The Child Wife

Master Scudamore! Had this young gentleman been present, he might have felt inclined to repudiate the juvenile appellation.

“Oh, no!” said the baronet’s daughter, scarce longer to be called a child. “I know the way well enough. You mustn’t leave your shooting, Captain Maynard?”

“I cannot continue it; I have no dogs. The very zealous pair of sportsmen to whom I was allotted soon outstripped me, leaving me alone, as you see. If I am not permitted to accompany you, I must – I suppose – I must remain so.”

“Oh, if you’re not going to shoot, you may as well go with me. It may be very lonely for you at the house; but I suppose we’ll find some of the others who have returned.”

“Not lonely,” replied the recreant sportsmen. “Not lonely for me, if you, Miss Vernon, will condescend to give me your company.”

Correctly interpreted, it was a bold speech; and the moment it was made, Maynard regretted it.

He was glad to perceive that it was taken only in the sense of politeness; and, the young girl consenting, he walked with her along the wood-road in the direction of the dwelling.

They were alone, but not unwatched.

Skulking behind them, with gun in hand, and spaniel at his heels, went young Scudamore. He did not attempt to overtake, but only watched them through the wood and along the park path, till they had joined a group of returned ladies, who chanced to be strolling through the lawn.

Chapter Forty Seven.

Just Fifteen

It was the birthday of Blanche Vernon. Partly in view of its celebration had Sir George called the shooting party together.

The morning had passed in the usual manner – shooting through the covers. In the evening there was to be a grand dinner – and after it a dance.

The evening hour had come; and the baronet’s daughter was in her bedroom, attended by Sabina, who had just finished dressing her for dinner.

But during the time of her toilet she had been occupied in the perusal of a newspaper, that seemed greatly to interest her. Every now and then an exclamation escaped her lips, indicative of joy, until at length the journal dropped out of her hands; and she remained musing – as if in some thoughtful reverie. It ended in her making the remark: “I fancy I’m in love.”

“Law! Missy Blanche, why you ’peak so? You too young tink ’bout dat!”

“Too young! How old should one be?”

“Well. Dey do say it ’pend berry much on the nater ob de climate. In dem Wess Indy Island wha it ar hot, dey fall into de affecshun sooner dan hya in Englan’. I know lots ob young Badian girl get married ’fore dey am fo’teen, an’ dey falls in lub sooner dan dat.”

“But I’m fifteen this day. You know it’s my birthday?”

“Ob coas I know dat. Fifteen too young for English girl; ’pecially a lady like you, Missy Blanche.”

“You must remember I lived three years in the West Indies.”

“No matter ’bout dat. It no diffrence make in ’spect ob de rule. In Englan’ you only chile yet.”

“Only a child! Nonsense, Sabby! See how tall I am! That little bed’s become quite too short for me. My toes touch the bottom of it every night. I must have it changed for a bigger one; I must.”

“Don’t signify ’bout you length.”

“Well, I’m sure I’m stout enough. And such a weight! Papa had me weighed the other day at the railway station. Seven stone six pounds – over a hundred pounds. Think of that, Sabby!”

“I know you weighty for you age. But dat ain’t de quessin when you talk ’bout gettin’ married.”

“Getting married. Ha! ha! ha! Who talks of that?”

“Dat what folks go in lub for. It am de natral consequence.”

“Not always, I think.”

“Wha dey am honest in dar lub.”

“Tell me, Sabby, have you ever been in love?”

“Sabby am a Wess Indy Creole; you no need ask de quessin. Why you ask it, Missa?”

“Because – because my cousin spoke to me about love, this morning, when we were in the covers.”

“Mass Frank? Law! he you speak ’bout lub! Wha’d he say, Missy Blanche?”

“He wanted me to promise I should love him, and be true to him.”

“If you him lub, you boun be true to him. Ob coas, you den marry him.”

“What! a boy like that! Marry cousin Frank! Oh, no. When I get married, it must be to a man!”

“Berry clar you no him lub. Den may be dar am some’dy else?”

“You admit that you’ve been in love yourself, Sabby?” said her young mistress, without replying to the last remark.

“I admit dat, Missa. Sabby hab had de feelin’ twice.”

“Twice! That is strange, is it not?”

“Not in de Wess Indy Island.”

“Well, no matter about the second time. If I should ever love twice, then I’d know all about it. Tell me, Sabby, how did it seem the first time? I suppose it’s the same with you coloured people as with us whites?”

“Jess de same – only wif de Creole it am mo’ so.”

“More so! More what?”

“De Creole lub more ’trongly – more burnin’ in da passion I feeled like I kud a ate dat fella up.”

“What fellow?”

“De fust one. I wa’n’t neer so mad atter de oder. I wa good bit older den.”

“But you were never married, Sabina?”

“Nebba.”