Chapter Fifty.A Jealous Cousin.Frank Scudamore, of age about eighteen, was one of England’s gilded youth.Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, brought up amidst abundance of gold, with broad acres for his heritage, and a peer age in prospect, he was deemed a desirable companion for young girls, soon to become women and wives.More than one match-making mother had his name upon her list of “eligibles.”It soon became evident that these ladies would be under the necessity of “scratching” him; inasmuch as the prospective peer had fixed his affections upon one who was motherless—Blanche Vernon.He had passed enough time at Vernon Park to become acquainted with the rare qualities of his cousin. As a boy he had loved her; as a youth he adored her.It had never occurred to him that anything should come between him and his hopes, or rather his desires. Why should he talk about hopes, since the experience of his whole life taught him that to wish was to obtain?He wished for Blanche Vernon; and had no fear about obtaining her. He did not even think it necessary to make an effort to win her. He knew that his father, Lord Scudamore, looked forward to the alliance; and that her father was equally favourable to it. There could be no opposition from any quarter, and he only waited till his young sweetheart should be ready to become a wife, that he might propose to her, and be accepted.He did not think of his own youthfulness. At eighteen he believed himself a man.Hitherto he had been little troubled with competitors. It is true that others of thejeunesse doréhad looked at, and talked of the beautiful Blanche Vernon.But Frank Scudamore, endowed with extraordinary chums, as favoured by chances, had little to fear from their rivalry; and one after another, on shedding their evanescent light, had disappeared from his path.At length came that black shadow across it; in the person of a man, old enough, as he had spitefully said, to be Blanche Vernon’s father! The grandfather was an expression of hyperbole.This man was Maynard.Scudamore, while visiting at Vernon Park, had heard a good deal said in praise of the adventurous stranger; too much to make it possible he should ever take a liking to him—especially as the praise had proceeded from the lips of his pretty cousin. He had met Maynard for the first time at the shooting party, and his anticipated dislike was realised, if not reciprocated.It was the most intense of antipathies—that of jealousy.It had shown itself at the hunting meet, in the pheasant preserves, in the archery grounds, in the house at home—in short everywhere.As already known, he had followed his cousin along the wood-path. He had watched every movement made by her while in the company of her strange escort—angry at himself for having so carelessly abandoned her. He had not heard the conversation passing between them; but saw enough to satisfy him that it savoured of more than a common confidence. He had been smarting with jealousy all the rest of that day, and all the next, which was her birthday; jealous at dinner, as he observed her eyes making vain endeavours to pierce the épergne of flowers; madly jealous in the dance—especially at that time when the “Lancers” were on the floor, and she stood partner to the man “old enough to be her father.”Notwithstanding the noble blood in his veins, Scudamore was mean enough to keep close to them, and listen!And he heard some of the speeches, half-compromising, that had passed between them.Stung to desperation, he determined to report them to his uncle.On the day following his daughter’s birthday, Sir George did not accompany his guests to the field. He excused himself, on the plea that diplomatic business required him to confine himself to his library. He was sincere; for such was in reality the case.His daughter also stayed at home. As expected, the new novel had come down—an uncut copy, fresh from the hands of the binder.Blanche had seized upon it; and gaily bidding every one goodbye, had hurried off to her own apartment, to remain immured for the day!With joy Maynard saw this, as he sallied forth along with the shooting party. Scudamore, staying at home, beheld it with bitter chagrin.Each had his own thoughts, as to the effect the perusal of the book might produce.It was near mid-day, and the diplomatic baronet was seated in his library, preparing to answer a despatch freshly received from the Foreign Office, when he was somewhat abruptly intruded upon. His nephew was the intruder.Intimate as though he were a son, and some day to be his son-in-law, young Scudamore required to make no excuse for the intrusion.“What is it, Frank?” was the inquiry of the diplomatist, holding the despatch to one side.“It’s about Blanche,” bluntly commenced the nephew.“Blanche! what about her?”“I can’t say that it’s much my business, uncle; except out of respect for our family. She’s your daughter; but she’s also my cousin.”Sir George let the despatch fall flat upon the table; readjusted his spectacles upon his nose; and fixed upon his nephew a look of earnest inquiry.“What is this you’re talking of, my lad?” he asked, after a period passed in scrutinising the countenance of young Scudamore.“I’m almost ashamed to tell you, uncle. Something you might have seen as easily as I.”“But I haven’t. What is it?”“Well, you’ve admitted a man into your house who does not appear to be a gentleman.”“What man?”“This Captain Maynard, as you call him.”“Captain Maynard not a gentleman! What grounds have you for saying so? Be cautious, nephew. It’s a serious charge against any guest in my house—more especially one who is a stranger. I have good reasons for thinking heisa gentleman.”“Dear uncle, I should be sorry to differ from you, if I hadn’t good reasons for thinkinghe is not.”“Let me hear them!”“Well, in the first place, I was with Blanche in the covers, the day before yesterday. It was when we all went pheasant-shooting. We separated; she going home, and I to continue the sport. I had got out of sight, as he supposed, when this Mr Maynard popped out from behind a holly copse, and joined her. I’m positive he was there waiting for the opportunity. He gave up his shooting, and accompanied her home; talking all the way, with as much familiarity as if he had been her brother?”“He has the right, Frank Scudamore. He saved my child’s life.”“But that don’t give him the right to say the things he said to her.”Sir George started.“What things?”“Well, a good many. I don’t mean in the covers. What passed between them there, of course, I couldn’t hear. I was too far off. It was last night, while they were dancing, I heard them.”“And what did you hear?”“They were talking about this new book Mr Maynard has written. My cousin said she was so anxious to read it she would not be able to sleep that night. In reply, he expressed a hope she would feel the same way the night after reading it. Uncle, is that the sort of speech for a stranger to address to Blanche, or for her to listen to?”The question was superfluous; and Scudamore saw it, by the abrupt manner in which the spectacles were jerked from Sir George’s nose.“You heard all that, did you?” he asked, almost mechanically.“Every word of it.”“Between my daughter and Captain Maynard?”“I have said so, uncle.”“Then say it to no one else. Keep it to yourself, Frank, till I speak to you again. Go now! I’ve Government business to attend to, that requires all my time. Go?”The nephew, thus authoritatively dismissed, retired from the library.As soon as he was outside the door, the baronet sprang up out of his chair; and striding excitedly around the room, exclaimed to himself:“This comes of showing kindness to a republican—a traitor to his Queen!”
Frank Scudamore, of age about eighteen, was one of England’s gilded youth.
Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, brought up amidst abundance of gold, with broad acres for his heritage, and a peer age in prospect, he was deemed a desirable companion for young girls, soon to become women and wives.
More than one match-making mother had his name upon her list of “eligibles.”
It soon became evident that these ladies would be under the necessity of “scratching” him; inasmuch as the prospective peer had fixed his affections upon one who was motherless—Blanche Vernon.
He had passed enough time at Vernon Park to become acquainted with the rare qualities of his cousin. As a boy he had loved her; as a youth he adored her.
It had never occurred to him that anything should come between him and his hopes, or rather his desires. Why should he talk about hopes, since the experience of his whole life taught him that to wish was to obtain?
He wished for Blanche Vernon; and had no fear about obtaining her. He did not even think it necessary to make an effort to win her. He knew that his father, Lord Scudamore, looked forward to the alliance; and that her father was equally favourable to it. There could be no opposition from any quarter, and he only waited till his young sweetheart should be ready to become a wife, that he might propose to her, and be accepted.
He did not think of his own youthfulness. At eighteen he believed himself a man.
Hitherto he had been little troubled with competitors. It is true that others of thejeunesse doréhad looked at, and talked of the beautiful Blanche Vernon.
But Frank Scudamore, endowed with extraordinary chums, as favoured by chances, had little to fear from their rivalry; and one after another, on shedding their evanescent light, had disappeared from his path.
At length came that black shadow across it; in the person of a man, old enough, as he had spitefully said, to be Blanche Vernon’s father! The grandfather was an expression of hyperbole.
This man was Maynard.
Scudamore, while visiting at Vernon Park, had heard a good deal said in praise of the adventurous stranger; too much to make it possible he should ever take a liking to him—especially as the praise had proceeded from the lips of his pretty cousin. He had met Maynard for the first time at the shooting party, and his anticipated dislike was realised, if not reciprocated.
It was the most intense of antipathies—that of jealousy.
It had shown itself at the hunting meet, in the pheasant preserves, in the archery grounds, in the house at home—in short everywhere.
As already known, he had followed his cousin along the wood-path. He had watched every movement made by her while in the company of her strange escort—angry at himself for having so carelessly abandoned her. He had not heard the conversation passing between them; but saw enough to satisfy him that it savoured of more than a common confidence. He had been smarting with jealousy all the rest of that day, and all the next, which was her birthday; jealous at dinner, as he observed her eyes making vain endeavours to pierce the épergne of flowers; madly jealous in the dance—especially at that time when the “Lancers” were on the floor, and she stood partner to the man “old enough to be her father.”
Notwithstanding the noble blood in his veins, Scudamore was mean enough to keep close to them, and listen!
And he heard some of the speeches, half-compromising, that had passed between them.
