Chapter FIFTY NINE: A Distinguished Dinner-Party (2)

The patriotic speech went home to the Hungarian patriot's heart. He made no farther attempt at appeasing the irate adventurer; but stepping hastily out of the room, soon returned, carrying the crape and horsewhip--the latter a true hound-scorer with buckhorn handle.

The gritting of wheels on the gravel told that the cab had drawn up before the gate.

"Good-night, Governor!" said Maynard, taking the things from Kossuth's hand. "If the _Times_ of to-morrow tells you of a gentleman having been soundly horsewhipped, don't say it was I who did it."

And with this singular caution, Maynard made his adieus to the ex-Dictator of Hungary!

CHAPTER SIXTY SIX.

TWO CABS.

In London dark nights are the rule, not the exception. More especially in the month of November; when the fog rolls up from the muddy Thames, spreading its plague-like pall over the metropolis.

On just such a night a cab might have been seen issuing from the _embouchure_ of South Bank, passing down Park Road, and turning abruptly into the Park, through the "Hanover Gate."

So dense was the fog, it could only have been seen by one who chanced to be near it; and very near to know that it was a hansom.

The bull's-eye burning overhead in front reflected inside just sufficient light to show that it carried only a single "fare," of the masculine gender.

A more penetrating light would have made apparent a gentleman--so far as dress was concerned--sitting with something held in his hand that resembled a hunting-whip.

But the brightest light would not have sufficed for the scanning of his face--concealed as it was behind a covering of crape.

Before the cab carrying him had got clear of the intricacies of South Bank, a low whistle was heard both by him and his driver.

He seemed to have been listening for it; and was not surprised to see another cab--a hansom like his own--standing on the corner of Park Road as he passed out--its Jehu, with reins in hand, just settling himself upon his seat, as if preparing to start. Any one, who could have looked upon his face at the moment, could have told he had been expecting it.

Nor was he astonished, on passing through Hanover Gate, to perceive that the second cab was coming after him.

If you enter the Regent's Park by this gate, take the left hand turning, and proceed for about a quarter of a mile, you will reach a spot secluded as any within the limits of London. It is where the canal, traversing along the borders of the Park, but inside its palings, runs between deep embankments, on both sides densely wooded. So solitary is this place, that a stranger to the locality could not believe himself to be within the boundaries of the British metropolis.

On the night in question neither the Park hag, nor its constable, were encountered along the drive. The damp, dense fog rendered it uncomfortable for both.

All the more favourable for him carried in the leading cab, whose design required darkness.

"Jarvey?" said he, addressing himself to his driver, through the little trap-door overhead. "You see that hansom behind us?"

"Can't see, but I hear it, sir."

"Well; there's a gentleman inside it I intend horsewhipping."

"All right, sir. Tell me when you want to stop."

"I want to stop about three hundred yards this side of the Zoological Gardens. There's a copse that comes close to the road. Pull up alongside of it; and stay there till I return to you."

"Ay, ay, sir," responded the driver, who, having received a sovereign in advance, was dead-bent on obedience. "Anything else I can do for your honour?"

"All I want of you is, if you hear any interference on the part of _his_ driver, you might leave your horse for a little--just to see fair play."

"Trust me, your honour! Don't trouble yourself about that. I'll take care of him?"

If there be any chivalry in a London cabman, it is to be found in the driver of a hansom--especially after having received a sovereign with the prospect of earning another. This was well-known to his "fare" with the craped face.

On reaching the described copse the leading cab was pulled up--its passenger leaping instantly out, and gliding in under the trees.

Almost at the same instant, its pursuer came to a stand--somewhat to the surprise of him who sate inside it.

"They've stopped, sir," said the driver, whispering down through the trap.

"I see that, damn them! What can it be for?"

"To give you a horsewhipping!" cried a man with a masked face, springing up on the footboard, and clutching the inquirer by the collar.

A piteous cry from Mr Swinton--for it was he--did not hinder him from being dragged out of his hansom, and receiving a chastisement he would remember to his dying day!

His driver, leaping from the box, made show to interfere. But he was met by another driver equally eager, and somewhat stronger; who, seizing him by the throat, did not let go his hold of him till he had fairly earned the additional sovereign!

A policeman who chanced to overhear the piteous cries of Swinton, came straddling up to the spot; but only after the scuffle had ended, and the wheels of a swift cab departing through the thick fog told him he was too late to take the aggressor into custody!

The spy proceeded no farther.

After being disembarrassed of the policeman, he was but too happy to be driven back to the villa in South Bank.

CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN.

DISINTERESTED SYMPATHY.

On arriving at his own residence, Swinton's servants scarcely recognised him. It was as much as his own wife could do. There were several dark weals traced diagonally across his cheeks, with a purple shading around his left "peeper"; for in punishing the spy, Maynard had made use not only of an implement of the hunting-field, but one more peculiar to the "ring."

With a skin full of sore bones, and many ugly abrasions, Swinton tottered indoors, to receive the sympathies of his beloved Fan.

She was not alone in bestowing them. Sir Robert Cottrell had dropped in during his absence; and the friendly baronet appeared as much pained as if the sufferer had been his brother.

He had less difficulty in counterfeiting sorrow. His chagrin at the quick return supplied him with an inspiration.

"What is it, my dear Swinton? For heaven's sake tell us what has happened to you?"

"You see, Sir Robert," answered the maltreated man.

"I see that you've suffered some damage. But who did it?"

