Volume One—Chapter Sixteen.The Kiosk.A portion of the level platform, on which Mount Welcome was built, extended to the rear of the dwelling; and was occupied, as already described, by a garden filled with rare and beautiful plants. Near the midst of this garden, and about a dozen paces from the house, stood a small detached building—a summer-house—the materials of which were ornamental woods of various kinds, all natives of the island, famed for such products. The pieces composing this summer-house, or “kiosk,” as it was habitually called, had all been cut and carved with skilful care; and the whole structure had been designed as a representation of a miniature temple, with a cupola upon its top, surmounted by a gilded and glittering vane.Inside there were neither stairs nor partitions—the whole space being taken up by a single apartment. There were no glass windows: but all around, the walls were open, or closed only with Venetian blinds, the laths of which were of the finest mahogany. A Chinese mat covered the floor, and a rustic table of bamboo cane pieces, with some half-dozen chairs of like manufacture, constituted the principal part of the furniture.On the aforesaid table stood an inkstand of silver, elaborately chased, with plume pens pertaining to it. Some writing-paper lay beside it; and on a silver tray there were wafers, red sealing-wax, and a signet seal. An escritoire stood on one side; and two or three dozen volumes placed upon the top of this—with a like number thrown carelessly on chairs—formed the library of Mount Welcome.Some magazines and journals lay upon the centre-table, and a box of best Havannahs—open and half used—showed that the summer-house served occasionally for a smoking-room.It was sometimes styled the “Library,” though its purposes were many. Mr Vaughan, at times, used it for the reception of visitors—such as might have come upon errands of business—such, in short, as were not deemed worthy of being introduced to the company of the grand hall.Just at the moment when Kate Vaughan quitted the dinner-table, a young man was shown into this detached apartment, Mr Trusty, the overseer, acting as his chaperon.It is not necessary to say that this young man was Herbert Vaughan.How he came to be conducted thither is easily explained. On learning from Quashie the destination designed for him—aggrieved and angry at the revelation—he had hurried in hot haste up to the house. To Mr Trusty, who was keeping guard at the bottom of the stairway, he had announced his relationship with Mr Vaughan, and demanded an interview—making his requisition in such energetic terms as to disturb the habitualsang froidof the overseer, and compel him to the instantaneous delivery of his message.Indeed, so indignant did Herbert feel, that he would have mounted the steps and entered the house without further parley, had not Mr Trusty put forth his blandest entreaties to prevent such a terrible catastrophe.“Patience, my good sir!” urged the overseer, interposing himself between the new comer and the stairway; “Mr Vaughanwillsee you, presently—not just this moment; he is engaged—company with him. The family’s at dinner.”So far from soothing the chafed spirit of the young man, the announcement was only a new mortification. At dinner, and with company—the cabin-passenger, of course—the ward—not even a relative—while he, the nephew—no dinner for him!In truth, Herbert recognised in this incident a fresh outrage.With an effort, he gave up the idea of ascending the stairs. Poor though he was, he was nevertheless a gentleman; and good breeding stepped in to restrain him from this unbidden intrusion: though more than ever did he feel convinced that an insult was put upon him, and one that almost appeared premeditated.He stood balancing in his mind whether he should turn upon his heel, and depart from his uncle’s house without entering it. A feather would have brought down the scale. The feather fell on the negative side, and decided him to remain.On being conducted into the summer-house and left to himself, he showed no wish to be seated; but paced the little apartment backward and forward in a state of nervous agitation.He took but slight heed of aught that was there. He was in no mood for minutely observing—though he could not help noticing the luxurious elegance that surrounded him: the grandeur of the great house itself; the splendidparterresand gardens filled with plants and flowers of exquisite beauty and fragrant perfume.These fine sights, however, instead of soothing his chafed spirit, only made him more bitterly sensible of his own poor fortunes, and the immeasurable distance that separated him from his proud, rich uncle.Through the open sides of the kiosk he merely glanced hastily at the grounds; and then his eyes became bent upon the great house—directed habitually towards an entrance at the back that by a flight of steps conducted into the garden. By this entrance he expected his uncle would come out; and in angry impatience did he await his coming.Had he seen the beautiful eyes that were, at that moment, tenderly gazing upon him from behind the lattice-work of the opposite window, perhaps the sight would have gone far towards soothing his irate soul. But he saw them not. The jalousies were closed; and though from the shadowy interior of the chamber, the kiosk and its occupant were in full view, the young Englishman had no suspicion that he was at that moment the object of observation—perhaps of admiration—by a pair of the loveliest eyes in the island of Jamaica.After turning, for the twentieth time, across the floor—at each turn scanning the stairs with fresh impatience—he somewhat spitefully laid hold of a book, and opened it—in the hope of being able to kill time over its pages.The volume which came into his hands—by chance: he had not chosen it—was but little calculated to tranquillise his troubled spirit. It was a digest of the statutes of Jamaica relating to slavery—the famous, or rather infamous,black codeof the island.There he read: that a man might mutilate his own image in the person of a fellow-man—torture him, even to death, and escape with the punishment of a paltry fine! That a man with a black skin—or even white, if at all tainted with African blood—could hold no real estate, no office of trust; could give no evidence in a court of law—not even had he been witness of the crime of murder; that such a man must not keep or ride a horse; must not carry a gun, or other weapon of defence; must not defend himself when assaulted; must not defend wife, sister, or daughter—even when ruffian hands were tearing them from him for the most unholy of purposes! In short, that aman of colourmust do nothing to make himself different from a docile and submissive brute!To the young Englishman, fresh from a Christian land—at that period ringing with the eloquent denunciations of a Wilberforce, and the philanthropic appeals of a Clarkson—the perusal of this execrable statute-book, instead of producing tranquillity, only infused fresh bitterness into his soul; and stamping his foot fiercely on the floor, he flung the detestable volume back to its place.At that moment—just as he had reached the maximum of reckless defiance—a noise was heard in the direction of the great house, and the door of the stair-landing was seen to turn on its hinges.Of course, he expected to see a surly old uncle, and was resolved to be as surly as he.On the contrary, and to his pleased surprise, he beheld in the doorway a beautiful young girl, bending her eyes upon him with an affectionate look, and as if courting recognition!A sudden revulsion of feeling passed through his whole frame; his countenance changed its angry expression to one of admiration; and, unable to utter a word, he remained silently gazing on this lovely apparition.
A portion of the level platform, on which Mount Welcome was built, extended to the rear of the dwelling; and was occupied, as already described, by a garden filled with rare and beautiful plants. Near the midst of this garden, and about a dozen paces from the house, stood a small detached building—a summer-house—the materials of which were ornamental woods of various kinds, all natives of the island, famed for such products. The pieces composing this summer-house, or “kiosk,” as it was habitually called, had all been cut and carved with skilful care; and the whole structure had been designed as a representation of a miniature temple, with a cupola upon its top, surmounted by a gilded and glittering vane.
Inside there were neither stairs nor partitions—the whole space being taken up by a single apartment. There were no glass windows: but all around, the walls were open, or closed only with Venetian blinds, the laths of which were of the finest mahogany. A Chinese mat covered the floor, and a rustic table of bamboo cane pieces, with some half-dozen chairs of like manufacture, constituted the principal part of the furniture.
On the aforesaid table stood an inkstand of silver, elaborately chased, with plume pens pertaining to it. Some writing-paper lay beside it; and on a silver tray there were wafers, red sealing-wax, and a signet seal. An escritoire stood on one side; and two or three dozen volumes placed upon the top of this—with a like number thrown carelessly on chairs—formed the library of Mount Welcome.
Some magazines and journals lay upon the centre-table, and a box of best Havannahs—open and half used—showed that the summer-house served occasionally for a smoking-room.
It was sometimes styled the “Library,” though its purposes were many. Mr Vaughan, at times, used it for the reception of visitors—such as might have come upon errands of business—such, in short, as were not deemed worthy of being introduced to the company of the grand hall.
Just at the moment when Kate Vaughan quitted the dinner-table, a young man was shown into this detached apartment, Mr Trusty, the overseer, acting as his chaperon.
It is not necessary to say that this young man was Herbert Vaughan.
How he came to be conducted thither is easily explained. On learning from Quashie the destination designed for him—aggrieved and angry at the revelation—he had hurried in hot haste up to the house. To Mr Trusty, who was keeping guard at the bottom of the stairway, he had announced his relationship with Mr Vaughan, and demanded an interview—making his requisition in such energetic terms as to disturb the habitualsang froidof the overseer, and compel him to the instantaneous delivery of his message.
Indeed, so indignant did Herbert feel, that he would have mounted the steps and entered the house without further parley, had not Mr Trusty put forth his blandest entreaties to prevent such a terrible catastrophe.
“Patience, my good sir!” urged the overseer, interposing himself between the new comer and the stairway; “Mr Vaughanwillsee you, presently—not just this moment; he is engaged—company with him. The family’s at dinner.”
So far from soothing the chafed spirit of the young man, the announcement was only a new mortification. At dinner, and with company—the cabin-passenger, of course—the ward—not even a relative—while he, the nephew—no dinner for him!
In truth, Herbert recognised in this incident a fresh outrage.
With an effort, he gave up the idea of ascending the stairs. Poor though he was, he was nevertheless a gentleman; and good breeding stepped in to restrain him from this unbidden intrusion: though more than ever did he feel convinced that an insult was put upon him, and one that almost appeared premeditated.
He stood balancing in his mind whether he should turn upon his heel, and depart from his uncle’s house without entering it. A feather would have brought down the scale. The feather fell on the negative side, and decided him to remain.
On being conducted into the summer-house and left to himself, he showed no wish to be seated; but paced the little apartment backward and forward in a state of nervous agitation.
He took but slight heed of aught that was there. He was in no mood for minutely observing—though he could not help noticing the luxurious elegance that surrounded him: the grandeur of the great house itself; the splendidparterresand gardens filled with plants and flowers of exquisite beauty and fragrant perfume.
These fine sights, however, instead of soothing his chafed spirit, only made him more bitterly sensible of his own poor fortunes, and the immeasurable distance that separated him from his proud, rich uncle.
Through the open sides of the kiosk he merely glanced hastily at the grounds; and then his eyes became bent upon the great house—directed habitually towards an entrance at the back that by a flight of steps conducted into the garden. By this entrance he expected his uncle would come out; and in angry impatience did he await his coming.
