Volume One—Chapter Eleven.Loftus Vaughan on the Look-Out.Every day, after that on which he had received the two English letters—and almost every hour during daylight—might Loftus Vaughan have been seen, telescope in hand, at one of the front windows of his house, sweeping with his glass the roadstead and offing of Montego Bay.The object of this telescopic observation was, that he might descry theSea Nymphbefore she had entered the harbour: in order that his carriage should be at the port to receive the distinguished Smythje on the moment of his landing.At this period there were no steamers trading across the Atlantic, punctual to a day, and almost to an hour. Though the letter of advice had been written several days before that on which theSea Nymphwas to sail, there could be no calculation made upon such uncertain data as winds and waves; and the ship which carried Montagu Smythje might arrive at any hour.That some distinguished guest was expected, was a fact that had become well-known to every domestic in the establishment of Mount Welcome. Every day saw some article or articles of costly furniture brought home from the “Bay”; and the chambers of the “great house” were being freshly decorated to receive them. The house-wenches and other indoor servants were furnished with new dresses, some even with liveries—an unusual piece of finery in Jamaica—while shoes and stockings were forced upon feet that, perhaps, had never felt suchimpedimentabefore, and whose owners would have been only too glad to have escaped the torture of wearing them.It need scarcely be said that the planter was undergoing all this extravagant expenditure for the reception of Mr Montagu Smythje, and him alone. Had it been only his nephew that was expected, no such continuous look-out would have been kept, and no such preparations made to do him honour on his arrival.Neither do Mr Vaughan’s motives require explanation: the reader will ere this have surmised them. He was the father of a daughter ready at any moment for marriage. Mr Montagu Smythje was, in his eyes, not only an eligible, but highly desirable, specimen for a son-in-law. The young man was possessed of a splendid property, as Mr Vaughan well knew: for the worthy planter was not only Custos Rotulorum, but for many long years had been custos of Montagu Castle, and could tell its value to a shilling “currency.” It lay contiguous to his own. He had looked with a longing eye upon its broad acres and black retainers, until he had become imbued with a desire, amounting indeed to a passion, to possess it—if not in his own right, at least in that of his daughter. The union of the two estates, Mount Welcome and Montagu Castle, would make a magnificent domain—one of the richest in the Island.To accomplish this object had long been the wish of Loftus Vaughan. It had grown and grown upon him, till it had become the most cherished purpose of his heart.Let us not conceal a really creditable motive that Mr Vaughan had for desiring this union. He had been too long in Jamaica to be ignorant of the true social position of his daughter. However beautiful and accomplished Kate Vaughan was; however much her father loved her—and, to do him justice, his paternal affection was of the strongest—he knew that her mother was aquadroon, and she only amustee. No matter how little trace there might be of thetaint—however imperceptible to the outward eye—he knew that between her and the young gentlemen of his acquaintance—that is, those who would have been eligible—there was still enough to erect a certain social barrier. He knew, moreover, that young Englishmen, especially on their first arrival, make light of this barrier; in fact, altogether disregard it, until corrupted by the “society” of the island.In his match-making designs the Jamaica planter was not more of a sinner than hundreds of other parents both at home and abroad; and there is this much in his favour: that, perhaps, his affection for his daughter, and the desire of ennobling her—for by such an alliance would thetaint be extinguished—were the chief motives for the conduct he was pursuing in regard to Montagu Smythje.So far Mr Vaughan’s conduct may be excused. But, unfortunately, the studied courtesy with which he was preparing to receive the lord of Montagu Castle presented a damaging contrast to the discourtesy he had designed for his kinsman.In the latter case, both his acts and intentions were paltry beyond parallel.The announcement in the nephew’s letter, that he had taken asteerage passage, had been to his uncle a source of bitter chagrin. Not that he would have cared a whit about the thing, had the young fellow voyaged in any other vessel than theSea Nymph, or had he travelled unrecognised. What troubled Mr Vaughan was the fear that the relationship might become known to Mr Montagu Smythje, and thus create in the mind of the latter a suspicion of his, the planter’s, respectability.The dread of thisexposéso preyed upon Mr Vaughan’s mind that, had it been possible, he would have denied the relationship altogether.He had conceived a hope that this recognition might not take place during the voyage: building his hope on the character of the aristocratic Cockney, which he knew to be a type of supercilious pride. Confiding in the faith that nothing might transpire on board ship to make Mr Smythje acquainted with the connection, he was determined there should be no chance on shore. To preclude the possibility of such a thing, he had conceived a design as childish as it was cruel: his nephew was to bekept out of the way.The plan of action he had traced out long before the arrival of theSea Nymph. Mr Montagu Smythje was to be met at the landing, and at once hurried off to Mount Welcome. Herbert Vaughan was likewise to be conducted thither; but not direct.A different means of transport was to be provided for him; and on his arrival within the bounds of the plantation, he was to be taken by a private road to the house of the overseer—which stood in a secluded corner of the valley, nearly half a mile distant from the “Buff.”Here he was to remain as the guest of the latter, until such time as his uncle could find a way of disposing of him—either by procuring some employment for him at Montego Bay, or the situation of book-keeper on some distant plantation.With this ingenious contrivance did MrVaughan await the arrival of his guests.It was upon the third day after receiving his letters of advice, and near the hour of noon, that the planter, playing as usual with his telescope, perceived in the offing of Montego Bay, and standing in for the port, a large square-rigged vessel—a ship.It might be the Sea Nymph, and it might not; but, taking into consideration some circumstances, known to Mr Vaughan, the probabilities were that it was the expected vessel.Whether or no, the planter was determined that the programme, he had so ingeniously sketched out, shouldnotbe spoiled by any mismanagement in the performance; and its execution was ordered upon the instant.Bells were rung for a general muster of the domestics; a horn was sounded to summon the overseer; and, in less than half an hour afterwards, the family barouche—a handsome equipage, drawn by a pair of splendidly-caparisoned horses—was on the road to the Bay, with the overseer on horseback, riding as an escort behind it.In rear of this went a waggon, to which eight large oxen were attached; and behind the waggon appeared an escortsui generis: a rough negro boy, mounted on the shaggiest of steeds, who was no other than the post-boy already mentioned—the identical Quashie.Quashie was not on his usual diurnal duty: his present errand was one of a far more important character, and the duty confided to him of an exceedingly delicate nature.At this hour the great hall of Mount Welcome exhibited a scene that, to the eye of a stranger to West Indian customs, might have appeared curious enough.Scattered over the floor, at certain distances from each other, were some six or eight negro girls, or “wenches,” as they are called, most of them being of the younger brood of the plantation blacks. All were down on their knees—each one having by her side, and within reach of her hand, an orange freshly cut in halves, some bees’-wax, and a portion of the fibrous pericarp of a cocoa-nut.The floor itself was without carpet of any kind; but instead of being of plain deal, it presented a mosaic of hard woods, of different colours—among which might be recognised the mahogany and heart-wood, the bread-nut and bully-tree.To give the tesselated surface a polish was the business of the dark damsels on their knees; and for that purpose were the oranges and cocoa-husks provided.To an islander the sight was one of common, indeed daily, occurrence. The lustre of his hall floor is a matter of pride with a Jamaica planter; as much so as the quality or pattern of his drawing-room carpet to a householder at home; and every day, and at the same hour, the dark-skinned housemaids make their appearance, and renew the glitter of the surface, whose gloss has been tarnished by the revels of the preceding night.The hour set apart for this quaint custom is just before laying the cloth for dinner—about three or four o’clock; and that she may not sully the polish while carrying in the dishes, the barefooted Abigail adopts a plan that deserves mention on account of its originality.Having provided herself with two small pieces of linen or cotton cloth, she spreads them out upon the floor, and then places a foot upon each. As the toes of a West Indian house-wench are almost as prehensile as her fingers, she finds no difficulty in “cramping” the cloth and holding it between the “big toe” and its nearest neighbour; and with this simplechaussureshe is enabled to slide over the floor without in the least degree “smoutching” its gloss, or leaving any sign of her passage over its shining surface.While such a busy scene was transpiring in the great hall of Mount Welcome, one of a different character, but of equal activity, was going on in the kitchen. This “office” stood a little apart from the main dwelling, communicating with its lower storey by a covered gallery. Along this passage black and yellow wenches could be seen constantly going and returning, each with her load—a haunch of venison, a ham of the wild hog, a turtle, ramier pigeons, and mountain crabs, all on their way to the spit, the stew-pan, or the chafing-dish.A similar sight might have been witnessed at Mount Welcome any other day in the year; but perhaps with a less abundant variety in the materials, and with not half so much movement among the staff of wenches pertaining to thecuisine—whose excited manner in the performance of their specific duties testified, as much as the variety of luxuries lying around, that on this particular day a repast of the most sumptuous kind was expected from their skill.Their master did not leave these preparations to be made without his own personal surveillance. From the time that the ship had been descried, he was everywhere—in the stable, to look after the sable grooms; in the kitchen, to instruct the cooks; in the great hall, to inspect the polishing of the floor; and, at last, on the landing outside, standing, telescope to his eye, and looking down the long avenue, where the carriage containing his distinguished visitor might at any moment be expected to make its appearance.
Every day, after that on which he had received the two English letters—and almost every hour during daylight—might Loftus Vaughan have been seen, telescope in hand, at one of the front windows of his house, sweeping with his glass the roadstead and offing of Montego Bay.
The object of this telescopic observation was, that he might descry theSea Nymphbefore she had entered the harbour: in order that his carriage should be at the port to receive the distinguished Smythje on the moment of his landing.
At this period there were no steamers trading across the Atlantic, punctual to a day, and almost to an hour. Though the letter of advice had been written several days before that on which theSea Nymphwas to sail, there could be no calculation made upon such uncertain data as winds and waves; and the ship which carried Montagu Smythje might arrive at any hour.
That some distinguished guest was expected, was a fact that had become well-known to every domestic in the establishment of Mount Welcome. Every day saw some article or articles of costly furniture brought home from the “Bay”; and the chambers of the “great house” were being freshly decorated to receive them. The house-wenches and other indoor servants were furnished with new dresses, some even with liveries—an unusual piece of finery in Jamaica—while shoes and stockings were forced upon feet that, perhaps, had never felt suchimpedimentabefore, and whose owners would have been only too glad to have escaped the torture of wearing them.
It need scarcely be said that the planter was undergoing all this extravagant expenditure for the reception of Mr Montagu Smythje, and him alone. Had it been only his nephew that was expected, no such continuous look-out would have been kept, and no such preparations made to do him honour on his arrival.
Neither do Mr Vaughan’s motives require explanation: the reader will ere this have surmised them. He was the father of a daughter ready at any moment for marriage. Mr Montagu Smythje was, in his eyes, not only an eligible, but highly desirable, specimen for a son-in-law. The young man was possessed of a splendid property, as Mr Vaughan well knew: for the worthy planter was not only Custos Rotulorum, but for many long years had been custos of Montagu Castle, and could tell its value to a shilling “currency.” It lay contiguous to his own. He had looked with a longing eye upon its broad acres and black retainers, until he had become imbued with a desire, amounting indeed to a passion, to possess it—if not in his own right, at least in that of his daughter. The union of the two estates, Mount Welcome and Montagu Castle, would make a magnificent domain—one of the richest in the Island.
