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.
The child sate silent, her body bent, her arms crossed over her knees, her head drooping low between them.
“I need not tell you, either,” continued Sir George, “that I overheard what passed between you and—”
Another pause, as if he hated to pronounce the name.
“This stranger, who has entered my house like a thief and a villain.”
In the drooping form before him there was just perceptible the slightest start, followed by a tinge of red upon her cheek, and a shivering throughout her frame.
She said nothing, though it was plain the speech had given pain to her.
“I know not what words may have been exchanged between you before. Enough what I heard last night—enough to have broken my heart.”
“O father!”
“’Tis true, my child! You know how carefully I’ve brought you up, how tenderly I’ve cherished, how dearly I love you!”
“O father!”
“Yes, Blanche; you’ve been to me all your mother was; the only thing on earth I had to care for, or who cared for me. And this to arise—to blight all my fond expectations—I could not have believed it?”
The young girl’s bosom rose and fell in convulsive undulations, while big tear-drops ran coursing down her cheeks, like a spring shower from the blue canopy of heaven.
“Father, forgive me! You will forgive me!” were the words to which she gave utterance—not in continued speech, but interrupted by spasmodic sobbing.
“Tell me,” said he, without responding to the passionate appeal. “There is something I wish to know—something more. Did you speak to—to Captain Maynard—last night, after—”
“After when, papa?”
“After parting from him outside, under the tree?”
“No, father, I did not.”
“But you wrote to him?”
The cheek of Blanche Vernon, again pale, suddenly became flushed to the colour of carmine. It rose almost to the blue irides of her eyes, still glistening with tears.
Before, it had been a flush of indignation. Now it was the blush of shame. What her father had seen and heard under the deodara, if a sin, was not one for which she felt herself accountable. She had but followed the promptings of her innocent heart, benighted by the noblest passion of her nature.
What she had done since was an action she could have controlled. She was conscious of disobedience, and this was to be conscious of having committed crime. She did not attempt to deny it. She only hesitated through surprise at the question.
“You wrote a note to him?” said her father, repeating it with a slight alteration in the form.
“I did.”
“I will not insist on knowing what was in it. From your candour, my child, I’m sure you would tell me. I only ask you to promise that you will not write to him again.”
“O father!”
“That you will neither write to him, nor see him.”
“O father!”
“On this I insist. But not with the authority I have over you. I have no faith in that. I ask it of you as a favour. I ask it on my knees, as your father, your dearest friend. Full well, my child, do I know your honourable nature; and that if given, it will be kept. Promise me, then, that you will neither write to nor see him again!”
Once more the young girl sobbed convulsively. Her own father—her proud father at her feet as an intercessor! No wonder she wept.
And with the thought of for ever, and by one single word, cutting herself off from all communication with the man she loved—the man who had saved her life only to make it for ever after unhappy!
No wonder she hesitated. No wonder that for a time her heart balanced between duty and love—between parent and lover!
“Dear, dear child!” pursued her father, in a tone of appealing tenderness, “promise you will never know him more—without my permission.”
Was it the agonised accents that moved her? Was it some vague hope, drawn from the condition with which the appeal was concluded?
Whether or no, she gave the promise, though to pronounce it was like splitting her heart in twain.