Chapter Forty Three.

Chapter Forty Three.To the Country.There is but one country in the world where country-life is thoroughly understood, and truly enjoyable. It is England!True, this enjoyment is confined to the few—to England’s gentry. Her farmer knows nought of it; her labourer still less.But the life of an English country gentleman leaves little to be desired!In the morning he has the chase, or the shooting party, complete in their kind, and both varied according to the character of the game. In the evening he sits down to a dinner, as Lucullian as French cooks can make it, in the company of men and women the most accomplished upon earth.In the summer there are excursions, picnics, “garden parties”; and of late years the grand croquet and tennis gatherings—all ending in the same desirable dinner, with sometimes a dance in the drawing-room, to the family music of the piano; on rarer occasions, to the more inspiriting strains of a military band, brought from the nearest barracks, or the headquarters of volunteers, yeomanry, or militia.In all this there is neither noise nor confusion; but the most perfect quiet and decorum. It could not be otherwise in a society composed of the flower of England’s people—its nobility and squirearchy—equal in the social scale—alike spending their life in the cultivation of its graces.It was not strange that Captain Maynard—a man with but few great friends, and lost to some of these through his republican proclivities—should feel slightly elated on receiving an imitation to a dinner as described.A further clause in the note told him, he would be expected to stay a few days at the house of his host, and take part in the partridge-shooting that had but lately commenced.The invitation was all the more acceptable coming from Sir George Vernon, of Vernon Hall, near Sevenoaks, Kent.Maynard had not seen the British baronet since that day when the British flag, flung around his shoulders, saved him from being shot. By the conditions required to get him clear of his Parisian scrape, he had to returninstanterto England, in the metropolis of which he had ever since been residing.Not in idleness. Revolutions at an end, he had flung aside his sword, and taken to the pen. During the summer he had produced a romance, and placed it in the hands of a publisher. He was expecting it soon to appear.He had lately written to Sir George—on hearing that the latter had got back to his own country—a letter expressing grateful thanks for the protection that had been extended to him.But he longed also to thank the baronet in person. The tables were now turned. His own service had been amply repaid; and he hesitated to take advantage of the old invitation—in fear of being deemed an intruder. Under these circumstances the new one was something more than welcome.Sevenoaks is no great distance from London. For all that, it is surrounded by scenery as retired and rural as can be found in the shires of England—the charming scenery of Kent.It is only of late years that the railway-whistle has waked the echoes of those deep secluded dales stretching around Sevenoaks.With a heart attuned to happiness, and throbbing with anticipated pleasure, did the late revolutionary leader ride along its roads. Not on horseback, but in a “fly” chartered at the railway station, to take him to the family mansion of the Vernons, which was to be found at about four miles’ distance from the town.The carriage was an open one, the day clear and fine, the country looking its best—the swedes showing green, the stubble yellow, the woods and copses clad in the ochre-coloured livery of autumn. The corn had been all cut. The partridges, in full covey, and still comparatively tame, were seen straying through the “stubs”; while the pheasants, already thinned off by shot, kept more shy along the selvedge of the cover. He might think what fine sport was promised him!He was thinking not of this. The anticipated pleasure of shooting parties had no place in his thoughts. They were all occupied by the image of that fair child, first seen on the storm-deck of an Atlantic steamer, and last in a balcony overlooking the garden of the Tuileries; for he had not seen Blanche Vernon since.But he had often thought of her. Often! Every day, every hour!And his soul was now absorbed by the same contemplation—in recalling the souvenirs of every scene or incident in which she had figured—his first view of her, followed by that strange foreshadowing—her face reflected in the cabin mirror—the episode in the Mersey, that had brought him still nearer—her backward look, as they parted on the landing-stage at Liverpool—and, last of all, that brief glance he had been enabled to obtain, as, borne along by brutal force, he beheld her in the balcony above him.From this remembrance did he derive his sweetest reflection. Not from the sight of her there; but the thought that through her interference he had been rescued from an ignominious death, and a fate perhaps never to be recorded! He at least knew, that he owed his life to her father’s influence.And now was he to be brought face to face with this fair young creature—within the sacred precincts of the family circle, and under the sanction of parental rule—to be allowed every opportunity of studying her character—perhaps moulding it to his own secret desires!No wonder that, in the contemplation of such a prospect, he took no heed of the partridges straying through the stubble, or the pheasants skulking along the edge of their cover!It was nigh two years since he had first looked upon her. She would now be fifteen, or near to it. In that quick, constrained glance given to the balcony above, he saw that she had grown taller and bigger.So much the better, thought he, as bringing nearer the time when he should be able to test the truth of his presentiment.Though sanguine, he was not confident. How could he? A nameless, almost homeless adventurer, a wide gulf lay between him and this daughter of an English baronet, noted in name as for riches, What hope had he of being able to bridge it?None, save that springing from hope itself: perhaps only the wish father to the thought.It might be all an illusion. In addition to the one great obstacle of unequal wealth—the rank he had no reason to consider—there might be many others.Blanche Vernon was an only child, too precious to be lightly bestowed—too beautiful to go long before having her heart besieged. Already it may have been stormed and taken.And by one nearer her own age—perhaps some one her father had designed for the assault.While thus cogitating, the cloud that flung its shadow over Maynard’s face told how slight was his faith in fatalism.It commenced clearing away, as the fly was driven up to the entrance of Vernon Park, and the gates were flung open to receive him.It was quite gone when the proprietor of that park, meeting him in the vestibule of the mansion, bade him warm welcome to its hospitality.

There is but one country in the world where country-life is thoroughly understood, and truly enjoyable. It is England!

True, this enjoyment is confined to the few—to England’s gentry. Her farmer knows nought of it; her labourer still less.

But the life of an English country gentleman leaves little to be desired!

In the morning he has the chase, or the shooting party, complete in their kind, and both varied according to the character of the game. In the evening he sits down to a dinner, as Lucullian as French cooks can make it, in the company of men and women the most accomplished upon earth.

In the summer there are excursions, picnics, “garden parties”; and of late years the grand croquet and tennis gatherings—all ending in the same desirable dinner, with sometimes a dance in the drawing-room, to the family music of the piano; on rarer occasions, to the more inspiriting strains of a military band, brought from the nearest barracks, or the headquarters of volunteers, yeomanry, or militia.

In all this there is neither noise nor confusion; but the most perfect quiet and decorum. It could not be otherwise in a society composed of the flower of England’s people—its nobility and squirearchy—equal in the social scale—alike spending their life in the cultivation of its graces.

It was not strange that Captain Maynard—a man with but few great friends, and lost to some of these through his republican proclivities—should feel slightly elated on receiving an imitation to a dinner as described.

A further clause in the note told him, he would be expected to stay a few days at the house of his host, and take part in the partridge-shooting that had but lately commenced.

The invitation was all the more acceptable coming from Sir George Vernon, of Vernon Hall, near Sevenoaks, Kent.

Maynard had not seen the British baronet since that day when the British flag, flung around his shoulders, saved him from being shot. By the conditions required to get him clear of his Parisian scrape, he had to returninstanterto England, in the metropolis of which he had ever since been residing.

Not in idleness. Revolutions at an end, he had flung aside his sword, and taken to the pen. During the summer he had produced a romance, and placed it in the hands of a publisher. He was expecting it soon to appear.

He had lately written to Sir George—on hearing that the latter had got back to his own country—a letter expressing grateful thanks for the protection that had been extended to him.

But he longed also to thank the baronet in person. The tables were now turned. His own service had been amply repaid; and he hesitated to take advantage of the old invitation—in fear of being deemed an intruder. Under these circumstances the new one was something more than welcome.

Sevenoaks is no great distance from London. For all that, it is surrounded by scenery as retired and rural as can be found in the shires of England—the charming scenery of Kent.

It is only of late years that the railway-whistle has waked the echoes of those deep secluded dales stretching around Sevenoaks.

With a heart attuned to happiness, and throbbing with anticipated pleasure, did the late revolutionary leader ride along its roads. Not on horseback, but in a “fly” chartered at the railway station, to take him to the family mansion of the Vernons, which was to be found at about four miles’ distance from the town.

The carriage was an open one, the day clear and fine, the country looking its best—the swedes showing green, the stubble yellow, the woods and copses clad in the ochre-coloured livery of autumn. The corn had been all cut. The partridges, in full covey, and still comparatively tame, were seen straying through the “stubs”; while the pheasants, already thinned off by shot, kept more shy along the selvedge of the cover. He might think what fine sport was promised him!

He was thinking not of this. The anticipated pleasure of shooting parties had no place in his thoughts. They were all occupied by the image of that fair child, first seen on the storm-deck of an Atlantic steamer, and last in a balcony overlooking the garden of the Tuileries; for he had not seen Blanche Vernon since.

But he had often thought of her. Often! Every day, every hour!

And his soul was now absorbed by the same contemplation—in recalling the souvenirs of every scene or incident in which she had figured—his first view of her, followed by that strange foreshadowing—her face reflected in the cabin mirror—the episode in the Mersey, that had brought him still nearer—her backward look, as they parted on the landing-stage at Liverpool—and, last of all, that brief glance he had been enabled to obtain, as, borne along by brutal force, he beheld her in the balcony above him.

From this remembrance did he derive his sweetest reflection. Not from the sight of her there; but the thought that through her interference he had been rescued from an ignominious death, and a fate perhaps never to be recorded! He at least knew, that he owed his life to her father’s influence.

