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The Child Wife

by Mayne Reid · English · Gutenberg #35913 · 694,548 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Child Wife

Author: Mayne Reid


        
Release date: April 19, 2011 [eBook #35913]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35913

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILD WIFE ***




Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Child Wife
By Captain Mayne Reid
Published by George Routledge and Sons Ltd, London.
This edition dated 1905.

The Child Wife, by Captain Mayne Reid.

________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________
THE CHILD WIFE, BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID.



CHAPTER ONE.

THE ISLE OF PEACE.

Aquidnec--"Isle of Peace!"

Oh, Coddington, and ye Assistants of the General Court! what craze
possessed you to change this fair title of the red aboriginal for the
petty appellation of "Rhodes?"

Out upon your taste--your classic affectation!  Out upon your
ignorance--to mistake the "Roodt" of the old Dutch navigator for that
name appertaining to the country of the Colossus!

In the title bestowed by Block there was at least appropriateness--even
something of poetry.  Sailing around Sachuest Point, he beheld the grand
woods, red in the golden sun-glow of autumn.  Flashed upon his delighted
eyes the crimson masses of tree foliage, and the festoonery of scarlet
creepers.  Before his face were bright ochreous rocks cropping out from
the cliff.  Down in his log-book went the "Red Island!"

Oh, worthy Coddington, why did you reject the appellation of the Indian?
Or why decree such clumsy transformation to that of the daring
Dutchman?

I shall cling to the old title--"Isle of Peace"; though in later times
less apt than when the Warapanoag bathed his bronzed limbs in the
tranquil waters of the Narraganset, and paddled his light canoe around
its rock-girt shores.

Since then, Aquidnec! too often hast thou felt the sore scathing of war.
Where now thy virgin woods that rejoiced the eyes of Verrazano, fresh
from Tuscan scenes?  Where thy grand oaks elms, and maples?  Thy green
pines and red cedars?  Thy birches that gave bark, thy chestnuts
affording food; thy sassafras laurel, restorer of health and life?

Gone--all gone!  Swept away by the torch and axe of the ruthless
soldier-destroyer.

Despite thy despoliation, Aquidnec, thou art still a fair spot.  Once
more the Isle of Peace, the abode of Love--its very Agapemone; every
inch of thy turf trodden by lovers' feet--every ledge of thy cliffs
listening to the old, old story.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Newport, in the year of our Lord 18--, in the "height of the season."

An apartment in that most hospitable of American hostelries, the Ocean
House, with a window looking westward.

On the _troisieme etage_, commanding a continuous balcony, with a view
of the Atlantic, spreading broad and blue, beyond the range of the
telescope.  Sachuest Point on the left, with the spray, like snowflakes,
breaking over the Cormorant Rock; on the right, Beaver Tail, with its
beacon; between them a fleet of fishing-craft, dipping for striped-bass
and tautog; in the far offing the spread sails of a full-rigged ship,
and the plume-like smoke soaring up from a steamer--both broadside to
the beholder, on their way between the two great seaports of Shawmut and
Manhattan.

A noble view is this opening of the great estuary of Narraganset--one
upon which beautiful eyes have often rested.

Never more beautiful than those of Julia Girdwood, the occupant of the
apartment above mentioned.

She is not its sole occupant.  There is another young lady beside her,
her cousin, Cornelia Inskip.  She has also pretty eyes, of a bluish
tint; but they are scarce observed after looking into those orbs of dark
bistre, that seem to burn with an everlasting love-light.

In the language of the romance writer, Julia would be termed a
_brunette_, Cornelia a _blonde_.  Their figures are as different as
their complexion: the former tall and of full womanly development, the
latter of low stature, slighter, and to all appearance more youthful.

Equally unlike their dispositions.  She of the dark complexion appears
darker in thought, with greater solemnity of movement; while, judging by
her speech, the gay, sprightly Cornelia thinks but little of the past,
and still less about the future.

Robed in loose morning-wrappers, with tiny slippers poised upon their
toes, they are seated in rocking-chairs, just inside the window.  The
eyes of both, sweeping the blue sea, have just descried the steamer
coming from beyond the distant Point Judith, and heading in a
north-easterly direction.

It was a fine sight, this huge black monster beating its way through the
blue water, and leaving a white seething track behind it.

Cornelia sprang out into the balcony to get a better view of it.

"I wonder what boat it is?" she said.  "One of the great ocean steamers,
I suppose--a Cunarder!"

"I think not, Neel.  I wish it was one, and I aboard of it.  Thank
Heaven!  I shall be, before many weeks."

"What! tired of Newport already?  We'll find no pleasanter place in
Europe.  I'm sure we shan't."

"We'll find pleasanter people, at all events."

"Why, what have you got against them?"

"What have they got against us?  I don't mean the natives here.  They're
well enough, in their way.  I speak of their summer visitors, like
ourselves.  You ask what they've got against us.  A strange question!"

"_I_ haven't noticed anything."

"But _I_ have.  Because our fathers were retail storekeepers, these J.'s
and L.'s and B.'s affect to look down upon us!  You know they do."

Miss Inskip could not deny that something of this had been observed by
her.  But she was one of those contented spirits who set but little
store upon aristocratic acquaintances, and are therefore insensible to
its slights.

With the proud Julia it was different.  If not absolutely slighting, the
"society" encountered in this fashionable watering-place had in some way
spited her--that section of it described as the J.'s and the L.'s and
the B.'s.

"And for what reason?" she continued, with increasing indignation.  "If
our fathers were retail storekeepers, their grandfathers were the same.
Where's the difference, I should like to know?"

Miss Inskip could see none, and said so.

But this did not tranquillise the chafed spirit of her cousin, and
perceiving it, she tried to soothe her on another tack.

"Well, Julia, if the Miss J.'s, and Miss L.'s, and Miss B.'s, look down
on us, their brothers don't.  On you, I'm sure they don't."

"Bother their brothers!  A fig for _their_ condescension.  Do you take
me for a stupid, Neel?  A million dollars left by my father's will, and
which must come to me at mother's death, will account for it.  Besides,
unless the quicksilver in my looking-glass tells a terrible lie, I'm not
such a fright."

She might well talk thus.  Than Julia Girdwood, anything less like a
fright never stood in front of a mirror.  Full-grown, and of perfect
form, this storekeeper's daughter had all the grand air of a duchess.
The face was perfect as the figure.  You could not look upon it without
thoughts of love; though strangely, and somewhat unpleasantly,
commingled with an idea of danger.  It was an aspect that suggested
Cleopatra, Lucrezia Borgia, or the beautiful murderess of Darnley.

In her air there was no awkwardness--not the slightest sign of humble
origin, or the _gaucherie_ that usually springs from it.  Something of
this might have been detected in the country cousin, Cornelia.  But
Julia Girdwood had been stepping too long on the flags of the Fifth
Avenue, to be externally distinguished from the proudest damsels of that
aristocratic street.  Her mother's house was in it.

"It is true, Julia," assented her cousin; "you are both rich and
beautiful.  I wish I could say the same."

"Come, little flatterer! if not the first, you are certainly the last;
though neither counts for much here."

"Why did we come here?"

"I had nothing to do with it.  Mamma is answerable for that.  For my
part I prefer Saratoga, where there's less pretensions about pedigree,
and where a shopkeeper's daughter is as good as his granddaughter.  I
wanted to go there this season.  Mother objected.  Nothing would satisfy
her but Newport, Newport, Newport!  And here we are.  Thank Heaven! it
won't be for long."

"Well, since we are here, let us at least enjoy what everybody comes
for--the bathing."

"Pretends to come for, you mean!  Dipping their skins in salt water, the
Miss J.'s, and L.'s, and B.'s--much has that to do with their presence
at Newport!  A good thing for them if it had!  It might improve their
complexions a little.  Heaven knows they need it; and Heaven be thanked
I don't."

"But you'll bathe to-day?"

"I shan't!"

"Consider, cousin!  It's such a delightful sensation."

"I hate it!"

"You're jesting, Julia?"

"Well, I don't mean that I dislike bathing--only in that crowd."

"But there's no exclusiveness on the beach."

"I don't care.  I won't go among them any more--on the beach, or
elsewhere.  If I could only bathe out yonder, in the deep blue water, or
amid those white breakers we see!  Ah! that _would_ be a delightful
sensation!  I wonder if there's any place where we could take a dip by
ourselves?"

"There is; I know the very spot I discovered it the other day, when I
was out with Keziah gathering shells.  It's down under the cliffs.
There's a sweet little cave, a perfect grotto, with a deepish pool in
front, and smooth sandy bottom, white as silver.  The cliff quite
overhangs it.  I'm sure no one could see us from above; especially if we
go when the people are bathing.  Then everybody would be at the beach,
and we'd have the cliff shore to ourselves.  For that matter, we can
undress in the cave, without the chance of a creature seeing us.  Keziah
could keep watch outside.  Say you'll go, Julia?"

"Well, I don't mind.  But what about mamma?  She's such a terrible
stickler for the proprieties.  She may object."

"We needn't let her know anything about it.  She don't intend bathing
to-day; she's just told me so.  We two can start in the usual style, as
if going to the beach.  Once outside, we can go our own way.  I know of
a path across the fields that'll take us almost direct to the place.
You'll go?"

"Oh, I'm agreed."

"It's time for us to set out, then.  You hear that tramping along the
corridor?  It's the bathers about to start.  Let us call Keziah, and be
off."

As Julia made no objection, her sprightly cousin tripped out into the
corridor; and, stopping before the door of an adjoining apartment,
called "Keziah!"

The room was Mrs Girdwood's; Keziah, her servant--a sable-skinned
damsel, who played lady's maid for all three.

"What is it, child?" asked a voice evidently not Keziah's.

"We're going to bathe, aunt," said the young lady, half-opening the
door, and looking in.  "We want Keziah to get ready the dresses."

"Yes, yes," rejoined the same voice, which was that of Mrs Girdwood
herself.  "You hear, Keziah?  And hark ye, girls!" she added, addressing
herself to the two young ladies, now both standing in the doorway, "see
that you take a swimming lesson.  Remember we are going over the great
seas, where there's many a chance of getting drowned."

"Oh, ma! you make one shiver."

"Well, well, I hope swimming may never be needed by you.  For all that,
there's no harm in being able to keep your head above water, and that in
more senses than one.  Be quick, girl, with the dresses!  The people are
all gone; you'll be late.  Now, then, off with you!"

Keziah soon made her appearance in the corridor, carrying a bundle.

A stout, healthy-looking negress--her woolly head "toqued" in New
Orleans style, with a checkered bandanna--she was an appanage of the
defunct storekeeper's family; specially designed to give to it an air
Southern, and of course aristocratic.  At this time Mrs Girdwood was
not the only Northern lady who selected her servants with an eye to such
effect.

Slippers were soon kicked off, and kid boots pulled on in their places.
Hats were set coquettishly on the head, and shawls--for the day was
rather cool--were thrown loosely over shoulders.

"Come on!" and at the word the cousins glided along the gallery,
descended the great stair, tripped across the piazza outside, and then
turned off in the direction of the Bath Road.

Once out of sight of the hotel, they changed their course, striking into
a path that led more directly toward the cliff.

In less than twenty minutes after, they _might have been_ seen
descending it, through one of those sloping ravines that here and there
interrupt the continuity of the precipice--Cornelia going first, Julia
close after, the turbaned negress, bearing her bundle, in the rear.



CHAPTER TWO.

A BRACE OF NAIADS.

They _were_ seen.

A solitary gentleman sauntering along the cliff, saw the girls go down.

He was coming from the direction of Ochre Point, but too far off to tell
more than that they were two young ladies, followed by a black servant.

He thought it a little strange at that hour.  It was bathing-time upon
the beach.  He could see the boxes discharging their gay groups in
costumes of green and blue, crimson and scarlet--in the distance looking
like parti-coloured Lilliputians.

"Why are these two ladies not along with them?" was his reflection.
"Shell-gatherers, I suppose," was the conjecture that followed.
"Searchers after strange seaweeds.  From Boston, no doubt.  And I'd bet
high that the nose of each is bridged with a pair of blue spectacles."

The gentleman smiled at the conceit, but suddenly changed it.  The sable
complexion of the servant suggested a different conclusion.

"More like they are Southerners?" was the muttered remark.

After making it he ceased to think of them.  He had a gun in his hand,
and was endeavouring to get a shot at some of the large seabirds now and
then sweeping along the escarpment of the cliff.

As the tide was still only commencing to return from its ebb, these flew
low, picking up their food from the stranded _algae_ that, like a
fringe, followed the outlines of the shore.

The sportsman, observing this, became convinced he would have a better
chance below; and down went he through one of the gaps--the first that
presented itself!

Keeping on towards the Forty Steps, he progressed only slowly.  Here and
there rough ledges required scaling; the yielding sand also delayed him.

But he was in no hurry.  The chances of a shot were as good at one place
as another.  Hours must elapse ere the Ocean House gong would summon its
scattered guests to their grand dinner.  He was one of them.  Until that
time he had no reason for returning to the hotel.

The gentleman thus leisurely strolling, is worthy a word or two by way
of description.

That he was only an amateur sportsman, his style of dress plainly
proclaimed.  More plainly did it bespeak the soldier.  A forage cap,
that had evidently seen service, half shadowed a face whose deep sun-tan
told of that service being done in a tropical clime; while the tint,
still fresh and warm, was evidence of recent return.  A plain
frock-coat, of civilian cut, close buttoned; a pair of dark-blue
pantaloons, with well-made boots below them, completed his semi-military
costume.  Added: that these garments were fitted upon a figure
calculated to display them to the utmost advantage.

The face was in keeping with the figure.  _Not_ oval, but of that rotund
shape, ten times more indicative of daring, as of determination.
Handsome, too, surmounted as it was by a profusion of dark hair, and
adorned by a well-defined moustache.  These advantages had the young man
in question, who, despite the appearance of much travel, and some
military service, was still under thirty.

Slowly sauntering onward, his boots scranching among the pebbles, he
heard but the sound of his own footsteps.

It was only on stopping to await the passage of a gull, and while
calculating the carry of his gun, that other sounds arrested his
attention.

These were so sweet, that the gull was at once forgotten.  It flew past
without his attempting to pull trigger--although so close to the muzzle
of his gun he might have "murdered" it!

"Nymphs!  Naiads!  Mermaids!  Which of the three?  Proserpine upon a
rock superintending their aquatic sports!  Ye gods and goddesses! what
an attractive tableau?"

These words escaped him, as he stood crouching behind a point of rock
that abutted far out from the line of the cliff.  Beyond it was the cove
in which the young ladies were bathing--the negress keeping but careless
watch as she sat upon one of the ledges.

"Chaste Dian!" exclaimed the sportsman; "pardon me for this intrusion.
Quite inadvertent, I assure you.  I must track back," he continued, "to
save myself from being transformed into a stag.  Provoking, too!  I
wanted to go that way to explore a cave I've heard spoken of.  I came
out with this intention.  How awkward to be thus interrupted!"

There was something like a lie outlined upon his features as he muttered
the last reflection.  In his actions too; for he still loitered behind
the rock--still kept looking over it.

Plunging in pellucid water not waist-deep--their lower extremities only
concealed by the saturated skirts that clung like cerements around
them--their feet showing clear as coral--the two young creatures
continued to disport themselves.  Only Joseph himself could have
retreated from the sight!

And then their long hair in full dishevelment--of two colour, black and
gold--sprinkled by the pearly spray, as the girls, with tiny rose-tipped
fingers, dashed the water in each other's faces--all the time making the
rocks ring with the music of their merry voices--ah! from such a picture
who could comfortably withdraw his eyes?

It cost the sportsman an effort; of which he was capable--only by
thinking of his sister.

And thinking of her, he loitered no longer, but drew back behind the
rock.

"Deuced awkward!" he again muttered to himself--perhaps this time with
more sincerity.  "I wished particularly to go that way.  The cave cannot
be much farther on, and now to trudge all the way back!  I must either
do that, or wait till they've got through their game of aquatics."

For a moment he stood reflecting.  It was a considerable distance to the
place where he had descended the cliff.  Moreover, the track was
toilsome, as he had proved by experience.

He decided to stay where he was till the "coast should be clear."

He sat down upon a stone, took out a cigar, and commenced smoking.

He was scarce twenty paces from the pool in which the pretty dears were
enjoying themselves.  He could hear the plashing of their palms, like
young cygnets beating the water with their wings.  He could hear them
exchange speeches, mingled with peals of clear-ringing laughter.  There
could be no harm in listening to these sounds, since the sough of the
sea hindered him from making out what was said.  Only now and then did
he distinguish an interjection, proclaiming the delight in which the two
Naiads were indulging, or one, the sharper voice of the negress, to warn
then against straying too far out, as the tide had commenced rising.

From these signs he knew he had not been observed while standing exposed
by the projection of rock.

A full half-hour elapsed, and still continued the plunging and the peals
of laughter.

"Very mermaids they must be--to stay so long in the water!  Surely
they've had enough of it!"

As shown by this reflection, the sportsman was becoming impatient.

Shortly after, the plashing ceased, and along with it the laughter.  He
could still hear the voices of the two girls engaged in conversation--at
intervals intermingled with that of the negress.

"They are out now, and dressing," he joyfully conjectured.  "I wonder
how long they'll be about that.  Not another hour, I hope."

He took out a fresh cigar.  It was his third.

"By the time I've finished this," reflected he, "they'll be gone.  At
all events, they ought to be dressed; and, without rudeness, I may take
the liberty of slipping past them."

He lit the cigar, smoked, and listened.

The conversation was now carried on in an uninterrupted strain, but in
quieter tones, and no longer interspersed with laughter.

The cigar became shortened to a stump, and still those silvery voices
were heard mingling with the hoarse symphony of the sea--the latter,
each moment growing louder as the tide continued to rise.  A fresh
breeze had sprung up, which, brought shoreward by the tidal billow,
increased the noise; until the voices of the girls appeared like some
distant metallic murmur, and the listener at length doubted whether he
heard them or not.

"Their time's up," he said, springing to his feet, and flinging away the
stump of the cigar.  "They've had enough to make their toilet twice
over, at all events.  I can give no more grace; so here goes to continue
my exploration!"

He turned towards the projection of the cliff.  A single step forward,
and he came to a stand--his countenance suddenly becoming clouded with
an unpleasant expression!  The tide had stolen up to the rocks, and the
point of the promontory was now full three feet under water; while the
swelling waves, at intervals, surged still higher!

There was neither beach below, nor ledge above; no way but by taking to
the water.

The explorer saw that it would be impossible to proceed in the direction
intended, without wading up to his waist.  The object he had in view was
not worth such a saturation; and with an exclamation of disappointment--
chagrin, too, for the lost time--he turned upon his heel, and commenced
retracing his steps along the base of the bluffs.

He no longer went strolling or sauntering.  An apprehension had arisen
in his mind that stimulated him to the quickest pace in his power.  What
if his retreat should be cut off by the same obstacle that had
interrupted his advance?

The thought was sufficiently alarming; and hastily scrambling over the
ledges, and skimming across the stretches of quicksand--now transformed
into pools--he only breathed freely when once more in the gorge by which
he had descended.



CHAPTER THREE.

THE TWO POETASTERS.

The sportsman was under a mistake about the girls being gone.  They were
still within the cove; only no longer conversing.

Their dialogue had ended along with their dressing; and they had betaken
themselves to two separate occupations--both of which called for
silence.  Miss Girdwood had commenced reading a book that appeared to be
a volume of poems; while her cousin, who had come provided with drawing
materials, was making a sketch of the grotto that had served them for a
robing-room.

On their emerging from the water, Keziah had plunged into the same
pool--now disturbed by the incoming tide, and deep enough to conceal her
dusky charms from the eyes of any one straying along the cliff.

After spluttering about for a matter of ten minutes, the negress
returned to the shore; once more drew the gingham gown over her head;
squeezed the salt spray out of her kinky curls; readjusted the bandanna;
and, giving way to the languor produced by the saline immersion, lay
down upon the dry shingle--almost instantly falling asleep.

In this way had the trio become disposed, as the explorer, after
discovering the obstruction to his progress, turned back along the
strand--their silence leading him to believe they had taken departure.

