The Child Wife

Sir George could no longer restrain his tears, nor expression of the sympathy from whence they proceeded.

Averting his face upon the pillow, he wept wildly as she.

Sorrow cannot endure for ever. The purest and most poignant grief must in time come to an end.

And the dying man knew of a solace, not only to himself, but to his dear, noble daughter – dearer and nobler from the sacrifice he had declared herself willing to make for him.

His views about her future had been for some time undergoing a change. The gloom of the grave, to one who knows he is hastening towards it, casts its shadow alike over the pride of the past, and the splendours of the present. Equally does it temper the ambitions of the future.

And so had it effected the views of Sir George Vernon – socially as well as politically. Perhaps he saw in that future the dawning of a new day – when the régime of the Republic will be the only one acknowledged upon earth!

Whether or not, there was in his mind at that moment a man who represented this idea; a man he had once slighted, even to scorn. On his deathbed he felt scorn no longer; partly because he had repented of it; and partly that he knew this man was in the mind of his daughter – in her heart of heart. And he knew also she would never be happy without having him in her arms!

She had promised a self-sacrifice – nobly promised it. A command, a request, a simple word would secure it! Was he to speak that word?

No! Let the crest of the Vernons be erased from the page of heraldry! Let it be blended with the plebeian insignia of a republic, rather than a daughter of his house, his own dear child, should be the child of a life-long sorrow!

In that critical hour, he determined she should not. “You do not love Frank Scudamore?” he said, after the long sad interlude, recurring to her last speech. “I do not, father; I cannot!”

“But you love another? Do not fear to speak frankly – candidly, my child! You love another?”

“I do – I do!”

“And that other is – Captain Maynard?”

“Father! I have once before confessed it. I told you I loved him, with my whole heart’s affection. Do you think that could ever change?”

“Enough, my brave Blanche!” exclaimed the invalid, raising his head proudly upon the pillow, and contemplating his daughter, as if in admiration. “Enough! dearest Blanche! Come to my arms! Come closer and embrace your father – your friend, who will not be much longer near you. It will be no fault of mine, if I do not leave you in other arms – if not dearer, perhaps better able to protect you!”

The wild burst of filial affection bestowed upon a dying parent permits not expression in speech.

Never was one wilder than when Blanche Vernon flung her arms around the neck of her generous parent, and showered her scalding tears upon his cheek!

Chapter Eighty Two.

A Consoling Epistle

“Never more to see her – never more to hear of her! From her I need not expect. She dares not write. No doubt an embargo has been laid upon that. Parental authority forbids it.

“And I dare not write to her! If I did, no doubt, by the same parental authority, my epistle would be intercepted – still further compromising her – still further debarring the chance of a reconciliation with her father!

“I dare not do it – I should not!

“Why should I not? Is it not after all but a false sentiment of chivalry?

“And am I not false to myself – to her? What authority over the heart is higher than its own inclining? In the disposal of the hand, this, and this alone, should be consulted. Who has the right to interpose between two hearts mutually loving? To forbid their mutual happiness?

“The parent claims such right, and too often exercises it! It may be a wise control; but is it a just one?

“And there are times, too, when it may not be wisdom, but madness.

“O pride of rank! how much happiness has been left unachieved through thy interference – how many hearts sacrificed on the shrine of thy hollow pretensions!

“Blanche! Blanche! It is hard to think there is a barrier between us, that can never be broken down! An obstruction that no merit of mine, no struggle, no triumph, no probation, can remove! It is hard! hard!

“And even should I succeed in achieving such triumph, it might be too late? The heart I have now might then be another’s?”

“Ah! it may be another’s now! Who knows that it is not?”

It was Captain Maynard who made these reflections. He was in his own studio, and seated in his writing chair. But the last thought was too painful for him to remain seated; and, springing to his feet, he commenced pacing the floor.

That sweet presentiment was no more in his mind – at least not strongly. The tone and tenour of his soliloquy, especially its last clause, told how much he had lost belief in it. And his manner, as he strode through the room – his glances, gestures, and exclamations – the look of despair, and the long-drawn sigh – told how much Blanche Vernon was in his mind – how much he still loved her!

“It is true,” he continued, “she may by this have forgotten me! A child, she may have taken me up as a toy – no more to be thought of when out of sight. Damaged too; for doubtless they’ve done everything to defame me!

“Oh! that I could believe that promise, made at the hour of our parting – recorded, too, in writing! Let me look once more at the sweet chirograph!”

Thrusting his hand into the pocket of his vest – the one directly over his heart – he drew forth the tiny sheet, there long and fondly treasured. Spreading it out, he once more read: —

“Papa is very angry; and I know he will never sanction my seeing you again. I am sad to think we may meet no more; and that you will forget me. I shall never forget you, never – never!”

The reading caused him a strange commingling of pain and pleasure, as it had done twenty times before; for not less than twenty times had he deciphered that hastily-scribbled note.

But now the pain predominated over the pleasure. He had begun to believe in the emphatic clause “we may never meet more,” and to doubt the declaration “I shall never forget you.” He continued to pace the floor wildly, despairingly.

It did not do much to tranquillise him, when his friend, Roseveldt, entered the room, in the making of a morning call. It was an occurrence too common to create any distraction – especially from such thoughts. And the Count had become changed of late. He, too, had a sorrow of a similar kind – a sweetheart, about the consent of whose guardian there was a question.

In such matters men may give sympathy, but not consolation. It is only the successful who can speak encouragement.

Roseveldt did not stay long, nor was he communicative.

Maynard did not know the object of his late-sprung passion – not even her name! He only thought it must be some rare damsel who could have caused such a transformation in his friend – a man so indifferent to the fair sex as to have often declared his determination of dying a bachelor!

The Count took his leave in a great hurry; but not before giving a hint as to the why. Maynard noticed that he was dressed with unusual care – his moustache pomaded, his hair perfumed!

He confessed to the motive for all this – he was on the way to make a call upon a lady. Furthermore, he designed asking her a question.

He did not say what; but left his old comrade under the impression that it was the proposal.

The interlude was not without suggestions of a ludicrous nature; that for a time won Maynard from his painful imaginings.

Only for a short time. They soon returned to him; and once more stooping down, he re-read Blanche Vernon’s note that had been left lying upon the table.

Just as he had finished a startling knock at the door – the well-known “ra-ta” – proclaimed the postman.

“A letter, sir,” said the lodging-house servant, soon after entering the room.

There was no need for a parley; the postage was paid; and Maynard took the letter.