Kitabı oku: «The Child Wife», sayfa 8

Chapter Nineteen.
Blanche and Sabina

On parting from the pier most of the passengers forsook the upper deck, and went scattering to their state-rooms.

A few remained lingering above; among them the gentleman to whom belonged the golden-haired girl, and the servant with skin of kindred colour.

He did not stay, as one who takes a leaving look at his native land. It was evidently not his. In his own features, and those of the child held in his hand, there was an unmistakable expression of “Englishism,” as seen in its nobler type.

The coloured domestic, more like America, was still not of the “States.” Smaller and more delicate features, with a peculiar sparkle of the eye, told of a West Indian origin – a negress for her mother, with a white man, perhaps Frenchman or Spaniard, for her father.

Any doubts about the gentleman’s nationality would have been dispelled by listening to a brief dialogue that soon after occurred between him and a fourth personage who appeared upon the scene.

This last was a young fellow in dark coat and trousers, the coat having flap-pockets outside. The style betokened him a servant – made further manifest by the black leathern cockade upon his hat.

He had just come from below.

Stepping up to the gentleman, and giving the unmistakable salute, he pronounced his master’s name:

“Sir George!”

“What is it, Freeman?”

“They are stowing the luggage between decks, Sir George; and want to know what pieces your excellency wishes to be kept for the state-rooms. I’ve put aside the black bag and the yellow portmanteau, and the large one with Miss Blanche’s things. The bullock trunk? Is it to go below, Sir George?”

“Why, yes – no. Stay! What a bother! I must go down myself. Sabina! keep close by the child. Here, Blanche! you can sit upon this cane seat; and Sabina will hold the umbrella over you. Don’t move away from here till I come back.”

Sir George’s assiduous care may be understood, by saying that Blanche was his daughter – his only child.

Laying hold of the brass baluster-rail, and sliding his hand along it; he descended the stair, followed by Freeman.

Blanche sat down as directed; the mulatto opening a light silk umbrella and holding it over her head. It was not raining; only to protect her from the sun.

Looking at Blanche, one could not wonder at Sir George being so particular. She was a thing to be shielded. Not that she appeared of delicate health, or in any way fragile. On the contrary, her form showed strength and rotundity unusual for a girl of thirteen. She was but little over it.

Perhaps it was her complexion he was thinking of. It certainly appeared too precious to be exposed to the sun.

And yet the sun had somewhere played upon, without spoiling it. Rather was it improved by the slight embrowning, as the bloom enriches the skin of the apricot. He seemed to have left some of his rays amidst the tresses of her hair, causing them to shine like his own glorious beams.

She remained upon the seat where her father had left her. The position gave her a fine view of the bay and its beautiful shores, of Staten Island and its villas, picturesquely placed amidst groves of emerald green.

But she saw, without observing them. The ships, too, swept past unobserved by her; everything, even the objects immediately around her upon the deck of the steamer. Her eyes only turned toward one point – the stairway – where people were ascending, and where her father had gone down.

And looking that way, she sat silent, though not abstracted. She was apparently watching for some one to come up.

“Miss Blanche,” said the mulatto, observing this, “you no need look, you fader not back for long time yet. Doan you ’member in dat Wes’ Indy steamer how much trouble dem baggages be? It take de governor great while sort ’em.”

“I’m not looking for father,” responded the child, still keeping her eyes sternward.

“Who den? You ben tinkin’ ’bout somebody.”

“Yes, Sabby, I’m thinking of him. I want to see how he looks when near. Surely he will come up here?”

“Him! Who you ’peak’ ’bout, Miss Blanche? De cap’in ob the ship?”

“Captain of the ship! Oh, no, no! That’s the captain up there. Papa told me so. Who cares to look at an old fellow like that?”

While speaking, she had pointed to Skipper Shannon, seen pacing upon the “bridge.”

“Den who you mean?” asked the perplexed Sabina.

“Oh, Sabby! sure you might know.”

“’Deed Sabby doan know.”