For some time this silence continued, Cornelia taking great pains with
her drawing.  It was a scene well worthy of her pencil, and with the
three figures introduced, just as they were, could not fail to make an
interesting picture.  She intended it as the record of a rare and
somewhat original scene: for, although young ladies occasionally took a
sly dip in such solitary places, it required a certain degree of daring.

Seated upon a stone, as far out as the tide would allow her, she
sketched her cousin, leaning studiously against the cliff, and the
sable-skinned maid-servant, with turbaned head, lying stretched along
the shingle.  The scarped precipice, with the grotto underneath; the
dark rocks here overhanging, there seamed by a gorge that sloped steeply
upward--the sides of the latter trellised with convolvuli and clumps of
fantastic shrubbery,--all these were to appear in the picture.

She was making fair progress, when interrupted by an exclamation from
her cousin.

The latter had been for some time turning over the leaves of her book
with a rapidity that denoted either impatience or dire disappointment in
its contents.

At intervals she would stop, read a few lines, and then sweep onward--as
if in search of something better.

This exercise ended, at length, by her dashing the volume down upon the
shingle, and exclaiming:

"Stuff!"

"Who?"

"Tennyson."

"Surely you're jesting?  The divine Tennyson--the pet poet of the age?"

"Poet of the age!  There's no such person!"

"What! not Longfellow?"

"Another of the same.  The American edition, diluted, if such a thing
were possible.  Poets indeed!  Rhymesters of quaint conceits--spinners
of small sentiments in long hexameters--not soul enough in all the
scribblings of both to stir up the millionth part of an emotion?"

"You are severe, cousin.  How do you account for their world-wide
popularity?  Is that not a proof of their being poets?"

"Was it a proof in the case of Southey?  Poor, conceited Southey, who
believed himself superior to Byron!  And the world shared his belief--at
least one-half of it, while he lived!  In these days such a dabbler in
verse would scarce obtain the privilege of print."

"But Longfellow and Tennyson have obtained it."

"True; and along with, as you say, a world-wide reputation.  All that is
easily explained."

"How?"

"By the accident of their coming _after_ Byron--immediately after him."

"I don't comprehend you, cousin."

"Nothing can be clearer.  Byron made the world drunk with a divine
intoxication.  His superb verse was to the soul what wine is to the
body; producing a grand and glorious thrill--a very carousal of
intellectual enjoyment.  Like all such excesses, it was followed by that
nervous debility that requires a blue pill and black draught.  It called
for its absinthe and camomile bitters; and these have been supplied by
Alfred Tennyson, Poet Laureate to the Queen of England, and Henry
Wadsworth Longfellow, pet of the sentimental and spectacled young ladies
of Boston.  It was a poetic tempest, to be followed by a prosaic calm,
that has now lasted over forty years, unbroken save by the piping of
this pair of poetasters!"

"Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers!" repeated Cornelia, with
a good-natured laugh.

"Yes!" cried Julia, rather irritated by her cousin's indifference.  "By
just such a paltry play upon words, by the imagination of small
sentimentalities, and sickly conceits, plucked out of barren brains, and
then machined into set stanzas, have these same poetasters obtained the
world-wide reputation you speak of.  Out upon such pretenders!  And this
is how I would serve them."

She raised her little foot, and, with a spiteful stamp, brought her heel
down upon poor Tennyson, sinking him deep into the spongy sand!

"Oh, Julia, you've spoilt the book?"

"There's nothing in it to spoil.  Waste print and paper.  There's more
poetry in one of these pretty seaweeds that lie neglected on the sand--
far more than in a myriad of such worthless volumes.  Let it lie!"

The last words were addressed to Keziah, who, startled from her slumber,
had stooped to pick up the trampled volume.

"Let it lie, till the waves sweep over it and bear it into oblivion; as
the waves of Time will wash out the memory of its author.  Oh, for one
true--one real poet!"

At this moment Cornelia started to her feet; not from anything said by
her cousin, but simply because the waves of the Atlantic were already
stealing around her skirts.  As she stood erect, the water was dripping
from them.

The sketcher regretted this interruption of her task; the picture was
but half completed; and it would spoil it to change the point of view.

"No matter," she muttered, closing her sketch-book, "we can come again
to-morrow.  You will, won't you, Julia, to oblige me?"

"And myself miss.  It's the very thing, this little plunge _sans facon_.
I haven't enjoyed anything like it since landing on the island of--of--
Aquidnec.  That, I believe, is the ancient appellation.  Come, then, let
us be off!  To-day, for a novelty, I shall dine with something
resembling an appetite."

Keziah having wrung out the bathing-dresses and tied them in a bundle,
the three prepared to depart.

Tennyson still lay crushed upon the sand; and his spiteful critic would
not allow him to be taken up!

They started to return to the hotel--intending to go up the cliff by the
same ravine through which they had come down.  They knew of no other
way.

On reaching the jutting rock that formed the flanking of the cove, all
three were brought suddenly to a stand.

There was no path by which they could proceed; they had stayed too long
in the cove, and the tide had cut off their retreat.

The water was only a few feet in depth; and, had it been still, they
might have waded it.  But the flow was coming in with a surge strong
enough to sweep them off their feet.

They saw this, but without feeling anything like fear.  They regarded it
only as an unpleasant interruption.

"We must go in the opposite direction," said Julia, turning back into
the cove, and leading the way around it.

But here again was their path obstructed, just as on the opposite side.

The same depth of water, the same danger to be dreaded from the lashing
of the surge!

As they stood regarding it, it appeared to grow deeper and more
dangerous!

Back to the place just left.

There, too, had the depth been increasing.  The tide seemed to have
risen more than a foot since they left it.  It was but the breeze still
freshening over the sea.

To have waded around either point seemed no longer possible; and none of
the three could swim!

The cousins uttered a simultaneous cry.  It was the first open
acknowledgment of a fear both secretly felt.

The cry was echoed by their dark-skinned attendant, far more frightened
than they.

Back again to the other side--once more back and forward--and their
panic was complete.

They were no longer in doubt about their situation.  On both sides the
path was obstructed.  Clearly was their retreat cut off!  Up the
precipice went their eyes, to see whether it could be climbed.  It
needed but a glance to tell them "No!"  There was the gorge running up
the cliff; but it looked as if only a cat could have scaled it!

They turned from it in despair.

There was but one hope remaining.  The tide might not mount above their
heads; and might they not stay where they were till it ebbed again?

With quick glances they interrogated the waves, the grotto, the rocks
overhead.  Unaccustomed to the sea, they knew but little of its ways.
They knew that the waves rose and fell; but how far?  They could see
nothing to tell them; nothing to confirm their fears, or assure them of
their safety!

This suspense was even worse to endure than the certainty of danger.

Oppressed by it, the two girls clasped each other by the hand, raising
their united voices in a cry for deliverance: "Help!  Help!"



CHAPTER FOUR.

"HELP!  HELP!"

Their cry of distress ascended to the summit of the cliff.

It was heard; and by one who had lately listened to the same voices,
speaking in tones of the sweetest contentment.

It was he who carried the gun.

After scrambling up the gorge, he had faced northward in the direction
of Easton's Beach; for the reason only that this was his nearest way to
the hotel.

He was reflecting upon the incident that had caused him such a toilsome
detour; though his thoughts were dwelling less upon this than upon the
face of one of the two naiads seen playing in the pool.

It was the one of darker complexion.

Her figure, too, was recalled.  In that transitory glance he had
perceived above the water-line, and continued in the translucency
beneath, an outline not easily forgotten.  He so well remembered it, as
almost to repent the spasm of delicacy that had caused him to retreat
behind the rock.

This repentance had something to do with the direction he was now
taking.

He had hopes of encountering the bathers as they came up to the summit
of the cliff.

Much time, however, had passed.  He could see that the beach was
deserted--the few dark forms appearing upon it being evidently those
solitary creatures of bachelor kind, who become Neptune's guests only at
the second table.

Of course the two mermaids having exchanged their loose aquatic costume
for the more constrained dress of the street, had long since gone home
to the hotel.  This was his conjecture.

A cry came to contradict it; close followed by another, and another!

He ran out to the edge of the cliff and looked downward.  He could
remember nothing of the landmarks.  The tide, now well in, had changed
the look of everything below.  The ledges were covered--their position
only to be told by the surf breaking over them.

Once more came up the cry!

Dropping on his knees, he crept closer and closer to the escarped edge--
out to its very brink.  Still nothing to be seen below!  Neither woman
nor human being.  Not a spot on which one might find footing.  No beach
above water--no shoal, rock, or ledge, projecting from the precipice--no
standing-place of any kind.  Only the dark angry waves, roaring like
enraged lions, and embracing the abutment as though they would drag it
back with them into the abysm of the ocean!

Amidst the crashing and seething, once more ascended the cry!  Again,
and again, till it became a continuous chant!

He could not mistake its meaning.  The bathers were still below.  Beyond
doubt they were in danger.

How could he assist them?

He started to his feet.  He looked all round--along the cliff-path, and
across the fields stretching back from the shore.

No house was near--no chance of obtaining a rope.

He turned toward Easton's Beach.  There might be a boat there.  But
could it be brought in time?

It was doubtful.  The cries continuing told him that the peril was
imminent.  Those imperilled might be already struggling with the tide!

At this moment he remembered a sloping gorge.  It could not be far off.
It was the same by which the young ladies had gone down.  He was a
strong swimmer, and knew it.  By swimming round into the cove, he might
be able to effect their rescue.

Giving a shout, to assure them that their situation was known, he
started at full speed along the crest of the cliff.

On reaching the ravine, he flung himself into it, and soon reached the
sea-level below.

Without pausing, he turned along the shore, rushing over sand and
shingle, over sharp ledges, and making his way among boulders slippery
with seaweed.

He reached the abutment that flanked one side of the cove, from which he
could now again hear the cries of distress, mingled with the hoarse
shrieking of the sea.

To wade round the point was plainly impossible.  The water was
neck-deep, seething and swelling.

Kicking off his boots, and throwing his gun, cap, and coat upon a ledge,
he plunged in, and commenced a struggle with the billows.

It cost him one--his life nearly.  Twice was his body borne against the
rock with fearful violence--each time receiving injury in the shock.

He succeeded in rounding the point and reaching the cove beyond, where
the swell broke more smoothly upon a sloping bed.

He now swam with ease; and soon stood in the presence of the bathers,
who, at sight of him, had ceased their cries, believing their danger at
an end.

All were within the grotto, to which they had retreated, as offering the
highest ground.  For all this, they were up to the ankles in water!

At his approach they rushed out, wading knee-deep to meet him.

"Oh, sir!" cried the eldest of the young ladies, "you see how we are
situated: can you assist us?"

The swimmer had risen erect.  He looked right and left, before making
rejoinder.

"Can you swim?" he asked.

"Not one of us."

"It is bad," he muttered to himself.  "Either way, it is doubtful
whether I could carry them through it.  It's been as much as I could do
for myself.  We'd be almost certain of being crushed.  What, in heaven's
name, can be done for them?"

They were thoughts rather than words, and the girls could not know them.
But they saw the stranger's brow clouded with apprehension; and with
eyes straining into his, they stood trembling.

He turned suddenly, and glanced up the cliff.  He remembered the seam he
had observed from above.  He could now survey it from base to summit.

A gleam of hope flashed over his face.  It could be scaled!

"Surely you can climb up there?" he asked, encouragingly.

"No, no!  I'm sure we could never go up that way.  _I_ could not."

"Nor I."

"You might sustain yourselves by taking hold of the bushes.  It is not
so difficult as it appears.  Those tufts of grass would help you; and
there are points where you might place your feet.  I could climb it
easily myself; but, unfortunately, it would be impossible for me to
assist you.  There is not room for two to go up together."

"I am sure I should fall before I was halfway to the top!"

This was said by Cornelia.  Julia signified the same.  The negress had
no voice.  With lips ashy pale, she seemed too much terrified to speak.

"Then there is no alternative but to try swimming," said the stranger,
once more facing seaward, and again scrutinising the surf.  "No!" he
added, apparently recoiling from the design, "by swimming I might save
myself, though it is no longer certain.  The swell has increased since I
came in here.  There's been wind on the sea outside.  I'm a fair
swimmer; but to take one of you with me is, I fear, beyond my strength."

"But, sir!" appealed she of the dark eyes, "is it certain we could not
stay here till the tide falls again?"

"Impossible!  Look there!" answered he, pointing to the cliff.

There could be no mistaking what he meant.  That line trending
horizontally along the facade of the precipice, here and there ragged
with sea-wrack, was the high-water mark of the tide.  It was far
overhead!

The girls uttered a simultaneous scream as they stood regarding it.  It
was, in truth, the first time they had felt a full sense of their
danger.  Hitherto they had been sustained by a hope that the tide would
not mount so high as to submerge them.  But there was the tell-tale
track, beyond reach even of their hands!

"Courage!" cried the stranger, his voice all at once assuming a cheerful
tone, as if some bright thought had occurred to him.  "You have shawls,
both of you.  Let me have them."

Without questioning his purpose, both raised the cashmeres from their
shoulders, and held them out to him.

"A plan has occurred to me," said he, taking out his knife, and cutting
the costly fabric into strips.  "I did not think of it before.  By the
help of these I may get you up the cliff."

The shawls were soon separated into several bands.  These he knotted
together so as to form a long, narrow festoonery.

With eager hands the young ladies assisted him in the operation.

"Now?" he said, as soon as the junction was completed; "by this I can
draw you up, one by one.  Who first?"

"Go, cousin!" said she of the dark eyes; "you are lightest.  It will be
easier for him in the trial."

As there was no time for either ceremony or dispute, Cornelia accepted
the suggestion.  The stranger could have no choice.

The shawl-rope was carefully adjusted around her waist, then with equal
care fastened to his.  Thus linked, they commenced climbing the cliff.

Though difficult for both, the scaling proved successful; and the young
girl stood unharmed upon the summit.

She made no demonstration of joy.  Her cousin was still below--still in
danger!

Once again down the gorge by which he had before descended.  Once more
around the rock, battling with the breakers--and again safe in the
shelter of the cove.

The shawl-rope flung down from above had been caught by those below; and
was for the second time put into requisition.

In like manner was Julia rescued from the danger of drowning!

But the efforts of the rescuer did not end here.  His was a gallantry
that had nought to do with the colour of the skin.

For the third time his life was imperilled, and the negress stood safe
upon the summit of the cliff--to unite with the young ladies in the
expression of their gratitude.

"We can never sufficiently thank you," said she of the bistre-coloured
eyes.

"Oh, never!" exclaimed her companion with the irides of azure.

"Another favour, sir," said the first speaker.  "It seems quite a shame
to ask it.  But we shall be so laughed at if this become known.  Would
it be too much to request, that nothing be said of our very unpleasant
adventure?"

"There shall be nothing said by me," responded the rescuer.  "Of that,
ladies, you may rest assured."

"Thanks!--a thousand thanks!  Indeed, we are greatly indebted to you.
Good-day, sir!"

With a bow, dark eyes turned away from the cliff along the path leading
to the Ocean House.  A somewhat deeper sentiment was observed in the
orbs of blue; though their owner took leave without giving it
expression.

The confusion arising from their late alarm might perhaps plead their
excuse.

None was needed by the negress.

"God bress you, brave massa!  God bress you!" were her parting words--
the only ones that appeared to be spoken in true gratitude.



CHAPTER FIVE.

THE SCATHED RETRIEVER.

Filled with astonishment, and not without a slight feeling of chagrin,
the sportsman stood looking after the trio he had delivered from almost
certain death.

"A thousand thanks!  Indeed we are greatly indebted to you?"

He repeated these words, imitating the tone in which they had been
spoken.

"By my faith?" he continued, with an emphasis on each word, "if that
isn't a little of the coolest!  What the dickens have I been doing for
these dames?  In the country of my christening I'd have had as much for
helping them over a stile, or picking up a dropped glove.  `Good-day,
sir!'  Name neither asked nor given!  Not a hint about `calling again'!

"Well, I suppose I shall have another opportunity of seeing them.  They
are going straight towards the Ocean House.  No doubt a brace of birds
from that extensive aviary.  Birds of paradise, too--judging by their
fine feathers!  Ah! the dark one.  Step like a race-horse--eye like a
she-eagle!

"Strange how the heart declares its preference!  Strange I should think
most of her who appeared least grateful!  Nay, she spoke almost
superciliously.  I wonder if likes were ever mutual.

"I could love that girl--I'm sure of it.  Would it be a true, honest
passion?  Not so sure of that.  She's not exactly the kind I'd like to
call wife.  I feel convinced she'd aspire to wear the--

"Talking of inexpressibles makes me think of my coat, hat, and boots.
Suppose, now, the tide has swept them off?  What a figure I'd cut
sneaking back to the hotel in my shirt-sleeves!  Hatless and shoeless to
boot!  It's just possible such _expose_ is in store for me.  My God!"
The exclamation was uttered with an accent quite different from the
speeches that preceded it.  These had been muttered jocosely, with a
smile upon his lips.  Along with the "My God!" came a cloud, covering
his whole countenance.

The change was explained by what quickly came after.

"My pocket-book!  A thousand dollars in it!  All the money I have in the
world!  If that's lost I'll cut a still sorrier figure at the hotel.  A
long bill owing!  My papers, too!  Some of them of great importance to
me--deeds and documents!  God help me, if they're gone!"

Once more along the cliff; once more descending the slope, with as much
haste as if still another damsel with "she-eagle" eyes was screaming for
help below!

He had reached the sea-level, and was turning along the strand, when he
saw a dark object upon the water--about a cable's length out from the
shore.  It was a small row-boat; with two men in it.

It was headed toward Easton Beach; but the rowers had stopped pulling,
and were sitting with oars unshipped.  They were nearly opposite the
cove out of which he had so lately climbed.

"What a pity!" was his reflection.  "Had these fellows shown themselves
but twenty minutes sooner, they'd have saved me a set of sore bones, and
the young ladies a couple of shawls that must have cost them a good
round price--no doubt five hundred dollars apiece!  The boat must have
been coming up shore all the time.  How stupid of me not to have seen
it!

"What are they stopped for now?  Ah! my coat and cap!  They see them,
and so do I.  Thank heaven, my pocket-book and papers are safe!"

He was hastening on to make them still more secure, for the tide was
close threatening his scattered garments--when all at once a dark
monster-like form was seen approaching from the sea, surging toward the
same point.  As it got into shallow water, its body rose above the
surface discovering a huge Newfoundland dog!

The animal had evidently come from the boat--had been sent from it.  But
for what purpose did not strike the sportsman till he saw the shaggy
creature spring upward to the ledge, seize hold of his coat in its
teeth, and then turning with it plunge back into the water!

A Broadway frock of best broadcloth; a thousand dollars in the pockets;
papers worth ten times the amount!

"Heigh! heigh!" cried the owner, rushing on toward the spot where the
rape was being committed, "down with it, you brute! down with it! drop
it!"

"Fetch it?" came a voice from the boat; "come on, good Bruno!  Fetch
it!"

The words were followed by a peal of laughter that rang scornfully along
the cliffs.  The voices of both the boatmen took part in it.

Blacker than the rocks behind him became the face of the sportsman, who
had paused in silent surprise.

Up to that moment he had supposed that the two men had not seen him, and
that the dog had been sent to pick up what might appear "unclaimed
property."  But the command given to the animal, with the scornful
laugh, at once cured him of his delusion, and he turned toward them with
a scowl that might have terrified bolder spirits than theirs.

It did not check his rising wrath to perceive that they were a brace of
young "bloods" out on a pleasuring excursion.  Perhaps all the more did
he feel sensible of the insult.

He who had wandered far and wide; who had tracked Comanches on the
war-path; had struck his sword against a _chevaux-de-frise_ of Mexican
bayonets, to be mocked after such fantastic fashion, and by such
fellows!

"Command the dog back!" he shouted, in a voice that made the rocks
re-echo.  "Back with him; or, by heaven, you shall both rue it!"

"Come on, Bruno?" cried they, reckless, now they had committed
themselves.  "Good dog!  Fetch it! fetch it!"

