Chapter Sixty.
A Parting Present.
At parting, there had been no “scene” between Sir George Vernon and his seemingly ungrateful guest.
Nor was the interview a stormy one, as they stood face to face under the shadow of the deodara.
Sir George’s daughter had retired from the spot, her young heart throbbing with pain; while Maynard, deeply humiliated, made no attempt to justify himself.
Had there been light under the tree, Sir George would have seen before him the face of a man that expressed the very type of submission.
For some seconds, there was a profound and painful silence.
It was broken by the baronet:
“After this, sir, I presume it is not necessary for me to point out the course you should pursue? There is only one.”
“I am aware of it, Sir George.”
“Nor is it necessary to say, that I wish to avoid scandal?”
Maynard made no reply; though, unseen, he nodded assent to the proposition.
“You can retire at your leisure, sir; but in ten minutes my carriage will be ready to take you and your luggage to the station.”
It was terrible to be thus talked to; and but for the scandal Sir George had alluded to, Maynard would have replied to it by refusing the proffered service.
But he felt himself in a dilemma. The railway station was full four miles distant.
A fly might be had there; but not without some one going to fetch it. For this he must be indebted to his host. He was in a dress suit, and could not well walk, without courting the notice to be shunned. Besides, there would be his luggage to come after him.
There was no alternative but to accept the obligation.
He did so, by saying—
“In ten minutes, Sir George, I shall be ready. I make no apology for what has passed. I only hope the time may come, when you will look less severely on my conduct.”
“Not likely,” was the dry response of the baronet, and with these words the two parted: Sir George going back to his guests in the drawing-room, Maynard making his way to the apartment that contained his impedimenta.
The packing of his portmanteau did not occupy him half the ten minutes’ time. There was no need to change his dancing-dress. His surtout would sufficiently conceal it.
The bell brought a male domestic; who, shouldering the “trap,” carried it downstairs—though not without wondering why the gent should be taking his departure, at that absurd hour, just as the enjoyment in the drawing-room had reached its height, and a splendid supper was being spread upon the tables!
Maynard having given a last look around the room, to assure himself that nothing had been overlooked, was about preparing to follow the bearer of his portmanteau, when another attaché of the establishment barred his passage on the landing of the stair.
It was also a domestic, but of different kind, sex, and colour.
It was Sabina, of Badian birth.
“Hush! Mass Maynard,” she said, placing her finger on her lips to impress the necessity of silence. “Doan you ’peak above de breff, an’ I tell you someting dat you like hear.”
“What is it?” Maynard asked, mechanically.
“Dat Missy Blanche lub you dearly—wit all de lub ob her young heart. She Sabby tell so—yesserday—dis day—more’n a dozen times, oba an’ oba. So dar am no need you go into despair.”
“Is that all you have to say?” asked he, though without any asperity of tone.
It would have been strange if such talk had not given him pleasure, despite the little information conveyed by it.
“All Sabby hab say; but not all she got do.”
“What have you to do?” demanded Maynard, in an anxious undertone.
“You gib dis,” was the reply of the mulatto, as, with the adroitness peculiar to her race and sex, she slipped something white into the pocket of his surtout.
The carriage wheels were heard outside the hall-door, gritting upon the gravel.
Without danger of being observed, the departing guest could not stay in such company any longer; and passing a half-sovereign into Sabby’s hand, he silently descended the stair, and as silently took seat in the carriage.
The bearer of the portmanteau, as he shut to the carriage door, could not help still wondering at such an ill-timed departure.
“Not a bad sort of gent, anyhow,” was his reflection, as he turned back under the hall-lamp to examine the half-sovereign that had been slipped into his palm.
And while he was doing this, the gent in question was engaged in a far more interesting scrutiny. Long before the carriage had passed out of the park—even while it was yet winding round the “sweep”—its occupant had plunged his hand into the pocket of his surtout and drawn out the paper that had been there so surreptitiously deposited.
It was but a tiny slip—a half-sheet torn from its crested counterfoil. And the writing upon it was in pencil; only a few words, as if scrawled in trembling haste!
The light of the wax-candles, reflected from the silvered lamps, rendered the reading easy; and with a heart surcharged with supreme joy, he 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!”
“Nor I you, Blanche Vernon,” was the reflection of Maynard, as he refolded the slip of paper, and thrust it back into the pocket of his coat.
He took it out, and re-read it before reaching the railway station; and once again, by the light of a suspended lamp, as he sat solitary in a carriage of the night mail train, up for the metropolis.
Then folding it more carefully, he slipped it into his card-case, to be placed in a pocket nearer his heart; if not the first, the sweetest guage d’amour he had ever received in his life!