Chapter Seventy Two.
Wanted—A Master!
Having changed from soldier to author, Maynard was not idle in his new avocation.
Book after book came from his facile pen; each adding to the reputation achieved by his first essay in the field of literature:
A few of the younger spirits of the press—that few addicti curare verbis nullius magistri—at once boldly pronounced in their favour: calling them works of genius.
But the older hands, who constitute the members of the “Mutual Admiration Society”—those disappointed aspirants, who in all ages and countries assume the criticism of art and authorship—could see in Maynard’s writings only “sensation.”
Drawing their inspiration from envy, and an influence not less mean—from that magister, the leading journal, whose very nod was trembling to them—they endeavoured to give satisfaction to the despot of the press, by depreciating the efforts of the young author.
They adopted two different modes of procedure: Some of them said nothing. These were the wiser ones; since the silence of the critic is his most eloquent condemnation. They were wiser, too, in that their words were in no danger of contradiction. The others spoke, but sneeringly and with contempt. They found vent for their spleen by employing the terms “melodrama,” “blue-fire,” and a host of hackneyed phrases, that, like the modern slang “sensational,” may be conveniently applied to the most classic conceptions of the author.
How many of the best works of Byron, Shakespeare, and Scott, would escape the “sensation” category?
They could not deny that Maynard’s writings had attained a certain degree of popularity. This had been achieved without their aid. But it was only evidence of the corrupted taste of the age.
When was there an age, without this corrupted taste?
His writings would not live. Of that they were certain!
They have lived ever since; and sold too, to the making of some half-dozen fortunes—if not for himself, for those upon whom he somewhat unwarily bestowed them.
And they promise to abide upon the bookshelves a little longer; perhaps not with any grand glory—but certainly not with any great accumulation of dust.
And the day may come, when these same critics may be dead and the written thoughts of Mr Maynard be no longer deemed merely sensations.
He was not thinking of this while writing them. He was but pursuing a track, upon which the chances of life had thrown him.
Nor was it to him the most agreeable. After a youth spent in vigorous personal exertion—some of it in the pursuit of stirring adventure—the tranquil atmosphere of the studio was little to his taste. He endured it under the belief that it was only to be an episode.
Any new path, promising adventure, would have tempted him from his chair, and caused him to fling his pen into the fire.
None offered; and he kept on writing—writing—and thinking of Blanche Vernon.
And of her he thought unhappily; for he dared not write to her. That was a liberty denied him; not only from its danger, but his own delicate sense of honour.
It would have been denied him, too, from his not knowing her address. He had heard that Sir George Vernon had gone once more abroad—his daughter along with him. Whither, he had not heard; nor did he make much effort to ascertain. Enough for him that abroad or at home, he would be equally excluded from the society of that young creature, whose image was scarce ever absent from his thoughts.
There were times, when it was painfully present; and he sought abstraction by a vigorous exercise of his pen.
At such times he longed once more to take up the sword as a more potent consoler; but no opportunity seemed to offer.
One night he was reflecting upon this—thinking of some filibustering expedition into which he might fling himself—when a knock came to his door, as of some spirit invoked by his wishes.
“Come in!”
It was Roseveldt who answered the summons.
The Count had become a resident of London—an idler upon town—for want of congenial employment elsewhere.
Some fragment of his fortune still remaining, enabled him to live the life of a flaneur, while his title of nobility gave him the entrée of many a good door.
But, like Maynard, he too was pining for an active life, and disgusted to look daily upon his sword, rusting ingloriously in its sheath!
By the mode in which he made entry, something whispered Maynard, that the time had come when both were to be released from their irksome inaction. The Count was flurried, excited, tugging at his moustache, as if he intended tearing it away from his lip!
“What is it, my dear Roseveldt?”
“Don’t you smell gunpowder?”
“No.”
“There’s some being burnt by this time.”
“Where?”
“In Milan. The revolution’s broke out there. But I’ve no time to talk to you. Kossuth has sent me for you post-haste. He wants you to come at once. Are you ready?”
“You’re always in such haste, my dear Count. But when Kossuth commands, you know my answer. I’m ready. It only needs to put on my hat.”
“On with it then, and come along with me!”
From Portman Square to Saint John’s Wood is but a step; and the two were soon traversing the somewhat crooked causeway of South Bank.
When close to Kossuth’s residence they passed a man who stood, watch in hand, under a street-lamp—as if trying to ascertain the time of night.
They knew he was shamming, but said nothing; and went on, soon after entering the house.
Kossuth was within; and along with him several distinguished Hungarians.
“Captain Maynard!” he exclaimed, stepping out of the circle, and saluting his new-come guest.
Then taking him aside, he said:
“Look at this!”
While speaking, he had placed a slip of paper in Maynard’s hands. It was written in cipher.
“A telegram?” muttered the latter, seeing the hieroglyphics.
“Yes,” said Kossuth, proceeding to translate and explain them. “The revolution has broken out in Milan. It is a rash affair, and, I fear, will end in defeat—perhaps ruin. Mazzini has done it, in direct opposition to my wishes and judgment Mazzini is too sanguine. So are Turr and the others. They count on the Hungarian regiments stationed there, with the influence of my name among them. Giuseppe has taken a liberty with it, by using an old proclamation of mine, addressed to those regiments, while I was still prisoner at Kutayah. He has put it forth at Milan, only altering the date. I wouldn’t so much blame him for that, if I didn’t believe it to be sheer madness. With so many Austrians in the garrison at Milan—above all, those hireling Bohemian regiments—I don’t think there’s a chance of our success.”
“What do you intend doing, Governor?”
“As to that, I have no choice. The game’s begun, and I must take part in it, coûte que coûte. This telegram is from my brave Turr, and he thinks there’s a hope. Whether or no, it will be necessary for me to go to them.”
“You are going then?”
“At once—if I can get there. Therein, my dear sir, lies the difficulty. It is for that I have taken the liberty of sending for you.”
“No liberty, Governor. What can I do for you?”
“Thanks, dear captain! I shall waste no words, but say at once what I want with you. The only way for me to get to Milan is through the territory of France. I might go round by the Mediterranean; but that would take time. I should be too late. Across France then must I go, or not at all.”
“And what is to hinder you from travelling through France?”
“Louis Napoleon.”
“True, he would—I need not have asked the question.”
“He’d be sure to place me under arrest, and keep me so, as long as my liberty is deemed dangerous to the crowned conspirators. He has become their most trusted tipstaff and detective. There’s not one of his sergents-de-ville who has not got my portrait in his pocket. The only chance left me, to run the gauntlet through France, is to travel in disguise. It is for that I want you.”
“How can I assist you, my dear Governor?”
“By making me your servant—your valet du voyage.” Maynard could not help smiling at the idea. The man who had held mastery over a whole nation, who had created an army of two hundred thousand men, who had caused trembling throughout the thrones of Europe—that man to be obsequiously waiting upon him, brushing his coat, handing him his hat, and packing his portmanteau!
“Before you make answer,” continued the ex-Dictator of Hungary, “let me tell you all. If taken in France, you will have to share my prison; if upon Austrian territory, your neck, like my own, will be in danger of a halter. Now, sir, do you consent?” It was some seconds before Maynard made reply; though it was not the halter that hindered him. He was thinking of many other things—among them Blanche Vernon.
Perhaps but for the reminiscence of that scene under the deodara, and its results, he might have hesitated longer—have even turned recreant to the cause of revolutionary liberty!
Its memory but stimulated him to fresh efforts for freedom, and without staying longer, he simply said: “I consent?”