Had he seen the beautiful eyes that were, at that moment, tenderly gazing upon him from behind the lattice-work of the opposite window, perhaps the sight would have gone far towards soothing his irate soul. But he saw them not. The jalousies were closed; and though from the shadowy interior of the chamber, the kiosk and its occupant were in full view, the young Englishman had no suspicion that he was at that moment the object of observation—perhaps of admiration—by a pair of the loveliest eyes in the island of Jamaica.
After turning, for the twentieth time, across the floor—at each turn scanning the stairs with fresh impatience—he somewhat spitefully laid hold of a book, and opened it—in the hope of being able to kill time over its pages.
The volume which came into his hands—by chance: he had not chosen it—was but little calculated to tranquillise his troubled spirit. It was a digest of the statutes of Jamaica relating to slavery—the famous, or rather infamous,black codeof the island.
There he read: that a man might mutilate his own image in the person of a fellow-man—torture him, even to death, and escape with the punishment of a paltry fine! That a man with a black skin—or even white, if at all tainted with African blood—could hold no real estate, no office of trust; could give no evidence in a court of law—not even had he been witness of the crime of murder; that such a man must not keep or ride a horse; must not carry a gun, or other weapon of defence; must not defend himself when assaulted; must not defend wife, sister, or daughter—even when ruffian hands were tearing them from him for the most unholy of purposes! In short, that aman of colourmust do nothing to make himself different from a docile and submissive brute!
To the young Englishman, fresh from a Christian land—at that period ringing with the eloquent denunciations of a Wilberforce, and the philanthropic appeals of a Clarkson—the perusal of this execrable statute-book, instead of producing tranquillity, only infused fresh bitterness into his soul; and stamping his foot fiercely on the floor, he flung the detestable volume back to its place.
At that moment—just as he had reached the maximum of reckless defiance—a noise was heard in the direction of the great house, and the door of the stair-landing was seen to turn on its hinges.
Of course, he expected to see a surly old uncle, and was resolved to be as surly as he.
On the contrary, and to his pleased surprise, he beheld in the doorway a beautiful young girl, bending her eyes upon him with an affectionate look, and as if courting recognition!
A sudden revulsion of feeling passed through his whole frame; his countenance changed its angry expression to one of admiration; and, unable to utter a word, he remained silently gazing on this lovely apparition.
Volume One—Chapter Seventeen.A Bold Resolve.Far better would it have been for Mr Vaughan—at least, for the success of his schemes—had he adopted an honourable course with his nephew; and at once introduced him, openly and above-board, to his table, his daughter, and his aristocratic guest.Had he known before dinner what he was made aware of in less than five minutes after it, he would, in all likelihood, have adopted this course. It would have spared him the chagrin he was made to feel, on Mr Smythje reporting to him the encounter he had had on board ship—which the latter proceeded to do, the moment after Kate had been so unceremoniously dismissed from the hall.Smythje had also overheard the communication of the overseer—the word “nephew,” at least—and this recalled to his mind—not without some unpleasant remembrance of the satire from which he had suffered—the steerage passenger who had treated him so brusquely on board theSea Nymph.The miserable bubble was burst; and the onus of a somewhat bungling explanation was put upon the shoulders of the pompous planter—into whose heart a bitter drop of gall was infused by the disclosure.As the deception could be sustained no longer, the relationship was necessarily acknowledged; but the spark of ire thus introduced boded a still more unwelcome reception to the unlucky nephew.The planter partially cleared himself of the scrape by a false representation. In other words, he told a lie, in saying that his nephew had not been expected. Smythje knew it was a lie, but said nothing; and the subject was allowed to drop.Loftus Vaughan was a common man; and the course he had followed—shallow and self-defeating—was proof of an intellect as low as its morality.By his shabby treatment of his nephew, he was investing that young man with a romantic interest in the eyes of his daughter, that perhaps might never have been felt, or, at all events, not so readily. Misfortune—especially that which springs from persecution—is a grand suggester of sympathy—that is, when the appeal is made to noble hearts; and the heart of Kate Vaughan was of this quality.Moreover, this surreptitious dealing with the poor relative—smuggling him into the house like a bale of contraband goods—was sufficient of itself to pique the curiosity of those whom it was meant to mystify.So far as Kate Vaughan was concerned, that very effect it produced: for, on leaving the dining-room—from which, to say the truth, she was only too happy to escape—the young girl glided at once to that window that opened out upon the garden; and, parting the lattice with her fingers, looked eagerly through.In the brief undertone that had passed between her father and the overseer, she had heard the command, “Show him to the summer-house.” She knew that the summer-house was within view of her chamber-window. She was curious to see what in all her life she had never beheld—acousin. Her curiosity was not balked. On looking through the lattice, her cousin was before her eyes—pacing the little apartment as described.With his braided frock, buttoned tightly over his breast—glittering Hessian boots on his well-turned limbs—his neat three-cornered hat set lightly over his brown curls—he was not a sight likely to terrify a young girl—least of all a cousin. Even the bold, somewhat fierce, expression upon his countenance—at that moment reflecting the angry emotions that were stirring within him—did not, in the eyes of the young Creole, detract from the beauty of the face she saw before her.What impression did the sight produce? Certainly not terror—certainly not dislike. On the contrary, she appeared gratified by it: else, why did she continue her gaze, and gaze so earnestly? Why became her eyes filled with fire, and fixed, as by some fascination? Why did her young bosom heave and fall, as if some new, undefinable emotion was for the first time germinating within it?For some moments she remained in the same attitude, gazing steadfastly and silent. Then, without turning, there escaped from her lips, low murmured, and as if by an involuntary effort, the interrogatory,—“Yola! is he not beautiful?”“Beautiful, missa,” repeated the maid, who had not yet beheld the object for whom this admiration was meant; “who beautiful?”“Who? My cousin, Yola.”“You cousin—what cousin, young missa?”“Look yonder, and see! That’s my cousin.”“I see a man.”“Ah! and saw you ever such a man?”“True, missa; never see man look so—he surely angry, missa?”“Angry?”“Berry angry. He go back, he go forward, like hyena in a cage.”“He is only impatient at being kept waiting. My word! I think he looks all the better for it. Ah! see how his eye flashes. Oh! Yola, how handsome he is—how different from the young men of this island. Is he not a beautiful fellow?”“He curled hair, like Cubina!”“Cubina! ha! ha! ha! This Cubina must be a very Proteus, as well as an Adonis. Do you see any other resemblance, except in the hair? If so, my cousin may, perhaps, resembleme.”“Cubina much darker in de colour ob him skin, missa.”“Ha! ha! that is not unlikely.”“Cubina same size—same shape—’zactly same shape.”“Then I should say that Cubina is a good shape; for, if I know anything of what a man ought to be, that cousin of mine is the correct thing. See those arms! they look as if he could drag down that great tamarind with them! Gracious me! he appears as if he intended doing it! Surely, he must be very impatient? And, after his coming so far, for papa to keep him waiting in this fashion! I really think I should go down to him myself. What is your opinion, Yola? Would it be wrong for me to go and speak with him? He is my cousin.”“What am cousin, missa?”“Why, cousin is—is—something like a brother—only not exactly—that is—it’s not quite the same thing.”“Brudder! Oh, missa! if he Yola brudder, she him speak; she care not who be angry.”“True, Yola; and if he were my brother—alas! I have none—I should do the same without hesitation. But with a cousin—that’s different. Besides, papa don’t like this cousin of mine—for some reason or another. I wonder what he can have against him. I can’t see; and surely it can be no reason formynot liking him? And, surely, his being my cousin is just why I should go down and talk to him.“Besides,” continued the young girl, speaking to herself rather than to the maid, “he appears very, very impatient. Papa may keep him waiting—who knows how long? since he is so taken up with this Mr Montagu What’s-his-name! Well, I may be doing wrong—perhaps papa will be angry—perhaps he won’t know anything about it! Right or wrong, I’ll go! Ishallgo!”So saying, the young Creole snatched a scarf from the fauteuil; flung it over her shoulders; and, gliding from the chamber, tripped silently along the passage that conducted towards the rear of the dwelling.
Far better would it have been for Mr Vaughan—at least, for the success of his schemes—had he adopted an honourable course with his nephew; and at once introduced him, openly and above-board, to his table, his daughter, and his aristocratic guest.
Had he known before dinner what he was made aware of in less than five minutes after it, he would, in all likelihood, have adopted this course. It would have spared him the chagrin he was made to feel, on Mr Smythje reporting to him the encounter he had had on board ship—which the latter proceeded to do, the moment after Kate had been so unceremoniously dismissed from the hall.
Smythje had also overheard the communication of the overseer—the word “nephew,” at least—and this recalled to his mind—not without some unpleasant remembrance of the satire from which he had suffered—the steerage passenger who had treated him so brusquely on board theSea Nymph.
The miserable bubble was burst; and the onus of a somewhat bungling explanation was put upon the shoulders of the pompous planter—into whose heart a bitter drop of gall was infused by the disclosure.
As the deception could be sustained no longer, the relationship was necessarily acknowledged; but the spark of ire thus introduced boded a still more unwelcome reception to the unlucky nephew.
The planter partially cleared himself of the scrape by a false representation. In other words, he told a lie, in saying that his nephew had not been expected. Smythje knew it was a lie, but said nothing; and the subject was allowed to drop.
Loftus Vaughan was a common man; and the course he had followed—shallow and self-defeating—was proof of an intellect as low as its morality.
By his shabby treatment of his nephew, he was investing that young man with a romantic interest in the eyes of his daughter, that perhaps might never have been felt, or, at all events, not so readily. Misfortune—especially that which springs from persecution—is a grand suggester of sympathy—that is, when the appeal is made to noble hearts; and the heart of Kate Vaughan was of this quality.
Moreover, this surreptitious dealing with the poor relative—smuggling him into the house like a bale of contraband goods—was sufficient of itself to pique the curiosity of those whom it was meant to mystify.
So far as Kate Vaughan was concerned, that very effect it produced: for, on leaving the dining-room—from which, to say the truth, she was only too happy to escape—the young girl glided at once to that window that opened out upon the garden; and, parting the lattice with her fingers, looked eagerly through.
In the brief undertone that had passed between her father and the overseer, she had heard the command, “Show him to the summer-house.” She knew that the summer-house was within view of her chamber-window. She was curious to see what in all her life she had never beheld—acousin. Her curiosity was not balked. On looking through the lattice, her cousin was before her eyes—pacing the little apartment as described.
With his braided frock, buttoned tightly over his breast—glittering Hessian boots on his well-turned limbs—his neat three-cornered hat set lightly over his brown curls—he was not a sight likely to terrify a young girl—least of all a cousin. Even the bold, somewhat fierce, expression upon his countenance—at that moment reflecting the angry emotions that were stirring within him—did not, in the eyes of the young Creole, detract from the beauty of the face she saw before her.
