The Child Wife

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 tête-à-tête 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.