To accomplish this object had long been the wish of Loftus Vaughan. It had grown and grown upon him, till it had become the most cherished purpose of his heart.
Let us not conceal a really creditable motive that Mr Vaughan had for desiring this union. He had been too long in Jamaica to be ignorant of the true social position of his daughter. However beautiful and accomplished Kate Vaughan was; however much her father loved her—and, to do him justice, his paternal affection was of the strongest—he knew that her mother was aquadroon, and she only amustee. No matter how little trace there might be of thetaint—however imperceptible to the outward eye—he knew that between her and the young gentlemen of his acquaintance—that is, those who would have been eligible—there was still enough to erect a certain social barrier. He knew, moreover, that young Englishmen, especially on their first arrival, make light of this barrier; in fact, altogether disregard it, until corrupted by the “society” of the island.
In his match-making designs the Jamaica planter was not more of a sinner than hundreds of other parents both at home and abroad; and there is this much in his favour: that, perhaps, his affection for his daughter, and the desire of ennobling her—for by such an alliance would thetaint be extinguished—were the chief motives for the conduct he was pursuing in regard to Montagu Smythje.
So far Mr Vaughan’s conduct may be excused. But, unfortunately, the studied courtesy with which he was preparing to receive the lord of Montagu Castle presented a damaging contrast to the discourtesy he had designed for his kinsman.
In the latter case, both his acts and intentions were paltry beyond parallel.
The announcement in the nephew’s letter, that he had taken asteerage passage, had been to his uncle a source of bitter chagrin. Not that he would have cared a whit about the thing, had the young fellow voyaged in any other vessel than theSea Nymph, or had he travelled unrecognised. What troubled Mr Vaughan was the fear that the relationship might become known to Mr Montagu Smythje, and thus create in the mind of the latter a suspicion of his, the planter’s, respectability.
The dread of thisexposéso preyed upon Mr Vaughan’s mind that, had it been possible, he would have denied the relationship altogether.
He had conceived a hope that this recognition might not take place during the voyage: building his hope on the character of the aristocratic Cockney, which he knew to be a type of supercilious pride. Confiding in the faith that nothing might transpire on board ship to make Mr Smythje acquainted with the connection, he was determined there should be no chance on shore. To preclude the possibility of such a thing, he had conceived a design as childish as it was cruel: his nephew was to bekept out of the way.
The plan of action he had traced out long before the arrival of theSea Nymph. Mr Montagu Smythje was to be met at the landing, and at once hurried off to Mount Welcome. Herbert Vaughan was likewise to be conducted thither; but not direct.
A different means of transport was to be provided for him; and on his arrival within the bounds of the plantation, he was to be taken by a private road to the house of the overseer—which stood in a secluded corner of the valley, nearly half a mile distant from the “Buff.”
Here he was to remain as the guest of the latter, until such time as his uncle could find a way of disposing of him—either by procuring some employment for him at Montego Bay, or the situation of book-keeper on some distant plantation.
With this ingenious contrivance did Mr
Vaughan await the arrival of his guests.
It was upon the third day after receiving his letters of advice, and near the hour of noon, that the planter, playing as usual with his telescope, perceived in the offing of Montego Bay, and standing in for the port, a large square-rigged vessel—a ship.
It might be the Sea Nymph, and it might not; but, taking into consideration some circumstances, known to Mr Vaughan, the probabilities were that it was the expected vessel.
Whether or no, the planter was determined that the programme, he had so ingeniously sketched out, shouldnotbe spoiled by any mismanagement in the performance; and its execution was ordered upon the instant.
Bells were rung for a general muster of the domestics; a horn was sounded to summon the overseer; and, in less than half an hour afterwards, the family barouche—a handsome equipage, drawn by a pair of splendidly-caparisoned horses—was on the road to the Bay, with the overseer on horseback, riding as an escort behind it.
In rear of this went a waggon, to which eight large oxen were attached; and behind the waggon appeared an escortsui generis: a rough negro boy, mounted on the shaggiest of steeds, who was no other than the post-boy already mentioned—the identical Quashie.
Quashie was not on his usual diurnal duty: his present errand was one of a far more important character, and the duty confided to him of an exceedingly delicate nature.
At this hour the great hall of Mount Welcome exhibited a scene that, to the eye of a stranger to West Indian customs, might have appeared curious enough.
Scattered over the floor, at certain distances from each other, were some six or eight negro girls, or “wenches,” as they are called, most of them being of the younger brood of the plantation blacks. All were down on their knees—each one having by her side, and within reach of her hand, an orange freshly cut in halves, some bees’-wax, and a portion of the fibrous pericarp of a cocoa-nut.
The floor itself was without carpet of any kind; but instead of being of plain deal, it presented a mosaic of hard woods, of different colours—among which might be recognised the mahogany and heart-wood, the bread-nut and bully-tree.
To give the tesselated surface a polish was the business of the dark damsels on their knees; and for that purpose were the oranges and cocoa-husks provided.
To an islander the sight was one of common, indeed daily, occurrence. The lustre of his hall floor is a matter of pride with a Jamaica planter; as much so as the quality or pattern of his drawing-room carpet to a householder at home; and every day, and at the same hour, the dark-skinned housemaids make their appearance, and renew the glitter of the surface, whose gloss has been tarnished by the revels of the preceding night.
The hour set apart for this quaint custom is just before laying the cloth for dinner—about three or four o’clock; and that she may not sully the polish while carrying in the dishes, the barefooted Abigail adopts a plan that deserves mention on account of its originality.
Having provided herself with two small pieces of linen or cotton cloth, she spreads them out upon the floor, and then places a foot upon each. As the toes of a West Indian house-wench are almost as prehensile as her fingers, she finds no difficulty in “cramping” the cloth and holding it between the “big toe” and its nearest neighbour; and with this simplechaussureshe is enabled to slide over the floor without in the least degree “smoutching” its gloss, or leaving any sign of her passage over its shining surface.
While such a busy scene was transpiring in the great hall of Mount Welcome, one of a different character, but of equal activity, was going on in the kitchen. This “office” stood a little apart from the main dwelling, communicating with its lower storey by a covered gallery. Along this passage black and yellow wenches could be seen constantly going and returning, each with her load—a haunch of venison, a ham of the wild hog, a turtle, ramier pigeons, and mountain crabs, all on their way to the spit, the stew-pan, or the chafing-dish.
A similar sight might have been witnessed at Mount Welcome any other day in the year; but perhaps with a less abundant variety in the materials, and with not half so much movement among the staff of wenches pertaining to thecuisine—whose excited manner in the performance of their specific duties testified, as much as the variety of luxuries lying around, that on this particular day a repast of the most sumptuous kind was expected from their skill.
Their master did not leave these preparations to be made without his own personal surveillance. From the time that the ship had been descried, he was everywhere—in the stable, to look after the sable grooms; in the kitchen, to instruct the cooks; in the great hall, to inspect the polishing of the floor; and, at last, on the landing outside, standing, telescope to his eye, and looking down the long avenue, where the carriage containing his distinguished visitor might at any moment be expected to make its appearance.
Volume One—Chapter Twelve.Kate and Yola.Occupying one corner of the mansion of Mount Welcome—that which was farthest removed from the din and clangour of the kitchen—was a small chamber, richly and elegantly furnished. The light was admitted into it on two sides through latticed windows, that, when open, left a free passage from the floor to a little balcony outside—with which each of the windows was provided.One of these windows looked out to the rearward, commanding a view of the garden, and the wooded steep beyond. The other opened to the left side of the house, upon the shrubbery grounds that extended in that direction as far as the foot of the ridge.Even had there been no one within this little chamber, the style and character of its furniture would have told, that the person to whom it appertained was of the gentler sex.In one corner stood a bed, with carved posts of yellow lance wood; from which hung what at first sight might have been taken for white muslin curtains, but which, on closer scrutiny, could be seen to be the gauze-like netting of a “mosquito bar.”The size of the bed told that it was intended for but one individual. Its habitual occupant was therefore unmarried.In the bay of one of the windows stood a dressing-table ofpapier mâché, inlaid with mother-of-pearl; and upon this was placed a mirror of circular shape on a stand of the finest Spanish mahogany.In front of the mirror was a variety of objects of different forms—among which might be noticed the usual implements of the toilet, with many of those eccentric little articles ofluxeandvertu, that bespeak the refined presence of woman.Other pieces of furniture in the room were three or four Chinese chairs; a small marqueterie table; a work-box of tortoise-shell veneer, on a pedestal of like material; and a little cabinet of ebony wood, richly inlaid with buhl.There was neither mantel nor fireplace—the climate of eternal summer precluding all necessity for such “fixtures.”The window-curtains were of a thin transparent muslin, with a pattern of pink flowering woven into the stuff, and bordered with a fringe of alternate pink and white tassels.A breeze, laden with the perfume of a thousand flowers, blowing in through the open lattice-work of the jalousies, kept these light hangings almost continually in motion, imparting an aspect of coolness to the chamber. This was further heightened by the glossy smoothness of the hard-wood floor, which glistened under foot like a mirror.No one could have glanced into this little apartment, without being struck with its costly yet chaste adornment. Rich and elegant, however, as was the case, it was no more than worthy of the jewel which it was accustomed to contain. It was the bedroom and boudoir of “Lilly Quasheba,” the heiresspresumptiveof Mount Welcome.But few were ever favoured with a glance into that luxurious chamber. It was a sacred precinct, into which curious eyes were not permitted to penetrate. Its polished floor was not to be trodden by vulgar feet. With the exception of her father, no man had ever intruded into that virgin shrine; and he, only on rare and extraordinary occasions. Even to the domestics it was not of free access. Only one, besides its mistress, could enter it unbidden—her brown-skinned handmaid Yola.On that same day—shortly after the ringing of the bells had announced the arrival of the English ship, and while the dusky domestics were engaged, as described, in their ante-prandial preparations—two individuals occupied the chamber in question.One was the young lady to whom the apartment pertained—the other her maid.They were in different attitudes: the mistress seated upon one of the Chinese chairs in front of the window, while the maid was standing behind, occupied in arranging her mistress’s hair.The girl was just entering upon her task—if we may so designate that which many might have deemed a pleasure. Already the complicated machinery of combs and hair-pins lay strewed over the table; and the long chestnut-coloured tresses hung in luxuriant confusion around those shoulders of snow, in whose velvet-like epidermis there appeared no trace of thetaint.Involuntarily the maid ceased from her task, and stood gazing upon her young mistress with a look of instinctive admiration.