"Footpads in the Park. I was driving around it to get to the east side. You know that horrid place this side of the Zoo Gardens?"

"Oh, yes," answered Sir Robert.

"Well; I'd got round there, when all at once the cab was stopped by half a score of scoundrels, and I was instantly pulled out into the road. While half of them took hold of the driver, the other half proceeded to search my pockets. Of course I resisted; and you see what's come of it. They'd have killed me but for a policeman who chanced to come up, after I'd done my best, and was about getting the worst of it. They then ran off, leaving me in this precious condition--damn them!"

"Damn them!" said Sir Robert, repeating the anathema with pretended indignation. "_Do_ you think there's no chance of your being able to identify them?"

"Not the slightest. The fog was so thick you could have cut it with a knife; and they ran off, before the policeman could get hold of any one of them. In his long cumbersome coat it would have been simple nonsense to follow. He said so; and of course I could only climb back into my cab and drive home here. It's lucky I had a cab; for, damme, if I believe I could have walked it?"

"By Jove! you do appear damaged!" said the sympathising baronet. "Don't you think you had better go to bed?"

Sir Robert had a design in the suggestion.

"Oh, no," rejoined Swinton, who, despite the confusion of his ideas, perfectly understood it. "I'm not so bad as that. I'll take a lie-down on this sofa; and you, Fan, order me some brandy and water! You'll join me, Sir Robert I'm still able to smoke a cigar with you."

"You'd better have an oyster to your eye?" said the baronet, drawing out his glass and scrutinising the empurpled peeper. "It will keep down that `mouse' that seems to be creeping out underneath it. 'Twill help to take out the colour."

"A devilish good idea! Fan, send one of the servants for an oyster. Stay; while they're about it they may as well bring a couple of dozen. Could you eat some, Sir Robert?"

Sir Robert thought he could. He did not much care for them, but it would be an excuse to procrastinate his stay. Perhaps something might turn up to secure him a _tete-a-tete_ with Mrs Swinton. He had just commenced one that was promising to be agreeable, when so unexpectedly interrupted.

"We may as well make a supper of it?" suggested Swinton, who, having already taken a gulp of the brandy and water, was feeling himself again.

"Let the servant order three dozen, my dear. That will be a dozen for each of us."

"No, it won't," jokingly rejoined the baronet. "With three dozen, some of us will have to be contented with eleven."

"How so, Sir Robert?"

"You forget the oyster that is to go to your eye. And now I look more carefully at that adolescent mouse, I think it will require at least a couple of the bivalves to give it a proper covering."

Swinton laughed at the baronet's ready wit. How could he help it?

"Well, let them be baker's dozen," he said. "That will cover everything." Three baker's dozen were ordered and brought Fan saw to them being stewed in the kitchen, and placed with appropriate "trimmings" on the table; while the biggest of them, spread upon a white rag, was laid against her husband's eye, and there snugly bandaged.

It blinded that one eye. Stingy as he was, Sir Robert would have given a sovereign had it shut the sight out of both!

But it did not; and the three sate down to supper, his host keeping the sound eye upon him.

And so carefully was it kept upon him, that the baronet felt bored with the situation, and wished himself back at his club.

He thought of making some excuse to escape from it; and then of staying, and trying to make the best of it. An idea occurred to him.

"This brute sometimes gets drunk," was his mental soliloquy, as he looked across the table at his host with the Cyclopean eye. "If I can make him so, there might be a chance of getting a word with her. I wonder whether it can be done? It can't cost much to try. Half a dozen of champagne ought to do it."

"I say, Swinton!" he said aloud, addressing his host in a friendly, familiar manner. "I never eat stewed oysters without champagne. Have you got any in the house? Excuse me for asking the question! It's a positive impertinence."

"Nothing of the sort, Sir Robert. I'm only sorry to say there's not a single bottle of champagne in my cellar. We've been here such a short while, and I've not had time to stock it. But no matter for that I can send out, and get--"

"No!" said the baronet, interrupting him. "I shan't permit that; unless you allow me to pay for it."

"Sir Robert!"

"Don't be offended, my dear fellow. That isn't what I mean. The reason why I've made the offer is because I know you can't get _real_ champagne in this neighbourhood--not nearer than Winckworth's. Now, it so happens, that they are my wine merchants. Let me send to them. It isn't very far. Your servant, in a hansom cab, can fetch the stuff, and be back in fifteen minutes. But to get the right stuff he must order it for _me_."

Sir Robert's host was not the man to stand upon punctilios. Good champagne was not so easily procured--especially in the neighbourhood of Saint John's Wood. He knew it; and, surrendering his scruples, he rang the bell for the servant, permitting Sir Robert to write out the order. It was _carte blanche_, both for the cab and champagne.

In less than twenty minutes the messenger returned, bringing back with him a basket of choice "_Cliquot_."

In five minutes more a bottle was uncorked; and the three sat quaffing it, Swinton, his wife, and the stingy nobleman who stood treat--not stingy now, over that which promised him a pleasure.

CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT.

AN IRKSOME IMPRISONMENT.

Succeeding his castigation, it was all of a week before Mr Swinton could make appearance upon the streets--during daylight.

The discoloration of his cheeks, caused by the horsewhip, was slow of coming out; and even the oyster kept on for twenty-four hours failed to eliminate the purple crescent under his eye.

He had to stay indoors--sneaking out only at night.