He in the shirt-sleeves stood for a moment irresolute, because feeling
himself helpless.  The animal had got out of his reach.  It would be
impossible to overtake it.  Equally so to swim out to the boat, and
wreak his wrath upon the rowers, whose speech continued to torture him.

Though seeming to him an age, his inaction was scarce of a second's
continuance.  On looking around to see what might be done, his eye
rested upon the gun, still lying upon the ledge where he had left it.

With an exulting shout he sprang toward the piece, and again held it in
his grasp.  It was loaded with large shot; for he had been sporting for
water-fowl.

He did not wait to give warning.  The scurvy behaviour of the fellows
had released him from all ceremony; and hastily raising the piece, sent
a shower of shot around the shoulders of the Newfoundland.

The dog dropped the coat, gave out a hideous growling, and swam,
crippled-like, toward the boat.

Laughter no longer ran along the cliffs.  It had ceased at sight of the
gun.

"It's a double one," said he who grasped it, speaking loud enough for
them to hear him.  "If you'll bring your boat a little nearer, I may
treat you to the second barrel?"

The bloods thought better than to accept the invitation.  Their joke had
come to a disagreeable termination; and with rueful faces they pulled
poor Bruno aboard, and continued the row so regretfully interrupted.

Fortunately for the sportsman, the tide was still "running," so that his
coat came ashore--dollars and documents along with it.

He spent some time in wringing out his saturated habiliments, and making
himself presentable for the hotel.  By good luck, there were no streets
to pass through--the Ocean House being at this time separated only by
farm fields from the rocky shore that had been the scene of his
achievements.

"Adventures enough for one day!" he muttered to himself, as he
approached the grand _caravanserai_ swarming with its happy hundreds.

He did not know that still another was in store for him.  As he stepped
into the long piazza, two gentlemen were seen entering at the opposite
end.  They were followed by a large dog, that sadly needed helping over
a stile.

The recognition was mutual; though only acknowledged by a reciprocal
frown, so dark as not to be dispelled by the cheerful gong at that
moment sounding the summons to dinner.



CHAPTER SIX.

A LOVING COUPLE.

"Married for love!  Hach! fool that I've been!"

The man who muttered these words was seated with elbows resting upon a
table, and hands thrust distractedly through his hair.

"Fool that I've been, and for a similar reason!"  The rejoinder, in a
female voice, came from an inner apartment.  At the same instant the
door, already ajar, was spitefully pushed open, disclosing the speaker
to view: a woman of splendid form and features, not the less so that
both were quivering with indignation.

The man started, and looked up with an air of embarrassment.  "You heard
me, Frances?" he said, in a tone half-surly, half-ashamed.

"I heard you, Richard," answered the woman, sweeping majestically into
the room.  "A pretty speech for a man scarce twelve months married--for
you!  Villain!"

"That name is welcome!" doggedly retorted the man.  "It's enough to make
one a villain?"

"What's enough, sir?"

"To think that but for you I might have had my thousands a year, with a
titled lady for my wife!"

"Not worse than to think that but for you I might have had my tens of
thousands, with a lord for my husband! ay, a coronet on my crown, where
you are barely able to stick a bonnet?"

"Bah!  I wish you had your lord."

"And bah to you!  I wish you had your lady."  The dissatisfied benedict,
finding himself more than matched in the game of recrimination, dropped
back into his chair, replanted his elbows on the table, and resumed the
torturing of his hair.

Back and forth over the floor of the apartment paced the outraged wife,
like a tigress chafed, but triumphant.

Man and wife, they were a remarkable couple.  By nature both were highly
endowed; the man handsome as Apollo, the woman beautiful as Venus.
Adorned with moral grace, they might have challenged comparison with
anything on earth.  In the scene described, it was more like Lucifer
talking to Juno enraged.

The conversation was in the English tongue, the accent was English, the
speakers apparently belonging to that country--both of them.  This
impression was confirmed by some articles of travelling gear, trunks and
portmanteaus of English manufacture, scattered over the floor.  But the
apartment was in the second storey of a second-class boarding-house in
the city of New York.

The explanation is easy enough.  The amiable couple had but lately
landed from an Atlantic steamer.  The "O.K." of the Custom House chalk
was still legible on their luggage.

Looking upon the pair of strange travellers--more especially after
listening to what they have said--one skilled in the physiognomy of
English life would have made the following reflections:--

The man has evidently been born "a gentleman," and as evidently brought
up in a bad school.  He has been in the British army.  About this there
can be no mistake; no more than that he is now out of it.  He still
carries its whisker, though not its commission.  The latter he has lost
by selling out; but not until after receiving a hint from his colonel,
or a "round robin" from his brother officers, requesting him to
"resign."  If ever rich, he has long since squandered his wealth;
perhaps even the money obtained for his commission.  He is now poor.
His looks proclaim him an adventurer.

Those of the woman carry to a like conclusion, as regards herself.  Her
air and action, the showy style of her dress, a certain recklessness
observable in the cast of her countenance, bring the beholder, who has
once stood alongside "Rotten Row," back to the border of that
world-renowned ride.  In the fair Fan he sees the type of the "pretty
horse-breaker"--the "Anonyma" of the season.

It is an oft-repeated experience.  A handsome man, a beautiful woman,
both equally heart-wicked, inspiring one another with a transient
passion, that lasts long enough to make man and wife of them, but rarely
outlives the honeymoon.  Such was the story of the couple in question.

The stormy scene described was far from being the first.  It was but one
of the squalls almost daily occurring between them.

The calm succeeding such a violent gust could not be continuous.  A
cloud so dark could not be dissipated without a further discharge of
electricity.

It came; the last speaker, as if least satisfied, resuming the
discourse.

"And supposing you _had_ married your lady--I know whom you mean--that
old scratch, Lady C--, what a nice time the two of you would have had of
it!  She could only have kissed you at the risk of losing her front
teeth, or swallowing them.  Ha! ha! ha!"

"Lady C--be hanged!  I could have had half a score of titled ladies;
some of them as young, and just as good-looking, is you!"

"Boasting braggart!  'Tis false, and you know it!  Good-looking as _me_!
How you've changed your tune!  You know I was called the `Belle of
Brompton!'  Thank heaven, I don't need you to satisfy me of my good
looks.  Men of ten times your taste have pronounced upon them; _and may
yet_!"

The last speech was delivered in front of a cheval glass, before which
the speaker had stopped, as if to admire her person.

Certainly the glass gave out an image that did not contradict what she
had said.

"May yet!" echoed the satiated rake in a drawl, that betokened either
indifference, or its assumption.  "I wish some of them _would_!"

"Indeed!  Then some of them _shall_!"

"Oh!  I'm agreeable.  Nothing would give me greater pleasure.  Thank
God! we've got into a country whose people take a common-sense view of
these questions, and where divorce can be obtained, not only on the
quiet, but cheaper than the licence itself!  So far from standing in
your way, madam, I'll do all I can to assist you.  I think we can
honestly plead `incompatibility of temper'?"

"She'd be an angel that couldn't plead that with you."

"There's no danger, then, of your being denied the plea, unless fallen
angels be excepted."

"Mean insulter!  Oh, mercy! to think I've thrown myself away on this
worthless man?"

"Thrown yourself away?  Ha! ha! ha!  What were you when I found you?  A
waif, if not worse.  The darkest day of my life was that on which I
picked you up!"

"Scoundrel!"

The term "scoundrel" is the sure and close precursor of a climax.  When
passed between two gentlemen, it not unfrequently leads to a mutual
pulling of noses.  From a lady to a gentleman the result is of course
different, though in any case it conducts to a serious turn in the
conversation.  Its effect in the present instance was to end it
altogether.

With only an exclamation for rejoinder, the husband sprang to his feet,
and commenced pacing up and down one side of the room.  The wife,
already engaged in like perambulation, had possession of the other.

In silence they crossed and recrossed; at intervals exchanging angry
glances, like a tiger and tigress, making the tour of their cage.

For ten minutes or more was this mute, unsocial promenade continued.

The man was the first to tire of it, and once more resuming his seat, he
took a "regalia" from his case, set fire to the weed, and commenced
smoking.

The woman, as if determined not to be outdone in the way of
indifference, produced _her_ cigar-case, selected from it a tiny
"queen," and, sinking down into a rocking-chair, sent forth a cloud of
smoke that soon rendered her almost as invisible as Juno in her
_nimbus_.

There was no longer an exchange of glances--it was scarce possible--and
for ten minutes more not any of speech.  The wife was silently nursing
her wrath, while the husband appeared to be engaged on some abstruse
problem that occupied all his intellect.  At length an exclamation,
escaping involuntarily from his lips, seemed to declare its solution;
while the cheerful cast of his countenance, just perceptible through the
smoke, told of his having reached a conclusion that was satisfactory to
him.

Taking the regalia from between his teeth, and puffing away the cloud
that intervened, he leant toward his wife, at the same time pronouncing
her name in diminutive--

"Fan!"

The form, with the accent in which it was uttered, seemed to say that on
his side the storm had blown over.  His chafed spirit had become
tranquillised under the influence of the nicotine.

The wife, as if similarly affected, removed the "queen" from her lips;
and in a tone that smacked of forgiveness, gave out the rejoinder:

"Dick!"

"An idea has occurred to me," said he, resuming the conversation in a
shape entirely new.  "A grand idea!"

"Of its grandeur I have my doubts.  I shall be better able to judge when
you've imparted it.  You intend doing that, I perceive."

"I do," he answered, without taking notice of the sarcasm.

"Let's hear it, then."

"Well, Fan, if there's anything in this world clearer than another, it's
that by getting married we've both made a mucker of it."

"That's clear as daylight--to me at least."

"Then you can't be offended if I take a similar view of the question.
We married one another for love.  There we did a stupid thing, since
neither of us could afford it."

"I suppose I know all that.  Tell me something new."

"More than stupid," pursued the worthless husband; "it was an act of
absolute madness!"

"Most certainly, on my part."

"On the part of both of us.  Mind you, I don't say I repent making you
my wife.  Only in one way, and that is because I've spoiled your chances
in life.  I am aware you _could_ have married richer men."

"Oh, you admit that, do you?"

"I do.  And you must admit I could have married richer women."

"Lady Scratch, for example."

"No matter.  Lady Scratch could have kept me from this hard scratch for
a living, which promises to be still harder.  You know there's no
resource left me but the little skill I've acquired in manipulating
pasteboard.  I've come over here under the pleasant hallucination I
should find plenty of pigeons, and that the hawks only existed on our
side of the Atlantic.  Well, I've been round with my introductions, and
what's the result?  To discover that the dullest flat in New York would
be a sharp in the saloons of London.  I've dropped a hundred pounds
already, and don't see much chance of taking them up again."

"And what _do_ you see, Dick?  What's this grand idea?"

"Are you prepared to listen to a proposal?"

"How condescending of you to ask me!  Let me hear it.  Whether I may
feel inclined to agree to it is another thing."

"Well, my dear Fan, your own words have suggested it, so you can't
reproach me for originating it."

"If it be an _idea_, you needn't fear that.  What words, may I ask?"

"You said you wished I _had_ married my lady."

"I did.  What is there in that?"

"More than you think for.  A whole world of meaning."

"I meant what I said."

"In spite only, Fan."

"In earnest."

"Ha, ha!  I know you too well for that."

"Do you?  You flatter yourself, I think.  Perhaps you may some day find
your mistake."

"Not a bit of it.  You love me too well.  Fan, as I do you.  It is just
for that I am going to make the proposal."

"Out with it!  I shan't like you any the better for thus tantalising me.
Come, Dick; you want me to grant something?  What is it?"

"Give me your permission to--"

"To do what?"

"_To get married again_!"

The wife of twelve months started, as if struck by a shot.  In her
glance there was anger and surprise, only subdued by interrogation.

"Are you in earnest, Dick?"

The inquiry was mechanical.  She saw that he was.

"Wait till you've heard me out," he rejoined, proceeding to the
explanation.

She waited.

"What I propose, then, is this: You leave me free to _get married
again_.  More than that, give me your help to accomplish it--for our
mutual benefit.  It's the very country for such a scheme; and I flatter
myself I'm the very man who may bring it to a satisfactory conclusion.
These Yankees have been growing rich.  There are now scores--hundreds of
heiresses among them.  Strange if I can't pick one of them up!  They
must either be daintier than you, Fan, or else I've lost my
attractions."

The appeal to her vanity, skilful though it was, failed to elicit a
rejoinder.  She remained silent, permitting her husband to continue his
explanation.  He continued:

"It's no use shutting our eyes to the situation.  We've both been
speaking the truth.  We've made fools of ourselves.  Your beauty has
been the means of spoiling _my_ chances in life; and my--well, good
looks, if I must say it--have done the same for _you_.  It's been a
mutual love, and a reciprocal ruin--in short, a sell on both sides."

"True enough.  Go on?"

"The prospect before us!  I, the son of a poor prebend; you--well, it's
no use to talk of family affairs.  We came over here in hopes of
bettering our condition.  The land of milk and honey turns out to be but
gall and bitterness.  We've but one hundred pounds left.  When that's
gone, what next, Fan?"

Fan could not tell.

"We may expect but slight consideration for gentility here," continued
the adventurer.  "Our cash once spent, what can I do--or what you?  I
know of nothing, except to take hold of the delicate ribbons of a street
hack; while you must attune your musical ear to the tinkle of a
sewing-machine, or the creaking of a mangle.  By heaven! there'll be no
help for it?"

The _ci-devant_ belle of Brompton, appalled by the prospect, started up
from the rocking-chair, and once more commenced pacing the room.

Suddenly she stopped, and, turning to her husband, inquired:

"_Do you intend to be true to me, Dick_?"

The question was put in an eager, earnest tone.

Equally earnest was the answer:

"Of course I do.  How can you doubt me, Fan?  We're both alike
interested in the speculation.  You may trust me as steel!"

"I agree to it, then, Dick.  But dread steel if you betray me!"

Dick answered the threat with a light laugh; at the same time imprinting
a Judas kiss on the lips that had pronounced it!



CHAPTER SEVEN.

A DUTIFUL DAUGHTER.

"An officer just returned from Mexico--a captain, or something of the
sort, in one of the regiments raised for the war.  Of course, a nobody!"

It was the storekeeper's relict who spoke.

"Did you hear his name, mamma?" murmured Julia.

"Certainly, my dear.  The clerk pointed it out on the hotel register--
Maynard."

"Maynard!  If it be the Captain Maynard spoken of in the papers, he's
not such a nobody.  At least the despatches do not say so.  Why, it was
he who led the forlorn hope at C--, besides being first over the bridge
at some other place with an unpronounceable name?"

"Stuff about forlorn hopes and bridges!  That won't help him, now that
he is out of the service, and his regiment disbanded.  Of course he'll
be without either pension or pay, besides a _soupcon_ of his having
empty pockets.  I got so much out of the servant who waits upon him."

"He is to be pitied for that."

"Pity him as much as you like, my dear; but don't let it go any further.
Heroes are all very well in their way, when they've got the dollars to
back 'em up.  Without these they don't count for much now-a-days; and
rich girls don't go marrying them any more."

"Ha! ha! ha!  Who thinks of marrying him?"  Daughter and niece
simultaneously asked the question.

"No flirtations neither," gravely rejoined Mrs Girdwood.  "I won't
allow them--certainly not with him."

"And why not with him, as much as any one else, most honoured mother?"

"Many reasons.  We don't know who or what he may be.  He don't appear to
have the slightest acquaintance with any one in the place; and no one is
acquainted with him.  He's a stranger in this country, and believed to
be Irish."

"Oh, aunt!  I should not think any the worse of him for that.  My own
father was Irish."

"Whatever he may be, he's a brave man, and a gallant one," quietly
rejoined Julia.

"And a handsome one, too!" added Cornelia, with a sly glance towards her
cousin.

"I should think," pursued Julia, "that he who has climbed a
scaling-ladder--to say nothing about the bridge--and who afterward, at
the risk of his life, pulls two not very light young ladies up the face
of a perpendicular precipice, might dispense with any farther
introduction to society; even to the J.'s, the L.'s, and the B.'s--the
`_cream_,' as they call themselves."

"Pff!" scornfully exclaimed the mother.  "Any gentleman would have done
the same; and would have done it for any lady.  Why, he made no
difference between you and Keziah, who is almost as heavy as both of you
in a bundle!"

The remark caused the two young ladies to break forth into a fit of
laughter; for they remembered at the time they had been saved from their
peril the ludicrous look of the negress as she was drawn up to the crest
of the cliff.  Had she not been the last in the ascent, their
remembrance of it might have been less vivid.

"Well, girls; I'm glad to see that you enjoy it.  You may laugh as much
as you like; but I'm in earnest.  There must be no marrying in such a
quarter as that, nor flirting either.  I don't want either of you talked
about.  As for you, Corneel, I don't pretend to exercise any control
over you.  Of course you can act as you please."

"And I cannot?" quickly inquired the imperious Julia.

"Yes you can, my dear.  Marry Captain Maynard, or any other man who
suits your fancy.  But if you do so without my consent, you may make up
your mind to be contented with your pin-money.  Remember that the
million left by your father is mine for life."

"Indeed!"

"Ay!  And if you act against my wishes, I shall live thirty years
longer, to spite you--fifty if I can!"

"Well, mamma; I can't say but that you're candid.  A charming prospect,
should it please me to disobey you?"

"But you won't, Julia?" said Mrs Girdwood, coaxingly, "you won't.  You
know better than that: else your dear mother's teaching has been so much
waste time and trouble.  But talking of time," continued the "dear
mother," as she drew a jewelled watch from her belt, "in two hours the
ball will begin.  Go to your room, and get dressed."

Cornelia, obedient to the command, tripped out into the corridor, and,
gliding along it, turned into the apartment occupied by herself and
cousin.

Julia, on the contrary, walked on to the balcony outside.

"Plague take the ball!" said she, raising her arms in a yawn.  "I'd a
thousand times rather go to bed?"

"And why, you silly child?" inquired her mother, who had followed her
out.

"Mother, you know why!  It will be just the same as at the last one--all
alone among those impertinent people.  I hate them!  How I should like
to humiliate them!"

"To-night you shall do that, my dear."

"How, mamma?"

"By wearing my diamond head-dress.  The last present your dear father
gave me.  It cost him a twenty thousand dollar cheque!  If we could only
ticket the price upon the diamonds, how they would glitter in their
envious eyes.  Never mind; I should think they'll be sharp enough to
guess it.  Now, my girl, that will humiliate them!"

"Not much."

"Not much!  Twenty thousand dollars worth of diamonds!  There isn't such
a tiara in the States.  There won't be anything like it at the ball.  As
diamonds are in full fashion now, it will give you no end of a triumph;
at all events, enough to satisfy you for the present.  Perhaps when we
come back here again, we may have the diamonds set in a still more
attractive shape."

"How?"

"_In a coronet_!" replied the mother, whispering the words in her
daughter's ear.

Julia Girdwood started, as if the speech had been an interpretation of
her own thought.  Brought up amid boundless wealth, she had been
indulged in every luxury for which gold may be exchanged; but there was
one which even gold could not purchase--an _entree_ into that mystic
circle called "society"--a mingling with the _creme de la creme_.

Even in the free-and-easy atmosphere of a watering-place, she felt that
she was excluded.  She had discovered, as had also her mother, that
Newport was too fashionable for the family of a New York retail
storekeeper, however successful he may have been in disposing of his
commodities.  What her mother had just said was like the realisation of
a vague vision already floating in her fancy; and the word "coronet" had
more effect in spoiling the chances of Captain Maynard, than would have
been the longest maternal lecture on any other text.

The mother well knew this.  She had not trained her dear Julia to
romantic disobedience.  But at that moment it occurred to her that the
nail wanted clinching; and she proceeded to hammer it home.

"A coronet, my love; and why not?  There are lords in England, and
counts in France, scores of them, glad to grasp at such expectations as
yours.  A million of dollars, and beauty besides--you needn't blush,
daughter--two things not often tacked together, nor to be picked up
every day in the streets--either of London or Paris.  A prize for a
prince!  And now, Julia, one word more.  I shall be candid, and tell you
the truth.  It is for this purpose, and this only, I intend taking you
to Europe.  Promise to keep your heart free, and give your hand to the
man I select for you, and on your wedding-day I shall make over one-half
of the estate left by your late father!"

