Ten days after Mrs Girdwood had taken her departure from the Clarendon
Hotel, a gentleman presented himself to the door-porter of that select
hostelry, and put the following inquiry:
"Is there a family stopping here, by name Girdwood--a middle-aged lady,
with two younger--her daughter and niece; a negro woman for their
servant?"
"There _was_ such a fambly--about two weeks ago. They've _paid their
bill_, and gone away."
The janitor laid emphasis on the paying of the bill. It was _his_ best
evidence of the respectability of the departed guests.
"Do you know where they've gone?"
"Haven't an idea, sir. They left no address. They 'pear to be
Yankees--'Mericans, I mean," said the man, correcting himself, in fear
of giving offence. "Very respectable people--ladies, indeed--'specially
the young 'uns. I dare say they've gone back to the States. That's
what I've heerd them call their country."
"To the States! Surely not?" said the stranger, half questioning
himself. "How long since they left the hotel?"
"About a fortnight ago--there or thereabout. I can look at the book and
tell you?"
"Pray do!"
The Cerberus of the Clarendon--to an humble applicant for admission into
that aristocratic establishment not much milder than he of the seven
heads--turned into his box, and commenced examining the register of
departures.
He was influenced to this civility by the aspect of the individual who
made the request. To all appearance a "reg'lar gentleman," was the
reflection he had indulged in.
"Departures on the 25th," spoke he, reading from the register: "Lord S--
and Lady S--; the Hon. Augustus Stanton; the Duchess of P--; Mrs
Girdwood and fambly--that's them. They left on the 25th, sir."
"The 25th. At what hour?"
"Well, that I can't remember. You see, there's so many goin' and
comin'. From their name being high up on the list, I d'say they went by
a mornin' train."
"You're sure they left no note for any one?"
"I can ask inside. What name?"
"Swinton--Mr Richard Swinton."
"Seems to me they inquired for that name, several times. Yes, the old
lady did--the mother of the young ladies, I mean. I'll see if there's a
note."
The man slippered off towards the office, in the interior of the hotel;
leaving Mr Swinton, for it was he, upon the door-mat.
The countenance of the ex-guardsman, that had turned suddenly blank,
again brightened up. It was at least gratifying to know that he had
been inquired for. It was to be hoped there was a note, that would put
him on their trace of travel.
"No, not any," was the chilling response that came out from the official
oracle. "None whatever."
"You say they made inquiries for a Mr Swinton. Was it from yourself,
may I ask?" The question was put seductively, accompanied by the
holding out of a cigar-case.
"Thank you, sir," said the flattered official, accepting the offered
weed. "The inquiries were sent down to me from their rooms. It was to
ask if a Mr Swinton had called, or left any card. They also asked
about a lord. They didn't give his name. There wasn't any lord--
leastwise not for them."
"Were there any gentlemen in the habit of visiting them? You'll find
that cigar a good one--I've just brought them across the Atlantic. Take
another? Such weeds are rather scarce here in London."
"You're very kind, sir. Thank you!" and the official helped himself to
a second.
"Oh, yes; there were several gentlemen used to come to see them. I
don't think any of them were lords, though. They might be. The ladies
'peared to be very respectable people. I d'say highly respectable."
"Do you know the address of any of these gentlemen? I ask the question
because the ladies are relatives of mine, and I might perhaps find out
from some of them where they are gone."
"They were all strangers to me; and to the hotel. I've been at this
door for ten years, and never saw one of them before."
"Can you recollect how any of them looked?"
"Yes; there was one who came often, and used to go out with the ladies.
A thick-set gent with lightish hair, and round full face. Sometimes
there was a thin-faced man along with him, a younger gent. They used to
take the two young ladies a-ridin'--to Rotten Row; and I think to the
Opera."
"Did you learn their names?"
"No, sir. They used to go and come without giving a card; only the
first time, and I didn't notice what name was on it. They would ask if
Mrs Girdwood was in, and then go upstairs to the suite of rooms
occupied by the fambly. They 'peared to be intimate friends."
Swinton saw he had got all the information the man was capable of
imparting. He turned to go out, the hall-keeper obsequiously holding
the door.
Another question occurred to him.
"Did Mrs Girdwood say anything about coming back here--to the hotel I
mean?"
"I don't know, sir. If you stop a minute I'll ask."
Another journey to the oracle inside; another negative response.
"This is cursed luck!" hissed Swinton through his teeth, as he descended
the hotel steps and stood upon the flags below. "Cursed luck!" he
repeated, as with despondent look and slow, irresolute tread he turned
up the street of "our best shopkeepers."
"Lucas with them to a certainty, and that other squirt! I might have
known it, from their leaving New York without telling me where they were
going. They must have followed by the very next steamer; and, hang me,
if I don't begin to think that that visit to the gambling-house was a
trap--a preconceived plan to deprive me of the chance of getting over
after her. By the living G--it has succeeded! Here I am, after months
spent in struggling to make up the paltry passage money! And here they
are not; and God knows where they are! Curse upon the crooked luck!"
Mr Swinton's reflections will explain why he had not sooner reported
himself at the Bond Street hotel, and show the mistake Mrs Girdwood had
made, in supposing he had "cut" them.
The thousand dollars deposited in the New York _faro_ bank was all the
money he had in the world; and after taking stock of what might be
raised upon his wife's jewellery, most of which was already under the
collateral mortgage of the three golden globes, it was found it would
only pay ocean passage for one.