“Oh, beautiful!” exclaimed she, in a low, murmured voice; “you beautiful, missa!”“Tut, Yola: ’tis only flattery of you to say so! You are as beautiful as I; only your beauty is of a different order. No doubt, in your country you would be a great belle.”“Ah, missa, you belle anywhere—black man—white man—all think you beautiful—all the same!”“Thank you, Yola! but I shouldn’t particularly desire to be the object of such universal admiration. For my part, I don’t know one male biped in whose eyes I care to appear attractive.”“Perhaps missa no so say, when come young buckra from Inglis’ country!”“Which buckra?—there are two of them expected from the English country.”“Yola no hear two come. Massa she hear speak of one—only one.”“Oh, you’ve heard speak of one only! Did you hear his name mentioned?”“Yes; he grand man—great lord—Sultan of Mongew. He have other name—Yola hear it; but she no sabbey speak it.”“Ha! ha! ha! I don’t wonder at that. It’s as much as I ‘sabbey’ myself to pronounce that second name: which I presume to beSmythje. Is that the name you heard?”“That it, missa—he berry fine gentl’man, he beauty man. Massa he so tell Massr’ Trusty.”“Ah, Yola! your master is a man, and men are not always the best judges of one another’s looks. Perhaps the Sultan of Mongew, as you call him, might not be such a pattern of perfection as papa describes him. But no doubt, we shall soon have an opportunity of judging for ourselves. Did you hear your master say nothing about another ‘buckra’ that is expected?”“No, Missa Kate. One only he speak of—dis same one of Mongew Castle.”A low ejaculation, expressive of disappointment, escaped the lips of the young Creole, as she settled down into an attitude of silent reflection, her eyes turned upon the shining floor at her feet.It is not easy to tell why she put the last interrogatory. Perhaps she had some suspicion of her father’s plans. At all events, she knew there was some mystery, and was desirous of penetrating it.The maid was still gazing upon her, when all at once the dark Arab-like features of the latter assumed a changed expression—the look of admiration giving place to one of earnest inquiry, as if some strange thought had occurred to her.“Allah!” ejaculated she, still keeping her eyes fixed upon the face of her mistress.“Well, Yola,” said the latter, attracted by the exclamation, and looking up; “why do you call upon Allah? Has anything occurred to you?”“Oh! beauty missa! you so like one man.”“I like a man! I resemble a man! Is that what you mean?”“Yes, missa. Nebber see it before—you berry, berry like!”“Well, Yola, you are certainly not flattering me now. Who might this man be? I pray you tell me.”“He man of the mountains—Maroon.”“Oh! worse and worse! I resemble aMaroon? Gracious me! Surely you are jesting, Yola?”“Oh! missa, he beauty man; roun black eyes that glance like the fire-fly in the wood—eyes like yours—berry like you eyes, missa.”“Come, silly girl!” said the young lady, speaking in a tone of reproval, more affected than real; “do you know that it is very naughty of you, to compare me to a man—much more to a Maroon?”“Oh! Missa Kate, he beauty man—berry beauty man.”“That I doubt very much; but even were it so, you should not speak of his resemblingme.”“Me pardon, missa. I no more so say.”“No, you had better not, good Yola. If you do, I shall ask papa tosellyou.”This was said in a tone of gentle raillery, which told that any intention of carrying out the threat was far from the speaker’s thoughts.“By the bye, Yola,” continued the young lady, “I could get a good price for you. How much do you suppose I was offered for you the other day?”“Missa Kate, I no know. Allah forbid me you ebber leave! If you no more my missa, I care no more live.”“Thanks, Yola,” said the young Creole, evidently touched by the words of her attendant, the sincerity of which was proved by the tone in which they were spoken. “Be not afraid of my parting with you. As proof that I shall not, I refused a very large sum—how much, can you guess?”“Ah! missa, I worth nothing to no one but you. If I you forced leave, I be no more happy in this world.”“Well, there is one who thinks you worth two hundred pounds, and has offered that for you.”“Who, missa?”“Why—he who sold you to papa—Mr Jessuron.”“Allah help poor Yola! Oh! missa Kate, he bad master; he berry wicked man. Yola die—Cubina kill her! Yola herself kill rather than she go back to Jew slave-dealer! Good missa!—beauty missa!—you no sell you poor slave?”The girl fell upon her knees at the feet of her young mistress, with her hands clasped over her head, and for some moments remained in this attitude.“Don’t fear my selling you,” said the young lady, motioning the suppliant to rise to her feet; “least of all to him—whom I believe to be what you have styled him, a very wicked man. Have no fear for that. But tell me, what name was that you pronounced just now?Cubina, was it not?”“Yes, missa, Cubina.”“And pray who is Cubina?”The brown maid hesitated before making reply, while the crimson began to show itself on her chestnut-coloured cheeks.“Oh, never mind!” said her young mistress, noticing her hesitation. “If there’s any secret, Yola, I shall not insist upon an answer.”“Missa, from you Yola no have secret. Cubina, he mountain man—Maroon.”“What! is he the Maroon I am supposed to resemble?”“True, missa, he same.”“Oh! I see how it is—I suppose that accounts for you thinkingmebeautiful? This Cubina, no doubt, is a sweetheart of yours?”Yola lowered her eyes without making reply. The crimson appeared in deeper tint through the chestnut.“You need not answer, good Yola,” said the young Creole, with a significant smile. “I know what your answeroughtto be, if you were to speak your mind. I think I have heard of this Cubina. Have a care, my girl! These Maroons are a very different sort of men from the coloured people on the plantations. Like me, he is—ha! ha! ha!” and the young beauty glanced coyly at the mirror. “Well, Yola, I’m not angry with you, since it is your sweetheart with whom I am compared. Love, they say, is a wonderful beautifier; and no doubt Master Cubina is, in your eyes, a perfect Endymion.“Come girl!” added she, coquettishly tossing the chestnut tresses over her shoulders of ivory, “I fear we have been wasting time. If I’m not ready to receive this grand guest, I’ll get into trouble with papa. Go on, and trick me out in a style becoming the mistress of Mount Welcome.”With a peal of merry laughter at the air of grandeur she had thus jestingly assumed, the young lady bent down her head, submitting her magnificentchevelureto the manipulation of her maid.
Occupying one corner of the mansion of Mount Welcome—that which was farthest removed from the din and clangour of the kitchen—was a small chamber, richly and elegantly furnished. The light was admitted into it on two sides through latticed windows, that, when open, left a free passage from the floor to a little balcony outside—with which each of the windows was provided.
One of these windows looked out to the rearward, commanding a view of the garden, and the wooded steep beyond. The other opened to the left side of the house, upon the shrubbery grounds that extended in that direction as far as the foot of the ridge.
Even had there been no one within this little chamber, the style and character of its furniture would have told, that the person to whom it appertained was of the gentler sex.
In one corner stood a bed, with carved posts of yellow lance wood; from which hung what at first sight might have been taken for white muslin curtains, but which, on closer scrutiny, could be seen to be the gauze-like netting of a “mosquito bar.”
The size of the bed told that it was intended for but one individual. Its habitual occupant was therefore unmarried.
In the bay of one of the windows stood a dressing-table ofpapier mâché, inlaid with mother-of-pearl; and upon this was placed a mirror of circular shape on a stand of the finest Spanish mahogany.
In front of the mirror was a variety of objects of different forms—among which might be noticed the usual implements of the toilet, with many of those eccentric little articles ofluxeandvertu, that bespeak the refined presence of woman.
Other pieces of furniture in the room were three or four Chinese chairs; a small marqueterie table; a work-box of tortoise-shell veneer, on a pedestal of like material; and a little cabinet of ebony wood, richly inlaid with buhl.
There was neither mantel nor fireplace—the climate of eternal summer precluding all necessity for such “fixtures.”
The window-curtains were of a thin transparent muslin, with a pattern of pink flowering woven into the stuff, and bordered with a fringe of alternate pink and white tassels.
A breeze, laden with the perfume of a thousand flowers, blowing in through the open lattice-work of the jalousies, kept these light hangings almost continually in motion, imparting an aspect of coolness to the chamber. This was further heightened by the glossy smoothness of the hard-wood floor, which glistened under foot like a mirror.
No one could have glanced into this little apartment, without being struck with its costly yet chaste adornment. Rich and elegant, however, as was the case, it was no more than worthy of the jewel which it was accustomed to contain. It was the bedroom and boudoir of “Lilly Quasheba,” the heiresspresumptiveof Mount Welcome.
But few were ever favoured with a glance into that luxurious chamber. It was a sacred precinct, into which curious eyes were not permitted to penetrate. Its polished floor was not to be trodden by vulgar feet. With the exception of her father, no man had ever intruded into that virgin shrine; and he, only on rare and extraordinary occasions. Even to the domestics it was not of free access. Only one, besides its mistress, could enter it unbidden—her brown-skinned handmaid Yola.
On that same day—shortly after the ringing of the bells had announced the arrival of the English ship, and while the dusky domestics were engaged, as described, in their ante-prandial preparations—two individuals occupied the chamber in question.
One was the young lady to whom the apartment pertained—the other her maid.
They were in different attitudes: the mistress seated upon one of the Chinese chairs in front of the window, while the maid was standing behind, occupied in arranging her mistress’s hair.
The girl was just entering upon her task—if we may so designate that which many might have deemed a pleasure. Already the complicated machinery of combs and hair-pins lay strewed over the table; and the long chestnut-coloured tresses hung in luxuriant confusion around those shoulders of snow, in whose velvet-like epidermis there appeared no trace of thetaint.
Involuntarily the maid ceased from her task, and stood gazing upon her young mistress with a look of instinctive admiration.
“Oh, beautiful!” exclaimed she, in a low, murmured voice; “you beautiful, missa!”
“Tut, Yola: ’tis only flattery of you to say so! You are as beautiful as I; only your beauty is of a different order. No doubt, in your country you would be a great belle.”
“Ah, missa, you belle anywhere—black man—white man—all think you beautiful—all the same!”
“Thank you, Yola! but I shouldn’t particularly desire to be the object of such universal admiration. For my part, I don’t know one male biped in whose eyes I care to appear attractive.”
“Perhaps missa no so say, when come young buckra from Inglis’ country!”
“Which buckra?—there are two of them expected from the English country.”
“Yola no hear two come. Massa she hear speak of one—only one.”
“Oh, you’ve heard speak of one only! Did you hear his name mentioned?”
“Yes; he grand man—great lord—Sultan of Mongew. He have other name—Yola hear it; but she no sabbey speak it.”
“Ha! ha! ha! I don’t wonder at that. It’s as much as I ‘sabbey’ myself to pronounce that second name: which I presume to beSmythje. Is that the name you heard?”
“That it, missa—he berry fine gentl’man, he beauty man. Massa he so tell Massr’ Trusty.”
“Ah, Yola! your master is a man, and men are not always the best judges of one another’s looks. Perhaps the Sultan of Mongew, as you call him, might not be such a pattern of perfection as papa describes him. But no doubt, we shall soon have an opportunity of judging for ourselves. Did you hear your master say nothing about another ‘buckra’ that is expected?”