Stung to desperation, he determined to report them to his uncle.
On the day following his daughter’s birthday, Sir George did not accompany his guests to the field. He excused himself, on the plea that diplomatic business required him to confine himself to his library. He was sincere; for such was in reality the case.
His daughter also stayed at home. As expected, the new novel had come down—an uncut copy, fresh from the hands of the binder.
Blanche had seized upon it; and gaily bidding every one goodbye, had hurried off to her own apartment, to remain immured for the day!
With joy Maynard saw this, as he sallied forth along with the shooting party. Scudamore, staying at home, beheld it with bitter chagrin.
Each had his own thoughts, as to the effect the perusal of the book might produce.
It was near mid-day, and the diplomatic baronet was seated in his library, preparing to answer a despatch freshly received from the Foreign Office, when he was somewhat abruptly intruded upon. His nephew was the intruder.
Intimate as though he were a son, and some day to be his son-in-law, young Scudamore required to make no excuse for the intrusion.
“What is it, Frank?” was the inquiry of the diplomatist, holding the despatch to one side.
“It’s about Blanche,” bluntly commenced the nephew.
“Blanche! what about her?”
“I can’t say that it’s much my business, uncle; except out of respect for our family. She’s your daughter; but she’s also my cousin.”
Sir George let the despatch fall flat upon the table; readjusted his spectacles upon his nose; and fixed upon his nephew a look of earnest inquiry.
“What is this you’re talking of, my lad?” he asked, after a period passed in scrutinising the countenance of young Scudamore.
“I’m almost ashamed to tell you, uncle. Something you might have seen as easily as I.”
“But I haven’t. What is it?”
“Well, you’ve admitted a man into your house who does not appear to be a gentleman.”
“What man?”
“This Captain Maynard, as you call him.”
“Captain Maynard not a gentleman! What grounds have you for saying so? Be cautious, nephew. It’s a serious charge against any guest in my house—more especially one who is a stranger. I have good reasons for thinking heisa gentleman.”
“Dear uncle, I should be sorry to differ from you, if I hadn’t good reasons for thinkinghe is not.”
“Let me hear them!”
“Well, in the first place, I was with Blanche in the covers, the day before yesterday. It was when we all went pheasant-shooting. We separated; she going home, and I to continue the sport. I had got out of sight, as he supposed, when this Mr Maynard popped out from behind a holly copse, and joined her. I’m positive he was there waiting for the opportunity. He gave up his shooting, and accompanied her home; talking all the way, with as much familiarity as if he had been her brother?”
“He has the right, Frank Scudamore. He saved my child’s life.”
“But that don’t give him the right to say the things he said to her.”
Sir George started.
“What things?”
“Well, a good many. I don’t mean in the covers. What passed between them there, of course, I couldn’t hear. I was too far off. It was last night, while they were dancing, I heard them.”
“And what did you hear?”
“They were talking about this new book Mr Maynard has written. My cousin said she was so anxious to read it she would not be able to sleep that night. In reply, he expressed a hope she would feel the same way the night after reading it. Uncle, is that the sort of speech for a stranger to address to Blanche, or for her to listen to?”
The question was superfluous; and Scudamore saw it, by the abrupt manner in which the spectacles were jerked from Sir George’s nose.
“You heard all that, did you?” he asked, almost mechanically.
“Every word of it.”
“Between my daughter and Captain Maynard?”
“I have said so, uncle.”
“Then say it to no one else. Keep it to yourself, Frank, till I speak to you again. Go now! I’ve Government business to attend to, that requires all my time. Go?”
The nephew, thus authoritatively dismissed, retired from the library.
As soon as he was outside the door, the baronet sprang up out of his chair; and striding excitedly around the room, exclaimed to himself:
“This comes of showing kindness to a republican—a traitor to his Queen!”
Chapter Fifty One.Under the Deodara.The birthday of Blanche Vernon did not terminate the festivities at her father’s house.On the second day after, there was a dinner-party of like splendid appointment, succeeded by dancing.It was the season of English rural enjoyment, when crops had been garnered, and rents paid; when the farmer rests from his toil, and the squire luxuriates in his sports.Again in Vernon Hall were noble guests assembled; and again the inspiring strains of harp and violin told time to the fantastic gliding of feet.And again Maynard danced with the baronet’s daughter.She was young to take part in such entertainments. But it was her father’s house, and she was an only daughter—hence almost necessitated at such early age to play mistress of the mansion.True to her promise, she had read the romance, and declared her opinion of it to the anxious author.She liked it, though not enthusiastically. She did not say this. Only from her manner could Maynard tell there was a qualification. Something in the book seemed not to have satisfied her. He could not conjecture what it was. He was too disappointed to press for an explanation.Once more they were dancing together, this time in avalse. Country-bred as she was, she waltzed like acoryphée. She had taken lessons from a Creole teacher, while resident on the other side of the Atlantic.Maynard was himself no mean dancer, and she was just the sort of partner to delight him.Without thought of harm, in theabandonof girlish innocence, she rested her cheek upon his shoulder, and went spinning round with him—in each whirl weaving closer the spell upon his heart. And without thought of being observed.But she was, ateveryturn, all through the room, both she and he. Dowagers, seated along the sides, ogled them through their eye-glasses, shook their false curls, and made muttered remarks. Young ladies, two seasons out, looked envious—Lady Mary contemptuous, almost scowling.“The gilded youth” did not like it; least of all Scudamore, who strode through the room sulky and savage, or stood watching the sweep of his cousin’s skirt, as though he could have torn the dress from her back!It was no relief to him when thevalsecame to an end.On the contrary, it but increased his torture; since the couple he was so jealously observing, walked off, arm-in-arm, through the conservatory, and out into the grounds.There was nothing strange in their doing so. The night was warm, and the doors both of conservatory and drawing-room set wide open. They were but following a fashion. Several other couples had done the same.Whatever may be said of England’s aristocracy, they have not yet reached that point of corruption, to make appearances suspicious. They may still point with pride to one of the noblest of their national mottoes:—“Honi soit qui mal y pense.”It is true they are in danger of forsaking it; under that baleful French influence, felt from the other side of the Channel, and now extending to the uttermost ends of the earth—even across the Atlantic.But it is not gone yet; and a guest admitted into the house of an English gentleman is not presupposed to be an adventurer, stranger though he be. His strolling out through the grounds, with a young lady for sole companion, even upon a starless night, is not consideredoutré—certainly not a thing for scandal.Sir George Vernon’s guest, with Sir George’s daughter on his arm, was not thinking of scandal, as they threaded the mazes of the shrubbery that grew contiguous to the dwelling. No more, as they stopped under the shadow of giganticdeodara, whose broad, evergreen fronds extended far over the carefully kept turf.There was neither moon nor stars in the sky; no light save that dimly reflected through the glass panelling of the conservatory.They were alone, or appeared so—secure from being either observed or overheard, as if standing amidst the depths of some primeval forest, or the centre of an unpeopled desert. If there were others near, they were not seen; if speaking, it must have been in whispers.Perhaps this feeling of security gave a tone to their conversation. At all events, it was carried on with a freedom from restraint, hitherto unused between them.“You have travelled a great deal?” said the young girl, as the two came to a stand under thedeodara.“Not much more than yourself Miss Vernon. You have been a great traveller, if I mistake not?”“I! oh, no! I’ve only been to one of the West India islands, where papa was Governor. Then to New York, on our way home. Since to some of the capital cities of Europe. That’s all.”“A very fair itinerary for one of your age.”“But you have visited many strange lands, and passed through strange scenes—scenes of danger, as I’ve been told.”“Who told you that?”“I’ve read it. I’m not so young as to be denied reading the newspapers. They’ve spoken of you, and your deeds. Even had we never met, I should have known your name.”And had they never met, Maynard would not have had such happiness as was his at that moment. This was his reflection.“My deeds, as you please to designate them, Miss Vernon, have been but ordinary incidents; such as fall to the lot of all who travel through countries still in a state of nature, and where the passions of men are uncontrolled by the restraints of civilised life. Such a country is that lying in the midst of the American continent—theprairies, as they are termed.”“Oh! the prairies! Those grand meadows of green, and fields of flowers! How I should like to visit them!”“It would not be altogether a safe thing for you to do.”“I know that, since you have encountered such dangers upon them. How well you have described them in your book! I liked that part very much. It read delightfully.”“But not all the book?”“Yes; it is all very interesting: but some parts of the story—”“Did not please you,” said the author, giving help to the hesitating critic. “May I ask what portions have the ill-luck to deserve your condemnation?”The young girl was for a moment silent, as if embarrassed by the question.“Well,” she at length responded, a topic occurring to relieve her. “I did not like to think that white men made war upon the poor Indians, just to take their scalps and sell them for money. It seems such an atrocity. Perhaps the story is notalltrue? May I hope it is not?”It was a strange question to put to an author, and Maynard thought so. He remarked also that the tone was strange.