Having changed from soldier to author, Maynard was not idle in his new
avocation.
Book after book came from his facile pen; each adding to the reputation
achieved by his first essay in the field of literature:
A few of the younger spirits of the press--that few _addicti curare
verbis nullius magistri_--at once boldly pronounced in their favour:
calling them works of genius.
But the older hands, who constitute the members of the "Mutual
Admiration Society"--those disappointed aspirants, who in all ages and
countries assume the criticism of art and authorship--could see in
Maynard's writings only "sensation."
Drawing their inspiration from envy, and an influence not less mean--
from that _magister_, the leading journal, whose very nod was trembling
to them--they endeavoured to give satisfaction to the despot of the
press, by depreciating the efforts of the young author.
They adopted two different modes of procedure: Some of them said
nothing. These were the wiser ones; since the silence of the critic is
his most eloquent condemnation. They were wiser, too, in that their
words were in no danger of contradiction. The others spoke, but
sneeringly and with contempt. They found vent for their spleen by
employing the terms "melodrama," "blue-fire," and a host of hackneyed
phrases, that, like the modern slang "sensational," may be conveniently
applied to the most classic conceptions of the author.
How many of the best works of Byron, Shakespeare, and Scott, would
escape the "sensation" category?
They could not deny that Maynard's writings had attained a certain
degree of popularity. This had been achieved without their aid. But it
was only evidence of the corrupted taste of the age.
When was there an age, without this corrupted taste?
His writings would not live. Of that they were certain!
They have lived ever since; and sold too, to the making of some
half-dozen fortunes--if not for himself, for those upon whom he somewhat
unwarily bestowed them.
And they promise to abide upon the bookshelves a little longer; perhaps
not with any grand glory--but certainly not with any great accumulation
of dust.
And the day may come, when these same critics may be dead and the
written thoughts of Mr Maynard be no longer deemed _merely sensations_.
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!"
It was Roseveldt who answered the summons.
The Count had become a resident of London--an idler upon town--for want
of congenial employment elsewhere.
Some fragment of his fortune still remaining, enabled him to live the
life of a _flaneur_, while his title of nobility gave him the _entree_
of many a good door.
But, like Maynard, he too was pining for an active life, and disgusted
to look daily upon his sword, rusting ingloriously in its sheath!
By the mode in which he made entry, something whispered Maynard, that
the time had come when both were to be released from their irksome
inaction. The Count was flurried, excited, tugging at his moustache, as
if he intended tearing it away from his lip!
"What is it, my dear Roseveldt?"
"Don't you smell gunpowder?"
"No."
"There's some being burnt by this time."
"Where?"
"In Milan. The revolution's broke out there. But I've no time to talk
to you. Kossuth has sent me for you post-haste. He wants you to come
at once. Are you ready?"
"You're always in such haste, my dear Count. But when Kossuth commands,
you know my answer. I'm ready. It only needs to put on my hat."
"On with it then, and come along with me!"
From Portman Square to Saint John's Wood is but a step; and the two were
soon traversing the somewhat crooked causeway of South Bank.
When close to Kossuth's residence they passed a man who stood, watch in
hand, under a street-lamp--as if trying to ascertain the time of night.
They knew he was shamming, but said nothing; and went on, soon after
entering the house.
Kossuth was within; and along with him several distinguished Hungarians.
"Captain Maynard!" he exclaimed, stepping out of the circle, and
saluting his new-come guest.
Then taking him aside, he said:
"Look at this!"
While speaking, he had placed a slip of paper in Maynard's hands. It
was written in cipher.
"A telegram?" muttered the latter, seeing the hieroglyphics.
"Yes," said Kossuth, proceeding to translate and explain them. "The
revolution has broken out in Milan. It is a rash affair, and, I fear,
will end in defeat--perhaps ruin. Mazzini has done it, in direct
opposition to my wishes and judgment Mazzini is too sanguine. So are
Turr and the others. They count on the Hungarian regiments stationed
there, with the influence of my name among them. Giuseppe has taken a
liberty with it, by using an old proclamation of mine, addressed to
those regiments, while I was still prisoner at Kutayah. He has put it
forth at Milan, only altering the date. I wouldn't so much blame him
for that, if I didn't believe it to be sheer madness. With so many
Austrians in the garrison at Milan--above all, those hireling Bohemian
regiments--I don't think there's a chance of our success."
"What do _you_ intend doing, Governor?"
"As to that, I have no choice. The game's begun, and I must take part
in it, _coute que coute_. This telegram is from my brave Turr, and he
thinks there's a hope. Whether or no, it will be necessary for me to go
to them."
"You are going then?"
"At once--if I can get there. Therein, my dear sir, lies the
difficulty. It is for that I have taken the liberty of sending for
you."
"No liberty, Governor. What can I do for you?"
"Thanks, dear captain! I shall waste no words, but say at once what I
want with you. The only way for me to get to Milan is through the
territory of France. I might go round by the Mediterranean; but that
would take time. I should be too late. Across France then must I go,
or not at all."
"And what is to hinder you from travelling through France?"
"Louis Napoleon."
"True, he would--I need not have asked the question."
"He'd be sure to place me under arrest, and keep me so, as long as my
liberty is deemed dangerous to the crowned conspirators. He has become
their most trusted tipstaff and detective. There's not one of his
_sergents-de-ville_ who has not got my portrait in his pocket. The only
chance left me, to run the gauntlet through France, is to travel in
disguise. It is for that I want _you_."
"How can I assist you, my dear Governor?"
"By making me your servant--your _valet du voyage_." Maynard could not
help smiling at the idea. The man who had held mastery over a whole
nation, who had created an army of two hundred thousand men, who had
caused trembling throughout the thrones of Europe--that man to be
obsequiously waiting upon him, brushing his coat, handing him his hat,
and packing his portmanteau!
"Before you make answer," continued the ex-Dictator of Hungary, "let me
tell you all. If taken in France, you will have to share my prison; if
upon Austrian territory, your neck, like my own, will be in danger of a
halter. Now, sir, do you consent?" It was some seconds before Maynard
made reply; though it was not the halter that hindered him. He was
thinking of many other things--among them Blanche Vernon.
Perhaps but for the reminiscence of that scene under the _deodara_, and
its results, he might have hesitated longer--have even turned recreant
to the cause of revolutionary liberty!
Its memory but stimulated him to fresh efforts for freedom, and without
staying longer, he simply said: "I consent?"