Chapter FIFTY NINE: A Distinguished Dinner-Party (1)

It was a chill November night; but there was no coldness inside the South Bank Cottage--the one occupied by Mr Richard Swinton.

There was company in it.

There had been a dinner-party, of nine covers. The dinner was eaten; and the diners had returned to the drawing-room.

The odd number of nine precluded an exact pairing of the sexes. The ladies out-counted the gentlemen, by five to four.

Four of them are already known to the reader. They were Mrs Swinton, Mrs Girdwood, her daughter and niece. The fifth was a stranger, not only to the reader, but to Mrs Girdwood and her girls.

Three of the gentlemen were the host himself Mr Louis Lucas, and his friend Mr Spiller. The fourth, like the odd lady, was a stranger.

He did not appear strange to Mrs Swinton; who during the dinner had treated him with remarkable familiarity, calling him her "dear Gustave"; while he in turn let the company know she was his _wife_!

He spoke with a French accent, and by Swinton was styled "the count."

The strange lady appeared to know him--also in a familiar way. She was the Honourable Miss Courtney--Geraldine Courtney.

With such a high-sounding name, she could not look other than aristocratic.

She was pretty as well, and accomplished; with just that dash of freedom, in speech and in manner, which distinguishes the lady of _haut ton_ from the wife or daughter of a "tradesman."

In Miss Courtney it was carried to a slight excess. So a prudish person might have thought.

But Mrs Girdwood was not prudish--least of all, in the presence of such people. She was delighted with the Honourable Geraldine; and wondered not at her wild way--only at her amiable condescensions!

She was charmed also with the count, and his beautiful countess.

His lordship had done the correct thing at last--by introducing her to such company. Though still passing under the assumed name of Swinton-- even among his own friends--the invitation to that dinner-party disarmed her of suspicion. The dinner itself still more; and she no longer sought to penetrate the mystery of his _incognito_.

Besides, he had repeated the plea that hitherto satisfied her. Still was it diplomacy!

Even Julia was less distant with him. A house handsomely furnished; a table profusely spread; titled guests around it; well-dressed servants in waiting--all this proved that Mr Swinton was somebody. And it was only his temporary town residence, taken for a time and a purpose--still diplomacy. She had not yet seen his splendid place in the country, to which he had given hints of an invitation.

Proud republican as Julia Girdwood was, she was still but the child of a _parvenu_.

And there was something in the surroundings to affect her fancy. She saw this man, Mr Swinton, whom she had hitherto treated slightingly, now in the midst of his own friends, behaving handsomely, and treated with respect. Such friends, too! all bearing titles--all accomplished-- two of them beautiful women, who appeared not only intimate with, but complaisant toward him!

Moreover, no one could fail to see that he was handsome. He had never looked better, in her eyes, than on that evening. It was a situation not only to stir curiosity, but suggest thoughts of rivalry.

And perhaps Julia Girdwood had them. It was the first time she had figured in the company of titled aristocracy. It would not be strange if her fancy was affected in such presence. Higher pride than hers has succumbed to its influence.

She was not the only one of her party who gave way to the wayward influences of the hour, and the seductions of their charming host Mr Lucas, inspired by repeated draughts of sherry and champagne, forgot his past antipathies, and of course burned to embrace him. Mr Lucas's shadow, Spiller, was willing to do the same!

Perhaps the only one of Mrs Girdwood's set who preserved independence, was the daughter of the Poughkeepsie shopkeeper. In her quiet, unpretending way, Cornelia showed dignity for superior to that of her own friends, or even the grand people to whom they had been presented.

But even she had no suspicion of the shams that surrounded her. No more than her aunt Girdwood did she dream that Mr Swinton was Mr Swinton; that the countess was his wife; that the count was an impostor--like Swinton himself playing a part; and that the Honourable Geraldine was a lady of Mrs Swinton's acquaintance, alike accomplished and equally well-known in the circles of Saint John's Wood, under the less aristocratic cognomen of "Kate the coper." Belonging to the sisterhood of "pretty horse-breakers," she had earned this sobriquet by exhibiting superior skill in disposing of her cast steeds!

Utterly ignorant of the game that was being played, as of the players, Mrs Girdwood spent the evening in a state approaching to supreme delight Mr Swinton, ever by her side, took the utmost pains to cancel the debt of hospitality long due; and he succeeded in cancelling it.

If she could have had any suspicion of his dishonesty, it would have been dispelled by an incident that occurred during the course of the evening.

As it was an episode interrupting the entertainment, we shall be excused for describing it.

The guests in the drawing-room were taking tea and coffee, carried round to them by the savants--a staff hired from a fashionable confectionery-- when the gate-bell jingled under the touch of a hand that appeared used to the pulling of it.

"I can tell that ring," said Swinton, speaking loud enough for his guests to hear him. "I'll lay a wager it's Lord --."

"Lord --!"

The name was that of a distinguished nobleman--more distinguished still as a great statesman! Swinton's proclaiming it caused his company a thrill--the strangers looking incredulous.

They had scarce time to question him before a servant, entering the room, communicated something in a whisper.

"His lordship is it?" said the master, in a muttered tone, just loud enough to reach the ear of Mrs Girdwood. "Show him into the front parlour. Say I shall be down in a second. Ladies and gentlemen?" he continued, turning to his guests, "will yaw excuse me for one moment-- only a moment? I have a visitor who cannot well be denied."

They excused him, of course; and for a time he was gone out of the room.