And now was he to be brought face to face with this fair young creature—within the sacred precincts of the family circle, and under the sanction of parental rule—to be allowed every opportunity of studying her character—perhaps moulding it to his own secret desires!

No wonder that, in the contemplation of such a prospect, he took no heed of the partridges straying through the stubble, or the pheasants skulking along the edge of their cover!

It was nigh two years since he had first looked upon her. She would now be fifteen, or near to it. In that quick, constrained glance given to the balcony above, he saw that she had grown taller and bigger.

So much the better, thought he, as bringing nearer the time when he should be able to test the truth of his presentiment.

Though sanguine, he was not confident. How could he? A nameless, almost homeless adventurer, a wide gulf lay between him and this daughter of an English baronet, noted in name as for riches, What hope had he of being able to bridge it?

None, save that springing from hope itself: perhaps only the wish father to the thought.

It might be all an illusion. In addition to the one great obstacle of unequal wealth—the rank he had no reason to consider—there might be many others.

Blanche Vernon was an only child, too precious to be lightly bestowed—too beautiful to go long before having her heart besieged. Already it may have been stormed and taken.

And by one nearer her own age—perhaps some one her father had designed for the assault.

While thus cogitating, the cloud that flung its shadow over Maynard’s face told how slight was his faith in fatalism.

It commenced clearing away, as the fly was driven up to the entrance of Vernon Park, and the gates were flung open to receive him.

It was quite gone when the proprietor of that park, meeting him in the vestibule of the mansion, bade him warm welcome to its hospitality.

Chapter Forty Four.At the Meet.There is perhaps no more superb sight than the “meet” of an English hunting-field—whether it be staghounds or fox. Even the grand panoply of war, with its serried ranks and braying band, is not more exciting than the tableau of scarlet coats grouped over the green, the hounds bounding impatiently around the gold-laced huntsman; here and there a horse rearing madly, as if determined on dismounting his rider; and at intervals the mellow horn, and sharply-cracked whip keeping the dogs in check.The picture is not complete without its string of barouches and pony phaetons, filled with their fair occupants, a grand “drag” driven by the duke, and carrying the duchess; beside it the farmer in his market cart; and outside of all the pedestrian circle of smock-frocks, “Hob, Dick, and Hick, with clubs and clouted shoon,” their dim attire contrasting with the scarlet, though each—if it be a stag-hunt—with bright hopes of winning the bounty money by being in at the death of the deer.At such a meet was Captain Maynard, mounted upon a steed from the stables of Sir George Vernon. Beside him was the baronet himself and near by his daughter, seated in an open barouche, with Sabina for her sole carriage companion.The tawny-skinned and turbaned attendant—more like what might have been seen at an Oriental tiger hunt—nevertheless added to the picturesqueness of the tableau.It was a grouping not unknown in those districts of England, where the returned East Indian “nabobs” have settled down to spend the evening of their days.In such places even a Hindoo prince, in the costume of Tippoo Sahib, not unfrequently makes appearance.The day was as it should be for a hunt. There was a clear sky, an atmosphere favourable to the scent, and cool enough for for putting a horse to his speed. Moreover, the hounds had been well rested.The gentlemen were jocund, the ladies wreathed in smiles, the smock-frocks staring at them with a pleased expression upon their stolid faces.All appeared happy, as they waited for the huntsman’s horn to signal the array.There was one in that gathering who shared not its gaiety; a man mounted upon a chestnut hunter, and halted alongside the barouche that carried Blanche Vernon.This man was Maynard.Why did he not participate in the general joy?The reason might have been discovered on the opposite side of the barouche, in the shape of an individual on horseback also, who called Blanche Vernon his cousin.Like Maynard too, he was staying at Vernon Park—a guest admitted to a still closer intimacy than himself.By name Scudamore—Frank Scudamore—he was a youth still boyish and beardless. All the more, on this account, was the man of mature age uneasy at his presence.But he was handsome besides; fair-haired and of florid hue, a sort of Saxon Endymion or Adonis.And she of kindred race and complexion—of nearly equal age—how could she do other than admire him?There could be no mistaking his admiration of her. Maynard had discovered it—in an instant—on the day when the three had been first brought together.And often afterward had he observed it; but never more than now, as the youth, leaning over in his saddle, endeavoured to engross the attention of his cousin.And he appeared to succeed. She had neither look nor word for any one else. She heeded not the howling of the hounds; she was not thinking of the fox; she was listening only to the pretty speeches of young Scudamore.All this Maynard saw with bitter chagrin. Its bitterness was only tempered by reflecting how little right he had to expect it otherwise.True he had done Blanche Vernon a service. He believed it to have been repaid; for it must have been through her intercession he had been rescued from the Zouaves. But the act on her part was one of simple reciprocity—the responsive gratitude of a child!How much more would he have liked being the recipient of those sentiments, seemingly lavished on young Scudamore, and spoken in half-whisper into his ear.As the ex-captain sate chafing in his saddle, the reflection passed through his mind:“There is too much hair upon my face. She prefers the cheek that is beardless.”The jealous thought must have descended to his heels; since, striking them against the flanks of his horse, he rode wide away from the carriage!And it must have continued to excite him throughout the chase, for, plying the spur, he kept close to the pack; and was first in at the death.That day a steed was returned to the stables of Sir George Vernon with panting reins and bleeding ribs.A guest sat down to his dinner-table—a stranger among the scarlet-coated hunters around him, who had won their respect by having ridden well up to the hounds.

There is perhaps no more superb sight than the “meet” of an English hunting-field—whether it be staghounds or fox. Even the grand panoply of war, with its serried ranks and braying band, is not more exciting than the tableau of scarlet coats grouped over the green, the hounds bounding impatiently around the gold-laced huntsman; here and there a horse rearing madly, as if determined on dismounting his rider; and at intervals the mellow horn, and sharply-cracked whip keeping the dogs in check.

The picture is not complete without its string of barouches and pony phaetons, filled with their fair occupants, a grand “drag” driven by the duke, and carrying the duchess; beside it the farmer in his market cart; and outside of all the pedestrian circle of smock-frocks, “Hob, Dick, and Hick, with clubs and clouted shoon,” their dim attire contrasting with the scarlet, though each—if it be a stag-hunt—with bright hopes of winning the bounty money by being in at the death of the deer.

At such a meet was Captain Maynard, mounted upon a steed from the stables of Sir George Vernon. Beside him was the baronet himself and near by his daughter, seated in an open barouche, with Sabina for her sole carriage companion.

The tawny-skinned and turbaned attendant—more like what might have been seen at an Oriental tiger hunt—nevertheless added to the picturesqueness of the tableau.

It was a grouping not unknown in those districts of England, where the returned East Indian “nabobs” have settled down to spend the evening of their days.

In such places even a Hindoo prince, in the costume of Tippoo Sahib, not unfrequently makes appearance.

The day was as it should be for a hunt. There was a clear sky, an atmosphere favourable to the scent, and cool enough for for putting a horse to his speed. Moreover, the hounds had been well rested.

The gentlemen were jocund, the ladies wreathed in smiles, the smock-frocks staring at them with a pleased expression upon their stolid faces.

All appeared happy, as they waited for the huntsman’s horn to signal the array.

There was one in that gathering who shared not its gaiety; a man mounted upon a chestnut hunter, and halted alongside the barouche that carried Blanche Vernon.

This man was Maynard.

Why did he not participate in the general joy?

The reason might have been discovered on the opposite side of the barouche, in the shape of an individual on horseback also, who called Blanche Vernon his cousin.

Like Maynard too, he was staying at Vernon Park—a guest admitted to a still closer intimacy than himself.

By name Scudamore—Frank Scudamore—he was a youth still boyish and beardless. All the more, on this account, was the man of mature age uneasy at his presence.

But he was handsome besides; fair-haired and of florid hue, a sort of Saxon Endymion or Adonis.

And she of kindred race and complexion—of nearly equal age—how could she do other than admire him?

There could be no mistaking his admiration of her. Maynard had discovered it—in an instant—on the day when the three had been first brought together.

And often afterward had he observed it; but never more than now, as the youth, leaning over in his saddle, endeavoured to engross the attention of his cousin.

And he appeared to succeed. She had neither look nor word for any one else. She heeded not the howling of the hounds; she was not thinking of the fox; she was listening only to the pretty speeches of young Scudamore.

All this Maynard saw with bitter chagrin. Its bitterness was only tempered by reflecting how little right he had to expect it otherwise.

True he had done Blanche Vernon a service. He believed it to have been repaid; for it must have been through her intercession he had been rescued from the Zouaves. But the act on her part was one of simple reciprocity—the responsive gratitude of a child!

How much more would he have liked being the recipient of those sentiments, seemingly lavished on young Scudamore, and spoken in half-whisper into his ear.

As the ex-captain sate chafing in his saddle, the reflection passed through his mind:

“There is too much hair upon my face. She prefers the cheek that is beardless.”

The jealous thought must have descended to his heels; since, striking them against the flanks of his horse, he rode wide away from the carriage!

And it must have continued to excite him throughout the chase, for, plying the spur, he kept close to the pack; and was first in at the death.

That day a steed was returned to the stables of Sir George Vernon with panting reins and bleeding ribs.

A guest sat down to his dinner-table—a stranger among the scarlet-coated hunters around him, who had won their respect by having ridden well up to the hounds.