“Well, not all,” was his reply. “Of course the book is put forth as a romance, though some of the scenes described in it were of actual occurrence. I grieve to say, those which have given you dissatisfaction. For the leader of the sanguinary expedition, of which it is an account, there is much to be said in palliation of what may be called his crimes. He had suffered terribly at the hands of the savages. With him the motive was not gain, not even retaliation. He gave up warring against the Indians, after recovering his daughter—so long held captive among them.”“And his other daughter—Zoë—she who was in love—and so young too. Much younger than I am. Tell me, sir, is also that true?”Why was this question put? And why a tremor in the tone, that told of an interest stronger than curiosity?Maynard was in turn embarrassed, and scarce knew what answer to make. There was joy in his heart, as he mentally interpreted her meaning.He thought of making a confession, and telling her the whole truth.But had the time come for it?He reflected “not,” and continued to dissemble.“Romance writers,” he at length responded, “are allowed the privilege of creating imaginary characters. Otherwise they would not be writers of romance. These characters are sometimes drawn from real originals—not necessarily those who may have figured in the actual scenes described—but who have at some time, and elsewhere, made an impression upon the mind of the writer.”“And Zoë was one of these?”Still a touch of sadness in the tone. How sweet to the ears of him so interrogated! “She was, and is.”“She is still living?”“Still!”“Of course. Why should I have thought otherwise? And she must yet be young?”“Just fifteen years—almost to a day.”“Indeed! what a singular coincidence! You know it is my age?”“Miss Vernon, there are many coincidences stranger than that.”“Ah! true; but I could not help thinking of it. Could I?”“Oh, certainly not—after such a happy birthday.”“It was happy—indeed it was. I have not been so happy since.”“I hope the reading of my story has not saddened you? If I thought so, I should regret ever having written it.”“Thanks! thanks!” responded the young girl; “it is very good of you to say so.” And after the speech, she remained silent and thoughtful. “But you tell me it is not all true?” she resumed after a pause. “What part is not? You say that Zoë is a real character?”“She is. Perhaps the only one in the book true to nature. I can answer for the faithfulness of the portrait. She was in my soul while I was painting it.”“Oh!” exclaimed his companion, with a half suppressed sigh. “It must have been so. I’m sure it must. Otherwise how could you have told so truly how she would feel? I was of her age, and I know it!”Maynard listened with delight. Never sounded rhapsody sweeter in the ears of an author.The baronet’s daughter seemed to recover herself. It may have been pride of position, or the stronger instinct of love still hoping.“Zoë,” she said. “It is a very beautiful name—very singular! I have no right to ask you, but I cannot restrain my curiosity. Is it her real name?”“It is not. And you are the only one in the world who has the right to know what that is.”“I! For what reason?”“Because it isyours!” answered he, no longer able to withhold the truth. “Yours! Yes; the Zoë of my romance is but the portrait of a beautiful child, first seen upon a Cunard steamer. Since grown to be a girl still more attractively beautiful. And since thought of by him who saw her, till the thought became a passion that must seek expression in words. It sought; and has found it. Zoë is the result—the portrait of Blanche Vernon, painted by one who loves, who would be willing to die for her!”At this impassioned speech, the baronet’s daughter trembled. But not as in fear. On the contrary, it was joy that was stirring within her heart.And this heart was too young, and too guileless, either to conceal or be ashamed of its emotions. There was no show of concealment in the quick, ardent interrogatories that followed.“Captain Maynard, is this true? Or have you spoken but to flatter me?”“True!” replied he, in the same impassioned tone. “It is true! From the hour when I first saw you, you have never been out of my mind. You never will. It may be folly—madness—but I can never cease thinking of you.”“Nor I of you?”“Oh, heavens! am this be so? Is my presentiment to be fulfilled? Blanche Vernon! do you love me?”“A strange question to put to a child!”The remark was made by one, who had hitherto had no share in the conversation. Maynard’s blood ran cold, as, under the shadow of thedeodara, he recognised the tall figure of Sir George Vernon!It was not yet twelve o’clock. There was still time for Captain Maynard to catch the night mail; and by it he returned to London.
The birthday of Blanche Vernon did not terminate the festivities at her father’s house.
On the second day after, there was a dinner-party of like splendid appointment, succeeded by dancing.
It was the season of English rural enjoyment, when crops had been garnered, and rents paid; when the farmer rests from his toil, and the squire luxuriates in his sports.
Again in Vernon Hall were noble guests assembled; and again the inspiring strains of harp and violin told time to the fantastic gliding of feet.
And again Maynard danced with the baronet’s daughter.
She was young to take part in such entertainments. But it was her father’s house, and she was an only daughter—hence almost necessitated at such early age to play mistress of the mansion.
True to her promise, she had read the romance, and declared her opinion of it to the anxious author.
She liked it, though not enthusiastically. She did not say this. Only from her manner could Maynard tell there was a qualification. Something in the book seemed not to have satisfied her. He could not conjecture what it was. He was too disappointed to press for an explanation.
Once more they were dancing together, this time in avalse. Country-bred as she was, she waltzed like acoryphée. She had taken lessons from a Creole teacher, while resident on the other side of the Atlantic.
Maynard was himself no mean dancer, and she was just the sort of partner to delight him.
Without thought of harm, in theabandonof girlish innocence, she rested her cheek upon his shoulder, and went spinning round with him—in each whirl weaving closer the spell upon his heart. And without thought of being observed.
But she was, ateveryturn, all through the room, both she and he. Dowagers, seated along the sides, ogled them through their eye-glasses, shook their false curls, and made muttered remarks. Young ladies, two seasons out, looked envious—Lady Mary contemptuous, almost scowling.
“The gilded youth” did not like it; least of all Scudamore, who strode through the room sulky and savage, or stood watching the sweep of his cousin’s skirt, as though he could have torn the dress from her back!
It was no relief to him when thevalsecame to an end.
On the contrary, it but increased his torture; since the couple he was so jealously observing, walked off, arm-in-arm, through the conservatory, and out into the grounds.
There was nothing strange in their doing so. The night was warm, and the doors both of conservatory and drawing-room set wide open. They were but following a fashion. Several other couples had done the same.
Whatever may be said of England’s aristocracy, they have not yet reached that point of corruption, to make appearances suspicious. They may still point with pride to one of the noblest of their national mottoes:—“Honi soit qui mal y pense.”
It is true they are in danger of forsaking it; under that baleful French influence, felt from the other side of the Channel, and now extending to the uttermost ends of the earth—even across the Atlantic.
But it is not gone yet; and a guest admitted into the house of an English gentleman is not presupposed to be an adventurer, stranger though he be. His strolling out through the grounds, with a young lady for sole companion, even upon a starless night, is not consideredoutré—certainly not a thing for scandal.
Sir George Vernon’s guest, with Sir George’s daughter on his arm, was not thinking of scandal, as they threaded the mazes of the shrubbery that grew contiguous to the dwelling. No more, as they stopped under the shadow of giganticdeodara, whose broad, evergreen fronds extended far over the carefully kept turf.
There was neither moon nor stars in the sky; no light save that dimly reflected through the glass panelling of the conservatory.
They were alone, or appeared so—secure from being either observed or overheard, as if standing amidst the depths of some primeval forest, or the centre of an unpeopled desert. If there were others near, they were not seen; if speaking, it must have been in whispers.
Perhaps this feeling of security gave a tone to their conversation. At all events, it was carried on with a freedom from restraint, hitherto unused between them.
“You have travelled a great deal?” said the young girl, as the two came to a stand under thedeodara.
“Not much more than yourself Miss Vernon. You have been a great traveller, if I mistake not?”
“I! oh, no! I’ve only been to one of the West India islands, where papa was Governor. Then to New York, on our way home. Since to some of the capital cities of Europe. That’s all.”
“A very fair itinerary for one of your age.”
“But you have visited many strange lands, and passed through strange scenes—scenes of danger, as I’ve been told.”
“Who told you that?”
“I’ve read it. I’m not so young as to be denied reading the newspapers. They’ve spoken of you, and your deeds. Even had we never met, I should have known your name.”
And had they never met, Maynard would not have had such happiness as was his at that moment. This was his reflection.
“My deeds, as you please to designate them, Miss Vernon, have been but ordinary incidents; such as fall to the lot of all who travel through countries still in a state of nature, and where the passions of men are uncontrolled by the restraints of civilised life. Such a country is that lying in the midst of the American continent—theprairies, as they are termed.”
“Oh! the prairies! Those grand meadows of green, and fields of flowers! How I should like to visit them!”
“It would not be altogether a safe thing for you to do.”
“I know that, since you have encountered such dangers upon them. How well you have described them in your book! I liked that part very much. It read delightfully.”
“But not all the book?”
“Yes; it is all very interesting: but some parts of the story—”
“Did not please you,” said the author, giving help to the hesitating critic. “May I ask what portions have the ill-luck to deserve your condemnation?”
The young girl was for a moment silent, as if embarrassed by the question.
“Well,” she at length responded, a topic occurring to relieve her. “I did not like to think that white men made war upon the poor Indians, just to take their scalps and sell them for money. It seems such an atrocity. Perhaps the story is notalltrue? May I hope it is not?”
It was a strange question to put to an author, and Maynard thought so. He remarked also that the tone was strange.