The pain was slight. But the chagrin was intolerable; and he would have given a good sum out of his spy pay to have had revenge upon the man who had so chastised him.

This was impossible; and for several reasons, among others, his ignorance of whom it was. He only knew that his chastiser had been a guest of Kossuth; and this from his having come out of Kossuth's house. He had not himself seen the visitor as he went in; and his subordinate, who shared with him the duplicate duty of watching and dogging, did not know him. He was a stranger who had not been there before--at least since the establishment of the picket.

From the description given of his person, as also what Swinton had himself seen of it through the thick fog--something, too, from what he had felt--he had formed, in his own mind, a suspicion as to whom the individual was. He could not help thinking of Maynard. It may seem strange he should have thought of him. But no; for the truth is, that Maynard was rarely out of his mind. The affair at Newport was a thing not easily forgotten. And there was the other affair in Paris, where Julia Girdwood had shown an interest in the Zouaves' captive that did not escape observation from her jealous escort.

He had been made aware of her brief absence from the Louvre Hotel, and conjectured its object. Notwithstanding the apparent slight she had put upon his rival in the Newport ball-room, he suspected her of a secret inclining to him--unknown to her mother.

It made Swinton savage to think of it; the more from a remembrance of another and older rivalry, in which the same man had outstripped him.

To be beaten in a love intrigue, backed out in a duel, and finally flogged with a horsewhip, are three distinct humiliations any one of which is enough to make a man savage.

And Swinton was so, to the point of ferocity.

That Maynard had done to him the two first, he knew--about the last he was not so certain. But he conjectured it was he who had handled the horsewhip. This, despite the obscurity caused by the fog, and the crape masking the face of his chastiser.

The voice that had accosted him did not sound like Maynard's, but it also may have been masked.

During the time he was detained indoors, he passed a portion of it in thinking of revenge, and studying how he was to obtain it.

Had his patron seen him, as he sat almost continually behind the Venetian, with his eyes upon Kossuth's gate, he would have given him credit for an assiduous attention to his duties.

But he was not so honest as he seemed. Many visitors entered the opposite house--some of them strange-looking characters, whose very stride spoke of revolution--entered and took departure, without being dogged.

The spy, brooding over his own private resentment had no thoughts to spare for the service of the State. Among the visitors of Kossuth he was desirous of identifying Captain Maynard.

He had no definite idea as to what he would do to him; least of all that of giving him into custody. The publicity of the police court would have been fatal to him--as damaging to his employer and patron. It might cause exposure of the existence of that spy system, hitherto unsuspected in England. The man, who had got out of the hansom to horsewhip him, must have known that he was being followed, and wherefore. It would never do for the British public to know it Swinton had no intention of letting them know; nor yet Lord --, and his employer. To the latter, calling occasionally of evenings, he told the same story as that imparted to Sir Robert Cottrell--only with the addition that, the footpads had set upon him while in the exercise of his avocation as a servant of the State!

The generous nobleman was shocked at his mishap; sympathised with him, but thought it better to say nothing about it; hinted at an increase of pay; and advised him, since he could not show himself during daylight on the streets, to take the air after night--else his health might suffer by a too close confinement.

The _protege_ accepted this advice; several times going out of an evening, and betaking himself to a Saint John's Wood tavern, where "euchre" was played in the parlour. He had now a stake, and could enjoy the game.

Twice, returning home at a late hour, he found the patron in his own parlour, quietly conversing with his wife. His lordship had simply called up to inquire after his health; and having also some instructions to communicate, had been impatiently awaiting his return.

The patron did not say impatiently. He would not have been so impolite. It was an interpolation proceeding from the lips of "Fan."

And Swinton saw all this; and much more. He saw new bracelets glistening upon his wife's wrist, diamond drops dangling from her ears, and a costly ring sparkling upon her finger--not there before!

He saw them, without inquiring whence they had come. He cared not; or if he did, it was not with any distaste at their secret bestowal. Sir Robert Cottrell saw them, with more displeasure than he.

CHAPTER SIXTY NINE.

THE CABRIOLET.

There was but one thing for which Richard Swinton really now cared. He liked "euchre"; he would have relished revenge; but there was a thought to which both these enjoyments had become subservient.

It was a passion rather than thought--its object, Julia Girdwood.

He had grown to _love_ her.

Such a man might be supposed incapable of having this passion. And in its purity, he was so.

But there is love in more ways than one; and in one of them the ex-guardsman's heart had got engaged; in other words, he had got "struck."

It was love in its lowest sense; but not on this account weakest.

In Swinton it had become strong enough to render him regardless of almost everything else. Even the villainous scheme, originally contrived for robbing Julia Girdwood of her fortune, had become secondary to a desire to possess himself of her person.

The former was not lost sight of; only that the latter had risen into the ascendant.

On this account, more than any other, did he curse his irksome indoor life.

It occurred just after that pleasant dinner-party, when he supposed himself to have made an impression. It hindered him from following it up. Six days had elapsed, and he had seen nothing of the Girdwoods. He had been unable to call upon them. How could he with such a face, even by explaining the damage done to it? Either way the thing was not to be thought of; and he had to leave them uncalled upon.

He fretted meanwhile, longing to look once more upon Julia Girdwood. Cards could not cure him of it, and what he saw, or suspected, in the conduct of his own wife, made him lean all the more to his longings; since the more did he stand in need of _distraction_.

