The Child Wife

“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