“Well, not all,” was his reply. “Of course the book is put forth as a romance, though some of the scenes described in it were of actual occurrence. I grieve to say, those which have given you dissatisfaction. For the leader of the sanguinary expedition, of which it is an account, there is much to be said in palliation of what may be called his crimes. He had suffered terribly at the hands of the savages. With him the motive was not gain, not even retaliation. He gave up warring against the Indians, after recovering his daughter—so long held captive among them.”
“And his other daughter—Zoë—she who was in love—and so young too. Much younger than I am. Tell me, sir, is also that true?”
Why was this question put? And why a tremor in the tone, that told of an interest stronger than curiosity?
Maynard was in turn embarrassed, and scarce knew what answer to make. There was joy in his heart, as he mentally interpreted her meaning.
He thought of making a confession, and telling her the whole truth.
But had the time come for it?
He reflected “not,” and continued to dissemble.
“Romance writers,” he at length responded, “are allowed the privilege of creating imaginary characters. Otherwise they would not be writers of romance. These characters are sometimes drawn from real originals—not necessarily those who may have figured in the actual scenes described—but who have at some time, and elsewhere, made an impression upon the mind of the writer.”
“And Zoë was one of these?”
Still a touch of sadness in the tone. How sweet to the ears of him so interrogated! “She was, and is.”
“She is still living?”
“Still!”
“Of course. Why should I have thought otherwise? And she must yet be young?”
“Just fifteen years—almost to a day.”
“Indeed! what a singular coincidence! You know it is my age?”
“Miss Vernon, there are many coincidences stranger than that.”
“Ah! true; but I could not help thinking of it. Could I?”
“Oh, certainly not—after such a happy birthday.”
“It was happy—indeed it was. I have not been so happy since.”
“I hope the reading of my story has not saddened you? If I thought so, I should regret ever having written it.”
“Thanks! thanks!” responded the young girl; “it is very good of you to say so.” And after the speech, she remained silent and thoughtful. “But you tell me it is not all true?” she resumed after a pause. “What part is not? You say that Zoë is a real character?”
“She is. Perhaps the only one in the book true to nature. I can answer for the faithfulness of the portrait. She was in my soul while I was painting it.”
“Oh!” exclaimed his companion, with a half suppressed sigh. “It must have been so. I’m sure it must. Otherwise how could you have told so truly how she would feel? I was of her age, and I know it!”
Maynard listened with delight. Never sounded rhapsody sweeter in the ears of an author.
The baronet’s daughter seemed to recover herself. It may have been pride of position, or the stronger instinct of love still hoping.
“Zoë,” she said. “It is a very beautiful name—very singular! I have no right to ask you, but I cannot restrain my curiosity. Is it her real name?”
“It is not. And you are the only one in the world who has the right to know what that is.”
“I! For what reason?”
“Because it isyours!” answered he, no longer able to withhold the truth. “Yours! Yes; the Zoë of my romance is but the portrait of a beautiful child, first seen upon a Cunard steamer. Since grown to be a girl still more attractively beautiful. And since thought of by him who saw her, till the thought became a passion that must seek expression in words. It sought; and has found it. Zoë is the result—the portrait of Blanche Vernon, painted by one who loves, who would be willing to die for her!”
At this impassioned speech, the baronet’s daughter trembled. But not as in fear. On the contrary, it was joy that was stirring within her heart.
And this heart was too young, and too guileless, either to conceal or be ashamed of its emotions. There was no show of concealment in the quick, ardent interrogatories that followed.
“Captain Maynard, is this true? Or have you spoken but to flatter me?”
“True!” replied he, in the same impassioned tone. “It is true! From the hour when I first saw you, you have never been out of my mind. You never will. It may be folly—madness—but I can never cease thinking of you.”
“Nor I of you?”
“Oh, heavens! am this be so? Is my presentiment to be fulfilled? Blanche Vernon! do you love me?”
“A strange question to put to a child!”
The remark was made by one, who had hitherto had no share in the conversation. Maynard’s blood ran cold, as, under the shadow of thedeodara, he recognised the tall figure of Sir George Vernon!
It was not yet twelve o’clock. There was still time for Captain Maynard to catch the night mail; and by it he returned to London.
Chapter Fifty Two.The Illustrious Exile.The revolutionary era had ended; tranquillity was restored; and peace reigned throughout Europe.But it was a peace secured by chains, and supported by bayonets.Manin was dead, Hecker an exile in transatlantic lands, Blum had been murdered—as also a score of other distinguished revolutionary leaders.But there were two still surviving, whose names caused uneasiness to despotism from the Baltic to the Mediterranean—from the Euxine to the Atlantic.These names were Kossuth and Mazzini.Despite the influence used to blacken them—the whole power of a corrupted press—they were still sounds of magical import; symbols that at any day might stir up the peoples to strike one other blow for freedom. More especially was this true of Kossuth. Some rashness shown by Mazzini—a belief that his doctrines were toored—in other words, too far advanced for the time—stinted the confidence of the more moderate in the liberal party.It was otherwise with the views of Kossuth. These had all along been strictly in accordance with conservatism—aiming only at national independence upon a presumed republican basis. Of therépublique rouge et démocratiquetalked of in France, he had never given assent to therouge, and but partially to thedémocratique.If the future historian can ever find flaw in the character of Kossuth, it will be in the fact of his having been too conservative; or rather too national, and not enough developed in the idea of a universal propagandism.Too much was he, as unfortunately most men are, a believer in non-interference; that sophism of international comity which permits the King of Dahomey to kill his subjects to his heart’s content, and the King of Viti-Vau to eathis, to the satisfaction of his stomach.This limitation in the principles of the Magyar chief was the only thing in his character, known to the writer, that will exclude him from being considered truly, grandly great.It may have been only assumed—it is to be hoped so—to contribute to the success of his noble purposes.It certainly tended to this—by securing him the confidence of the more timid adherents of the revolutionary cause.But there was another influence in his favour, and against the triumphant despots. All knew that the failure of the Hungarian revolution was due to causes over which Kossuth had no control—in short, to the blackest treachery on record. That with unerring genius, and all his soul’s energy, he had protested against the courses that led to it; and, to the last hour, had held out against the counsels of the wavering and the wicked. Not by his own consent, but by force, had he succumbed to them.It was the knowledge of this that lent that magical influence to his name—every day growing stronger, as the story of Geörgei’s treason became better understood.Expelled from his own land, he had sought an asylum in England.Having gone through thefanfaronof a national welcome, in the shape of cheap receptions and monster meetings—having passed the entire ordeal, without succumbing to flattery, or giving his enemies the slightest cue for ridicule—this singular man had settled down in a modest suburban residence in the western district of London.There in the bosom of his beloved family—a wife and daughter, with two sons, noble youths, who will yet add lustre to the name—he seemed only desirous of escaping from that noisy hospitality, by this time known to him to be nothing but the emptiest ostentation.A few public dinners, cooked by such coarse caterers as the landlords of the London or Freemasons’ Tavern, were all of English cheer Kossuth ever tasted, and all he cared to claim. In his home he was not only permitted to purchase everything out of his own sadly attenuated purse, but was cheated by almost every tradesman with whom he had to deal; and beyond the ordinary extortion, on the strength of his being a stranger!This was the sort of hospitality extended by England to the illustrious exile, and of which her Tory press have made so much boast! But that press has not told us how he was encompassed by British spies—by French ones also, in British pay—watched in his outgoings and incomings—tracked in his daily walks—his friends as well—and under constant incitement through secret agencies to do something that would commit him, and give a colourable chance for bringing his career to a close!The outside world believed it had come to this; that the power of the great revolutionist was broken for ever, and his influence at an end.But the despots knew better. They knew that as long as Kossuth lived, with character unattainted, scarce a king in Europe that did not need to sit trembling on his throne. Even England’s model queen, or rather the German prince who then controlled the destinies of the English nation, understood the influence that attached to Kossuth’s name, whilst the latter was among the most active of those secret agents who were endeavouring to destroy it.The hostility of the royal family of England to the ex-dictator of Hungary is easily understood. It had a double source of inspiration: fear of the republican form, and a natural leaning to the alliance of kinship. The crowns of Austria and England are closely united in the liens of a blood-relationship. In the success of Kossuth would be the ruin of cousins-german and German cousins.It was then the interest of all crowned heads to effect his ruin—if not in body, at least in reputation. His fame, coupled with a spotless character, shielded him from the ordinary dangers of the outlaw. The world’s public opinion stood in the way of their taking his life, or even consigning him to a prison.But there was still the chance of rendering him innocuous—by blasting his reputation, and so depriving him of the sympathy that had hitherto upheld him.For this purpose the press was employed—and notoriously the leading journal: that instrument ever ready, at a price, for purposes of oppression.Openly and secretly it assailed him, by base accusations, and baser insinuations.He was defended by a young writer, who had but lately made his appearance in the world of London, becoming known through the achievement of a literary triumph; and so successfully defended, that the Kossuth slanders, like curses, came back into the teeth of those who had uttered them.In its long career of tergiversation, never had this noted newspaper been driven into such a position of shame. There was a whole day, during which it was chaffed on the Stock Exchange, and laughed at in the London clubs.It has not forgotten that day of humiliation; and often has it given its antagonist cause to remember it. It has since taken ample revenge—by using its immense power to blast his literary reputation.He thought not of this while writing those letters in defence of freedom and justice. Nor did he care, so long as this object might be attained.It was attained. The character of the great Magyar came out stainless and triumphant—to the chagrin of suborned scribblers, and the despots who had suborned them.Cleared in the eyes of the “nationalities,” Kossuth was still dangerous to the crowns of Europe—now more than ever.The press had failed to befoul him. Other means must be employed to bring about his destruction.And other means were employed. A plot was conceived to deprive him, not alone of his reputation, but his life. An atrocity so incredible, that in giving an account of it I can scarce expect to be believed!It is nevertheless true.
