The Child Wife

There was just a tinge of shadow on Sabina’s brow, as she made this confession.

“Why you ask all dese quessins, Missy Blanche? You no gwine think fall in lub, nor get married?”

“I don’t think of it, Sabby. I only fear that I have fallen in love. I fancy I have.”

“Law! shoolly you know whetha you hab?”

“No, indeed. It’s for that reason I wish you to tell me how it seemed to you.”

“Well, I tole you it feel I kud eat de fella.”

“Oh! that is very absurd. You must be jesting, Sabby? I’m sure I don’t feel that way.”

“Den how, Missa?”

“Well, I should like him to be always with me, and nobody else near. And I should like him to be always talking to me; I listening and looking at him; especially into his eyes. He has such beautiful eyes. And they looked so beautiful to-day, when I met him in the wood! We were alone. It was the first time. How much pleasanter it was than to be among so many people! I wish papa’s guests would all go away, and leave only him. Then we could be always together alone.”

“Why, Missa, who you talk ’bout? Massa Cudamore?”

“No – no. Not Frank. He might go with the rest. I don’t care for his staying.”

“Who den?”

“Oh, Sabby, you know? You should know.”

“Maybe Sabby hab a ’spicion. P’raps she no far ’stray to tink it am de gen’lum dat Missa ’company home from de shootin’ cubbas.”

“Yes; it is he. I’m not afraid to tell you, Sabby.”

“You betta no tell nob’dy else. You fadder know dat, he awfu angry. I’m satin shoo he go berry mad ’bout it.”

“But why? Is there any harm in it?”

“Ah, why! Maybe you find out in time. You betta gib you affecshun to your cousin Cudamore.”

“Impossible to do that. I don’t like him. I can’t.”

“An’ you like de oder?”

“Certainly I do. I can’t help it. How could I?” The Creole did not much wonder at this. She belonged to a race of women wonderfully appreciative of the true qualities of men; and despite a little aversion at first, felt she had learned to like the ’publican captain. It was he of whom they were speaking.

“But, Missa, tell me de truth. You tink he like you?”

“I do not know. I’d give a great deal to think so.”

“How much you gib?”

“All the world – if I had it. Oh, dear Sabby I do you believe he does?”

“Well; Sabby blieve he no hate you.”

“Hate me! no – no. Surely he could not do that!”

“Surely not,” was the reflection of the Creole, equally well-skilled in the qualities of women.

“How could he?” she thought, gazing upon her young mistress, with an eye that recognised in her a type of all that may be deemed angelic.

“Well, Missy Blanche,” she said, without declaring her thoughts, “whetha he like you or no, take Sabby advice, an’ no tell any one you hab de likin’ for him. I satin shoo dat not greeable to you fadder. It breed trouble – big trouble. Keep dis ting to youse – buried down deep in you own buzzum. No fear Sabby ’tray you. No, Missy Blanche; she tink you dear good child. She tan by you troo de tick and thin – for ebba.”

“Thanks, dear Sabby! I know you will; I know it.”

“Das’ de dinna bell. Now you must go down to drawin’-room; and doan make dat ere cousin ob yours angry. I mean Massa Cudamore. Berry ’trange young buckra dat. Hab temper ob de debbil an’ de cunnin’ ob a sarpint. If he ’spect you tink ’bout de Capten Maynad, he big trouble wit you fadder breed, shoo as snakes am snakes. So, Missy Blanche, you keep dark ’bout all dese tings, till de time come for confessin’ dem.”

Blanche, already dressed for dinner, descended to the drawing-room, but not before promising obedience to the injunction of her Creole confidante.

Chapter Forty Eight.

The Dinner

The dinner-party of that day was the largest Sir George had given. As already known, it was the fifteenth birthday of Blanche, his only child.

The guests intended to take seats at the table had been carefully selected. In addition to those staying at the Hall, there were others specially invited for the occasion – of course, the first families of the shire, who dwelt within dining distance.

In all, there were over twenty – several of them distinguished by titles – while twice as many more were expected to drop in afterwards. A dance was to follow the dinner.

As Maynard, having made his toilet, descended to the drawing-room, he found it comfortably filled. Bevies of beautiful women were seated upon the sofas, each in a wonderful abundance of skirt, and a still more surprising scantiness of bodice and sleeves.

Interspersed among them were the gentlemen, all in deep black, relieved only by the time-honoured white choker – their plain dresses contrasting oddly with the rich silks and satins that rustled around them.

Soon after entering the room, he became conscious of being under all eyes – both male and female: in short, their cynosure.

It was something beyond the mere customary glance given to a new guest on his announcement. As the butler in stentorian voice proclaimed his name, coupling it with his military title, a thrill appeared to pass through the assemblage. The “swell” in tawny moustache, forsaking his habitual air of superciliousness, turned readily toward him; dowagers and duchesses, drawing out their gold-rimmed glasses, ogled him with a degree of interest unusual for these grand dames; while their daughters vouchsafed glances of a more speaking and pleasant nature.

Maynard did not know what to make of it. A stranger of somewhat peculiar antecedents, he might expect scrutiny.

But not of that concentrated kind – in a company reputed above all others for its good breeding.

He was himself too well-bred to be taken aback. Besides, he saw before him faces that appeared friendly; while the eyes of the discriminating dowagers, seen through their pebbles, instead of quizzing, seemed to regard him with admiration!

Though not disconcerted, he could not help feeling surprised. Many of those present he had met before; had hunted, shot, and even dined with them. Why should they be now receiving him with an interest not hitherto exhibited?

The explanation was given by his host, who, approaching in a friendly manner, pronounced the words:

“Captain Maynard, we congratulate you!”

“On what, Sir George?” inquired the astonished guest.

“Your literary success. We had already heard, sir, of your skill in wielding the sword. We were not aware that you were equally skilful with another and like honourable weapon – the pen.”