There is but one country in the world where country-life is thoroughly
understood, and truly enjoyable. It is England!
True, this enjoyment is confined to the few--to England's gentry. Her
farmer knows nought of it; her labourer still less.
But the life of an English country gentleman leaves little to be
desired!
In the morning he has the chase, or the shooting party, complete in
their kind, and both varied according to the character of the game. In
the evening he sits down to a dinner, as Lucullian as French cooks can
make it, in the company of men and women the most accomplished upon
earth.
In the summer there are excursions, picnics, "garden parties"; and of
late years the grand croquet and tennis gatherings--all ending in the
same desirable dinner, with sometimes a dance in the drawing-room, to
the family music of the piano; on rarer occasions, to the more
inspiriting strains of a military band, brought from the nearest
barracks, or the headquarters of volunteers, yeomanry, or militia.
In all this there is neither noise nor confusion; but the most perfect
quiet and decorum. It could not be otherwise in a society composed of
the flower of England's people--its nobility and squirearchy--equal in
the social scale--alike spending their life in the cultivation of its
graces.
It was not strange that Captain Maynard--a man with but few great
friends, and lost to some of these through his republican proclivities--
should feel slightly elated on receiving an imitation to a dinner as
described.
A further clause in the note told him, he would be expected to stay a
few days at the house of his host, and take part in the
partridge-shooting that had but lately commenced.
The invitation was all the more acceptable coming from Sir George
Vernon, of Vernon Hall, near Sevenoaks, Kent.
Maynard had not seen the British baronet since that day when the British
flag, flung around his shoulders, saved him from being shot. By the
conditions required to get him clear of his Parisian scrape, he had to
return _instanter_ to England, in the metropolis of which he had ever
since been residing.
Not in idleness. Revolutions at an end, he had flung aside his sword,
and taken to the pen. During the summer he had produced a romance, and
placed it in the hands of a publisher. He was expecting it soon to
appear.
He had lately written to Sir George--on hearing that the latter had got
back to his own country--a letter expressing grateful thanks for the
protection that had been extended to him.
But he longed also to thank the baronet in person. The tables were now
turned. His own service had been amply repaid; and he hesitated to take
advantage of the old invitation--in fear of being deemed an intruder.
Under these circumstances the new one was something more than welcome.
Sevenoaks is no great distance from London. For all that, it is
surrounded by scenery as retired and rural as can be found in the shires
of England--the charming scenery of Kent.
It is only of late years that the railway-whistle has waked the echoes
of those deep secluded dales stretching around Sevenoaks.
With a heart attuned to happiness, and throbbing with anticipated
pleasure, did the late revolutionary leader ride along its roads. Not
on horseback, but in a "fly" chartered at the railway station, to take
him to the family mansion of the Vernons, which was to be found at about
four miles' distance from the town.
The carriage was an open one, the day clear and fine, the country
looking its best--the swedes showing green, the stubble yellow, the
woods and copses clad in the ochre-coloured livery of autumn. The corn
had been all cut. The partridges, in full covey, and still
comparatively tame, were seen straying through the "stubs"; while the
pheasants, already thinned off by shot, kept more shy along the selvedge
of the cover. He might think what fine sport was promised him!
He was thinking not of this. The anticipated pleasure of shooting
parties had no place in his thoughts. They were all occupied by the
image of that fair child, first seen on the storm-deck of an Atlantic
steamer, and last in a balcony overlooking the garden of the Tuileries;
for he had not seen Blanche Vernon since.
But he had often thought of her. Often! Every day, every hour!
And his soul was now absorbed by the same contemplation--in recalling
the souvenirs of every scene or incident in which she had figured--his
first view of her, followed by that strange foreshadowing--her face
reflected in the cabin mirror--the episode in the Mersey, that had
brought him still nearer--her backward look, as they parted on the
landing-stage at Liverpool--and, last of all, that brief glance he had
been enabled to obtain, as, borne along by brutal force, he beheld her
in the balcony above him.
From this remembrance did he derive his sweetest reflection. Not from
the sight of her there; but the thought that through her interference he
had been rescued from an ignominious death, and a fate perhaps never to
be recorded! He at least knew, that he owed his life to her father's
influence.
And now was he to be brought face to face with this fair young
creature--within the sacred precincts of the family circle, and under
the sanction of parental rule--to be allowed every opportunity of
studying her character--perhaps moulding it to his own secret desires!
No wonder that, in the contemplation of such a prospect, he took no heed
of the partridges straying through the stubble, or the pheasants
skulking along the edge of their cover!
It was nigh two years since he had first looked upon her. She would now
be fifteen, or near to it. In that quick, constrained glance given to
the balcony above, he saw that she had grown taller and bigger.
So much the better, thought he, as bringing nearer the time when he
should be able to test the truth of his presentiment.
Though sanguine, he was not confident. How could he? A nameless,
almost homeless adventurer, a wide gulf lay between him and this
daughter of an English baronet, noted in name as for riches, What hope
had he of being able to bridge it?
None, save that springing from hope itself: perhaps only the wish father
to the thought.
It might be all an illusion. In addition to the one great obstacle of
unequal wealth--the rank he had no reason to consider--there might be
many others.
Blanche Vernon was an only child, too precious to be lightly bestowed--
too beautiful to go long before having her heart besieged. Already it
may have been stormed and taken.
And by one nearer her own age--perhaps some one her father had designed
for the assault.
While thus cogitating, the cloud that flung its shadow over Maynard's
face told how slight was his faith in fatalism.
It commenced clearing away, as the fly was driven up to the entrance of
Vernon Park, and the gates were flung open to receive him.
It was quite gone when the proprietor of that park, meeting him in the
vestibule of the mansion, bade him warm welcome to its hospitality.