"Never more to see her--never more to hear of her! From her I need not
expect. She dares not write. No doubt an embargo has been laid upon
that. Parental authority forbids it.
"And I dare not write to her! If I did, no doubt, by the same parental
authority, my epistle would be intercepted--still further compromising
her--still further debarring the chance of a reconciliation with her
father!
"I dare not do it--I should not!
"Why should I not? Is it not after all but a false sentiment of
chivalry?
"And am I _not_ false to myself--to her? What authority over the heart
is higher than its own inclining? In the disposal of the hand, this,
and this alone, should be consulted. Who has the right to interpose
between two hearts mutually loving? To forbid their mutual happiness?
"The parent claims such right, and too often exercises it! It may be a
wise control; but is it a just one?
"And there are times, too, when it may not be wisdom, but madness.
"O pride of rank! how much happiness has been left unachieved through
thy interference--how many hearts sacrificed on the shrine of thy hollow
pretensions!
"Blanche! Blanche! It is hard to think there is a barrier between us,
that can never be broken down! An obstruction that no merit of mine, no
struggle, no triumph, no probation, can remove! It is hard! hard!
"And even should I succeed in achieving such triumph, it might be too
late? The heart I have now might then be another's?"
"Ah! _it may be another's now_! Who knows that it is not?"
It was Captain Maynard who made these reflections. He was in his own
studio, and seated in his writing chair. But the last thought was too
painful for him to remain seated; and, springing to his feet, he
commenced pacing the floor.
That sweet presentiment was no more in his mind--at least not strongly.
The tone and tenour of his soliloquy, especially its last clause, told
how much he had lost belief in it. And his manner, as he strode through
the room--his glances, gestures, and exclamations--the look of despair,
and the long-drawn sigh--told how much Blanche Vernon was in his mind--
how much he still loved her!
"It is true," he continued, "she may by this have forgotten me! A
child, she may have taken me up as a toy--no more to be thought of when
out of sight. Damaged too; for doubtless they've done everything to
defame me!
"Oh! that I could believe that promise, made at the hour of our
parting--recorded, too, in writing! Let me look once more at the sweet
chirograph!"
Thrusting his hand into the pocket of his vest--the one directly over
his heart--he drew forth the tiny sheet, there long and fondly
treasured. Spreading it out, he once more 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--never_!"
The reading caused him a strange commingling of pain and pleasure, as it
had done twenty times before; for not less than twenty times had he
deciphered that hastily-scribbled note.
But now the pain predominated over the pleasure. He had begun to
believe in the emphatic clause "we may never meet more," and to doubt
the declaration "I shall never forget you." He continued to pace the
floor wildly, despairingly.
It did not do much to tranquillise him, when his friend, Roseveldt,
entered the room, in the making of a morning call. It was an occurrence
too common to create any distraction--especially from such thoughts.
And the Count had become changed of late. He, too, had a sorrow of a
similar kind--a sweetheart, about the consent of whose guardian there
was a question.
In such matters men may give sympathy, but not consolation. It is only
the successful who can speak encouragement.
Roseveldt did not stay long, nor was he communicative.
Maynard did not know the object of his late-sprung passion--not even her
name! He only thought it must be some rare damsel who could have caused
such a transformation in his friend--a man so indifferent to the fair
sex as to have often declared his determination of dying a bachelor!
The Count took his leave in a great hurry; but not before giving a hint
as to the why. Maynard noticed that he was dressed with unusual care--
his moustache pomaded, his hair perfumed!
He confessed to the motive for all this--he was on the way to make a
call upon a lady. Furthermore, he designed asking her a question.
He did not say what; but left his old comrade under the impression that
it was _the proposal_.
The interlude was not without suggestions of a ludicrous nature; that
for a time won Maynard from his painful imaginings.
Only for a short time. They soon returned to him; and once more
stooping down, he re-read Blanche Vernon's note that had been left lying
upon the table.
Just as he had finished a startling knock at the door--the well-known
"ra-ta"--proclaimed the postman.
"A letter, sir," said the lodging-house servant, soon after entering the
room.
There was no need for a parley; the postage was paid; and Maynard took
the letter.
The superscription was in the handwriting of a gentleman. It was new to
him. There was nothing strange in that. An author fast rising into
fame, he was receiving such every day.
But he started on turning the envelope to tear it open. There was a
crest upon it he at once recognised. It was the crest of the Vernons!
Not rudely now was the cream-laid covering displaced but carefully, and
with hesitating hand.
And with fingers that shook like aspen leaves, did he spread out the
contained sheet, also carrying the crest.