He had other thoughts to distress him--fancies they might be. So long without seeing her, what in the meantime was transpiring? A beautiful woman, with wealth, she could not be going on unnoticed? Sure to be beset with admirers; some of them to become worshippers? There was Lucas, one of the last already; but Swinton did not deign to think of him. Others might make appearance; and among them one who would answer the conditions required by her mother before permitting her to marry.

How could he tell but that a real lord had already trumped up on the tapis; and was at that moment kneeling upon one of the Clarendon carpets, by the selvedge of her silken skirt?

Or if not a lord, might not Maynard be there, unknown to the mother?

Swinton had this last fancy; and it was the least pleasant of all.

It was in his mind every day, as he sat by the window, waiting till the skin of his face should be restored to its natural colour.

And when this at length came to pass, he lost not another day, but proceeded to call upon the Girdwoods.

He went in tip-top style. His spy pay, drawn from such a generous patron, afforded it. No swell upon the streets was dressed in better fashion; for he wore a Poole coat, Melnotte boots, and a hat of Christy's make.

He did not walk, as on his first call at the Clarendon.

He was transported thither in a cabriolet, with a high-stepping horse between the shafts, and a top-boot tiger on the stand-board.

Mrs Girdwood's apartments in the aristocratic hotel commanded a window fronting upon Bond Street. He knew that his turn-out would be seen.

All these steps had been taken, with a view to carrying on the cheat.

And the cabriolet had been chosen for a special purpose. It was the style of vehicle in vogue among distinguished swells--notably young noblemen. They were not often seen upon the streets; and when seen attracting attention, as they should--being the handsomest thing upon heels.

During one of her moments of enthusiasm, he had heard Julia Girdwood say she should like to have a ride in one of them. He was just the man to drive her: for while a guardsman he had often handled the ribbons of a drag; and was esteemed one of the best "whips" of his time.

If he could only coax Julia Girdwood into his cabriolet--of course also her mother to permit it--what an advantage it would give, him! An exhibition of his skill; the opportunity of a _tete-a-tete_ unrestrained--a chance he had not yet had; these, with other contingencies, might tend to advance him in her estimation.

It was a delicate proposal to make. It would have been a daring one, but for the speech he had heard suggesting it. On the strength of this he could introduce the subject, without fear of offending.

She might go. He knew she was a young lady fond of peculiar experiences, and not afraid of social criticism. She had never submitted to its tyranny. In this she was truly American.

He believed she would go, or consent to it; and it would be simply a question of permission from the mother.

And after their last friendly interview, he believed that Mrs Girdwood would give it.

Backed by such belief there could be no harm in trying; and for this the cabriolet had been chartered.

Buoyant of hope, Mr Swinton sprang out of the vehicle, tossed the reins to his tiger, and stepped over the threshold of the Clarendon.

CHAPTER SEVENTY.

A SKILFUL DRIVER.

"Mrs Girdwood at home?" he asked, addressing himself to the janitor of the hotel.

"I'll see, sir," answered the man, making him an obsequious bow, and hurrying away to the office.

The hall-keeper remembered the gent, who carried such good cigars, and was so liberal with them. He had been pleased with his appearance then. He liked it better now in a new coat, unquestionably a Poole, with pants, boots, and tile to correspond. Besides, he had glanced through the glass-door, and seen the cabriolet with its top-booted tiger. To the owners of such he was instinctively polite; but more so to Mr Swinton, remembering his choice cigars.

The ex-guardsman waited for his return with some anxiety. The cabriolet, tiger included, had cost him a "sov." It would be awkward, if the twenty shillings had been laid out in vain.

He was relieved at the return of the Clarendon Cerberus.

"Mrs Girdwood and fambly are in, sir. Shall I send up your card?"

"Please do."

And Swinton, drawing out the bit of pasteboard, handed it over to the official.

A servant more active upon his limbs carried it upstairs.

"Nice lady, sir, Mrs Girdwood?" remarked the hall-keeper, by way of "laying pipe" for a perquisite. "Nice fambly all on 'em; 'specially that young lady."

"Which of them?" asked Swinton, thinking it no harm to strengthen his friendship with the official. "There are two."

"Well, both on 'em for that matter, sir. They be both wonderful nice creeturs."

"Ah! true. But you've expressed a preference. Now which may I ask, is the one you refer to as specially nice?"

The janitor was puzzled. He did not know which it would be most agreeable to the gentleman to hear praised.

A compromise suggested itself.

"Well, sir; the fair un's a remarkable nice young lady. She's got sich a sweet temper, an's dreadfully good-lookin', too. But, sir, if it come to a question of beauty, I shed say--in course I ain't much of a judge-- but I shed say the dark 'un's a splendiferous creetur!"

The janitor's verdict left his judgment still somewhat obscure. But Mr Swinton had no time to reflect upon it Mrs Girdwood not caring for expense, occupied a suite of apartments on the first floor; and the messenger soon returned.

He brought the pleasing intelligence, that the gentleman was to be "shown up."

There was an _empressement_ in the servant's manner, that told the visitor he would be made welcome.

And he was; Mrs Girdwood springing up from her seat, and rushing to the door to receive him.

"My lord! Mr Swinton, I beg your pardon. A whole week, and you've not been near us! We were all wondering what had become of you. The girls here, had begun to think--shall I say it, girls?"

Both Julia and Cornelia looked a little perplexed. Neither was aware of what she had "begun to think" about the absence of Mr Swinton.