As Fan was determined not to be left behind--Broadway having proved less
congenial than Regent Street--the two had to stay in America, till the
price of two cabin tickets could be obtained.
With all Mr Swinton's talent in the "manipulation of pasteboard," it
cost him months to obtain them.
His friend Lucas gone away, he found no more pigeons in America--only
hawks!
The land of liberty was not the land for him. Its bird of freedom, type
of the falcon tribe, seemed too truly emblematic of its people--
certainly of those with whom he had come in contact--and as soon as he
could get together enough to pay for a pair of Cunard tickets--
second-class at that--he took departure for a clime more congenial, both
to himself and his beloved.
They had arrived in London with little more than the clothes they stood
in; and taken lodgings in that cheap, semi-genteel neighbourhood where
almost every street, square, park, place, and terrace, has got
Westbourne for its name.
Toward this quarter Mr Swinton turned his face, after reaching the head
of Bond Street; and taking a twopenny "bus," he was soon after set down
at the Royal Oak, at no great distance from his suburban domicile.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"They're gone!" he exclaimed, stepping inside the late taken apartments,
and addressing himself to a beautiful woman, their sole occupant.
It was "Fan," in a silk gown, somewhat chafed and stained, but once more
a woman's dress! Fan, with her splendid hair almost grown again--Fan no
longer disguised as a valet, but restored to the dignity of a wife!
"Gone! From London, do you mean? Or only the hotel?" The question
told of her being still in her husband's confidence. "From both."
"But you know where, don't you?"
"I don't."
"Do you think they've left England?"
"I don't know what to think. They've left the Clarendon on the 25th of
last month--ten days ago. And who do you suppose has been there--back
and forward to see them?"
"I don't know."
"Guess!"
"I can't."
She could have given a guess. She had a thought, but she kept it in her
own heart, as about the same man she had kept other thoughts before.
Had she spoken it, she would have said, "Maynard."
She said nothing, leaving her husband to explain. He did so, at once
undeceiving her.
"Well, it was Lucas. That thick-skulled brute we met in Newport, and
afterwards in New York."
"Ay; better you had never seen him in either place. He proved a useless
companion, Dick."
"I know all that. Perhaps I shall get square with him yet."
"So they've gone; and that, I suppose, will be the end of it. Well, let
it be; I don't care. I'm contented enough to be once more in dear old
England!"
"In cheap lodgings like this?"
"In anything. A hovel here is preferable to a palace in America! I'd
rather live in a London garret, in these mean lodgings, if you like,
than be mistress of that Fifth Avenue house you were so delighted to
dine in. I hate their republican country?"
The sentiment was appropriate to the woman who uttered it.
"I'll be the owner of it yet," said Swinton, referring not to the
country, but the Fifth Avenue house. "I'll own it, if I have to spend
ten years in carrying out the speculation."
"You still intend going on with it then?"
"Of course I do. Why should I give it up?"
"Perhaps you've lost the chance. This Mr Lucas may have got into the
lady's good graces?"
"Bah! I've nothing to fear from him--the common-looking brute! He's
after her, no doubt. What of that? I take it he's not the style to
make much way with Miss Julia Girdwood. Besides, I've reason to know
the mother won't have it. If I've lost the chance in any other way, I
may thank you for it, madam."
"Me! And how, I should like to know?"
"But for you I might have been here months ago; in good time to have
taken steps against their departure; or, still better, found some excuse
for going along with them. That's what I could have done. It's the
time we have lost--in getting together the cash to buy tickets for two."
"Indeed! And I'm answerable for that, I suppose? I think I made up my
share. You seem to forget the selling of my gold watch, my rings and
bracelets--even to my poor pencil-case?"
"Who gave them to you?"
"Indeed! it's like you to remember it! I wish I had never accepted
them."
"And I that I had never given them."
"Wretch!"
"Oh! you're very good at calling names--ugly ones, too."
"I'll call you an uglier still, _coward_!"
This stung him. Perhaps the only epithet that would; for he not only
felt that it was true, but that his wife knew it.
"What do you mean?" he asked, turning suddenly red.
"What I say; that you're a coward--you know you are. You can safely
insult a woman; but when a man stands up you daren't--no, you daren't
say boo to a goose. Remember Maynard?"
It was the first time the taunt had been openly pronounced; though on
more than one occasion since the scenes in Newport, she had thrown out
hints of a knowledge of that scheme by which he had avoided meeting the
man named. He supposed she had only suspicions, and could know nothing
of that letter delivered too late. He had taken great pains to conceal
the circumstances. From what she now said, it was evident she knew all.
And she did; for James, the waiter, and other servants, had imparted to
her the gossip of the hotel; and this, joined to her own observation of
what had transpired, gave the whole story. The suspicion that she knew
it had troubled Swinton--the certainty maddened him.
"Say that again!" he cried, springing to his feet; "say it again, and by
G--, I'll smash in your skull?"
With the threat he had raised one of the cane chairs, and held it over
her head.
Throughout their oft-repeated quarrels, it had never before come to
this--the crisis of a threatened blow.
She was neither large nor strong--only beautiful--while the bully was
both. But she did not believe he intended to strike; and she felt that
to quail would be to acknowledge herself conquered. Even to fail
replying to the defiance.
She did so, with additional acerbity.
"Say what again? Remember Maynard? I needn't say it; you're not likely
to forget him!"
The words had scarce passed from her lips before she regretted them. At
least she had reason: for with a crash, the chair came down upon her
head, and she was struck prostrate upon the floor!