In the interior court of a beautiful Moorish villa not far from the city, sat Mrs Langley, wife of Colonel Langley, British consul at the “Court” of Algiers.

 

The lady of whom we write was unusually romantic, for her romance consisted of a deep undercurrent of powerful but quiet enthusiasm, with a pretty strong surface-flow of common-sense. Her husband was a man of noble mind and commanding presence—a magnificent representative John Bull, with the polish of a courtier and the principles of a Christian; one who had been wisely chosen to fill a very disagreeable post, full of responsibility and danger.

 

On a stool at the feet of Mrs Langley sat a sunny second edition of herself, about eight years of age, named Agnes. In the cradle which Agnes had formerly occupied reposed a remarkably plump and dimpled representative of the Colonel. When respectfully addressed he was called Jim, but he was more familiarly known as Baby.

 

A small negress from beyond the Zahara, and blacker than any coal, rocked Jim violently. For this—not the rocking, but the violence—she had been unavailingly rebuked by Mrs Langley, until that lady’s heart had nearly lost all hope.

 

“There—you have done it again, Zubby,” said Mrs Langley, referring to a push that well-nigh rolled Master Jim, (as a sea-captain once said), out at the starboard side of the cradle.

 

Zubby confessed her guilt, by looking abashed—and what a solemn look an abashed one is in a negress with very large eyes!—as well as by rocking more gently.

 

Agnes vented a sudden little laugh at the expression of Zubby’s face; and, the door opening at that moment, Colonel Langley entered the court, and sat down beside his wife under the giant leaves of a small banana-tree, whose life was drawn from a boxful of earth about three feet square.

 

“My dear,” said the Colonel, “I have two rather amusing things to lay before you this evening. One is a gift from the Dey, the other is a letter. Which will you have first?”

 

“The gift, of course,” replied the lady.

 

“Let her come in, Ali,” called the Colonel to his interpreter, who stood in the passage outside.

 

Rais Ali, a Moor clad in the usual Turkish garb, but with a red fez or skull-cap on his head instead of a turban, threw open the door leading out of the court, and ushered in poor Paulina Ruffini with her child.

 

“Is this the Dey’s gift?” asked the astonished lady, rising hurriedly.

分享到：