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!”