The Child Wife. Майн Рид

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      “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 entrée into that mystic circle called “society”—a mingling with the crême de la crême.

      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.

       Table of Contents

      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.

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