And of course his guests were curious to know who was the visitor, who "could not well be denied."

On his return they questioned him; the "countess," with an imperative earnestness that called for an answer.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen," said their amiable entertainer, "if yaw insist upon knowing who has been making this vewiy ill-timed call upon me, I suppose I must satisfy yaw kewyosity. I was wight in my conjectyaw. It was Lord --. His lawdship simply dwopped in upon a matter of diplomatic business."

"Oh! it was Lord --!" exclaimed the Honourable Geraldine.

"Why didn't you ask him in here? He's a dear old fellow, as I know; and I'm sure he would have come. Mr Swinton! I'm very angry with you?"

"'Pon honaw! Miss Courtney, I'm vewy sorry; I didn't think of it, else I should have been most happy."

"He's gone, I suppose?"

"Aw, yas. He went away as soon as he undawstood I had company."

And this was true--all true. The nobleman in question had really been in the front parlour, and had gone off on learning what was passing upstairs in the drawing-room.

He had parted, too, with a feeling of disappointment, almost chagrin; though it was not diplomatic business to which the villa was indebted for his visit.

However fruitless his calling had proved to him, it was not without advantage to Mr Swinton.

"The man who receives midnight visits from a lord, and that lord a distinguished statesman, must either be a lord himself, _or a somebody_!"

This was said in soliloquy by the retail storekeeper's widow, as that night she stretched herself upon one of the luxurious couches of the "Clarendon."

About the same time, her daughter gave way to a somewhat similar reflection.

CHAPTER SIXTY.

A PARTING PRESENT.

At parting, there had been no "scene" between Sir George Vernon and his seemingly ungrateful guest.

Nor was the interview a stormy one, as they stood face to face under the shadow of the _deodara_.

Sir George's daughter had retired from the spot, her young heart throbbing with pain; while Maynard, deeply humiliated, made no attempt to justify himself.

Had there been light under the tree, Sir George would have seen before him the face of a man that expressed the very type of submission.

For some seconds, there was a profound and painful silence.

It was broken by the baronet:

"After this, sir, I presume it is not necessary for me to point out the course you should pursue? There is only one."

"I am aware of it, Sir George."

"Nor is it necessary to say, that I wish to avoid scandal?"

Maynard made no reply; though, unseen, he nodded assent to the proposition.

"You can retire at your leisure, sir; but in ten minutes my carriage will be ready to take you and your luggage to the station."

It was terrible to be thus talked to; and but for the scandal Sir George had alluded to, Maynard would have replied to it by refusing the proffered service.

But he felt himself in a dilemma. The railway station was full four miles distant.

A fly might be had there; but not without some one going to fetch it. For this he must be indebted to his host. He was in a dress suit, and could not well walk, without courting the notice to be shunned. Besides, there would be his luggage to come after him.

There was no alternative but to accept the obligation.

He did so, by saying--

"In ten minutes, Sir George, I shall be ready. I make no apology for what has passed. I only hope the time may come, when you will look less severely on my conduct."

"Not likely," was the dry response of the baronet, and with these words the two parted: Sir George going back to his guests in the drawing-room, Maynard making his way to the apartment that contained his _impedimenta_.

The packing of his portmanteau did not occupy him half the ten minutes' time. There was no need to change his dancing-dress. His surtout would sufficiently conceal it.

The bell brought a male domestic; who, shouldering the "trap," carried it downstairs--though not without wondering why the gent should be taking his departure, at that absurd hour, just as the enjoyment in the drawing-room had reached its height, and a splendid supper was being spread upon the tables!

Maynard having given a last look around the room, to assure himself that nothing had been overlooked, was about preparing to follow the bearer of his portmanteau, when another _attache_ of the establishment barred his passage on the landing of the stair.

It was also a domestic, but of different kind, sex, and colour.

It was Sabina, of Badian birth.

"Hush! Mass Maynard," she said, placing her finger on her lips to impress the necessity of silence. "Doan you 'peak above de breff, an' I tell you someting dat you like hear."

"What is it?" Maynard asked, mechanically.

"Dat Missy Blanche lub you dearly--wit all de lub ob her young heart. She Sabby tell so--yesserday--dis day--more'n a dozen times, oba an' oba. So dar am no need you go into despair."

"Is that all you have to say?" asked he, though without any asperity of tone.

It would have been strange if such talk had not given him pleasure, despite the little information conveyed by it.

"All Sabby hab say; but not all she got do."

"What have you to do?" demanded Maynard, in an anxious undertone.

"You gib dis," was the reply of the mulatto, as, with the adroitness peculiar to her race and sex, she slipped something white into the pocket of his surtout.

The carriage wheels were heard outside the hall-door, gritting upon the gravel.

Without danger of being observed, the departing guest could not stay in such company any longer; and passing a half-sovereign into Sabby's hand, he silently descended the stair, and as silently took seat in the carriage.

The bearer of the portmanteau, as he shut to the carriage door, could not help still wondering at such an ill-timed departure.

"Not a bad sort of gent, anyhow," was his reflection, as he turned back under the hall-lamp to examine the half-sovereign that had been slipped into his palm.

And while he was doing this, the gent in question was engaged in a far more interesting scrutiny. Long before the carriage had passed out of the park--even while it was yet winding round the "sweep"--its occupant had plunged his hand into the pocket of his surtout and drawn out the paper that had been there so surreptitiously deposited.