The revolutionary era had ended; tranquillity was restored; and peace reigned throughout Europe.
But it was a peace secured by chains, and supported by bayonets.
Manin was dead, Hecker an exile in transatlantic lands, Blum had been murdered—as also a score of other distinguished revolutionary leaders.
But there were two still surviving, whose names caused uneasiness to despotism from the Baltic to the Mediterranean—from the Euxine to the Atlantic.
These names were Kossuth and Mazzini.
Despite the influence used to blacken them—the whole power of a corrupted press—they were still sounds of magical import; symbols that at any day might stir up the peoples to strike one other blow for freedom. More especially was this true of Kossuth. Some rashness shown by Mazzini—a belief that his doctrines were toored—in other words, too far advanced for the time—stinted the confidence of the more moderate in the liberal party.
It was otherwise with the views of Kossuth. These had all along been strictly in accordance with conservatism—aiming only at national independence upon a presumed republican basis. Of therépublique rouge et démocratiquetalked of in France, he had never given assent to therouge, and but partially to thedémocratique.
If the future historian can ever find flaw in the character of Kossuth, it will be in the fact of his having been too conservative; or rather too national, and not enough developed in the idea of a universal propagandism.
Too much was he, as unfortunately most men are, a believer in non-interference; that sophism of international comity which permits the King of Dahomey to kill his subjects to his heart’s content, and the King of Viti-Vau to eathis, to the satisfaction of his stomach.
This limitation in the principles of the Magyar chief was the only thing in his character, known to the writer, that will exclude him from being considered truly, grandly great.
It may have been only assumed—it is to be hoped so—to contribute to the success of his noble purposes.
It certainly tended to this—by securing him the confidence of the more timid adherents of the revolutionary cause.
But there was another influence in his favour, and against the triumphant despots. All knew that the failure of the Hungarian revolution was due to causes over which Kossuth had no control—in short, to the blackest treachery on record. That with unerring genius, and all his soul’s energy, he had protested against the courses that led to it; and, to the last hour, had held out against the counsels of the wavering and the wicked. Not by his own consent, but by force, had he succumbed to them.
It was the knowledge of this that lent that magical influence to his name—every day growing stronger, as the story of Geörgei’s treason became better understood.
Expelled from his own land, he had sought an asylum in England.
Having gone through thefanfaronof a national welcome, in the shape of cheap receptions and monster meetings—having passed the entire ordeal, without succumbing to flattery, or giving his enemies the slightest cue for ridicule—this singular man had settled down in a modest suburban residence in the western district of London.
There in the bosom of his beloved family—a wife and daughter, with two sons, noble youths, who will yet add lustre to the name—he seemed only desirous of escaping from that noisy hospitality, by this time known to him to be nothing but the emptiest ostentation.
A few public dinners, cooked by such coarse caterers as the landlords of the London or Freemasons’ Tavern, were all of English cheer Kossuth ever tasted, and all he cared to claim. In his home he was not only permitted to purchase everything out of his own sadly attenuated purse, but was cheated by almost every tradesman with whom he had to deal; and beyond the ordinary extortion, on the strength of his being a stranger!
This was the sort of hospitality extended by England to the illustrious exile, and of which her Tory press have made so much boast! But that press has not told us how he was encompassed by British spies—by French ones also, in British pay—watched in his outgoings and incomings—tracked in his daily walks—his friends as well—and under constant incitement through secret agencies to do something that would commit him, and give a colourable chance for bringing his career to a close!
The outside world believed it had come to this; that the power of the great revolutionist was broken for ever, and his influence at an end.
But the despots knew better. They knew that as long as Kossuth lived, with character unattainted, scarce a king in Europe that did not need to sit trembling on his throne. Even England’s model queen, or rather the German prince who then controlled the destinies of the English nation, understood the influence that attached to Kossuth’s name, whilst the latter was among the most active of those secret agents who were endeavouring to destroy it.
The hostility of the royal family of England to the ex-dictator of Hungary is easily understood. It had a double source of inspiration: fear of the republican form, and a natural leaning to the alliance of kinship. The crowns of Austria and England are closely united in the liens of a blood-relationship. In the success of Kossuth would be the ruin of cousins-german and German cousins.
It was then the interest of all crowned heads to effect his ruin—if not in body, at least in reputation. His fame, coupled with a spotless character, shielded him from the ordinary dangers of the outlaw. The world’s public opinion stood in the way of their taking his life, or even consigning him to a prison.
But there was still the chance of rendering him innocuous—by blasting his reputation, and so depriving him of the sympathy that had hitherto upheld him.
For this purpose the press was employed—and notoriously the leading journal: that instrument ever ready, at a price, for purposes of oppression.
Openly and secretly it assailed him, by base accusations, and baser insinuations.
He was defended by a young writer, who had but lately made his appearance in the world of London, becoming known through the achievement of a literary triumph; and so successfully defended, that the Kossuth slanders, like curses, came back into the teeth of those who had uttered them.
In its long career of tergiversation, never had this noted newspaper been driven into such a position of shame. There was a whole day, during which it was chaffed on the Stock Exchange, and laughed at in the London clubs.
It has not forgotten that day of humiliation; and often has it given its antagonist cause to remember it. It has since taken ample revenge—by using its immense power to blast his literary reputation.
He thought not of this while writing those letters in defence of freedom and justice. Nor did he care, so long as this object might be attained.
It was attained. The character of the great Magyar came out stainless and triumphant—to the chagrin of suborned scribblers, and the despots who had suborned them.
Cleared in the eyes of the “nationalities,” Kossuth was still dangerous to the crowns of Europe—now more than ever.
The press had failed to befoul him. Other means must be employed to bring about his destruction.
And other means were employed. A plot was conceived to deprive him, not alone of his reputation, but his life. An atrocity so incredible, that in giving an account of it I can scarce expect to be believed!
It is nevertheless true.
Chapter Fifty Three.A Kingly Scheme of Revolution.Once more met the conclave of crowned heads, by their representatives; no longer in the palace of the Tuileries, but in the mansion of an English nobleman.This time the ex-dictator of Hungary was the subject of their deliberations.“So long ashelives,” said the commissioner of that crown most nearly concerned, “so long will there be danger to our empire. A week, a day, a single hour, may witness its dissolution; and you know, gentlemen, what must follow from that?”It was an Austrian field-marshal who thus spoke.“From that would follow an emperor without a crown—perhaps without a head!”The rejoinder came from the joking gentleman who was master of the mansion in which the conspirators were assembled.“But is it really so serious?” asked the Russian Grand Duke. “Do you not much overrate the influence of this man?”“Not any, altesse. We have taken pains to make ourselves acquainted with it. Our emissaries, sent throughout Hungary, report that there is scarce a house in the land where prayers are not nightly put up for him. By grand couch and cottage-bed the child is taught to speak the name of Kossuth more fervently than that of Christ—trained to look to him as its future saviour. What can come of this but another rising—a revolution that may spread to every kingdom in Europe?”“Do you include the empires?” asked the facetious Englishman, glancing significantly toward the Grand Duke.“Ay, do I. And the islands, too,” retorted the field-marshal. The Russian grinned. The Prussian diplomatist looked incredulous. Not so the representative of France; who, in a short speech, acknowledged the danger. To his master a European revolution would have been fatal, at to himself.And yet it was he, whose country had least to fear from it, who suggested the vile plan for its avoidance. It came from the representative of England!“You think Kossuth is your chief danger?” he said, addressing himself to the Austrian.“We know it. We don’t care for Mazzini, with his wild schemes on the Italian side. The people there begin to think him mad. Our danger lies upon the Danube.”“And your safety can only be secured by action on the south side of the Alps.”“How? In what way? By what action?” were questions simultaneously put by the several conspirators.“Explain yourself, my lord,” said the Austrian, appealingly. “Bah! It’s the simplest thing in the world. You want the Hungarian in your power. The Italian, you say, you don’t care for. But you may as well, while you’re about it, catch both, and half a score of other smaller fish—all of whom you can easily get into your net.”“They are all here! Do you intend giving them up?”“Ha—ha—ha!” laughed the light-hearted lord. “You forget you’re in free England! To do that would be indeed a danger. No—no. We islanders are not so imprudent. There are other ways to dispose of these troublesome strangers, without making open surrender of them.”“Other ways! Name them! Name one of them!” The demand came from his fellow-conspirators—all speaking in a breath.“Well, one way seems easy enough. There’s a talk of trouble in Milan. Your white-coats are not popular in that Italian metropolis, field-marshal! So my despatches tell me.”“What of that, my lord? We have a strong garrison at Milan. Plenty of Bohemians, with our ever faithful Tyrolese. It is true there are several Hungarian regiments there.”“Just so. And in these lies the chance of revolutionary leaders. Your chance, if you skilfully turn it to account.”“How skilfully?”“Mazzini is tampering with them. So I understand it. Mazzini is a madman. Therefore let him go on with his game. Encourage him. Let him draw Kossuth into the scheme. The Magyar will be sure to take the bait, if you but set it as it should be. Send mutinous men among these Hungarian regiments. Throw out a hope of their being able to raise a revolt—by joining the Italian people. It will lure, not only Mazzini and Kossuth, but along with them the whole fraternity of revolutionary firebrands. Once inyournet, you should know how to deal with such fish, without any suggestion from me. They are too strong for any meshes we dare weave around them here: Gentlemen, I hope you understand me?”“Perfectly?” responded all.“A splendid ideal,” added the representative from France. “It would be acoupworthy of the genius who has conceived it. Field-marshal, you will act upon this?”A superfluous question. The Austrian deputy was but too happy to carry back to his master a suggestion, to which he knew he would gladly give his consent; and after another half-hour spent in talking over its details, the conspirators separated.“Itisan original idea!” soliloquised the Englishman, as he sat smoking his cigar after the departure of his guests. “A splendid idea, as my French friend has characterised it. I shall have myrevancheagainst this proud refugee for the slight he has put upon me in the eyes of the English people. Ah! Monsieur Kossuth! if I foresee aright, your revolutionary aspirations will soon come to an end. Yes, my noble demagogue! your days of being dangerous are as good as numbered?”