"Aw--do tell me, by all means!" urged he, appealing to Mrs Girdwood. "I'm vewy much intewested to know. It's so kind of the young ladies to think of me at all--a paw fawlorn bachelor!"

"I shall tell you then, Mr Swinton, if you promise not to be offended!"

"Offended! Impawsible?"

"Well, then," continued the widow, without thinking more of the permission asked of "her girls," "we thought that some terrible affair had happened. Excuse me for calling it terrible. It would only be so to your numerous lady friends."

"What, pway?"

"That you'd been getting married!"

"Mawied! To whom?"

"Oh, sir; you need scarcely ask. Of course to the Honourable and very beautiful Miss Courtney."

Swinton smiled. It was a smile somewhat resembling a grin. A terrible affair had happened to him; but not quite so bad as being married to the Honourable Geraldine Courtney--otherwise Kate the coper!

"Aw, ladies!" he replied in a self-deprecating tone, "you do me too much honaw. I am far from being a favowite with the lady in question. We are no gweat fwiends, I ashaw you."

The assurance seemed gratifying to Mrs Girdwood and a little to Julia. Cornelia did not appear to care for it, one way or the other.

"Fact is," continued Swinton, following up the advantage gained by the incidental allusion to the Honourable Geraldine, "I've just this moment come from qua'lling with her. She wished me to take her out faw a dwive. I wefused."

"Refused!" exclaimed Mrs Girdwood, in surprise. "Oh! Mr Swinton! Refused such a beautiful lady. So accomplished too! How could you?"

"Well, madam, as I've told you, Miss Courtney and I are not bwother and sister. Besides, I dwove her out yesterday, and that should pwead my excuse. To-day I ordered my horse--my best one--just faw a special purpose. I hope I shall not be disappointed?"

"What purpose?" inquired Mrs Girdwood, her visitor's remark having suggested the question. "Excuse me, sir, for asking."

"I hope, madam, yaw will excuse me for telling yaw. In a conversation that occurred some days ago, yaw daughter expressed a wish to take a wide in one of our English cabwiolets. Am I wight, Miss Girdwood?"

"True," assented Julia, "I did. I have a curiosity to be driven behind one of those high-stepping steeds!"

"If yaw will do me the fayvaw to look out of this window, I think yaw will see one that answers the descwiption."

Julia glided up to the window; her mother going along with her. Miss Inskip did not stir from her seat.

Swinton's turn-out was seen upon the street below: a cabriolet with a coat of arms upon the panel--a splendid horse between the shafts, pawing the pavement, chafing his bit, flinging the froth over his shining counter, and held in place by a miniature groom in top-boots and buckskins.

"What a pretty equipage?" exclaimed Julia. "I'm sure it must be pleasant to ride in?"

"Miss Girdwood; if yaw will do me the honaw--"

Julia turned to her mother, with a glance that said: "May I?"

"You may," was the look given back by Mrs Girdwood. How could she refuse? Had not Mr Swinton denied the Honourable Geraldine, and given the preference to her daughter? An airing would do her good. It could do her no harm, in the company of a lord. She was free to take it.

Mrs Girdwood signified her consent; and Julia hastened to dress for the drive.

There was frost in the air; and she came back from her room enveloped in costly furs.

It was a cloak of sea-otter, coquettishly trimmed, and becoming to her dark complexion. She looked superb in it.

Swinton thought so, as with hopeful heart, but trembling hand, he assisted her into the cabriolet!

The drive was round the Park, into Kensington Gardens, and then back to the Clarendon.

But not till after Mr Swinton had passed along Park Lane, and stopped at the door of a great nobleman's residence.

"It is very wude of me, Miss Girdwood," said he, "but I have a call to make on his lawdship by appointment; and I hope yaw will kindly excuse me?"

"By all means," said Julia, delighted with her accomplished cavalier, who had shown himself such a skilful driver.

"One moment--I shall not allow his lordship to detain me more than a moment."

And Swinton sprang out; surrendering the reins to his groom, already at the horse's head.

He was true to his promise. In a short time he returned--so short, that his lordship could scarce have done more than bid him the time of day.

In truth he had not seen the nobleman, nor intended seeing him either. It was a counterfeit call; and went no further than a word or two exchanged with the house steward inside the hall.

But he did not tell this to his fair companion in the cabriolet; and she was driven back into Bond Street, and landed triumphantly at the Clarendon, under the eyes of her mother, admiring her from the window.

When that lady had an account of the drive in general, but more especially of the call that had been made, her respect for Mr Swinton was still further increased. He was surely the thing sought for! And Julia began to think so too.

CHAPTER SEVENTY ONE.

A QUIET HOTEL.

By the drive Swinton believed himself to have achieved a grand success; and he determined to lose no time in following it up.

The ground seemed now well under him--enough to support him in making the proposal so long deferred.

And in less than three days from that time, he called at the Clarendon, and made it.

Favoured by an opportunity in which he found her alone, it was done direct to the young lady herself.

But the answer was not direct--nor definite in any way. It was neither a "yes" nor a "no." He was simply referred to her mother.

The equivocation was not exactly to his taste. It certainly seemed strange enough. Still, though a little chagrined, he was not altogether discomforted by it; for how could he anticipate refusal in the quarter to which he had been referred?

Obedient to the permission given him, he waited upon Girdwood _mere_; and to her repeated the proposal with all the eloquent advocacy he could command.

If the daughter's answer had not been definite, that of the mother was; and to a degree that placed Mr Swinton in a dilemma.

