The Child Wife

That morning he remembered it more bitterly than ever; for he had failed in his scheme of revenge, and Kossuth was still unharmed.

There was the usual inspiration given to the newspapers, and the customary outpouring of abuse upon the head of the illustrious exile.

He was vilified as a disturber, who dared not show himself on the scene of disturbance; but promoted it from his safe asylum in England. He was called a “revolutionary assassin!”

For a time there was a cloud upon his name, but not for long. To defend him once more appeared Maynard with his trenchant pen. He knew, and could tell the truth.

He did tell it, hurling back his taunt upon the anonymous slanderer, by styling him the “assassin of the desk.”

In fine, Kossuth’s character came out, not only unscathed, but, in the eyes of all true men, stood clearer than ever.

It was this that chafed the vindictive spirit of his lordship, as he sate smoking an “emperor.”

The influence of the nicotian weed seemed gradually to tranquillise him, and the shadow disappeared from his brow.

And he had solace from another source – from reflection on a triumph achieved; not in the fields of diplomacy or war, but the court of Cupid. He was thinking of the many facile conquests he had made – consoling himself with the thought, that old age has its compensation, in fame, money, and power.

More particularly was his mind dwelling on his newest and latest amourette, with the wife of his protégé, Swinton. He had reason to think it a success; and attributing this to his own powers of fascination – in which he still fancifully believed – he continued to puff away at his cigar in a state of dreamy contentment.

It was a rude disturber to his Sardanapalian train of thought, as a footman gliding into the room, placed a card in his hand that carried the name of “Swinton.”

“Where is he?” was the question curtly put to the servant. “Drawin’-room, your ludship.”

“You should not have shown him there, till you’d learnt whether it was convenient for me to receive him.”

“Pardon, your ludship. He walked right in ’ithout bein’ asked – sayin’ he wished very partickler to speak with your ludship.”

“Show him in here, then?” The flunkey made obeisance, and withdrew. “What can Swinton want now? I have no business with him to-day; nor any more, for that matter, if I could conveniently get rid of him. Walked straight in without being asked! And wishes particularly to speak with me! Rather cool that!”

His lordship was not quite cool himself, while making the reflection. On the contrary, a sudden pallor had shown itself on his cheeks, with a whiteness around the lips, as when a man is under the influence of some secret apprehension.

“I wonder if the fellow has any suspicion – ”

His lordship’s reflection was stayed by the entrance of the “fellow” himself.

Chapter Seventy Six.

A Modest Demand

The aspect of his protégé, as he stepped inside the room, was anything but reassuring to the sexagenarian deceiver.

On the contrary, his pale cheeks became paler, his white lips whiter. There was something in the ex-guardsman’s eye and air that bespoke a man having a grievance!

More than that, a man determined on its being righted. Nor could his lordship mistake that it was against himself. The bold, almost bullying, attitude of his visitor, so different from that hitherto held by him, showed that, whatever might be his suit, it was not to be pressed with humility.

“What is it, my dear Swinton?” asked his scared patron, in a tone of pretended conciliation. “Is there anything I can do for you to-day? Have you any business?”

“I have; and a very disagreeable business at that.” In the reply, “his lordship” did not fail to remark the discourteous omission of his title.

“Indeed?” he exclaimed, without pretending to notice it. “Disagreeable business? With whom?”

“With yourself, my lord.”

“Ah! you surprise – I do not understand you, Mr Swinton.”

“Your lordship will, when I mention a little circumstance that occurred last Friday afternoon. It was in a street south side of Leicester Square.” It was as much as his lordship could do to retain his seat. He might as well have risen; since the start he gave, on hearing the name, told that he knew all about the “little circumstance.”

“Sir – Mr Swinton! I do not comprehend you!”

“You do – perfectly?” was Swinton’s reply, once more disrespectfully omitting the title. “You should know,” he continued, “since you were in that same street, at the same time.”

“I deny it.”

“No use denying it. I chanced to be there myself, and saw you. And, although your lordship did keep your lordship’s face well turned away, there can be no difficulty in swearing to it – neither on my part nor that of the gentleman who chanced to be along with me; and who knows your lordship quite as well as I.”

There was title enough in this speech, but coupled with too much sarcasm.

“And what if I was in – Street at the time you say?” demanded the accused in a tone of mock defiance.

“Not much in that. – Street’s as free to your lordship as to any other man. A little more free, I suspect. But then, your lordship was seen to come out of a certain house in that respectable locality, followed by a lady whom I have also good reason to know, and can certainly swear to. So can the friend who was with me.”

“I cannot help ladies following me out of houses. The thing; I presume, was purely accidental.”

“But not accidental her going in along with you – especially as your lordship had shown her the courtesy to hand her out of a cab, after riding some way through the streets with her! Come, my lord, it’s of no use your endeavouring to deny it. Subterfuge will not serve you. I’ve been witness to my own dishonour, as have several others besides. I seek reparation.”

If all the thrones in Europe had been at that moment tumbling about his ears, the arch-conspirator of crowned heads would not have been more stunned by the délabrement. Like his celebrated prototype, he cared not that after him came the deluge; but a deluge was now threatening himself – a deep, damning inundation, that might engulf not only a large portion of his fortune, but a large measure of his fame!

He was all the more frightened, because both had already suffered from a shock somewhat similar.

He knew himself guilty, and that it could be proved!

He saw how idle would be the attempt to justify himself. He had no alternative but to submit to Swinton’s terms; and he only hoped that these, however onerous, might be obtained without exposure.

The pause that had occurred in the conversation was positively agonising to him. It was like taking the vulture from his liver, when Swinton spoke again, in a tone that promised compromise.

“My lord,” he said, “I feel that I am a dishonoured man. But I’m a poor man, and cannot afford to go to law with your lordship.”

“Why should you, Mr Swinton?” asked the nobleman, hastily catching at the straw thus thrown out to him. “I assure you it is all a mistake. You have been deceived by appearances. I had my reasons for holding a private conversation with the lady you suspect; and I could not just at the moment think of anywhere else to go.”

It was a poor pretence; and Swinton received it with a sneer. His lordship did not expect otherwise. He was but speaking to give his abused protégé a chance of swallowing the dishonour.

“You’re the last man in the world,” he continued, “with whom I should wish to have a misunderstanding. I’d do anything to avoid it; and if there be any service I may render you, name it. Can you think of anything I may do?”

“I can, my lord.”

“What is it you would wish?”

“A title. Your lordship can bestow it?” This time the nobleman started right out of his chair, and stood with eyes staring, and lips aghast. “You are mad, Mr Swinton!”