Once more met the conclave of crowned heads, by their representatives; no longer in the palace of the Tuileries, but in the mansion of an English nobleman.
This time the ex-dictator of Hungary was the subject of their deliberations.
“So long ashelives,” said the commissioner of that crown most nearly concerned, “so long will there be danger to our empire. A week, a day, a single hour, may witness its dissolution; and you know, gentlemen, what must follow from that?”
It was an Austrian field-marshal who thus spoke.
“From that would follow an emperor without a crown—perhaps without a head!”
The rejoinder came from the joking gentleman who was master of the mansion in which the conspirators were assembled.
“But is it really so serious?” asked the Russian Grand Duke. “Do you not much overrate the influence of this man?”
“Not any, altesse. We have taken pains to make ourselves acquainted with it. Our emissaries, sent throughout Hungary, report that there is scarce a house in the land where prayers are not nightly put up for him. By grand couch and cottage-bed the child is taught to speak the name of Kossuth more fervently than that of Christ—trained to look to him as its future saviour. What can come of this but another rising—a revolution that may spread to every kingdom in Europe?”
“Do you include the empires?” asked the facetious Englishman, glancing significantly toward the Grand Duke.
“Ay, do I. And the islands, too,” retorted the field-marshal. The Russian grinned. The Prussian diplomatist looked incredulous. Not so the representative of France; who, in a short speech, acknowledged the danger. To his master a European revolution would have been fatal, at to himself.
And yet it was he, whose country had least to fear from it, who suggested the vile plan for its avoidance. It came from the representative of England!
“You think Kossuth is your chief danger?” he said, addressing himself to the Austrian.
“We know it. We don’t care for Mazzini, with his wild schemes on the Italian side. The people there begin to think him mad. Our danger lies upon the Danube.”
“And your safety can only be secured by action on the south side of the Alps.”
“How? In what way? By what action?” were questions simultaneously put by the several conspirators.
“Explain yourself, my lord,” said the Austrian, appealingly. “Bah! It’s the simplest thing in the world. You want the Hungarian in your power. The Italian, you say, you don’t care for. But you may as well, while you’re about it, catch both, and half a score of other smaller fish—all of whom you can easily get into your net.”
“They are all here! Do you intend giving them up?”
“Ha—ha—ha!” laughed the light-hearted lord. “You forget you’re in free England! To do that would be indeed a danger. No—no. We islanders are not so imprudent. There are other ways to dispose of these troublesome strangers, without making open surrender of them.”
“Other ways! Name them! Name one of them!” The demand came from his fellow-conspirators—all speaking in a breath.
“Well, one way seems easy enough. There’s a talk of trouble in Milan. Your white-coats are not popular in that Italian metropolis, field-marshal! So my despatches tell me.”
“What of that, my lord? We have a strong garrison at Milan. Plenty of Bohemians, with our ever faithful Tyrolese. It is true there are several Hungarian regiments there.”
“Just so. And in these lies the chance of revolutionary leaders. Your chance, if you skilfully turn it to account.”
“How skilfully?”
“Mazzini is tampering with them. So I understand it. Mazzini is a madman. Therefore let him go on with his game. Encourage him. Let him draw Kossuth into the scheme. The Magyar will be sure to take the bait, if you but set it as it should be. Send mutinous men among these Hungarian regiments. Throw out a hope of their being able to raise a revolt—by joining the Italian people. It will lure, not only Mazzini and Kossuth, but along with them the whole fraternity of revolutionary firebrands. Once inyournet, you should know how to deal with such fish, without any suggestion from me. They are too strong for any meshes we dare weave around them here: Gentlemen, I hope you understand me?”
“Perfectly?” responded all.
“A splendid ideal,” added the representative from France. “It would be acoupworthy of the genius who has conceived it. Field-marshal, you will act upon this?”
A superfluous question. The Austrian deputy was but too happy to carry back to his master a suggestion, to which he knew he would gladly give his consent; and after another half-hour spent in talking over its details, the conspirators separated.
“Itisan original idea!” soliloquised the Englishman, as he sat smoking his cigar after the departure of his guests. “A splendid idea, as my French friend has characterised it. I shall have myrevancheagainst this proud refugee for the slight he has put upon me in the eyes of the English people. Ah! Monsieur Kossuth! if I foresee aright, your revolutionary aspirations will soon come to an end. Yes, my noble demagogue! your days of being dangerous are as good as numbered?”
Chapter Fifty Four.A Desirable Neighbourhood.Lying west of the Regent’s Park, and separated from it by Park Road, is a tract of land sparsely studded with those genteel cottages which the Londoner delights to invest with the more aristocratic appellation of “villas.”Each stands in its own grounds of a quarter to half an acre, embowered in a shrubbery of lilacs, laburnums, and laurels.They are of all styles of architecture known to ancient or modern times. And of all sizes; though the biggest of them, in real estate value, is not worth the tenth part of the ground it occupies.From this it may be inferred that they are leaseholds, soon to lapse to the fee-simple owner of the soil.The same will explain their generally dilapidated condition, and the neglect observable about their grounds.It was different a few years ago; when their leases had some time to run, and it was worth while keeping them in repair. Then, if not fashionable, they were at least “desirable residences”; and a villa in Saint John’s Wood (the name of the neighbourhood) was the ambition of a retired tradesman. There he could have his grounds, his shrubbery, his walks, and even six feet of a fish-pond. There he could sit in the open air, in tasselled robe and smoking-cap, or stroll about amidst a Pantheon of plaster-of-paris statues—imagining himself a Maecenas.Indeed, so classic in their ideas have been the residents of this district, that one of its chief thoroughfares is called Alpha Road, another Omega Terrace.Saint John’s Wood was, and still is, a favourite place of abode for “professionals”—for the artist, the actor, and the second-class author. The rents are moderate—the villas, most of them, being small.Shorn of its tranquil pleasures, the villa district of Saint John’s Wood will soon disappear from the chart of London. Already encompassed by close-built streets, it will itself soon be covered by compact blocks of dwellings, rendering the family of “Eyre” one of the richest in the land.Annually the leases are lapsing, and piles of building bricks begin to appear in grounds once verdant with close-cut lawn grass, and copsed with roses and rhododendrons.Through this quarter runs the Regent’s Canal, its banks on both sides rising high above the water level, in consequence of a swell in the ground that required a cutting. It passes under Park Road, into the Regent’s Park, and through this eastward to the City.In its traverse of the Saint John’s Wood district, its sides are occupied by a double string of dwellings, respectively called North and South Bank, each fronted by another row with a lamp-lit road running between.They are varied in style; many of them of picturesque appearance, and all more or less embowered in shrubbery.Those bordering on the canal have gardens sloping down to the water’s edge, and quite private on the side opposite to the tow-path—which is the southern.Ornamental evergreens, with trees of the weeping kind, drooping over the water, render these back-gardens exceedingly attractive. Standing upon the bridge in Park Road, and looking west up the canal vista, you could scarce believe yourself to be in the city of London, and surrounded by closely packed buildings extending more than a mile beyond.In one of the South Bank villas, with grounds running back to the canal, dwelt a Scotchman—of the name McTavish.He was but a second-class clerk in a city banking-house; but being a Scotchman, he might count upon one day becoming chief of the concern.Perhaps with some foreshadowing of such a fortune, he had leased the villa in question, and furnished it to the extent of his means.It was one of the prettiest in the string—quite good enough for a joint-stock banker to live in, or die in. McTavish had determined to do the former; and the latter, if the event should occur within the limits of his lease, which extended to twenty-one years.The Scotchman, prudent in other respects, had been rash in the selection of his residence. He had not been three days in occupation, when he discovered that a notorious courtesan lived on his right, another of less celebrity on his left, while the house directly fronting him, on the opposite side of the road, was occupied by a famed revolutionary leader, and frequented by political refugees from all parts of the disturbed world.McTavish was dismayed. He had subscribed to a twenty-one years’ lease, at a full rack-rental; for he had acted under conjugal authority in taking the place.Had he been a bachelor the thing might have signified less. But he was a benedict, with daughters nearly grown up. Besides he was a Presbyterian of the strictest sect—his wife being still tighter laced than himself. Both, moreover, were loyalists of the truest type.His morality made the proximity of his right and left hand neighbours simply intolerable—while his politics rendered equally a nuisance the revolutionary focus in his front.There seemed no escape from the dilemma, but to make sacrifice of his dearly-bought premises, or drown himself in the canal that bordered them at the back.As the drowning would not have benefitted Mrs McTavish, she persuaded him against this idea, and in favour of selling the lease.Alas, for the imprudent bank clerk! nobody could be found to buy it—unless at such a reduced rate as would have ruined him.He was a Scotchman, and could not stand this. Far better to stick to the house.And for a time he stuck to it.There seemed no escape from it, but by sacrificing the lease. It was a tooth-drawing alternative; but could not be avoided.As the husband and wife were discussing the question, canvassing it in every shape, they were interrupted by a ring at the gate-bell. It was the evening hour; when the bank clerk having returned from the city, was playingpaterfamiliasin the bosom of his family.Who could be calling at that hour? It was too late for a ceremonial visit. Perhaps some unceremonious acquaintance from the Land of Cakes, dropping in for a pipe, and a glass of whisky-toddy?