Chapter Forty Five.In the Cover.The day after the hunt it was pheasant-shooting.The morning was one of the finest known to the climate of England: a bright blue sky, with a warm October sun.“The ladies are going to accompany us to the cover,” said Sir George, making glad the hearts of his sportsmen guests. “So, gentlemen,” he added, “you must have a care how you shoot.”The expedition was not a distant one. The pheasant preserves of Vernon Park lay contiguous to the house, between the pleasure grounds and the “home farm.” They consisted of a scrub wood, with here and there a large tree overshadowing the undergrowth of hazel, holly, white birch, gone, dogwood, and briar. They extended over a square mile of hilly land, interspersed with deep dells and soft shaded vales, through which meandered many a crystal rivulet.It was a noted cover for woodcock; but too early for these, and pheasant-killing was to be the pastime of the day.After breakfast the shooting party set forth. The ladies were, many of them, staying at the house; the wives, sisters, and daughters of Sir George’s gentlemen guests. But there were others invited to the sport—theéliteof the neighbourhood.All went out together—guided by the head gamekeeper, and followed by spaniels and retrievers.Once clear of the grounds, the business of the day began; and the banging of double-barrelled guns soon put a period to the conversation that had continued in a general way up to the edge of the woodland.Once inside the cover, the shooting party soon became dismembered. Small groups, each consisting of two or three ladies and the same number of gentlemen, strayed off through the thicket, as chance, the ground, or the gamekeepers, conducted them.With one of these went Maynard, though not the one he would have elected to accompany. A stranger, he had no choice, but was thrown along with the first set that offered—a couple of country squires, who cared far more for the pheasants than the fair creatures who had come to see them slaughtered.With this trio of shooters there was not a single lady. One or two had started along with them. But the squires, being keen sportsmen, soon left their long-skirted companions following in the distance; and Maynard was compelled either to keep up with them and their dogs, or abandon the shooting altogether.Treading on with the sportsmen he soon lost sight of the ladies, who fell far behind. He had no great regret at their defection. None of them chanced to be either very young or very attractive, and they were luckily attended by a servant. He had bidden adieu to them by exhibiting a pretended zeal in pheasant-shooting far from being felt, and which he would scarce have done had Sir George Vernon’s daughter been one of their number.He was far from feeling cheerful as he strode through the preserves. He was troubled with an unpleasant reflection—arising from an incident observed. He had seen the baronet’s daughter pair off with the party in which shot young Scudamore. As she had done so unsolicited, she must have preferred this party to any other.The ex-officer was not so expert in his shooting as he had shown himself at the hunt.Several times he missed altogether; and once or twice the strong-winged gallinaceae rose whirring before him, without his attempting to pull trigger or even elevate his gun!The squires, who on the day before had witnessed his dexterity in the saddle, rather wondered at his being such a poor shot.They little dreamt of what was disqualifying him. They only observed that he was abstracted, but guessed not the cause.After a time he and they became separated; they thinking only of the pheasants, he of that far brighter bird, in some distant quarter of the cover, gleaming amidst the foliage, and radiating delight all around.Perhaps alone, in some silent dell, with young Scudamore by her side—authorised to keep apart through their cousinly relationship—he, perhaps, pouring into her ear the soft, confident whisperings of a cousin’s love!The thought rendered Maynard sad.It might hive excited him to anger; but he knew he had no pretext. Between him and the daughter of Sir George Vernon, as yet, only a few speeches had been exchanged; these only commonplace expressions of civility, amidst a surrounding of people, her friends and relatives. He had not even found opportunity to talk over those incidents that had led to the present relationship between them.He longed for, and yet dreaded it! That presentiment, at first so confidently felt, had proved a deception.The very opposite was the impression now upon him as he stood alone in the silent thicket, with the words falling mechanically from his lips:“She can never be mine!”“You will, Blanche? You will?” were other words not spoken by himself, but heard by him, as he stood within a holly copse, screened by its evergreen frondage.It was young Scudamore who was talking, and in a tone of appealing tenderness.There was no reply, and the same words, with a slight addition, were repeated: “You will promise it, Blanche? You will?”Stilling his breath, and the wild beating of his heart, Maynard listened for the answer. From the tone of the questioner’s voice he knew it to be a dialogue, and that the cousins were alone.He soon saw that they were. Walking side by side along a wood-road, they came opposite to the spot where he was standing.They stopped. He could not see them. Their persons were concealed by the prickly fascicles of the holly hanging low. These did not hinder him from hearing every word exchanged between the two.How sweet to his ears was the answer given by the girl.“I won’t, Frank! I won’t!”He knew not its full significance, nor the nature of the promise appealed for.But theéclaircissementwas near, and this gave him a still greater gratification.“Indeed,” said Scudamore, reproachfully, “I know why you won’t promise me. Yes, I know it.”“What do you know, Frank?”“Only, what everybody can see: that you’ve taken a liking to this Captain Maynard, who’s old enough to be your father, or grandfather! Ah! and if your father finds it out—well, I shan’t say what—”“And if it were so,” daringly retorted the daughter of the baronet, “who could blame me? You forget that the gentleman saved my life! I’m sure I’d have been drowned but for his noble behaviour. Courageous, too. You should have seen the big waves wanting to swallow me. And there wasn’t any one else to run the risk of stretching forth a hand to me! Hedidsave my life. Is it any wonder I should feel grateful to him?”“You’re more than grateful, Blanche! You’rein lovewith him!”“In love with him! Ha! ha! ha! What do you mean by that, cousin?”“Oh! you needn’t make light of it. You know well enough!”“I know that you’re very disagreeable, Frank; you’ve been so all the morning.”“Have I? I shan’t be so any longer—in your company. Since you don’t seem to care for mine, no doubt you’ll be pleased at my taking leave of you. I presume you can find the way home without me? You’ve only to keep up this wood-road. It’ll bring you to the park-gate.”“You needn’t concern yourself about me,” haughtily rejoined the daughter of Sir George. “I fancy I can find my way home without any assistance from my gallant cousin Scudamore.”The provoking irony of this last speech brought the dialogue to an end.Irritated by it, the young sportsman turned his back upon his pretty partner, and whistling to his spaniel, broke abruptly away, soon disappearing behind a clump of copse wood.

The day after the hunt it was pheasant-shooting.

The morning was one of the finest known to the climate of England: a bright blue sky, with a warm October sun.

“The ladies are going to accompany us to the cover,” said Sir George, making glad the hearts of his sportsmen guests. “So, gentlemen,” he added, “you must have a care how you shoot.”

The expedition was not a distant one. The pheasant preserves of Vernon Park lay contiguous to the house, between the pleasure grounds and the “home farm.” They consisted of a scrub wood, with here and there a large tree overshadowing the undergrowth of hazel, holly, white birch, gone, dogwood, and briar. They extended over a square mile of hilly land, interspersed with deep dells and soft shaded vales, through which meandered many a crystal rivulet.

It was a noted cover for woodcock; but too early for these, and pheasant-killing was to be the pastime of the day.

After breakfast the shooting party set forth. The ladies were, many of them, staying at the house; the wives, sisters, and daughters of Sir George’s gentlemen guests. But there were others invited to the sport—theéliteof the neighbourhood.

All went out together—guided by the head gamekeeper, and followed by spaniels and retrievers.

Once clear of the grounds, the business of the day began; and the banging of double-barrelled guns soon put a period to the conversation that had continued in a general way up to the edge of the woodland.

Once inside the cover, the shooting party soon became dismembered. Small groups, each consisting of two or three ladies and the same number of gentlemen, strayed off through the thicket, as chance, the ground, or the gamekeepers, conducted them.

With one of these went Maynard, though not the one he would have elected to accompany. A stranger, he had no choice, but was thrown along with the first set that offered—a couple of country squires, who cared far more for the pheasants than the fair creatures who had come to see them slaughtered.

With this trio of shooters there was not a single lady. One or two had started along with them. But the squires, being keen sportsmen, soon left their long-skirted companions following in the distance; and Maynard was compelled either to keep up with them and their dogs, or abandon the shooting altogether.

Treading on with the sportsmen he soon lost sight of the ladies, who fell far behind. He had no great regret at their defection. None of them chanced to be either very young or very attractive, and they were luckily attended by a servant. He had bidden adieu to them by exhibiting a pretended zeal in pheasant-shooting far from being felt, and which he would scarce have done had Sir George Vernon’s daughter been one of their number.

He was far from feeling cheerful as he strode through the preserves. He was troubled with an unpleasant reflection—arising from an incident observed. He had seen the baronet’s daughter pair off with the party in which shot young Scudamore. As she had done so unsolicited, she must have preferred this party to any other.

The ex-officer was not so expert in his shooting as he had shown himself at the hunt.

Several times he missed altogether; and once or twice the strong-winged gallinaceae rose whirring before him, without his attempting to pull trigger or even elevate his gun!

The squires, who on the day before had witnessed his dexterity in the saddle, rather wondered at his being such a poor shot.

They little dreamt of what was disqualifying him. They only observed that he was abstracted, but guessed not the cause.

After a time he and they became separated; they thinking only of the pheasants, he of that far brighter bird, in some distant quarter of the cover, gleaming amidst the foliage, and radiating delight all around.

Perhaps alone, in some silent dell, with young Scudamore by her side—authorised to keep apart through their cousinly relationship—he, perhaps, pouring into her ear the soft, confident whisperings of a cousin’s love!

