The Child Wife

The bank clerk took the card into his trembling fingers. His wife, on the other side of the door, had a sensation in her ear resembling an electric shock.

A tenant with a lord – a celebrated lord – for his referee!

She could scarce restrain herself from shouting through the keyhole:

“Close with him, Mac!”

But Mac needed not the admonition. He had already made up his mind to the letting.

“How soon do you wish to come in?” he asked of the applicant.

“As soon as possible,” was the answer. “To-morrow, if convenient to you.”

“To-morrow?” echoed the cool Scotchman, unaccustomed to such quick transactions, and somewhat surprised at the proposal.

“I own it’s rather unusual,” said the incoming tenant. “But, Mr McTavish, I have a reason for wishing it so. It’s somewhat delicate; but as you are a married man, and the father of a family, – you understand?”

“Perfectly!” pronounced the Scotch paterfamilias, his breast almost turning as tender as that of his better half then sympathetically throbbing behind the partition door.

The sudden transfer was agreed to. Next day Mr McTavish and his family moved out, Mr Swinton having signed the agreement, and given a cheque for the year’s rent in advance – scarce necessary after being endorsed by such a distinguished referee.

Chapter Fifty Six.

A Dress Rehearsal

The revolutionary leader who had taken up his residence vis-à-vis to the McTavish villa, and whose politics were so offensive to its royal lessee, was no other than the ex-dictator of Hungary.

The new tenant had been made aware of this before entering upon occupation. Not by his landlord, but the man under whose instructions he had taken the house.

The proximity of the refugee headquarters was partly the cause of Mr McTavish being so anxious to go out. It was the sole reason why Swinton had shown himself so anxious to come in!

Swinton had this knowledge, and no more. The motive for putting him in possession had not yet been revealed to him. He had been instructed to take that particular house, coûte que coûte; and he had taken it as told, at a cost of two hundred pounds.

His patron had provided him with a cheque for three hundred. Two had gone into the pocket of McTavish; the other remained in his own.

He had got installed in his new domicile; and seated with a cigar between his lips – a real Havanna – was reflecting upon the comforts that surrounded him. How different that couch, with its brocaded cover, and soft cushions, from the hard horse-hair sofa, with its flattened squab! How unlike these luxurious chairs to the sharp skeletons of cane, his wife had reason to remember! While congratulating himself on the change of fortune, he was also bethinking him of what had led to it. He had a tolerably correct idea of why he had been so favoured.

But for what purpose he had been placed in the villa, or the duty there required of him, he was still ignorant.

He could only conjecture that he had something to do with Kossuth. Of this he was almost certain.

He was not to remain long in the dark about his duties. At an interview on the morning of that day, his patron had promised to send him full instructions – by a gentleman who should “come up in the course of the evening.”

Swinton was shrewd enough to have a thought as to who this gentleman would be; and it inspired him to a conversation with his wife, of a nature peculiar as confidential.

“Fan?” he said, taking the cigar from his teeth, and turning towards the couch, on which that amiable creature was reclining.

“Well; what is it?” responded she, also removing a weed from between her pretty lips, and pouting the smoke after it.

“How do you like our new lodgings, love? Better than those at Westbourne?”

“You don’t want me to answer that question, Dick?”

“Oh, no. Not if you don’t wish. But you needn’t snap and snarl so.”

“I am not snapping or snarling. It’s silly of you to say so.”

“Yes, everything’s silly I say, or do either. I’ve been very silly within the last three days. To get into a cosy crib like this, with the rent paid twelve months in advance, and a hundred pounds to keep the kitchen! More to come if I mistake not. Quite stupid of me to have accomplished all this?”

Fan made no rejoinder. Had her husband closely scanned her countenance at that moment, he might have seen upon it a smile not caused by any admiration of his cleverness.

She had her own thoughts as to what and to whom he was indebted for the favourable turn in his fortunes.

“Yes; much more to come,” said he, continuing the hopeful prognostic. “In fact, Fan, our fortune’s made, or will be, if you only do – ”

“Do what?” she asked, seeing that he hesitated. “What do you want me to do next?”

“Well, in the first place,” drawled he, showing displeasure at her tone, “get up and dress yourself. I’ll tell you what I want afterwards.”

“Dress myself! There’s not much chance of that, with such rags as are left me!”

“Never mind the rags. We can’t help it just now. Besides, love, you look well enough for anything.”

Fan tossed her head, as if she cared little for the compliment.

“Arrange the rags, as you call ’em, best way you can for to-night. To-morrow, it will be different. We shall take a stroll among the milliners and mantua-makers. Now, girl, go; do as I tell you!”

So encouraged, she rose from the couch, and turned towards the stairway that conducted to her sleeping apartment.

She commenced ascending.

“Put on your best looks, Fan!” said her husband, calling after her. “I expect a gentleman, who’s a stranger to you; and I don’t wish him to think I’ve married a slut. Make haste, and get down again. He may be in at any moment.”

There was no response to show that the rude speech had given offence. Only a laugh, sent back from the stair-landing.

Swinton resumed his cigar, and sat waiting.

He knew not which would be heard first – a ring at the gate-bell, or the rustling of silk upon the stairway.

He desired the latter, as he had not yet completed the promised instructions.

He had not much more to say, and a moment would suffice:

He was not disappointed: Fan came first. She came sweeping downstairs, snowy with Spanish chalk, and radiant with rouge.

Without these she was beautiful, with them superb.

Long usage had made them almost a necessity to her skin; but the same had taught her skill in their limning. Only a connoisseur could have distinguished the paint upon her cheeks from the real and natural colour.