"Sir!" said she, "we feel very much honoured--both myself and daughter. But your lordship will excuse me for pointing out to you, that, in making this proposal, you appear to have forgotten something."

"Pway what, madam, may I ask?"

"Your lordship has not made it in your own name; nor have you yet told us your title. Until that is done, your lordship will see, how absurd it would be for either my daughter, or myself, to give you a decisive answer. We cannot!"

Mrs Girdwood did not speak either harshly, or satirically. On the contrary, she unburdened herself in the most conciliatory tone--in fear of offending his lordship, and causing him to declare "off."

She was but too anxious to secure him--that is, supposing him to be a lord. Had she known that he was not, her answer would have been delivered in very different terms; and the acquaintance between her and Mr Swinton would have ended, with as little ceremony as it had begun.

It seemed on the edge of such termination, as the pseudo-lord, stammering in his speech, endeavoured to make rejoinder.

And not much farther off, when this was made, and the old excuse still pleaded for preserving that inexplicable _incognito_!

Swinton was in truth taken by surprise; and scarce knew what to say.

But the American mother did; and in plain terms told him, that, until the title was declared, she must decline the proffered honour of having him for a son-in-law!

When _it_ was made known, he might expect a more categorical answer.

Her tone was not such as to make him despair. On the contrary, it clearly indicated that the answer would be favourable, provided the conditions were fulfilled.

But then, this was sufficient for despair. How was he to make her believe in his having a title?

"By possessing it?" he said to himself, as, after the fruitless interview, he strode off from the Clarendon Hotel. "By possessing it," he repeated. "And, by heavens! I shall possess it, as sure as my name's Swinton!"

Farther on he reflected:

"Yes! that's the way. I've got the old _rout_ in my power! Only needs one step more to secure him. And he shall give me whatever I ask--even to a title!"

"I know he can't make me a lord; but he can a knight or a baronet. It would be all the same to her; and with `Sir' to my name, she will no longer deny me. With that, I shall get Julia Girdwood and her two hundred thousand pounds!"

"By heaven! I care more for her, than her money. The girl has got into my heart. I shall go mad, if I fail to get her into my arms?"

Thus wildly reflecting, he continued to traverse the streets: down Bond Street, along Piccadilly, into the neighbourhood of Leicester Square.

As if the devil had turned up to aid him in his evil designs, an episode occurred in exact consonance with them. It seemed an accident--though who could tell that it was one; since it might have been prearranged?

He was standing by the lamp-post, in the centre of the Piccadilly Circus, when a cab drove past, containing two fares--a lady and gentleman.

Both were keeping their faces well back from the window; the lady's under a thick veil; while that of the gentleman was screened by a copy of the _Times_ newspaper held cunningly in hand, as if he was intensely interested in the perusal of some thundering leader!

In spite of this, Swinton recognised the occupants of the cab--both of them. The lady was his own wife; the gentleman his noble patron of Park Lane!

The cab passed him, without any attempt on his part to stay it. He only followed, silently, and at a quick pace.

It turned down the Haymarket, and drew up by the door of one of those quiet hotels, known only to those light travellers who journey without being encumbered with luggage.

The gentleman got out; the lady after; and both glided in through a door, that stood hospitably open to receive them.

The cabman, whose fare had been paid in advance, drove immediately away.

"Enough!" muttered Swinton, with a diabolical grin upon his countenance. "That will do. And now for a witness to make good my word in a court of--Ha! ha! ha! It will never come to that."

Lest it should, he hastened to procure the witness. He was just in the neighbourhood to make such a thing easy. He knew Leicester Square, its every place and purlieu; and among others one where he could pitch upon a "pal."

In less than fifteen minutes' time, he found one; and in fifteen more, the two might have been seen standing at the corner of--Street, apparently discussing of some celestial phenomenon that absorbed the whole of their attention!

They had enough left to give to a lady and gentleman, who shortly after came out of the "quiet hotel"--the lady first, the gentleman at an interval behind her.

They did not discover themselves to the lady, who seemed to pass on without observing them.

But as the gentleman went skulking by, both turned their faces towards him.

He, too, looked as if he did not see them; but the start given, and the increased speed at which he hurried on out of sight, told that he had recognised at least one of them, with a distinctness that caused him to totter in his steps!

The abused husband made no movement to follow him. So far he was safe; and in the belief that he--or she at least--had escaped recognition, he walked leisurely along Piccadilly, congratulating himself on his _bonne fortune_!

He would have been less jubilant, could he have heard the muttered words of his _protege_, after the latter had parted from his "pal."

"I've got it right now," said he. "Knighthood for Richard Swinton, or a divorce from his wife, with no end of damages! God bless the dear Fan, for playing so handsomely into my hand! God bless her?"

And with this infamy on his lips, the _ci-devant_ guardsman flung himself into a hansom cab, and hastened home to Saint John's Wood.

CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO.

WANTED--A MASTER!

Having changed from soldier to author, Maynard was not idle in his new avocation.

Book after book came from his facile pen; each adding to the reputation achieved by his first essay in the field of literature:

A few of the younger spirits of the press--that few _addicti curare verbis nullius magistri_--at once boldly pronounced in their favour: calling them works of genius.

But the older hands, who constitute the members of the "Mutual Admiration Society"--those disappointed aspirants, who in all ages and countries assume the criticism of art and authorship--could see in Maynard's writings only "sensation."