“Well, that gentleman the people cheered so. A man told papa they were all there to take leave of him. Didn’t they take leave of him in an odd way? Why, the men in big beards actually kissed him. I saw them kiss him. And the young girls! you saw what they did, Sabby. Those girls appear to be very forward.”

“Dey war’ nothin’ but trash – dem white gals.”

“But the gentleman? I wonder who he is? Do you think it’s a prince?”

The interrogatory was suggested by a remembrance. Only once in her life before had the child witnessed a similar scene. Looking out of a window in London, she had been spectator to the passage of a prince. She had heard the hurrahs, and seen the waving of hats and handkerchiefs. Alike, though with perhaps a little less passion – less true enthusiasm. Since then, living a tranquil life in one of the Lesser Antilles – of which her father was governor – she had seen little of crowds, and less of such excited assemblages as that just left behind. It was not strange she should recall the procession of the prince.

And yet how diametrically opposite were the sentiments that actuated the two scenes of which she had been spectator! So much that even the West Indian woman – the child of a slave – knew the difference.

“Prince!” responded Sabina, with a disdainful toss of the head, that proclaimed her a loyal “Badian.” “Prince in dis ’Merica country! Dere’s no sich ting. Dat fella dey make so much muss ’bout, he only a ’publican.”

“A publican?”

“Yes, missy. You dem hear shout, ‘Vive de publique!’ Dey all ’publicans in dis Unite States.”

The governor’s daughter was nonplussed; she knew what publicans were. She had lived in London where there is at least one in every street – inhabiting its most conspicuous house. But a whole nation of them?

“All publicans!” she exclaimed, in surprise. “Come, Sabby, you’re telling me a story.”

“’Deed no, Miss Blanche. Sabby tell you de truth. True as gospels, ebbery one of dese ’Merican people are ’publicans.”

“Who drinks it then?”

“Drink what?”

“Why, what they sell! The wine, and the beer, and the gin. In London they don’t have anything else – the publicans don’t.”

“Oh! now I comprehend you, missy. I see you no me unerstan’, chile. I no mean dat sort as sell de drink. Totally different aldegidder. Dere am republicans as doan believe in kings and kweens – not even in our good Victorie. Dey believe only in de common people dat’s bad and wicked.”

“Stuff, Sabby! I’m sure you must be mistaken. That young man isn’t wicked. At least he doesn’t look so; and they believe in him. You saw how they all honoured him; and though it does seem bold for those girls to have kissed him, I think I would have done so myself. He looked so proud, so beautiful, so good! He’s ten times prettier than the prince I saw in London. That he is!”

“Hush up, chile! Doan let your fader, de royal gov’nor, hear you talk dat way. He boun’ be angry. I know he doan favour dem ’publicans, and woan like you praise ’em. He hate ’em like pisen snake.”

Blanche made no rejoinder. She had not even listened to the sage caution. Her ears had become closed to the speeches of Sabina at sight of a man who was at that moment ascending the stair.

It was he about whom they had been conversing.

Once upon the deck he took his stand close to the spot where the child was seated, looking back up the bay.

As his face was slightly turned from her, she had a fair chance of scrutinising him, without being detected.

And she made this scrutiny with the ardent curiosity of a child.

He was not alone. By his side was the man she had seen along with him in the carriage.

But she had no eyes for the middle-aged gentleman with huge grizzly moustachios. Only for him, whose hand those girls had been so eager to clasp and kiss.

And she sat scanning him, with strange, wondering eyes, as the Zenaida dove looks upon the shining constrictor. Scanning him from head to foot, heedless of the speeches of Sabina, whose West Indian experience must have made her acquainted with the fascination of the serpent.

It was but the wonder of a child for something that has crossed its track – something new and abnormal – grander than a toy – brighter, even, than a fancy called up by the tales of Aladdin.

Chapter Twenty.
“The Wondering Eyes.”

Once more Maynard stood upon the deck of a sea-going vessel, his eyes bent upon the white seethy track lengthening out behind him.

