The Child Wife

“I am not mad, my lord! I mean what I say.”

“Why, sir, to procure you a title would create a scandal that might cost me my reputation. The thing’s not to be thought of. Such honours are only bestowed upon – ”

“Upon those who do just such services as I. All stuff, my lord, to talk of distinguished services to the State. I suppose that’s what you were going to say. It may do very well for the ears of the unwashed; but it has no meaning in mine. If merit were the means of arriving at such distinction, we’d never have heard of such patents of nobility as Lord B – , and the Earl of C – , and Sir H. N – , and some threescore others I could quote. Why, my lord, it’s the very absence of merit that gave these gentlemen the right to be written about by Burke. And look at Burke himself, made ‘Sir Bernard’ for being but the chronicler of your heraldry. Pretty, pretty service to the State, that is! I’m sure I’ve as good right as he.”

“I don’t deny that, Mr Swinton. But you know it’s not a question of right, but expediency.”

“So be it, my lord. Mine is just such a case.”

“I tell you I dare not do it.”

“And I tell you, you dare! Your lordship may do almost anything. The British public believe you have both the power and the right, even to make the laws of the land. You’ve taught them to think so; and they know no better. Besides, you are at this moment so popular. They think you perfection!”

“Notwithstanding that,” rejoined his lordship, without noticing the sneer, “I dare not do what you wish. What! get you a tide! I might as well talk about dethroning the queen, and proclaiming you king in her stead.”

“Ha! ha! I don’t expect any honour quite so high as that I don’t want it, your lordship. Crowns, they say, make heads uneasy. I’m a man of moderate aspirations. I should be contented with a coronet.”

“Madness, Mr Swinton!”

“Well; if you can’t make me a lord like yourself, it’s within bounds for me to expect a baronetcy. I’ll even be content with simple knighthood. Surely your lordship can get me that?”

“Impossible!” exclaimed the patron, in an agony of vexation. “Is there nothing else you can think of? A post – an office?”

“I’m not fit for either. I don’t want them. Nothing less than the title, my lord.”

“It’s only a title you want?” asked the nobleman, after a pause, and as if suddenly impressed with some idea that promised to serve him. “You say you’re not particular? Would that of a Count satisfy you?”

“How could your lordship procure that? There are no Counts in England?”

“But there are in France.”

“I know it – a good many of them; more than have means to support the titles.”

“Never mind the means. The title will secure them to a man of your talents. You may be one of the number. A French Count is still a Count. Surely that title would suit you?”

Swinton seemed to reflect.

“Perhaps it would. You think your lordship could obtain it for me?”

“I am sure of it. He who has the power to bestow such distinctions is my intimate personal friend. I need not tell you it is France’s ruler.”

“I know it, my lord.”

“Well, Mr Swinton; say that a French countship will satisfy you, and you shall have it within a week. In less time, if you choose to go to Paris yourself.”

“My lord, I shall be too glad to make the journey.”

“Enough, then. Call upon me to-morrow. I shall have a letter prepared that will introduce you, not only to the Emperor of France, but into the ranks of France’s nobility. Come at ten o’clock.”

It is scarce necessary to say that Swinton was punctual to the appointment; and on that same day, with a heart full of rejoicing, made the journey from Park Lane to Paris.

Equally delighted was his patron at having secured condonation at such a cheap rate, for what might otherwise have proved not only a costly case but a ruinous scandal.

In less than a week from this time, Swinton crossed the threshold of the South Bank Villa, with a patent of countship in his pocket.

Chapter Seventy Seven.

The Count De Valmy

If ever Mrs Girdwood had a surprise in her life, it was when Mr Swinton called at the Clarendon Hotel, and asked if she and her girls would accept an invitation to a reception at Lord – ’s.

The entertainment was at the residence in Park Lane. The storekeeper’s widow gave her consent, without consulting her girls; and the invitation came on a sheet of tinted paper, bearing the well-known crest.

Mrs Girdwood went to the reception, the girls along with her; Julia carrying twenty thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds upon her head and shoulders.

Otherwise they were as well-dressed as any British damsel who presented herself in his lordship’s drawing-rooms; and among these were the noblest in the land.

So far as appearance went, the American ladies had no need to be ashamed of the gentleman who escorted them. Though to them but plain Mr Swinton, Mrs Girdwood was subjected to a fresh shock of surprise, when the noble host, coming up to the group, accosted him as “My dear Count,” and begged an introduction to his companions.

It was gracefully given; and now for the first time in her life was Mrs Girdwood certain of being surrounded by true titled aristocracy.

There could be no deception about the people of that party, who were of all ranks known to “Burke’s British Peerage.” Nor could there be any doubt now, that Mr Swinton was a “somebody.”

“A count he is, and no mistake!” was Mrs Girdwood’s muttered soliloquy. “He isn’t a lord; he never said he was one. But a count’s the same thing, or the next to it.

“Besides, there are counts with great estates – far greater than some lords. Haven’t we heard so?”

The question was in a side whisper to Julia, after all three had been introduced to their august entertainer.

Just then Julia had no opportunity of making answer to it, for the noble host, whose guests they were, was so condescending as to chat with her; and continued chatting such a long time, that the Count appeared to be getting jealous of him! As if observing this, his lordship withdrew, to extend a like courtesy to the twenty other beautiful young damsels who graced the reception, – leaving the Girdwood group to their own and their Count’s guidance for the remainder of the evening.

Receptions do not last more than a couple of hours, beginning at ten and breaking up about twelve, with light refreshments of the “kettle-drum” kind, that serve, very unsatisfactorily, for supper.

In consequence, the Count de Valmy (for such was Mr Swinton’s title) invited the ladies to a petit souper of a more substantial kind, at one of the snug refectories to be found a little farther along Piccadilly. There, being joined by the other count – met by them at Mr Swinton’s dinner-table, and who on this occasion was unaccompanied by his countess – they passed a pleasant hour or two, as is usually the case at a petit souper.

Even the gentle Cornelia enjoyed herself though not through the company of the two counts. She had met a gentleman at the reception – a man old enough to have been her father – but one of those noble natures with which the heart of a young confiding girl readily sympathises. They had chatted together. He had said some words to her, that made her forget the disparity of years, and wish for more of his conversation. She had given consent to his calling on her, and the thought of this hindered her from feeling forsaken, even when the Count de Valmy confined his attention to her cousin, and the married count made himself amiable to her aunt!

The Champagne and Moselle were both of best quality; and Mrs Girdwood was induced to partake of both freely, as was also her daughter.

The two counts were agreeable companions – but more especially he who had so long passed as Mr Swinton, and who was no longer careful about keeping up his incognito.

It ended in Mrs Girdwood’s heart warming towards him with the affection of a mother; while Julia’s became almost softened to that other affection which promised to bestow upon her the title of “Countess.”

“What could be better, or prettier?” thought she, repeating the words of her willing mother. A stylish countess, with a handsome count for husband – dresses and diamonds, carriages and cash, to make the title illustrious!

Of the last the count himself appeared to have plenty; but whether or no, her mother had given promise that it should not be wanting.

And what a grand life it would be to give receptions herself – not only in great London, but in the Fifth Avenue, New York!