The House of de Mailly

by Margaret Horton Potter

Wednesday dawned clear and hot, and from earliest morning every household in the county was in a moil of final preparation. Governor Bladen was to give a dinner to the commissioners and his own staff and officials before the ball. To this, of course, Sir Charles had been bidden, and he, therefore, was to leave the house at four in the afternoon, fully dressed for the evening, wrapped about in a long and voluminous cloak to protect him from the dust and the foam of his horse. As he passed through the sitting-room on his way out to the portico, where his animal waited, he found Deborah standing by a tableful of moss-roses which she was sorting. Passing close to her side he said, gallantly: "Faith, Debby, you'll be no fairer to-night in the satins than you are now in calico." And, while he stopped to take a bud from the heap, he added, in a rapid undertone: "If you'd not drive me mad, little girl, bring your courage with you to-night, and see that you trust to me truly, as I do to you."

Then he passed on, and Deborah, unconscious of what she did, followed him slowly out to the portico and stood gazing after him as he galloped away down the dusty drive. Strange words he had spoken—and the first that he had given her all day. Yet she was not surprised by them. Words were oftentimes superfluous with Deborah, for she had the power of knowing men's thoughts. Dreamily her eyes wandered down the road at the little cloud of dust that lingered after him. She was soon to follow on that way. And how—how was she to return? She could not answer the question, and it was as well that Lucy at that moment called her from the house:

"Come, Debby, come and pack your things for the doctor's to-night. And 'tis nearly time to dress; and oh, Deb! Think of the dancing, and the lights, and our dresses—and all, and all, and all!" And with sober John Whitney gone quite out of her mind for the moment, Lucy fluttered away to her room, leaving Deborah to follow as she would.

His excellency John Bladen, like most colonial governors, knew how to give a dinner to any one, and, most particularly, a dinner to men only. To-night twenty sat at his table: the seven returned commissioners, the gubernatorial staff, the speaker of the Burgesses, the under-secretary, Mr. Robert King, Dr. Charles Carroll (this last from friendship purely), and, for the sake of the Church, the Reverend George Rockwell. The select company ate mightily, but, later, drank more cautiously than usual out of respect to the forthcoming festivities; and finally they sat about the disordered table with some pipes of fine Virginia tobacco, presented by Governor Gooch in lieu of his own presence, some bottles of Madeira from the same patronizing source, and certain good stories, not quite invented for the ear of the Church, but apparently in no way distasteful to the eminent rector of St. Anne's, who, indeed, to be frank, told the best of them himself. It was a man's dinner, an official dinner, where, none the less, the weight of ordinary dignity was for once dropped off, and all went merry as a marriage bell. Sir Charles was seated opposite to Benedict Calvert, with a brother lieutenant on either side of him. His wit was poignant, his laughter ready, and his head cool, albeit there was enough work in his brain to have made a man less careless too anxious to eat. Rockwell being several seats away, it was impossible to speak with him on personal topics; but the moment it was announced that Lady Bladen waited in the drawing-room, Rockwell and Fairfield sought each other through the little throng, as if by mutual understanding.

"You're prepared to go through with it, George?" asked the young man, putting one hand on the rector's shoulder.

"Egad, if you can go it, I can, Sir Charles."

"You'll miss something of the festivity—but you'll be ten pounds heavier in pocket to-morrow, George."

"Ay. And so the lady's consented? Faith! She well may! It's such a chance as she never dreamed of."

"The lady does not know, yet. I'll take her to-night, in the heat of the evening, when her blood will be up. She's rare, George, she's rare! Odds my life that such another woman does not live! I—"

"Tut! Then you're still determined—that—"