The dinner-party of that day was the largest Sir George had given. As
already known, it was the fifteenth birthday of Blanche, his only child.
The guests intended to take seats at the table had been carefully
selected. In addition to those staying at the Hall, there were others
specially invited for the occasion--of course, the first families of the
shire, who dwelt within dining distance.
In all, there were over twenty--several of them distinguished by
titles--while twice as many more were expected to drop in afterwards. A
dance was to follow the dinner.
As Maynard, having made his toilet, descended to the drawing-room, he
found it comfortably filled. Bevies of beautiful women were seated upon
the sofas, each in a wonderful abundance of skirt, and a still more
surprising scantiness of bodice and sleeves.
Interspersed among them were the gentlemen, all in deep black, relieved
only by the time-honoured white choker--their plain dresses contrasting
oddly with the rich silks and satins that rustled around them.
Soon after entering the room, he became conscious of being under all
eyes--both male and female: in short, their cynosure.
It was something beyond the mere customary glance given to a new guest
on his announcement. As the butler in stentorian voice proclaimed his
name, coupling it with his military title, a thrill appeared to pass
through the assemblage. The "swell" in tawny moustache, forsaking his
habitual air of superciliousness, turned readily toward him; dowagers
and duchesses, drawing out their gold-rimmed glasses, ogled him with a
degree of interest unusual for these grand dames; while their daughters
vouchsafed glances of a more speaking and pleasant nature.
Maynard did not know what to make of it. A stranger of somewhat
peculiar antecedents, he might expect scrutiny.
But not of that concentrated kind--in a company reputed above all others
for its good breeding.
He was himself too well-bred to be taken aback. Besides, he saw before
him faces that appeared friendly; while the eyes of the discriminating
dowagers, seen through their pebbles, instead of quizzing, seemed to
regard him with admiration!
Though not disconcerted, he could not help feeling surprised. Many of
those present he had met before; had hunted, shot, and even dined with
them. Why should they be now receiving him with an interest not
hitherto exhibited?
The explanation was given by his host, who, approaching in a friendly
manner, pronounced the words:
"Captain Maynard, we congratulate you!"
"On what, Sir George?" inquired the astonished guest.
"Your literary success. We had already heard, sir, of your skill in
wielding the sword. We were not aware that you were equally skilful
with another and like honourable weapon--the pen."
"You are very complimentary; but I do not quite comprehend you."
"You will, by glancing at this. I presume, sir, you have not yet seen
it--since it has just come down by the last post?"
As Sir George spoke, he held up a broadsheet, whose title proclaimed it
the fashionable morning journal of London.
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.
During the few minutes spent in the drawing-room, he had been watching
her with ardent glances.
Almost snatching the fashionable journal from her father's hand, she had
withdrawn to a retired corner, and there sat, with apparent eagerness,
devouring its contents.
By the position of the sheet, he could tell the column on which she was
engaged; and, as the light of the chandelier fell upon her face, he
endeavoured to read its expression.
While writing that romance, he remembered with what tender emotions he
had been thinking of her. Did she reciprocate those thoughts, now
reading the review of it?
It was sweet to perceive a smile upon her countenance, as if the praise
bestowed was giving her gratification. Sweeter still, when, the reading
finished, she looked searchingly around the room, till her eyes rested
upon him, with a proud, pleased expression!
A summons to the best dinner in the world was but a rude interruption to
that adorable glance.
As he afterwards sat near the head of the dinner-table, with Lady Mary
by his side, how he envied the more juvenile guests at the foot,
especially young Scudamore, to whom had been allotted that bright,
beautiful star, whose birth they were assembled to celebrate!
Maynard could no more see her. Between them was a huge epergne, loaded
with the spoils of the conservatory. How he detested its ferns and its
flowers, the gardener who had gathered, and the hand that arranged them
into such impenetrable festoons!
During the dinner he was inattentive to his titled companion--almost to
impoliteness. Her pleasant speeches were scarce listened to, or
answered incoherently. Even her ample silken skirts, insidiously
rustling against his knees, failed to inspire him with the divinity of
her presence!
Lady Mary had reason to believe in a doctrine oft propounded: that in
social life men of genius are not only insipid, but stupid. No doubt
she thought Maynard so; for it seemed a relief to her, as the dinner
came to an end, and the ladies rose to betake themselves to the
drawing-room.
Even with an ill grace did he draw back her chair: his eyes straying
across the table, where Blanche Vernon was filing past in the string of
departing guests.
But a glance given by the latter, after clearing the epergne, more than
repaid him for the frown upon Lady Mary's face, as she swept away from
his side!