The Child Wife

“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.