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!”