It was but a tiny slip--a half-sheet torn from its crested counterfoil. And the writing upon it was in pencil; only a few words, as if scrawled in trembling haste!

The light of the wax-candles, reflected from the silvered lamps, rendered the reading easy; and with a heart surcharged with supreme joy, he read:--

"Papa is very angry; and I know he will never sanction my seeing you again. I am sad to think we may meet no more; and that you will forget me. I shall never forget you--never!"

"Nor _I you_, Blanche Vernon," was the reflection of Maynard, as he refolded the slip of paper, and thrust it back into the pocket of his coat.

He took it out, and re-read it before reaching the railway station; and once again, by the light of a suspended lamp, as he sat solitary in a carriage of the night mail train, up for the metropolis.

Then folding it more carefully, he slipped it into his card-case, to be placed in a pocket nearer his heart; if not the first, the sweetest _guage d'amour_ he had ever received in his life!

CHAPTER SIXTY ONE.

AN INFORMER.

The disappearance of a dancing guest from the midst of three score others is a thing not likely to be noticed. And if noticed, needing no explanation--in English "best society."

There the defection may occur from a quiet dinner-party--even in a country house, where arrivals and departures are more rare than in the grand _routs_ of the town.

True politeness has long since discarded that insufferable ceremony of general leave-taking, with its stiff bows and stiffer handshakings. Sufficient to salute your host--more particularly your hostess--and bow good-bye to any of the olive branches that may be met, as you elbow your way out of the drawing-room.

This was the rule holding good under the roof of Sir George Vernon; and the abrupt departure of Captain Maynard would have escaped comment, but for one or two circumstances of a peculiar nature.

He was a stranger to Sir George's company, with romantic, if not mysterious, antecedents; while his literary laurels freshly gained, and still green upon his brow, had attracted attention even in that high circle.

But what was deemed undoubtedly peculiar was the mode in which he had made his departure. He had been seen dancing with Sir George's daughter, and afterward stepping outside with her--through the conservatory, and into the grounds. He had not again returned.

Some of the dancers who chanced to be cooling themselves by the bottom of the stair, had seen his portmanteau taken out, himself following shortly after; while the sound of carriage wheels upon the sweep told of his having gone off for good!

There was not much in all this. He had probably taken leave of his host outside--in a correct ceremonial manner.

But no one had seen him do so; and, as he had been for some time staying at the house, the departure looked somewhat brusque. For certain it was strangely timed.

Still it might not have been remarked upon, but for another circumstance: that, after he was gone, the baronet's daughter appeared no more among the dancers.

She had not been seen since she had stood up in the _valse_ where she and her partner had been so closely scrutinised!

She was but a young thing. The spin may have affected her to giddiness; and she had retired to rest awhile.

This was the reasoning of those who chanced to think of it.

They were not many. The charmers in wide skirts had enough to do thinking of themselves; the dowagers had betaken themselves to quiet whist in the antechambers: and the absence of Blanche Vernon brought no blight upon the general enjoyment.

But the absence of her father did--that is, his absence of mind. During the rest of the evening there was a strangeness in Sir George's manner noticed by many of his guests; an abstraction, palpably, almost painfully observable. Even his good breeding was not proof against the blow he had sustained!

Despite his efforts to conceal it, his more intimate acquaintances could see that something had gone astray.

Its effect was to put a damper on the night's hilarity; and perhaps earlier than would have otherwise happened were the impatient coachmen outside released from their chill waiting upon the sweep.

And earlier, also, did the guests staying at the house retire to their separate sleeping apartments.

Sir George did not go direct to his; but first to his library.

He went not alone. Frank Scudamore accompanied him.

He did so, at the request of his uncle, after the others had said good-night.

The object of this late interview between Sir George and his nephew is made known, by the conversation that occurred between them.

"Frank," began the baronet, "I desire you to be frank with me."

Sir George said this, without intending a pun. He was in no mood for playing upon words.

"About what, uncle?" asked Scudamore, looking a little surprised.

"About all you've seen between Blanche and this--fellow."

The "fellow" was pronounced with contemptuous emphasis--almost in a hiss.

"All I've seen?"

"All you've seen, and all you've heard."

"What I've seen and heard I have told you. That is, up to this night-- up to an hour ago."

"An hour ago! Do you mean what occurred under the tree?"

"No uncle, not that I've seen something since."

"Since! Captain Maynard went immediately away?"

"He did. But not without taking a certain thing along with him he ought not to have taken."

"Taken a certain thing along with him! What do you mean, nephew?"

"That your honoured guest carried out of your house a piece of paper upon which something had been written."

"By whom?"

"By my cousin Blanche."

"When, and where?"

"Well, I suppose while he was getting ready to go; and as to the where, I presume it was done by Blanche in her bedroom. She went there after-- what you saw."

Sir George listened to this information with as much coolness as he could command. Still, there was a twitching of the facial muscles, and a pallor overspreading his cheeks, his nephew could not fail to notice.

"Proceed, Frank!" he said, in a faltering voice, "go on, and tell me all. How did you become acquainted with this?"

"By the merest accident," pursued the willing informant. "I was outside the drawing-room, resting between two dances. It was just at the time Captain Maynard was going off. From where I was standing, I could see up the stairway to the top landing. He was there talking to Sabina, and as it appeared to me, in a very confidential manner. I saw him slip something into her hand--a piece of money, I suppose--just after she had dropped something white into the pocket of his overcoat. I could tell it was paper--folded in the shape of a note."

"Are you sure it was that?"