The girl hesitated.  Perhaps she was thinking of her late rescuer?  But
if Maynard was in her mind, the interest he had gained there could only
have been slight--certainly not strong enough to hold its place against
the tempting terms thus held out to her.  Besides, Maynard might not
care for her.  She had no reason to suppose that he did.  And under this
doubt, she had less difficulty in shaping her reply.

"I am serious upon this matter," urged the ambitious mother.  "Quite as
much as you am I disgusted with the position we hold here.  To think
that the most worthless descendants of one of `the old signers' should
deem it a condescension to marry my daughter!  Ach! not one of them
_shall_--with my consent."

"Without that, mother, I shall not marry."

"Good girl! you shall have the wedding gift I promised you.  And
to-night you shall not only wear my diamonds, but I make you free to
call them your own.  Go in--get them on?"



CHAPTER EIGHT.

A NOBLEMAN INCOG.

The strange dialogue thus terminated took place in front of the window
of Mrs Girdwood's apartment.  It was in the night; a night starless and
calm, and of course favourable to the eavesdroppers.

There was one.

In the room right above was a gentleman who had that day taken
possession.

He had come by the night-boat from New York, and entered his name on the
register as "Swinton," with the modest prefix of Mr Attached were the
words "and servant"--the latter represented by a dark-haired,
dark-complexioned youth, dressed after the fashion of a footman, or
_valet du voyage_.

To Newport, Mr Swinton appeared to be a stranger; and had spent most of
that day in exploring the little city founded by Coddington, and full of
historic recollections.

Though conversing with nearly everybody he met, he evidently knew no
one; and as evidently no one knew him.

Want of politeness to a stranger would not comport with the character of
Newport people; especially when that stranger had all the appearance of
an accomplished gentleman, followed at respectful distance by a
well-dressed and obsequious servant.

Those with whom he came in contact had but one thought:

"A distinguished visitor."

There was nothing in the appearance of Mr Swinton to contradict the
supposition.  He was a man who had seen some thirty summers, with no
signs to show that they had been unpleasantly spent.  Amidst his glossy
curls of dark auburn colour, the eye could not detect a single strand of
grey; and if the crow had set its claw upon his face, the track could
not be observed.  Under a well-cultivated whisker uniting to the
moustache upon his lips--in short the facial tonsure which distinguishes
the _habitue_ of the Horse Guards.  There could be no mistaking him for
any other than a "Britisher"; and as such was he set down, both by the
citizens of the town, and the guests at the hotel.

The meal called "tea-supper" being over, and the stranger, having
nothing better to do, was leaning out of the window of his sleeping
room, on the fourth storey--tranquilly smoking a cigar.

A conversation that occurred between himself and his servant--exhibiting
on the one side condescension, on the other a strange familiarity--need
not be repeated.  It had ended; and the servant had thrown himself,
_sans facon_, on a sofa; while the master, with arms resting on the
window-sill, continued to inspire the perfume of the nicotian weed,
along with the iodised air that came up from the _algae_ of the ocean.

The tranquil scene was favourable to reflection, and thus Mr Swinton
reflected:

"Deuced nice place!  Devilish pretty girls!  Hope I'll find one of them
who's got money, and command of it as well.  Sure to be some old hag
here with a well-filled stocking, though it may take time to discover
it.  Let me get a glance at her cornucopia, and if I don't turn the
small end upward, then--then I shall believe what I have heard of these
Yankee dames: that they hold their purse-strings tighter than do their
simple cousins of England.  Several heiresses about, I've heard.  One or
two with something like a million a piece--dollars, of course.  Five
dollars to the pound.  Let me see!  A million of dollars makes two
hundred thousand pounds.  Well! that would do, or even the half of it.
I wonder if that good-looking girl, with the maternal parent attached to
her, has got any blunt?  A little love mixed with the play would make my
game all the more agreeable.  Ah!  What's below?  The shadows of women
from an open window, the occupants of the apartment underneath.  Talking
they are.  If they would only come out on the balcony, there would be
some chance of my hearing them.  I'm just in the humour for listening to
a little scandal; and if they're anything like their sex on the other
side of the Atlantic, that's sure to be the theme.  By Jove! they're
coming out!  Just to oblige me."

It was just at this moment that Cornelia retired to her room, and Mrs
Girdwood, following her daughter, took stand upon the balcony to
continue the conversation which had been carried on inside.

Favoured by the calm night, and the natural law of acoustics, Mr
Swinton heard every word that was said--even to the softest whisper.

In order to secure himself against being seen, he had withdrawn behind
the Venetian shutter of his own window, and stood with his ear against
the open lath-work, listening with all the intentness of a spy.

When the dialogue came to an end, he craned out, and saw that the young
lady had gone inside, but that the mother still remained standing in the
balcony.

Once more quietly drawing back, and summoning the valet to his side, he
talked for some minutes in a low, hurried tone--as if giving the servant
some instructions of an important nature.

Then putting on his hat, and throwing a light surtout over his
shoulders, he hastened out of the room.

The servant followed; but not until an interval had elapsed.

In a few seconds after, the Englishman might have been seen sauntering
out upon the balcony with a careless air, and taking his stand within a
few feet of where the rich widow stood leaning over the rail.

He made no attempt to address her.  Without introduction, there would
have been a certain rudeness in it.  Nor was his face toward her, but to
the sea, as if he had stopped to contemplate the light upon the
Cormorant Rock, gleaming all the more brilliantly from the contrasted
darkness of the night.

At that moment a figure of short stature appeared behind him, giving a
slight cough, as if to attract his attention.  It was the servant.

"My lord," said the latter, speaking in a low tone--though loud enough
to be heard by Mrs Girdwood.

"Aw--Fwank--what is it?"

"What dress will your lordship wear at the ball?"

"Aw--aw--plain bwack, of cawse.  A white chawker."

"What gloves, your lordship?  White or straw?"

"Stwaw--stwaw."

The servant, touching his hat, retired.

"His lordship," as Mr Swinton appeared to be, returned to his tranquil
contemplation of the light upon Cormorant Rock.

There was no longer tranquillity for the relict of the retail
storekeeper.  Those magic words, "my lord," had set her soul in a
flutter.  A live lord within six feet of her.  Gracious me!

It is the lady's privilege to speak first, as also to break through the
boundaries of reserve.  And of this Mrs Girdwood was not slow to avail
herself.

"You are a stranger, sir, I presume--to our country, as well as to
Newport?"

"Aw--yes, madam--indeed, yes.  I came to yaw beautiful country by the
last steemaw.  I arrived at Noopawt this morning, by bawt from Nooyawk."

"I hope your lordship will like Newport.  It is our most fashionable
watering-place."

"Aw; sawtingly I shall--sawtingly.  But, madam, you adwess me as yaw
ludship.  May I ask why I have the honaw to be so entitled?"

"Oh, sir; how could I avoid giving you the title, after hearing your
servant so address you?"

"Aw, Fwank, stoopid fellaw! doose take him!  Pawdon me, madam, faw
seeming woodness.  I vewy much wegwet the occurrence.  I am twavelling
_incognito_.  You, madam, will understand what a baw it is--especially
in yaw fwee land of libawty, to have one's self pawpetwally pointed out?
A howed baw, I assure yaw?"

"No doubt it is.  I can easily understand that, my lord."

"Thanks, madam!  I am vewy much indebted to yaw intelligence.  But I
must ask a still greater fayvaw at your hands.  By the stoopidity of my
fellaw, I am completely in yaw power.  I pwesume I am talking to a lady.
In fact I am shaw of it."

"I hope so, my lord."

"Then, madam, the fayvaw I would ask is, that yaw keep this little
secwet abawt ma title.  Pway am I asking too much?"

"Not at all, sir; not at all."

"Yaw pwomise me?"

"I promise you, my lord."

"How vewy kind!  A hundwed thousand thanks, madam!  I shall be fawever
gwateful.  P'waps yaw are going to the bawl to-night?"

"I intend so, my lord.  I go with my daughter and niece."

"Aw--aw.  I hope I shall have the plesyaw of seeing yaw.  As I am a
stwanger here, of cawse I know naw one.  I go out of meaw quyuosity, or
rather I should say, to observe yaw national cawactewistics."

"Oh, sir; _you_ need be no stranger.  If you wish to dance, and will
accept as partners my niece and daughter, I can promise that both will
be most happy."

"Madam, yaw ovawwhelm me with yaw genewosity."

The dialogue here came to an end.  It was time to dress for the ball;
and, with a low bow on the part of the lord, and an obsequious courtesy
on the side of the lady, they separated--expecting to come together
again under the sheen of the chandeliers.



CHAPTER NINE.

AVANT LE BAL.

Terpsichore, at a fashionable watering-place in the New World, affects
pretty much the same airs as in the Old.

In a ball-room, where all are not supposed to be _best people_, the
solitary gentlemen-stranger finds but little opportunity of taking
exercise--especially in the "square-dances."  As the coteries make the
sets, and monopolise the choicest portions of the floor, when the room
is crowded and everybody determined to dance, the unlucky wight, without
acquaintances, finds himself sadly overlooked.  The stewards are usually
too much occupied with themselves, to remember those honorary duties
represented by rosette or ribbon in the buttonhole.

When it comes to the "round," the stranger stands a better chance.  It
is only a matter of mutual consent between two individuals; and he must
be a very insignificant personage, indeed, who cannot then find some
neglected wallflower willing to accommodate him.

Something of this frigidity might have been felt in the atmosphere of a
Newport ball-room; even in those days, _ante bellum_, when shoddy was a
thing unheard-of, and "ile" lay "unstruck" in the dark underground.

Something of it _was_ felt by the young officer lately returned from
Mexico, and who was in fact a greater stranger to the "society" of the
country for which he had been fighting, than to that against which he
had fought!

In both he was but a traveller--half-wandering waif, half-adventurer--
guided in his peregrinations less by interest than inclination.

To go dancing among unknown people is about the dullest occupation to
which a traveller can betake himself; unless the dance be one of the
free kind, where introductions are easy--morris, masque, or fandango.

Maynard knew, or conjectured, this to be true of Newport, as elsewhere.
But for all that, he had determined on going to the ball.

It was partly out of curiosity; partly to kill time; and perhaps not a
little for the chance of again meeting the two girls with whom he had
been so romantically made acquainted.

He had seen them several times since--at the dinner-table, and
elsewhere; but only at a distance, and without claiming the privilege of
his _outre_ introduction.

He was too proud to throw himself in their way.  Besides, it was for
them to make the advance, and say whether the acquaintance was to be
kept up.

They did not!  Two days had passed, and they did not--either by speech,
epistle, bow, or courtesy!

"What am I to make of these people?" soliloquised he.

"They must be the veriest--" He was going to say "snobs," when checked
by the thought that they were ladies.

Besides, such an epithet to Julia Girdwood!  (He had taken pains to make
himself acquainted with her name.)  Not more inappropriate than if
applied to a countess or a queen!

With all his gallantry he could not help some spasms of chagrin; the
keener, that, go where he would, Julia Girdwood seemed to go along with
him.  Her splendid face and figure appeared ever before him.

To what was he to attribute this indifference--it might be called
ingratitude on her part?

Could it be explained by the promise exacted from him upon the cliff?

This might make it in some way excusable.  He had since seen the girls
only with their maternal guardian--a dame of severe aspect.  Had the
secret to be kept from _her_!  And was this the reason why they were
preserving distance?

It was probable.  He had some pleasure in thinking so; but more, when
once or twice, he detected Julia's dark eyes strangely gazing upon him,
and instantly withdrawn, as his became turned upon her.

"The play's the thing, wherewith to touch the conscience of the king,"
Hamlet declared.

The ball!  It promised a clearing up of this little mystery, with
perhaps some others.  He would be sure to meet them there--mother,
daughter, niece--all three!  It would be strange if he could not
introduce himself; but if not, he must trust to the stewards.

And to the ball he went; dressed with as much taste as the laws of
fashion would allow--in those days liberal enough to permit of a white
waistcoat.

With only an occasional interval--transient as the scintillation of a
meteor--it has been black ever since!

The ball-room was declared open.

Carriages were setting down by the piazza of the Ocean House, and silks
rustling along the corridors of that most select of caravanserais.

From the grand dining-saloon, cleared for the occasion (and when
cleared, making a dancing-room worthy of Terpsichore herself), came
those not very harmonious sounds that tell of the tuning of fiddles, and
clearing out the throats of trombones.

The Girdwood party entered with considerable _eclat_--the mother dressed
like a grand-duchess, though without her diamonds.  These blazed upon
the brow of Julia, and sparkled on her snow white bosom--for the set
comprised a necklace with pendants.

She was otherwise splendidly attired; and, in truth, looked superb.  The
cousin of more modest grace and means, though pretty, seemed as nothing
beside her.

Mrs Girdwood had made a mistake--in coming in too early.  It is true
there were fashionable people already in the room.  But these were the
"organisers" of the entertainment; who, backed by a sort of
semi-official authority, had gathered in little groups over the floor,
scanning across fans, or through eye-glasses, the dancers as they came
in.

Through these the Girdwoods had to run the gauntlet--as they made their
way to the upper end of the room.

They did so with success, though not without being aware of some
supercilious glances, accompanied by whispered words that, if heard,
might have somewhat disconcerted them.

It was the second Newport ball--"hops" count for nothing--at which Mrs
Girdwood and her girls had shown themselves.

The first had not given great satisfaction--more especially to Julia.

But there was a better prospect now.  Mrs Girdwood had entered, with a
confidence based on the conversation she had just held with the
distinguished _incognito_, Mr Swinton.

She had seen this gentleman during the day: for, as already known, he
had not shut himself up in his room.  She was sufficiently discerning to
see that he was possessed of a fine face and figure.  His hair, too--of
the most aristocratic kind!  How could it be otherwise?  She alone knew
the reason--she and her daughter; to whom she had, of course,
communicated the secret of her discovery.  A bit of broken promise that
need not be severely criticised.

She knew of my lord's late arrival--from Canada he had told her--though
he had paid a flying visit to New York.

She hoped no one in the ball-room would recognise him--at least not till
after she had paraded him with her own party, and could assume the
seeming of his introducer.

She had still stronger reason for this.  Storekeeper's widow, as she
was, she possessed the true tact of the match-making mother.  It belongs
to no clime exclusively; no country.  It can be as well acquired in New
York as in London, Vienna, or Paris.  She was a believer in first
impressions--with the "compromises" that often spring from them; and in
this theory--with the view of putting it into practice--she had
instructed her dear Julia while dressing her for the ball.

The daughter had promised compliance.  Who wouldn't, with the prospect
of earning twenty thousand dollars' worth of diamonds?



CHAPTER TEN.

A PREVIOUS ENGAGEMENT.

In all the gradations of the thermal line, is there any atmosphere more
unbearable than that of a ball-room before the dancing commences?

It is the very essence of discomfort.

What a relief when the baton of the conductor is seen elevated over his
acolytes, and those strains, proverbially soothing to the savage,
resound through the glittering saloon!

It was a relief to Mrs Girdwood and her girls.  They had begun to fancy
themselves _too much observed_.  At least Julia had, half suspecting
herself of being the subject of a cynical criticism, which she did not
think of attributing to her diamonds.

She was burning with an ill-repressed spleen, by no means diminished as
the sets commenced forming, and no one came forward to claim either
herself or her cousin.

At that moment appeared a man whose presence changed the current of her
thoughts.  It was Maynard.

In spite of her mother's precautionary counsels, Miss Girdwood could not
look upon this gentleman with indifference.  To say nothing of what had
passed between them, a glance satisfied her that there was no handsomer
man in the room, or likely to come into it.

He was approaching from the entrance, apparently making his way toward
the Girdwood group.

Julia wondered whether he was going to join them.  She hoped that he
would.

"I suppose I may dance with him, mother--that is, if he asks me?"

"Not yet, my dear, not yet.  Wait a little longer.  His lordship--Mr
Swinton--may come in at any moment.  You _must_ have the first with him.
I wonder why he's not here," pursued the impatient parent, for the
tenth time raising her eye-glass and taking a survey of the saloon.  "I
suppose it's not fashionable for men of rank to come in early.  No
matter, Julia; you must reserve yourself till the last moment."

But the last moment had now arrived.  The introductory piece had been
played and was succeeded by the hum of half-whispered voices, and the
rustling of silk dresses--by that movement which precedes the taking of
places--gentlemen gliding in short stages across the slippery floor,
formally bending in front of expanded skirts, and mincing out the
well-known speech, "May I have the pleasure?"  Then a momentary show of
irresolution on the part of the lady, perhaps the consulting of a slip
of cardboard, an inclination of the head so slight as to be scarce
observable, a rising to the feet, with the greatest apparent reluctance,
and lastly the acceptance of the offered arm, as if conferring the
supremest of favours!

Neither of the young ladies under Mrs Girdwood's care had been yet
called upon to take part in this pantomime.  Certainly the stewards were
not doing their duty.  There were no finer-looking girls in the room,
and there were scores of gentlemen who would have been delighted to
dance with them.  Their standing neglected could be only an accidental
oversight.

The storekeeper's widow began to find it disagreeable.  She felt
inclined to be less exacting about the description of partners.  As
there was no lord in sight, the ex-officer would not be much longer
objected to.

"Does he intend coming at all?" she reflected, thinking of Swinton.

"Does he intend coming to us?" was the reflection of Julia, her thoughts
dwelling upon Maynard.

Her eyes, too, were on him.  He was still approaching, though slowly.
He was hindered by the hurrying couples as they took position on the
floor.  But she could see that he was looking toward them--herself and
cousin--where they stood.

He evidently approached with an air of indecision, his glance appearing
to interrogate them.

It must have been met by one of encouragement, for his demeanour became
suddenly changed and stepping up to the two young ladies, he saluted
them with a bow.

By both the salutation was returned, perhaps more cordially than he had
been expecting.

Both appeared to be still unengaged.  To which ought he to offer
himself?  He knew which he would have chosen, but there was a question
of etiquette.

As it turned out, there was no question of choice.

"Julia, my dear," said Mrs Girdwood, presenting a very
stylishly-dressed individual, who had just been given in charge to her
by one of the stewards.  "I hope you have not engaged yourself for the
quadrille?  I've promised you to this gentleman.  Mr Smithson--my
daughter."

Julia glanced at Smithson, and then looked as if she wished him far
enough.

But she had not engaged herself, and was therefore compelled to accept.

Lest a second Mr Smithson should be trotted up, Maynard hastened to
secure Cornelia, and led her off to form "opposite couple."

Seemingly satisfied with the disposal thus made, Mrs Girdwood retired
to a seat.

Her contentment was of short continuance.  She had scarce touched the
cushion, when she saw coming towards her a gentleman of distinguished
appearance, in straw kids.  It was his lordship _incog_.

She started back to her feet, and glanced across the room toward the
square that contained her girls.  She looked interrogatively, then
despairingly.  It was too late.  The quadrille had commenced.  Mr
Smithson was doing "right and left" with her daughter.  Confound Mr
Smithson!

"Aw, madam!  How'd do, again?  Ball begun, I pawceive; and I'm cut out
of the kadwille."

"It is true, Mr Swinton; you've come in a little late, sir."

"What a baw!  I pwesume yaw young ladies are disposed of?"

"Yes; they are dancing over yonder."

Mrs Girdwood pointed them out.  Adjusting his eye-glass, Mr Swinton
looked across the room.  His eye wandered in search of Mrs Girdwood's
daughter.  He did not think of the niece.  And his inquiry was directed
more to Julia's partner than herself.

A single look seemed to satisfy him.  Mr Smithson was not the man to
make him uneasy.

"I hope, madam," he said, turning to the mother, "I hope Miss Girdwood
has not filled up her cawd for the evening?"

"Oh, certainly not, sir!"

"Pewaps for the next--I pawceive by the pawgwam a valz--pwaps I might
have the honour of valzing with her?  May I bespeak yaw influence in my
behalf; that is, if there be no pwevious engagement?"

