Chapter Sixty Three.
“It is sweet—so sweet.”
Transported in his cab, Captain Maynard was set down safely at his lodgings in the proximity of Portman Square.
A latch-key let him in, without causing disturbance to his landlady.
Though once more in his own rooms, with a couch that seemed to invite him to slumber, he could not sleep. All night long he lay tossing upon it, thinking of Blanche Vernon.
The distraction, caused by his encounter with Julia Girdwood, had lasted no longer than while this lady was by his side in the railway carriage.
At the moment of her disappearance from the platform, back into his thoughts came the baronet’s daughter—back before his mental vision the remembrance of her roseate cheeks and golden hair.
The contretemps had been disagreeable—a thing to be regretted. Yet, thinking over it, he was not wretched; scarce unhappy. How could he be, with those tender speeches still echoing in his ears—that piece of paper in his possession, which once again he had taken out, and read under the light of his own lamp?
It was painful to think “papa would never sanction her seeing him again.” But this did not hinder him from having a hope.
It was no more the mediaeval time; nor is England the country of cloisters, where love, conscious of being returned, lays much stress on the parental sanction. Still might such authority be an obstruction, not to be thought lightly of; nor did Maynard so think of it.
Between the proud baronet and himself, he had placed a barrier he might never be able to remove—a social gulf that would separate them for ever!
Were there no means of bridging it? Could none be devised?
For long hours these questions kept him awake; and he went to sleep without finding answer to them.
During the same hours was she, too, lying awake—thinking in the same way.
She had other thoughts, and among them fears. She had yet to face her father!
Returning, as she had done to her own room, she had not seen him since the hour of her shame.
But there was a morrow when she would have to meet him—perhaps be called upon for a full confession.
It might seem as if there was nothing more to be told. But the necessity of having to comfort her father, and repeat what was already known, would of itself be sufficiently painful.
Besides, there was her after-action—in the surreptitious penning of that little note. She had done it in haste, yielding to the instinct of love, and while its frenzy was upon her.
Now in the calm quiet of her chamber, when the spasmodic courage of passion had departed, she felt doubtful of what she had done.
It was less repentance of the act, than fear for the consequences. What if her father should also learn that? If he should have a suspicion and ask her?
She knew she must confess. She was as yet too young, too guileless, to think of subterfuge. She had just practised one; but it was altogether different from the telling of an untruth. It was a falsehood even prudery itself might deem pardonable.
But her father would not, and she knew it. Angry at what he already knew, it would add to his indignation—perhaps strengthen it to a storm. How would she withstand it?
She lay reflecting in fear.
“Dear Sabby!” she said, “do you think he will suspect it?”
The question was to the coloured attendant, who, having a tiny couch in the adjoining ante-chamber, sate up late by her young mistress, to converse with and comfort her.
“’Speck what? And who am to hab de saspicion?”
“About the note you gave him. My father, I mean.”
“You fadda! I gub you fadda no note. You wand’in in your ’peach, Missy Blanche!”
“No—no. I mean what you gave him—the piece of paper I entrusted you with.”
“Oh, gub Massa Maynar! Ob coas I gub it him.”
“And you think no one saw you?”
“Don’t ’tink anyting ’bout it. Satin shoo nobody see dat Sabby, she drop de leetle billydou right into de genlum’s pocket—de outside coat pocket—wha it went down slick out ob sight. Make you mind easy ’bout dat, Missy Blanche. ’Twan’t possible nob’dy ked a seed de tramfer. Dey must ha hab de eyes ob an Argoos to dedect dat.”
The over-confidence with which Sabby spoke indicated a doubt.
She had one; for she had noticed eyes upon her, though not those of an Argus. They were in the head of Blanche’s own cousin, Scudamore.
The Creole suspected that he had seen her deliver the note, but took care to keep her suspicions to herself.
“No, missy, dear,” she continued. “Doan trouble you head ’bout dat ’ere. Sabby gub de note all right. Darfore why shed you fadda hab ’spicion ’bout it?”
“I don’t know,” answered the young girl. “And yet I cannot help having fear.”
She lay for a while silent, as if reflecting. It was not altogether on her fears.
“What did he say to you, Sabby?” she asked at length.
“You mean Massa Maynar?”
“Yes.”
“He no say much. Da wan’t no time.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Wa, yes,” drawled the Creole, nonplussed for an answer—“yes; he say, ‘Sabby—you good Sabby; you tell Missy Blanche dat no matter what turn up, I lub her for ebba and ebba mo.’”
The Creole displayed the natural cunning of her race in conceiving this passionate speech—their adroitness in giving tongue to it.
It was a fiction, besides being commonplace. Notwithstanding this, it gave gratification to her young mistress, as she intended it should.
And it also brought sleep to her eyes. Soon after, resting her cheek upon the pillow, whose white case was almost hidden under the loose flood of her dishevelled hair, she sank into slumber.
It was pleasant, if not profound. Sabby, sitting beside the bed, and gazing upon the countenance of the sleeper, could tell by the play of her features that her spirit was disturbed by a dream.
It could not be a painful one. Otherwise would it have contradicted the words, that in soft murmuring came forth from her unconscious lips:
“I now know that he loves me. Oh! it is sweet—so sweet!”
“Dat young gal am in lub to de berry tops ob her toe nails. Sleepin’ or wakin’ she nebba get cured ob dat passion—nebba?” And with this sage forecast, the Creole took up the bedroom candlestick, and silently retired.