What impression did the sight produce? Certainly not terror—certainly not dislike. On the contrary, she appeared gratified by it: else, why did she continue her gaze, and gaze so earnestly? Why became her eyes filled with fire, and fixed, as by some fascination? Why did her young bosom heave and fall, as if some new, undefinable emotion was for the first time germinating within it?
For some moments she remained in the same attitude, gazing steadfastly and silent. Then, without turning, there escaped from her lips, low murmured, and as if by an involuntary effort, the interrogatory,—“Yola! is he not beautiful?”
“Beautiful, missa,” repeated the maid, who had not yet beheld the object for whom this admiration was meant; “who beautiful?”
“Who? My cousin, Yola.”
“You cousin—what cousin, young missa?”
“Look yonder, and see! That’s my cousin.”
“I see a man.”
“Ah! and saw you ever such a man?”
“True, missa; never see man look so—he surely angry, missa?”
“Angry?”
“Berry angry. He go back, he go forward, like hyena in a cage.”
“He is only impatient at being kept waiting. My word! I think he looks all the better for it. Ah! see how his eye flashes. Oh! Yola, how handsome he is—how different from the young men of this island. Is he not a beautiful fellow?”
“He curled hair, like Cubina!”
“Cubina! ha! ha! ha! This Cubina must be a very Proteus, as well as an Adonis. Do you see any other resemblance, except in the hair? If so, my cousin may, perhaps, resembleme.”
“Cubina much darker in de colour ob him skin, missa.”
“Ha! ha! that is not unlikely.”
“Cubina same size—same shape—’zactly same shape.”
“Then I should say that Cubina is a good shape; for, if I know anything of what a man ought to be, that cousin of mine is the correct thing. See those arms! they look as if he could drag down that great tamarind with them! Gracious me! he appears as if he intended doing it! Surely, he must be very impatient? And, after his coming so far, for papa to keep him waiting in this fashion! I really think I should go down to him myself. What is your opinion, Yola? Would it be wrong for me to go and speak with him? He is my cousin.”
“What am cousin, missa?”
“Why, cousin is—is—something like a brother—only not exactly—that is—it’s not quite the same thing.”
“Brudder! Oh, missa! if he Yola brudder, she him speak; she care not who be angry.”
“True, Yola; and if he were my brother—alas! I have none—I should do the same without hesitation. But with a cousin—that’s different. Besides, papa don’t like this cousin of mine—for some reason or another. I wonder what he can have against him. I can’t see; and surely it can be no reason formynot liking him? And, surely, his being my cousin is just why I should go down and talk to him.
“Besides,” continued the young girl, speaking to herself rather than to the maid, “he appears very, very impatient. Papa may keep him waiting—who knows how long? since he is so taken up with this Mr Montagu What’s-his-name! Well, I may be doing wrong—perhaps papa will be angry—perhaps he won’t know anything about it! Right or wrong, I’ll go! Ishallgo!”
So saying, the young Creole snatched a scarf from the fauteuil; flung it over her shoulders; and, gliding from the chamber, tripped silently along the passage that conducted towards the rear of the dwelling.
Volume One—Chapter Eighteen.The Encounter of the Cousins.Opening the door, and passing out, Kate Vaughan paused timidly upon the top of the stairway that led down into the garden. Her steps were stayed by a feeling of bashful reserve, that was struggling to restrain her from carrying out a resolve somewhat hastily formed.Her hesitancy was but the matter of a moment; for on the next—her resolution having become fixed—she descended the stairs, and advanced blushingly towards the kiosk.Herbert had not quite recovered from surprise at the unexpected apparition, when he was saluted by the endearing interrogatory,—“Are you my cousin?” The question, sonaïvelyput, remained for a moment unanswered: for the tone of kindness in which it was spoken had caused him a fresh surprise, and he was too much confused to make answer.He soon found speech, however, for the hypothetical reply:—“If you are the daughter of Mr Loftus Vaughan—”“I am.”“Then I am proud of calling myself your cousin. I am Herbert Vaughan—from England.”Still under the influence of the slight which he believed had been put upon him, Herbert made this announcement with a certain stiffness of manner, which the young girl could not fail to notice. It produced a momentary incongeniality, that was in danger of degenerating into a positive coolness; and Kate, who had come forth under the promptings of an affectionate instinct, trembled under a repulse, the cause of which she could not comprehend.It did not, however, hinder her from courteously rejoining:—“We were expecting you—as father had received your letter; but not to-day. Papa said not before to-morrow. Permit me, cousin, to welcome you to Jamaica.” Herbert bowed profoundly. Again the young creole felt her warm impulses painfully checked; and, blushing with embarrassment, she stood in an attitude of indecision.Herbert, whose heart had been melting like snow under a tropic sun, now became sensible that he was committing a rudeness; which, so far from being natural to him, was costing him a struggle to counterfeit.Why should the sins of the father be visited on the child—and such a child?With a reflection kindred to this, the young man hastened to change his attitude of cold reserve.“Thanks for your kind welcome!” said he, now speaking in a tone of affectionate frankness; “But, fair cousin, you have not told me your name.”“Catherine—though I am usually addressed by the shorter synonym, Kate.”“Catherine! that is a family name with us. My fathers mother, and your father’s, too—our grandmamma—was a Catherine. Was it also your mother’s name?”“No; my mother was called Quasheba.”“Quasheba! that is a very singular name.”“Do you think so, cousin? I am sometimes called Quasheba myself—only by the old people of the plantation, who knew my mother. Lilly Quasheba they call me. Papa does not like it, and forbids them.”“Was your mother an Englishwoman?”“Oh, no! she was born in Jamaica, and died while I was very young—too young to remember her. Indeed, cousin, I may say I never knew what it was to have a mother!”“Nor I much, cousin Kate. My mother also died early. But are you my only cousin?—no sisters nor brothers?”“Not one. Ah! I wish I had sisters and brothers!”“Why do you wish that?”“Oh, how can you ask such a question? For companions, of course.”“Fair cousin! I should thinkyouwould find companions enough in this beautiful island.”“Ah! enough, perhaps; but none whom I like—at least, not as I think I should like a sister or brother. Indeed,” added the young girl, in a reflective tone, “I sometimes feel lonely enough!”“Ah!”“Perhaps, now that we are to have guests, it will be different. Mr Smythje is very amusing.”“Mr Smythje! Who is he?”“What! you do not know Mr Smythje? I thought that you and he came over in the same ship? Papa said so; and thatyouwere not to be here until to-morrow. I think you have taken him by surprise in coming to-day. But why did you not ride out with Mr Smythje? He arrived here only one hour before you, and has just dined with us. I have left the table this moment, for papa and him to have their cigars. But, bless me, cousin! Pardon me for not asking—perhapsyouhave not dined yet?”“No,” replied Herbert, in a tone that expressed chagrin, “nor am I likely to dine here, to-day.”The storm of queries with which, in the simplicity of her heart, the young Creole thus assailed him, once more brought back that train of bitter reflections, from which her fair presence and sweet converse had for the moment rescued him. Hence the character of his reply.“And why, cousin Herbert?” asked she, with a marked air of surprise. “If you have not dined, it is not too late. Why not here?”“Because,”—and the young man drew himself proudly up—“I prefer going without dinner to dining where I am not welcome. In Mount Welcome, it seems, I amnotwelcome.”“Oh, cousin—!”The words, and the appealing accent, were alike interrupted. The door upon the landing turned upon its hinge, and Loftus Vaughan appeared in the doorway.“Your father?”“My father!”“Kate!” cried the planter, in a tone that bespoke displeasure, “Mr Smythje would like to hear you play upon the harp. I have been looking for you in your room, and all over the house. What are you doing out there?”The language was coarse and common—the manner that of a vulgar man flushed with wine.“Oh, papa! cousin Herbert is here. He is waiting to see you.”“Come you here, then! Come at once. Mr Smythje is waiting for you.” And with this imperious rejoinder Mr Vaughan reentered the house.“Cousin! I must leave you.”“Yes; I perceive it. One more worthy than I claims your company. Go! Mr Smythje is impatient.”“It is papa.”“Kate! Kate! are you coming? Haste, girl! haste, I say!”“Go, Miss Vaughan! Farewell!”“Miss Vaughan? Farewell?” Mystified and distressed by those strange-sounding words, the young girl stood for some seconds undecided, but the voice of her father again came ringing along the corridor—now in tones irate and commanding. Obedience could no longer be delayed; and, with a half-puzzled, half-reproachful glance at her cousin, she reluctantly parted from his presence.
Opening the door, and passing out, Kate Vaughan paused timidly upon the top of the stairway that led down into the garden. Her steps were stayed by a feeling of bashful reserve, that was struggling to restrain her from carrying out a resolve somewhat hastily formed.
Her hesitancy was but the matter of a moment; for on the next—her resolution having become fixed—she descended the stairs, and advanced blushingly towards the kiosk.
Herbert had not quite recovered from surprise at the unexpected apparition, when he was saluted by the endearing interrogatory,—“Are you my cousin?” The question, sonaïvelyput, remained for a moment unanswered: for the tone of kindness in which it was spoken had caused him a fresh surprise, and he was too much confused to make answer.
He soon found speech, however, for the hypothetical reply:—
“If you are the daughter of Mr Loftus Vaughan—”
“I am.”
“Then I am proud of calling myself your cousin. I am Herbert Vaughan—from England.”
Still under the influence of the slight which he believed had been put upon him, Herbert made this announcement with a certain stiffness of manner, which the young girl could not fail to notice. It produced a momentary incongeniality, that was in danger of degenerating into a positive coolness; and Kate, who had come forth under the promptings of an affectionate instinct, trembled under a repulse, the cause of which she could not comprehend.
It did not, however, hinder her from courteously rejoining:—
“We were expecting you—as father had received your letter; but not to-day. Papa said not before to-morrow. Permit me, cousin, to welcome you to Jamaica.” Herbert bowed profoundly. Again the young creole felt her warm impulses painfully checked; and, blushing with embarrassment, she stood in an attitude of indecision.
Herbert, whose heart had been melting like snow under a tropic sun, now became sensible that he was committing a rudeness; which, so far from being natural to him, was costing him a struggle to counterfeit.
Why should the sins of the father be visited on the child—and such a child?
With a reflection kindred to this, the young man hastened to change his attitude of cold reserve.