"I know there is none.  I can promise you that, sir; my daughter will no
doubt be most happy to waltz with you."

"Thanks, madam!  A thousand thanks?"

And, this point settled, the amiable nobleman continued to talk to the
relict of the retail storekeeper with as much amiability as if she had
been his equal in rank.

Mrs Girdwood was delighted with him.  How much superior this sprig of
true British nobility to the upstart bloods of New York or Boston!
Neither the Old Dominion, nor South Carolina itself, could produce such
a charming creature!  What a rare stroke of good fortune to have chanced
so timeously across him!  Blessings upon the head of that "Stoopid
fellaw, Fwank!" as his lordship had styled the little valet.

Frank was entitled to a present, which some day Mrs Girdwood had
mentally determined upon giving him.

Julia engaged for the next!  Certainly not!  Nor the next, nor the next.
She should dance with him all night long if he desired it.  And if it
were to be so, how she would like to be released from that promise, and
let all Newport know that Mr Swinton was--a lord!

So ran Mrs Girdwood's thoughts--kept, of course, to herself.

In a quadrille, the opportunities of the _vis-a-vis_ are only inferior
to those of the partner.  Maynard had improved his by engaging Julia
Girdwood for the waltz!  With this understanding they had separated upon
the floor.

In less than ten minutes after a group might have, been observed on one
side of the ball-room, consisting of two ladies and two gentlemen, who
seemed to have some crooked question between them--a scene.

The ladies were Mrs Girdwood and her daughter; the gentlemen, Messrs.
Maynard and Swinton.

All four had just come together; the two last without exchanging speech
or bow, but exhibiting in the exchanged glances sufficient sign of
mutual recognition--sign, too, of some old antipathy.

In the confusion of the moment, Mrs Girdwood did not observe this.  Her
daughter did.

What was the trouble among them?

The conversation will explain it.

"Julia, my dear"--it was Mrs Girdwood who spoke--"I've engaged you for
the first waltz--to Mr Swinton here.  Mr Swinton--my daughter."

The introduction had just ended as Maynard, coming forward to claim his
promised partner, formed the fourth corner in the quartette.  The music
was commencing.

The hostile "stare" exchanged between the two gentlemen lasted only a
second, when the young officer, recomposing his countenance, turned
toward Miss Girdwood, at the same time offering his arm.

Yielding obedience to an authoritative look from her mother the lady
appeared to hesitate about accepting it.

"You will excuse my daughter, sir," said Mrs Girdwood, "she is already
engaged."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the ex-captain, looking grandly astonished at the
mother, and turning to the daughter for an explanation.

"I think not, mamma?" answered Julia, with an air of indecision.

"But you have, my child!  You know I had promised you to Mr Swinton
here, before the ball began.  It is very awkward!  I hope, sir, you will
excuse her?"

The last speech was addressed to Maynard.

He glanced once more toward Julia.  She seemed still undecided.  But her
look might be translated, "Excuse me."

So interpreting it, he said:

"If it be Miss Girdwood's wish, I release her."

Again he fixed his eyes upon her face, watching for the movement of her
lips.

There was none!

Silence appeared to give consent.  Forcibly the old adage came before
Maynard's mind--so forcibly, that with a bow, which comprehended the
trio, he turned upon his heel, and disappeared among the dancers.

In six seconds after, Julia Girdwood was whirling around the room, her
flushed cheek resting upon the shoulder of a man known to nobody, but
whose dancing everybody admired.

"Who is the distinguished stranger?" was the inquiry on every lip.  It
was even put--lispingly of course--by the J.'s and the L.'s and the
B.'s.

Mrs Girdwood would have given a thousand dollars to have satisfied
their curiosity--to have spited them with the knowledge that her
daughter was dancing with a _lord_!



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

BALL-ROOM EMOTIONS.

In addition to the "bar" at which you settle your hotel account, the
Ocean House has another, exclusively devoted to drinking.

It is a snug, shady affair, partially subterranean, and reached by a
stairway, trodden only by the worshippers of Bacchus.

Beyond this limited circle its locality is scarcely known.

In this underground region the talk of gentlemen, who have waxed warm
over their cups, may be carried on ever so rudely, without danger of its
reaching the delicate ears of those fair sylphs skimming through the
corridors above.

This is as it should be; befitting a genteel establishment, such as the
Ocean House undoubtedly is; adapted also to the ascetic atmosphere of
New England.

The Puritan prefers taking his drink "on the quiet."

On ball nights, the bar-room in question is more especially patronised,
not only by the guests of the House, but outsiders from other hotels,
and "the cottages."

Terpsichore is a thirsty creature--one of the best customers of Bacchus;
and, after dancing, usually sends a crowd of worshippers to the shrine
of the jolly god.

At the Ocean House balls, drink can be had upstairs, champagne and other
light wines, with jellies and ices; but only underground are you
permitted to do your imbibing to the accompaniment of a cigar.

For this reason many of the gentlemen dancers, at intervals, descended
the stairway that led to the drinking-saloon.

Among others was Maynard, smarting under his discomfiture.

"A brandy smash!" he demanded, pausing in front of the bar.

"Of all men, Dick Swinton!" soliloquised he while waiting for the
mixture.  "It's true, then, that he's been turned out of his regiment.
No more than he deserved, and I expected.  Confound the scamp!  I wonder
what's brought him out here?  Some card-sharping expedition, I suppose--
a _razzia_ on the pigeon-roosts of America!  Apparently under the
patronage of Girdwood _mere_, and evidently in pursuit of Girdwood
_fille_.  How has he got introduced to them?  I'd bet high they don't
know much about him."

"Brandy smash, mister?"

"Well!" he continued, as if tranquillised by a pull at the iced mixture
and the narcotic smell of the mint.  "It's no business of mine; and
after what's passed, I don't intend making it.  They can have him at
their own price.  _Caveat emptor_.  For this little _contretemps_ I
needn't blame him, though I'd give twenty dollars to have an excuse for
tweaking his nose!"

Captain Maynard was anything but a quarrelsome man.  He only thought in
this strain, smarting under his humiliation.

"It must have been the doing of the mother, who for a son-in-law prefers
Mr Swinton to me.  Ha! ha! ha!  If she only knew him as I do?"

Another gulp out of the glass.

"But the girl was a consenting party.  Clearly so; else why should she
have hung fire about giving me an answer?  Cut out by Dick Swinton!  The
devil?"

A third pull at the brandy smash.

"Hang it!  It won't do to declare myself defeated.  They'd think so, if
I didn't go back to the ball-room!  And what am I to do there?  I don't
know a single feminine in the room and to wander about like some forlorn
and forsaken spirit would but give them a chance for sneering at me.
The ungrateful wretches!  Perhaps I shouldn't be so severe on the little
blonde I might dance with her?  But, no!  I shall not go near them.  I
must trust to the stewards to provide me with something in the shape of
a partner."

He once more raised the glass to his lips, this time to be emptied.

Then, ascending the stairs, he sauntered back to the hall-room.

He was lucky in his intercession with the gentlemen in rosettes.  He
chanced upon one to whom his name was not unknown; and through the
intercession of this gentleman found partners in plenty.

He had one for every dance--waltz, quadrille, polka, and schottishe--
some of the "sweetest creatures" on the floor.

In such companionship he should have forgotten Julia Girdwood.

And yet he did not.

Strange she should continue to attract him!  There were others fair as
she--perhaps fairer; but throughout the kaleidoscopic changes of that
glittering throng, his eyes were continually searching for the woman who
had given him only chagrin.  He saw her dancing with a man he had good
reason to despise--all night long dancing with him, observed by
everybody, and by many admired.

In secret unpleasantness Maynard watched this splendid woman; but it was
the acme of bitterness when he saw her give ear to the whisperings of
Richard Swinton, and lean her cheek upon his shoulder as they whirled
around the room, keeping time to the voluptuous strains of the
Cellarius.

Again occurred to him the same thought: "I'd give twenty dollars to have
an excuse for tweaking his nose!"

He did not know that, at less cost, and without seeking it, he was near
to the opportunity.

Perhaps he would have sought it, but for a circumstance that turned up
just in time to tranquillise him.

He was standing by the entrance, close to a set screen.  The Girdwoods
were retiring from the room, Julia leaning on the arm of Swinton.  As
she approached the spot he saw that her eyes were upon him.  He
endeavoured to read their expression.  Was it scornful?  Or tender?

He could not tell.  Julia Girdwood was a girl who had rare command of
her countenance.

Suddenly, as if impressed by some bold thought, or perhaps a pang of
repentance, she let go the arm of her partner, dropping behind, and
leaving him to proceed with the others.  Then swerving a little, so as
to pass close to where Maynard stood, she said, in a hurried
half-whisper:

"Very unkind of you to desert us!"

"Indeed!"

"You should have come back for an explanation," added she,
reproachfully.  "I could not help it."

Before he could make reply she was gone; but the accent of reproach left
tingling in his ear was anything but disagreeable.

"A strange girl this!" muttered he, in astonished soliloquy.  "Most
certainly an original!  After all, perhaps, not so ungrateful.  It may
have been due to the mother."



CHAPTER TWELVE.

"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.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

CHALLENGING THE CHALLENGER.

"In faith, I've done a very foolish thing," reflected the young
Irishman, as he entered his dormitory, and flung himself into a chair.
"Still there was no help for it.  Such talk as that, even from a
stranger like Dick Swinton, would play the deuce with me.  Of course
they don't know him here; and he appears to be playing a great part
among them; no doubt plucking such half-fledged pigeons as those with
him below.

"Very likely he said something of the same to the girl's mother--to
herself?  Perhaps that's why I've been treated so uncourteously!  Well,
I have him on the hip now; and shall make him repent his incautious
speeches.  Kicked out of the British service!  Lying cur, to have said
it!  To have thought of such a thing!  And from what I've heard it's but
a leaf from his own history!  This may have suggested it.  I don't
believe he's any longer in the Guards: else what should he be doing out
here?  Guardsmen don't leave London and its delights without strong, and
generally disagreeable, reasons.  I'd lay all I've got he's been
disgraced.  He was on the edge of it when I last heard of him.

"He'll fight of course?  He wouldn't if he could help it--I know the
sweep well enough for that.  But I've given him no chance to get out of
it.  A kid glove across the face, to say nothing of a threat to spit in
it--with a score of strange gentlemen looking on and listening!  If ten
times the poltroon he is, he dare not show the white feather now.

"Of course he'll call me out; and what am I to do for a second?  The
three or four fellows I've scraped companionship with here are not the
men--one of them.  Besides, none of them might care to oblige me on such
short acquaintance?

"What the deuce am I to do?  Telegraph to the Count?" he continued,
after a pause spent in reflecting.  "He's in New York, I know; and know
he would come on at once.  It's just the sort of thing would delight the
_vieux sabreur_, now that the Mexican affair is ended, and he's once
more compelled to sheathe his revolutionary sword.  Come in!  Who the
deuce knocks at a gentleman's door at this unceremonious hour?"

It was not yet 5 a.m.  Outside the hotel could be heard carriage wheels
rolling off with late roisterers, who had outstayed the ball.

"Surely it's too soon for an emissary from Swinton?  Come in!"

The door opening at the summons, discovered the night-porter of the
hotel.

"Well! what want you, my man?"

"A gentleman wants _you_, sir."

"Show him up!"

"He told me, sir, to give you his apologies for disturbing you at so
early an hour.  It's because his business is very important."

"Bosh!  Why need he have said that?"  Dick Swinton's friend must be a
more delicate gentleman than himself!

The last speech was in soliloquy, and not to the porter.

"He said, sir," continued the latter, "that having come by the boat--"

"By the boat?"

"Yes, sir, the New York boat.  She's just in."

"Yes--yes; I heard the whistle.  Well?"

"That having come by the boat, he thought--he thought--"

"Confound it! my good fellow; don't stay to tell me his thoughts
secondhand.  Where is he?  Show him up here, and let him speak them for
himself."

"From New York?" continued Maynard, after the porter had disappeared.
"Who of the Knickerbockers can it be?  And what business of such
importance as to startle a fellow from his sleep at half-past four in
the morning--supposing me to have been asleep--which luckily I'm not Is
the Empire city ablaze, and Fernando Wood, like a second Nero, fiddling
in ruthless glee over its ruins?  Ha!  Roseveldt?"

"Maynard!"

The tone of the exchanged salutation told of a meeting unexpected, and
after a period of separation.  It was followed by a mutual embrace.
Theirs was a friendship too fervent to be satisfied with the shaking of
hands.  Fellow campaigners--as friends--they had stood side by side
under the hissing hailstorm of battle.  Side by side had they charged up
the difficult steep of Chapultepec, in the face of howitzers belching
forth their deadly shower of shot--side by side fallen on the crest of
the counterscarp, their blood streaming unitedly into the ditch.

They had not seen each other since.  No wonder they should meet with
emotions corresponding to the scenes through which they had passed.

Some minutes passed before either could find coherent speech.  They only
exchanged ejaculations.  Maynard was the first to become calm.

"God bless you, my dear Count?" he said; "my grand instructor in the
science of war.  How glad I am to see you!"

"Not more than I to see you, _cher camarade_!"

"But say, why are you here?  I did not expect you; though strange enough
I was this moment thinking of you!"

"I'm here to see you--specially you!"

"Ah!  For what, my dear Roseveldt?"

"You've said that I instructed you in the science of war.  Be it so.
But the pupil now excels his teacher--has gone far beyond him in fame.
That's why I'm here."

"Explain yourself, Count!"

"Read this.  It will save speech.  You see it is addressed to yourself."

Maynard took the sealed letter handed to him.  It bore the
superscription:

"Captain Maynard."

Breaking it open, he read:

"The committee of German refugees in New York, in view of the late news
from Europe, have hopes that freedom is not yet extinguished in their
ancient fatherland.  They have determined upon once more returning to
it, and taking part in the struggle again begun in Baden and the
Palatinate.  Impressed by the gallantry displayed by you in the late
Mexican war, with your protective kindness to their countrymen who
served under you--and above all, your well-known devotion to the cause
of liberty--they have unanimously resolved to offer you the leadership
in this enterprise.  While aware of its perils--as also of your courage
to encounter them--they can promise you no reward save that of glory and
a nation's gratitude.  To achieve this, they offer you a nation's trust.
Say, sir, are you prepared to accept it?"

Some half-dozen names were appended, at which Maynard simply glanced.
He knew the men, and had heard of the movement.

"I accept," he said, after a few seconds spent in reflection.  "You can
carry that answer back to the committee."

"Carry back an answer!  My dear Maynard, I come to carry _you_ back."

"Must I go directly?"

"This very day.  The rising in Baden has begun, and you know revolutions
won't wait for any one.  Every hour is important.  You are expected back
by the next boat.  I hope there's nothing to prevent it?  What!  There
is something?"

"There is; something rather awkward."

"Not a woman?  No--no!  You're too much of a soldier for that."

"No; not a woman."

As Maynard said this a strange expression came over his countenance, as
if he was struggling against the truth.

"No--no!" he continued, with a forced smile.  "Not a woman.  It's only a
man; indeed only a thing in the shape of one."

"Explain, captain!  Who, or what is he?"

"Well, it's simply an affair.  About an hour ago I slapped a fellow in
the face."

"Ha!"

"There's been a ball to-night--in the hotel, here."

"I know it.  I met some of the people going away.  Well?"

"There was a young lady--"

"I might have known that, too.  Who ever heard of an affair without a
lady, young or old, at the bottom of it?  But excuse me for interrupting
you."

"After all," said Maynard, apparently changing his tack, "I needn't stay
to tell you about the lady.  She had little or nothing to do with it.
It occurred in the bar-room after the ball was over, and she in her bed,
I suppose."

"Leave her to one side then, and let her sleep."

"I had gone into this bar-room to take a drink, by way of night-cap, and
was standing by the counter, when I heard some one making rather free
use of my name.  Three men were close beside me, talking in a very fast
style, and, as I soon discovered, about myself.  They had been imbibing
a good deal, and did not chance to see me.

"One of the three I had known in England, when we were both in the
British service.

"The other two--Americans I suppose them--I had only seen for the first
time some two days ago.  Indeed, I had then a little difficulty with
them, which I needn't stay to trouble you about now; though I more than
half expected to have had a challenge for that.  It didn't come,
however; and you may guess what sort they are.

"It was my quondam acquaintance of the English army who was taking
liberties with my character, in answer to inquiries the other two were
putting to him."

"What was he telling them?"

"No end of lies; the worst of them being that I had been kicked out of
the British service!  Of course it was also his last.  After that--"

"After that you kicked him out of the bar-room.  I fancy I can see you
engaged in that little bit of foot practice!"

"I was not quite so rude as that.  I only slashed him across the cheek
with my glove, and then handed him my card.

"In truth, when you were announced I thought it was _his_ friend, and
not mine: though, knowing the man as I do, the idea of his sending a
messenger so early rather surprised me.

"I'm glad you've come, Count.  I was in a devil of a dilemma--being
acquainted with nobody here who could have served me for a second.  I
suppose I can reckon upon you?"

"Oh, that of course," answered the Count, with as much _insouciance_ as
if he had been only asked for a cigar.  "But," he added, "is there no
way by which this meeting may be avoided?"

It was not any craven thought that dictated the interrogatory.  A glance
at Count Roseveldt would have satisfied any one of this.

Full forty years of age, with moustache and whisker just beginning to
show steel-grey, of true martial bearing, he at once impressed you as a
man who had seen much practice in the terrible trade of the duello.  At
the same time there was about him no air either of the bully or bravado.
On the contrary, his features were marked by an expression of
mildness--on occasions only changing to stern.

One of these changes came over them, as Maynard emphatically made
answer: "No."

"_Sacre_!" he said, hissing out a French exclamation.  "How provoking!
To think such an important matter--the liberty of all Europe--should
suffer from such a paltry mischance!  It has been well said that woman
is the curse of mankind!

"Have you any idea," he continued, after this ungallant speech, "when
the fellow is likely to send in?"

"Not any.  Some time during the day, I take it.  There can be no cause
for delay that I can think of.  Heaven knows, we're near enough each
other, since both are stopping in the same hotel."

"Challenge some time during the day.  Shooting, or whatever it may be,
to-morrow morning.  No railway from here, and boat only once a day.
Leaves Newport at 7 p.m.  A clear twenty-four hours lost!  _Sac-r-re_!"

These calculations were in soliloquy; Count Roseveldt, as he made them,
torturing his great moustache, and looking at some imaginary object
between his feet Maynard remained silent.

The Count continued his _sotto voce_ speeches, now and then breaking
into ejaculations delivered in a louder tone, and indifferently in
French, English, Spanish, and German.

"By heavens, I have it?" he at length exclaimed, at the same time
starting to his feet.  "I have it, Maynard!  I have it?"

"What has occurred to you, my dear Count?"

"A plan to save time.  We'll go back to New York by the evening's boat!"

"Not before fighting!  I presume you include _that_ in your
calculations?"

"Of course I do.  We'll fight, and be in time all the same."

If Maynard had been a man of delicate susceptibilities he might have
reflected on the uncertainty of such a programme.

He merely asked for its explanation.

"Perfectly simple," responded the Count.  "You are to be the challenged
party, and, of course, have your choice both of time and weapons.  No
matter about the weapons.  It's the time that concerns us so."

"You'd bring off the affair to-day?"

"Would, and will."

"How if the challenge arrive too late--in the evening say?"

"_Carrambo_!--to use our old Mexican shibboleth--I've thought of that--
of everything.  The challenge shall come early--_must_ come, if your
adversary be a gentleman.  I've hit upon a plan to force it out of him
in good time."

"Your plan?"

"You'll write to him--that is, I shall--to say you are compelled to
leave Newport to-night; that a matter of grand importance has suddenly
summoned you away.  Appeal to him, as a man of honour, to send in his
invitation at once, so that you may arrange a meeting.  If he don't do
so, by all the laws of honour you will be free to go, at any hour you
may name."

"That will be challenging the challenger.  Will it be correct?"

"Of course it will.  I'll be answerable.  It's altogether _en regle_--
strictly according to the code."

"I agree to it, then."

"Enough!  I must set about composing the letter.  Being a little out of
the common, it will require some thought.  Where are your pens and ink?"