The thought rendered Maynard sad.

It might hive excited him to anger; but he knew he had no pretext. Between him and the daughter of Sir George Vernon, as yet, only a few speeches had been exchanged; these only commonplace expressions of civility, amidst a surrounding of people, her friends and relatives. He had not even found opportunity to talk over those incidents that had led to the present relationship between them.

He longed for, and yet dreaded it! That presentiment, at first so confidently felt, had proved a deception.

The very opposite was the impression now upon him as he stood alone in the silent thicket, with the words falling mechanically from his lips:

“She can never be mine!”

“You will, Blanche? You will?” were other words not spoken by himself, but heard by him, as he stood within a holly copse, screened by its evergreen frondage.

It was young Scudamore who was talking, and in a tone of appealing tenderness.

There was no reply, and the same words, with a slight addition, were repeated: “You will promise it, Blanche? You will?”

Stilling his breath, and the wild beating of his heart, Maynard listened for the answer. From the tone of the questioner’s voice he knew it to be a dialogue, and that the cousins were alone.

He soon saw that they were. Walking side by side along a wood-road, they came opposite to the spot where he was standing.

They stopped. He could not see them. Their persons were concealed by the prickly fascicles of the holly hanging low. These did not hinder him from hearing every word exchanged between the two.

How sweet to his ears was the answer given by the girl.

“I won’t, Frank! I won’t!”

He knew not its full significance, nor the nature of the promise appealed for.

But theéclaircissementwas near, and this gave him a still greater gratification.

“Indeed,” said Scudamore, reproachfully, “I know why you won’t promise me. Yes, I know it.”

“What do you know, Frank?”

“Only, what everybody can see: that you’ve taken a liking to this Captain Maynard, who’s old enough to be your father, or grandfather! Ah! and if your father finds it out—well, I shan’t say what—”

“And if it were so,” daringly retorted the daughter of the baronet, “who could blame me? You forget that the gentleman saved my life! I’m sure I’d have been drowned but for his noble behaviour. Courageous, too. You should have seen the big waves wanting to swallow me. And there wasn’t any one else to run the risk of stretching forth a hand to me! Hedidsave my life. Is it any wonder I should feel grateful to him?”

“You’re more than grateful, Blanche! You’rein lovewith him!”

“In love with him! Ha! ha! ha! What do you mean by that, cousin?”

“Oh! you needn’t make light of it. You know well enough!”

“I know that you’re very disagreeable, Frank; you’ve been so all the morning.”

“Have I? I shan’t be so any longer—in your company. Since you don’t seem to care for mine, no doubt you’ll be pleased at my taking leave of you. I presume you can find the way home without me? You’ve only to keep up this wood-road. It’ll bring you to the park-gate.”

“You needn’t concern yourself about me,” haughtily rejoined the daughter of Sir George. “I fancy I can find my way home without any assistance from my gallant cousin Scudamore.”

The provoking irony of this last speech brought the dialogue to an end.

Irritated by it, the young sportsman turned his back upon his pretty partner, and whistling to his spaniel, broke abruptly away, soon disappearing behind a clump of copse wood.

Chapter Forty Six.A Recreant Sportsman.“I owe you an apology, Miss Vernon,” said Maynard, coming out from under the hollies.“For what?” asked the young girl, startled by his sudden appearance, but in an instant becoming calm.“For having overheard the closing of a conversation between you and your cousin.”She stood without making rejoinder, as if recalling what had been said.“It was quite unintentional, I assure you,” added the intruder. “I should have disclosed myself sooner, but I—I can scarce tell what hindered me. The truth is, I—”“Oh?” interrupted she, as if to relieve him from his evident embarrassment, “it doesn’t in the least signify. Frank was talking some nonsense—that’s all.”“I’m glad you’re not angry with me. Though I’ve reason to be ashamed of my conduct, I must be candid and tell you, that I scarce deem it a misfortune having overheard you. It is so pleasant to listen to one’s own praises.”“But who was praising you?”The question was asked with an air ofnaïvetéthat might have been mistaken for coquetry.Perhaps she had forgotten what she had said.“Not your cousin,” replied Maynard, with a smile—“he who thinks me old enough to be your grandfather.”“Ha! ha!” laughed Miss Vernon. “You mustn’t mind what Frank says. He’s always offending somebody.”“I do not mind it. I couldn’t, after hearing how he was contradicted. A thousand thanks to my generous defender!”“Oh! what I said of you was not meant for praise. I was but speaking the truth. But for you I should have been drowned. I am sure of it.”“And but foryouI should have been shot. Is not that also the truth?”She did not make immediate reply. There was a blush on her cheek, strangely contrasting with a shadow that came over her face.“I do not like the thought of any one being in my debt—not even you, Miss Vernon! Confess that we are quits, then. It will give me a contentment you do not dream of.”“I do not quite understand you, Captain Maynard.”“I shall be plain, then. Was it not you who sent your father to save me?”It was a superfluous question, and he knew it. How could he be ignorant of her action under the remembrance of those sweet words, “I’ll come to you! I will come!”She had not come, as he supposed; but she had done better. She had deputed one who had proved able to protect him.“It is true,” replied she. “I told papa of your trouble. It wasn’t much for me. I had no danger; and must have shown myself very ungrateful had I not done so. You would have been saved without that. Your other friends would have been in time.”“My other friends?”“Surely you know?”“Oh, you mean the American Minister.”“And the two American ladies who went with him to your prison.”“Two ladies! I saw no ladies. I never heard of them. The American Minister came; but he might have been too late. It is to your father—toyou—I am indebted for my deliverance. I wish, Miss Vernon, you could understand how truly grateful I feel to you. I shall never be able to show it!”Maynard spoke with a fervour he was unable to control.It was not checked by any thought of the two ladies who had accompanied the American Minister to his Parisian prison. He had his surmises as to who they were; and there was a time when it would have gratified him. Now he was only glad to think that their friendly intent had been anticipated!Standing in that wood, beside a bright creature worthy of being one of its nymphs, he was more contented to believe that she had been the preserver of his life—as he of hers.It would have turned his contentment to supreme happiness could he have believed her gratitude resembled his own—in kind.Her soft young heart—how he yearned to read to probe it to its profoundest depths!It was a task delicate and dangerous; too delicate for a gentleman; too dangerous for one whose own heart was in doubt.He feared to seek further.“Miss Vernon,” he said, resuming the ordinary tone of discourse, “your cousin appears to have left you somewhat abruptly. May I have the pleasure of conducting you to the house? I think I can find the way after hearing Master Scudamore’s very particular directions.”Master Scudamore! Had this young gentleman been present, he might have felt inclined to repudiate the juvenile appellation.“Oh, no!” said the baronet’s daughter, scarce longer to be called a child. “I know the way well enough. You mustn’t leave your shooting, Captain Maynard?”“I cannot continue it; I have no dogs. The very zealous pair of sportsmen to whom I was allotted soon outstripped me, leaving me alone, as you see. If I am not permitted to accompany you, I must—I suppose—I must remain so.”“Oh, if you’re not going to shoot, you may as well go with me. It may be very lonely for you at the house; but I suppose we’ll find some of the others who have returned.”“Not lonely,” replied the recreant sportsmen. “Not lonely for me, if you, Miss Vernon, will condescend to give me your company.”Correctly interpreted, it was a bold speech; and the moment it was made, Maynard regretted it.He was glad to perceive that it was taken only in the sense of politeness; and, the young girl consenting, he walked with her along the wood-road in the direction of the dwelling.They were alone, but not unwatched.Skulking behind them, with gun in hand, and spaniel at his heels, went young Scudamore. He did not attempt to overtake, but only watched them through the wood and along the park path, till they had joined a group of returned ladies, who chanced to be strolling through the lawn.

“I owe you an apology, Miss Vernon,” said Maynard, coming out from under the hollies.

“For what?” asked the young girl, startled by his sudden appearance, but in an instant becoming calm.

“For having overheard the closing of a conversation between you and your cousin.”

She stood without making rejoinder, as if recalling what had been said.

“It was quite unintentional, I assure you,” added the intruder. “I should have disclosed myself sooner, but I—I can scarce tell what hindered me. The truth is, I—”

“Oh?” interrupted she, as if to relieve him from his evident embarrassment, “it doesn’t in the least signify. Frank was talking some nonsense—that’s all.”

“I’m glad you’re not angry with me. Though I’ve reason to be ashamed of my conduct, I must be candid and tell you, that I scarce deem it a misfortune having overheard you. It is so pleasant to listen to one’s own praises.”

“But who was praising you?”

The question was asked with an air ofnaïvetéthat might have been mistaken for coquetry.

Perhaps she had forgotten what she had said.

“Not your cousin,” replied Maynard, with a smile—“he who thinks me old enough to be your grandfather.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Miss Vernon. “You mustn’t mind what Frank says. He’s always offending somebody.”

“I do not mind it. I couldn’t, after hearing how he was contradicted. A thousand thanks to my generous defender!”

“Oh! what I said of you was not meant for praise. I was but speaking the truth. But for you I should have been drowned. I am sure of it.”

“And but foryouI should have been shot. Is not that also the truth?”

She did not make immediate reply. There was a blush on her cheek, strangely contrasting with a shadow that came over her face.

“I do not like the thought of any one being in my debt—not even you, Miss Vernon! Confess that we are quits, then. It will give me a contentment you do not dream of.”