"Quite sure, uncle. I had no doubt of it at the time; and said to myself, `It's a note that's been written by my cousin, who has sent Sabina to give it to him.' I'd have stopped him on the stair and made him give it up again, but for raising a row in the house. You know that would never have done."

Sir George did not hear the boasting remark. He was not listening to it His soul was too painfully absorbed--reflecting upon this strange doing of his daughter.

"Poor child!" muttered he in sad soliloquy. "Poor innocent child! And this, after all my care, my ever-zealous guardianship, my far more than ordinary solicitude. Oh God! to think I've taken a serpent into my house, who should thus turn and sting me!"

The baronet's feelings forbade farther conversation; and Scudamore was dismissed to his bed.

CHAPTER SIXTY TWO.

UNSOCIABLE FELLOW-TRAVELLERS.

The train by which Maynard travelled made stop at the Sydenham Station, to connect with the Crystal Palace.

The stoppage failed to arouse him from the reverie into which he had fallen--painful after what had passed.

He was only made aware of it on hearing voices outside the carriage, and only because some of these seemed familiar.

On looking out, he saw upon the platform a party of ladies and gentlemen.

The place would account for their being there at so late an hour-- excursionists to the Crystal Palace--but still more, a certain volubility of speech, suggesting the idea of their having dined at the Sydenham Hotel.

They were moving along the platform, in search of a first-class carriage for London.

As there were six of them, an empty one would be required--the London and Brighton line being narrow gauge.

There was no such carriage, and therefore no chance of them getting seated together. The dining party would have to divide.

"What a baw!" exclaimed the gentleman who appeared to act as the leader, "a dooced baw! But I suppose there's no help for it. Aw--heaw is a cawage with only one in it?"

The speaker had arrived in front of that in which Maynard sate--_solus_, and in a corner.

"Seats for five of us," pursued he. "We'd better take this, ladies. One of us fellaws must stow elsewhere."

The ladies assenting, he opened the door, and stood holding the handle.

The three ladies--there were three of them--entered first.

It became a question which of the three "fellaws" was to be separated from such pleasant travelling-companions--two of them being young and pretty.

"I'll go," volunteered he who appeared the youngest and least consequential of the trio.

The proposal was eagerly accepted by the other two--especially him who held the handle of the door.

By courtesy he was the last to take a seat. He had entered the carriage, and was about doing so; when all at once a thought, or something else, seemed to strike him--causing him to change his design.

"Aw, ladies!" he said, "I hope yaw will pardon me for leaving yaw to go into the smoking cawage. I'm dying for a cigaw."

Perhaps the ladies would have said, "Smoke where you are;" but there was a stranger to be consulted, and they only said:

"Oh, certainly, sir."

If any of them intended an additional observation, before it could have been made he was gone.

He had shot suddenly out upon the platform, as if something else than smoking was in his mind!

They thought it strange--even a little impolite.

"Mr Swinton's an inveterate smoker," said the oldest of the three ladies, by way of apologising for him.

The remark was addressed to the gentleman, who had now sole charge of them.

"Yes; I see he is," replied the latter, in a tone that sounded slightly ironical.

He had been scanning the solitary passenger, in cap and surtout, who sate silent in the corner.

Despite the dim light, he had recognised him; and felt sure that Swinton had done the same.

His glance guided that of the ladies; all of whom had previous acquaintance with their fellow-passenger. One of the three started on discovering who it was.

For all this there was no speech--not even a nod of recognition. Only a movement of surprise, followed by embarrassment.

Luckily the lamp was of oil, making it difficult to read the expression on their faces.

So thought Julia Girdwood; and so too her mother.

Cornelia cared not. She had no shame to conceal.

But Louis Lucas liked the obscurity; for it was he who was in charge.

He had dropped down upon the seat, opposite to the gentleman who had shot his Newfoundland dog!

It was not a pleasant place; and he instantly changed to the stall that should have been occupied by Mr Swinton.

He did this upon pretence of sitting nearer to Mrs Girdwood.

And thus Maynard was left without a _vis-a-vis_.

His thoughts also were strange. How could they be otherwise? Beside him, with shoulders almost touching, sate the woman he had once loved; or, at all events, passionately admired.

It was the passion of a day. It had passed; and was now cold and dead. There was a time when the touch of that rounded arm would have sent the blood in hot current through his veins. Now its chafing against his, as they came together on the cushion, produced no more feeling than if it had been a fragment from the chisel of Praxiteles!

Did she feel the same?

He could not tell; nor cared he to know.

If he had a thought about her thoughts, it was one of simple gratitude. He remembered his own imaginings, as to who had sent the star flag to protect him, confirmed by what Blanche Vernon had let drop in that conversation in the covers.

And this alone influenced him to shape, in his own mind, the question, "Should I speak to her?"

His thoughts charged back to all that had passed between them--to her cold parting on the cliff where he had rescued her from drowning; to her almost disdainful dismissal of him in the Newport ball-room. But he remembered also her last speech as she passed him, going out at the ball-room door; and her last glance given him from the balcony!

Both words and look, once more rising into recollection, caused him to repeat the mental interrogatory, "Should I speak to her?"

Ten times there was a speech upon his tongue; and as often was it restrained.

There was time for that and more; enough to have admitted of an extended dialogue. Though the mail train, making forty miles an hour, should reach London Bridge in fifteen minutes, it seemed as though it would never arrive at the station!

