"I'm sick of England--I am!"
"Why, cousin, you said the same of America!"
"No; only of Newport. And if I did, what matter? I wish I were back in
it. Anywhere but here, among these bulls and bull-dogs. Give me New
York over all cities in the world."
"Oh! I agree with you there--that do I--both State and city, if you
like."
It was Julia Girdwood that spoke first, and Cornelia Inskip who replied.
They were seated in a handsome apartment--one of a suite in the
Clarendon Hotel, London.
"Yes," pursued the first speaker; "there one has at least some society;
if not the _elite_, still sufficiently polished for companionship. Here
there is none--absolutely none--outside the circle of the aristocracy.
Those merchants' wives and daughters we've been compelled to associate
with, rich as they are, and grand as they deem themselves, are to me
simply insufferable. They can think of nothing but their Queen."
"That's true."
"And I tell you, Cornelia, if a peeress, or the most obscure thing with
`Lady' tacked to her name, but bows to one of them, it is remembered
throughout their life, and talked of every day among their connections.
Only think of that old banker where mamma took us to dine the other day.
He had one of the Queen's slippers framed in a glass case, and placed
conspicuously upon his drawing-room mantelshelf. And with what gusto
the old snob descanted upon it! How he came to get possession of it;
the price he paid; and his exquisite self-gratulation at being able to
leave it as a valued heirloom to his children--snobbish as himself!
Faugh! 'Tis a flunkeyism intolerable. Among American merchants, one is
at least spared such experience as that. Even our humblest shopkeepers
would scorn so to exhibit themselves!"
"_True_, true!" assented Cornelia; who remembered her own father, an
humble shopkeeper in Poughkeepsie, and knew that _he_ would have scorned
it.
"Yes," continued Julia, returning to her original theme, "of all cities
in the world, give me New York. I can say of it, as Byron did of
England, `With all thy faults, I love thee still!' though I suspect when
the great poet penned that much-quoted line, he must have been very
tired of Italy and the stupid Countess Guiccioli."
"Ha--ha--ha!" laughed the Poughkeepsian cousin, "what a girl you are,
Julia! Well, I'm glad you like our dear native New York."
"Who wouldn't, with its gay, pleasant people, and their cheerful give
and take? Many faults it has, I admit; bad municipal management--
wholesale political corruption. These are but spots on the outward skin
of its social life, and will one day be cured. Its great, generous
heart, sprung from Hibernia, is still uncontaminated."
"Hurrah! hurrah!" cried Cornelia, springing up from her seat and
clapping her little hands. "I'm glad, cousin, to hear you speak thus of
the Irish!"
It will be remembered that she was the daughter of one.
"Yes," said Julia, for the third time; "New York, of all places, for me!
I'm now convinced it's the finest city in the world!"
"Don't be so quick in your conclusions, my love! Wait till you've seen
Paris! Perhaps you may change your mind!"
It was Mrs Girdwood who made these remarks, entering the room at the
conclusion of her daughter's rhapsody.
"I'm sure I won't mother. Nor you neither. We'll find Paris just as
we've found London; the same selfishness, the same social distinctions,
the same flunkeyism. I've no doubt all monarchical countries are
alike."
"What are you talking about, child? France is now a republic."
"A nice republic, with an Emperor's nephew for its President--or rather
its Dictator! Every day, as the papers tell us, robbing the people of
their rights!"
"Well, my daughter, with that we've got nothing to do. No doubt these
revolutionary hot-heads need taming down a little, and a Napoleon should
be the man to do it. I'm sure we'll find Paris a very pleasant place.
The old titled families, so far from being swept off by the late
revolution, are once more holding up their heads. 'Tis said the new
ruler encourages them. We can't fail to get acquainted with some of
_them_. It's altogether different from the cold-blooded aristocracy of
England."
The last remark was made in a tone of bitterness. Mrs Girdwood had
been now several months in London; and though stopping at the Clarendon
Hotel--the caravanserai of aristocratic travellers--she had failed to
get introduction to the titled of the land.
The American Embassy had been polite to her, both Minister and
Secretary--the latter, noted for his urbanity to all, but especially to
his own countrymen, or countrywomen, without distinction of class. The
Embassy had done all that could be one for an American lady travelling
without introductions. But, however rich and accomplished, however
beautiful the two girls in her train, Mrs Girdwood could not be
presented at Court, her antecedents not being known.
It is true a point might have been strained in her favour; but the
American ambassador of that day was as true a toad-eater to England's
aristocracy as could have been found in England itself, and equally
fearful of becoming compromised by his introductions. We need not give
his name. The reader skilful in diplomatic records can no doubt guess
it.
Under these circumstances, the ambitious widow had to submit to a
disappointment.
She found little difficulty in obtaining introductions to England's
commonalty. Her riches secured this. But the gentry! these were even
less accessible than the exclusives of Newport--the J.'s, and the L.'s,
and the B.'s. Titled or untitled, they were all the same. She
discovered that a simple country squire was as unapproachable as a peer
of the realm--earl, marquis, or duke!
"Never mind, my girls!" was her consolatory speech, to daughter and
niece, when the scales first fell from her eyes. "His lordship will
soon be here, and then it will be all right."
His lordship meant Mr Swinton, who had promised to follow them in the
"next steamaw."
But the next steamer came with no such name as Swinton on its passenger
list, nor any one bearing the title of "lord."
And the next, and the next, and some half-dozen others, and still no
Swinton, either reported by the papers, or calling at the Clarendon
Hotel!
Could an accident have happened to the nobleman, travelling _incognito_?
Or, what caused more chagrin to Mrs Girdwood to conjecture, had he
forgotten his promise?
In either case he ought to have written. A gentleman would have done
so--unless dead.
But no such death had been chronicled in the newspapers. It could not
have escaped the notice of the retail storekeeper's widow, who each day
read the London _Times_, and with care its list of arrivals.
She became at length convinced, that the accomplished nobleman
accidentally picked up in Newport, and afterwards entertained by her in
her Fifth Avenue house in New York, was either no nobleman at all, or if
one, had returned to his own country under another travelling name, and
was there fighting shy of her acquaintance.
It was but poor comfort that many of her countrymen--travellers like
themselves--every day called upon them; among others Messrs. Lucas and
Spiller--such was the cognomen of Mr Lucas's friend, who, also on a
tour of travel, had lately arrived in England.
But neither of them had brought any intelligence, such as Mrs Girdwood
sought. Neither knew anything of the whereabouts of Mr Swinton.
They had not seen him since the occasion of that dinner in the Fifth
Avenue house; nor had they heard of him again.
It was pretty clear then he had come to England, and was "cutting"
them--that is, Mrs Girdwood and her girls.
This was the mother's reflection.
The thought was enough to drive her out of the country; and out of it
she determined to go, partly in search of that title for her daughter
she had come to Europe to obtain; and partly to complete, what some of
her countrymen are pleased to call, the "Ewropean tower."
To this the daughter was indifferent, while the niece of coarse made no
objection.
They proceeded upon their travels.