The Child Wife

“And I tell you, Cornelia, if a peeress, or the most obscure thing with ‘Lady’ tacked to her name, but bows to one of them, it is remembered throughout their life, and talked of every day among their connections. Only think of that old banker where mamma took us to dine the other day. He had one of the Queen’s slippers framed in a glass case, and placed conspicuously upon his drawing-room mantelshelf. And with what gusto the old snob descanted upon it! How he came to get possession of it; the price he paid; and his exquisite self-gratulation at being able to leave it as a valued heirloom to his children – snobbish as himself! Faugh! ’Tis a flunkeyism intolerable. Among American merchants, one is at least spared such experience as that. Even our humblest shopkeepers would scorn so to exhibit themselves!”

“True, true!” assented Cornelia; who remembered her own father, an humble shopkeeper in Poughkeepsie, and knew that he would have scorned it.

“Yes,” continued Julia, returning to her original theme, “of all cities in the world, give me New York. I can say of it, as Byron did of England, ‘With all thy faults, I love thee still!’ though I suspect when the great poet penned that much-quoted line, he must have been very tired of Italy and the stupid Countess Guiccioli.”

“Ha – ha – ha!” laughed the Poughkeepsian cousin, “what a girl you are, Julia! Well, I’m glad you like our dear native New York.”

“Who wouldn’t, with its gay, pleasant people, and their cheerful give and take? Many faults it has, I admit; bad municipal management – wholesale political corruption. These are but spots on the outward skin of its social life, and will one day be cured. Its great, generous heart, sprung from Hibernia, is still uncontaminated.”

“Hurrah! hurrah!” cried Cornelia, springing up from her seat and clapping her little hands. “I’m glad, cousin, to hear you speak thus of the Irish!”

It will be remembered that she was the daughter of one.

“Yes,” said Julia, for the third time; “New York, of all places, for me! I’m now convinced it’s the finest city in the world!”

“Don’t be so quick in your conclusions, my love! Wait till you’ve seen Paris! Perhaps you may change your mind!”

It was Mrs Girdwood who made these remarks, entering the room at the conclusion of her daughter’s rhapsody.

“I’m sure I won’t mother. Nor you neither. We’ll find Paris just as we’ve found London; the same selfishness, the same social distinctions, the same flunkeyism. I’ve no doubt all monarchical countries are alike.”

“What are you talking about, child? France is now a republic.”

“A nice republic, with an Emperor’s nephew for its President – or rather its Dictator! Every day, as the papers tell us, robbing the people of their rights!”

“Well, my daughter, with that we’ve got nothing to do. No doubt these revolutionary hot-heads need taming down a little, and a Napoleon should be the man to do it. I’m sure we’ll find Paris a very pleasant place. The old titled families, so far from being swept off by the late revolution, are once more holding up their heads. ’Tis said the new ruler encourages them. We can’t fail to get acquainted with some of them. It’s altogether different from the cold-blooded aristocracy of England.”

The last remark was made in a tone of bitterness. Mrs Girdwood had been now several months in London; and though stopping at the Clarendon Hotel – the caravanserai of aristocratic travellers – she had failed to get introduction to the titled of the land.

The American Embassy had been polite to her, both Minister and Secretary – the latter, noted for his urbanity to all, but especially to his own countrymen, or countrywomen, without distinction of class. The Embassy had done all that could be one for an American lady travelling without introductions. But, however rich and accomplished, however beautiful the two girls in her train, Mrs Girdwood could not be presented at Court, her antecedents not being known.

It is true a point might have been strained in her favour; but the American ambassador of that day was as true a toad-eater to England’s aristocracy as could have been found in England itself, and equally fearful of becoming compromised by his introductions. We need not give his name. The reader skilful in diplomatic records can no doubt guess it.

Under these circumstances, the ambitious widow had to submit to a disappointment.

She found little difficulty in obtaining introductions to England’s commonalty. Her riches secured this. But the gentry! these were even less accessible than the exclusives of Newport – the J.’s, and the L.’s, and the B.’s. Titled or untitled, they were all the same. She discovered that a simple country squire was as unapproachable as a peer of the realm – earl, marquis, or duke!

“Never mind, my girls!” was her consolatory speech, to daughter and niece, when the scales first fell from her eyes. “His lordship will soon be here, and then it will be all right.”

His lordship meant Mr Swinton, who had promised to follow them in the “next steamaw.”

But the next steamer came with no such name as Swinton on its passenger list, nor any one bearing the title of “lord.”

And the next, and the next, and some half-dozen others, and still no Swinton, either reported by the papers, or calling at the Clarendon Hotel!

Could an accident have happened to the nobleman, travelling incognito? Or, what caused more chagrin to Mrs Girdwood to conjecture, had he forgotten his promise?

In either case he ought to have written. A gentleman would have done so – unless dead.

But no such death had been chronicled in the newspapers. It could not have escaped the notice of the retail storekeeper’s widow, who each day read the London Times, and with care its list of arrivals.

She became at length convinced, that the accomplished nobleman accidentally picked up in Newport, and afterwards entertained by her in her Fifth Avenue house in New York, was either no nobleman at all, or if one, had returned to his own country under another travelling name, and was there fighting shy of her acquaintance.

It was but poor comfort that many of her countrymen – travellers like themselves – every day called upon them; among others Messrs Lucas and Spiller – such was the cognomen of Mr Lucas’s friend, who, also on a tour of travel, had lately arrived in England.

But neither of them had brought any intelligence, such as Mrs Girdwood sought. Neither knew anything of the whereabouts of Mr Swinton.

They had not seen him since the occasion of that dinner in the Fifth Avenue house; nor had they heard of him again.

It was pretty clear then he had come to England, and was “cutting” them – that is, Mrs Girdwood and her girls.

This was the mother’s reflection.

The thought was enough to drive her out of the country; and out of it she determined to go, partly in search of that title for her daughter she had come to Europe to obtain; and partly to complete, what some of her countrymen are pleased to call, the “Ewropean tower.”

To this the daughter was indifferent, while the niece of coarse made no objection.

They proceeded upon their travels.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

The Lost Lord

Ten days after Mrs Girdwood had taken her departure from the Clarendon Hotel, a gentleman presented himself to the door-porter of that select hostelry, and put the following inquiry:

“Is there a family stopping here, by name Girdwood – a middle-aged lady, with two younger – her daughter and niece; a negro woman for their servant?”

“There was such a fambly – about two weeks ago. They’ve paid their bill, and gone away.”

The janitor laid emphasis on the paying of the bill. It was his best evidence of the respectability of the departed guests.

“Do you know where they’ve gone?”

“Haven’t an idea, sir. They left no address. They ’pear to be Yankees – ’Mericans, I mean,” said the man, correcting himself, in fear of giving offence. “Very respectable people – ladies, indeed – ’specially the young ’uns. I dare say they’ve gone back to the States. That’s what I’ve heerd them call their country.”

“To the States! Surely not?” said the stranger, half questioning himself. “How long since they left the hotel?”

“About a fortnight ago – there or thereabout. I can look at the book and tell you?”

“Pray do!”

The Cerberus of the Clarendon – to an humble applicant for admission into that aristocratic establishment not much milder than he of the seven heads – turned into his box, and commenced examining the register of departures.

He was influenced to this civility by the aspect of the individual who made the request. To all appearance a “reg’lar gentleman,” was the reflection he had indulged in.

“Departures on the 25th,” spoke he, reading from the register: “Lord S – and Lady S – ; the Hon. Augustus Stanton; the Duchess of P – ; Mrs Girdwood and fambly – that’s them. They left on the 25th, sir.”

“The 25th. At what hour?”