It did so at length without a word having been exchanged between Captain Maynard and any of his _quondam_ acquaintances! They all seemed relieved, as the platform appearing alongside gave them a chance of escaping from his company!

Julia may have been an exception. She was the last of her party to get out of the carriage, Maynard on the off side, of course, still staying.

She appeared to linger, as with a hope of still being spoken to. It was upon her tongue to say the word "cruel"; but a proud thought restrained her; and she sprang quickly out of the carriage to spare herself the humiliation!

Equally near speaking was Maynard. He too was restrained by a thought-- proud, but not cruel.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

He looked along the platform, and watched them as they moved away. He saw them joined by two gentlemen--one who approached stealthily, as if not wishing to be seen.

He knew that the skulker was Swinton; and why he desired to avoid observation.

Maynard no more cared for the movements of this man--no more envied him either their confidence or company. His only reflection was:

"Strange that in every unpleasant passage of my life this same party should trump up--at Newport; in Paris; and now near London, in the midst of a grief greater than all!"

And he continued to reflect upon this coincidence, till the railway porter had pushed him and his portmanteau into the interior of a cab.

The official not understanding the cause of his abstraction, gave him no credit for it.

By the sharp slamming of the back-door he was reminded of a remissness: he had neglected the _douceur_!

CHAPTER SIXTY THREE.

"IT IS SWEET--SO SWEET."

Transported in his cab, Captain Maynard was set down safely at his lodgings in the proximity of Portman Square.

A latch-key let him in, without causing disturbance to his landlady.

Though once more in his own rooms, with a couch that seemed to invite him to slumber, he could not sleep. All night long he lay tossing upon it, thinking of Blanche Vernon.

The distraction, caused by his encounter with Julia Girdwood, had lasted no longer than while this lady was by his side in the railway carriage.

At the moment of her disappearance from the platform, back into his thoughts came the baronet's daughter--back before his mental vision the remembrance of her roseate cheeks and golden hair.

The _contretemps_ had been disagreeable--a thing to be regretted. Yet, thinking over it, he was not wretched; scarce unhappy. How could he be, with those tender speeches still echoing in his ears--that piece of paper in his possession, which once again he had taken out, and read under the light of his own lamp?

It was painful to think "papa would never sanction her seeing him again." But this did not hinder him from having a hope.

It was no more the mediaeval time; nor is England the country of cloisters, where love, conscious of being returned, lays much stress on the parental sanction. Still might such authority be an obstruction, not to be thought lightly of; nor did Maynard so think of it.

Between the proud baronet and himself, he had placed a barrier he might never be able to remove--a social gulf that would separate them for ever!

Were there no means of bridging it? Could none be devised?

For long hours these questions kept him awake; and he went to sleep without finding answer to them.

During the same hours was she, too, lying awake--thinking in the same way.

She had other thoughts, and among them fears. She had yet to face her father!

Returning, as she had done to her own room, she had not seen him since the hour of her shame.

But there was a morrow when she would have to meet him--perhaps be called upon for a full confession.

It might seem as if there was nothing more to be told. But the necessity of having to comfort her father, and repeat what was already known, would of itself be sufficiently painful.

Besides, there was her after-action--in the surreptitious penning of that little note. She had done it in haste, yielding to the instinct of love, and while its frenzy was upon her.

Now in the calm quiet of her chamber, when the spasmodic courage of passion had departed, she felt doubtful of what she had done.

It was less repentance of the act, than fear for the consequences. What if her father should also learn that? If he should have a suspicion and ask her?

She knew she must confess. She was as yet too young, too guileless, to think of subterfuge. She had just practised one; but it was altogether different from the telling of an untruth. It was a falsehood even prudery itself might deem pardonable.

But her father would not, and she knew it. Angry at what he already knew, it would add to his indignation--perhaps strengthen it to a storm. How would she withstand it?

She lay reflecting in fear.

"Dear Sabby!" she said, "do you think he will suspect it?"

The question was to the coloured attendant, who, having a tiny couch in the adjoining ante-chamber, sate up late by her young mistress, to converse with and comfort her.

"'Speck what? And who am to hab de saspicion?"

"About the note you gave him. My father, I mean."

"You fadda! I gub you fadda no note. You wand'in in your 'peach, Missy Blanche!"

"No--no. I mean what you gave him--the piece of paper I entrusted you with."

"Oh, gub Massa Maynar! Ob coas I gub it him."

"And you think no one saw you?"

"Don't 'tink anyting 'bout it. Satin shoo nobody see dat Sabby, she drop de leetle billydou right into de genlum's pocket--de outside coat pocket--wha it went down slick out ob sight. Make you mind easy 'bout dat, Missy Blanche. 'Twan't possible nob'dy ked a seed de tramfer. Dey must ha hab de eyes ob an Argoos to dedect dat."

The over-confidence with which Sabby spoke indicated a doubt.

She had one; for she had noticed eyes upon her, though not those of an Argus. They were in the head of Blanche's own cousin, Scudamore.

The Creole suspected that he had seen her deliver the note, but took care to keep her suspicions to herself.

"No, missy, dear," she continued. "Doan trouble you head 'bout dat 'ere. Sabby gub de note all right. Darfore why shed you fadda hab 'spicion 'bout it?"

"I don't know," answered the young girl. "And yet I cannot help having fear."

She lay for a while silent, as if reflecting. It was not altogether on her fears.

"What did he say to you, Sabby?" she asked at length.

"You mean Massa Maynar?"

"Yes."

