The Child Wife

They had scarce time to question him before a servant, entering the room, communicated something in a whisper.

“His lordship is it?” said the master, in a muttered tone, just loud enough to reach the ear of Mrs Girdwood. “Show him into the front parlour. Say I shall be down in a second. Ladies and gentlemen?” he continued, turning to his guests, “will yaw excuse me for one moment – only a moment? I have a visitor who cannot well be denied.”

They excused him, of course; and for a time he was gone out of the room.

And of course his guests were curious to know who was the visitor, who “could not well be denied.”

On his return they questioned him; the “countess,” with an imperative earnestness that called for an answer.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” said their amiable entertainer, “if yaw insist upon knowing who has been making this vewiy ill-timed call upon me, I suppose I must satisfy yaw kewyosity. I was wight in my conjectyaw. It was Lord – . His lawdship simply dwopped in upon a matter of diplomatic business.”

“Oh! it was Lord – !” exclaimed the Honourable Geraldine.

“Why didn’t you ask him in here? He’s a dear old fellow, as I know; and I’m sure he would have come. Mr Swinton! I’m very angry with you?”

“’Pon honaw! Miss Courtney, I’m vewy sorry; I didn’t think of it, else I should have been most happy.”

“He’s gone, I suppose?”

“Aw, yas. He went away as soon as he undawstood I had company.”

And this was true – all true. The nobleman in question had really been in the front parlour, and had gone off on learning what was passing upstairs in the drawing-room.

He had parted, too, with a feeling of disappointment, almost chagrin; though it was not diplomatic business to which the villa was indebted for his visit.

However fruitless his calling had proved to him, it was not without advantage to Mr Swinton.

“The man who receives midnight visits from a lord, and that lord a distinguished statesman, must either be a lord himself, or a somebody!”

This was said in soliloquy by the retail storekeeper’s widow, as that night she stretched herself upon one of the luxurious couches of the “Clarendon.”

About the same time, her daughter gave way to a somewhat similar reflection.

Chapter Sixty.

A Parting Present

At parting, there had been no “scene” between Sir George Vernon and his seemingly ungrateful guest.

Nor was the interview a stormy one, as they stood face to face under the shadow of the deodara.

Sir George’s daughter had retired from the spot, her young heart throbbing with pain; while Maynard, deeply humiliated, made no attempt to justify himself.

Had there been light under the tree, Sir George would have seen before him the face of a man that expressed the very type of submission.

For some seconds, there was a profound and painful silence.

It was broken by the baronet:

“After this, sir, I presume it is not necessary for me to point out the course you should pursue? There is only one.”

“I am aware of it, Sir George.”

“Nor is it necessary to say, that I wish to avoid scandal?”

Maynard made no reply; though, unseen, he nodded assent to the proposition.

“You can retire at your leisure, sir; but in ten minutes my carriage will be ready to take you and your luggage to the station.”

It was terrible to be thus talked to; and but for the scandal Sir George had alluded to, Maynard would have replied to it by refusing the proffered service.

But he felt himself in a dilemma. The railway station was full four miles distant.

A fly might be had there; but not without some one going to fetch it. For this he must be indebted to his host. He was in a dress suit, and could not well walk, without courting the notice to be shunned. Besides, there would be his luggage to come after him.

There was no alternative but to accept the obligation.

He did so, by saying —

“In ten minutes, Sir George, I shall be ready. I make no apology for what has passed. I only hope the time may come, when you will look less severely on my conduct.”

“Not likely,” was the dry response of the baronet, and with these words the two parted: Sir George going back to his guests in the drawing-room, Maynard making his way to the apartment that contained his impedimenta.

The packing of his portmanteau did not occupy him half the ten minutes’ time. There was no need to change his dancing-dress. His surtout would sufficiently conceal it.

The bell brought a male domestic; who, shouldering the “trap,” carried it downstairs – though not without wondering why the gent should be taking his departure, at that absurd hour, just as the enjoyment in the drawing-room had reached its height, and a splendid supper was being spread upon the tables!

Maynard having given a last look around the room, to assure himself that nothing had been overlooked, was about preparing to follow the bearer of his portmanteau, when another attaché of the establishment barred his passage on the landing of the stair.

It was also a domestic, but of different kind, sex, and colour.

It was Sabina, of Badian birth.

“Hush! Mass Maynard,” she said, placing her finger on her lips to impress the necessity of silence. “Doan you ’peak above de breff, an’ I tell you someting dat you like hear.”

“What is it?” Maynard asked, mechanically.

“Dat Missy Blanche lub you dearly – wit all de lub ob her young heart. She Sabby tell so – yesserday – dis day – more’n a dozen times, oba an’ oba. So dar am no need you go into despair.”

“Is that all you have to say?” asked he, though without any asperity of tone.

It would have been strange if such talk had not given him pleasure, despite the little information conveyed by it.

“All Sabby hab say; but not all she got do.”

“What have you to do?” demanded Maynard, in an anxious undertone.

“You gib dis,” was the reply of the mulatto, as, with the adroitness peculiar to her race and sex, she slipped something white into the pocket of his surtout.