“Thanks for your kind welcome!” said he, now speaking in a tone of affectionate frankness; “But, fair cousin, you have not told me your name.”
“Catherine—though I am usually addressed by the shorter synonym, Kate.”
“Catherine! that is a family name with us. My fathers mother, and your father’s, too—our grandmamma—was a Catherine. Was it also your mother’s name?”
“No; my mother was called Quasheba.”
“Quasheba! that is a very singular name.”
“Do you think so, cousin? I am sometimes called Quasheba myself—only by the old people of the plantation, who knew my mother. Lilly Quasheba they call me. Papa does not like it, and forbids them.”
“Was your mother an Englishwoman?”
“Oh, no! she was born in Jamaica, and died while I was very young—too young to remember her. Indeed, cousin, I may say I never knew what it was to have a mother!”
“Nor I much, cousin Kate. My mother also died early. But are you my only cousin?—no sisters nor brothers?”
“Not one. Ah! I wish I had sisters and brothers!”
“Why do you wish that?”
“Oh, how can you ask such a question? For companions, of course.”
“Fair cousin! I should thinkyouwould find companions enough in this beautiful island.”
“Ah! enough, perhaps; but none whom I like—at least, not as I think I should like a sister or brother. Indeed,” added the young girl, in a reflective tone, “I sometimes feel lonely enough!”
“Ah!”
“Perhaps, now that we are to have guests, it will be different. Mr Smythje is very amusing.”
“Mr Smythje! Who is he?”
“What! you do not know Mr Smythje? I thought that you and he came over in the same ship? Papa said so; and thatyouwere not to be here until to-morrow. I think you have taken him by surprise in coming to-day. But why did you not ride out with Mr Smythje? He arrived here only one hour before you, and has just dined with us. I have left the table this moment, for papa and him to have their cigars. But, bless me, cousin! Pardon me for not asking—perhapsyouhave not dined yet?”
“No,” replied Herbert, in a tone that expressed chagrin, “nor am I likely to dine here, to-day.”
The storm of queries with which, in the simplicity of her heart, the young Creole thus assailed him, once more brought back that train of bitter reflections, from which her fair presence and sweet converse had for the moment rescued him. Hence the character of his reply.
“And why, cousin Herbert?” asked she, with a marked air of surprise. “If you have not dined, it is not too late. Why not here?”
“Because,”—and the young man drew himself proudly up—“I prefer going without dinner to dining where I am not welcome. In Mount Welcome, it seems, I amnotwelcome.”
“Oh, cousin—!”
The words, and the appealing accent, were alike interrupted. The door upon the landing turned upon its hinge, and Loftus Vaughan appeared in the doorway.
“Your father?”
“My father!”
“Kate!” cried the planter, in a tone that bespoke displeasure, “Mr Smythje would like to hear you play upon the harp. I have been looking for you in your room, and all over the house. What are you doing out there?”
The language was coarse and common—the manner that of a vulgar man flushed with wine.
“Oh, papa! cousin Herbert is here. He is waiting to see you.”
“Come you here, then! Come at once. Mr Smythje is waiting for you.” And with this imperious rejoinder Mr Vaughan reentered the house.
“Cousin! I must leave you.”
“Yes; I perceive it. One more worthy than I claims your company. Go! Mr Smythje is impatient.”
“It is papa.”
“Kate! Kate! are you coming? Haste, girl! haste, I say!”
“Go, Miss Vaughan! Farewell!”
“Miss Vaughan? Farewell?” Mystified and distressed by those strange-sounding words, the young girl stood for some seconds undecided, but the voice of her father again came ringing along the corridor—now in tones irate and commanding. Obedience could no longer be delayed; and, with a half-puzzled, half-reproachful glance at her cousin, she reluctantly parted from his presence.
Volume One—Chapter Nineteen.A Surly Reception.After the young Creole had disappeared within the entrance, Herbert remained in a state of indecision as to how he should act.He no longer needed an interview with his uncle, for the sake of having an explanation. This new slight had crowned his convictions that he was there an unwelcome guest; and no possible apology could now retrieve the ill-treatment he had experienced.He would have walked off on the instant without a word; but, stung to the quick by the series of insults he had received, the instinct of retaliation had sprung up within him, and determined him to stay—at all events, until he could meet his relative face to face, and reproach him with his unnatural conduct. He was recklessly indifferent as to the result.With this object, he continued in the kiosk—his patience being now baited with the prospect of that slight satisfaction.He knew that his uncle might not care much for what he should say: it was not likely such a nature would be affected by reproach. Nevertheless, the proud young man could not resist the temptation of giving words to his defiance—as the only means of mollifying the mortification he so keenly felt.The tones of a harp, vibrating through the far interior of the dwelling, faintly reached the kiosk; but they fell on his ear without any soothing effect. Rather did they add to his irritation: for he could almost fancy the music was meant to mock him in his misery.But no; on second thoughts, that could not be. Surely, that sweet strain was not intended to tantalise him. He caught the air. It was one equally appropriate to the instrument and to his own situation. It was the “Exile of Erin.”Presently a voice was heard accompanying the music—a woman’s voice—easily recognisable as that of Kate Vaughan.He listened attentively. At intervals he could hear the words. How like to his own thoughts!“‘Sad is my fate,’ said the heart-broken stranger;‘The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee,But I have no refuge from famine and danger—A home and a country remain not to me!’”Perhaps the singer intended it as a song of sympathy for him? It certainly exerted an influence over his spirits, melting him to a degree of tenderness.Not for long, however, did this feeling continue. As the last notes of the lay died away in the distant corridor, the rough baritones of the planter and his guest were heard joining in loud laughter—perhaps some joke at the expense of himself, the poor exile?Shortly after, a heavy footstep echoed along the passage. The door opened; and Herbert perceived it was his uncle, who had at length found time to honour him with an interview.Though so joyous but the moment before, all traces of mirth had disappeared from the countenance of Loftus Vaughan, when he presented himself before the eyes of his nephew. His face, habitually red, was fired with the wine he had been drinking to the hue of scarlet. Nevertheless, an ominous mottling of a darker colour upon his broad massive brow foretold the ungracious reception his relative was likely to have at his hands.His first words were uttered in a tone of insolent coolness:—“So you are my brother’s son, are you?” There was no extending of the hand, no gesture—not even a smile of welcome!Herbert checked his anger, and simply answered,—“I believe so.”“And pray, sir, what errand has brought you out to Jamaica?”“If you have received my letter, as I presume you have, it will have answered that question.”“Oh, indeed!” exclaimed Mr Vaughan, with an attempt at cynicism, but evidently taken down by the unexpected style of the reply. “And what, may I ask, do you purpose doing here?”“Have not the slightest idea,” answered Herbert, with a provoking air of independence. “Have you any profession?”“Unfortunately, not any.”“Any trade?—I suppose not.”“Your suppositions are perfectly correct.”“Then, sir, how do you expect to get your bread?”“Earn it, the best way I can.”“Beg it, more likely, as your father before you: all his life begging it, and from me.”“In that respect I shall not resemble him. You would be the last man I should think of begging from.”“S’death! sirrah, you are impertinent. This is fine language to me, after the disgrace you have already brought upon me!”“Disgrace?”“Yes, sir, disgrace. Coming out here as a pauper, in the steerage of a ship! And you must needs boast of your relationship—letting all the world know that you are my nephew.”“Boast of the relationship!” repeated Herbert, with a smile of contempt. “Ha! ha! ha! I suppose you refer to my having answered a question asked me by this pretty jack-a-box you are playing with. Boast of it, indeed! Had I known you then as well as I do now, I should have been ashamed to acknowledge it!”“After that, sir,” shouted Mr Vaughan, turning purple with rage—“after that, sir, no more words! You shall leave my house this minute.”“I had intended to have left it some minutes sooner. I only stayed to have an opportunity of telling you what I think of you.”“What is that, sir? what is that?”The angry youth had summoned to the top of his tongue a few of the strongest epithets he could think of, and was about to hurl them into his uncle’s teeth, when, on glancing up, he caught sight of an object that caused him to change his intention. It was the beautiful face of the young creole, that appeared through the half-open lattice of the window opposite. She was gazing down upon him and his uncle, and listening to the dialogue with an anguished expression of countenance.“He isherfather,” muttered Herbert to himself; “forhersake I shall not say the words;” and, without making any reply to the last interrogatory of his uncle, he strode out of the kiosk, and was walking away.“Stay, sir!” cried the planter, somewhat taken aback by the turn things had taken. “A word before you go—if youaregoing.”Herbert turned upon his heel and listened.“Your letter informs me that you are without funds. It shall not be said that a relative of Loftus Vaughan left his house penniless and unprovided. In this purse there are twenty pounds currency of the island. Take it; but on the condition that you say nothing of what has occurred here; and, furthermore, that you keep to yourself that you are the nephew of Loftus Vaughan.”Without saying a word, Herbert took the proffered purse; but, in the next moment, the chink of the gold pieces was heard upon the gravel walk as he dashed the bag at the feet of his uncle.Then, turning to the astonished planter, and measuring him with a look that scorned all patronage, he faced once more to the path, and walked proudly away.The angry “Begone, sir!” vociferated after him, was only addressed to his back, and was altogether unheeded. Perhaps it was even unheard: for the expression in the eyes of the young man told that at that moment his attention was occupied elsewhere.As he walked towards the house—with the design of going round it to get upon the front avenue—his glance was directed upwards to the window where that beautiful face had been just seen. The lattice was now closed; and he endeavoured to pierce the sombre shadows behind it. The face was no longer there. No eyes met his.He glanced back towards the kiosk to see if he might linger a moment. His uncle was in a bent attitude, gathering the scattered pieces of gold. In this position the shrubbery concealed him.Herbert was about to glide nearer to the window, and summon his cousin by name, when he heard his own pronounced, in a soft whisper, and with the endearing prefix “cousin.”Distinctly he heard “Cousin Herbert!” and as if spoken around the angle of the building.He hastened thither: for that was his proper path by which to arrive at the front of the house.On turning the wall, he looked up. He saw that another window opened from the same chamber. Thence came the sweet summons, and there appeared the fair face for which he was searching.“Oh, cousin Herbert! do not go in anger! Papa has done wrong—very wrong, I know; but he has been taking much wine—he is not—Good cousin, you will pardon him?”Herbert was about to make reply, when the young Creole continued:—“You said in your letter you had no money. You have refused father’s—you will not refuse mine? It is very little. It is all I have. Take it!”A bright object glistened before his eyes, and fell with a metallic chink at his feet. He looked down. A small silk purse containing coin, with a blue ribbon attached, was seen lying upon the ground.The young man raised it, and, holding it in one hand, hesitated for a moment—as if he had thoughts of accepting it. It was not that, however, but another thought that was passing in his mind.His resolve was soon taken.“Thanks!” said he. “Thanks, cousin Kate!” he added, with increasing warmth. “Youhave meant kindly, and though we may never meet again—”“Oh, say not so!” interrupted the young girl, with an appealing look.“Yes,” continued he, “it is probable we never shall. Here there is no home for me. I must go hence; but, wherever I may go, I shall not soon forget this kindness. I may never have an opportunity of repaying it—you are beyond the necessity of aught that a humble relative could do for you; but remember, Kate Vaughan! should you ever stand in need of a strong arm and a stout heart, there is one of your name who will not fail you!“Thanks!” he repeated, detaching the ribbon from the bag, and flinging the latter, with its contents, back through the open window. Then, fastening the ribbon to the breast-button of his coat, he added: “I shall feel richer with the possession of this token than with all the wealth of your father’s estate. Farewell! and God bless you, my generous cousin!”Before the young Creole could repeat her offer, or add another word of counsel or consolation, he had turned the angle of the building, and passed out of sight.