"He no say much. Da wan't no time."

"Did he say anything?"

"Wa, yes," drawled the Creole, nonplussed for an answer--"yes; he say, `Sabby--you good Sabby; you tell Missy Blanche dat no matter what turn up, I lub her for ebba and ebba mo.'"

The Creole displayed the natural cunning of her race in conceiving this passionate speech--their adroitness in giving tongue to it.

It was a fiction, besides being commonplace. Notwithstanding this, it gave gratification to her young mistress, as she intended it should.

And it also brought sleep to her eyes. Soon after, resting her cheek upon the pillow, whose white case was almost hidden under the loose flood of her dishevelled hair, she sank into slumber.

It was pleasant, if not profound. Sabby, sitting beside the bed, and gazing upon the countenance of the sleeper, could tell by the play of her features that her spirit was disturbed by a dream.

It could not be a painful one. Otherwise would it have contradicted the words, that in soft murmuring came forth from her unconscious lips:

"_I now know that he loves me. Oh! it is sweet--so sweet_!"

"Dat young gal am in lub to de berry tops ob her toe nails. Sleepin' or wakin' she nebba get cured ob dat passion--nebba?" And with this sage forecast, the Creole took up the bedroom candlestick, and silently retired.

CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR.

A PAINFUL PROMISE.

However light and sweet had been her slumber, Blanche Vernon awoke with a heaviness on her mind.

Before her, in her sleep, had been a face, on which she loved to look. Awake, she could think only of one she had reason to fear--the face of an angry father.

The Creole _confidante_, while dressing her, observed her trepidation, and endeavoured to inspire her with courage. In vain.

The young girl trembled as she descended the stair in obedience to the summons for breakfast.

There was no need yet. She was safe in the company of her father's guests, assembled around the table. The only one missing was Maynard.

But no one made remark; and the gap had been more than filled up by some fresh arrivals--among them a distinguished foreign nobleman.

Thus screened, Blanche was beginning to gain confidence--to hope her father would say nothing to her of what had passed.

She was not such a child as to suppose he would forget it. What she most feared was his calling her to a confession.

And she dreaded this, from a knowledge of her own heart. She knew that she could not, and would not, deceive him.

The hour after breakfast was passed by her in feverish anxiety. She watched the gentlemen as they went off, guns in hand, and dogs at heel. She hoped to see her father go along with them.

He did not; and she became excitedly anxious on being told that he intended staying at home.

Sabina had learnt this from his valet.

It was almost a relief to her when the footman, approaching with a salute, announced that Sir George wished to see her in the library.

She turned pale at the summons. She could not help showing emotion, even in the presence of the servant.

But the exhibition went no further; and, recovering her proud air, she followed him in the direction of the library.

Her heart again sank as she entered. She saw that her father was alone, and by his serious look she knew she was approaching an ordeal.

It was a strange expression, that upon Sir George's face. She had expected anger. It was not there. Nor even severity. The look more resembled one of sadness.

And there was the same in the tone of his voice as he spoke to her.

"Take a seat, my child," were his first words, as he motioned her to a sofa.

She obeyed without making answer.

She reached the sofa not an instant too soon. She felt so crushed in spirit, she could not have kept upon her feet much longer.

There was an irksome interlude before Sir George again opened his lips. It seemed equally so to him. He was struggling with painful thoughts.

"My daughter," said he, making an effort to still his emotion, "I need not tell you for what reason I've sent for you?"

He paused, though not for a reply. He did not expect one. It was only to gain time for considering his next speech.

The child sate silent, her body bent, her arms crossed over her knees, her head drooping low between them.

"I need not tell you, either," continued Sir George, "that I overheard what passed between you and--"

Another pause, as if he hated to pronounce the name.

"This stranger, who has entered my house like a thief and a villain."

In the drooping form before him there was just perceptible the slightest start, followed by a tinge of red upon her cheek, and a shivering throughout her frame.

She said nothing, though it was plain the speech had given pain to her.

"I know not what words may have been exchanged between you before. Enough what I heard last night--enough to have broken my heart."

"O father!"

"'Tis true, my child! You know how carefully I've brought you up, how tenderly I've cherished, how dearly I love you!"

"O father!"

"Yes, Blanche; you've been to me all your mother was; the only thing on earth I had to care for, or who cared for me. And this to arise--to blight all my fond expectations--I could not have believed it?"

The young girl's bosom rose and fell in convulsive undulations, while big tear-drops ran coursing down her cheeks, like a spring shower from the blue canopy of heaven.

"Father, forgive me! You will forgive me!" were the words to which she gave utterance--not in continued speech, but interrupted by spasmodic sobbing.

"Tell me," said he, without responding to the passionate appeal. "There is something I wish to know--something more. Did you speak to--to Captain Maynard--last night, after--"

"After when, papa?"

"After parting from him outside, under the tree?"

"No, father, I did not."

"_But you wrote to him_?"

The cheek of Blanche Vernon, again pale, suddenly became flushed to the colour of carmine. It rose almost to the blue irides of her eyes, still glistening with tears.

Before, it had been a flush of indignation. Now it was the blush of shame. What her father had seen and heard under the _deodara_, if a sin, was not one for which she felt herself accountable. She had but followed the promptings of her innocent heart, benighted by the noblest passion of her nature.

What she had done since was an action she could have controlled. She was conscious of disobedience, and this was to be conscious of having committed crime. She did not attempt to deny it. She only hesitated through surprise at the question.

