"APRES LE BAL."
The ball was almost over; the flagged and flagging dancers rapidly
retiring. The belles were already gone, and among them Julia Girdwood.
Only the wallflowers, yet comparatively fresh, were stirring upon the
floor. To them it was the time of true enjoyment; for it is they who
"dance all night till broad daylight."
Maynard had no motive for remaining after Miss Girdwood was gone. It
was, in truth, she who had retained him. But with a spirit now stirred
by conflicting emotions, there would be little chance of sleep; and he
resolved, before retiring to his couch, to make one more sacrifice at
the shrine of Bacchus.
With this intent, he again descended the stairway leading to the cellar
saloon.
On reaching the basement, he saw that he had been preceded by a score of
gentlemen, who, like himself, had come down from the ball-room.
They were standing in knots--drinking, smoking, conversing.
Scarce giving any of them a glance, he stepped up to the bar, and
pronounced the name of his drink--this time plain brandy and water.
While waiting to be served a voice arrested his attention. It came from
one of three individuals, who, like himself, had taken stand before the
counter, on which were their glasses.
The speaker's back was toward him, though sufficient of his whisker
could be seen for Maynard to identify Dick Swinton.
His companions were also recognisable as the excursionists of the
row-boat, whose dog he had peppered with duck-shot.
To Mr Swinton they were evidently recent acquaintances, picked up
perhaps during the course of the evening; and they appeared to have
taken as kindly to him as if they, too, had learnt, or suspected him to
be a lord!
He was holding forth to them in that grand style of intonation, supposed
to be peculiar to the English nobleman; though in reality but the
conceit of the stage caricaturist and Bohemian scribbler, who only know
"my lord" through the medium of their imaginations.
Maynard thought it a little strange. But it was many years since he had
last seen the man now near him; and as time produces some queer changes,
Mr Swinton's style of talking need not be an exception.
From the manner in which he and his two listeners were fraternising, it
was evident they had been some time before the bar. At all events they
were sufficiently obfuscated not to notice new-comers, and thus he had
escaped their attention.
He would have left them equally unnoticed, but for some words striking
on his ear that evidently bore reference to himself.
"By-the-way, sir," said one of the strangers, addressing Swinton, "if
it's not making too free, may I ask you for an explanation of that
little affair that happened in the ball-room?"
"Aw--aw; of what affair do yaw speak, Mr Lucas?"
"Something queer--just before the first waltz. There was a dark-haired
girl with a diamond head-dress--the same you danced a good deal with--
Miss Girdwood I believe her name is--and a fellow with moustache and
imperial. The old lady, too, seemed to have a hand in it. My friend
and I chanced to be standing close by, and saw there was some sort of a
scene among you. Wasn't it so?"
"Scene--naw--naw. Only the fellaw wanted to have a spin with the divine
queetyaw, and the lady preferred dancing with yaw humble servant. That
was all, gentlemen, I ashaw yaw."
"We thought there had been a difficulty between him and you. It looked
devilish like it."
"Not with _me_. I believe there was a misunderstanding between him and
the young lady. The twuth is, she pweaded a pwevious engagement, which
she didn't seem to have upon her cawd. For my part I had nothing to do
with the fellaw--absolutely nothing--did not even speak to him."
"You looked at him, though, and he at you. I thought you were going to
have it out between you, there and then!"
"Aw--aw; he understands me bettaw--that same individual."
"You knew him before, then?"
"Slightly, vewy slightly--a long time agaw."
"In your own country, perhaps? He appears to be an Englishman."
"Naw--not a bit of it. He's a demmed Iwishman."
Maynard's ears were becoming rapidly hot.
"What was he on your side?" inquired the junior of Swinton's new
acquaintances, who appeared quite as curious as the older one.
"What was he! Aw--aw, faw that matter nothing--nothing."
"No calling, or profession?"
"Wah, yas; when I knew the fellaw he was an ensign in an infantry
wegiment. Not one of the cwack corps, yaw knaw. We should not have
weceived him in ours."
Maynard's fingers began to twitch.
"Of course not," continued the "swell."
"I have the honaw, gentlemen, to bewong to the Gawds--Her Majesty's
Dwagoon Gawds."
"He has been in our service--in one of the regiments raised for the
Mexican war. Do you know why he left yours?"
"Well, gentlemen, it's not for me to speak too fweely of a fellaw's
antecedents. I am usually cautious about such matters--vewy cautious,
indeed."
"Oh, certainly; right enough," rejoined the rebuked inquirer; "I only
asked because it seems a little odd that an officer of your army should
have left it to take service in ours."
"If I knew anything to the fellaw's qwedit," continued the Guardsman, "I
should be most happy to communicate it. Unfawtunately, I don't. Quite
the contwawy!"
Maynard's muscles--especially those of his dexter arm--were becoming
fearfully contracted. It wanted but little to draw him into the
conversation. One more such remark would be sufficient; and
unfortunately for himself, Mr Swinton made it.
"The twuth is, gentlemen," said he, the drink perhaps having deprived
him of his customary caution--"the twuth is, that Mr Ensign Maynard--or
Captain Maynard, as I believe he now styles himself--was kicked out of
the Bwitish service. Such was the report, though I won't be wesponsible
for its twuth."
"_It's a lie_!" cried Maynard, suddenly pulling off his kid glove, and
drawing it sharply across his traducer's cheek. "A lie, Dick Swinton!
And if not responsible for originating it, as you say you _shall_ be for
giving it circulation. There never was such a report, and you know it,
scoundrel!"
