The Child Wife

“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!

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 the jeunesse doré had 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 he is a gentleman.”

“Dear uncle, I should be sorry to differ from you, if I hadn’t good reasons for thinking he 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 a valse. Country-bred as she was, she waltzed like a coryphée. 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 the abandon of 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, at every turn, 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 the valse came 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 considered outré– 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 gigantic deodara, 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 the deodara.

“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 – the prairies, 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 not all true? 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 is yours!” 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 the deodara, 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 too red– 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 the république rouge et démocratique talked of in France, he had never given assent to the rouge, and but partially to the démocratique.

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 eat his, 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 the fanfaron of 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!