After the young Creole had disappeared within the entrance, Herbert remained in a state of indecision as to how he should act.
He no longer needed an interview with his uncle, for the sake of having an explanation. This new slight had crowned his convictions that he was there an unwelcome guest; and no possible apology could now retrieve the ill-treatment he had experienced.
He would have walked off on the instant without a word; but, stung to the quick by the series of insults he had received, the instinct of retaliation had sprung up within him, and determined him to stay—at all events, until he could meet his relative face to face, and reproach him with his unnatural conduct. He was recklessly indifferent as to the result.
With this object, he continued in the kiosk—his patience being now baited with the prospect of that slight satisfaction.
He knew that his uncle might not care much for what he should say: it was not likely such a nature would be affected by reproach. Nevertheless, the proud young man could not resist the temptation of giving words to his defiance—as the only means of mollifying the mortification he so keenly felt.
The tones of a harp, vibrating through the far interior of the dwelling, faintly reached the kiosk; but they fell on his ear without any soothing effect. Rather did they add to his irritation: for he could almost fancy the music was meant to mock him in his misery.
But no; on second thoughts, that could not be. Surely, that sweet strain was not intended to tantalise him. He caught the air. It was one equally appropriate to the instrument and to his own situation. It was the “Exile of Erin.”
Presently a voice was heard accompanying the music—a woman’s voice—easily recognisable as that of Kate Vaughan.
He listened attentively. At intervals he could hear the words. How like to his own thoughts!
“‘Sad is my fate,’ said the heart-broken stranger;‘The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee,But I have no refuge from famine and danger—A home and a country remain not to me!’”
“‘Sad is my fate,’ said the heart-broken stranger;‘The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee,But I have no refuge from famine and danger—A home and a country remain not to me!’”
Perhaps the singer intended it as a song of sympathy for him? It certainly exerted an influence over his spirits, melting him to a degree of tenderness.
Not for long, however, did this feeling continue. As the last notes of the lay died away in the distant corridor, the rough baritones of the planter and his guest were heard joining in loud laughter—perhaps some joke at the expense of himself, the poor exile?
Shortly after, a heavy footstep echoed along the passage. The door opened; and Herbert perceived it was his uncle, who had at length found time to honour him with an interview.
Though so joyous but the moment before, all traces of mirth had disappeared from the countenance of Loftus Vaughan, when he presented himself before the eyes of his nephew. His face, habitually red, was fired with the wine he had been drinking to the hue of scarlet. Nevertheless, an ominous mottling of a darker colour upon his broad massive brow foretold the ungracious reception his relative was likely to have at his hands.
His first words were uttered in a tone of insolent coolness:—
“So you are my brother’s son, are you?” There was no extending of the hand, no gesture—not even a smile of welcome!
Herbert checked his anger, and simply answered,—
“I believe so.”
“And pray, sir, what errand has brought you out to Jamaica?”
“If you have received my letter, as I presume you have, it will have answered that question.”
“Oh, indeed!” exclaimed Mr Vaughan, with an attempt at cynicism, but evidently taken down by the unexpected style of the reply. “And what, may I ask, do you purpose doing here?”
“Have not the slightest idea,” answered Herbert, with a provoking air of independence. “Have you any profession?”
“Unfortunately, not any.”
“Any trade?—I suppose not.”
“Your suppositions are perfectly correct.”
“Then, sir, how do you expect to get your bread?”
“Earn it, the best way I can.”
“Beg it, more likely, as your father before you: all his life begging it, and from me.”
“In that respect I shall not resemble him. You would be the last man I should think of begging from.”
“S’death! sirrah, you are impertinent. This is fine language to me, after the disgrace you have already brought upon me!”
“Disgrace?”
“Yes, sir, disgrace. Coming out here as a pauper, in the steerage of a ship! And you must needs boast of your relationship—letting all the world know that you are my nephew.”
“Boast of the relationship!” repeated Herbert, with a smile of contempt. “Ha! ha! ha! I suppose you refer to my having answered a question asked me by this pretty jack-a-box you are playing with. Boast of it, indeed! Had I known you then as well as I do now, I should have been ashamed to acknowledge it!”
“After that, sir,” shouted Mr Vaughan, turning purple with rage—“after that, sir, no more words! You shall leave my house this minute.”
“I had intended to have left it some minutes sooner. I only stayed to have an opportunity of telling you what I think of you.”
“What is that, sir? what is that?”
The angry youth had summoned to the top of his tongue a few of the strongest epithets he could think of, and was about to hurl them into his uncle’s teeth, when, on glancing up, he caught sight of an object that caused him to change his intention. It was the beautiful face of the young creole, that appeared through the half-open lattice of the window opposite. She was gazing down upon him and his uncle, and listening to the dialogue with an anguished expression of countenance.
“He isherfather,” muttered Herbert to himself; “forhersake I shall not say the words;” and, without making any reply to the last interrogatory of his uncle, he strode out of the kiosk, and was walking away.
“Stay, sir!” cried the planter, somewhat taken aback by the turn things had taken. “A word before you go—if youaregoing.”
Herbert turned upon his heel and listened.
“Your letter informs me that you are without funds. It shall not be said that a relative of Loftus Vaughan left his house penniless and unprovided. In this purse there are twenty pounds currency of the island. Take it; but on the condition that you say nothing of what has occurred here; and, furthermore, that you keep to yourself that you are the nephew of Loftus Vaughan.”
Without saying a word, Herbert took the proffered purse; but, in the next moment, the chink of the gold pieces was heard upon the gravel walk as he dashed the bag at the feet of his uncle.
Then, turning to the astonished planter, and measuring him with a look that scorned all patronage, he faced once more to the path, and walked proudly away.
The angry “Begone, sir!” vociferated after him, was only addressed to his back, and was altogether unheeded. Perhaps it was even unheard: for the expression in the eyes of the young man told that at that moment his attention was occupied elsewhere.
As he walked towards the house—with the design of going round it to get upon the front avenue—his glance was directed upwards to the window where that beautiful face had been just seen. The lattice was now closed; and he endeavoured to pierce the sombre shadows behind it. The face was no longer there. No eyes met his.
He glanced back towards the kiosk to see if he might linger a moment. His uncle was in a bent attitude, gathering the scattered pieces of gold. In this position the shrubbery concealed him.
Herbert was about to glide nearer to the window, and summon his cousin by name, when he heard his own pronounced, in a soft whisper, and with the endearing prefix “cousin.”
Distinctly he heard “Cousin Herbert!” and as if spoken around the angle of the building.
He hastened thither: for that was his proper path by which to arrive at the front of the house.
On turning the wall, he looked up. He saw that another window opened from the same chamber. Thence came the sweet summons, and there appeared the fair face for which he was searching.
“Oh, cousin Herbert! do not go in anger! Papa has done wrong—very wrong, I know; but he has been taking much wine—he is not—Good cousin, you will pardon him?”
Herbert was about to make reply, when the young Creole continued:—
“You said in your letter you had no money. You have refused father’s—you will not refuse mine? It is very little. It is all I have. Take it!”
A bright object glistened before his eyes, and fell with a metallic chink at his feet. He looked down. A small silk purse containing coin, with a blue ribbon attached, was seen lying upon the ground.
The young man raised it, and, holding it in one hand, hesitated for a moment—as if he had thoughts of accepting it. It was not that, however, but another thought that was passing in his mind.
His resolve was soon taken.
“Thanks!” said he. “Thanks, cousin Kate!” he added, with increasing warmth. “Youhave meant kindly, and though we may never meet again—”
“Oh, say not so!” interrupted the young girl, with an appealing look.
“Yes,” continued he, “it is probable we never shall. Here there is no home for me. I must go hence; but, wherever I may go, I shall not soon forget this kindness. I may never have an opportunity of repaying it—you are beyond the necessity of aught that a humble relative could do for you; but remember, Kate Vaughan! should you ever stand in need of a strong arm and a stout heart, there is one of your name who will not fail you!
“Thanks!” he repeated, detaching the ribbon from the bag, and flinging the latter, with its contents, back through the open window. Then, fastening the ribbon to the breast-button of his coat, he added: “I shall feel richer with the possession of this token than with all the wealth of your father’s estate. Farewell! and God bless you, my generous cousin!”
Before the young Creole could repeat her offer, or add another word of counsel or consolation, he had turned the angle of the building, and passed out of sight.