In its sea-view the Empire City is unfortunate, presenting scarce a point worthy of being remembered. There is no salient feature like the great dome of Saint Paul’s, in London, the Arc de Triomphe, of Paris, or even the Saint Charles Hotel, as you sweep round the English Turn, in sight of New Orleans. In approaching New York City, your eye rests on two or three sharp spires, more befitting the architecture of a village church, and a mean-looking cupola, that may be the roof either of a circus or gasworks! The most striking object is the curious circular Castle with its garden behind it; but this requires a distant view to hide its neglected condition; and, lying low, it becomes only prominent when too near to stand scrutiny.

In the improvement of this point, New York has a splendid opportunity to redeem the shabbiness of its seaward aspect. It is still city property, I believe; and if it had Haussmart, instead of Hoffman, for its mayor, the city of Manhattan would soon present to its bay a front worthy of this noble estuary.

To return from our digression upon themes civic, economic, and architectural, to the Cambria steamer fast forging on toward the ocean.

The revolutionary leader had no such thoughts as he stood upon her deck, taking the last look at the city of New York. His reflections were different; one of them being, whether it was indeed to be his last!

He was leaving a land he had long lived in, and loved: its people and its institutions. He was proceeding upon an enterprise of great peril; not as the legalised soldier, who has no fear before him save death on the battle-field, or a period of imprisonment; but as a revolutionist and rebel, who, if defeated, need expect no mercy – only a halter and a tombless grave.

It was at a time, however, when the word rebel was synonymous with patriot; before it became disgraced by that great rebellion – the first in all history sinful and without just cause – the first that can be called inglorious.

Then the term was a title to be proud of – the thing itself a sacred duty; and inspired by these thoughts, he looked before him without fear, and behind with less regret.

It would not be true to say, that he was altogether indifferent to the scenes receding from his view. Many bonds of true friendship had been broken; many hands warmly shaken, perhaps never to be grasped again!

And there was one severance, where a still tenderer tie had been torn asunder.

But the spasm had passed some time ago – more keenly felt by him on the deck of that steamer leaving the harbour of Newport.

A week had elapsed since then – a week spent amidst exciting scenes and in the companionship of kindred spirits – in the enrolling-room surrounded by courageous filibusters – in the Bairisch beer-saloons with exiled republican patriots – amidst the clinking of glasses, filled out of long-necked Rhine wine bottles, and quaffed to the songs of Schiller, and the dear German fatherland.

It was fortunate for Maynard that this stormy life had succeeded the tranquillity of the Newport Hotel. It enabled him to think less about Julia Girdwood. Still was she in his mind, as the steamer left Staten Island in her wake, and was clearing her way through the Narrows.

But before Sandy Hook was out of sight, the proud girl had gone away from his thoughts, and with the suddenness of thought itself!

This quick forgetfulness calls for explanation.

The last look at a land, where a sweetheart has been left behind, will not restore the sighing heart to its tranquillity. It was not this that had produced such an abrupt change in the spirit of the lover.

No more was it the talk of Roseveldt, standing by his side, and pouring into his ear those revolutionary ideas, for which the Count had so much suffered.

The change came from a cause altogether different, perhaps the only one capable of effecting such a transformation.

“Un clavo saca otro clavo,” say the Spaniards, of all people the most knowing in proverbial lore. “One nail drives out another.” A fair face can only be forgotten by looking upon one that is fairer.

Thus came relief to Captain Maynard.

Turning to go below, he saw a face so wonderfully fair, so strange withal, that almost mechanically he stayed his intention, and remained lingering on the deck.

In less than ten minutes after, he was in love with a child!

There are those who will deem this an improbability; perhaps pronounce it unnatural.

Nevertheless it was true; for we are recording an actual experience.

As Maynard faced towards the few passengers that remained upon the upper deck, most of them with eyes fixed upon the land they were leaving, he noticed one pair that were turned upon himself. At first he read in them only an expression of simple curiosity; and his own thought was the same as he returned the glance.

