The Child Wife

His wish was realised. She was not only en dishabille, but in bed – with a sick headache! She begged that the baronet would excuse her from making appearance!

This was the report brought back from the bedroom by her go-between of a husband. It remained only for the visitor to make good his promise about the letter of introduction.

He drew up to the table, and wrote it out, currente calamo.

He did not follow the usual fashion, by leaving the envelope open. There was a clause or two in the letter he did not desire the ex-guardsman to become acquainted with. It concluded with the words: “Mr Swinton is a gentleman who would suit for any service your lordship may be pleased to obtain for him. He is a disappointed man…”

Wetting the gum with the tip of his aristocratic tongue, he closed the envelope, and handed the epistle to his host.

“I know,” said he, “Lord A – will be glad to serve you. You might see him at the Foreign Office; but don’t go there. There are too many fellaws hanging about, who had better not know what you’re after. Take it to his lordship’s private residence in Park Lane. In a case like yours, I know he’d prefer receiving you there. You had better go at once. There are so many chances of your being forestalled – a host of applicants hungering for something of the same. His lordship is likely to be at home about three in the afternoon. I’ll call here soon after to learn how you’ve prospered. Bye, my dear fellaw! good-bye!”

Re-gloving his slender aristocratic fingers, the baronet withdrew – leaving the ex-guardsman in possession of an epistle that might have much influence on his future fate.

Chapter Forty One.

A Scene in Park Lane

In Park Lane, as all know, fronting upon Hyde Park, are some of the finest residences in London. They are mansions, mostly inhabited by England’s aristocracy; many of them by the proudest of its nobility.

On that same day on which Sir Robert Cottrell had paid his unintentional visit to Mr Richard Swinton, at the calling hour of the afternoon an open park phaeton, drawn by a pair of stylish ponies, with “flowing manes and tails,” might have been seen driving along Park Lane, and drawing up in front of one of its splendid mansions, well-known to be that of a nobleman of considerable distinction among his class.

The ribbons were held by a gentleman who appeared capable of manipulating them; by his side a lady equally suitable to the equipage; while an appropriate boy in top-boots and buttons occupied the back seat.

Though the gentleman was young and handsome, the lady young and beautiful, and the groom carefully got up, an eye, skilled in livery decoration, could have told the turn-out to be one hired for the occasion.

It was hired, and by Richard Swinton; for it was he who wielded the whip, and his wife who gave grace to the equipage.

The ponies were guided with such skill that when checked up in front of the nobleman’s residence, the phaeton stood right under the drawing-room windows.

In this there was a design.

The groom, skipping like a grasshopper from his perch, glided up the steps, rang the bell, and made the usual inquiry.

His lordship was “at home.”

“You take the reins, Fan,” said Swinton, stepping out of the phaeton. “Keep a tight hold on them, and don’t let the ponies move from the spot they’re in – not so much as an inch!”

Without comprehending the object of this exact order, Fan promised to obey it.

The remembrance of mare than one scene, in which she had succumbed to her husband’s violence, secured compliance with his request.

Having made it, the ex-guardsman ascended the steps, presented his card, and was shown into the drawing-room.

Chapter Forty Two.

The Power of a Pretty Face

It was the front room of a suite into which Mr Swinton had been conducted – a large apartment furnished in splendid style.

For a time he was left alone, the footman, who officiated, having gone off with his card.

Around him were costly decorations – objects of vertu and luxe– duplicated in plate-glass mirrors over the mantel, and along the sides of the room, extending from floor to ceiling.

But Mr Swinton looked not at the luxurious chattels, nor into the mirrors that reflected them.

On the moment of his being left to himself, he glided toward one of the windows, and directed his glance into the street.

“It will do,” he muttered to himself, with a satisfied air. “Just in the right spot, and Fan – isn’t she the thing for it? By Jove! she shows well. Never saw her look better in her life. If his lordship be the sort he’s got the name of being, I ought to get an appointment out of him. Sweet Fan! I’ve made five pounds out of you this morning. You’re worth your weight in gold, or its equivalent. Hold up your head, my chick! and show that pretty face of yours to the window! You’re about to be examined, and as I’ve heard, by a connoisseur. Ha! ha! ha!” The apostrophe was soliloquised, Fan was too far off to hear him.

The chuckling laugh that followed was interrupted by the re-entrance of the footman, who announced in ceremonial strain: “His lordship will see you in the library.” The announcement produced on his lordship’s visitor the effect of a cold-water douche. His gaiety forsook him with the suddenness of a “shot.”

Nor did it return when he discovered the library to be a somewhat sombre apartment, its walls bedecked with books, and the windows looking into a courtyard at the back. He had anticipated an interview in the drawing-room that commanded a view of the street.

It was a disappointment to be regretted, and, combined with the quiet gloom of the chamber into which he had been ushered, argued ill for the success of his application.

“Your business, sir?” demanded the august personage into whose presence he had penetrated. The demand was not made in a tone of either rudeness or austerity. Lord – was noted for a suavity of manners, that, in the eyes of the uninitiated, gave him a character for benevolence! In answer to it, the ex-guardsman presented his letter of introduction. He could do no more, and stood awaiting the result.

But he reflected how different this might be if the interview had been taking place in the drawing-room, instead of that dismal repository of books.

“I am sorry, Mr Swinton,” said his lordship, after reading Sir Robert’s letter, “sorry, indeed, that I can do nothing to serve you. I don’t know of a post that isn’t filled. I have applicants coming to me every day, thinking I can do something for them. I should have been most happy to serve any friend of Sir Robert Cottrell, had it been in my power. I assure you it isn’t.”

Richard Swinton was disconcerted – the more so that he had spent thirty shillings in chartering the pony phaeton with its attendant groom. It was part of the five pounds borrowed from the obliging baronet. It would be so much cash thrown away – the sprat lost without catching the salmon.

He stood without knowing what to say. The interview seemed at an end – his lordship appearing wearied of his presence, and wishing him to be gone.

At this crisis an accident came to his aid. A squadron of “Coldstreams” was passing along the Park drive. Their bugle, sounding the “double-quick,” was heard in the interior of the dwelling. His lordship, to ascertain the cause of the military movement, sprang up from the huge leathern chair, in which he had been seated, and passed suddenly into the drawing-room, leaving Mr Swinton outside in the hall. Through the window Lord – saw the dragoons filing past. But his glance dwelt, not long upon them. Underneath, and close in to the curb-stone, was an object to his eyes a hundred times more attractive than the bright uniforms of the Guards. It was a young and beautiful lady, seated in an open phaeton, and holding the reins – as if waiting for some one who had gone into a house.

It was in front of his own house; and the party absent from the phaeton must be inside. It should be Mr Swinton, the very good-looking fellow who was soliciting him for an appointment!

In a trice the applicant, already half dismissed, was recalled into his presence – this time into the drawing-room.

“By the way, Mr Swinton,” said he, “you may as well leave me your address. I’m anxious to oblige my friend, Sir Robert; and although I can speak of nothing now, who knows – Ha! that lady in the carriage below. Is she of your belonging?”

“My wife, your lordship.”

“What a pity to have kept her waiting outside! You should have brought her in with you.”

“My lord, I could not take the liberty of intruding.”

“Oh, nonsense! my dear sir! A lady can never intrude. Well, leave your address; and if anything should turn up, be sure I shall remember you. I am most anxious to serve Cottrell.”

Swinton left the address; and with an obsequious salute, parted from the dispenser of situations.

As he drove back along the pavement of Piccadilly, he reflected to himself that the pony equipage had not been chartered in vain.

He now knew the character of the man to whom he had addressed his solicitation.

Chapter Forty Three.