Volume One—Chapter Twenty.The Jew’s Penn.While these scenes were transpiring upon the plantation of Mount Welcome, others of a still more exciting nature were being enacted on that which adjoined it—the property of Jacob Jessuron, slave-merchant and penn-keeper.Besides a “baracoon” in the Bay, where his slaves were usually exposed for sale, the Jew was owner of a large plantation in the country, on which he habitually resided. It lay contiguous to the estate of the Custos Vaughan—separated from the latter by one of the wooded ridges already mentioned as bounding the valley of Mount Welcome.Like the latter, it had once been a sugar estate, and an extensive one; but that was before Jessuron became its owner. Now it was in the condition termedruinate. The fields where the golden cane had waved in the tropic breeze were choked up by a tangled “second growth,” restoring them almost to their primitive wildness. With that quickness characteristic of equatorial vegetation, huge trees had already sprung up, and stood thickly over the ground—logwoods, bread-nuts, cotton, and calabash trees, which, with their pendent parasites, almost usurped dominion over the soil. Here and there, where the fields still remained open, instead of cultivation, there appeared only the wild nursery of nature—glades mottled with flowering weeds, as the Mexican horn-poppy, swallow-worts, West Indian vervains, and smallpassiflorae.At intervals, where the underwood permitted them to peep out, might be seen stretches of “dry wall,” or stone fence, without mortar or cement, mostly tumbled down, the ruins thickly trellised with creeping plants—as convolvuli, cereus, and aristolochia; cleome, with the cheerful blossominglantana; and, spreading over all, like the web of a gigantic spider, the yellow leafless stems of the American dodder.In the midst of this domain, almost reconquered by nature, stood the “great house”—except in size, no longer deserving the appellation. It consisted rather of apilethan a single building—the old “sugar works” having been joined under the same roof with the dwelling—and negro cabins, stables, offices, all inclosed within an immense high wall, that gave to the place the air of a penitentiary or barrack, rather than that of a country mansion. The enclosure was a modern construction—an afterthought—designed for a purpose very different from that of sugar-making.Garden there was none, though evidence that therehad beenwas seen everywhere around the building, in the trees that still bloomed: some loaded with delicious fruits, others with clustering flowers, shedding their incense on the air. Half wild, grew citrons, andavocadopears, sop and custard apples, mangoes, guavas, and pawpaws; while the crown-like tops of cocoa-palms soared high above the humble denizens of this wild orchard, their recurvant fronds drooping as in sorrow at the desolation that surrounded them.Close to the buildings stood several huge trees, whose tortuous limbs, now leafless, rendered it easy to identify them. They were the giants of the West Indian forest—the silk-cotton-tree (Eriodendron anfractuosum). The limbs of these vegetable monsters—each itself as large as an ordinary tree—were loaded with parasites of many species; among which might be distinguished raggedcactacae, with various species of wild pines, from the noblevriesiato the hoary, beard-like “Spanish moss,” whose long streaming festoons waved like winding-sheets in the breeze—an appropriate draping for the eyrie of the black vultures (John-Crows) that might at all times be seen seated in solemn silence upon the topmost branches.In the olden time, this plantation had borne the name of “Happy Valley”; but during the ownership of Jessuron, this designation—perhaps deemed inappropriate—had been generally dropped; and the place was never spoken of by any other name than that of the “Jew’s Penn.”Into a “penn” (grazing farm) Jessuron had changed it, and it served well enough for the purpose: many of the old sugar fields, now overgrown by the valuable Guinea grass, affording excellent pasturage for horses and cattle.In breeding and rearing the former for the use of the sugar estates, and fattening the latter for the beef markets of the Bay, the industrious Israelite had discovered a road to riches, as short as that he had been travelling in the capacity of slave-dealer; and of late years he had come to regard the latter only as a secondary calling.In his old age, Jessuron had become ambitious of social distinction; and for this reason, was desirous of sinking the slave-merchant in the more respectable profession of penn-keeper. He had even succeeded so far in his views as to have himself appointed a justice of the peace—an office that in Jamaica, as elsewhere, is more distinctive of wealth than respectability.In addition to penn-keeper, the Jew was also an extensive spice-cultivator, or rather spice-gatherer: for the indigenous pimento forests that covered the hills upon his estate required no cultivation—nothing further than to collect the aromatic berries, and cure them on thebarbacoa.Though changed from a plantation to a penn, the estate of Jacob Jessuron was not less a scene of active industrial life.In the fields adjacent to the house, and through the glades of Guinea grass, horses and half wild cattle might be seen in turns neighing and bellowing, pursued by mounted herdsmen, black and half-naked.Among the groves of pimento on the hills, gangs of negro wenches could be heard screaming and chattering continually, as they picked the allspice berries from the branches; or, with the filled baskets poised on their heads, marched in long, chanting files towards thebarbacoa.Outside the gate-entrance, upon the broad avenue leading to the main road, negro horse-tamers might every day be seen, giving their first lessons to rough colts fresh caught from the pastures; while inside the grand enclosure, fat oxen were being slaughtered to supply the markets of the Bay—huge, gaunt dogs holding carnival over the offal—while black butchers, naked to the waist, their brown arms reeking with red gore, stalked over the ground, brandishing blood-stained blades, and other instruments of their sanguinary calling.Such scenes might be witnessed diurnally on the estate of Jacob Jessuron; but on the day succeeding that on which the slave-merchant had made his unsuccessful errand to Mount Welcome, a spectacle of a somewhat rarer kind was about to be exhibited at the penn.The scene chosen for this exhibition was an inner inclosure, or courtyard, contiguous to the dwelling—the great house itself forming one side of this court, and opening upon it by a broad verandah, of a dingy, dilapidated appearance.Vis-à-viswith the dwelling was another large building which shut in the opposite side of the court—the two being connected by high massive walls, that completed the quadrangle. A strong double gate, opening near the centre of one of these walls, was the way out—that is, to the larger enclosure of the cattle-penn.From the absence of chimneys and windows, as well as from its plain style of architecture, the building that stood opposite the dwelling-house might have been taken for some large granary or barn. But a peep into its interior at once controverted this idea. Inside could be seen groups of human beings, of all colours, from ebony black to jaundice yellow, in all attitudes—seated, standing, or lying upon the floor—and not a few of them, in pairs, manacled to one another. Their attitudes were not more various than the expressions upon their faces. Some looked sad and sullen; some glanced fearfully around, as if waking from horrid dreams, and under the belief that they were realities; others wore the vacant stare of idiotcy; while here and there a group—apparently regardless of past, present, or future—chattered in their barbaric language with an air of gaiety that bespoke the most philosophicinsouciance.The building that contained them was the baracoon—the storehouse of the slave-merchant. Its occupants were his stores!The “stock” had been just replenished by the cargo of the slave-ship, though there were also some old “bales” on hand; and these were in the act of entertaining the new comers, and initiating them into the ways of the place. Their means, of showing hospitality had been limited—as testified by the empty calabashes and clean-scraped wooden platters that lay scattered over the floor. Not a grain of rice, not a spoonful of the pepper-pot, not a slice of plantain, was left. The emptiness of the vessels showed that the rations had been as short as the viands were coarse and common.Outside, in the yard, were many groups, happier to escape from the stifled atmosphere of their crowded quarters; though that was freedom when compared with the ’tween-decks of themiddle passage.Each group was gathered around some old hand—some compatriot who had preceded them across the great sea—and who, himself initiated into slavery under a western sky, was giving them some notions of what they had to expect. Eager looks of all, from time to time, directed towards the verandah, told that they were awaiting some event of more than ordinary interest.There were white men in the courtyard—three of them. Two were of dark complexion—so swarth that many of the coloured slaves were as fair-skinned as they. These two men were lounging by the stairway of the verandah—one of them seated upon the steps. Both were sparely clad in check shirts and trousers, having broad-brimmed palmetto hats on their heads, and rough buskins on their feet and ankles.Each carried a long, rapier-like blade—amacheté—hanging over his hip in its leathern sheath; while a brace of fierce dogs—looped in cotton-rope leashes, attached to belts worn around their waists—crouched upon the ground at their feet.The faces of these men were clean-shaven—a pointed chin-tuft, or “bigote,” alone being left; and the hair on the heads of both was close-cropped. Their sharp, angular features were thus fully displayed, denoting a high order of intelligence; which might have produced a pleasing effect, but for the pronounced expression of cruelty which accompanied it.The exclamations that from time to time escaped from their lips, with the few words of conversation that passed between them, bespoke them of Spanish race. Their costume—their arms and accoutrements—their comrades, the fierce dogs—plainly proclaimed, their calling, as well as the country from whence they came. They werecaçadores de negros—negro-hunters from the Island of Cuba.The third white man who appeared in the courtyard differed essentially from these—not so much in colour, for he was also of swarth complexion—but in size, costume, and calling. A pair of horse-skin riding-boots reached up to his thighs, on the heels of which appeared heavy spurs, with rowels three inches in diameter. A sort of monkey-jacket of thick cloth—notwithstanding its unsuitableness to the climate—hung down to his hips; under which appeared a waistcoat of scarlet plush, with tarnished metal buttons, and a wool comforter of the same flaming colour. Crowning all was a felt hat; which, like the other articles of his dress, gave evidence of exposure to all weathers—sun and rain, storm and tornado.A thick shock of curling hair, so dark in colour as to pass for black; a heavy beard, jet-black, and running most of the way around his mouth; amber-coloured eyes, with a sinister, shining light that never seemed to pale; lips of an unnatural redness gleaming through the black beard; and a nose of aquiline oblique, were the points in the personal appearance of this man that most prominently presented themselves.The effect of this combination was to impress you with the conviction, that the individual in question belonged to the same nationality as the proprietor of the penn. Such was in reality the case: for the bearded man was another of the race of Abraham, and one of its least amiable specimens. His name was Ravener, his calling that of overseer: he was the overseer of Jessuron. The symbol of his profession he carried under his arm—a huge cart-whip. He had it by him at all hours—by night, as by day—for by night, as by day, was he accustomed to make use of it. And the victims of his long lash were neither oxen nor horses—they were men andwomen!No sparing use made he of this hideous implement. “Crack, crack!” was it heard from morn to eve; “crack, crack!” from eve to midnight; if need be, from midnight to morning again: for some said that the overseer of Jessuron never slept. “Crack, crack!” did he go through the courtyard, apparently proud of exhibiting his power before the newly-arrived negroes—here and there swinging his long bitter lash among the groups, as if to break up and scatter them in sheer wantonness.
While these scenes were transpiring upon the plantation of Mount Welcome, others of a still more exciting nature were being enacted on that which adjoined it—the property of Jacob Jessuron, slave-merchant and penn-keeper.
Besides a “baracoon” in the Bay, where his slaves were usually exposed for sale, the Jew was owner of a large plantation in the country, on which he habitually resided. It lay contiguous to the estate of the Custos Vaughan—separated from the latter by one of the wooded ridges already mentioned as bounding the valley of Mount Welcome.
Like the latter, it had once been a sugar estate, and an extensive one; but that was before Jessuron became its owner. Now it was in the condition termedruinate. The fields where the golden cane had waved in the tropic breeze were choked up by a tangled “second growth,” restoring them almost to their primitive wildness. With that quickness characteristic of equatorial vegetation, huge trees had already sprung up, and stood thickly over the ground—logwoods, bread-nuts, cotton, and calabash trees, which, with their pendent parasites, almost usurped dominion over the soil. Here and there, where the fields still remained open, instead of cultivation, there appeared only the wild nursery of nature—glades mottled with flowering weeds, as the Mexican horn-poppy, swallow-worts, West Indian vervains, and smallpassiflorae.
