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.”
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.