“There’s yin ootside weeshes to see ye, maister.”This was said by a rough-skinned damsel—the “maid-of-all-work”—who had shown her freckled face inside the parlour door, and whose patois proclaimed her to have come from the same country as McTavish himself.“Wishes to see me! Who is it, Maggie?”“Dinna ken who. It’s a rank stranger—a quare-lookin’ callant, wi’ big beard, and them sort o’ whiskers they ca’ moostachoes. I made free to axe him his bisness. He sayed ’twas aboot taakin’ the hoos.”“About taking the house?”“Yis, maister. He sayed he’d heared o’ its bein’ to let.”“Show him in!”McTavish sprang to his feet, overturning the chair on which he had been seated. Mrs M., and her trio of flaxen-haired daughters, scuttled off into the back parlour—as if a tiger was about to be uncaged in the front one.They were not so frightened, however, as to hinder them from, in turn, flattening their noses against a panel of the partition door, and scrutinising the stranger through the keyhole.“How handsome he is!” exclaimed Elspie, the eldest of the girls.“Quite a military-looking man!” said the second, Jane, after having completed her scrutiny. “I wonder if he’s married.”“Come away from there, children?” muttered the mother. “He may hear you, and your papa will be very angry. Come away, I tell you?”The girls slunk back from the door, and took seats upon a sofa.But their mother’s curiosity had also to be appeased; and, with an example that corresponded ill with her precept, she dropped down upon her knees, and first placing her eye, and afterward her ear, to the keyhole, listened to every word spoken between her husband and his strange visitor with the “whiskers called moostachoes.”
Lying west of the Regent’s Park, and separated from it by Park Road, is a tract of land sparsely studded with those genteel cottages which the Londoner delights to invest with the more aristocratic appellation of “villas.”
Each stands in its own grounds of a quarter to half an acre, embowered in a shrubbery of lilacs, laburnums, and laurels.
They are of all styles of architecture known to ancient or modern times. And of all sizes; though the biggest of them, in real estate value, is not worth the tenth part of the ground it occupies.
From this it may be inferred that they are leaseholds, soon to lapse to the fee-simple owner of the soil.
The same will explain their generally dilapidated condition, and the neglect observable about their grounds.
It was different a few years ago; when their leases had some time to run, and it was worth while keeping them in repair. Then, if not fashionable, they were at least “desirable residences”; and a villa in Saint John’s Wood (the name of the neighbourhood) was the ambition of a retired tradesman. There he could have his grounds, his shrubbery, his walks, and even six feet of a fish-pond. There he could sit in the open air, in tasselled robe and smoking-cap, or stroll about amidst a Pantheon of plaster-of-paris statues—imagining himself a Maecenas.
Indeed, so classic in their ideas have been the residents of this district, that one of its chief thoroughfares is called Alpha Road, another Omega Terrace.
Saint John’s Wood was, and still is, a favourite place of abode for “professionals”—for the artist, the actor, and the second-class author. The rents are moderate—the villas, most of them, being small.
Shorn of its tranquil pleasures, the villa district of Saint John’s Wood will soon disappear from the chart of London. Already encompassed by close-built streets, it will itself soon be covered by compact blocks of dwellings, rendering the family of “Eyre” one of the richest in the land.
Annually the leases are lapsing, and piles of building bricks begin to appear in grounds once verdant with close-cut lawn grass, and copsed with roses and rhododendrons.
Through this quarter runs the Regent’s Canal, its banks on both sides rising high above the water level, in consequence of a swell in the ground that required a cutting. It passes under Park Road, into the Regent’s Park, and through this eastward to the City.
In its traverse of the Saint John’s Wood district, its sides are occupied by a double string of dwellings, respectively called North and South Bank, each fronted by another row with a lamp-lit road running between.
They are varied in style; many of them of picturesque appearance, and all more or less embowered in shrubbery.
Those bordering on the canal have gardens sloping down to the water’s edge, and quite private on the side opposite to the tow-path—which is the southern.
Ornamental evergreens, with trees of the weeping kind, drooping over the water, render these back-gardens exceedingly attractive. Standing upon the bridge in Park Road, and looking west up the canal vista, you could scarce believe yourself to be in the city of London, and surrounded by closely packed buildings extending more than a mile beyond.
In one of the South Bank villas, with grounds running back to the canal, dwelt a Scotchman—of the name McTavish.
He was but a second-class clerk in a city banking-house; but being a Scotchman, he might count upon one day becoming chief of the concern.
Perhaps with some foreshadowing of such a fortune, he had leased the villa in question, and furnished it to the extent of his means.
It was one of the prettiest in the string—quite good enough for a joint-stock banker to live in, or die in. McTavish had determined to do the former; and the latter, if the event should occur within the limits of his lease, which extended to twenty-one years.
The Scotchman, prudent in other respects, had been rash in the selection of his residence. He had not been three days in occupation, when he discovered that a notorious courtesan lived on his right, another of less celebrity on his left, while the house directly fronting him, on the opposite side of the road, was occupied by a famed revolutionary leader, and frequented by political refugees from all parts of the disturbed world.
McTavish was dismayed. He had subscribed to a twenty-one years’ lease, at a full rack-rental; for he had acted under conjugal authority in taking the place.
Had he been a bachelor the thing might have signified less. But he was a benedict, with daughters nearly grown up. Besides he was a Presbyterian of the strictest sect—his wife being still tighter laced than himself. Both, moreover, were loyalists of the truest type.
His morality made the proximity of his right and left hand neighbours simply intolerable—while his politics rendered equally a nuisance the revolutionary focus in his front.
There seemed no escape from the dilemma, but to make sacrifice of his dearly-bought premises, or drown himself in the canal that bordered them at the back.
As the drowning would not have benefitted Mrs McTavish, she persuaded him against this idea, and in favour of selling the lease.
Alas, for the imprudent bank clerk! nobody could be found to buy it—unless at such a reduced rate as would have ruined him.
He was a Scotchman, and could not stand this. Far better to stick to the house.
And for a time he stuck to it.
There seemed no escape from it, but by sacrificing the lease. It was a tooth-drawing alternative; but could not be avoided.
As the husband and wife were discussing the question, canvassing it in every shape, they were interrupted by a ring at the gate-bell. It was the evening hour; when the bank clerk having returned from the city, was playingpaterfamiliasin the bosom of his family.
Who could be calling at that hour? It was too late for a ceremonial visit. Perhaps some unceremonious acquaintance from the Land of Cakes, dropping in for a pipe, and a glass of whisky-toddy?
“There’s yin ootside weeshes to see ye, maister.”
This was said by a rough-skinned damsel—the “maid-of-all-work”—who had shown her freckled face inside the parlour door, and whose patois proclaimed her to have come from the same country as McTavish himself.
“Wishes to see me! Who is it, Maggie?”
“Dinna ken who. It’s a rank stranger—a quare-lookin’ callant, wi’ big beard, and them sort o’ whiskers they ca’ moostachoes. I made free to axe him his bisness. He sayed ’twas aboot taakin’ the hoos.”
“About taking the house?”
“Yis, maister. He sayed he’d heared o’ its bein’ to let.”
“Show him in!”
McTavish sprang to his feet, overturning the chair on which he had been seated. Mrs M., and her trio of flaxen-haired daughters, scuttled off into the back parlour—as if a tiger was about to be uncaged in the front one.
They were not so frightened, however, as to hinder them from, in turn, flattening their noses against a panel of the partition door, and scrutinising the stranger through the keyhole.
“How handsome he is!” exclaimed Elspie, the eldest of the girls.
“Quite a military-looking man!” said the second, Jane, after having completed her scrutiny. “I wonder if he’s married.”
