their oft-repeated quarrels, it had never before come to this—the crisis of a threatened blow.
She was neither large nor strong—only beautiful—while the bully was both. But she did not believe he intended to strike; and she felt that to quail would be to acknowledge herself conquered. Even to fail replying to the defiance.
She did so, with additional acerbity.
“Say what again? Remember Maynard? I needn’t say it; you’re not likely to forget him!”
The words had scarce passed from her lips before she regretted them. At least she had reason: for with a crash, the chair came down upon her head, and she was struck prostrate upon the floor!