Chapter Fifty One.
Under the Deodara.
The birthday of Blanche Vernon did not terminate the festivities at her father’s house.
On the second day after, there was a dinner-party of like splendid appointment, succeeded by dancing.
It was the season of English rural enjoyment, when crops had been garnered, and rents paid; when the farmer rests from his toil, and the squire luxuriates in his sports.
Again in Vernon Hall were noble guests assembled; and again the inspiring strains of harp and violin told time to the fantastic gliding of feet.
And again Maynard danced with the baronet’s daughter.
She was young to take part in such entertainments. But it was her father’s house, and she was an only daughter—hence almost necessitated at such early age to play mistress of the mansion.
True to her promise, she had read the romance, and declared her opinion of it to the anxious author.
She liked it, though not enthusiastically. She did not say this. Only from her manner could Maynard tell there was a qualification. Something in the book seemed not to have satisfied her. He could not conjecture what it was. He was too disappointed to press for an explanation.
Once more they were dancing together, this time in a valse. Country-bred as she was, she waltzed like a coryphée. She had taken lessons from a Creole teacher, while resident on the other side of the Atlantic.
Maynard was himself no mean dancer, and she was just the sort of partner to delight him.
Without thought of harm, in the abandon of girlish innocence, she rested her cheek upon his shoulder, and went spinning round with him—in each whirl weaving closer the spell upon his heart. And without thought of being observed.
But she was, at every turn, all through the room, both she and he. Dowagers, seated along the sides, ogled them through their eye-glasses, shook their false curls, and made muttered remarks. Young ladies, two seasons out, looked envious—Lady Mary contemptuous, almost scowling.
“The gilded youth” did not like it; least of all Scudamore, who strode through the room sulky and savage, or stood watching the sweep of his cousin’s skirt, as though he could have torn the dress from her back!
It was no relief to him when the valse came to an end.
On the contrary, it but increased his torture; since the couple he was so jealously observing, walked off, arm-in-arm, through the conservatory, and out into the grounds.
There was nothing strange in their doing so. The night was warm, and the doors both of conservatory and drawing-room set wide open. They were but following a fashion. Several other couples had done the same.
Whatever may be said of England’s aristocracy, they have not yet reached that point of corruption, to make appearances suspicious. They may still point with pride to one of the noblest of their national mottoes:—“Honi soit qui mal y pense.”
It is true they are in danger of forsaking it; under that baleful French influence, felt from the other side of the Channel, and now extending to the uttermost ends of the earth—even across the Atlantic.
But it is not gone yet; and a guest admitted into the house of an English gentleman is not presupposed to be an adventurer, stranger though he be. His strolling out through the grounds, with a young lady for sole companion, even upon a starless night, is not considered outré—certainly not a thing for scandal.
Sir George Vernon’s guest, with Sir George’s daughter on his arm, was not thinking of scandal, as they threaded the mazes of the shrubbery that grew contiguous to the dwelling. No more, as they stopped under the shadow of gigantic deodara, whose broad, evergreen fronds extended far over the carefully kept turf.
There was neither moon nor stars in the sky; no light save that dimly reflected through the glass panelling of the conservatory.
They were alone, or appeared so—secure from being either observed or overheard, as if standing amidst the depths of some primeval forest, or the centre of an unpeopled desert. If there were others near, they were not seen; if speaking, it must have been in whispers.
Perhaps this feeling of security gave a tone to their conversation. At all events, it was carried on with a freedom from restraint, hitherto unused between them.
“You have travelled a great deal?” said the young girl, as the two came to a stand under the deodara.
“Not much more than yourself Miss Vernon. You have been a great traveller, if I mistake not?”
“I! oh, no! I’ve only been to one of the West India islands, where papa was Governor. Then to New York, on our way home. Since to some of the capital cities of Europe. That’s all.”
“A very fair itinerary for one of your age.”
“But you have visited many strange lands, and passed through strange scenes—scenes of danger, as I’ve been told.”
“Who told you that?”
“I’ve read it. I’m not so young as to be denied reading the newspapers. They’ve spoken of you, and your deeds. Even had we never met, I should have known your name.”
And had they never met, Maynard would not have had such happiness as was his at that moment. This was his reflection.
“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.