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.