Maynard pointed to a table, on which were the writing materials.

Drawing up a chair, Roseveldt seated himself beside it.

Then, taking hold of a pen, and spreading a sheet of "cream laid" before
him, he proceeded to write the premonitory epistle, scarce consulting
the man most interested in what it might contain.  Thinking of the
revolution in Baden, he was most anxious to set free his friend from the
provoking compromise, so that both might bear the flag of freedom
through his beloved fatherland.

The note was soon written; a copy carefully taken, folded up, and shoved
into an envelope.  Maynard scarce allowed the opportunity of reading it!

It had to be addressed by his directions, and was sent to _Mr Richard
Swinton_, just as the great gong, screaming through the corridors of the
Ocean House, proclaimed to its guests the hour for _dejeuner a la
fourchette_.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

A REQUEST FOR A QUICK FIGHT.

The first shriek of the gong startled Mr Swinton from his slumber.

Springing out of his couch, he commenced pacing the floor with an
unsteady stride.

He was in the dress he had worn at the ball, the straw kids excepted.

But he was not thinking either of dress or toilet.  His mind was in an
agony of excitement that precluded all thoughts about personal
appearance.  Despite the ringing in his brain, it was clear enough for
him to recall the occurrences of the night.  Too well did he remember to
what he had committed himself.

His apprehensions were of a varied character.  Maynard knew him of old;
and was perhaps acquainted with his later, and less creditable, history.
His character would be made known; and his grand scheme frustrated.

But this was nothing compared with the other matter upon his mind--the
stain upon his cheek--that could only be wiped out at the risk of losing
his life.

He shivered, as he went staggering around the room.  His discomposure
was too plain to escape the notice of his wife.  In his troubled look
she read some terrible tale.

"What is it, Dick?" she asked, laying her hand upon his shoulder.
"There's been something unpleasant.  Tell me all about it."

There was a touch of tenderness in the tone.  Even the scarred heart of
the "pretty horse-breaker" had still left in it some vestige of woman's
divine nature.

"You've had a quarrel with Maynard?" she continued.  "Is that it?"

"Yes!" hoarsely responded the husband.  "All sorts of a quarrel."

"How did it arise?"

In speech not very coherent--for the alcoholic tremor was upon him--he
answered the question, by giving an account of what had passed--not even
concealing his own discreditable conduct in the affair.

There was a time when Richard Swinton would not have so freely confessed
himself to Frances Wilder.  It had passed, having scarce survived their
honeymoon.  The close companionship of matrimony had cured both of the
mutual hallucination that had made them man and wife.  The romance of an
unhallowed love had died out; and along with it what little respect they
might have had for one another's character.  On his side so effectually,
that he had lost respect for himself, and he took but little pains to
cover the uneasiness he felt--in the eyes of his wedded wife--almost
confessing himself a coward.

It would have been idle for him to attempt concealing it.  She had long
since discovered this idiosyncracy in his character--perhaps more than
all else causing her to repent the day when she stood beside him at the
altar.  The tie that bound her to him now was but that of a common
danger, and the necessity of self-preservation.

"You expect him to send you a challenge?" said she, a woman, and of
course ignorant of the etiquette of the duel.

"No," he replied, correcting her.  "That must come from me--as the party
insulted.  If it had only been otherwise--" he went on muttering to
himself.  "What a mistake not to pitch into him on the spot!  If I'd
only done that, the thing might have ended there; or at all events left
me a corner to creep out of."

This last was not spoken aloud.  The ex-guardsman was not yet so grandly
degraded as to make such a humiliating confession to his wife.  She
might see, but not hear it.

"No chance now," he continued to reflect.  "Those two fellows present.
Besides a score of others, witnesses to all that passed; heard every
word; saw the blow given; and the cards exchanged.  It will be the talk
of the hotel!  I must fight, or be for ever disgraced!"

Another turn across the room, and an alternative presented itself.  It
was flight!

"I might pack up, and clear out of the place," pursued he, giving way to
the cowardly suggestion.  "What could it matter?  No one here knows me
as yet; and my face might not be remembered.  But my name?  They'll get
that.  He'll be sure to make it known, and the truth will meet me
everywhere!  To think, too, of the chance I should lose--a fortune!  I
feel sure I could have made it all night with this girl.  The mother on
my side already!  Half a million of dollars--the whole one in time!
Worth a life of plotting to obtain--worth the risk of a life; ay, of
one's soul!  It's lost if I go; can be won if I only stay!  Curse upon
my tongue for bringing me into this scrape!  Better I'd been born dumb?"

He continued to pace the floor, now endeavouring to fortify his courage
to the point of fighting, and now giving way to the cowardly instincts
of his nature.

While thus debating with himself, he was startled by a tapping at the
door.

"See who it is, Fan," he said in a hurried whisper.  "Step outside; and
whoever it is, don't let them look in."

Fan, still in her disguise of valet, glided to the door, opened it, and
looked out.

"A waiter, I suppose, bringing my boots or shaving-water?"

This was Mr Swinton's reflection.

It was a waiter, but not with either of the articles named.  Instead, he
was the bearer of an epistle.

It was delivered to Fan, who stood in the passage, keeping the door
closed behind her.  She saw that it was addressed to her husband.  It
bore no postmark, and appeared but recently written.

"Who sent it?" was her inquiry, couched in a careless tone.

"What's that to you, cock-sparrow?" was the rejoinder of the
hotel-servant; inclined toward chaffing the servitor of the English
gentleman--in his American eyes, tainted with flunkeyism.

"Oh, nothing!" modestly answered Frank.

"If you must know," said the other, apparently mollified, "it's from a
gentleman who came by this morning's boat--a big, black fellow, six feet
high, with moustaches at least six inches long.  I guess your master
will know all about him.  Anyhow, that's all I know."

Without more words, the waiter handed over the letter, and took himself
off to the performance of other dudes.

Fan re-entered the room, and handed the epistle to her husband.

"By the morning boat?" said Swinton.  "From New York?  Of course,
there's no other.  Who can have come thence, that's got any business
with me?"

It just flashed across his mind that acceptances given in England could
be transmitted to America.  It was only a question of transfer, the
drawer becoming endorser.  And Richard Swinton knew that there were
lawyers of the tribe of Levi, who had transactions in this kind of
stamped paper, corresponding with each other across the Atlantic.

Was it one of his London bills forwarded to the American correspondent,
ten days before the day of dishonour?

Such was the suspicion that came into his mind while listening to the
dialogue outside.  And it remained there, till he had torn open the
envelope, and commenced reading.

He read as follows:

  "Sir,--As the friend of Captain Maynard, and referring to what
  occurred between him and you last night, I address you.

  "Circumstances of an important--indeed, peremptory--character require
  his presence elsewhere, necessitating him to leave Newport by the boat
  which takes departure at 8 p.m.  Between this and then there are
  twelve hours of daylight, enough to settle the trifling dispute
  between you.  Captain Maynard appeals to you, as a gentleman, to
  accept his offer for quick satisfaction.  Should you decline it, I,
  speaking as his friend, and believing myself tolerably well acquainted
  with the code of honour, shall feel justified in absolving him from
  any further action relating to the affair, and shall be prepared to
  defend him against any aspersions that may arise from it.

  "Until 7:30 p.m.--allowing half an hour to reach the boat--your friend
  will find me in Captain Maynard's room.

  "Yours obediently,--

  "Rupert Roseveldt.

  "Count of the Austrian Empire."

Twice, without stopping, did Swinton peruse this singular epistle.

Its contents, instead of adding to the excitement of his spirit, seemed
to have the effect of tranquillising it.

Something like a smile of satisfaction stole over his countenance, white
engaged in the second reading.

"Fan?" he said, slipping the letter into his pocket, and turning hastily
toward his wife, "ring the bell, and order brandy and soda--some cigars,
too.  And, hark ye, girl: for your life, don't let the waiter put his
nose inside the room, or see into it.  Take the tray from him, as he
comes to the door.  Say to him, besides, that I won't be able to go down
to breakfast--that I've been indulging last night, and am so-so this
morning.  You may add that I'm in bed.  All this in a confidential way,
so that he may believe it.  I have my reasons--good reasons.  So have a
care, and don't make a mull of it."

Silently obedient, she rang the bell, which was soon answered by a knock
at the door.

Instead of calling "Come in?"  Fan, standing ready inside the room,
stepped out--closing the door after her, and retaining the knob in her
hand.

He who answered was the same jocular fellow who had called her a
cock-sparrow.

"Some brandy and soda, James.  Ice, of course.  And stay--what else?
Oh! some cigars.  You may bring half a dozen.  My master," she added,
before the waiter could turn away, "don't intend going down to
breakfast."

This with a significant smile, that secured James for a parley.

It came off; and before leaving to execute the order, he was made
acquainted with the helpless condition of the English gent who occupied
Number 149.

In this there was nothing to surprise him.  Mr Swinton was not the only
guest under his charge, who on that particular morning required brandy
and soda.  James rather rejoiced at it, as giving him claim for an
increased perquisite.

The drink was brought up, along with the cigars, and taken in as
directed; the gentleman's servant giving the waiter no opportunity to
gratify curiosity by a sight of his suffering master.  Even had the door
been left open, and James admitted to the room, he would not have gone
out of it one whit the wiser.  He could only have told that Frank's
master was still abed, his face buried under the bedclothes!

To make sure against surprise, Mr Swinton had assumed this interesting
attitude; and for reasons unknown even to his own valet.  On the
rebolting of the door, he flung off the coverlet, and once more
commenced treading the carpet.

"Was it the same waiter?" he asked; "he that brought the letter?"

"It was--James--you know?"

"So much the better.  Out with that cork, Fan!  I want something to
settle my nerves, and make me fit for a good think?"

While the wire was being twisted from the soda bottle, he took hold of a
cigar, bit off the end, lit, and commenced smoking it.

He drank the brandy and soda at a single draught; in ten minutes after
ordering another dose, and soon again a third.

Several times he re-read Roseveldt's letter--each time returning it to
his pocket, and keeping its contents from Fan.

At intervals he threw himself upon the bed, back downward, the cigar
held between his teeth; again to get up and stride around the room with
the impatience of a man waiting for some important crisis--doubtful
whether it may come.

And thus did Mr Swinton pass the day, eleven long hours of it, inside
his sleeping apartment!

Why this manoeuvring, seemingly so eccentric?

He alone knew the reason.  He had not communicated it to his wife--no
more the contents of the lately received letter--leaving her to indulge
in conjectures not very flattering to her lord and master.

Six brandies and sodas were ordered, and taken in with the same caution
as the first.  They were all consumed, and as many cigars smoked by him
during the day.  Only a plate of soup and a crust for his dinner--the
dish that follows a night of dissipation.  With Mr Swinton it was a day
of dissipation, that did not end till 7:30 p.m.

At that hour an event occurred that caused a sudden change in his
tactics--transforming him from an eccentric to a sane, if not sober,
man!



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A PARTING GLANCE.

Any one acquainted with the topography of the Ocean House and its
adjuncts, knows that its livery-stable lies eastward--approached by a
wide way passing round the southern end.

On that same evening, exactly at half-past seven o'clock, a carriage,
issuing from the stable-yard, came rolling along toward the hotel.  By
the absence of livery coat, and the badgeless hat of the driver, the
"hack" was proclaimed; while the hour told its errand.  The steamer's
whistle, heard upon the far-off wharf, was summoning its passengers
aboard; and the carriage was on its way to the piazza of the hotel to
take up "departures."

Instead of going round to the front, it stopped by the southern end--
where there is also a set of steps and a double door of exit.

Two ladies, standing on the balcony above, saw the carriage draw up, but
without giving it thought.  They were engaged in a conversation more
interesting than the sight of an empty hack, or even the speculation as
to who was about to be taken by it to the boat.  The ladies were Julia
Girdwood and Cornelia Inskip; the subject of their converse the
"difficulty" that had occurred between Captain Maynard and Mr Swinton,
which, having been all day the talk of the hotel, had, of course,
penetrated to their apartment.

Cornelia was sorry it had occurred.  And, in a way, so also was Julia.

But in another way she was not.  Secretly she took credit to herself for
being the cause, and for this reason secretly felt gratification.  It
proved to her, so ran her surmises, that both these men must have had
her in their mind as they quarrelled over their cups; though she cared
less for the thoughts of Swinton than of Maynard.

As yet she was not so interested in either as to be profoundly anxious
about the affair.  Julia Girdwood's was not a heart to be lost, or won,
within the hour.

"Do you think they will have a duel?" asked the timid Cornelia,
trembling as she put the inquiry.

"Of course they will," responded the more daring Julia.  "They cannot
well get out of it--that is, Mr Swinton cannot."

"And suppose one of them should kill the other?"

"And suppose they do--both of them--kill one another?  It's no business
of ours."

"Oh, Julia!  Do you think it is not?"

"I'm sure it isn't.  What have _we_ got to do with it?  I should be
sorry, of course, about them, as about any other foolish gentlemen who
see fit to take too much drink.  I suppose that's what did it."

She only pretended to suppose this, as also her expressed indifference
about the result.

Though not absolutely anxious, she was yet far from indifferent.  It was
only when she reflected on Maynard's coolness to her at the close of the
ball, that she endeavoured to feel careless about the consequences.

"Who's going off in this carriage?" she asked, her attention once more
drawn to it by the baggage being brought out.

The cousins, leaning over the balustrade, looked below.  Lettered upon a
leathern trunk, that had seen much service, they made out the name,
"CAPTAIN MAYNARD," and underneath the well-known initials, "U.S.A."

Was it possible?  Or were they mistaken?  The lettering was dim, and at
a distance.  Surely they were mistaken?

Julia remained with eyes fixed upon the portmanteau.  Cornelia ran to
her room to fetch a lorgnette.  But before she returned with it, the
instrument was no longer needed.

Miss Girdwood, still gazing down, saw Captain Maynard descend the steps
of the hotel, cross over to the carriage, and take his seat inside it.

There was a man along with him, but she only gave this man a glance.
Her eyes were upon the ex-officer of Mexican celebrity, her rescuer from
the perils of the sea.

Where was he going?  His baggage and the boat-signal answered this
question.

And why?  For this it was not so easy to shape a response.

Would he look up?

He did; on the instant of taking his seat within the hack.

Their eyes met in a mutual glance, half tender, half reproachful--on
both sides interrogatory.

There was no time for either to become satisfied about the thoughts of
the other.  The carriage whirling away, parted two strange individuals
who had come oddly together, and almost as oddly separated--parted them,
perhaps for ever!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was another who witnessed that departure with perhaps as much
interest as did Julia Girdwood, though with less bitterness.  To him it
was joy: for it is Swinton of whom we speak.

Kneeling at the window of his room, on the fourth storey--looking down
through the slanted laths of the Venetians--he saw the hack drive up,
and with eager eyes watched till it was occupied.  He saw also the two
ladies below; but at that moment he had no thoughts for them.

It was like removing a millstone from his breast--the relief from some
long-endured agony--when Maynard entered the carriage; the last spasm of
his pain passing, as the whip cracked, and the wheels went whirling
away.

Little did he care for that distraught look given by Julia Girdwood; nor
did he stay to listen whether it was accompanied by a sigh.

The moment the carriage commenced moving, he sprang to his feet, turned
his back upon the window, and called out:

"Fan!"

"Well, what now?" was the response from his pretended servant.

"About this matter with Maynard.  It's time for me to call him out.
I've been thinking all day of how I can find a second."

It was a subterfuge not very skilfully conceived--a weak, spasmodic
effort against absolute humiliation in the eyes of his wife.

"You've thought of one, have you?" interrogated she, in a tone almost
indifferent.

"I have."

"And who, pray?"

"One of the two fellows I scraped acquaintance with yesterday at dinner.
I met them again last night.  Here's his name--Louis Lucas."

As he said this he handed her a card.

"What do you want me to do with it?"

"Find out the number of his room.  The clerk will tell you by your
showing the card.  That's all I want now.  Stay!  You may ask, also, if
he's in."

Without saying a word she took the card, and departed on her errand.
She made no show of alacrity, acting as if she were an automaton.

As soon as she had passed outside, Swinton drew a chair to the table,
and, spreading out a sheet of paper, scribbled some lines upon it.

Then hastily folding the sheet, he thrust it inside an envelope, upon
which he wrote the superscription:

"Louis Lucas, Esq."

By this time his messenger had returned, and announced the
accomplishment of her errand.  Mr Lucas's room was Number 90, and he
was "in."

"Number 90.  It's below, on the second floor.  Find it, Fan, and deliver
this note to him.  Make sure you give it into his own hands, and wait
till he reads it.  He will either come himself, or send an answer.  If
he returns with you, do you remain outside, and don't show yourself till
you see him go out again."

For the second time Fan went forth as a messenger.

"I fancy I've got this crooked job straight," soliloquised Swinton, as
soon as she was out of hearing.  "Even straighter than it was before.
Instead of spoiling my game, it's likely to prove the trump card.  What
a lucky fluke it is!  By the way, I wonder where Maynard can be gone, or
what's carried him off in such a devil of a hurry?  Ha!  I think I know
now.  It must be something about this that's in the New York papers.
These German revolutionists, chased out of Europe in '48, who are
getting up an expedition to go back.  Now I remember, there was a
count's name mixed up with the affair.  Yes--it was Roseveldt!  This
must be the man.  And Maynard?  Going along with them, no doubt.  He was
a rabid Radical in England.  That's his game, is it?  Ha! ha!  Splendid,
by Jove!  Playing right into my hands, as if I had the pulling of the
strings!  Well, Fan!  Have you delivered the note?"

"I have."

"What answer?  Is he coming?"

"He is."

"But when?"

"He said directly.  I suppose that's his step in the passage?"

"Slip out then.  Quick--quick!"

Without protest the disguised wife did as directed, though not without
some feeling of humiliation at the part she had consented to play.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

A SAFE CHALLENGE.

From the time of the hack's departure, till the moment when the valet
was so hastily sent out of the room, Mr Swinton had been acting as a
man in full possession of his senses.  The drink taken during the day
had but restored his intellect to its usual strength; and with a clear
brain he had written the note inviting Mr Louis Lucas to an interview.
He had solicited this interview in his own apartment--accompanying the
request with an apology for not going to that of Mr Lucas.  The excuse
was that he was "laid up."

All this he could have done in a steady hand, and with choice diction;
for Richard Swinton was neither dunce nor ignoramus.

Instead, the note was written in scribble, and with a chaotic confusion
of phraseology--apparently the production of one suffering from the
"trembles."

In this there was a design; as also, in the behaviour of Mr Swinton,
when he heard the footfall of his expected visitor coming along the
corridor in the direction of his room.  His action was of the most
eccentric kind--as much so as any of his movements during the day.

It might have been expected that the _ci-devant_ habitue of the Horse
Guards, in conformity with past habits, would have made some attempt to
arrange his toilet for the reception of a stranger.  Instead, he took
the opposite course; and while the footsteps of Mr Lucas were
resounding through the gallery, the hands of Mr Swinton were busy in
making himself as unpresentable as possible.

Whipping off the dress-coat he had worn at the ball, and which in his
distraction he had all day carried on his shoulders; flinging the
waistcoat after, and then slipping his arms out of the braces; in
shirt-sleeves and with hair dishevelled, he stood to await the incoming
of his visitor.  His look was that of one just awakened from the slumber
of intoxication.

And this character--which had been no counterfeit in the morning--he
sustained during the whole time that the stranger remained in his room.

Mr Lucas had no suspicion that the Englishman was acting.  He was
himself in just that condition to believe in its reality; feeling, and
as he confessed, "seedy as the devil."  This was his speech, in return
to the salutations of Swinton.

"Yas, ba Jawve!  I suppose yaw do.  I feel just the same way.  Aw--aw--I
must have been asleep for a week?"

"Well, you've missed three meals at least, and I two of them.  I was
only able to show myself at the supper-table."

"Suppaw!  Yaw don't mean to say it's so late as that?"

"I do indeed.  Supper we call it in this country; though I believe in
England it's the hour at which you dine.  It's after eight o'clock."

"Ba heavins!  This is bad.  I wemembaw something that occurred last
night.  Yaw were with me, were you not?"