“No, Missa Kate. One only he speak of—dis same one of Mongew Castle.”
A low ejaculation, expressive of disappointment, escaped the lips of the young Creole, as she settled down into an attitude of silent reflection, her eyes turned upon the shining floor at her feet.
It is not easy to tell why she put the last interrogatory. Perhaps she had some suspicion of her father’s plans. At all events, she knew there was some mystery, and was desirous of penetrating it.
The maid was still gazing upon her, when all at once the dark Arab-like features of the latter assumed a changed expression—the look of admiration giving place to one of earnest inquiry, as if some strange thought had occurred to her.
“Allah!” ejaculated she, still keeping her eyes fixed upon the face of her mistress.
“Well, Yola,” said the latter, attracted by the exclamation, and looking up; “why do you call upon Allah? Has anything occurred to you?”
“Oh! beauty missa! you so like one man.”
“I like a man! I resemble a man! Is that what you mean?”
“Yes, missa. Nebber see it before—you berry, berry like!”
“Well, Yola, you are certainly not flattering me now. Who might this man be? I pray you tell me.”
“He man of the mountains—Maroon.”
“Oh! worse and worse! I resemble aMaroon? Gracious me! Surely you are jesting, Yola?”
“Oh! missa, he beauty man; roun black eyes that glance like the fire-fly in the wood—eyes like yours—berry like you eyes, missa.”
“Come, silly girl!” said the young lady, speaking in a tone of reproval, more affected than real; “do you know that it is very naughty of you, to compare me to a man—much more to a Maroon?”
“Oh! Missa Kate, he beauty man—berry beauty man.”
“That I doubt very much; but even were it so, you should not speak of his resemblingme.”
“Me pardon, missa. I no more so say.”
“No, you had better not, good Yola. If you do, I shall ask papa tosellyou.”
This was said in a tone of gentle raillery, which told that any intention of carrying out the threat was far from the speaker’s thoughts.
“By the bye, Yola,” continued the young lady, “I could get a good price for you. How much do you suppose I was offered for you the other day?”
“Missa Kate, I no know. Allah forbid me you ebber leave! If you no more my missa, I care no more live.”
“Thanks, Yola,” said the young Creole, evidently touched by the words of her attendant, the sincerity of which was proved by the tone in which they were spoken. “Be not afraid of my parting with you. As proof that I shall not, I refused a very large sum—how much, can you guess?”
“Ah! missa, I worth nothing to no one but you. If I you forced leave, I be no more happy in this world.”
“Well, there is one who thinks you worth two hundred pounds, and has offered that for you.”
“Who, missa?”
“Why—he who sold you to papa—Mr Jessuron.”
“Allah help poor Yola! Oh! missa Kate, he bad master; he berry wicked man. Yola die—Cubina kill her! Yola herself kill rather than she go back to Jew slave-dealer! Good missa!—beauty missa!—you no sell you poor slave?”
The girl fell upon her knees at the feet of her young mistress, with her hands clasped over her head, and for some moments remained in this attitude.
“Don’t fear my selling you,” said the young lady, motioning the suppliant to rise to her feet; “least of all to him—whom I believe to be what you have styled him, a very wicked man. Have no fear for that. But tell me, what name was that you pronounced just now?Cubina, was it not?”
“Yes, missa, Cubina.”
“And pray who is Cubina?”
The brown maid hesitated before making reply, while the crimson began to show itself on her chestnut-coloured cheeks.
“Oh, never mind!” said her young mistress, noticing her hesitation. “If there’s any secret, Yola, I shall not insist upon an answer.”
“Missa, from you Yola no have secret. Cubina, he mountain man—Maroon.”
“What! is he the Maroon I am supposed to resemble?”
“True, missa, he same.”
“Oh! I see how it is—I suppose that accounts for you thinkingmebeautiful? This Cubina, no doubt, is a sweetheart of yours?”
Yola lowered her eyes without making reply. The crimson appeared in deeper tint through the chestnut.
“You need not answer, good Yola,” said the young Creole, with a significant smile. “I know what your answeroughtto be, if you were to speak your mind. I think I have heard of this Cubina. Have a care, my girl! These Maroons are a very different sort of men from the coloured people on the plantations. Like me, he is—ha! ha! ha!” and the young beauty glanced coyly at the mirror. “Well, Yola, I’m not angry with you, since it is your sweetheart with whom I am compared. Love, they say, is a wonderful beautifier; and no doubt Master Cubina is, in your eyes, a perfect Endymion.
“Come girl!” added she, coquettishly tossing the chestnut tresses over her shoulders of ivory, “I fear we have been wasting time. If I’m not ready to receive this grand guest, I’ll get into trouble with papa. Go on, and trick me out in a style becoming the mistress of Mount Welcome.”
With a peal of merry laughter at the air of grandeur she had thus jestingly assumed, the young lady bent down her head, submitting her magnificentchevelureto the manipulation of her maid.
Volume One—Chapter Thirteen.Quashie.In less than half an hour after the brief conversation between Mr Montagu Smythje and the young steerage passenger, theSea Nymphhad got warped into port, and was lying alongside the wharf.A gangway-plank was stretched from the shore; and over this, men and women, of all shades of colour, from blonde to ebony black, and of as many different callings, came crowding aboard; while the passengers, sick of the ship and everything belonging to her, hastened to get on shore.Half-naked porters—black, brown, and yellow—commenced wrangling over the luggage—dragging trunks, boxes, and bags in every direction but the right one, and clamouring their gumbo jargon with a volubility that resembled the jabbering of apes.On the wharf appeared a number of wheeled vehicles, that had evidently been awaiting the arrival of the ship—not hackneys, as would have been the case in a European port, but private carriages—some of them handsome “curricles” drawn by a pair, and driven by black Jehus in livery; others only gigs with a single horse, or two-wheelers of even an inferior description—according to the wealth or style of the individual for whose transport each had been brought to the port.Waggons, too, with teams of oxen—some having eight in the yoke—stood near the landing-place, waiting for baggage: the naked black drivers lounging silently by the animals, or occasionally calling them by their names, and talking to them, just as if their speeches had been understood!Among the different carriages ranged along the wharf, a handsome barouche appeared conspicuous. It was attached to a pair of cream-coloured horses, splendidly caparisoned. A mulatto coachman sat upon the box, shining in a livery of lightest green, with yellow facings; while a footman, in garments of like hue, attended at the carriage-step, holding the door for some one to get in.Herbert Vaughan, standing on the fore-deck of theSea Nymph—as yet undecided as to whether he should then go ashore—had noticed this magnificent equipage. He was still gazing upon it, when his attention was attracted to two gentlemen, who, having walked direct from the vessel, had just arrived by the side of the carriage. A white servant followed them; and behind were two negro attendants, carrying a number of parcels of light luggage. One of the gentlemen and the white servant were easily recognised by Herbert: they were Mr Montagu Smythje and his valet.Herbert now recalled the odd expression made use of, but the moment before, by his fellow-passenger—that he was “consigned” to the proprietor of Mount Welcome.The carriage having received Mr Montagu Smythje, and the footman having mounted the box—leaving the rumble to the English valet—was driven off at full speed; the second gentleman, who appeared to be an overseer, following on horseback as an escort.Herbert watched the receding vehicle, until a turn in the road hid it from his view; and then, dropping his eyes towards the deck, he stood for some moments in a reflective attitude,—revolving in his mind some thoughts that were far from agreeable.No one there to meethimand bid him welcome!The countenance of the young adventurer became clouded under the influence of this thought; and he stood silently gazing upon the deck with eyes that saw not.“Sa!” said a negro boy, at this moment stepping up and interrupting his reflections.“Ha!” rejoined Herbert, looking up and perceiving, with some surprise, that the darkey was regarding him with a fixed stare. “What might you want, my lad? If it be money, I have none to give you.”“Money, sa? wharra fo’ Quashie want money? He do wha’ massr bid. Young buckra ready go now?”“Ready to go! where?—what mean you, boy?”“Go fo’ da great house.”“Great house! of what great house are you speaking?”“Moun’ Welc’m’, sa—Massr Va’n. You fo’ Massr Va’n, sa?”“What!” exclaimed Herbert, in surprise, at the same time scanning the darkey from head to foot; “how do you know that, my boy?”“Quashie know dat well ’nuf. Cappen ob da big ship, obaseeah say so. Obaseeah point out young buckra from de waff—he send Quashie fetch young buckra to Moun’ Welc’m’. Ready go now, sa?”“You are from Mount Welcome, then?”“Ya, sa—me hoss-boy da, an’ pose-boy—fetch pony for young Englis’ buckra. Obaseeah he bring b’rouche for grand Englis’ buckra. Baggage dey go in de ox-waggon.”“Where is your pony?”“Up yonna, sa; on de waff, sa. Ready go, sa?”“All right,” said Herbert, now comprehending the situation of affairs. “Shoulder that portmanteau, and toss it into the waggon. Which road am I to take?”“Can’t miss um road, sa—straight up da ribber till you come to de crossin’. Dar you take de road dat don’t lead to da leff—you soon see Moun’ Welc’m’, sa.”“How far is it?”“Bout sebben or eight mile, sa—reach dar long ’fore sun-down; pony go like de berry lightnin’. Sure you no keep to da left by da crossin’.”Thus instructed, the young steerage-passenger took his departure from the ship—after bidding adieu to the friendly tars, who had treated him so handsomely during his irksome voyage.With his gun, a single-barrelled fowling-piece, on his shoulder, he strode over the platform, and up the wooden wharf. Then detaching the pony from the wheel of the ox-waggon, to which it had been tied, he threw himself into the saddle, and trotted off along the road pointed out as the one that would conduct him to Mount Welcome.The excitement produced by the sudden change from ship to shore—the stir of the streets through which he had to pass—the novel sights and sounds that at every step saluted his eyes and ears—hindered Herbert Vaughan from thinking of anything that concerned himself.Only for a short time, however, was his mind thus distracted from dwelling on his own affairs. Before he had ridden far, the road—hitherto bordered by houses—entered under a dark canopy of forest foliage; and the young traveller, all at once, found himself surrounded by a perfect solitude.Under the sombre shadow of the trees, his spirit soon returned to its former gloomy forebodings; and, riding more slowly over a stretch of the road where the ground was wet and boggy, he fell into a train of thoughts that were anything but pleasant.The subject of his reflections may be easily guessed. He had not failed to notice—how could he?—the distinction made between himself and his fellow-voyager. While a splendid equipage had been waiting for the latter—and his landing had been made a sort of ovation, how different was the means of transport provided for him!“By the memory of my father!” muttered he, as he rode on, “it is an insult I shall not overlook: an insult to him more than to myself. But for the fulfilment ofhisdying wish, I should not go one step farther and as he said this, he drew his rough roadster to a halt—as if half-resolved to put his hypothetic threat into practice.“Perhaps,” he continued, again moving forward, with a more hopeful air, “perhaps there may be some mistake? But no,” he added with a strong emphasis on the negative monosyllable, “there can be none! This shallow fop is a young man of fortune—I a child of misfortune;” and he smiled bitterly at the antithesis he had drawn; “that is the reason why such a distinction has been made between us. Be it so!” he continued, after a pause. “Poor as I am, this churlish relative will find me as proud as himself. I shall return him scorn for scorn. I shall demand an explanation of his behaviour; and the sooner I have it the better!”As if stimulated by a sense of the outrage, as also by a half-formed purpose of retaliation, the young adventurer gave the whip to his shaggy steed, and dashed onward at full gallop.