"You wrote a note to him?" said her father, repeating it with a slight alteration in the form.

"I did."

"I will not insist on knowing what was in it. From your candour, my child, I'm sure you would tell me. I only ask you to promise that you will not write to him again."

"O father!"

"That you will neither write to him, nor see him."

"O father!"

"On this I insist. But not with the authority I have over you. I have no faith in that. I ask it of you as a favour. I ask it on my knees, as your father, your dearest friend. Full well, my child, do I know your honourable nature; and that if given, it will be kept. Promise me, then, that you will neither write to nor see him again!"

Once more the young girl sobbed convulsively. Her own father--her proud father at her feet as an intercessor! No wonder she wept.

And with the thought of for ever, and by one single word, cutting herself off from all communication with the man she loved--the man who had saved her life only to make it for ever after unhappy!

No wonder she hesitated. No wonder that for a time her heart balanced between duty and love--between parent and lover!

"Dear, dear child!" pursued her father, in a tone of appealing tenderness, "promise you will never know him more--without my permission."

Was it the agonised accents that moved her? Was it some vague hope, drawn from the condition with which the appeal was concluded?

Whether or no, she gave the promise, though to pronounce it was like splitting her heart in twain.

CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE.

SPIES.

The friendship between Kossuth and Captain Maynard was of no common character. It had not sprung out of a mere chance acquaintance, but from circumstances calculated to cause mutual respect and admiration.

In Maynard, the illustrious Magyar saw a man like himself--devoted heart and soul to the cause of liberty.

True, he had as yet done little for it. But this did not negative his intention, fixed and fearless. Kossuth knew he had ventured out into the storm to shake a hand with, and draw a sword in, his defence. Too late for the battle-field, he had since defended him with his pen; and in the darkest hour of his exile, when others stood aloof.

In Kossuth, Maynard recognised one of the "great ones of the world"-- great not only in deeds and thoughts, but in all the Divine attributes of humanity--in short, goodly great.

It was in contemplating Kossuth's character, he first discovered the falsity of the trite phrase, "Familiarity breeds contempt." Like most proverbs, true only when applied to ordinary men and things. The reverse with men truly great.

To his own valet Kossuth would have been a hero. Much more was he one in the eyes of his friend.

The more Maynard knew of him, the more intimate their relationship became, the less was he able to restrain his admiration.

He had grown not only to admire, but love him; and would have done for him any service consistent with honour. Kossuth was not the man to require more. Maynard was witness to the pangs of his exile, and sympathised with him as a son, or brother. He felt indignant at the scurvy treatment he was receiving, and from a people boastful of its hospitality!

This indignation reached its highest, when on a certain day Kossuth, standing in his studio, called his attention to a house on the opposite side of the street, telling him it was inhabited by _spies_.

"Spies! What kind of spies?"

"Political, I suppose we may call them."

"My dear Governor, you must be mistaken! We have no such thing in England. It would not be permitted for a moment--that is, if known to the English people."

It was Maynard himself who was mistaken. He was but echoing the popular boast and belief of the day.

There _were_ political spies for all that; though it was the supposed era of their first introduction, and the thing was not known. It became so afterward; and was permitted by this people--silently acquiesced in by John Bull, according to his custom when any such encroachment is made--so long as it does not increase the tax upon his beer.

"Whether known or not," answered the ex-Governor, "they are there. Step forward to the window here, and I shall show you one of them."

Maynard joined Kossuth at the window, where he had been for a time standing.

"You had better keep the curtain as a screen--if you don't wish to be recognised."

"For what should I care?"

"Well, my dear captain, this is your own country. Your coming to my house may compromise you. It will make you many powerful enemies."

"As for that, Governor, the thing's done already. All know me as your friend."

"Only as my defender. All do not know you as a plotter and conspirator--such as the _Times_ describes _me_."

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the elect of a German revolutionary committee. "Much do I care about that! Such a conspirator. I'd be only too proud of the tide. Where is this precious spy?"

As Maynard put the question, he stepped on into the window, without thinking of the curtain.

"Look up to that casement in the second storey," directed Kossuth; "the cottage nearly opposite--first window from the corner. Do you see anything there?"

"No; nothing but a Venetian blind."

"But the laths are apart. Can you see nothing behind them? I do distinctly. The scoundrels are not cunning. They forget there's a back light beyond, which enables me to take note of their movements."

"Ah!" said Maynard, still gazing. "Now I see. I can make out the figure of a man seated or standing in the window."

"Yes; and there he is seated or standing all day; he or another. They appear to take it in turns. At night they descend to the street. Don't look any longer! He is watching us now; and it won't do to let him know that he's suspected. I have my reasons for appearing ignorant of this espionage."

Maynard, having put on a careless look, was about drawing back, when a hansom cab drove up to the gate of the house opposite, discharging a gentleman, who, furnished with a gate-key, entered without ringing the bell.

"That," said Kossuth, "is the chief spy, who appears to employ a considerable staff--among them a number of elegant ladies. My poor concerns must cost your government a good sum."

Maynard was not attending to the remark. His thoughts, as well as eyes, were still occupied with the gentleman who had got out of the cab; and who, before disappearing behind the lilacs and laurels, was recognised by him as his old antagonist, Swinton! Captain Maynard did that he had before refused, and suddenly. He concealed himself behind the window curtain! Kossuth observing it, inquired why?

"I chance to know the man," was Maynard's answer. "Pardon me, Governor, for having doubted your word! I can believe _now_ what you've told me. Spies! Oh! if the English people knew this! They would not stand it!"

