Presently, old Bobby seemed to be sufficiently sated with this particular form of theatrical entertainment, and turned round pleasantly to the remainder of the company. ‘My son,’ he said, not without a real touch of heart-felt, paternal pride, as he glanced towards the gentlemanly looking and well-dressed young doctor, ‘your fellow-passengers! Introduce me! Which is de son of my ole and valued friend, de Honourable James Hawtorn, of Wagwater?’
Dr Whitaker, glad to divert attention from himself on any excuse, waved his hand quietly towards Edward.
‘How do you do, Mr Whitaker?’ Edward said, in as low and quiet a tone as possible, anxious as he was to disappoint the little gaping crowd of amused spectators. ‘We have all derived a great deal of pleasure from your son’s society on our way across. His music has been the staple entertainment of the whole voyage. We have appreciated it immensely.’
But old Bobby was not to be put off with private conversation aside in a gentle undertone. He was accustomed to living his life in public, and he wasn’t going to be balked of his wonted entertainment. ‘Yes, Mr Hawtorn,’ he answered in a loud voice, ‘you are right, sah. De taste for music an’ de taste for beauty in de ladies are two tastes dat are seldom wantin’ to de sons or de grandsons of Africa, however far removed from de original negro.’ (As he spoke, he glanced back with a touch of contempt and an infinite superiority of manner at the pure-blooded blacks, who were now busily engaged in picking up portmanteaus from the deck, and squabbling with one another as to which was to carry the buckras’ luggage. Your mulatto, however dark, always in a good-humoured, tolerant way, utterly despises his coal-black brethren.) ‘Bote dose tastes are highly developed in my own pusson. Bote no doubt my son, Wilberforce Clarkson Whitaker, is liable to inherit from his fader’s family. In de exercise of de second, I cannot fail to perceive dat dis lady beside you must be Mrs Hawtorn. Sah’—with a sidelong leer of his fat eyes—‘I congratulate you mos’ sincerely on your own taste in female beauty. A very nice, fresh-lookin’ young lady, Mrs Hawtorn.’
Marian’s face grew fiery red; and Edward hardly knew whether to laugh off the awkward compliment, or to draw himself up and stroll away, as though the conversation had reached its natural ending.
‘And de odder young lady,’ Bobby went on, quite unconscious of the effect he had produced—‘de odder young lady? Your sister, now, or Mrs Hawtorn’s?’
‘This is Miss Dupuy of Orange Grove,’ Edward answered hesitatingly; for he hardly knew what remark old Bobby might next venture upon. And indeed, as a matter of fact, the old mulatto’s conversation, even in the presence of ladies, was not at all times restrained by all those artificial rules of decorum imposed on most of us by what appeared to him a ridiculously strait-laced and puritanical white conventionality.
But Edward’s answer seemed to have an extraordinary effect in sobering and toning down the old man’s exuberant volubility; he pulled off his hat with a respectful bow, and said in a lower and more polite voice: ‘I have de honour of knowing Miss Dupuy’s fader; I am proud to make Miss Dupuy’s acquaintance.’
‘Here, Bobby!’ the captain called out from a little forward—‘you come here, say. The first-officer wants to introduce you’—with a wink at Edward—‘to His Excellency the Peruvian ambassador.—Look here, Mr Hawthorn; don’t you let Bobby talk too long to your ladies, sir. He sometimes blurts out something, you know, that ladies ain’t exactly accustomed to. We seafaring men are a bit rough on occasion ourselves, certainly; but we know how to behave for all that before the women.—Bobby, don’t; you’d better be careful.’
‘Thank you,’ Edward said, and again felt his heart smitten with a sort of remorse for poor Dr Whitaker. That quick, sensitive, enthusiastic young man to be tied down for life to such a father! It was too terrible. In fact, it was a tragedy.