In less than half an hour after the brief conversation between Mr Montagu Smythje and the young steerage passenger, theSea Nymphhad got warped into port, and was lying alongside the wharf.
A gangway-plank was stretched from the shore; and over this, men and women, of all shades of colour, from blonde to ebony black, and of as many different callings, came crowding aboard; while the passengers, sick of the ship and everything belonging to her, hastened to get on shore.
Half-naked porters—black, brown, and yellow—commenced wrangling over the luggage—dragging trunks, boxes, and bags in every direction but the right one, and clamouring their gumbo jargon with a volubility that resembled the jabbering of apes.
On the wharf appeared a number of wheeled vehicles, that had evidently been awaiting the arrival of the ship—not hackneys, as would have been the case in a European port, but private carriages—some of them handsome “curricles” drawn by a pair, and driven by black Jehus in livery; others only gigs with a single horse, or two-wheelers of even an inferior description—according to the wealth or style of the individual for whose transport each had been brought to the port.
Waggons, too, with teams of oxen—some having eight in the yoke—stood near the landing-place, waiting for baggage: the naked black drivers lounging silently by the animals, or occasionally calling them by their names, and talking to them, just as if their speeches had been understood!
Among the different carriages ranged along the wharf, a handsome barouche appeared conspicuous. It was attached to a pair of cream-coloured horses, splendidly caparisoned. A mulatto coachman sat upon the box, shining in a livery of lightest green, with yellow facings; while a footman, in garments of like hue, attended at the carriage-step, holding the door for some one to get in.
Herbert Vaughan, standing on the fore-deck of theSea Nymph—as yet undecided as to whether he should then go ashore—had noticed this magnificent equipage. He was still gazing upon it, when his attention was attracted to two gentlemen, who, having walked direct from the vessel, had just arrived by the side of the carriage. A white servant followed them; and behind were two negro attendants, carrying a number of parcels of light luggage. One of the gentlemen and the white servant were easily recognised by Herbert: they were Mr Montagu Smythje and his valet.
Herbert now recalled the odd expression made use of, but the moment before, by his fellow-passenger—that he was “consigned” to the proprietor of Mount Welcome.
The carriage having received Mr Montagu Smythje, and the footman having mounted the box—leaving the rumble to the English valet—was driven off at full speed; the second gentleman, who appeared to be an overseer, following on horseback as an escort.
Herbert watched the receding vehicle, until a turn in the road hid it from his view; and then, dropping his eyes towards the deck, he stood for some moments in a reflective attitude,—revolving in his mind some thoughts that were far from agreeable.
No one there to meethimand bid him welcome!
The countenance of the young adventurer became clouded under the influence of this thought; and he stood silently gazing upon the deck with eyes that saw not.
“Sa!” said a negro boy, at this moment stepping up and interrupting his reflections.
“Ha!” rejoined Herbert, looking up and perceiving, with some surprise, that the darkey was regarding him with a fixed stare. “What might you want, my lad? If it be money, I have none to give you.”
“Money, sa? wharra fo’ Quashie want money? He do wha’ massr bid. Young buckra ready go now?”
“Ready to go! where?—what mean you, boy?”
“Go fo’ da great house.”
“Great house! of what great house are you speaking?”
“Moun’ Welc’m’, sa—Massr Va’n. You fo’ Massr Va’n, sa?”
“What!” exclaimed Herbert, in surprise, at the same time scanning the darkey from head to foot; “how do you know that, my boy?”
“Quashie know dat well ’nuf. Cappen ob da big ship, obaseeah say so. Obaseeah point out young buckra from de waff—he send Quashie fetch young buckra to Moun’ Welc’m’. Ready go now, sa?”
“You are from Mount Welcome, then?”
“Ya, sa—me hoss-boy da, an’ pose-boy—fetch pony for young Englis’ buckra. Obaseeah he bring b’rouche for grand Englis’ buckra. Baggage dey go in de ox-waggon.”
“Where is your pony?”
“Up yonna, sa; on de waff, sa. Ready go, sa?”
“All right,” said Herbert, now comprehending the situation of affairs. “Shoulder that portmanteau, and toss it into the waggon. Which road am I to take?”
“Can’t miss um road, sa—straight up da ribber till you come to de crossin’. Dar you take de road dat don’t lead to da leff—you soon see Moun’ Welc’m’, sa.”
“How far is it?”
“Bout sebben or eight mile, sa—reach dar long ’fore sun-down; pony go like de berry lightnin’. Sure you no keep to da left by da crossin’.”
Thus instructed, the young steerage-passenger took his departure from the ship—after bidding adieu to the friendly tars, who had treated him so handsomely during his irksome voyage.
With his gun, a single-barrelled fowling-piece, on his shoulder, he strode over the platform, and up the wooden wharf. Then detaching the pony from the wheel of the ox-waggon, to which it had been tied, he threw himself into the saddle, and trotted off along the road pointed out as the one that would conduct him to Mount Welcome.
The excitement produced by the sudden change from ship to shore—the stir of the streets through which he had to pass—the novel sights and sounds that at every step saluted his eyes and ears—hindered Herbert Vaughan from thinking of anything that concerned himself.
Only for a short time, however, was his mind thus distracted from dwelling on his own affairs. Before he had ridden far, the road—hitherto bordered by houses—entered under a dark canopy of forest foliage; and the young traveller, all at once, found himself surrounded by a perfect solitude.
Under the sombre shadow of the trees, his spirit soon returned to its former gloomy forebodings; and, riding more slowly over a stretch of the road where the ground was wet and boggy, he fell into a train of thoughts that were anything but pleasant.
The subject of his reflections may be easily guessed. He had not failed to notice—how could he?—the distinction made between himself and his fellow-voyager. While a splendid equipage had been waiting for the latter—and his landing had been made a sort of ovation, how different was the means of transport provided for him!
“By the memory of my father!” muttered he, as he rode on, “it is an insult I shall not overlook: an insult to him more than to myself. But for the fulfilment ofhisdying wish, I should not go one step farther and as he said this, he drew his rough roadster to a halt—as if half-resolved to put his hypothetic threat into practice.
“Perhaps,” he continued, again moving forward, with a more hopeful air, “perhaps there may be some mistake? But no,” he added with a strong emphasis on the negative monosyllable, “there can be none! This shallow fop is a young man of fortune—I a child of misfortune;” and he smiled bitterly at the antithesis he had drawn; “that is the reason why such a distinction has been made between us. Be it so!” he continued, after a pause. “Poor as I am, this churlish relative will find me as proud as himself. I shall return him scorn for scorn. I shall demand an explanation of his behaviour; and the sooner I have it the better!”
As if stimulated by a sense of the outrage, as also by a half-formed purpose of retaliation, the young adventurer gave the whip to his shaggy steed, and dashed onward at full gallop.
Volume One—Chapter Fourteen.Travelling at the Tail.For nearly an hour did the cob continue its gallop, without pause or slacking. The road was a wide one, much tracked by wheels; and, as it ran in a direct course, the rider took it for granted he was keeping the right path. Now and then he caught a glimpse of water through the trees—no doubt, the river mentioned in the directions given him by the darkey.The crossing at length came in sight, causing him to desist from his rapid pace—in order that he might ford the stream. There was no appearance of a bridge. The water, however, was only knee-deep; and, without hesitation, the pony plunged in and waded over.Herbert halted on the opposite bank: for there appeared in front of him a dilemma. The road forked. The negro boy had warned him of this—telling him at the same time to take the one thatdidn’tlead to “da leff”; but instead of two “tines” to the fork, there werethree!Here was a puzzle. It was easy enough to know which of the threenotto take—the one thatdidlead to “da leff”; but which of the other two was to be chosen was the point that appeared to present a difficulty in the solution. Both were plain, good roads; and each as likely as the other to be the one which would conduct him to Mount Welcome.Had his rider left the pony to its own guidance, perhaps it would have chosen the right road. In all likelihood he would have done so in the end; but, before determining on any particular line of action, he thought it better to look for the wheel-tracks of the carriage, that he knew must have passed in advance of him.While thus cogitating, the silence occasioned by his momentary halt was all at once interrupted by a voice that sounded at his very side, and the tones of which he fancied were not new to him.On suddenly turning in the saddle, and looking in the direction whence the voice appeared to proceed, what was his astonishment on beholding the negro boy—the veritable Quashie!“Da, sa! das da crossin’ me you tell ’bout; you no take by de leff—dat lead to ole Jew penn; nor da right—he go to Mon’gew Cassel; de middle Massr Va’n road—he go straight na Moun’ Welc’m’.”The young traveller sat for some moments without speaking, or making reply in any way—surprise, as by a spell, holding him silent. He had left the boy on the forward deck of the ship, to look after his luggage; and he had seen him—he could almost swear to it—still on board, as he rode away from the wharf! Moreover, he had ridden a stretch of many miles—most of the way at full gallop, and all of it at a pace with which no pedestrian could possibly have kept up! How, then, was he to account for the lad’s presence upon the spot?This was the first question that occurred to him; and which he put to the darkey, as soon as he had sufficiently recovered from his surprise to be able to speak.“Quashie foller young buckra—at him pony heels.”The answer went but a short way towards enlightening the “young buckra;” since he still believed it utterly impossible for any human being to have travelled as fast as he had ridden.“At the pony’s heels! What, my black skin! do you mean to say you have run all the way after me from the landing-place?”“Ya, sa: dat hab Quashie do.”“But I saw you on board the ship as I started off. How on earth could you have overtaken me?”“Yaw, massa, dat wa’ easy ’nuf. Young buckra, he start off; Quashie, he put him porkmantle in da ox-waggon, an’ den he foller. Buckra, he go slow at fuss, Quashie soon cotch up, and den easy run ’long wi’ da pony—not much in dat, sa.”“Not much! Why, you imp of darkness, I have been riding at the rate of ten miles an hour, and how you’ve kept up with me is beyond my comprehension! Well, you’re a noble runner, that I will say! I’d back you at a foot-race against all comers, whether black ones or white ones. The middle road, you say?”“Ya, sa, dat de way to Moun’ Welc’m’; you soon see de big gate ob de plantation.”Herbert headed his roadster in the direction indicated; and moved onward along the path—his thoughts still dwelling on the odd incident.He had proceeded but a few lengths of his pony, when he was tempted to look back—partly to ascertain if Quashie was still following him, and partly with the intention of putting a query to this singular escort.A fresh surprise was in store for him. The darkey was nowhere to be seen! Neither to the right, nor the left, nor yet in the rear, was he visible!“Where the deuce can the boy have gone?” inquired Herbert, involuntarily, at the same time scanning the underwood on both sides of the road.