"Certainly I was.  I gave you my card."

"Yas--yas.  I have it.  A fellaw insulted me--a Mr Maynard.  If I
wemembaw awight, he stwuck me in the face."

"That's true; he did."

"Am I wight too in my wecollection that yaw, sir, were so vewy obliging
as to say yaw would act for me as--as--a fwend?"

"Quite right," replied the willing Lucas, delighted with the prospect of
obtaining satisfaction for his own little private wrong, and without
danger to himself.  "Quite right.  I'm ready to do as I said, sir."

"Thanks, Mr Lucas! a world of thanks!  And now there's no time left faw
fawther talking.  By Jawve!  I've slept so long as to be in danger of
having committed myself!  Shall I wite out the challenge, or would yaw
pwefer to do it yawself?  Yaw know all that passed, and may word it as
yaw wish."

"There need be no difficulty about the wording of it," said the chosen
second, who, from having acted in like capacity before, was fairly
acquainted with the "code."

"In your case, the thing's exceedingly simple.  This Mr or Captain
Maynard, as he's called, insulted you very grossly.  I hear it's the
talk of the hotel.  You must call upon him to go out, or apologise."

"Aw, sawtingly.  I shall do that.  Wite faw me, and I shall sign."

"Hadn't you better write yourself?  The challenge should be in your own
hand.  I am only the bearer of it."

"Twue--twue!  Confound this dwink.  It makes one obwivious of
everything.  Of cawse I should wite it."

Sitting down before the table, with a hand that showed no trembling, Mr
Swinton wrote:

  "Sir--Referring to our interview of last night, I demand from you the
  satisfaction due to a gentleman, whose honour you have outraged.  That
  satisfaction must be either a meeting, or an ample apology.  I leave
  you to take your choice.  My friend, Mr Louis Lucas, will await your
  answer.

  "Richard Swinton."

"Will that do, think you?" asked the ex-guardsman, handing the sheet to
his second.

"The very thing!  Short, if not sweet.  I like it all the better without
the `obedient servant.'  It reads more defiant, and will be more likely
to extract the apology.  Where am I to take it?  You have his card, if I
mistake not.  Does it tell the number of his room?"

"Twue--twue!  I have his cawd.  We shall see."

Taking up his coat from the floor, where he had flung it; Swinton fished
out the card.  There was no number, only the name.

"No matter," said the second, clutching at the bit of pasteboard.
"Trust me to discover him.  I'll be back with his answer before you've
smoked out that cigar."

With this promise, Mr Lucas left the room.

As Mr Swinton sat smoking the cigar, and reflecting upon it, there was
an expression upon his face that no man save himself could have
interpreted.  It was a sardonic smile worthy of Machiavelli.

The cigar was about half burned out, when Mr Lucas was heard hurrying
back along the corridor.

In an instant after he burst into the room, his face showing him to be
the bearer of some strange intelligence.

"Well?" inquired Swinton, in a tone of affected coolness.  "What says
our fellaw?"

"What says he?  Nothing."

"He has pwomised to send the answer by a fwend, I pwesume?"

"He has promised me nothing: for the simple reason that I haven't seen
him!"

"Haven't seen him?"

"No--nor ain't likely neither.  The coward has `swartouted.'"

"Swawtuated?"

"Yes; G.T.T.--gone to Texas!"

"Ba Jawve!  Mr Lucas; I don't compwehend yaw?"

"You will, when I tell you that your antagonist has left Newport.  Gone
off by the evening boat."

"Honaw bwight, Mr Lucas?" cried the Englishman, in feigned
astonishment.  "Shawley you must be jawking."

"Not in the least, I assure you.  The clerk tells me he paid his hotel
bill, and was taken off in one of their hacks.  Besides, I've seen the
driver who took him, and who's just returned.  He says that he set Mr
Maynard down, and helped to carry his baggage aboard the boat.  There
was another man, some foreign-looking fellow, along with him.  Be sure,
sir, he's gone."

"And left no message, no addwess, as to where I may find him?"

"Not a word, that I can hear of."

"Ba Gawd?"

The man who had called forth this impassioned speech was at that moment
upon the deck of the steamer, fast cleaving her track towards the ocean.
He was standing by the after-guards, looking back upon the lights of
Newport, that struggled against the twilight.

His eyes had become fixed on one that glimmered high up on the summit of
the hill, and which he knew to proceed from a window in the southern end
of the Ocean House.

He had little thought of the free use that was just then being made of
his name in that swarming hive of beauty and fashion--else he might have
repented the unceremonious haste of his departure.

Nor was he thinking of that which was carrying him away.  His regrets
were of a more tender kind: for he had such.  Regrets that even his
ardour in the sacred cause of Liberty did not prevent him from feeling.

Roseveldt, standing by his side, and observing the shadow on his face,
easily divined its character.

"Come, Maynard!" said he, in a tone of banter, "I hope you won't blame
me for bringing you with me.  I see that you've left something behind
you!"

"Left something behind me!" returned Maynard, in astonishment, though
half-conscious of what was meant.

"Of course you have," jocularly rejoined the Count.  "Where did you ever
stay six days without leaving a sweetheart behind you?  It's true, you
scapegrace!"

"You wrong me, Count.  I assure you I have none--"

"Well, well," interrupted the revolutionist, "even if you have, banish
the remembrance, and be a man!  Let your sword now be your sweetheart.
Think of the splendid prospect before you.  The moment your foot touches
European soil, you are to take command of the whole student army.  The
Directory have so decided.  Fine fellows, I assure you, these German
students: true sons of Liberty--_a la Schiller_, if you like.  You may
do what you please with them, so long as you lead them against
despotism.  I only wish I had your opportunity."

As he listened to these stirring words, Maynard's eyes were gradually
turned away from Newport--his thoughts from Julia Girdwood.

"It may be all for the best," reflected he, as he gazed down upon the
phosphoric track.  "Even could I have won her, which is doubtful, she's
not the sort for a _wife_; and that's what I'm now wanting.  Certain, I
shall never see her again.  Perhaps the old adage will still prove
true," he continued, as if the situation had suggested it: "`Good fish
in the sea as ever were caught.'  Scintillations ahead, yet unseen,
brilliant as those we are leaving behind us!"



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

"THE COWARD!"

The steamer that carried Captain Maynard and his fortunes out of the
Narraganset Bay, had not rounded Point Judith before his name in the
mouths of many became a scorned word.  The gross insult he had put upon
the English stranger had been witnessed by a score of gentlemen, and
extensively canvassed by all who had heard of it.  Of course there would
be a "call out," and some shooting.  Nothing less could be expected
after such an affront.

It was a surprise, when the discovery came, that the insulter had stolen
off; for this was the interpretation put upon it.

To many it was a chagrin.  Not much was known of Captain Maynard, beyond
that public repute the newspapers had given to his name, in connection
with the Mexican war.

This, however, proved him to have carried a commission in the American
army; and as it soon became understood that his adversary was an officer
in that of England, it was but natural there should be some national
feeling called forth by the affair.  "After all," said they, "Maynard is
not an American!"  It was some palliation of his supposed poltroonery
that he had stayed all day at the hotel, and that his adversary had not
sent the challenge till after he was gone.

But the explanation of this appeared satisfactory enough; and Swinton
had not been slow in making it known.  Notwithstanding some shame to
himself, he had taken pains to give it a thorough circulation; supposing
that no one knew aught of the communication he had received from
Roseveldt.

And as no one did appear to know of it, the universal verdict was, that
the hero of C--, as some of the newspapers pronounced him, had fled from
a field where fighting honours might be less ostentatiously obtained.

There were many, however, who did not attribute his departure to
cowardice, and who believed or suspected that there must have been some
other motive--though they could not conceive what.

It was altogether an inexplicable affair; and had he left Newport in the
morning, instead of the evening, he would have been called by much
harder names than those that were being bestowed upon him.  His stay at
the hotel for what might be considered a reasonable time, in part
protected him from vituperation.

Still had he left the field to Mr Swinton, who was elevated into a sort
of half-hero by his adversary's disgraceful retreat.

The lord _incognito_ carried his honours meekly as might be.  He was not
without apprehension that Maynard might return, or be met again in some
other corner of the world--in either case to call him to account for any
triumphant swaggering.  Of this he made only a modest display, answering
when questioned:

"Confound the fellaw!  He's given me the slip, and I don't knaw where to
find him!  It's a demmed baw!"

The story, as thus told, soon circulated through the hotel, and of
course reached that part of it occupied by the Girdwood family.  Julia
had been among the first who knew of Maynard's departure--having herself
been an astonished eye-witness of it.

Mrs Girdwood, only too glad to hear he had gone, cared but little about
the cause.  Enough to know that her daughter was safe from his
solicitations.

Far different were the reflections of this daughter.  It was only now
that she began to feel that secret longing to possess the thing that is
not to be obtained.  An eagle had stooped at her feet--as she thought,
submitting itself to be caressed by her.  It was only for a moment.  She
had withheld her hand; and now the proud bird had soared resentfully
away, never more to return to her taming!

She listened to the talk of Maynard's cowardice without giving credence
to it.  She knew there must be some other cause for that abrupt
departure; and she treated the slander with disdainful silence.

For all this, she could not help feeling something like anger toward
him, mingled with her own chagrin.

Gone without speaking to her--without any response to that humiliating
confession she had made to him before leaving the ball-room!  On her
knees to him, and not one word of acknowledgment!

Clearly he cared not for her.

The twilight had deepened down as she returned into the balcony, and
took her stand there, with eyes bent upon the bay.  Silent and alone,
she saw the signal-light of the steamer moving like an _ignis fatuus_
along the empurpled bosom of the water--at length suddenly disappearing
behind the battlements of the Fort.

"He is gone?" she murmured to herself, heaving a deep sigh.  "Perhaps
never more to be met by me.  Oh, I must try to forget him!"



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

DOWN WITH THE DESPOTS!

Time was--and that not "long, long ago"--when the arrival of a European
steamer at New York was an event, as was also the departure.  There were
only "Cunarders" that came and went once a fortnight; at a later period
making the trip hebdomadally.

Any one who has crossed the Atlantic by the Cunard steamers need not be
told that, in New York, their point of landing and leaving is upon the
Jersey shore.

In the days when such things were "sensations," a crowd used to collect
at the Cunard wharf, attracted thither by the presence of the vast
leviathan.

Now and then were occasions when the motive was different or rather the
attraction--when, instead of the steamer, it was some distinguished
individual aboard of her: prince, patriot, singer, or courtesan.  Gay,
unreflecting Gotham stays not to make distinction, honouring all kinds
of notoriety alike; or at all events giving them an equal distribution
of its curiosity.

One of these occasions was peculiar.  It was a departure; the boat being
the _Cambria_, one of the slowest, at the same time most comfortable,
steamers on the "line."

She has been long since withdrawn from it; her keel, if I mistake not,
now ploughing the more tranquil waters of the Indian Ocean.

And her captain, the brave, amiable Shannon!  He, too, has been
transferred to another service, where the cares of steam navigation and
the storms of the Atlantic shall vex him no more.

He is not forgotten.  Reading these words, many hearts will be stirred
up to remember him--true hearts--still beating in New York, still
holding in record that crowd on the Jersey shore alongside the departing
steamer.

Though assembled upon American soil, but few of the individuals
composing it were American.  The physiognomy was European, chiefly of
the Teutonic type, though with an intermingling of the Latinic.
Alongside the North German, with light-coloured skin and huge tawny
moustache, stood his darker cousin of the Danube; and beside both the
still swarthier son of Italy, with gleaming dark eyes, and thick
_chevelure_ of shining black.  Here could be noted, too, a large
admixture of Frenchmen, some of them still wearing the blouse brought
over from their native land; most of them of that brave _ouvrier_ class,
who but the year before, and two years after, might have been seen
resolutely defending the barricades of Paris.

Only here and there could be distinguished an American face, or a word
spoken in the English language--the speaker being only a spectator who
had chanced upon the spot.

The main body of the assemblage was composed of other elements--men who
had come there out of motives quite apart from mere curiosity.  There
were women, too--young girls with flaxen hair and deep blue eyes,
recalling their native Rhineland, with others of darker skin, but
equally pretty faces, from the country of Corinne.

Most of the cabin-passengers--there are no others in a Cunarder--had
ascended to the upper deck, as is usual at the departure of a steamer.
It was but a natural desire of all to witness the withdrawal of the
stage-plank--the severance of that last link binding them to a land they
were leaving with varied emotions.

Despite their private thoughts, whether of joy or sorrow, they could not
help scanning with curiosity that sea of faces spread out before them
upon the wharf.

Standing in family parties over the deck, or in rows leaning against the
rail, they interrogated one another as to the cause of the grand
gathering, as also the people who composed it.

It was evident to all that the crowd was not American; and equally so,
that not any of them were about to embark upon the steamer.  There was
no appearance of baggage, though that might have been aboard.  But most
of them were of a class not likely to be carried by a Cunarder.
Besides, there were no signs of leave-taking--no embracing or
hand-shaking, such as may be seen when friends are about to be separated
by the sea.  For this they were on the wrong side of the Atlantic.

They stood in groups, close touching; the men smoking cigars, many of
them grand meerschaum pipes, talking gravely to one another, or more
jocosely to the girls--a crowd earnest, yet cheerful.

It was plain, too, the steamer was not their attraction.  Most of them
faced from her, casting interrogative glances along the wharf, as if
looking for something expected to appear to them in this direction.

"Who are they?" was the question passed round among the passengers.

A gentleman who appeared specially informed--there is always one such in
an assemblage--vouchsafed the desired information.

"They're the refugees," he said.  "French, Germans, Poles, and what not,
driven over here by the late revolutions in Europe."

"Are they going back again?" inquired one who wanted further
information.

"Some of them are, I believe," answered the first speaker.  "Though not
by the steamer," he added.  "The poor devils can't afford that."

"Then why are they here?"

"They have some leaders who are going.  One of them, a man named
Maynard, who made some figure in the late Mexican war."

"Oh, Captain Maynard!  But he's not one of them!  He isn't a
_foreigner_."

"No.  But the men he commanded in Mexico were, most of them!  That's why
they have chosen him for their leader."

"Captain Maynard must be a fool," interposed a third speaker.  "The
rising reported in Europe has no chance of success.  He'll only get his
neck into a halter.  Are there any Americans taking part in the
movement?"

He of supposed special information guessed not.

He guessed correctly, though it was a truth not over creditable to his
country--which, by his speech, could be no other than the "States."

At that crisis, when _filibustering_ might have been of some service to
the cause of European freedom, the only American who volunteered for it
was Maynard; and he was an _American-Irishman_!  Still, to this great
country--to a residence among its people, and a study of its free
institutions--was he indebted for the inspiration that had made him what
he was--a lover of Liberty.

Among those listening to the conversation was a group of three
individuals: a man of more than fifty years of age, a girl of less than
fourteen, and a woman whose summers and winters might number about
midway between.

The man was tall, with an aspect of the kind usually termed
aristocratic.  It was not stern; but of that mild type verging upon the
venerable--an expression strengthened by hair nearly white, seen under
the selvedge of his travelling-cap.

The girl was an interesting creature.  She was still but a mere child
and wearing the dress of one--a gown sleeveless, and with short skirt--
the hair hanging loose over her shoulders.

But under the skirt were limbs of a _tournure_ that told of approaching
puberty; while her profuse locks, precious on account of their rich
colour, appeared to call for pins and a comb.

Despite the difficulty of comparing the features of a man of fifty and a
child of fourteen, there was enough resemblance between these two to
give the idea of father and daughter.  It was confirmed by the relative
position in which they stood; he holding her paternally by the hand.

Between them and the woman the relationship was of quite a different
nature, and needed only a glance to make it known.  The buff complexion
of the latter, with the "white turban" upon her head, told her to be a
servant.

She stood a little behind them.

The man alone appeared to heed what was being said; the girl and servant
were more interested in the movements of the people upon the wharf.

The brief conversation ended, he approached the original speaker with
the half-whispered question:

"You say there are no Americans in this movement.  Is Captain Maynard
not one?"

"I guess not," was the reply.  "He's been in the American army; but I've
heard say he's Irish.  Nothing against him for that."

"Of course not," answered the aristocratic-looking gentleman.  "I merely
asked out of curiosity."

It must have been a strong curiosity that caused him, after retiring a
little, to take out his note-book, and enter in it a memorandum,
evidently referring to the revolutionary leader.

Furthermore, the information thus received appeared to have increased
his interest in the crowd below.

Dropping the hand of his daughter, and pressing forward to the rail, he
watched its evolutions with eagerness.

By this time the assemblage had warmed into a more feverish state of
excitement.  Men were talking in a louder strain, with more rapid
gesticulations--some pulling out their watches, and looking impatiently
at the time.  It was close upon twelve o'clock--the hour of the
steamer's starting.  She had already sounded the signal to get aboard.

All at once the loud talk ceased, the gesticulation was suspended, and
the crowd stood silent, or spoke only in whispers.  A spark of
intelligence had drifted mysteriously amongst them.

It was explained by a shout heard afar off, on the outer edge of the
assemblage.

"He is coming?"

The shout was taken up in a hundred repetitions, and carried on to the
centre of the mass, and still on to the steamer.

It was succeeded by a grand huzza, and the cries: "_Nieder mit dem
tyrannen_!"  "A bas les tyrants!  Vive la Republique!"

Who was coming?  Whose advent had drawn forth that heart-inspiring
hail--had elicited those sentiments of patriotism simultaneously spoken
in almost every language of Europe?

A carriage came forward upon the wharf.  It was only a common street
hack that had crossed in the ferryboat.  But men gave way for it with as
much alacrity as if it had been a grand gilded chariot carrying a king!

And those men far more.  Ten, twenty times quicker, and a thousand times
more cheerfully, did they spring out of its way.  Had there been a king
inside it, there would have been none to cry, "God bless His Majesty!"
and few to have said, "God help him!"

A king in that carriage would have stood but slight chance of reaching
the steamer in safety.

There were two inside it--a man of nigh thirty, and one of maturer age.
They were Maynard and Roseveldt.

It was upon the former all eyes were fixed, towards whom all hearts were
inclining.  It was his approach had called forth that cry: "He is
coming?"

And now that he had come, a shout was sent from the Jersey shore, that
echoed along the hills of Hoboken, and was heard in the streets of the
great Empire City.

Why this wonderful enthusiasm for one who belonged neither to their race
nor their country?  On the contrary, he was sprung from a people to them
banefully hostile!

It had not much to do with the man.  Only that he was the representative
of a principle--a cause for which most of them had fought and bled, and
many intended fighting, and, if need be, bleeding again.  He was their
chosen chief, advancing toward the van, flinging himself forward into
the post of peril--for man's and liberty's sake, risking the chain and
the halter.  For this was he the recipient of such honours.

The carriage, slowly working its way through the thick crowd, was almost
lifted from its wheels.  In their enthusiastic excitement those who
surrounded it looked as if they would have raised it on their shoulders
and carried it, horses included, up the staging of the steamer.

They did this much for Maynard.  Strong-bearded men threw their arms
around him, kissing him as if he had been a beautiful girl, while
beautiful girls clasped him by the hand, or with their kerchiefs waved
him an affectionate farewell.

A colossus, lifting him from his feet, transported him to the deck of
the steamer, amidst the cheers of the assembled multitude.

And amidst its cheers, still continued, the steamer swung out from the
wharf.

"It is worth while to be true to the people," said Maynard, his breast
glowing with proud triumph, as he heard his name rise above the parting
hurrah.

He repeated the words as the boat passed the Battery, and he saw the
German Artillery Corps--those brave scientific soldiers who had done so
much for their adopted land--drawn up on the esplanade of Castle Garden.

And once again, as he listened to their farewell salvo, drowning the
distant cheers sent after him across the widening water.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

BLANCHE AND SABINA.

On parting from the pier most of the passengers forsook the upper deck,
and went scattering to their state-rooms.

A few remained lingering above; among them the gentleman to whom
belonged the golden-haired girl, and the servant with skin of kindred
colour.

