Once more in the British metropolis, Mr Swinton was seated in his room.
It was the same set of "furnished apartments," containing that cane
chair with which he had struck his ill-starred wife.
She was there, too, though not seated upon the chair.
Reclined along a common horse-hair sofa, with squab and cushions hard
and scuffed, she was reading one of De Kock's novels, in translation.
Fan was not master of the French tongue, though skilled in many of those
accomplishments for which France has obtained special notoriety.
It was after breakfast time, though the cups and saucers were still upon
the table.
A common white-metal teapot, the heel of a half-quartern loaf, the head
and tail of a herring, seen upon a blue willow pattern plate, told that
the meal had not been epicurean.
Swinton was smoking "bird's-eye" in a briar-root pipe. It would have
been a cigar, had his exchequer allowed it.
Never in his life had this been so low. He had spent his last shilling
in pursuit of the Girdwoods--in keeping their company in Paris, from
which they, as he himself, had just returned to London.
As yet success had not crowned his scheme, but appeared distant as ever.
The storekeeper's widow, notwithstanding her aspirations after a titled
alliance, was from a country whose people are proverbially "cute." She
was, at all events, showing herself prudent, as Mr Swinton discovered
in a conversation held with her on the eve of their departure from
Paris.
It was on a subject of no slight importance, originating in a proposal
on his part to become her son in-law. It was introductory to an offer
he intended making to the young lady herself.
But the offer was not made, Mrs Girdwood having given reasons for its
postponement.
They seemed somewhat unsubstantial, leaving him to suppose he might
still hope.
The true reason was not made known to him, which was, that the American
mother had become suspicious about his patent of nobility. After all,
he might not be a lord. And this, notwithstanding his perfect playing
of the part, which the quondam guardsman, having jostled a good deal
against lords, was enabled to do.
She liked the man much--he flattered her sufficiently to deserve it--and
used every endeavour to make her daughter like him. But she had
determined, before things should go any further, to know something of
his family. There was something strange in his still travelling
_incognito_. The reasons he assigned for it were not satisfactory.
Upon this point she must get thoroughly assured. England was the place
to make the inquiry, and thither had she transported herself and her
belongings--as before, putting up at the aristocratic Clarendon.
To England Swinton had followed, allowing only a day to elapse.
By staying longer in Paris, he would have been in pawn. He had just
sufficient cash to clear himself from the obscure hotel where he had
stopped, pay for a Boulogne boat, and a "bus" from London Bridge to his
lodgings in far Westbourne, where he found his Fan not a shilling richer
than himself. Hence that herring for breakfast, eaten on the day after
his return.
He was poor in spirits as in purse. Although Mrs Girdwood had not
stated the true reason for postponing her daughter's reception of his
marriage proposal, he could conjecture it. He felt pretty sure that the
widow had come to England to make inquiries about him.
And what must they result in? Exposure! How could it be otherwise?
His name was known in certain circles of London. So also his character.
If she should get into these, his marriage scheme would be frustrated
at once and for ever.
And he had become sufficiently acquainted with her shrewdness to know
she would never accept him for a son-in-law, without being certain about
the title--which in her eyes alone rendered him eligible.
If his game was not yet up, the cards left in his hand were poor. More
than ever did they require skilful playing.
What should be his next move?
It was about this his brain was busy, as he sat pulling away at his
pipe.
"Any one called since I've been gone?" he asked of his wife without
turning toward her.
Had he done so, he might have observed a slight start caused by the
inquiry. She answered, hesitatingly:
"Oh! no--yes--now I think of it I had a visitor--one."
"Who?"
"Sir Robert Cottrell. You remember our meeting him at Brighton?"
"Of course I remember it. Not likely to forget the name of the puppy.
How came he to call?"
"He expected to see you."
"Indeed, did he! How did he know where we were living?"
"Oh, that! I met him one day as I was passing through Kensington
Gardens, near the end of the Long Walk. He asked me where we were
staying. At first I didn't intend telling him. But he said he wanted
particularly to see you; and so I gave him your address."
"I wasn't at home!"
"I told him that; but said I expected you every day. He came to inquire
if you had come back."
"Did he? What a wonderful deal he cared about my coming back. In the
Long Walk you met him? I suppose you have been showing yourself in the
Row every day?"
"No I haven't, Richard. I've only been there once or twice--You can't
blame me for that? I'd like to know who could stay everlastingly here,
in these paltry apartments, with that shrewish landlady constantly
popping out and in, as if to see whether I'd carried off the contents of
our trunks. Heaven knows, it's a wretched existence at best; but
absolutely hideous inside these lodgings!"
Glancing around the cheaply-furnished parlour, seeing the head and tail
of the herring, with the other scraps of their poor repast, Swinton
could not be otherwise than impressed with the truth of his wife's
words.
Their tone, too, had a satisfying effect. It was no longer that of
imperious contradiction, such as he had been accustomed to for twelve
months after marriage. This had ceased on that day when the leg of a
chair coming in contact with his beloved's crown had left a slight
cicatrice upon her left temple--like a stain in statuary marble. From
that hour the partner of his bosom had shown herself a changed woman--at
least toward himself. Notwithstanding the many quarrels, and
recriminative bickerings, that had preceded it, it was the first time he
had resorted to personal violence. And it had produced its effect.
Coward as she knew him to be, he had proved himself brave enough to
bully her. She had feared him ever since. Hence her trepidation as she
made answer to his inquiry as to whether any one had called.
There was a time when Frances Wilder would not have trembled at such a
question, nor stammered in her reply.
She started again, and again showed signs of confusion, as the shuffling
of feet on the flags outside was followed by a knock at the door.
It was a double one; not the violent repeat of the postman, but the
rat-tat-tat given either by a gentleman or lady--from its gentleness
more like the latter.
"Who can it be?" asked Swinton, taking the pipe from between his teeth.
"Nobody for us, I hope."
In London, Mr Swinton did not long for unexpected visitors. He had too
many "kites" abroad, to relish the ring of the doorbell, or the more
startling summons of the knocker.
"Can't be for us," said his wife, in a tone of mock confidence.
"There's no one likely to be calling; unless some of your old friends
have seen you as you came home. Did you meet any one on the way?"
"No, nobody saw me," gruffly returned the husband.
"There's a family upstairs--in the drawing-rooms. I suppose it's for
them, or the people of the house."
The supposition was contradicted by a dialogue heard outside in the
hall. It was as follows:
"Mrs Swinton at home?"
The inquiry was in a man's voice, who appeared to have passed in from
the steps.
"Yis, sirr!" was the reply of the Irish janitress, who had answered the
knock.
"Give my card; and ask the lady if I can see her."
"By Jove! that's Cottrell!" muttered the ex-guardsman, recognising the
voice.
"Sir Robert Cottrell" was upon the card brought in by the
maid-of-all-work.
"Show him in?" whispered Swinton to the servant, without waiting to ask
permission from Fan; who, expressing surprise at the unexpected visit,
sprang to her feet, and glided back into the bedroom.
There was a strangeness in the fashion of his wife's retreat, which the
husband could scarce help perceiving. He took no notice of it, however,
his mind at the moment busied with a useful idea that had suddenly
suggested itself.
Little as he liked Sir Robert Cottrell, or much as he may have had
imaginings about the object of his visit, Swinton at that moment felt
inclined to receive him. The odour of the salt herring was in his
nostrils; and he was in a mood to prefer the perfume that exhales from
the cambric handkerchief of a debonnaire baronet--such as he knew Sir
Robert to be.
It was with no thought of calling his quondam Brighton acquaintance to
account that he directed the servant to show him in.
And in he was shown.