He saw a child with grand golden hair – challenging a second look. And this he gave, as one who regards something pretty and superior of its kind.

But passing from the hair to the eyes, he beheld in them a strange, wondering gaze, like that given by the gazelle or the fawn of the fallow-deer, to the saunterer in a zoological garden, who has tempted it to the edge of its enclosure.

Had the glance been only transitory, Maynard might have passed on, though not without remembering it.

But it was not. The child continued to gaze upon him, regardless of all else around.

And so on till a man of graceful mien – grey-haired and of paternal aspect – came alongside, caught her gently by the hand, and led her away, with the intention of taking her below.

On reaching the head of the stairway she glanced back, still with that same wildering look; and again, as the bright face with its golden glories sweeping down behind it, disappeared below the level of the deck.

“What’s the matter with you, Maynard?” asked the Count, seeing that his comrade had become suddenly thoughtful. “By the way you stand looking after that little sprout, one might suppose her to be your own!”

“My dear Count,” rejoined Maynard, in an earnest, appealing tone, “I beg you won’t jest with me – at all events, don’t laugh, when I tell you how near you have hit upon my wish.”

“What wish?”

“That she were my own.”

“As how?”

“As my wife.”

“Wife! A child not fourteen years of age! Cher capitaine! you are turning Turk! Such ideas are not becoming to a revolutionary leader. Besides, you promised to have no other sweetheart than your sword! Ha – ha – ha! How soon you’ve forgotten the naiad of Newport!”

“I admit it. I’m glad I have been able to do so. It was altogether different. It was not true love, but only – never mind what. But now I feel – don’t laugh at me, Roseveldt. I assure you I am sincere. That child has impressed me with a feeling I never had before. Her strange look has done it. I know not why or wherefore she looked so. I feel as if she had sounded the bottom of my soul! It may be fate, destiny – whatever you choose to call it – but as I live, Roseveldt, I have a presentiment – she will yet be my wife!”

“If such be her and your destiny,” responded Roseveldt, “don’t suppose I shall do anything to obstruct its fulfilment. She appears to be the daughter of a gentleman, though I must confess I don’t much like his looks. He reminds me of the class we are going to contend against. No matter for that. The girl’s only an infant; and before she can be ready to marry you, all Europe may be Republican, and you a Présidant! Now, cher capitaine! let us below, else the steward may have our fine Havanas stowed away under hatches; and then such weeds as we’d have to smoke during the voyage!” From sentiment to cigars was an abrupt change. But Maynard was no romantic dreamer; and complying with his fellow-traveller’s request, he descended to the state-room to look after the disposal of their portmanteaus.

Chapter Twenty One.
A Short-Lived Triumph

While the hero of C – was thus starting to seek fresh fame on a foreign shore, he came very near having his escutcheon stained in the land he was leaving behind him!

At the time that his name was a shout of triumph in noisy New York, it was being pronounced in the quiet circles of Newport with an accent of scorn.

By many it was coupled with the word “coward.”

Mr Swinton enjoyed his day of jubilee.

It did not last long; though long enough to enable this accomplished card-player to make a coup.

From the repute obtained by the sham challenge, aided by the alliance of Louis Lucas, he was not long in discovering some of those pigeons for whose especial plucking he had made the crossing of the Atlantic.

They were not so well feathered as he had expected to find them. Still did he obtain enough to save him from the necessity of taking to a hack, or the fair Frances to a mangle.

For the cashiered guardsman – now transformed into a swindler – it promised to be a golden time. But the promise was too bright to be of long continuance, and his transient glory soon became clouded with suspicion; while that of his late adversary was released from the stigma that for a time had attached to it.

A few days after Maynard had taken his departure from New York, it became known why he had left so abruptly. The New York newspapers contained an explanation of this. He had been elected to the leadership of what was by them termed the “German expedition”; and had responded to the call.

Honourable as this seemed to some, it did not quite justify him in the eyes of others, acquainted with his conduct in the affair with Swinton. His insult to the Englishman had been gross in the extreme, and above all considerations he should have stayed to give him satisfaction.