Drawing their inspiration from envy, and an influence not less mean-- from that _magister_, the leading journal, whose very nod was trembling to them--they endeavoured to give satisfaction to the despot of the press, by depreciating the efforts of the young author.

They adopted two different modes of procedure: Some of them said nothing. These were the wiser ones; since the silence of the critic is his most eloquent condemnation. They were wiser, too, in that their words were in no danger of contradiction. The others spoke, but sneeringly and with contempt. They found vent for their spleen by employing the terms "melodrama," "blue-fire," and a host of hackneyed phrases, that, like the modern slang "sensational," may be conveniently applied to the most classic conceptions of the author.

How many of the best works of Byron, Shakespeare, and Scott, would escape the "sensation" category?

They could not deny that Maynard's writings had attained a certain degree of popularity. This had been achieved without their aid. But it was only evidence of the corrupted taste of the age.

When was there an age, without this corrupted taste?

His writings would not live. Of that they were certain!

They have lived ever since; and sold too, to the making of some half-dozen fortunes--if not for himself, for those upon whom he somewhat unwarily bestowed them.

And they promise to abide upon the bookshelves a little longer; perhaps not with any grand glory--but certainly not with any great accumulation of dust.

And the day may come, when these same critics may be dead and the written thoughts of Mr Maynard be no longer deemed _merely sensations_.

He was not thinking of this while writing them. He was but pursuing a track, upon which the chances of life had thrown him.

Nor was it to him the most agreeable. After a youth spent in vigorous personal exertion--some of it in the pursuit of stirring adventure--the tranquil atmosphere of the studio was little to his taste. He endured it under the belief that it was only to be an episode.

Any new path, promising adventure, would have tempted him from his chair, and caused him to fling his pen into the fire.

None offered; and he kept on writing--writing--and thinking of Blanche Vernon.

And of her he thought unhappily; for he dared not write to her. That was a liberty denied him; not only from its danger, but his own delicate sense of honour.

It would have been denied him, too, from his not knowing her address. He had heard that Sir George Vernon had gone once more abroad--his daughter along with him. Whither, he had not heard; nor did he make much effort to ascertain. Enough for him that abroad or at home, he would be equally excluded from the society of that young creature, whose image was scarce ever absent from his thoughts.

There were times, when it was painfully present; and he sought abstraction by a vigorous exercise of his pen.

At such times he longed once more to take up the sword as a more potent consoler; but no opportunity seemed to offer.

One night he was reflecting upon this--thinking of some filibustering expedition into which he might fling himself--when a knock came to his door, as of some spirit invoked by his wishes.

"Come in!"

It was Roseveldt who answered the summons.

The Count had become a resident of London--an idler upon town--for want of congenial employment elsewhere.

Some fragment of his fortune still remaining, enabled him to live the life of a _flaneur_, while his title of nobility gave him the _entree_ of many a good door.

But, like Maynard, he too was pining for an active life, and disgusted to look daily upon his sword, rusting ingloriously in its sheath!

By the mode in which he made entry, something whispered Maynard, that the time had come when both were to be released from their irksome inaction. The Count was flurried, excited, tugging at his moustache, as if he intended tearing it away from his lip!

"What is it, my dear Roseveldt?"

"Don't you smell gunpowder?"

"No."

"There's some being burnt by this time."

"Where?"

"In Milan. The revolution's broke out there. But I've no time to talk to you. Kossuth has sent me for you post-haste. He wants you to come at once. Are you ready?"

"You're always in such haste, my dear Count. But when Kossuth commands, you know my answer. I'm ready. It only needs to put on my hat."

"On with it then, and come along with me!"

From Portman Square to Saint John's Wood is but a step; and the two were soon traversing the somewhat crooked causeway of South Bank.

When close to Kossuth's residence they passed a man who stood, watch in hand, under a street-lamp--as if trying to ascertain the time of night.

They knew he was shamming, but said nothing; and went on, soon after entering the house.

Kossuth was within; and along with him several distinguished Hungarians.

"Captain Maynard!" he exclaimed, stepping out of the circle, and saluting his new-come guest.

Then taking him aside, he said:

"Look at this!"

While speaking, he had placed a slip of paper in Maynard's hands. It was written in cipher.

"A telegram?" muttered the latter, seeing the hieroglyphics.

"Yes," said Kossuth, proceeding to translate and explain them. "The revolution has broken out in Milan. It is a rash affair, and, I fear, will end in defeat--perhaps ruin. Mazzini has done it, in direct opposition to my wishes and judgment Mazzini is too sanguine. So are Turr and the others. They count on the Hungarian regiments stationed there, with the influence of my name among them. Giuseppe has taken a liberty with it, by using an old proclamation of mine, addressed to those regiments, while I was still prisoner at Kutayah. He has put it forth at Milan, only altering the date. I wouldn't so much blame him for that, if I didn't believe it to be sheer madness. With so many Austrians in the garrison at Milan--above all, those hireling Bohemian regiments--I don't think there's a chance of our success."

"What do _you_ intend doing, Governor?"

"As to that, I have no choice. The game's begun, and I must take part in it, _coute que coute_. This telegram is from my brave Turr, and he thinks there's a hope. Whether or no, it will be necessary for me to go to them."

"You are going then?"

"At once--if I can get there. Therein, my dear sir, lies the difficulty. It is for that I have taken the liberty of sending for you."

"No liberty, Governor. What can I do for you?"

