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 habitué 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 façon, 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