He did not stay, as one who takes a leaving look at his native land.  It
was evidently not his.  In his own features, and those of the child held
in his hand, there was an unmistakable expression of "Englishism," as
seen in its nobler type.

The coloured domestic, more like America, was still not of the "States."
Smaller and more delicate features, with a peculiar sparkle of the eye,
told of a West Indian origin--a negress for her mother, with a white
man, perhaps Frenchman or Spaniard, for her father.

Any doubts about the gentleman's nationality would have been dispelled
by listening to a brief dialogue that soon after occurred between him
and a fourth personage who appeared upon the scene.

This last was a young fellow in dark coat and trousers, the coat having
flap-pockets outside.  The style betokened him a servant--made further
manifest by the black leathern cockade upon his hat.

He had just come from below.

Stepping up to the gentleman, and giving the unmistakable salute, he
pronounced his master's name:

"Sir George!"

"What is it, Freeman?"

"They are stowing the luggage between decks, Sir George; and want to
know what pieces your excellency wishes to be kept for the state-rooms.
I've put aside the black bag and the yellow portmanteau, and the large
one with Miss Blanche's things.  The bullock trunk?  Is it to go below,
Sir George?"

"Why, yes--no.  Stay!  What a bother!  I must go down myself.  Sabina!
keep close by the child.  Here, Blanche! you can sit upon this cane
seat; and Sabina will hold the umbrella over you.  Don't move away from
here till I come back."

Sir George's assiduous care may be understood, by saying that Blanche
was his daughter--his only child.

Laying hold of the brass baluster-rail, and sliding his hand along it;
he descended the stair, followed by Freeman.

Blanche sat down as directed; the mulatto opening a light silk umbrella
and holding it over her head.  It was not raining; only to protect her
from the sun.

Looking at Blanche, one could not wonder at Sir George being so
particular.  She was a thing to be shielded.  Not that she appeared of
delicate health, or in any way fragile.  On the contrary, her form
showed strength and rotundity unusual for a girl of thirteen.  She was
but little over it.

Perhaps it was her complexion he was thinking of.  It certainly appeared
too precious to be exposed to the sun.

And yet the sun had somewhere played upon, without spoiling it.  Rather
was it improved by the slight embrowning, as the bloom enriches the skin
of the apricot.  He seemed to have left some of his rays amidst the
tresses of her hair, causing them to shine like his own glorious beams.

She remained upon the seat where her father had left her.  The position
gave her a fine view of the bay and its beautiful shores, of Staten
Island and its villas, picturesquely placed amidst groves of emerald
green.

But she saw, without observing them.  The ships, too, swept past
unobserved by her; everything, even the objects immediately around her
upon the deck of the steamer.  Her eyes only turned toward one point--
the stairway--where people were ascending, and where her father had gone
down.

And looking that way, she sat silent, though not abstracted.  She was
apparently watching for some one to come up.

"Miss Blanche," said the mulatto, observing this, "you no need look, you
fader not back for long time yet.  Doan you 'member in dat Wes' Indy
steamer how much trouble dem baggages be?  It take de governor great
while sort 'em."

"I'm not looking for father," responded the child, still keeping her
eyes sternward.

"Who den?  You ben tinkin' 'bout somebody."

"Yes, Sabby, I'm thinking of _him_.  I want to see how he looks when
near.  Surely he will come up here?"

"Him!  Who you 'peak' 'bout, Miss Blanche?  De cap'in ob the ship?"

"Captain of the ship!  Oh, no, no!  That's the captain up there.  Papa
told me so.  Who cares to look at an old fellow like that?"

While speaking, she had pointed to Skipper Shannon, seen pacing upon the
"bridge."

"Den who you mean?" asked the perplexed Sabina.

"Oh, Sabby! sure you might know."

"'Deed Sabby doan know."

"Well, that gentleman the people cheered so.  A man told papa they were
all there to take leave of him.  Didn't they take leave of him in an odd
way?  Why, the men in big beards actually kissed him.  I saw them kiss
him.  And the young girls! you saw what they did, Sabby.  Those girls
appear to be very forward."

"Dey war' nothin' but trash--dem white gals."

"But the gentleman?  I wonder who he is?  Do you think it's a prince?"

The interrogatory was suggested by a remembrance.  Only once in her life
before had the child witnessed a similar scene.  Looking out of a window
in London, she had been spectator to the passage of a prince.  She had
heard the hurrahs, and seen the waving of hats and handkerchiefs.
Alike, though with perhaps a little less passion--less true enthusiasm.
Since then, living a tranquil life in one of the Lesser Antilles--of
which her father was governor--she had seen little of crowds, and less
of such excited assemblages as that just left behind.  It was not
strange she should recall the procession of the prince.

And yet how diametrically opposite were the sentiments that actuated the
two scenes of which she had been spectator!  So much that even the West
Indian woman--the child of a slave--knew the difference.

"Prince!" responded Sabina, with a disdainful toss of the head, that
proclaimed her a loyal "Badian."  "Prince in dis 'Merica country!
Dere's no sich ting.  Dat fella dey make so much muss 'bout, he only a
'publican."

"A publican?"

"Yes, missy.  You dem hear shout, `Vive de publique!'  Dey all
'publicans in dis Unite States."

The governor's daughter was nonplussed; she knew what publicans were.
She had lived in London where there is at least one in every street--
inhabiting its most conspicuous house.  But a whole nation of them?

"All publicans!" she exclaimed, in surprise.  "Come, Sabby, you're
telling me a story."

"'Deed no, Miss Blanche.  Sabby tell you de truth.  True as gospels,
ebbery one of dese 'Merican people are 'publicans."

"Who drinks it then?"

"Drink what?"

"Why, what they sell!  The wine, and the beer, and the gin.  In London
they don't have anything else--the publicans don't."

"Oh! now I comprehend you, missy.  I see you no me unerstan', chile.  I
no mean dat sort as sell de drink.  Totally different aldegidder.  Dere
am republicans as doan believe in kings and kweens--not even in our good
Victorie.  Dey believe only in de common people dat's bad and wicked."

"Stuff, Sabby!  I'm sure you must be mistaken.  That young man isn't
wicked.  At least he doesn't look so; and they believe in _him_.  You
saw how they all honoured him; and though it does seem bold for those
girls to have kissed him, I think I would have done so myself.  He
looked so proud, so beautiful, so good!  He's ten times prettier than
the prince I saw in London.  That he is!"

"Hush up, chile!  Doan let your fader, de royal gov'nor, hear you talk
dat way.  He boun' be angry.  I know he doan favour dem 'publicans, and
woan like you praise 'em.  He hate 'em like pisen snake."

Blanche made no rejoinder.  She had not even listened to the sage
caution.  Her ears had become closed to the speeches of Sabina at sight
of a man who was at that moment ascending the stair.

It was he about whom they had been conversing.

Once upon the deck he took his stand close to the spot where the child
was seated, looking back up the bay.

As his face was slightly turned from her, she had a fair chance of
scrutinising him, without being detected.

And she made this scrutiny with the ardent curiosity of a child.

He was not alone.  By his side was the man she had seen along with him
in the carriage.

But she had no eyes for the middle-aged gentleman with huge grizzly
moustachios.  Only for him, whose hand those girls had been so eager to
clasp and kiss.

And she sat scanning him, with strange, wondering eyes, as the Zenaida
dove looks upon the shining constrictor.  Scanning him from head to
foot, heedless of the speeches of Sabina, whose West Indian experience
must have made her acquainted with the fascination of the serpent.

It was but the wonder of a child for something that has crossed its
track--something new and abnormal--grander than a toy--brighter, even,
than a fancy called up by the tales of Aladdin.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

"THE WONDERING EYES."

Once more Maynard stood upon the deck of a sea-going vessel, his eyes
bent upon the white seethy track lengthening out behind him.

In its sea-view the Empire City is unfortunate, presenting scarce a
point worthy of being remembered.  There is no salient feature like the
great dome of Saint Paul's, in London, the Arc de Triomphe, of Paris, or
even the Saint Charles Hotel, as you sweep round the English Turn, in
sight of New Orleans.  In approaching New York City, your eye rests on
two or three sharp spires, more befitting the architecture of a village
church, and a mean-looking cupola, that may be the roof either of a
circus or gasworks!  The most striking object is the curious circular
Castle with its garden behind it; but this requires a distant view to
hide its neglected condition; and, lying low, it becomes only prominent
when too near to stand scrutiny.

In the improvement of this point, New York has a splendid opportunity to
redeem the shabbiness of its seaward aspect.  It is still city property,
I believe; and if it had _Haussmart_, instead of _Hoffman_, for its
mayor, the city of Manhattan would soon present to its bay a front
worthy of this noble estuary.

To return from our digression upon themes civic, economic, and
architectural, to the _Cambria_ steamer fast forging on toward the
ocean.

The revolutionary leader had no such thoughts as he stood upon her deck,
taking the last look at the city of New York.  His reflections were
different; one of them being, whether it was indeed to be his _last_!

He was leaving a land he had long lived in, and loved: its people and
its institutions.  He was proceeding upon an enterprise of great peril;
not as the legalised soldier, who has no fear before him save death on
the battle-field, or a period of imprisonment; but as a revolutionist
and rebel, who, if defeated, need expect no mercy--only a halter and a
tombless grave.

It was at a time, however, when the word _rebel_ was synonymous with
_patriot_; before it became disgraced by that great rebellion--the first
in all history sinful and without just cause--the first that can be
called inglorious.

Then the term was a title to be proud of--the thing itself a sacred
duty; and inspired by these thoughts, he looked before him without fear,
and behind with less regret.

It would not be true to say, that he was altogether indifferent to the
scenes receding from his view.  Many bonds of true friendship had been
broken; many hands warmly shaken, perhaps never to be grasped again!

And there was one severance, where a still tenderer tie had been torn
asunder.

But the spasm had passed some time ago--more keenly felt by him on the
deck of that steamer leaving the harbour of Newport.

A week had elapsed since then--a week spent amidst exciting scenes and
in the companionship of kindred spirits--in the enrolling-room
surrounded by courageous filibusters--in the Bairisch beer-saloons with
exiled republican patriots--amidst the clinking of glasses, filled out
of long-necked Rhine wine bottles, and quaffed to the songs of Schiller,
and the dear German fatherland.

It was fortunate for Maynard that this stormy life had succeeded the
tranquillity of the Newport Hotel.  It enabled him to think less about
Julia Girdwood.  Still was she in his mind, as the steamer left Staten
Island in her wake, and was clearing her way through the Narrows.

But before Sandy Hook was out of sight, the proud girl had gone away
from his thoughts, and with the suddenness of thought itself!

This quick forgetfulness calls for explanation.

The last look at a land, where a sweetheart has been left behind, will
not restore the sighing heart to its tranquillity.  It was not this that
had produced such an abrupt change in the spirit of the lover.

No more was it the talk of Roseveldt, standing by his side, and pouring
into his ear those revolutionary ideas, for which the Count had so much
suffered.

The change came from a cause altogether different, perhaps the only one
capable of effecting such a transformation.

"_Un clavo saca otro clavo_," say the Spaniards, of all people the most
knowing in proverbial lore.  "One nail drives out another."  A fair face
can only be forgotten by looking upon one that is fairer.

Thus came relief to Captain Maynard.

Turning to go below, he saw a face so wonderfully fair, so strange
withal, that almost mechanically he stayed his intention, and remained
lingering on the deck.

In less than ten minutes after, _he was in love with a child_!

There are those who will deem this an improbability; perhaps pronounce
it unnatural.

Nevertheless it was true; for we are recording an actual experience.

As Maynard faced towards the few passengers that remained upon the upper
deck, most of them with eyes fixed upon the land they were leaving, he
noticed one pair that were turned upon himself.  At first he read in
them only an expression of simple curiosity; and his own thought was the
same as he returned the glance.

He saw a child with grand golden hair--challenging a second look.  And
this he gave, as one who regards something pretty and superior of its
kind.

But passing from the hair to the eyes, he beheld in them a strange,
wondering gaze, like that given by the gazelle or the fawn of the
fallow-deer, to the saunterer in a zoological garden, who has tempted it
to the edge of its enclosure.

Had the glance been only transitory, Maynard might have passed on,
though not without remembering it.

But it was not.  The child continued to gaze upon him, regardless of all
else around.

And so on till a man of graceful mien--grey-haired and of paternal
aspect--came alongside, caught her gently by the hand, and led her away,
with the intention of taking her below.

On reaching the head of the stairway she glanced back, still with that
same wildering look; and again, as the bright face with its golden
glories sweeping down behind it, disappeared below the level of the
deck.

"What's the matter with you, Maynard?" asked the Count, seeing that his
comrade had become suddenly thoughtful.  "By the way you stand looking
after that little sprout, one might suppose her to be your own!"

"My dear Count," rejoined Maynard, in an earnest, appealing tone, "I beg
you won't jest with me--at all events, don't laugh, when I tell you how
near you have hit upon my wish."

"What wish?"

"That she were my own."

"As how?"

"As my wife."

"Wife!  A child not fourteen years of age!  _Cher capitaine_! you are
turning Turk!  Such ideas are not becoming to a revolutionary leader.
Besides, you promised to have no other sweetheart than your sword!  Ha--
ha--ha!  How soon you've forgotten the naiad of Newport!"

"I admit it.  I'm glad I have been able to do so.  It was altogether
different.  It was not true love, but only--never mind what.  But now I
feel--don't laugh at me, Roseveldt.  I assure you I am sincere.  That
child has impressed me with a feeling I never had before.  Her strange
look has done it.  I know not why or wherefore she looked so.  I feel as
if she had sounded the bottom of my soul!  It may be fate, destiny--
whatever you choose to call it--but as I live, Roseveldt, I have a
presentiment--she will yet be my wife!"

"If such be her and your destiny," responded Roseveldt, "don't suppose I
shall do anything to obstruct its fulfilment.  She appears to be the
daughter of a gentleman, though I must confess I don't much like his
looks.  He reminds me of the class we are going to contend against.  No
matter for that.  The girl's only an infant; and before she can be ready
to marry you, all Europe may be Republican, and you a Presidant!  Now,
_cher capitaine_! let us below, else the steward may have our fine
Havanas stowed away under hatches; and then such weeds as we'd have to
smoke during the voyage!"  From sentiment to cigars was an abrupt
change.  But Maynard was no romantic dreamer; and complying with his
fellow-traveller's request, he descended to the state-room to look after
the disposal of their portmanteaus.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

A SHORT-LIVED TRIUMPH.

While the hero of C--was thus starting to seek fresh fame on a foreign
shore, he came very near having his escutcheon stained in the land he
was leaving behind him!

At the time that his name was a shout of triumph in noisy New York, it
was being pronounced in the quiet circles of Newport with an accent of
scorn.

By many it was coupled with the word "coward."

Mr Swinton enjoyed his day of jubilee.

It did not last long; though long enough to enable this accomplished
card-player to make a _coup_.

From the repute obtained by the sham challenge, aided by the alliance of
Louis Lucas, he was not long in discovering some of those pigeons for
whose especial plucking he had made the crossing of the Atlantic.

They were not so well feathered as he had expected to find them.  Still
did he obtain enough to save him from the necessity of taking to a hack,
or the fair Frances to a mangle.

For the cashiered guardsman--now transformed into a swindler--it
promised to be a golden time.  But the promise was too bright to be of
long continuance, and his transient glory soon became clouded with
suspicion; while that of his late adversary was released from the stigma
that for a time had attached to it.

A few days after Maynard had taken his departure from New York, it
became known why he had left so abruptly.  The New York newspapers
contained an explanation of this.  He had been elected to the leadership
of what was by them termed the "German expedition"; and had responded to
the call.

Honourable as this seemed to some, it did not quite justify him in the
eyes of others, acquainted with his conduct in the affair with Swinton.
His insult to the Englishman had been gross in the extreme, and above
all considerations he should have stayed to give him satisfaction.

But the papers now told of his being in New York.  Why did Mr Swinton
not follow him there?  This, of course, was but a reflection on the
opposite side, and both now appeared far from spotless.

So far as regarded Maynard, the spots were at length removed; and before
he had passed out of sight of Sandy Hook, his reputation as a "gentleman
and man of honour" was completely restored.

An explanation is required.  In a few words it shall be given.

Shortly after Maynard had left, it became known in the Ocean House that
on the morning after the ball, and at an early hour a strange gentleman
arriving by the New York boat had made his way to Maynard's room,
staying with him throughout the day.

Furthermore, that a letter had been sent addressed to Mr Swinton, and
delivered to his valet.  The waiter to whom it had been intrusted was
the authority for these statements.

What could that letter contain?

Mr Lucas should know, and Mr Lucas was asked.

But he did not know.  So far from being acquainted with the contents of
the letter in question, he was not even aware that an epistle had been
sent.

On being told of it, he felt something like a suspicion of being
compromised, and at once determined on demanding from Swinton an
explanation.

With this resolve he sought the Englishman in his room.

He found him there, and with some surprise discovered him in familiar
discourse with his servant.

"What's this I've heard, Mr Swinton?" he asked upon entering.

"Aw--aw; what, my deaw Lucas?"

"This letter they're talking about."

"Lettaw--lettaw!  I confess supweme ignowance of what you mean, my deaw
Lucas."

"Oh, nonsense!  Didn't you receive a letter from Maynard--the morning
after the ball?"

Swinton turned white, looking in all directions except into the eyes of
Lucas.  He was hesitating to gain time--not with the intention of
denying it.  He knew that he dare not.

"Oh! yas--yas!" he replied at length.  "There was a lettaw--a very queaw
epistle indeed.  I did not get it that day till after yaw had gone.  My
valet Fwank, stoopid fellow! had thrown it into a cawner.  I only wed it
on the following mawning."

"You have it still, I suppose?"

"No, indeed I lit my cigaw with the absawd epistle."

"But what was it about?"

"Well--well; it was a sort of apology on the part of Mr Maynard--to say
he was compelled to leave Newport by the evening bawt.  It was signed by
his fwend Wupert Woseveldt, calling himself a Count of the Austwian
Empire.  After weading it, and knowing that the writer was gone, I
didn't think it wawth while to twouble you any fawther about the
disagweeable business."

"By Gad!  Mr Swinton, that letter's likely to get us both into a
scrape!"

"But why, my deaw fellow?"

"Why?  Because everybody wants to know what it was about.  You say
you've destroyed it?"

"Tore it into taypaws, I ashaw you."

"More's the pity.  It's well-known that a letter was sent and delivered
to your servant.  Of course every one supposes that it came to your
hands.  We're bound to give some explanation."

"Twue--twue.  What daw you suggest, Mr Lucas?"

"Why, the best way will be to tell the truth about it.  You got the
letter too late to make answer to it.  It's already known _why_, so
that, so far as you are concerned, the thing can't be any worse.  It
lets Maynard out of the scrape--that's all."

"Yaw think we'd better make a clean bweast of it?"

"I'm sure of it.  We must."

"Well, Mr Lucas, I shall agwee to anything yaw may think pwopaw.  I am
so much indebted to yaw."

"My dear sir," rejoined Lucas, "it's no longer a question of what's
proper.  It is a necessity that this communication passed between Mr
Maynard and yourself should be explained.  I am free, I suppose, to give
the explanation?"

"Oh, pawfectly free.  Of cawse--of cawse."

Lucas left the room, determined to clear himself from all imputation.

The outside world was soon after acquainted with the spirit, if not the
contents of that mysterious epistle; which re-established the character
of the man who wrote, while damaging that of him who received it.

From that hour Swinton ceased to be an eagle in the estimation of the
Newport society.  He was not even any longer a successful hawk--the
pigeons becoming shy.  But his eyes were still bent upon that bird of
splendid plumage--far above all others--worth the swooping of a life!



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

THE CONSPIRACY OF CROWNS.

The revolutionary throe that shook the thrones of Europe in 1848 was but
one of those periodical upheavings occurring about every half-century,
when oppression has reached that point to be no longer endurable.

Its predecessor of 1790, after some fitful flashes of success,
alternating with intervals of gloom, had been finally struck down upon
the field of Waterloo, and there buried by its grim executioner,
Wellington.

But the grave once more gave up its dead; and before this cold-blooded
janissary of despotism sank into his, he sa

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