The Child Wife

“You fadda! I gub you fadda no note. You wand’in in your ’peach, Missy Blanche!”

“No – no. I mean what you gave him – the piece of paper I entrusted you with.”

“Oh, gub Massa Maynar! Ob coas I gub it him.”

“And you think no one saw you?”

“Don’t ’tink anyting ’bout it. Satin shoo nobody see dat Sabby, she drop de leetle billydou right into de genlum’s pocket – de outside coat pocket – wha it went down slick out ob sight. Make you mind easy ’bout dat, Missy Blanche. ’Twan’t possible nob’dy ked a seed de tramfer. Dey must ha hab de eyes ob an Argoos to dedect dat.”

The over-confidence with which Sabby spoke indicated a doubt.

She had one; for she had noticed eyes upon her, though not those of an Argus. They were in the head of Blanche’s own cousin, Scudamore.

The Creole suspected that he had seen her deliver the note, but took care to keep her suspicions to herself.

“No, missy, dear,” she continued. “Doan trouble you head ’bout dat ’ere. Sabby gub de note all right. Darfore why shed you fadda hab ’spicion ’bout it?”

“I don’t know,” answered the young girl. “And yet I cannot help having fear.”

She lay for a while silent, as if reflecting. It was not altogether on her fears.

“What did he say to you, Sabby?” she asked at length.

“You mean Massa Maynar?”

“Yes.”

“He no say much. Da wan’t no time.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Wa, yes,” drawled the Creole, nonplussed for an answer – “yes; he say, ‘Sabby – you good Sabby; you tell Missy Blanche dat no matter what turn up, I lub her for ebba and ebba mo.’”

The Creole displayed the natural cunning of her race in conceiving this passionate speech – their adroitness in giving tongue to it.

It was a fiction, besides being commonplace. Notwithstanding this, it gave gratification to her young mistress, as she intended it should.

And it also brought sleep to her eyes. Soon after, resting her cheek upon the pillow, whose white case was almost hidden under the loose flood of her dishevelled hair, she sank into slumber.

It was pleasant, if not profound. Sabby, sitting beside the bed, and gazing upon the countenance of the sleeper, could tell by the play of her features that her spirit was disturbed by a dream.

It could not be a painful one. Otherwise would it have contradicted the words, that in soft murmuring came forth from her unconscious lips:

“I now know that he loves me. Oh! it is sweet – so sweet!”

“Dat young gal am in lub to de berry tops ob her toe nails. Sleepin’ or wakin’ she nebba get cured ob dat passion – nebba?” And with this sage forecast, the Creole took up the bedroom candlestick, and silently retired.

Chapter Sixty Four.

A Painful Promise

However light and sweet had been her slumber, Blanche Vernon awoke with a heaviness on her mind.

Before her, in her sleep, had been a face, on which she loved to look. Awake, she could think only of one she had reason to fear – the face of an angry father.

The Creole confidante, while dressing her, observed her trepidation, and endeavoured to inspire her with courage. In vain.

The young girl trembled as she descended the stair in obedience to the summons for breakfast.

There was no need yet. She was safe in the company of her father’s guests, assembled around the table. The only one missing was Maynard.

But no one made remark; and the gap had been more than filled up by some fresh arrivals – among them a distinguished foreign nobleman.

Thus screened, Blanche was beginning to gain confidence – to hope her father would say nothing to her of what had passed.

She was not such a child as to suppose he would forget it. What she most feared was his calling her to a confession.

And she dreaded this, from a knowledge of her own heart. She knew that she could not, and would not, deceive him.

The hour after breakfast was passed by her in feverish anxiety. She watched the gentlemen as they went off, guns in hand, and dogs at heel. She hoped to see her father go along with them.

He did not; and she became excitedly anxious on being told that he intended staying at home.

Sabina had learnt this from his valet.

It was almost a relief to her when the footman, approaching with a salute, announced that Sir George wished to see her in the library.

She turned pale at the summons. She could not help showing emotion, even in the presence of the servant.

But the exhibition went no further; and, recovering her proud air, she followed him in the direction of the library.

Her heart again sank as she entered. She saw that her father was alone, and by his serious look she knew she was approaching an ordeal.

It was a strange expression, that upon Sir George’s face. She had expected anger. It was not there. Nor even severity. The look more resembled one of sadness.

And there was the same in the tone of his voice as he spoke to her.

“Take a seat, my child,” were his first words, as he motioned her to a sofa.

She obeyed without making answer.

She reached the sofa not an instant too soon. She felt so crushed in spirit, she could not have kept upon her feet much longer.

There was an irksome interlude before Sir George again opened his lips. It seemed equally so to him. He was struggling with painful thoughts.

“My daughter,” said he, making an effort to still his emotion, “I need not tell you for what reason I’ve sent for you?”

He paused, though not for a reply. He did not expect one. It was only to gain time for considering his next speech.