The Child Wife. Reid Mayne
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.”
“Sacré!” 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-ré!”
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 règle– 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 déjeuner à 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?”