“Hya, sa!” answered a voice, that appeared to come out of the ground close behind—while at the same instant the brown mop of Quashie, just visible over the croup of the cob, proclaimed his whereabouts.How the boy had been able to keep up with the pony was at length explained: he had beenholding on to its tail!There was something so ludicrous in the sight, that the young Englishman forgot for a moment the grave thoughts that had been harassing him; and once more checking his steed into a halt, gave utterance to roars of laughter. The darkey joined in his mirth with a grin that extended his mouth from ear to ear—though he was utterly unconscious of what the young buckra was laughing at. He could not see anything comic in a custom which he was almost daily in the habit of practising—for it was not the first time Quashie had travelled at the tail of a horse.Journeying about half a mile further along the main road, the entrance-gate of Mount Welcome was reached. There was no lodge—only a pair of grand stone piers, with a wing of strong mason-work on each flank, and a massive folding gate between them.From the directions Herbert had already received, he might have known this to be the entrance to his uncle’s plantation; but Quashie, still clinging to the pony’s tail, removed all doubt by crying out,—“Da’s da gate, buckra gemman—da’s de way fo’ Moun’ Welc’m’!”On passing through the gateway, the mansion itself came in sight—its white walls and green jalousies shining conspicuously at the extreme end of the long avenue; which last, with its bordering rows of palms and tamarinds, gave to the approach an air of aristocratic grandeur.Herbert had been prepared for something of this kind. He had heard at home that his father’s brother was a man of great wealth; and this was nearly all his father had himself known respecting him.The equipage which had transported his more favoured fellow-voyager—and which had passed over the same road about an hour before him—also gave evidence of the grand style in which his uncle lived.The mansion now before his eyes was in correspondence with what he had heard and seen. There could be no doubt that his uncle was one of the grandees of the island.The reflection gave him less pleasure than pain. His pride had been already wounded; and as he looked up the noble avenue, he was oppressed with a presentiment that some even greater humiliation was in store for him.“Tell me, Quashie,” said he, after a spell of painful reflection, “was it your master himself who gave you directions about conducting me to Mount Welcome? Or did you have your orders from the overseer?”“Massr no me speak ’bout you, sa; I no hear him say nuffin.”“The overseer, then?”“Ya, sa, de obaseeah.”“What did he tell you to do? Tell me as near as you can; and I may make you a present one of these days.”“Gorry, massr buckra! I you tell all he say, ’zactly as he say um. ‘Quashie,’ say he, ‘Quashie,’ he say, ‘you go down board de big ship; you see dat ere young buckra’—dat war yourseff, sa—‘you fotch ’im up to de ox-waggon, you fotch ’im baggage, too; you mount ’im on Coco,’—da’s de pony’s name—‘and den you fetch him home tomyhouse.’ Da’s all he say—ebbery word.”“Tohishouse? Mount Welcome, you mean!”“No, young buckra gemman—to de obaseeah own house. And now we jess got to da road dat lead dar. Dis way, sa! dis way!”The darkey pointed to a bye-road, that, forking off from the main avenue, ran in the direction of the ridge, where it entered into a tract of thick woods.Herbert checked the pony to a halt, and sat gazing at his guide, in mute surprise.“Dis way, sa!” repeated the boy. “Yonna’s de obaseeah’s house. You see wha da smoke rise, jess ober de big trees?”“What do you mean, my good fellow? What have I to do with the overseer’s house?”“We’s agwine da, sa.”“Who? you?”“Boff, sa; an’ Coco too.”“Have you taken leave of your senses, you imp of darkness?”“No, sa; Quashie only do what him bid. Da obaseeah Quashie bid fotch young buckra to him house. Dis yeer’s da way.”“I tell you, boy, you must be mistaken. It is to Mount Welcome I am going—my uncle’s house—up yonder!”“No, buckra gemman, me no mistake. Da obaseeah berry partikler ’bout dat same. He tell me you no fo’ da great house—da Buff. He say me fotch you to ’imownhouse.”“Are you sure of that?” Herbert, as he put this interrogatory, leant forward in the saddle, and listened attentively for the reply.“Lor, buckra gemman! I’se sure ob it as de sun am in de hebbens dar. I swa’ it, if you like.”On hearing this positive affirmation, the young Englishman sat for a moment, as if wrapt in a profound and painful reverie. His breast rose and fell as though some terrible truth was breaking upon him, which he was endeavouring to disbelieve.At this moment, Quashie caught the rein of the bridle, and was about to lead the pony into the bye-path.“No!” shouted the rider, in a voice loud and angry. “Let go, boy! let go, or I’ll give you the whip. This ismyway.”And, wrenching the rein from the grasp of his sable guide, he headed the pony back into the main avenue.Then laying on the lash with all his might, he pressed forward, at full gallop, in the direction of the “great house.”
For nearly an hour did the cob continue its gallop, without pause or slacking. The road was a wide one, much tracked by wheels; and, as it ran in a direct course, the rider took it for granted he was keeping the right path. Now and then he caught a glimpse of water through the trees—no doubt, the river mentioned in the directions given him by the darkey.
The crossing at length came in sight, causing him to desist from his rapid pace—in order that he might ford the stream. There was no appearance of a bridge. The water, however, was only knee-deep; and, without hesitation, the pony plunged in and waded over.
Herbert halted on the opposite bank: for there appeared in front of him a dilemma. The road forked. The negro boy had warned him of this—telling him at the same time to take the one thatdidn’tlead to “da leff”; but instead of two “tines” to the fork, there werethree!
Here was a puzzle. It was easy enough to know which of the threenotto take—the one thatdidlead to “da leff”; but which of the other two was to be chosen was the point that appeared to present a difficulty in the solution. Both were plain, good roads; and each as likely as the other to be the one which would conduct him to Mount Welcome.
Had his rider left the pony to its own guidance, perhaps it would have chosen the right road. In all likelihood he would have done so in the end; but, before determining on any particular line of action, he thought it better to look for the wheel-tracks of the carriage, that he knew must have passed in advance of him.
While thus cogitating, the silence occasioned by his momentary halt was all at once interrupted by a voice that sounded at his very side, and the tones of which he fancied were not new to him.
On suddenly turning in the saddle, and looking in the direction whence the voice appeared to proceed, what was his astonishment on beholding the negro boy—the veritable Quashie!
“Da, sa! das da crossin’ me you tell ’bout; you no take by de leff—dat lead to ole Jew penn; nor da right—he go to Mon’gew Cassel; de middle Massr Va’n road—he go straight na Moun’ Welc’m’.”
The young traveller sat for some moments without speaking, or making reply in any way—surprise, as by a spell, holding him silent. He had left the boy on the forward deck of the ship, to look after his luggage; and he had seen him—he could almost swear to it—still on board, as he rode away from the wharf! Moreover, he had ridden a stretch of many miles—most of the way at full gallop, and all of it at a pace with which no pedestrian could possibly have kept up! How, then, was he to account for the lad’s presence upon the spot?
This was the first question that occurred to him; and which he put to the darkey, as soon as he had sufficiently recovered from his surprise to be able to speak.
“Quashie foller young buckra—at him pony heels.”
The answer went but a short way towards enlightening the “young buckra;” since he still believed it utterly impossible for any human being to have travelled as fast as he had ridden.
“At the pony’s heels! What, my black skin! do you mean to say you have run all the way after me from the landing-place?”
“Ya, sa: dat hab Quashie do.”
“But I saw you on board the ship as I started off. How on earth could you have overtaken me?”
“Yaw, massa, dat wa’ easy ’nuf. Young buckra, he start off; Quashie, he put him porkmantle in da ox-waggon, an’ den he foller. Buckra, he go slow at fuss, Quashie soon cotch up, and den easy run ’long wi’ da pony—not much in dat, sa.”
“Not much! Why, you imp of darkness, I have been riding at the rate of ten miles an hour, and how you’ve kept up with me is beyond my comprehension! Well, you’re a noble runner, that I will say! I’d back you at a foot-race against all comers, whether black ones or white ones. The middle road, you say?”
“Ya, sa, dat de way to Moun’ Welc’m’; you soon see de big gate ob de plantation.”
Herbert headed his roadster in the direction indicated; and moved onward along the path—his thoughts still dwelling on the odd incident.
He had proceeded but a few lengths of his pony, when he was tempted to look back—partly to ascertain if Quashie was still following him, and partly with the intention of putting a query to this singular escort.
A fresh surprise was in store for him. The darkey was nowhere to be seen! Neither to the right, nor the left, nor yet in the rear, was he visible!
“Where the deuce can the boy have gone?” inquired Herbert, involuntarily, at the same time scanning the underwood on both sides of the road.
“Hya, sa!” answered a voice, that appeared to come out of the ground close behind—while at the same instant the brown mop of Quashie, just visible over the croup of the cob, proclaimed his whereabouts.
How the boy had been able to keep up with the pony was at length explained: he had beenholding on to its tail!
There was something so ludicrous in the sight, that the young Englishman forgot for a moment the grave thoughts that had been harassing him; and once more checking his steed into a halt, gave utterance to roars of laughter. The darkey joined in his mirth with a grin that extended his mouth from ear to ear—though he was utterly unconscious of what the young buckra was laughing at. He could not see anything comic in a custom which he was almost daily in the habit of practising—for it was not the first time Quashie had travelled at the tail of a horse.
Journeying about half a mile further along the main road, the entrance-gate of Mount Welcome was reached. There was no lodge—only a pair of grand stone piers, with a wing of strong mason-work on each flank, and a massive folding gate between them.
From the directions Herbert had already received, he might have known this to be the entrance to his uncle’s plantation; but Quashie, still clinging to the pony’s tail, removed all doubt by crying out,—
“Da’s da gate, buckra gemman—da’s de way fo’ Moun’ Welc’m’!”
On passing through the gateway, the mansion itself came in sight—its white walls and green jalousies shining conspicuously at the extreme end of the long avenue; which last, with its bordering rows of palms and tamarinds, gave to the approach an air of aristocratic grandeur.
Herbert had been prepared for something of this kind. He had heard at home that his father’s brother was a man of great wealth; and this was nearly all his father had himself known respecting him.
The equipage which had transported his more favoured fellow-voyager—and which had passed over the same road about an hour before him—also gave evidence of the grand style in which his uncle lived.
The mansion now before his eyes was in correspondence with what he had heard and seen. There could be no doubt that his uncle was one of the grandees of the island.
The reflection gave him less pleasure than pain. His pride had been already wounded; and as he looked up the noble avenue, he was oppressed with a presentiment that some even greater humiliation was in store for him.