“Come away from there, children?” muttered the mother. “He may hear you, and your papa will be very angry. Come away, I tell you?”
The girls slunk back from the door, and took seats upon a sofa.
But their mother’s curiosity had also to be appeased; and, with an example that corresponded ill with her precept, she dropped down upon her knees, and first placing her eye, and afterward her ear, to the keyhole, listened to every word spoken between her husband and his strange visitor with the “whiskers called moostachoes.”
Chapter Fifty Five.A Tenant Secured.The visitor thus introduced to the South Bank villa was a man of about thirty years of age, with the air and demeanour of a gentleman.The city clerk could tell him to be of the West End type. It was visible in the cut of his dress, the tonsure of his hair, and the joining of the moustache to his whiskers.“Mr McTavish, I presume?” were the words that came from him, as he passed through the parlour door.The Scotchman nodded assent. Before he could do more, the stranger continued:“Pardon me, sir, for this seeming intrusion. I’ve heard that your house is to let.”“Not exactly tolet. I’m offering it for sale—that is, the lease.”“I’ve been misinformed then. How long has the lease to run, may I ask?”“Twenty-one years.”“Ah! that will not suit me. I wanted a house only for a short time. I’ve taken a fancy to this South Bank—at least, my wife has; and you know, sir—I presume you’re a married man—that’s everything.”McTavish did know it, to a terrible certainty: and gave an assenting smile.“I’m sorry,” pursued the stranger. “I like the house better than any on the Bank. I know my wife would be charmed with it.”“It’s the same with mine,” said McTavish.“How you lie?” thought Mrs Mac, with her ear at the keyhole.“In that case, I presume there’s no chance of our coming to terms. I should have been glad to take it by the year—for one year, certain—and at a good rent.”“How much would you be inclined to give?” asked the lessee, bethinking him of a compromise.“Well; I scarcely know. How much do you ask?”“Furnished, or unfurnished?”“I’d prefer having it furnished.”The bank clerk commenced beating his brains. He thought of hispennies, and the objection his wife might have to parting with them. But he thought also, of how they had been daily dishonoured in that unhallowed precinct.Even while reflecting, a paean of spasmodic revelry, heard on the other side of the paling, sounded suggestive in his ears?It decided him to concede the furniture, and on terms less exacting than he might otherwise have asked for.“For a year certain, you say?”“I’ll take it for a year; and pay in advance, if you desire it.”A year’s rent in advance is always tempting to a landlord—especially a poor one. McTavish was not rich, whatever might be his prospects in regard to the presidency of the bank.His wife would have given something to have had his ear at the opposite orifice of the keyhole; so that she could have whispered “Take it?”“How much, you ask, for the house furnished, and by the year?”“Precisely so,” answered the stranger.“Let me see,” answered McTavish, reflecting. “My own rent unfurnished—repairs covenanted in the lease—price of the furniture—interest thereon—well, I could say two hundred pounds per annum.”“I’ll take it at two hundred. Do you agree to that?”The bank clerk was electrified with delight. Two hundred pounds a year would be cent-per-cent on his own outlay. Besides he would get rid of the premises, for at least one year, and along with them the proximity of his detestable neighbours. Any sacrifice to escape from this.He would have let go house and grounds at half the price.But he, the stranger, was not cunning, and McTavish was shrewd. Seeing this, he not only adhered to the two hundred, but stipulated for the removal of some portion of his furniture.“Only a few family pieces,” he said; “things that a tenant would not care to be troubled with.”The stranger was not exacting, and the concession was made.“Your name, sir?” asked the tenant intending to go out.“Swinton,” answered the tenant who designed coming in. “Richard Swinton. Here is my card, Mr McTavish; and my reference is Lord —.”The bank clerk took the card into his trembling fingers. His wife, on the other side of the door, had a sensation in her ear resembling an electric shock.A tenant with a lord—a celebrated lord—for his referee!She could scarce restrain herself from shouting through the keyhole:“Close with him, Mac!”But Mac needed not the admonition. He had already made up his mind to the letting.“How soon do you wish to come in?” he asked of the applicant.“As soon as possible,” was the answer. “To-morrow, if convenient to you.”“To-morrow?” echoed the cool Scotchman, unaccustomed to such quick transactions, and somewhat surprised at the proposal.“I own it’s rather unusual,” said the incoming tenant. “But, Mr McTavish, I have a reason for wishing it so. It’s somewhat delicate; but as you are a married man, and the father of a family,—you understand?”“Perfectly!” pronounced the Scotchpaterfamilias, his breast almost turning as tender as that of his better half then sympathetically throbbing behind the partition door.The sudden transfer was agreed to. Next day Mr McTavish and his family moved out, Mr Swinton having signed the agreement, and given a cheque for the year’s rent in advance—scarce necessary after being endorsed by such a distinguished referee.
The visitor thus introduced to the South Bank villa was a man of about thirty years of age, with the air and demeanour of a gentleman.
The city clerk could tell him to be of the West End type. It was visible in the cut of his dress, the tonsure of his hair, and the joining of the moustache to his whiskers.
“Mr McTavish, I presume?” were the words that came from him, as he passed through the parlour door.
The Scotchman nodded assent. Before he could do more, the stranger continued:
“Pardon me, sir, for this seeming intrusion. I’ve heard that your house is to let.”
“Not exactly tolet. I’m offering it for sale—that is, the lease.”
“I’ve been misinformed then. How long has the lease to run, may I ask?”
“Twenty-one years.”
“Ah! that will not suit me. I wanted a house only for a short time. I’ve taken a fancy to this South Bank—at least, my wife has; and you know, sir—I presume you’re a married man—that’s everything.”
McTavish did know it, to a terrible certainty: and gave an assenting smile.
“I’m sorry,” pursued the stranger. “I like the house better than any on the Bank. I know my wife would be charmed with it.”
“It’s the same with mine,” said McTavish.
“How you lie?” thought Mrs Mac, with her ear at the keyhole.
“In that case, I presume there’s no chance of our coming to terms. I should have been glad to take it by the year—for one year, certain—and at a good rent.”
“How much would you be inclined to give?” asked the lessee, bethinking him of a compromise.
“Well; I scarcely know. How much do you ask?”
“Furnished, or unfurnished?”
“I’d prefer having it furnished.”
The bank clerk commenced beating his brains. He thought of hispennies, and the objection his wife might have to parting with them. But he thought also, of how they had been daily dishonoured in that unhallowed precinct.
Even while reflecting, a paean of spasmodic revelry, heard on the other side of the paling, sounded suggestive in his ears?
It decided him to concede the furniture, and on terms less exacting than he might otherwise have asked for.
“For a year certain, you say?”
“I’ll take it for a year; and pay in advance, if you desire it.”
A year’s rent in advance is always tempting to a landlord—especially a poor one. McTavish was not rich, whatever might be his prospects in regard to the presidency of the bank.
His wife would have given something to have had his ear at the opposite orifice of the keyhole; so that she could have whispered “Take it?”
“How much, you ask, for the house furnished, and by the year?”
“Precisely so,” answered the stranger.
“Let me see,” answered McTavish, reflecting. “My own rent unfurnished—repairs covenanted in the lease—price of the furniture—interest thereon—well, I could say two hundred pounds per annum.”
“I’ll take it at two hundred. Do you agree to that?”
The bank clerk was electrified with delight. Two hundred pounds a year would be cent-per-cent on his own outlay. Besides he would get rid of the premises, for at least one year, and along with them the proximity of his detestable neighbours. Any sacrifice to escape from this.
He would have let go house and grounds at half the price.
But he, the stranger, was not cunning, and McTavish was shrewd. Seeing this, he not only adhered to the two hundred, but stipulated for the removal of some portion of his furniture.
“Only a few family pieces,” he said; “things that a tenant would not care to be troubled with.”
The stranger was not exacting, and the concession was made.
“Your name, sir?” asked the tenant intending to go out.
“Swinton,” answered the tenant who designed coming in. “Richard Swinton. Here is my card, Mr McTavish; and my reference is Lord —.”
The bank clerk took the card into his trembling fingers. His wife, on the other side of the door, had a sensation in her ear resembling an electric shock.
A tenant with a lord—a celebrated lord—for his referee!
She could scarce restrain herself from shouting through the keyhole:
“Close with him, Mac!”
But Mac needed not the admonition. He had already made up his mind to the letting.
“How soon do you wish to come in?” he asked of the applicant.
“As soon as possible,” was the answer. “To-morrow, if convenient to you.”
“To-morrow?” echoed the cool Scotchman, unaccustomed to such quick transactions, and somewhat surprised at the proposal.
“I own it’s rather unusual,” said the incoming tenant. “But, Mr McTavish, I have a reason for wishing it so. It’s somewhat delicate; but as you are a married man, and the father of a family,—you understand?”
“Perfectly!” pronounced the Scotchpaterfamilias, his breast almost turning as tender as that of his better half then sympathetically throbbing behind the partition door.
The sudden transfer was agreed to. Next day Mr McTavish and his family moved out, Mr Swinton having signed the agreement, and given a cheque for the year’s rent in advance—scarce necessary after being endorsed by such a distinguished referee.