The Child Wife

Never in his life had this been so low. He had spent his last shilling in pursuit of the Girdwoods – in keeping their company in Paris, from which they, as he himself, had just returned to London.

As yet success had not crowned his scheme, but appeared distant as ever. The storekeeper’s widow, notwithstanding her aspirations after a titled alliance, was from a country whose people are proverbially “cute.” She was, at all events, showing herself prudent, as Mr Swinton discovered in a conversation held with her on the eve of their departure from Paris.

It was on a subject of no slight importance, originating in a proposal on his part to become her son in-law. It was introductory to an offer he intended making to the young lady herself.

But the offer was not made, Mrs Girdwood having given reasons for its postponement.

They seemed somewhat unsubstantial, leaving him to suppose he might still hope.

The true reason was not made known to him, which was, that the American mother had become suspicious about his patent of nobility. After all, he might not be a lord. And this, notwithstanding his perfect playing of the part, which the quondam guardsman, having jostled a good deal against lords, was enabled to do.

She liked the man much – he flattered her sufficiently to deserve it – and used every endeavour to make her daughter like him. But she had determined, before things should go any further, to know something of his family. There was something strange in his still travelling incognito. The reasons he assigned for it were not satisfactory. Upon this point she must get thoroughly assured. England was the place to make the inquiry, and thither had she transported herself and her belongings – as before, putting up at the aristocratic Clarendon.

To England Swinton had followed, allowing only a day to elapse.

By staying longer in Paris, he would have been in pawn. He had just sufficient cash to clear himself from the obscure hotel where he had stopped, pay for a Boulogne boat, and a “bus” from London Bridge to his lodgings in far Westbourne, where he found his Fan not a shilling richer than himself. Hence that herring for breakfast, eaten on the day after his return.

He was poor in spirits as in purse. Although Mrs Girdwood had not stated the true reason for postponing her daughter’s reception of his marriage proposal, he could conjecture it. He felt pretty sure that the widow had come to England to make inquiries about him.

And what must they result in? Exposure! How could it be otherwise? His name was known in certain circles of London. So also his character. If she should get into these, his marriage scheme would be frustrated at once and for ever.

And he had become sufficiently acquainted with her shrewdness to know she would never accept him for a son-in-law, without being certain about the title – which in her eyes alone rendered him eligible.

If his game was not yet up, the cards left in his hand were poor. More than ever did they require skilful playing.

What should be his next move?

It was about this his brain was busy, as he sat pulling away at his pipe.

“Any one called since I’ve been gone?” he asked of his wife without turning toward her.

Had he done so, he might have observed a slight start caused by the inquiry. She answered, hesitatingly:

“Oh! no – yes – now I think of it I had a visitor – one.”

“Who?”

“Sir Robert Cottrell. You remember our meeting him at Brighton?”

“Of course I remember it. Not likely to forget the name of the puppy. How came he to call?”

“He expected to see you.”

“Indeed, did he! How did he know where we were living?”

“Oh, that! I met him one day as I was passing through Kensington Gardens, near the end of the Long Walk. He asked me where we were staying. At first I didn’t intend telling him. But he said he wanted particularly to see you; and so I gave him your address.”

“I wasn’t at home!”

“I told him that; but said I expected you every day. He came to inquire if you had come back.”

“Did he? What a wonderful deal he cared about my coming back. In the Long Walk you met him? I suppose you have been showing yourself in the Row every day?”

“No I haven’t, Richard. I’ve only been there once or twice – You can’t blame me for that? I’d like to know who could stay everlastingly here, in these paltry apartments, with that shrewish landlady constantly popping out and in, as if to see whether I’d carried off the contents of our trunks. Heaven knows, it’s a wretched existence at best; but absolutely hideous inside these lodgings!”

Glancing around the cheaply-furnished parlour, seeing the head and tail of the herring, with the other scraps of their poor repast, Swinton could not be otherwise than impressed with the truth of his wife’s words.

Their tone, too, had a satisfying effect. It was no longer that of imperious contradiction, such as he had been accustomed to for twelve months after marriage. This had ceased on that day when the leg of a chair coming in contact with his beloved’s crown had left a slight cicatrice upon her left temple – like a stain in statuary marble. From that hour the partner of his bosom had shown herself a changed woman – at least toward himself. Notwithstanding the many quarrels, and recriminative bickerings, that had preceded it, it was the first time he had resorted to personal violence. And it had produced its effect. Coward as she knew him to be, he had proved himself brave enough to bully her. She had feared him ever since. Hence her trepidation as she made answer to his inquiry as to whether any one had called.

There was a time when Frances Wilder would not have trembled at such a question, nor stammered in her reply.

She started again, and again showed signs of confusion, as the shuffling of feet on the flags outside was followed by a knock at the door.

It was a double one; not the violent repeat of the postman, but the rat-tat-tat given either by a gentleman or lady – from its gentleness more like the latter.

“Who can it be?” asked Swinton, taking the pipe from between his teeth. “Nobody for us, I hope.”

In London, Mr Swinton did not long for unexpected visitors. He had too many “kites” abroad, to relish the ring of the doorbell, or the more startling summons of the knocker.

“Can’t be for us,” said his wife, in a tone of mock confidence. “There’s no one likely to be calling; unless some of your old friends have seen you as you came home. Did you meet any one on the way?”

“No, nobody saw me,” gruffly returned the husband.

“There’s a family upstairs – in the drawing-rooms. I suppose it’s for them, or the people of the house.”

The supposition was contradicted by a dialogue heard outside in the hall. It was as follows:

“Mrs Swinton at home?”

The inquiry was in a man’s voice, who appeared to have passed in from the steps.

“Yis, sirr!” was the reply of the Irish janitress, who had answered the knock.

“Give my card; and ask the lady if I can see her.”

“By Jove! that’s Cottrell!” muttered the ex-guardsman, recognising the voice.

“Sir Robert Cottrell” was upon the card brought in by the maid-of-all-work.

“Show him in?” whispered Swinton to the servant, without waiting to ask permission from Fan; who, expressing surprise at the unexpected visit, sprang to her feet, and glided back into the bedroom.

There was a strangeness in the fashion of his wife’s retreat, which the husband could scarce help perceiving. He took no notice of it, however, his mind at the moment busied with a useful idea that had suddenly suggested itself.

Little as he liked Sir Robert Cottrell, or much as he may have had imaginings about the object of his visit, Swinton at that moment felt inclined to receive him. The odour of the salt herring was in his nostrils; and he was in a mood to prefer the perfume that exhales from the cambric handkerchief of a débonnaire baronet – such as he knew Sir Robert to be.

It was with no thought of calling his quondam Brighton acquaintance to account that he directed the servant to show him in.

And in he was shown.