"Thanks, dear captain! I shall waste no words, but say at once what I want with you. The only way for me to get to Milan is through the territory of France. I might go round by the Mediterranean; but that would take time. I should be too late. Across France then must I go, or not at all."

"And what is to hinder you from travelling through France?"

"Louis Napoleon."

"True, he would--I need not have asked the question."

"He'd be sure to place me under arrest, and keep me so, as long as my liberty is deemed dangerous to the crowned conspirators. He has become their most trusted tipstaff and detective. There's not one of his _sergents-de-ville_ who has not got my portrait in his pocket. The only chance left me, to run the gauntlet through France, is to travel in disguise. It is for that I want _you_."

"How can I assist you, my dear Governor?"

"By making me your servant--your _valet du voyage_." Maynard could not help smiling at the idea. The man who had held mastery over a whole nation, who had created an army of two hundred thousand men, who had caused trembling throughout the thrones of Europe--that man to be obsequiously waiting upon him, brushing his coat, handing him his hat, and packing his portmanteau!

"Before you make answer," continued the ex-Dictator of Hungary, "let me tell you all. If taken in France, you will have to share my prison; if upon Austrian territory, your neck, like my own, will be in danger of a halter. Now, sir, do you consent?" It was some seconds before Maynard made reply; though it was not the halter that hindered him. He was thinking of many other things--among them Blanche Vernon.

Perhaps but for the reminiscence of that scene under the _deodara_, and its results, he might have hesitated longer--have even turned recreant to the cause of revolutionary liberty!

Its memory but stimulated him to fresh efforts for freedom, and without staying longer, he simply said: "I consent?"

CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE.

PURCHASING A PASSPORT.

Twenty-four hours must elapse before Kossuth and his companion--or rather Captain Maynard and his servant--could set out on their perilous expedition.

It was of rigorous necessity that a passport should be obtained--either from the consular agent of France, or the British Foreign Office; and for this purpose daylight would be needed--in other words, it could not be had before the next day.

Kossuth chafed at the delay; and so, too, his new master--cursing, not for the first time, the vile system of passports.

Little thought either, that this delay was a fortunate thing for them--a circumstance to which they were perhaps indebted for the saving of their lives!

Maynard preferred taking out the passport from the French consular agency. This, on account of less trouble and greater despatch, the British Foreign Office, in true red tape style, requiring the applicant to be _known_! Several days are often consumed before John Bull, going abroad, can coax his minister to grant him the scrap of paper necessary to his protection!

He must be first endorsed, by a banker, clergyman, or some other of the noted respectabilities of the land! John's master don't encourage vagabondage.

The French passport agent is more accommodating. The meagre emolument of his office makes the cash perquisite a consideration. For this reason the service is readily rendered.

Maynard, however, did not obtain the document without some difficulty. There was the question of his servant, who ought to have been there along with him!

The flunkey must present himself in _propria persona_! in order that his description should be correctly given upon the passport.

So said the French functionary in a tone of cold formality that seemed to forbid expostulation!

Although Maynard knew, that by this time, the noble Magyar had sacrificed his splendid beard, his fine face was too well-known about London to escape recognition in the streets. Especially would it be in danger of identification in the French consular office, King William Street, either by the passport agent himself or the half-score of lynx-eyed spies always hanging around it.

Kossuth's countenance could never be passed off for the visage of a valet!

But Maynard thought of a way to get over the difficulty. It was suggested by the seedy coat, and hungry look, of the French official.

"It will be very inconvenient," he said. "I live in the West End, full five miles off. It's a long way to go, and merely to drag my servant back with me. I'd give a couple of sovereigns to be spared the trouble."

"I'm sorry," rejoined the agent, all at once becoming wonderfully civil to the man who seemed to care so little for a couple of sovereigns. "It's the regulation, as monsieur must know. But--if monsieur--"

The man paused, permitting the "but" to have effect.

"You would greatly oblige by saving me the necessity--"

"Could monsieur give an exact description of his servant?"

"From head to foot."

"_Tres bien_! Perhaps that will be sufficient." Without farther parley, a word-painting of the ex-dictator of Hungary was done upon stamped paper.

It was a full-length portrait, giving his height, age, the hue of his hair, the colour of his skin, and the capacity in which he was to serve.

From the written description, not a bad sort of body-servant should be "James Dawkins."

[This is an actual fact. I still have in my possession the passport. E.R.]

"Exceedingly obliged, monsieur!" said Maynard, receiving the sheet from the agent, at the same time slipping into the hand that gave it a couple of shining sovereigns. Then adding, "Your politeness has saved me a world of trouble," he hastened out of the office, leaving the Frenchman in a state of satisfied surprise with a grimace upon his countenance that only a true son of Gaul can give.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Early in the afternoon of that same day, master and man were quite ready to start.

The portmanteaus were packed, their travelling gear arranged, and tickets had been secured for the night mail, via Dover and Calais.

They only waited for the hour of its departure from London.

It was a singular conclave--that assembled in one of the rooms of Kossuth's residence in Saint John's Wood.

It consisted of eight individuals; every one of whom bore a title either hereditary or honourably acquired.

All were names well-known, most of them highly distinguished. Two were counts of Hungary, of its noblest blood--one a baron of the same kingdom; while three were general officers, each of whom had commanded a _corps d'armee_.

The seventh, and lowest in rank, was a simple captain--Maynard himself.

And the eighth--who was he?