The Child Wife. Майн Рид

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!”