Swinton's cheek turned white as the glove that had smitten it; but it
was the pallor of fear rather than anger.
"Aw--indeed! you there, Mr Maynard! Well--well; I'm sure--you say it's
not twue. And you've called me a scoundwell! And yaw stwuck me with
yaw glove?"
"I shall repeat the word and the blow. I shall spit in your face, if
you don't retract!"
"Wetwact!"
"Bah! there's been enough pass between us. I leave you time to reflect.
My room is 209, on the fourth storey. I hope you'll find a friend who
won't be above climbing to it. My card, sir!"
Swinton took the card, and with fingers that showed trembling gave his
own in exchange. While with a scornful glance, that comprehended both
him and his acolytes, the other faced back to the bar, coolly completed
his potation, and, without saying another word, reascended the stairway.
"You'll meet him, won't you?" asked the older of Swinton's drinking
companions.
It was not a very correct interrogatory; but, perhaps, judging by what
had passed, the man who put it may have deemed delicacy superfluous.
"Of cawse--of cawse," replied he of Her Majesty's Horse Guards, without
taking note of the rudeness. "Demmed awkward, too!" he continued,
reflectingly. "I am here a stwanger--no fwend--"
"Oh, for that matter," interrupted Lucas, the owner of the Newfoundland
dog, "there need be no difficulty. I shall be most happy to act as your
second."
The man who thus readily volunteered his services was as arrant a
poltroon as could have been found about the fashionable hostelry in
which the conversation was taking place--not excepting Swinton himself.
He, too, had good cause for playing principal in a duel with Captain
Maynard. But it was safer to be second; and no man knew this better
than Louis Lucas.
It would not be the first time for him to act in this capacity. Twice
before had he done so, obtaining by it a sort of borrowed _eclat_ that
was mistaken for bravery. For all this he was in reality a coward; and
though smarting under the remembrance of his encounter with Maynard, he
had allowed the thing to linger without taking further steps. The
quarrel with Swinton was therefore in good time, and to his hand.
"Either I, or my friend here," he added.
"With pleasure," assented the other.
"Thanks, gentlemen; thanks, both! Exceedingly kind of you! But,"
continued Swinton in a hesitating manner, "I should be sowy to bwing
either of you into my scwape. There are some of my old comwades in
Canada, sarving with their wegiments. I shall telegwaph to them. And
this fellaw must wait. Now, dem it! let's dwop the subject, and take
anothaw dwink."
All this was said with an air of assumed coolness, of which not even the
drinks already taken could cover the pretence. It was, in truth, but a
subterfuge to gain time, and reflect upon some plan to escape without
calling Maynard out.
There might be a chance, if left to himself; but once in the hands of
another, there would be no alternative but to stand up.
These were the thoughts rapidly coursing through Mr Swinton's mind,
while the fresh drinks were being prepared.
As the glass again touched his lips, they were white and dry; and the
after-conversation between him and his picked-up acquaintances was
continued on his part with an air of abstraction that told of a terrible
uneasiness.
It was only when oblivious with more drink that he assumed his swagger;
but an hour afterward, as he staggered upstairs, even the alcoholic
"buzzing" in his brain did not hinder him from having a clear
recollection of the encounter with the "demmed Iwishman!"
Once inside his own apartment, the air of the nobleman a as suddenly
abandoned. So, too, the supposed resemblance in speech. His talk was
now that of a commoner--intoxicated. It was addressed to his valet,
still sitting up to receive him.
A small ante-chamber on one side was supposed to be the sleeping-place
of this confidential servant. Judging by the dialogue that ensued, he
might be well called confidential. A stranger to the situation would
have been surprised it listening to it.
"A pretty night you've made of it!" said the valet, speaking more in the
tone of a master.
"Fact--fac--hic'p! you speak th' truth, Frank! No--not pretty night.
The very reverse--a d-damned ugly night."
"What do you mean, you sot?"
"Mean--mee-an! I mean the g-gig-game's up. 'Tis, by Jingo! Splend'd
chance. Never have such 'nother. Million dollars! All spoiled--th'
infernal fella!"
"What fellow?"
"Who d'ye 'spose I've seen--met him in the ball--ball--bar-room--down
below. Let's have another drink! Drinks all round--who's g-gig-goin'
drink?"
"Try and talk a little straighter! What's this about?"
"Whas't 'bout? What sh'd be about? Him--hic'p! 'bout him."
"Him! who?"
"Who--who--who--why, Maynard. Of course you know Maynard? B'long to
the Thirty--Thirty--Don't reclect the number of regiment. No matter for
that. He's here--the c-c-confounded cur."
"Maynard here!" exclaimed the valet, in a tone strange for a servant.
"B'shure he is! Straight as a trivet, curse him! Safe to spoil
everything--make a reg'lar mucker of it."
"Are you sure it was he?"
"Sure--sure! I sh'd think so. He's give me good reason, c-curse 'im!"
"Did you speak to him?"
"Yes--yes."
"What did he say to you?"
"Not much said--not much. It's what he's--what he's done."
"What?"
"Devil of a lot--yes--yes. Never mind now. Let's go to bed, Frank.
Tell you all 'bout in the morning. Game's up. 'Tis by J-Jupiter!"
As if incapable of continuing the dialogue--much less of undressing
himself--Mr Swinton staggered across to the bed; and, sinking down upon
it, was soon snoring and asleep.
It might seem strange that the servant should lie down beside him, which
he did. Not after knowing that the little valet was his wife! It was
the amiable "Fan" who thus shared the couch of her inebriate husband.