Maynard’s eye was directed to a column, in large type, headed by his own name. Underneath was the review of a book—a novel he had written; but which, before his leaving London, had not received the usual notice from the newspaper press. The journal in question gave the first public announcement of its appearance and quality.
“Three extraordinary volumes, written by no every-day man. Of Captain Maynard it may be said what Byron wrote of Buonaparte:
“‘And quiet to quick bosoms is a hell.’”
So commenced the review; and then ran on in the same strain of almost hyperbolic praise; the reviewer ending his remarks with the statement that “a new star had appeared in the literary firmament.”
The author did not read the long column of compliment paid by some generous pen—of course outside the literary clique—and entirely unknown to him. He only glanced at the opening paragraphs and conclusion, returning the paper to the hand of his host.
It would be untrue to say he was not pleased; but equally so to declare that he was not also surprised. He had little thought, while recording some incidents of his life in a far foreign land—while blending them with emotions of a still later date, and moulding them into romance—little had he dreamt that his labour of love was destined to give him a new kind of fame, and effect a complete change in his career. Hitherto he had thought only of the sword. It was to be laid aside for the pen.
“Dinner is served?” announced the butler, throwing wide open the drawing-room doors.
Sir George’s guests paired off by introduction; the newly discovered author finding himself bestowed upon a lady of title.
She was a young and interesting creature, the Lady Mary P—, daughter of one of the proudest peers in the realm.
But her escort cared little for this. He was thinking of that younger and yet more interesting creature—the daughter of his host.