"Dear friend! don't go into rhapsodies! They will stand it."

"But I won't!" cried Maynard, in a frenzy of indignation. "If I can't reach the head of this fiendish conspiracy, I'll punish the tool thus employed. Tell me, Governor, how long since these foul birds have built their nest over there?"

"They came about a week ago. The house was occupied by a bank clerk--a Scotchman, I believe--who seemed to turn out very suddenly. They entered upon the same day."

"A week," said Maynard, reflecting. "That's well. _He_ cannot have seen me. It's ten days since I was here--and--and--"

"What are you thinking of, my dear captain?" asked Kossuth, seeing that his friend was engaged in deep cogitation.

"Of a _revanche_--a revenge, if you prefer having it in our vernacular."

"Against whom?"

"That scoundrel of a spy--the chief one. I know him of old. I've long owed him a score on my own account; and I am now doubly in his debt on yours, and that of my country--disgraced by this infamy!"

"And how would you act?"

Maynard did not make immediate answer. He was still reflecting.

"Governor!" he said, after a time, "you've told me that your guests are followed by one or other of these fellows?"

"Always followed; on foot if they be walking; in a cab if riding. It is a hansom cab that follows them--the same you saw just now. It is gone; but only to the corner, where it is kept continually on the stand--its driver having instructions to obey a signal."

"What sort of a signal?"

"It is made by the sounding of a shrill whistle--a dog-call."

"And who rides in the hansom?"

"One or other of the two fellows you have seen. In the day time it is the one who occupies the blinded window; at night the duty is usually performed by the gentleman just returned--your old acquaintance, as you say."

"This will do!" said Maynard, in soliloquy.

Then, turning to Kossuth, he inquired:

"Governor! have you any objection to my remaining your guest till the sun goes down, and a little after?"

"My dear captain! Why do you ask the question? You know how glad I shall be of your company."

"Another question. Do you chance to have in your house such a thing as a horsewhip?"

"My adjutant, Ihasz, has, I believe. He is devoted to hunting."

"Still another question. Is there among Madam's wardrobe half a yard of black crape? A quarter of a yard will do."

"Ah!" sighed the exile, "my poor wife's wardrobe is all of that colour. I'm sure she can supply you with plenty of crape. But say, _cher capitaine_! what do you want with it?"

"Don't ask me to tell you, your Excellency--not now. Be so good as to lend me those two things. To-morrow I shall return them; and at the same time give you an account of the use I have made of them. If fortune favour me, it will be then possible to do so."

Kossuth, perceiving that his friend was determined on reticence, did not further press for an explanation.

He lit a long chibouque, of which some half-dozen--presents received during his captivity at Kutayah, in Turkey--stood in a corner of the room. Inviting Maynard to take one of them, the two sate smoking and talking, till the light of a street-lamp flashing athwart the window, told them the day was done.

"Now, Governor!" said Maynard, getting up out of his chair, "I've but one more request to make of you--that you will send out your servant to fetch me a cab."

"Of course," said Kossuth, touching a spring-bell that stood on the table of his studio.

A domestic made appearance--a girl, whose stolid German physiognomy Maynard seemed to distrust. Not that he disliked her looks; but she was not the thing for his purpose.

"Does your Excellency keep a man-servant?" he asked. "Excuse me for putting such a question?"

"Indeed, no, my dear captain! In my poor exiled state I do not feel justified. If it is only to fetch a cab, Gertrude can do it. She speaks English well enough for that." Maynard once more glanced at the girl--still distrustingly. "Stay!" said Kossuth. "There's a man comes to us in the evenings. Perhaps he is here now. Gertrude, is Karl Steiner in the kitchen?"

"Ya," was the laconic answer.

"Tell him to come to me."

Gertrude drew back, perhaps wondering why _she_ was not considered smart enough to be sent for a hackney.

"He's an intelligent fellow, this Karl," said Kossuth, after the girl had gone out of the room. "He speaks English fluently, or you may talk to him in French; and you can also trust him with your confidence."

Karl came in.

His looks did not belie the description the ex-governor had given of him.

"Do you know anything of horses?" was the first question, put to him in French.

"I have been ten years in the stables of Count Teleky. His Excellency knows that."

"Yes, captain. This young man has been groom to our friend Teleky; and you know the count's propensity for horseflesh."

Kossuth spoke of a distinguished Hungarian noble; then, like himself, a refugee in London.

"Enough?" said Maynard, apparently satisfied that Steiner was his man. "Now, Monsieur Karl, I merely want you to call me a cab."

"Which sort, _votre seigneurie_?" asked the ex-groom, giving the true stable salute. "Hansom or four-wheeler?"

"Hansom," replied Maynard, pleased with the man's sharpness.

"_Tres bien_."

"And hear me, Monsieur Karl; I want you to select one with a horse that can _go_. You understand me?"

"_Parfaitement_."

"When you've brought it to the gate, come inside here; and don't wait to see me into it."

With another touch to his cap, Karl went off on his errand.

"Now, Governor?" said Maynard, "I must ask you to look up that horsewhip and quarter-yard of crape."

Kossuth appeared in a quandary.

"I hope, captain," he said, "you don't intend any--"

"Excuse me, your Excellency," said Maynard, interrupting him. "I don't intend anything that may compromise _you_. I have my own feelings to satisfy in this matter--my own wrongs I might call them; more than that--those of my country."