At intervals, where the underwood permitted them to peep out, might be seen stretches of “dry wall,” or stone fence, without mortar or cement, mostly tumbled down, the ruins thickly trellised with creeping plants—as convolvuli, cereus, and aristolochia; cleome, with the cheerful blossominglantana; and, spreading over all, like the web of a gigantic spider, the yellow leafless stems of the American dodder.
In the midst of this domain, almost reconquered by nature, stood the “great house”—except in size, no longer deserving the appellation. It consisted rather of apilethan a single building—the old “sugar works” having been joined under the same roof with the dwelling—and negro cabins, stables, offices, all inclosed within an immense high wall, that gave to the place the air of a penitentiary or barrack, rather than that of a country mansion. The enclosure was a modern construction—an afterthought—designed for a purpose very different from that of sugar-making.
Garden there was none, though evidence that therehad beenwas seen everywhere around the building, in the trees that still bloomed: some loaded with delicious fruits, others with clustering flowers, shedding their incense on the air. Half wild, grew citrons, andavocadopears, sop and custard apples, mangoes, guavas, and pawpaws; while the crown-like tops of cocoa-palms soared high above the humble denizens of this wild orchard, their recurvant fronds drooping as in sorrow at the desolation that surrounded them.
Close to the buildings stood several huge trees, whose tortuous limbs, now leafless, rendered it easy to identify them. They were the giants of the West Indian forest—the silk-cotton-tree (Eriodendron anfractuosum). The limbs of these vegetable monsters—each itself as large as an ordinary tree—were loaded with parasites of many species; among which might be distinguished raggedcactacae, with various species of wild pines, from the noblevriesiato the hoary, beard-like “Spanish moss,” whose long streaming festoons waved like winding-sheets in the breeze—an appropriate draping for the eyrie of the black vultures (John-Crows) that might at all times be seen seated in solemn silence upon the topmost branches.
In the olden time, this plantation had borne the name of “Happy Valley”; but during the ownership of Jessuron, this designation—perhaps deemed inappropriate—had been generally dropped; and the place was never spoken of by any other name than that of the “Jew’s Penn.”
Into a “penn” (grazing farm) Jessuron had changed it, and it served well enough for the purpose: many of the old sugar fields, now overgrown by the valuable Guinea grass, affording excellent pasturage for horses and cattle.
In breeding and rearing the former for the use of the sugar estates, and fattening the latter for the beef markets of the Bay, the industrious Israelite had discovered a road to riches, as short as that he had been travelling in the capacity of slave-dealer; and of late years he had come to regard the latter only as a secondary calling.
In his old age, Jessuron had become ambitious of social distinction; and for this reason, was desirous of sinking the slave-merchant in the more respectable profession of penn-keeper. He had even succeeded so far in his views as to have himself appointed a justice of the peace—an office that in Jamaica, as elsewhere, is more distinctive of wealth than respectability.
In addition to penn-keeper, the Jew was also an extensive spice-cultivator, or rather spice-gatherer: for the indigenous pimento forests that covered the hills upon his estate required no cultivation—nothing further than to collect the aromatic berries, and cure them on thebarbacoa.
Though changed from a plantation to a penn, the estate of Jacob Jessuron was not less a scene of active industrial life.
In the fields adjacent to the house, and through the glades of Guinea grass, horses and half wild cattle might be seen in turns neighing and bellowing, pursued by mounted herdsmen, black and half-naked.
Among the groves of pimento on the hills, gangs of negro wenches could be heard screaming and chattering continually, as they picked the allspice berries from the branches; or, with the filled baskets poised on their heads, marched in long, chanting files towards thebarbacoa.
Outside the gate-entrance, upon the broad avenue leading to the main road, negro horse-tamers might every day be seen, giving their first lessons to rough colts fresh caught from the pastures; while inside the grand enclosure, fat oxen were being slaughtered to supply the markets of the Bay—huge, gaunt dogs holding carnival over the offal—while black butchers, naked to the waist, their brown arms reeking with red gore, stalked over the ground, brandishing blood-stained blades, and other instruments of their sanguinary calling.
Such scenes might be witnessed diurnally on the estate of Jacob Jessuron; but on the day succeeding that on which the slave-merchant had made his unsuccessful errand to Mount Welcome, a spectacle of a somewhat rarer kind was about to be exhibited at the penn.
The scene chosen for this exhibition was an inner inclosure, or courtyard, contiguous to the dwelling—the great house itself forming one side of this court, and opening upon it by a broad verandah, of a dingy, dilapidated appearance.
Vis-à-viswith the dwelling was another large building which shut in the opposite side of the court—the two being connected by high massive walls, that completed the quadrangle. A strong double gate, opening near the centre of one of these walls, was the way out—that is, to the larger enclosure of the cattle-penn.
From the absence of chimneys and windows, as well as from its plain style of architecture, the building that stood opposite the dwelling-house might have been taken for some large granary or barn. But a peep into its interior at once controverted this idea. Inside could be seen groups of human beings, of all colours, from ebony black to jaundice yellow, in all attitudes—seated, standing, or lying upon the floor—and not a few of them, in pairs, manacled to one another. Their attitudes were not more various than the expressions upon their faces. Some looked sad and sullen; some glanced fearfully around, as if waking from horrid dreams, and under the belief that they were realities; others wore the vacant stare of idiotcy; while here and there a group—apparently regardless of past, present, or future—chattered in their barbaric language with an air of gaiety that bespoke the most philosophicinsouciance.
The building that contained them was the baracoon—the storehouse of the slave-merchant. Its occupants were his stores!
The “stock” had been just replenished by the cargo of the slave-ship, though there were also some old “bales” on hand; and these were in the act of entertaining the new comers, and initiating them into the ways of the place. Their means, of showing hospitality had been limited—as testified by the empty calabashes and clean-scraped wooden platters that lay scattered over the floor. Not a grain of rice, not a spoonful of the pepper-pot, not a slice of plantain, was left. The emptiness of the vessels showed that the rations had been as short as the viands were coarse and common.
Outside, in the yard, were many groups, happier to escape from the stifled atmosphere of their crowded quarters; though that was freedom when compared with the ’tween-decks of themiddle passage.
Each group was gathered around some old hand—some compatriot who had preceded them across the great sea—and who, himself initiated into slavery under a western sky, was giving them some notions of what they had to expect. Eager looks of all, from time to time, directed towards the verandah, told that they were awaiting some event of more than ordinary interest.
There were white men in the courtyard—three of them. Two were of dark complexion—so swarth that many of the coloured slaves were as fair-skinned as they. These two men were lounging by the stairway of the verandah—one of them seated upon the steps. Both were sparely clad in check shirts and trousers, having broad-brimmed palmetto hats on their heads, and rough buskins on their feet and ankles.
Each carried a long, rapier-like blade—amacheté—hanging over his hip in its leathern sheath; while a brace of fierce dogs—looped in cotton-rope leashes, attached to belts worn around their waists—crouched upon the ground at their feet.
The faces of these men were clean-shaven—a pointed chin-tuft, or “bigote,” alone being left; and the hair on the heads of both was close-cropped. Their sharp, angular features were thus fully displayed, denoting a high order of intelligence; which might have produced a pleasing effect, but for the pronounced expression of cruelty which accompanied it.
The exclamations that from time to time escaped from their lips, with the few words of conversation that passed between them, bespoke them of Spanish race. Their costume—their arms and accoutrements—their comrades, the fierce dogs—plainly proclaimed, their calling, as well as the country from whence they came. They werecaçadores de negros—negro-hunters from the Island of Cuba.
The third white man who appeared in the courtyard differed essentially from these—not so much in colour, for he was also of swarth complexion—but in size, costume, and calling. A pair of horse-skin riding-boots reached up to his thighs, on the heels of which appeared heavy spurs, with rowels three inches in diameter. A sort of monkey-jacket of thick cloth—notwithstanding its unsuitableness to the climate—hung down to his hips; under which appeared a waistcoat of scarlet plush, with tarnished metal buttons, and a wool comforter of the same flaming colour. Crowning all was a felt hat; which, like the other articles of his dress, gave evidence of exposure to all weathers—sun and rain, storm and tornado.
A thick shock of curling hair, so dark in colour as to pass for black; a heavy beard, jet-black, and running most of the way around his mouth; amber-coloured eyes, with a sinister, shining light that never seemed to pale; lips of an unnatural redness gleaming through the black beard; and a nose of aquiline oblique, were the points in the personal appearance of this man that most prominently presented themselves.
The effect of this combination was to impress you with the conviction, that the individual in question belonged to the same nationality as the proprietor of the penn. Such was in reality the case: for the bearded man was another of the race of Abraham, and one of its least amiable specimens. His name was Ravener, his calling that of overseer: he was the overseer of Jessuron. The symbol of his profession he carried under his arm—a huge cart-whip. He had it by him at all hours—by night, as by day—for by night, as by day, was he accustomed to make use of it. And the victims of his long lash were neither oxen nor horses—they were men andwomen!
No sparing use made he of this hideous implement. “Crack, crack!” was it heard from morn to eve; “crack, crack!” from eve to midnight; if need be, from midnight to morning again: for some said that the overseer of Jessuron never slept. “Crack, crack!” did he go through the courtyard, apparently proud of exhibiting his power before the newly-arrived negroes—here and there swinging his long bitter lash among the groups, as if to break up and scatter them in sheer wantonness.