But the papers now told of his being in New York. Why did Mr Swinton not follow him there? This, of course, was but a reflection on the opposite side, and both now appeared far from spotless.

So far as regarded Maynard, the spots were at length removed; and before he had passed out of sight of Sandy Hook, his reputation as a “gentleman and man of honour” was completely restored.

An explanation is required. In a few words it shall be given.

Shortly after Maynard had left, it became known in the Ocean House that on the morning after the ball, and at an early hour a strange gentleman arriving by the New York boat had made his way to Maynard’s room, staying with him throughout the day.

Furthermore, that a letter had been sent addressed to Mr Swinton, and delivered to his valet. The waiter to whom it had been intrusted was the authority for these statements.

What could that letter contain?

Mr Lucas should know, and Mr Lucas was asked.

But he did not know. So far from being acquainted with the contents of the letter in question, he was not even aware that an epistle had been sent.

On being told of it, he felt something like a suspicion of being compromised, and at once determined on demanding from Swinton an explanation.

With this resolve he sought the Englishman in his room.

He found him there, and with some surprise discovered him in familiar discourse with his servant.

“What’s this I’ve heard, Mr Swinton?” he asked upon entering.

“Aw – aw; what, my deaw Lucas?”

“This letter they’re talking about.”

“Lettaw – lettaw! I confess supweme ignowance of what you mean, my deaw Lucas.”

“Oh, nonsense! Didn’t you receive a letter from Maynard – the morning after the ball?”

Swinton turned white, looking in all directions except into the eyes of Lucas. He was hesitating to gain time – not with the intention of denying it. He knew that he dare not.

“Oh! yas – yas!” he replied at length. “There was a lettaw – a very queaw epistle indeed. I did not get it that day till after yaw had gone. My valet Fwank, stoopid fellow! had thrown it into a cawner. I only wed it on the following mawning.”

“You have it still, I suppose?”

“No, indeed I lit my cigaw with the absawd epistle.”

“But what was it about?”

“Well – well; it was a sort of apology on the part of Mr Maynard – to say he was compelled to leave Newport by the evening bawt. It was signed by his fwend Wupert Woseveldt, calling himself a Count of the Austwian Empire. After weading it, and knowing that the writer was gone, I didn’t think it wawth while to twouble you any fawther about the disagweeable business.”

“By Gad! Mr Swinton, that letter’s likely to get us both into a scrape!”

“But why, my deaw fellow?”

“Why? Because everybody wants to know what it was about. You say you’ve destroyed it?”

“Tore it into taypaws, I ashaw you.”

“More’s the pity. It’s well-known that a letter was sent and delivered to your servant. Of course every one supposes that it came to your hands. We’re bound to give some explanation.”

“Twue – twue. What daw you suggest, Mr Lucas?”

“Why, the best way will be to tell the truth about it. You got the letter too late to make answer to it. It’s already known why, so that, so far as you are concerned, the thing can’t be any worse. It lets Maynard out of the scrape – that’s all.”

“Yaw think we’d better make a clean bweast of it?”

“I’m sure of it. We must.”

“Well, Mr Lucas, I shall agwee to anything yaw may think pwopaw. I am so much indebted to yaw.”

“My dear sir,” rejoined Lucas, “it’s no longer a question of what’s proper. It is a necessity that this communication passed between Mr Maynard and yourself should be explained. I am free, I suppose, to give the explanation?”

“Oh, pawfectly free. Of cawse – of cawse.”

Lucas left the room, determined to clear himself from all imputation.

The outside world was soon after acquainted with the spirit, if not the contents of that mysterious epistle; which re-established the character of the man who wrote, while damaging that of him who received it.

From that hour Swinton ceased to be an eagle in the estimation of the Newport society. He was not even any longer a successful hawk – the pigeons becoming shy. But his eyes were still bent upon that bird of splendid plumage – far above all others – worth the swooping of a life!