The Child Wife

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Almost snatching the fashionable journal from her father’s hand, she had withdrawn to a retired corner, and there sat, with apparent eagerness, devouring its contents.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