“I do not quite understand you, Captain Maynard.”

“I shall be plain, then. Was it not you who sent your father to save me?”

It was a superfluous question, and he knew it. How could he be ignorant of her action under the remembrance of those sweet words, “I’ll come to you! I will come!”

She had not come, as he supposed; but she had done better. She had deputed one who had proved able to protect him.

“It is true,” replied she. “I told papa of your trouble. It wasn’t much for me. I had no danger; and must have shown myself very ungrateful had I not done so. You would have been saved without that. Your other friends would have been in time.”

“My other friends?”

“Surely you know?”

“Oh, you mean the American Minister.”

“And the two American ladies who went with him to your prison.”

“Two ladies! I saw no ladies. I never heard of them. The American Minister came; but he might have been too late. It is to your father—toyou—I am indebted for my deliverance. I wish, Miss Vernon, you could understand how truly grateful I feel to you. I shall never be able to show it!”

Maynard spoke with a fervour he was unable to control.

It was not checked by any thought of the two ladies who had accompanied the American Minister to his Parisian prison. He had his surmises as to who they were; and there was a time when it would have gratified him. Now he was only glad to think that their friendly intent had been anticipated!

Standing in that wood, beside a bright creature worthy of being one of its nymphs, he was more contented to believe that she had been the preserver of his life—as he of hers.

It would have turned his contentment to supreme happiness could he have believed her gratitude resembled his own—in kind.

Her soft young heart—how he yearned to read to probe it to its profoundest depths!

It was a task delicate and dangerous; too delicate for a gentleman; too dangerous for one whose own heart was in doubt.

He feared to seek further.

“Miss Vernon,” he said, resuming the ordinary tone of discourse, “your cousin appears to have left you somewhat abruptly. May I have the pleasure of conducting you to the house? I think I can find the way after hearing Master Scudamore’s very particular directions.”

Master Scudamore! Had this young gentleman been present, he might have felt inclined to repudiate the juvenile appellation.

“Oh, no!” said the baronet’s daughter, scarce longer to be called a child. “I know the way well enough. You mustn’t leave your shooting, Captain Maynard?”

“I cannot continue it; I have no dogs. The very zealous pair of sportsmen to whom I was allotted soon outstripped me, leaving me alone, as you see. If I am not permitted to accompany you, I must—I suppose—I must remain so.”

“Oh, if you’re not going to shoot, you may as well go with me. It may be very lonely for you at the house; but I suppose we’ll find some of the others who have returned.”

“Not lonely,” replied the recreant sportsmen. “Not lonely for me, if you, Miss Vernon, will condescend to give me your company.”

Correctly interpreted, it was a bold speech; and the moment it was made, Maynard regretted it.

He was glad to perceive that it was taken only in the sense of politeness; and, the young girl consenting, he walked with her along the wood-road in the direction of the dwelling.

They were alone, but not unwatched.

Skulking behind them, with gun in hand, and spaniel at his heels, went young Scudamore. He did not attempt to overtake, but only watched them through the wood and along the park path, till they had joined a group of returned ladies, who chanced to be strolling through the lawn.

Chapter Forty Seven.Just Fifteen.It was the birthday of Blanche Vernon. Partly in view of its celebration had Sir George called the shooting party together.The morning had passed in the usual manner—shooting through the covers. In the evening there was to be a grand dinner—and after it a dance.The evening hour had come; and the baronet’s daughter was in her bedroom, attended by Sabina, who had just finished dressing her for dinner.But during the time of her toilet she had been occupied in the perusal of a newspaper, that seemed greatly to interest her. Every now and then an exclamation escaped her lips, indicative of joy, until at length the journal dropped out of her hands; and she remained musing—as if in some thoughtful reverie. It ended in her making the remark: “I fancy I’m in love.”“Law! Missy Blanche, why you ’peak so? You too young tink ’bout dat!”“Too young! How old should one be?”“Well. Dey do say it ’pend berry much on the nater ob de climate. In dem Wess Indy Island wha it ar hot, dey fall into de affecshun sooner dan hya in Englan’. I know lots ob young Badian girl get married ’fore dey am fo’teen, an’ dey falls in lub sooner dan dat.”“But I’m fifteen this day. You know it’s my birthday?”“Ob coas I know dat. Fifteen too young for English girl; ’pecially a lady like you, Missy Blanche.”“You must remember I lived three years in the West Indies.”“No matter ’bout dat. It no diffrence make in ’spect ob de rule. In Englan’ you only chile yet.”“Only a child! Nonsense, Sabby! See how tall I am! That little bed’s become quite too short for me. My toes touch the bottom of it every night. I must have it changed for a bigger one; I must.”“Don’t signify ’bout you length.”“Well, I’m sure I’m stout enough. And such a weight! Papa had me weighed the other day at the railway station. Seven stone six pounds—over a hundred pounds. Think of that, Sabby!”“I know you weighty for you age. But dat ain’t de quessin when you talk ’bout gettin’ married.”“Getting married. Ha! ha! ha! Who talks of that?”“Dat what folks go in lub for. It am de natral consequence.”“Not always, I think.”“Wha dey am honest in dar lub.”“Tell me, Sabby, have you ever been in love?”“Sabby am a Wess Indy Creole; you no need ask de quessin. Why you ask it, Missa?”“Because—because my cousin spoke to me about love, this morning, when we were in the covers.”“Mass Frank? Law! he you speak ’bout lub! Wha’d he say, Missy Blanche?”“He wanted me to promise I should love him, and be true to him.”“If you him lub, you boun be true to him. Ob coas, you den marry him.”“What! a boy like that! Marry cousin Frank! Oh, no. When I get married, it must be to a man!”“Berry clar you no him lub. Den may be dar am some’dy else?”“You admit that you’ve been in love yourself, Sabby?” said her young mistress, without replying to the last remark.“I admit dat, Missa. Sabby hab had de feelin’ twice.”“Twice! That is strange, is it not?”“Not in de Wess Indy Island.”“Well, no matter about the second time. If I should ever love twice, then I’d know all about it. Tell me, Sabby, how did it seem the first time? I suppose it’s the same with you coloured people as with us whites?”“Jess de same—only wif de Creole it am mo’ so.”“More so! More what?”“De Creole lub more ’trongly—more burnin’ in da passion I feeled like I kud a ate dat fella up.”“What fellow?”“De fust one. I wa’n’t neer so mad atter de oder. I wa good bit older den.”“But you were never married, Sabina?”“Nebba.”There was just a tinge of shadow on Sabina’s brow, as she made this confession.“Why you ask all dese quessins, Missy Blanche? You no gwine think fall in lub, nor get married?”“I don’t think of it, Sabby. I only fear that Ihavefallen in love. I fancy I have.”“Law! shoolly you know whetha you hab?”“No, indeed. It’s for that reason I wish you to tell me how it seemed to you.”“Well, I tole you it feel I kud eat de fella.”“Oh! that is very absurd. You must be jesting, Sabby? I’m sureIdon’t feel that way.”“Den how, Missa?”“Well, I should like him to be always with me, and nobody else near. And I should like him to be always talking to me; I listening and looking at him; especially into his eyes. He has such beautiful eyes. And they looked so beautiful to-day, when I met him in the wood! We were alone. It was the first time. How much pleasanter it was than to be among so many people! I wish papa’s guests would all go away, and leave only him. Then we could be always together alone.”“Why, Missa, who you talk ’bout? Massa Cudamore?”“No—no. Not Frank. He might go with the rest. I don’t care for his staying.”“Who den?”“Oh, Sabby, you know? You should know.”“Maybe Sabby hab a ’spicion. P’raps she no far ’stray to tink it am de gen’lum dat Missa ’company home from de shootin’ cubbas.”“Yes; it is he. I’m not afraid to tell you, Sabby.”“You betta no tell nob’dy else. You fadder know dat, he awfu angry. I’m satin shoo he go berry mad ’bout it.”“But why? Is there any harm in it?”“Ah, why! Maybe you find out in time. You betta gib you affecshun to your cousin Cudamore.”“Impossible to do that. I don’t like him. I can’t.”“An’ you like de oder?”“Certainly I do. I can’t help it. How could I?” The Creole did not much wonder at this. She belonged to a race of women wonderfully appreciative of the true qualities of men; and despite a little aversion at first, felt she had learned to like the ’publican captain. It was he of whom they were speaking.“But, Missa, tell me de truth. You tink he like you?”“I do not know. I’d give a great deal to think so.”“How much you gib?”“All the world—if I had it. Oh, dear Sabby I do you believe he does?”“Well; Sabby blieve he no hate you.”“Hate me! no—no. Surely he could not do that!”“Surely not,” was the reflection of the Creole, equally well-skilled in the qualities of women.“How could he?” she thought, gazing upon her young mistress, with an eye that recognised in her a type of all that may be deemed angelic.“Well, Missy Blanche,” she said, without declaring her thoughts, “whetha he like you or no, take Sabby advice, an’ no tell any one you hab de likin’ for him. I satin shoo dat not greeable to you fadder. It breed trouble—big trouble. Keep dis ting to youse—buried down deep in you own buzzum. No fear Sabby ’tray you. No, Missy Blanche; she tink you dear good child. She tan by you troo de tick and thin—for ebba.”“Thanks, dear Sabby! I know you will; I know it.”“Das’ de dinna bell. Now you must go down to drawin’-room; and doan make dat ere cousin ob yours angry. I mean Massa Cudamore. Berry ’trange young buckra dat. Hab temper ob de debbil an’ de cunnin’ ob a sarpint. If he ’spect you tink ’bout de Capten Maynad, he big trouble wit you fadder breed, shoo as snakes am snakes. So, Missy Blanche, you keep dark ’bout all dese tings, till de time come for confessin’ dem.”Blanche, already dressed for dinner, descended to the drawing-room, but not before promising obedience to the injunction of her Creoleconfidante.