“Tell me, Quashie,” said he, after a spell of painful reflection, “was it your master himself who gave you directions about conducting me to Mount Welcome? Or did you have your orders from the overseer?”
“Massr no me speak ’bout you, sa; I no hear him say nuffin.”
“The overseer, then?”
“Ya, sa, de obaseeah.”
“What did he tell you to do? Tell me as near as you can; and I may make you a present one of these days.”
“Gorry, massr buckra! I you tell all he say, ’zactly as he say um. ‘Quashie,’ say he, ‘Quashie,’ he say, ‘you go down board de big ship; you see dat ere young buckra’—dat war yourseff, sa—‘you fotch ’im up to de ox-waggon, you fotch ’im baggage, too; you mount ’im on Coco,’—da’s de pony’s name—‘and den you fetch him home tomyhouse.’ Da’s all he say—ebbery word.”
“Tohishouse? Mount Welcome, you mean!”
“No, young buckra gemman—to de obaseeah own house. And now we jess got to da road dat lead dar. Dis way, sa! dis way!”
The darkey pointed to a bye-road, that, forking off from the main avenue, ran in the direction of the ridge, where it entered into a tract of thick woods.
Herbert checked the pony to a halt, and sat gazing at his guide, in mute surprise.
“Dis way, sa!” repeated the boy. “Yonna’s de obaseeah’s house. You see wha da smoke rise, jess ober de big trees?”
“What do you mean, my good fellow? What have I to do with the overseer’s house?”
“We’s agwine da, sa.”
“Who? you?”
“Boff, sa; an’ Coco too.”
“Have you taken leave of your senses, you imp of darkness?”
“No, sa; Quashie only do what him bid. Da obaseeah Quashie bid fotch young buckra to him house. Dis yeer’s da way.”
“I tell you, boy, you must be mistaken. It is to Mount Welcome I am going—my uncle’s house—up yonder!”
“No, buckra gemman, me no mistake. Da obaseeah berry partikler ’bout dat same. He tell me you no fo’ da great house—da Buff. He say me fotch you to ’imownhouse.”
“Are you sure of that?” Herbert, as he put this interrogatory, leant forward in the saddle, and listened attentively for the reply.
“Lor, buckra gemman! I’se sure ob it as de sun am in de hebbens dar. I swa’ it, if you like.”
On hearing this positive affirmation, the young Englishman sat for a moment, as if wrapt in a profound and painful reverie. His breast rose and fell as though some terrible truth was breaking upon him, which he was endeavouring to disbelieve.
At this moment, Quashie caught the rein of the bridle, and was about to lead the pony into the bye-path.
“No!” shouted the rider, in a voice loud and angry. “Let go, boy! let go, or I’ll give you the whip. This ismyway.”
And, wrenching the rein from the grasp of his sable guide, he headed the pony back into the main avenue.
Then laying on the lash with all his might, he pressed forward, at full gallop, in the direction of the “great house.”
Volume One—Chapter Fifteen.A Slippery Floor.The carriage conveying Mr Montagu Smythje from Montego Bay to Mount Welcome, passed up the avenue and arrived at the great house, just one hour before Herbert Vaughan, mounted on his rough roadster, and guided by Quashie, made his appearance at the entrance-gate of the plantation.Mr Smythje had arrived at half-past three, p.m. Four was the regular dining hour at Mount Welcome: so that there was just neat time for the valet to unpack the ample valises and portmanteaus, and dress his master for the table.It had been the aim of Mr Vaughan to make the introduction of Mr Smythje to his daughter as effective as possible. He was sage enough to know the power of first appearances.For this reason, he had managed to keep them apart until the moment of meeting at the dinner-table, when both should appear under the advantage of a full dress.So far as the impression to be made on Mr Smythje was concerned, Mr Vaughan’s scheme was perfectly successful. His daughter really appeared superb—radiant as the crimson quamoclit that glistened amidst the plaits of her hair; graceful as nature, and elegant as art, could make her.The heart of the cockney felt—perhaps for the first time in his life—that true sentiment of admiration which beauty, combined with virgin modesty, is almost certain to inspire.For a moment, the remembrance of the ballet girl and the lewd recollections of thebagniowere obliterated; and a graver and nobler inspiration took their place.Even vulgar Loftus Vaughan had skill enough to note this effect; but how long it would last—how long the plant of a pure passion would flourish in that uncongenial soil—was a question which it required an abler physiologist than Loftus Vaughan to determine.The sugar-planter congratulated himself upon his success. Smythje was smitten, beyond the shadow of a doubt.Had the calculating father been equally anxious to perceive areciprocityof this fine first impression, he would have been doomed to a disappointment. As certainly as that of Mr Smythje was a sentiment of admiration, so certainly was that of Kate Vaughan a feeling ofdégout; or at least of indifference.In truth, the Londoner had made a most unfortunatedébut. Acontretempshad occurred in the ceremony of introduction—just at that crisis-moment when all eyes are sharply set, and all ears acutely bent in mutualreconnoissance. Mr Vaughan had committed a grand error in causing the presentation to take place in the grand hall. Ice itself was not more slippery than its floor. The consequence was unavoidable; and the cockney, essaying one of his most graceful attitudes, fell flat upon his face at the feet of her he simply intended to have saluted!In that fall he had lost everything—every chance of winning Kate Vaughan’s heart. A thousand acts of gracefulness, a thousand deeds of heroism, would not have set him up again, after that unfortunate fall. It was a clear paraphrase of the downfall of Humpty Dumpty—the restoration alike hopeless, alike impossible.Mr Montagu Smythje was too well stocked with self-complacency to suffer much embarrassment from alapsusof so trifling a character. His valet had him upon his feet in a trice; and with a “Haw-haw!” and the remark that the floor was “demmed swippeway,” he crept cautiously to his chair, and seated himself.Though the Londoner had been all his life accustomed to dining well, he could not help indulging in some surprise at the plentiful and luxurious repast that was placed before him.Perhaps in no part of the world does the table groan under a greater load of rich viands than in the West Indian Islands. In the prosperous times of sugar-planting, a Jamaican dinner was deserving of the name of feast. Turtle was the common soup; and the most sumptuous dishes were arranged thickly over the board. Even the ordinary every-day dessert was a spread worthy of Apicius; and the wines—instead of those dull twin poisons, port and sherry—were south-side Madeira, champagne, claret, and sparkling hock—all quaffed in copious flagons, plenteous as small beer.These were glorious times for the white-skinned oligarchy of the sugar islands—the days of revel and rollicky living—before the wedge of Wilberforce split the dark pedestal which propped up their pomp and prosperity.A dinner of this good old-fashioned style had Loftus Vaughan prepared for his English guest. Behind the chairs appeared troops of coloured attendants, gliding silently over the smooth floor. A constant stream of domestics poured in and out of the hall, fetching and removing the dishes and plates, or carrying the wine decanters in silver coolers. Young girls of various shades of complexion—some nearly white—stood at intervals around the table, fanning the guests with long peacock plumes, and filling the great hall with an artificial current of delicious coolness.Montagu Smythje was delighted. Even in his “dear metwopolis” he had never dined so luxuriously.“Spwendid, spwendid—’pon honaw! A dinner fit for a pwince!” he exclaimed, in compliment to his entertainer.The savoury dishes were partaken of, and removed, and the table, arranged fordessert, exhibited that gorgeous profusion which a tropic clime can alone produce—where almost every order of the botanical world supplies some fruit or berry of rarest excellence. Alone in the intertropical regions of the New-World may such variety be seen—adessert tableupon which Pomona appears to have poured forth her goldencornucopiae.The cloth having been removed from the highly-polished table, the sparkling decanters were once more passed round. In honour of his guest, the planter had already made free with his own wines, all of which were of most excellent quality. Loftus Vaughan was at that moment at a maximum of enjoyment.Just at that very moment, however, a cloud was making its appearance on the edge of the sky.It was a very little cloud, and still very far off; but, for all that, a careful observer could have seen that its shadow became reflected on the brow of the planter.Literally speaking, this cloud was an object on the earth, of shape half human, half equine, that appeared near the extreme end of the long avenue, moving towards the house.When first seen by Loftus Vaughan, it was still distant, though not so far off but that, with the naked eye, he could distinguish a man on horseback.From that moment he might have been observed to turn about in his chair—at short intervals casting uneasy glances upon the centaurean form that was gradually growing bigger as it advanced.For a time, the expression on the face of Mr Vaughan was far from being a marked one. The looks that conveyed it were furtive, and might have passed unnoticed by the superficial observer. They had, in fact, escaped the notice both of his daughter and his guest; and it was not until after the horseman had made halt at the entrance of the bye-path, and was seen coming on for the house, that the attention of either was drawn to the singular behaviour of Mr Vaughan. Then, however, his nervous anxiety had become so undisguisedly patent, as to elicit from Miss Vaughan an ejaculation of alarm; while the cockney involuntarily exclaimed, “Bless ma soul!” adding the interrogatory,—“Anything wong, sir?”“Oh! nothing!” stammered the planter; “only—only—a little surprise—that’s all.”“Surprise, papa! what has caused it? Oh, see! yonder is some one on horseback—a man—a young man. I declare it is our own pony he is riding; and that is Quashie running behind him! How very amusing! Papa, what is it all about?”“Tut! sit down, child!” commanded the father, in a tone of nervous perplexity. “Sit down, I say! Whoever it be, it will be time enough to know when he arrives. Kate! Kate! ’tis not well-bred of you to interrupt our dessert. Mr Smythje—glass of Madeira with you, sir?”“Plesyaw!” answered the exquisite, turning once more to the table, and occupying himself with the decanter.Kate obeyed the command with a look that expressed both reluctance and surprise. She was slightly awed, too; not so much by the words, as the severe glance that accompanied them. She made no reply, but sat gazing with a mystified air in the face of her father—who, hob-nobbing with his guest, affected not to notice her.The pony and his rider were no longer visible: as they were now too close to the house to be seen over the sill of the window; but the clattering hoofs could be heard, the sounds coming nearer and nearer.Mr Vaughan was endeavouring to appear collected, and to say something; but hissang froidwas assumed and unnatural; and being unable to keep up the conversation, an ominous silence succeeded.The sound of the hoofs ceased to be heard. The pony, having arrived under the windows, had been brought to a halt.Then there were voices—earnest and rather loud. They were succeeded by the noise of footsteps on the stone stairway. Someone was coming up the steps.Mr Vaughan looked aghast. All his fine plans were about to be frustrated. There was a hitch in the programme—Quashie had failed in the performance ofhispart.“Aha!” ejaculated the planter, with returning delight, as the smooth, trim countenance of his overseer made its appearance above the landing. “Mr Trusty wishes to speak with me. Your pardon, Mr Smythje—only for one moment.”Mr Vaughan rose from his seat, and hastened, as if wishing to meet the overseer, before the latter could enter the room. Trusty, however, had already stepped inside the doorway; and, not being much of a diplomatist, had bluntly declared his errand—insotto voce, it is true, but still not low enough to hinder a part of his communication from being heard. Among other words, the phrase “your nephew” reached the ears of Kate—at that moment keenly bent to catch every sound.The reply was also partially heard, though delivered in a low and apparently tremulous voice:—“Show him—summer-house—garden—tell him to wait—there presently.”Mr Vaughan turned back to the table with a half-satisfied air. He was fancying that he had escaped from his dilemma, at least, for the time; but the expression which he perceived on the countenance of his daughter restored his suspicions that all was not right.Scarce a second was he left in doubt, for almost on the instant, Kate cried out, in a tone of pleased surprise,—“Oh, papa, what do I hear? Did not Mr Trusty say something about ‘your nephew’? After all, has cousin come? Is it he who—”“Kate, my child,” quickly interrupted her father, and appearing not to have understood her interrogatory, “you may retire to your room. Mr Smythje and I would like to have our cigar; and the smoke of tobacco don’t agree with you. Go, child—go!”The young girl instantly rose from her chair, and hastened to obey the command—notwithstanding the protestations of Mr Smythje, who looked as if he would have much preferred her company to the cigar.But her father hurriedly repeated the “Go, child—go!” accompanying the words with another of those severe glances which had already awed and mystified her.Before she had passed fairly out of the great hall, however, her thoughts reverted to the unanswered interrogatory; and as she crossed the threshold of her chamber, she was heard muttering to herself:“I wonder if cousin be come!”
