The Child Wife

“By my cousin Blanche.”

“When, and where?”

“Well, I suppose while he was getting ready to go; and as to the where, I presume it was done by Blanche in her bedroom. She went there after – what you saw.”

Sir George listened to this information with as much coolness as he could command. Still, there was a twitching of the facial muscles, and a pallor overspreading his cheeks, his nephew could not fail to notice.

“Proceed, Frank!” he said, in a faltering voice, “go on, and tell me all. How did you become acquainted with this?”

“By the merest accident,” pursued the willing informant. “I was outside the drawing-room, resting between two dances. It was just at the time Captain Maynard was going off. From where I was standing, I could see up the stairway to the top landing. He was there talking to Sabina, and as it appeared to me, in a very confidential manner. I saw him slip something into her hand – a piece of money, I suppose – just after she had dropped something white into the pocket of his overcoat. I could tell it was paper – folded in the shape of a note.”

“Are you sure it was that?”

“Quite sure, uncle. I had no doubt of it at the time; and said to myself, ‘It’s a note that’s been written by my cousin, who has sent Sabina to give it to him.’ I’d have stopped him on the stair and made him give it up again, but for raising a row in the house. You know that would never have done.”

Sir George did not hear the boasting remark. He was not listening to it His soul was too painfully absorbed – reflecting upon this strange doing of his daughter.

“Poor child!” muttered he in sad soliloquy. “Poor innocent child! And this, after all my care, my ever-zealous guardianship, my far more than ordinary solicitude. Oh God! to think I’ve taken a serpent into my house, who should thus turn and sting me!”

The baronet’s feelings forbade farther conversation; and Scudamore was dismissed to his bed.

Chapter Sixty Two.

Unsociable Fellow-Travellers

The train by which Maynard travelled made stop at the Sydenham Station, to connect with the Crystal Palace.

The stoppage failed to arouse him from the reverie into which he had fallen – painful after what had passed.

He was only made aware of it on hearing voices outside the carriage, and only because some of these seemed familiar.

On looking out, he saw upon the platform a party of ladies and gentlemen.

The place would account for their being there at so late an hour – excursionists to the Crystal Palace – but still more, a certain volubility of speech, suggesting the idea of their having dined at the Sydenham Hotel.

They were moving along the platform, in search of a first-class carriage for London.

As there were six of them, an empty one would be required – the London and Brighton line being narrow gauge.

There was no such carriage, and therefore no chance of them getting seated together. The dining party would have to divide.

“What a baw!” exclaimed the gentleman who appeared to act as the leader, “a dooced baw! But I suppose there’s no help for it. Aw – heaw is a cawage with only one in it?”

The speaker had arrived in front of that in which Maynard sate —solus, and in a corner.

“Seats for five of us,” pursued he. “We’d better take this, ladies. One of us fellaws must stow elsewhere.”

The ladies assenting, he opened the door, and stood holding the handle.

The three ladies – there were three of them – entered first.

It became a question which of the three “fellaws” was to be separated from such pleasant travelling-companions – two of them being young and pretty.

“I’ll go,” volunteered he who appeared the youngest and least consequential of the trio.

The proposal was eagerly accepted by the other two – especially him who held the handle of the door.

By courtesy he was the last to take a seat. He had entered the carriage, and was about doing so; when all at once a thought, or something else, seemed to strike him – causing him to change his design.

“Aw, ladies!” he said, “I hope yaw will pardon me for leaving yaw to go into the smoking cawage. I’m dying for a cigaw.”

Perhaps the ladies would have said, “Smoke where you are;” but there was a stranger to be consulted, and they only said:

“Oh, certainly, sir.”

If any of them intended an additional observation, before it could have been made he was gone.

He had shot suddenly out upon the platform, as if something else than smoking was in his mind!

They thought it strange – even a little impolite.

“Mr Swinton’s an inveterate smoker,” said the oldest of the three ladies, by way of apologising for him.

The remark was addressed to the gentleman, who had now sole charge of them.

“Yes; I see he is,” replied the latter, in a tone that sounded slightly ironical.

He had been scanning the solitary passenger, in cap and surtout, who sate silent in the corner.

Despite the dim light, he had recognised him; and felt sure that Swinton had done the same.

His glance guided that of the ladies; all of whom had previous acquaintance with their fellow-passenger. One of the three started on discovering who it was.

For all this there was no speech – not even a nod of recognition. Only a movement of surprise, followed by embarrassment.

Luckily the lamp was of oil, making it difficult to read the expression on their faces.

So thought Julia Girdwood; and so too her mother.

Cornelia cared not. She had no shame to conceal.

But Louis Lucas liked the obscurity; for it was he who was in charge.

He had dropped down upon the seat, opposite to the gentleman who had shot his Newfoundland dog!

It was not a pleasant place; and he instantly changed to the stall that should have been occupied by Mr Swinton.

He did this upon pretence of sitting nearer to Mrs Girdwood.