It was the birthday of Blanche Vernon. Partly in view of its celebration had Sir George called the shooting party together.

The morning had passed in the usual manner—shooting through the covers. In the evening there was to be a grand dinner—and after it a dance.

The evening hour had come; and the baronet’s daughter was in her bedroom, attended by Sabina, who had just finished dressing her for dinner.

But during the time of her toilet she had been occupied in the perusal of a newspaper, that seemed greatly to interest her. Every now and then an exclamation escaped her lips, indicative of joy, until at length the journal dropped out of her hands; and she remained musing—as if in some thoughtful reverie. It ended in her making the remark: “I fancy I’m in love.”

“Law! Missy Blanche, why you ’peak so? You too young tink ’bout dat!”

“Too young! How old should one be?”

“Well. Dey do say it ’pend berry much on the nater ob de climate. In dem Wess Indy Island wha it ar hot, dey fall into de affecshun sooner dan hya in Englan’. I know lots ob young Badian girl get married ’fore dey am fo’teen, an’ dey falls in lub sooner dan dat.”

“But I’m fifteen this day. You know it’s my birthday?”

“Ob coas I know dat. Fifteen too young for English girl; ’pecially a lady like you, Missy Blanche.”

“You must remember I lived three years in the West Indies.”

“No matter ’bout dat. It no diffrence make in ’spect ob de rule. In Englan’ you only chile yet.”

“Only a child! Nonsense, Sabby! See how tall I am! That little bed’s become quite too short for me. My toes touch the bottom of it every night. I must have it changed for a bigger one; I must.”

“Don’t signify ’bout you length.”

“Well, I’m sure I’m stout enough. And such a weight! Papa had me weighed the other day at the railway station. Seven stone six pounds—over a hundred pounds. Think of that, Sabby!”

“I know you weighty for you age. But dat ain’t de quessin when you talk ’bout gettin’ married.”

“Getting married. Ha! ha! ha! Who talks of that?”

“Dat what folks go in lub for. It am de natral consequence.”

“Not always, I think.”

“Wha dey am honest in dar lub.”

“Tell me, Sabby, have you ever been in love?”

“Sabby am a Wess Indy Creole; you no need ask de quessin. Why you ask it, Missa?”

“Because—because my cousin spoke to me about love, this morning, when we were in the covers.”

“Mass Frank? Law! he you speak ’bout lub! Wha’d he say, Missy Blanche?”

“He wanted me to promise I should love him, and be true to him.”

“If you him lub, you boun be true to him. Ob coas, you den marry him.”

“What! a boy like that! Marry cousin Frank! Oh, no. When I get married, it must be to a man!”

“Berry clar you no him lub. Den may be dar am some’dy else?”

“You admit that you’ve been in love yourself, Sabby?” said her young mistress, without replying to the last remark.

“I admit dat, Missa. Sabby hab had de feelin’ twice.”

“Twice! That is strange, is it not?”

“Not in de Wess Indy Island.”

“Well, no matter about the second time. If I should ever love twice, then I’d know all about it. Tell me, Sabby, how did it seem the first time? I suppose it’s the same with you coloured people as with us whites?”

“Jess de same—only wif de Creole it am mo’ so.”

“More so! More what?”

“De Creole lub more ’trongly—more burnin’ in da passion I feeled like I kud a ate dat fella up.”

“What fellow?”

“De fust one. I wa’n’t neer so mad atter de oder. I wa good bit older den.”

“But you were never married, Sabina?”

“Nebba.”

There was just a tinge of shadow on Sabina’s brow, as she made this confession.

“Why you ask all dese quessins, Missy Blanche? You no gwine think fall in lub, nor get married?”

“I don’t think of it, Sabby. I only fear that Ihavefallen in love. I fancy I have.”

“Law! shoolly you know whetha you hab?”

“No, indeed. It’s for that reason I wish you to tell me how it seemed to you.”

“Well, I tole you it feel I kud eat de fella.”

“Oh! that is very absurd. You must be jesting, Sabby? I’m sureIdon’t feel that way.”

“Den how, Missa?”

“Well, I should like him to be always with me, and nobody else near. And I should like him to be always talking to me; I listening and looking at him; especially into his eyes. He has such beautiful eyes. And they looked so beautiful to-day, when I met him in the wood! We were alone. It was the first time. How much pleasanter it was than to be among so many people! I wish papa’s guests would all go away, and leave only him. Then we could be always together alone.”

“Why, Missa, who you talk ’bout? Massa Cudamore?”

“No—no. Not Frank. He might go with the rest. I don’t care for his staying.”

“Who den?”

“Oh, Sabby, you know? You should know.”

“Maybe Sabby hab a ’spicion. P’raps she no far ’stray to tink it am de gen’lum dat Missa ’company home from de shootin’ cubbas.”

“Yes; it is he. I’m not afraid to tell you, Sabby.”

“You betta no tell nob’dy else. You fadder know dat, he awfu angry. I’m satin shoo he go berry mad ’bout it.”

“But why? Is there any harm in it?”

“Ah, why! Maybe you find out in time. You betta gib you affecshun to your cousin Cudamore.”

“Impossible to do that. I don’t like him. I can’t.”

“An’ you like de oder?”

“Certainly I do. I can’t help it. How could I?” The Creole did not much wonder at this. She belonged to a race of women wonderfully appreciative of the true qualities of men; and despite a little aversion at first, felt she had learned to like the ’publican captain. It was he of whom they were speaking.

“But, Missa, tell me de truth. You tink he like you?”

“I do not know. I’d give a great deal to think so.”

“How much you gib?”

“All the world—if I had it. Oh, dear Sabby I do you believe he does?”

“Well; Sabby blieve he no hate you.”

“Hate me! no—no. Surely he could not do that!”

“Surely not,” was the reflection of the Creole, equally well-skilled in the qualities of women.

“How could he?” she thought, gazing upon her young mistress, with an eye that recognised in her a type of all that may be deemed angelic.

“Well, Missy Blanche,” she said, without declaring her thoughts, “whetha he like you or no, take Sabby advice, an’ no tell any one you hab de likin’ for him. I satin shoo dat not greeable to you fadder. It breed trouble—big trouble. Keep dis ting to youse—buried down deep in you own buzzum. No fear Sabby ’tray you. No, Missy Blanche; she tink you dear good child. She tan by you troo de tick and thin—for ebba.”

“Thanks, dear Sabby! I know you will; I know it.”

“Das’ de dinna bell. Now you must go down to drawin’-room; and doan make dat ere cousin ob yours angry. I mean Massa Cudamore. Berry ’trange young buckra dat. Hab temper ob de debbil an’ de cunnin’ ob a sarpint. If he ’spect you tink ’bout de Capten Maynad, he big trouble wit you fadder breed, shoo as snakes am snakes. So, Missy Blanche, you keep dark ’bout all dese tings, till de time come for confessin’ dem.”

Blanche, already dressed for dinner, descended to the drawing-room, but not before promising obedience to the injunction of her Creoleconfidante.