The carriage conveying Mr Montagu Smythje from Montego Bay to Mount Welcome, passed up the avenue and arrived at the great house, just one hour before Herbert Vaughan, mounted on his rough roadster, and guided by Quashie, made his appearance at the entrance-gate of the plantation.
Mr Smythje had arrived at half-past three, p.m. Four was the regular dining hour at Mount Welcome: so that there was just neat time for the valet to unpack the ample valises and portmanteaus, and dress his master for the table.
It had been the aim of Mr Vaughan to make the introduction of Mr Smythje to his daughter as effective as possible. He was sage enough to know the power of first appearances.
For this reason, he had managed to keep them apart until the moment of meeting at the dinner-table, when both should appear under the advantage of a full dress.
So far as the impression to be made on Mr Smythje was concerned, Mr Vaughan’s scheme was perfectly successful. His daughter really appeared superb—radiant as the crimson quamoclit that glistened amidst the plaits of her hair; graceful as nature, and elegant as art, could make her.
The heart of the cockney felt—perhaps for the first time in his life—that true sentiment of admiration which beauty, combined with virgin modesty, is almost certain to inspire.
For a moment, the remembrance of the ballet girl and the lewd recollections of thebagniowere obliterated; and a graver and nobler inspiration took their place.
Even vulgar Loftus Vaughan had skill enough to note this effect; but how long it would last—how long the plant of a pure passion would flourish in that uncongenial soil—was a question which it required an abler physiologist than Loftus Vaughan to determine.
The sugar-planter congratulated himself upon his success. Smythje was smitten, beyond the shadow of a doubt.
Had the calculating father been equally anxious to perceive areciprocityof this fine first impression, he would have been doomed to a disappointment. As certainly as that of Mr Smythje was a sentiment of admiration, so certainly was that of Kate Vaughan a feeling ofdégout; or at least of indifference.
In truth, the Londoner had made a most unfortunatedébut. Acontretempshad occurred in the ceremony of introduction—just at that crisis-moment when all eyes are sharply set, and all ears acutely bent in mutualreconnoissance. Mr Vaughan had committed a grand error in causing the presentation to take place in the grand hall. Ice itself was not more slippery than its floor. The consequence was unavoidable; and the cockney, essaying one of his most graceful attitudes, fell flat upon his face at the feet of her he simply intended to have saluted!
In that fall he had lost everything—every chance of winning Kate Vaughan’s heart. A thousand acts of gracefulness, a thousand deeds of heroism, would not have set him up again, after that unfortunate fall. It was a clear paraphrase of the downfall of Humpty Dumpty—the restoration alike hopeless, alike impossible.
Mr Montagu Smythje was too well stocked with self-complacency to suffer much embarrassment from alapsusof so trifling a character. His valet had him upon his feet in a trice; and with a “Haw-haw!” and the remark that the floor was “demmed swippeway,” he crept cautiously to his chair, and seated himself.
Though the Londoner had been all his life accustomed to dining well, he could not help indulging in some surprise at the plentiful and luxurious repast that was placed before him.
Perhaps in no part of the world does the table groan under a greater load of rich viands than in the West Indian Islands. In the prosperous times of sugar-planting, a Jamaican dinner was deserving of the name of feast. Turtle was the common soup; and the most sumptuous dishes were arranged thickly over the board. Even the ordinary every-day dessert was a spread worthy of Apicius; and the wines—instead of those dull twin poisons, port and sherry—were south-side Madeira, champagne, claret, and sparkling hock—all quaffed in copious flagons, plenteous as small beer.
These were glorious times for the white-skinned oligarchy of the sugar islands—the days of revel and rollicky living—before the wedge of Wilberforce split the dark pedestal which propped up their pomp and prosperity.
A dinner of this good old-fashioned style had Loftus Vaughan prepared for his English guest. Behind the chairs appeared troops of coloured attendants, gliding silently over the smooth floor. A constant stream of domestics poured in and out of the hall, fetching and removing the dishes and plates, or carrying the wine decanters in silver coolers. Young girls of various shades of complexion—some nearly white—stood at intervals around the table, fanning the guests with long peacock plumes, and filling the great hall with an artificial current of delicious coolness.
Montagu Smythje was delighted. Even in his “dear metwopolis” he had never dined so luxuriously.
“Spwendid, spwendid—’pon honaw! A dinner fit for a pwince!” he exclaimed, in compliment to his entertainer.
The savoury dishes were partaken of, and removed, and the table, arranged fordessert, exhibited that gorgeous profusion which a tropic clime can alone produce—where almost every order of the botanical world supplies some fruit or berry of rarest excellence. Alone in the intertropical regions of the New-World may such variety be seen—adessert tableupon which Pomona appears to have poured forth her goldencornucopiae.
The cloth having been removed from the highly-polished table, the sparkling decanters were once more passed round. In honour of his guest, the planter had already made free with his own wines, all of which were of most excellent quality. Loftus Vaughan was at that moment at a maximum of enjoyment.
Just at that very moment, however, a cloud was making its appearance on the edge of the sky.
It was a very little cloud, and still very far off; but, for all that, a careful observer could have seen that its shadow became reflected on the brow of the planter.
Literally speaking, this cloud was an object on the earth, of shape half human, half equine, that appeared near the extreme end of the long avenue, moving towards the house.
When first seen by Loftus Vaughan, it was still distant, though not so far off but that, with the naked eye, he could distinguish a man on horseback.
From that moment he might have been observed to turn about in his chair—at short intervals casting uneasy glances upon the centaurean form that was gradually growing bigger as it advanced.
For a time, the expression on the face of Mr Vaughan was far from being a marked one. The looks that conveyed it were furtive, and might have passed unnoticed by the superficial observer. They had, in fact, escaped the notice both of his daughter and his guest; and it was not until after the horseman had made halt at the entrance of the bye-path, and was seen coming on for the house, that the attention of either was drawn to the singular behaviour of Mr Vaughan. Then, however, his nervous anxiety had become so undisguisedly patent, as to elicit from Miss Vaughan an ejaculation of alarm; while the cockney involuntarily exclaimed, “Bless ma soul!” adding the interrogatory,—
“Anything wong, sir?”
“Oh! nothing!” stammered the planter; “only—only—a little surprise—that’s all.”
“Surprise, papa! what has caused it? Oh, see! yonder is some one on horseback—a man—a young man. I declare it is our own pony he is riding; and that is Quashie running behind him! How very amusing! Papa, what is it all about?”
“Tut! sit down, child!” commanded the father, in a tone of nervous perplexity. “Sit down, I say! Whoever it be, it will be time enough to know when he arrives. Kate! Kate! ’tis not well-bred of you to interrupt our dessert. Mr Smythje—glass of Madeira with you, sir?”
“Plesyaw!” answered the exquisite, turning once more to the table, and occupying himself with the decanter.
Kate obeyed the command with a look that expressed both reluctance and surprise. She was slightly awed, too; not so much by the words, as the severe glance that accompanied them. She made no reply, but sat gazing with a mystified air in the face of her father—who, hob-nobbing with his guest, affected not to notice her.
The pony and his rider were no longer visible: as they were now too close to the house to be seen over the sill of the window; but the clattering hoofs could be heard, the sounds coming nearer and nearer.
Mr Vaughan was endeavouring to appear collected, and to say something; but hissang froidwas assumed and unnatural; and being unable to keep up the conversation, an ominous silence succeeded.
The sound of the hoofs ceased to be heard. The pony, having arrived under the windows, had been brought to a halt.
Then there were voices—earnest and rather loud. They were succeeded by the noise of footsteps on the stone stairway. Someone was coming up the steps.
Mr Vaughan looked aghast. All his fine plans were about to be frustrated. There was a hitch in the programme—Quashie had failed in the performance ofhispart.
“Aha!” ejaculated the planter, with returning delight, as the smooth, trim countenance of his overseer made its appearance above the landing. “Mr Trusty wishes to speak with me. Your pardon, Mr Smythje—only for one moment.”
Mr Vaughan rose from his seat, and hastened, as if wishing to meet the overseer, before the latter could enter the room. Trusty, however, had already stepped inside the doorway; and, not being much of a diplomatist, had bluntly declared his errand—insotto voce, it is true, but still not low enough to hinder a part of his communication from being heard. Among other words, the phrase “your nephew” reached the ears of Kate—at that moment keenly bent to catch every sound.
The reply was also partially heard, though delivered in a low and apparently tremulous voice:—“Show him—summer-house—garden—tell him to wait—there presently.”
Mr Vaughan turned back to the table with a half-satisfied air. He was fancying that he had escaped from his dilemma, at least, for the time; but the expression which he perceived on the countenance of his daughter restored his suspicions that all was not right.
Scarce a second was he left in doubt, for almost on the instant, Kate cried out, in a tone of pleased surprise,—
“Oh, papa, what do I hear? Did not Mr Trusty say something about ‘your nephew’? After all, has cousin come? Is it he who—”
“Kate, my child,” quickly interrupted her father, and appearing not to have understood her interrogatory, “you may retire to your room. Mr Smythje and I would like to have our cigar; and the smoke of tobacco don’t agree with you. Go, child—go!”
The young girl instantly rose from her chair, and hastened to obey the command—notwithstanding the protestations of Mr Smythje, who looked as if he would have much preferred her company to the cigar.
But her father hurriedly repeated the “Go, child—go!” accompanying the words with another of those severe glances which had already awed and mystified her.
Before she had passed fairly out of the great hall, however, her thoughts reverted to the unanswered interrogatory; and as she crossed the threshold of her chamber, she was heard muttering to herself:
“I wonder if cousin be come!”