“Liking is not love,” murmured Kate, as if speaking to herself.
“It may turn to it,” said the Custos, encouragingly. “It often does—especially when two people become man and wife. Besides, it’s not always best for young married folks to be too fond of each other at first. As my old spelling book used to say, ‘Hot love soon grows cold.’ Never fear, Kate! you’ll get to like Mr Smythje well enough, when you come to be the mistress of Montagu Castle, and take rank as the grandest lady of the Island. Won’t that be happiness, little Kate?”
“Ah!” thought the young Creole, “a cabin shared with him would be greater happiness—far, far greater!”
It is needless to say that the “him” to whom the thought pointed was not Smythje.
“As Mrs Montagu Smythje,” proceeded the Custos, with a design of painting the future prospects of his daughter in still more glowing tints, “you will have troops of friends—the highest in the land. And remember, my child, it is not so note. You know it, Catherine?”
These last words were pronounced in a tone suggestive of some secret understanding between father and daughter.
Whether the speech produced the desired effect, he who made it did not stay to perceive; but continued on in the same breath to finish the rose-coloured picture he had essayed to paint.
“Yes, my little Kate! you will be the observed of all observers—the cynosure of every eye, as the poets say. Horses, slaves, dresses, carriages at will. You will make a grand tour to London—egad! I feel like going myself! In the great metropolis you will hob-nob with lords and ladies; visit the operas and balls, where you will be a belle, my girl—a belle, do you hear? Every one will be talking of Mrs Montagu Smythje! How do you like it now?”
“Ah, papa!” replied the young Creole, evidently unmoved by these promises of pomp and grandeur, “I should not like it at all. I am sure I should not. I never cared for such things—you know I do not. They cannot give happiness—at least, not to me. I should never be happy away from our own home. What pleasure should I have in a great city? None, I am sure; but quite the contrary. I should miss our grand mountains and woods—our beautiful trees with their gay, perfumed blossoms—our bright-winged birds with their sweet songs! Operas and balls! I dislike balls; and to be the belle of one—papa, I detest the word!”
Kate, at that moment, was thinking of the Smythje ball, and its disagreeable souvenirs—perhaps the more disagreeable that, oftener than once, during the night she had heard the phrase “belle of the ball” applied to one who had aided in the desolation of her heart.