Chapter Forty Eight.The Dinner.The dinner-party of that day was the largest Sir George had given. As already known, it was the fifteenth birthday of Blanche, his only child.The guests intended to take seats at the table had been carefully selected. In addition to those staying at the Hall, there were others specially invited for the occasion—of course, the first families of the shire, who dwelt within dining distance.In all, there were over twenty—several of them distinguished by titles—while twice as many more were expected to drop in afterwards. A dance was to follow the dinner.As Maynard, having made his toilet, descended to the drawing-room, he found it comfortably filled. Bevies of beautiful women were seated upon the sofas, each in a wonderful abundance of skirt, and a still more surprising scantiness of bodice and sleeves.Interspersed among them were the gentlemen, all in deep black, relieved only by the time-honoured white choker—their plain dresses contrasting oddly with the rich silks and satins that rustled around them.Soon after entering the room, he became conscious of being under all eyes—both male and female: in short, their cynosure.It was something beyond the mere customary glance given to a new guest on his announcement. As the butler in stentorian voice proclaimed his name, coupling it with his military title, a thrill appeared to pass through the assemblage. The “swell” in tawny moustache, forsaking his habitual air of superciliousness, turned readily toward him; dowagers and duchesses, drawing out their gold-rimmed glasses, ogled him with a degree of interest unusual for these grand dames; while their daughters vouchsafed glances of a more speaking and pleasant nature.Maynard did not know what to make of it. A stranger of somewhat peculiar antecedents, he might expect scrutiny.But not of that concentrated kind—in a company reputed above all others for its good breeding.He was himself too well-bred to be taken aback. Besides, he saw before him faces that appeared friendly; while the eyes of the discriminating dowagers, seen through their pebbles, instead of quizzing, seemed to regard him with admiration!Though not disconcerted, he could not help feeling surprised. Many of those present he had met before; had hunted, shot, and even dined with them. Why should they be now receiving him with an interest not hitherto exhibited?The explanation was given by his host, who, approaching in a friendly manner, pronounced the words:“Captain Maynard, we congratulate you!”“On what, Sir George?” inquired the astonished guest.“Your literary success. We had already heard, sir, of your skill in wielding the sword. We were not aware that you were equally skilful with another and like honourable weapon—the pen.”“You are very complimentary; but I do not quite comprehend you.”“You will, by glancing at this. I presume, sir, you have not yet seen it—since it has just come down by the last post?”As Sir George spoke, he held up a broadsheet, whose title proclaimed it the fashionable morning journal of London.Maynard’s eye was directed to a column, in large type, headed by his own name. Underneath was the review of a book—a novel he had written; but which, before his leaving London, had not received the usual notice from the newspaper press. The journal in question gave the first public announcement of its appearance and quality.“Three extraordinary volumes, written by no every-day man. Of Captain Maynard it may be said what Byron wrote of Buonaparte:“‘And quiet to quick bosoms is a hell.’”So commenced the review; and then ran on in the same strain of almost hyperbolic praise; the reviewer ending his remarks with the statement that “a new star had appeared in the literary firmament.”The author did not read the long column of compliment paid by some generous pen—of course outside the literary clique—and entirely unknown to him. He only glanced at the opening paragraphs and conclusion, returning the paper to the hand of his host.It would be untrue to say he was not pleased; but equally so to declare that he was not also surprised. He had little thought, while recording some incidents of his life in a far foreign land—while blending them with emotions of a still later date, and moulding them into romance—little had he dreamt that hislabour of lovewas destined to give him a new kind of fame, and effect a complete change in his career. Hitherto he had thought only of the sword. It was to be laid aside for the pen.“Dinner is served?” announced the butler, throwing wide open the drawing-room doors.Sir George’s guests paired off by introduction; the newly discovered author finding himself bestowed upon a lady of title.She was a young and interesting creature, the Lady Mary P—, daughter of one of the proudest peers in the realm.But her escort cared little for this. He was thinking of that younger and yet more interesting creature—the daughter of his host.During the few minutes spent in the drawing-room, he had been watching her with ardent glances.Almost snatching the fashionable journal from her father’s hand, she had withdrawn to a retired corner, and there sat, with apparent eagerness, devouring its contents.By the position of the sheet, he could tell the column on which she was engaged; and, as the light of the chandelier fell upon her face, he endeavoured to read its expression.While writing that romance, he remembered with what tender emotions he had been thinking of her. Did she reciprocate those thoughts, now reading the review of it?It was sweet to perceive a smile upon her countenance, as if the praise bestowed was giving her gratification. Sweeter still, when, the reading finished, she looked searchingly around the room, till her eyes rested upon him, with a proud, pleased expression!A summons to the best dinner in the world was but a rude interruption to that adorable glance.As he afterwards sat near the head of the dinner-table, with Lady Mary by his side, how he envied the more juvenile guests at the foot, especially young Scudamore, to whom had been allotted that bright, beautiful star, whose birth they were assembled to celebrate!Maynard could no more see her. Between them was a huge épergne, loaded with the spoils of the conservatory. How he detested its ferns and its flowers, the gardener who had gathered, and the hand that arranged them into such impenetrable festoons!During the dinner he was inattentive to his titled companion—almost to impoliteness. Her pleasant speeches were scarce listened to, or answered incoherently. Even her ample silken skirts, insidiously rustling against his knees, failed to inspire him with the divinity of her presence!Lady Mary had reason to believe in a doctrine oft propounded: that in social life men of genius are not only insipid, but stupid. No doubt she thought Maynard so; for it seemed a relief to her, as the dinner came to an end, and the ladies rose to betake themselves to the drawing-room.Even with an ill grace did he draw back her chair: his eyes straying across the table, where Blanche Vernon was filing past in the string of departing guests.But a glance given by the latter, after clearing the épergne, more than repaid him for the frown upon Lady Mary’s face, as she swept away from his side!

The dinner-party of that day was the largest Sir George had given. As already known, it was the fifteenth birthday of Blanche, his only child.

The guests intended to take seats at the table had been carefully selected. In addition to those staying at the Hall, there were others specially invited for the occasion—of course, the first families of the shire, who dwelt within dining distance.

In all, there were over twenty—several of them distinguished by titles—while twice as many more were expected to drop in afterwards. A dance was to follow the dinner.

As Maynard, having made his toilet, descended to the drawing-room, he found it comfortably filled. Bevies of beautiful women were seated upon the sofas, each in a wonderful abundance of skirt, and a still more surprising scantiness of bodice and sleeves.

Interspersed among them were the gentlemen, all in deep black, relieved only by the time-honoured white choker—their plain dresses contrasting oddly with the rich silks and satins that rustled around them.

Soon after entering the room, he became conscious of being under all eyes—both male and female: in short, their cynosure.

It was something beyond the mere customary glance given to a new guest on his announcement. As the butler in stentorian voice proclaimed his name, coupling it with his military title, a thrill appeared to pass through the assemblage. The “swell” in tawny moustache, forsaking his habitual air of superciliousness, turned readily toward him; dowagers and duchesses, drawing out their gold-rimmed glasses, ogled him with a degree of interest unusual for these grand dames; while their daughters vouchsafed glances of a more speaking and pleasant nature.

Maynard did not know what to make of it. A stranger of somewhat peculiar antecedents, he might expect scrutiny.

But not of that concentrated kind—in a company reputed above all others for its good breeding.

He was himself too well-bred to be taken aback. Besides, he saw before him faces that appeared friendly; while the eyes of the discriminating dowagers, seen through their pebbles, instead of quizzing, seemed to regard him with admiration!

Though not disconcerted, he could not help feeling surprised. Many of those present he had met before; had hunted, shot, and even dined with them. Why should they be now receiving him with an interest not hitherto exhibited?

The explanation was given by his host, who, approaching in a friendly manner, pronounced the words:

“Captain Maynard, we congratulate you!”

“On what, Sir George?” inquired the astonished guest.

“Your literary success. We had already heard, sir, of your skill in wielding the sword. We were not aware that you were equally skilful with another and like honourable weapon—the pen.”

“You are very complimentary; but I do not quite comprehend you.”

“You will, by glancing at this. I presume, sir, you have not yet seen it—since it has just come down by the last post?”

As Sir George spoke, he held up a broadsheet, whose title proclaimed it the fashionable morning journal of London.

Maynard’s eye was directed to a column, in large type, headed by his own name. Underneath was the review of a book—a novel he had written; but which, before his leaving London, had not received the usual notice from the newspaper press. The journal in question gave the first public announcement of its appearance and quality.

“Three extraordinary volumes, written by no every-day man. Of Captain Maynard it may be said what Byron wrote of Buonaparte:

“‘And quiet to quick bosoms is a hell.’”

So commenced the review; and then ran on in the same strain of almost hyperbolic praise; the reviewer ending his remarks with the statement that “a new star had appeared in the literary firmament.”

The author did not read the long column of compliment paid by some generous pen—of course outside the literary clique—and entirely unknown to him. He only glanced at the opening paragraphs and conclusion, returning the paper to the hand of his host.

It would be untrue to say he was not pleased; but equally so to declare that he was not also surprised. He had little thought, while recording some incidents of his life in a far foreign land—while blending them with emotions of a still later date, and moulding them into romance—little had he dreamt that hislabour of lovewas destined to give him a new kind of fame, and effect a complete change in his career. Hitherto he had thought only of the sword. It was to be laid aside for the pen.

“Dinner is served?” announced the butler, throwing wide open the drawing-room doors.

Sir George’s guests paired off by introduction; the newly discovered author finding himself bestowed upon a lady of title.

She was a young and interesting creature, the Lady Mary P—, daughter of one of the proudest peers in the realm.

But her escort cared little for this. He was thinking of that younger and yet more interesting creature—the daughter of his host.

During the few minutes spent in the drawing-room, he had been watching her with ardent glances.

Almost snatching the fashionable journal from her father’s hand, she had withdrawn to a retired corner, and there sat, with apparent eagerness, devouring its contents.

By the position of the sheet, he could tell the column on which she was engaged; and, as the light of the chandelier fell upon her face, he endeavoured to read its expression.

While writing that romance, he remembered with what tender emotions he had been thinking of her. Did she reciprocate those thoughts, now reading the review of it?

It was sweet to perceive a smile upon her countenance, as if the praise bestowed was giving her gratification. Sweeter still, when, the reading finished, she looked searchingly around the room, till her eyes rested upon him, with a proud, pleased expression!

A summons to the best dinner in the world was but a rude interruption to that adorable glance.

As he afterwards sat near the head of the dinner-table, with Lady Mary by his side, how he envied the more juvenile guests at the foot, especially young Scudamore, to whom had been allotted that bright, beautiful star, whose birth they were assembled to celebrate!

Maynard could no more see her. Between them was a huge épergne, loaded with the spoils of the conservatory. How he detested its ferns and its flowers, the gardener who had gathered, and the hand that arranged them into such impenetrable festoons!

During the dinner he was inattentive to his titled companion—almost to impoliteness. Her pleasant speeches were scarce listened to, or answered incoherently. Even her ample silken skirts, insidiously rustling against his knees, failed to inspire him with the divinity of her presence!

