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.
The superscription was in the handwriting of a gentleman. It was new to him. There was nothing strange in that. An author fast rising into fame, he was receiving such every day.
But he started on turning the envelope to tear it open. There was a crest upon it he at once recognised. It was the crest of the Vernons!
Not rudely now was the cream-laid covering displaced but carefully, and with hesitating hand.
And with fingers that shook like aspen leaves, did he spread out the contained sheet, also carrying the crest.
They became steadier, as he read:—
“Sir,—
“Your last words to me were:—‘I hope the time may come when you will look less severely on my conduct!’ Mine to you, if I remember aright, were ‘NOT LIKELY!’
“Older than yourself, I deemed myself wiser. But the oldest and wisest may be at times mistaken. I do not deem it a humiliation to confess that I have been so, and about yourself. And, sir, if you do not think it such to forgive my abrupt—I should rather say, barbarous—behaviour, it would rejoice me once more to welcome you as my guest. Captain Maynard! I am much changed since you last saw me—in the pride both of spirit and person. I am upon my deathbed; and wish to see you before parting from the world.
“There is one by my side, watching over me, who wishes it too. You will come!
“George Vernon.”
In the afternoon train of that same day, from London to Tunbridge Wells, there travelled a passenger, who had booked himself for Sevenoaks, Kent.
He was a gentleman of the name of Maynard!