The gentlemen stayed but a short while over their wine. The twanging of
harp-strings and tuning of violins, heard outside, told that their
presence was required in the drawing-room--whither Sir George soon
conducted them.
During the two hours spent at dinner, a staff of domestics had been busy
in the drawing-room. The carpets had been taken up, and the floor waxed
almost to an icy smoothness. The additional guests had arrived; and
were grouped over it, waiting for the music to begin.
There is no dance so delicious as that of the drawing-room--especially
in an English country house. There is a pleasant home-feeling about it,
unknown to the crush of the public ball--be it "county" or "hunt."
It is full of mystic imaginations--recalling Sir Roger de Coverley, and
those dear olden times of supposed Arcadian innocence.
The dancers all know each other. If not, introductions are easily
obtained, and there is no dread about making new acquaintances: since
there is no danger in doing so.
Inside the room is an atmosphere you can breathe without thought of
being stifled; outside a supper you can eat, and wines you may drink
without fear of being poisoned--adjuncts rarely found near the shrines
of Terpsichore.
Maynard, though still a stranger to most of Sir George's guests, was
made acquainted with as many of them as chanced in his way. Those
lately arrived had also read the fashionable journal, or heard of its
comments on the new romance soon to be sent them by "Mudie." And there
is no circle in which genius meets with greater admiration than in that
of the English aristocracy--especially when supposed to have been
discovered in one of their own class.
Somewhat to his surprise, Maynard found himself the hero of the hour.
He could not help feeling gratified by complimentary speeches that came
from titled lips--many of them the noblest in the land. It was enough
to make him contented. He might have reflected, how foolish he had been
in embracing a political faith at variance with that of all around him,
and so long separating him from their pleasant companionship.
In the face of success in a far different field, this seemed for the
time forgotten by them.
And by him, too: though without any intention of ever forsaking those
republican principles he had adopted for his creed. His political
leanings were not alone of choice, but conviction. He could not have
changed them, if he would.
But there was no need to intrude them in that social circle; and, as he
stood listening to praise from pretty lips, he felt contented--even to
happiness.
That happiness reached its highest point, as he heard half-whispered in
his ear the congratulatory speech: "I'm so glad of your success?"
It came from a young girl with whom he was dancing in the Lancers, and
who, for the first time during the night, had become his partner. It
was Blanche Vernon.
"I fear you are flattering me?" was his reply. "At all events, the
reviewer has done so. The journal from which you've drawn your
deduction is noted for its generosity to young authors--an exception to
the general rule. It is to that I am indebted for what you, Miss
Vernon, are pleased to term success. It is only the enthusiasm of my
reviewer; perhaps interested in scenes that may be novel to him. Those
described in my romance are of a land not much known, and still less
written about."
"But they are very interesting!"
"How can you tell that?" asked Maynard, in surprise. "You have not read
the book?"
"No; but the newspaper has given the story--a portion of it. I can
judge from that."
The author had not been aware of this. He had only glanced at the
literary notice--at its first and final paragraphs.
These had flattered him; but not so much as the words now heard, and
appearing truthfully spoken.
A thrill of delight ran through him, at the thought of those scenes
having interested her. She had been in his thoughts all the while he
was painting them. It was she who had inspired that portraiture of a
"CHILD WIFE," giving to the book any charm he supposed it to possess.
He was almost tempted to tell her so; and might have done it, but for
the danger of being overheard by the dancers.
"I am sure it is a very interesting story," said she, as they came
together again after "turning to corners."
"I shall continue to think so, till I've read the book; and then you
shall have my own opinion of it."
"I have no doubt you'll be disappointed. The story is one of rude
frontier life, not likely to be interesting to young ladies."
"But your reviewer does not say so. Quite the contrary. He describes
it as full of very tender scenes."
"I hope _you_ may like them."
"Oh! I'm so anxious to read it!" continued the young girl, without
appearing to notice the speech so pointedly addressed to her. "I'm sure
I shan't sleep to-night, thinking about it!"
"Miss Vernon, you know not how much I am gratified by the interest you
take in my first literary effort. If," added the author with a laugh,
"I could only think you would not be able to sleep the night after
reading it, I might believe in the success which the newspaper speaks
of."
"Perhaps it may be so. We shall soon see. Papa has already telegraphed
to Mudie's for the book to be sent down, and we may expect it by the
morning train. To-morrow night--if you've not made the story a very
long one--I promise you my judgment upon it."
"The story is not long. I shall be impatient to hear what you think of
it."
And he was impatient. All next day, while tramping through stubble and
turnip-field in pursuit of partridges, and banging away at the birds, he
had thoughts only of his book, and her he knew to be reading it!