Lady Mary had reason to believe in a doctrine oft propounded: that in social life men of genius are not only insipid, but stupid. No doubt she thought Maynard so; for it seemed a relief to her, as the dinner came to an end, and the ladies rose to betake themselves to the drawing-room.

Even with an ill grace did he draw back her chair: his eyes straying across the table, where Blanche Vernon was filing past in the string of departing guests.

But a glance given by the latter, after clearing the épergne, more than repaid him for the frown upon Lady Mary’s face, as she swept away from his side!

Chapter Forty Nine.The Dance.The gentlemen stayed but a short while over their wine. The twanging of harp-strings and tuning of violins, heard outside, told that their presence was required in the drawing-room—whither Sir George soon conducted them.During the two hours spent at dinner, a staff of domestics had been busy in the drawing-room. The carpets had been taken up, and the floor waxed almost to an icy smoothness. The additional guests had arrived; and were grouped over it, waiting for the music to begin.There is no dance so delicious as that of the drawing-room—especially in an English country house. There is a pleasant home-feeling about it, unknown to the crush of the public ball—be it “county” or “hunt.”It is full of mystic imaginations—recalling Sir Roger de Coverley, and those dear olden times of supposed Arcadian innocence.The dancers all know each other. If not, introductions are easily obtained, and there is no dread about making new acquaintances: since there is no danger in doing so.Inside the room is an atmosphere you can breathe without thought of being stifled; outside a supper you can eat, and wines you may drink without fear of being poisoned—adjuncts rarely found near the shrines of Terpsichore.Maynard, though still a stranger to most of Sir George’s guests, was made acquainted with as many of them as chanced in his way. Those lately arrived had also read the fashionable journal, or heard of its comments on the new romance soon to be sent them by “Mudie.” And there is no circle in which genius meets with greater admiration than in that of the English aristocracy—especially when supposed to have been discovered in one of their own class.Somewhat to his surprise, Maynard found himself the hero of the hour. He could not help feeling gratified by complimentary speeches that came from titled lips—many of them the noblest in the land. It was enough to make him contented. He might have reflected, how foolish he had been in embracing a political faith at variance with that of all around him, and so long separating him from their pleasant companionship.In the face of success in a far different field, this seemed for the time forgotten by them.And by him, too: though without any intention of ever forsaking those republican principles he had adopted for his creed. His political leanings were not alone of choice, but conviction. He could not have changed them, if he would.But there was no need to intrude them in that social circle; and, as he stood listening to praise from pretty lips, he felt contented—even to happiness.That happiness reached its highest point, as he heard half-whispered in his ear the congratulatory speech: “I’m so glad of your success?”It came from a young girl with whom he was dancing in the Lancers, and who, for the first time during the night, had become his partner. It was Blanche Vernon.“I fear you are flattering me?” was his reply. “At all events, the reviewer has done so. The journal from which you’ve drawn your deduction is noted for its generosity to young authors—an exception to the general rule. It is to that I am indebted for what you, Miss Vernon, are pleased to term success. It is only the enthusiasm of my reviewer; perhaps interested in scenes that may be novel to him. Those described in my romance are of a land not much known, and still less written about.”“But they are very interesting!”“How can you tell that?” asked Maynard, in surprise. “You have not read the book?”“No; but the newspaper has given the story—a portion of it. I can judge from that.”The author had not been aware of this. He had only glanced at the literary notice—at its first and final paragraphs.These had flattered him; but not so much as the words now heard, and appearing truthfully spoken.A thrill of delight ran through him, at the thought of those scenes having interested her. She had been in his thoughts all the while he was painting them. It was she who had inspired that portraiture of a “CHILD WIFE,” giving to the book any charm he supposed it to possess.He was almost tempted to tell her so; and might have done it, but for the danger of being overheard by the dancers.“I am sure it is a very interesting story,” said she, as they came together again after “turning to corners.”“I shall continue to think so, till I’ve read the book; and then you shall have my own opinion of it.”“I have no doubt you’ll be disappointed. The story is one of rude frontier life, not likely to be interesting to young ladies.”“But your reviewer does not say so. Quite the contrary. He describes it as full of very tender scenes.”“I hopeyoumay like them.”“Oh! I’m so anxious to read it!” continued the young girl, without appearing to notice the speech so pointedly addressed to her. “I’m sure I shan’t sleep to-night, thinking about it!”“Miss Vernon, you know not how much I am gratified by the interest you take in my first literary effort. If,” added the author with a laugh, “I could only think you would not be able to sleep the night after reading it, I might believe in the success which the newspaper speaks of.”“Perhaps it may be so. We shall soon see. Papa has already telegraphed to Mudie’s for the book to be sent down, and we may expect it by the morning train. To-morrow night—if you’ve not made the story a very long one—I promise you my judgment upon it.”“The story is not long. I shall be impatient to hear what you think of it.”And he was impatient. All next day, while tramping through stubble and turnip-field in pursuit of partridges, and banging away at the birds, he had thoughts only of his book, and her he knew to be reading it!

The gentlemen stayed but a short while over their wine. The twanging of harp-strings and tuning of violins, heard outside, told that their presence was required in the drawing-room—whither Sir George soon conducted them.

During the two hours spent at dinner, a staff of domestics had been busy in the drawing-room. The carpets had been taken up, and the floor waxed almost to an icy smoothness. The additional guests had arrived; and were grouped over it, waiting for the music to begin.

There is no dance so delicious as that of the drawing-room—especially in an English country house. There is a pleasant home-feeling about it, unknown to the crush of the public ball—be it “county” or “hunt.”

It is full of mystic imaginations—recalling Sir Roger de Coverley, and those dear olden times of supposed Arcadian innocence.

The dancers all know each other. If not, introductions are easily obtained, and there is no dread about making new acquaintances: since there is no danger in doing so.

Inside the room is an atmosphere you can breathe without thought of being stifled; outside a supper you can eat, and wines you may drink without fear of being poisoned—adjuncts rarely found near the shrines of Terpsichore.

Maynard, though still a stranger to most of Sir George’s guests, was made acquainted with as many of them as chanced in his way. Those lately arrived had also read the fashionable journal, or heard of its comments on the new romance soon to be sent them by “Mudie.” And there is no circle in which genius meets with greater admiration than in that of the English aristocracy—especially when supposed to have been discovered in one of their own class.

Somewhat to his surprise, Maynard found himself the hero of the hour. He could not help feeling gratified by complimentary speeches that came from titled lips—many of them the noblest in the land. It was enough to make him contented. He might have reflected, how foolish he had been in embracing a political faith at variance with that of all around him, and so long separating him from their pleasant companionship.

In the face of success in a far different field, this seemed for the time forgotten by them.

And by him, too: though without any intention of ever forsaking those republican principles he had adopted for his creed. His political leanings were not alone of choice, but conviction. He could not have changed them, if he would.

But there was no need to intrude them in that social circle; and, as he stood listening to praise from pretty lips, he felt contented—even to happiness.

That happiness reached its highest point, as he heard half-whispered in his ear the congratulatory speech: “I’m so glad of your success?”

It came from a young girl with whom he was dancing in the Lancers, and who, for the first time during the night, had become his partner. It was Blanche Vernon.

“I fear you are flattering me?” was his reply. “At all events, the reviewer has done so. The journal from which you’ve drawn your deduction is noted for its generosity to young authors—an exception to the general rule. It is to that I am indebted for what you, Miss Vernon, are pleased to term success. It is only the enthusiasm of my reviewer; perhaps interested in scenes that may be novel to him. Those described in my romance are of a land not much known, and still less written about.”

“But they are very interesting!”

“How can you tell that?” asked Maynard, in surprise. “You have not read the book?”

“No; but the newspaper has given the story—a portion of it. I can judge from that.”

The author had not been aware of this. He had only glanced at the literary notice—at its first and final paragraphs.

These had flattered him; but not so much as the words now heard, and appearing truthfully spoken.

A thrill of delight ran through him, at the thought of those scenes having interested her. She had been in his thoughts all the while he was painting them. It was she who had inspired that portraiture of a “CHILD WIFE,” giving to the book any charm he supposed it to possess.

He was almost tempted to tell her so; and might have done it, but for the danger of being overheard by the dancers.

“I am sure it is a very interesting story,” said she, as they came together again after “turning to corners.”

“I shall continue to think so, till I’ve read the book; and then you shall have my own opinion of it.”

“I have no doubt you’ll be disappointed. The story is one of rude frontier life, not likely to be interesting to young ladies.”

“But your reviewer does not say so. Quite the contrary. He describes it as full of very tender scenes.”

“I hopeyoumay like them.”

“Oh! I’m so anxious to read it!” continued the young girl, without appearing to notice the speech so pointedly addressed to her. “I’m sure I shan’t sleep to-night, thinking about it!”

“Miss Vernon, you know not how much I am gratified by the interest you take in my first literary effort. If,” added the author with a laugh, “I could only think you would not be able to sleep the night after reading it, I might believe in the success which the newspaper speaks of.”

“Perhaps it may be so. We shall soon see. Papa has already telegraphed to Mudie’s for the book to be sent down, and we may expect it by the morning train. To-morrow night—if you’ve not made the story a very long one—I promise you my judgment upon it.”

“The story is not long. I shall be impatient to hear what you think of it.”

And he was impatient. All next day, while tramping through stubble and turnip-field in pursuit of partridges, and banging away at the birds, he had thoughts only of his book, and her he knew to be reading it!

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