Volume One—Chapter Twenty One.A Fiery Baptism.It was about twelve o’clock in the day. Jessuron and his daughter had just stepped forth into the verandah, and taken their stand by the balustrade looking down into the court. The countenance of both betrayed a certain degree of solicitude, as if they had come out to be witnesses to some spectacle of more than common interest.The house-wenches and other domestics, trooping behind them with curious looks, showed that some rare scene was to be enacted.A small iron furnace, filled with live coals, had been placed in the courtyard, near the bottom of the steps. Three or four sullen-looking men—blacks and mulattoes—stood around it in lounging attitudes. One of these stooped over the furnace, turning in the fire what appeared to be a soldering iron, or some other instrument of a brazier.It was not that, however, as the spectators well knew. All who beheld it recognised the dreadedbranding iron: for every one present, the whites and newly-arrived Africans excepted, had, ere now, felt its hot, seething fire in their flesh.These last had already learnt what was preparing for them; and most of them stood regarding the preparations with looks of silent awe.Some Coromantees there were among the number, who looked on with reckless indifference, chatting as gaily—and, at intervals, laughing as loudly—as if they awaited the beginning of some merry game. Little cared these courageous sons of Ethiopia—whose sable skins bore scars of many a native fray—little cared they for the scorching of that simple brand.It was not long before the inhuman spectacle commenced. The entrance of Jessuron and his daughter was the cue to begin; and the bearded overseer, who was master of the ceremonies, had only been waiting till these should make their appearance. The man, from experience, knew that his master always gave his personal superintendence when such a scene was to be enacted. He knew, moreover, that his master’s daughter was equally accustomed to assist at these interesting ceremonies!“Go on, Mishter Ravener!” cried the Jew, on reaching the front of the verandah. “Theesh first,” he added, pointing towards a group of Eboes—who stood trembling with apprehension in one corner of the yard.At a sign from the overseer, who was one of the taciturn sort, a number of old negroes—evidently used to the business—laid hands upon the Eboes, and led them up to the furnace.As the victims were brought near to the fire, and saw the red iron glowing amid the coals, fear became strongly depicted upon their faces, and their frames shook with a convulsive terror. Some of them, the younger ones, screamed aloud, and would have rushed away from the spot, had they not been held in the grasp of the attendants.Their appeals, made by the most pitiful looks and gestures, were answered only by unfeeling jeers and shouts of laughter, in which the old Jew himself joined—in which, incredible to relate, joined his beautiful daughter! Nor was it a mere smile which appeared on the face of the fair Judith; clear laughter rang from her lips, exhibiting her regular rows of ivory-like teeth—as if some fiend had assumed the form of an angel!The Eboes were led forward, and held firmly by the assistants, while their breasts were presented to receive the brand. The red-hot iron flashed for a moment in the eyes of each; and then fell with a dull clap upon the clammy skin. Smoke ascended with a hiss, till the court became filled with a smell of roasting flesh! A struggle, some wild cries, and the operation was over. The slave was marked with those indelible initials, to be carried with him to his grave.One by one, the poor beings received this terrible baptism, and were led away from the ground.A batch of Pawpaws—from the Whidaw country—came next. They were brought up one by one, like the Eboes; but altogether unlike these was their behaviour. They neither gave way to extreme fear, nor yet displayed extraordinary courage. They appeared to submit with a sort of docile resignation: as though they regarded it in the light of a destiny or duty.The operation of branding them was a short work, and afforded no mirth to the bystanders: since there was no ludicrous display of terror to laugh at. This facile disposition renders the Whidaw the most valuable of slaves.A group of Coromantees were now to undergo the fiery ordeal. These bold and warlike indigenes of Africa evinced, by their attitudes and actions, the possession of a moral nature altogether different from that either of Pawpaw or Eboe. Instead of waiting to be led forward, each stepped boldly up, as he did so baring his breast to receive the red brand, at which he glanced with an air of lordly contempt!One young fellow even seized the iron from the grasp of the operator; and, turning it in his hand, struck the stamp firmly against his breast, where he held it until the seething flesh told that a deep imprint had been made! Then, flinging the instrument back into the furnace, he strode away from the spot with the air of a triumphant gladiator!At this moment there occurred a pause in the proceedings—not as if the drama was ended, but only an act. Another was yet to come.Ravener stepped up to the verandah, in front of the place where Jessuron and his daughter stood. With the former, or indeed with both, he communicated in a voice just audible,—not as if with any design of concealing what he said—but because there was no necessity for loud talking.The two man-hunters were the only persons there he might have had any care to be cautious about; but these were at that moment busy with their dogs, and not heeding aught that was going on. Branding a batch of negroes was no new sight to them; and they were spectators, merely from having, at the moment, nothing better to do.“Which next?” was the question put by Ravener to the Jew; “the Mandingoes?”“Either them or the prinshe,” replied Jessuron; “it don’t matter which ish marked first.”“Oh, the prince first, by all means!” suggested the amiable Judith, with a smile of satisfaction. “Bring him out first, Mr Ravener; I’m curious to see how his royal highness will stand fire.”The overseer made no reply; but, taking the wish of the young lady as a command, proceeded to obey it.Stepping across the court he opened a door that led into a room, separate from that in which the slaves had been lodged.The overseer entered the room; and in a few minutes came out again, bringing with him an individual who, by his dress, it might have been difficult to recognise as the young Fellatta seen on board the slaver, but whose noble mien still rendered it possible to identify him: for it was he.Changed, indeed, was his costume. The turban was gone, the rich silken tunic, the sandals and scimitar—all his finery had been stripped off; and in its place appeared a coarse Osnaburg shirt and trousers—the dress of a plantation negro.He looked wretched, but not crestfallen.No doubt he had by this time learnt, or suspected, the fate that was in store for him; but, for all that, his features exhibited the proud air of a prince; and the glances which he cast upon the overseer by his side, but oftener upon Jessuron—whose instrument he knew the other to be—were those of concentrated anger and defiance.Not a word escaped his lips, either of protest or reproach. This had all passed before—when the first rude assault had been made upon him, to deprive him of his garments and the adornments of his person. The hour of recrimination was past. He knew he had no alternative but submission, and he was submitting—though in angry and sullen silence.He had no idea of what was now designed for him. He had been shut up in a windowless room, and saw nothing of the spectacle that had just passed. Some new outrage he anticipated; but of what nature he could not guess.He was not allowed to remain long in ignorance. Ravener, roughly grasping him by the wrist, led him up to the furnace.The iron by this time was ready—glowing red-hot among the coals. The operator stood watching for the signal to use it; and on its being given, he seized the instrument in his grasp, and poised it aloft.The prince now perceived the intention, but shrank not at the sight. His eyes were not upon the iron, but, gleaming with a fire like that of the furnace itself, were directed upon the face of the old Jew—at intervals upon that of the angel-like demon at his side.The Jew alone shrank from the glance; his daughter returned it with a mocking imperturbability!In another instant the red brand hissed as it burnt into the flesh of the Fellattas bosom. Prince Cingües was the slave of Jacob Jessuron!As if the terrible reality had now for the first time burst upon him, the young man sprang forward with a cry; and before anyone could oppose his progress, he had bounded up the steps and entered the verandah.Then, gliding along the gallery, to the spot occupied by Jessuron and his daughter, he launched himself forward upon the Jew. As he clutched the latter by the throat, both came together to the ground, and rolled over and over in the writhings of a desperate struggle.Fortunate it was for the slave-merchant that his victim had been disarmed: else that moment would have been fatal to him. As it was, he came very near being strangled; and had it not been for Ravener and the two Spaniards, who hastened to his rescue, the betrayal of the Foolah prince would have been the last treason of his life.Overpowered by numbers, Cingües was at length secured; and the throat of the slave-merchant was extricated from his death-like clutch.“Kill him!” cried the Jew, as soon as he found breath to speak. “No, don’t kill him yet,” added he, correcting himself, “not joosh yet, till I punish him for it! an’ if I don’t punish him—ach!”“Flog the savage!” shouted the beautiful Judith; “make an example of him, Mr Ravener: else those others will be rising upon us in the same style.”“Yesh, flog him! that’ll do to begin with. Flog him now, goot Ravener. Give him a hundred lashes thish minute!”“Ay, ay!” responded the overseer, dragging the victim down the steps; “I’ll give him his full dose—never fear you!”Ravener was as good as his word. The spectacle that followed was even more horrible to behold than that which has been described: for the punishment of the lash is among the most fearful of exhibitions.The young Foolah was tied to a post—one that stood there for the purpose. A strongheadmanwielded the cruelquirt; and as the last stripe was administered, completing that horrid hundred, the poor victim sank fainting against the blood-stained stake.The occupants of the verandah showed not the slightest signs of having been moved to pity by this horrid spectacle. On the contrary, both father and daughter seemed to draw delight from it; and, instead of retiring when the fearful scene was over, both, seemingly with perfect unconcern, remained to witness thefinaleof the day’s work—the marking of the Mandingoes!
It was about twelve o’clock in the day. Jessuron and his daughter had just stepped forth into the verandah, and taken their stand by the balustrade looking down into the court. The countenance of both betrayed a certain degree of solicitude, as if they had come out to be witnesses to some spectacle of more than common interest.
The house-wenches and other domestics, trooping behind them with curious looks, showed that some rare scene was to be enacted.
A small iron furnace, filled with live coals, had been placed in the courtyard, near the bottom of the steps. Three or four sullen-looking men—blacks and mulattoes—stood around it in lounging attitudes. One of these stooped over the furnace, turning in the fire what appeared to be a soldering iron, or some other instrument of a brazier.
It was not that, however, as the spectators well knew. All who beheld it recognised the dreadedbranding iron: for every one present, the whites and newly-arrived Africans excepted, had, ere now, felt its hot, seething fire in their flesh.
These last had already learnt what was preparing for them; and most of them stood regarding the preparations with looks of silent awe.
Some Coromantees there were among the number, who looked on with reckless indifference, chatting as gaily—and, at intervals, laughing as loudly—as if they awaited the beginning of some merry game. Little cared these courageous sons of Ethiopia—whose sable skins bore scars of many a native fray—little cared they for the scorching of that simple brand.
It was not long before the inhuman spectacle commenced. The entrance of Jessuron and his daughter was the cue to begin; and the bearded overseer, who was master of the ceremonies, had only been waiting till these should make their appearance. The man, from experience, knew that his master always gave his personal superintendence when such a scene was to be enacted. He knew, moreover, that his master’s daughter was equally accustomed to assist at these interesting ceremonies!
“Go on, Mishter Ravener!” cried the Jew, on reaching the front of the verandah. “Theesh first,” he added, pointing towards a group of Eboes—who stood trembling with apprehension in one corner of the yard.
At a sign from the overseer, who was one of the taciturn sort, a number of old negroes—evidently used to the business—laid hands upon the Eboes, and led them up to the furnace.
As the victims were brought near to the fire, and saw the red iron glowing amid the coals, fear became strongly depicted upon their faces, and their frames shook with a convulsive terror. Some of them, the younger ones, screamed aloud, and would have rushed away from the spot, had they not been held in the grasp of the attendants.
Their appeals, made by the most pitiful looks and gestures, were answered only by unfeeling jeers and shouts of laughter, in which the old Jew himself joined—in which, incredible to relate, joined his beautiful daughter! Nor was it a mere smile which appeared on the face of the fair Judith; clear laughter rang from her lips, exhibiting her regular rows of ivory-like teeth—as if some fiend had assumed the form of an angel!
The Eboes were led forward, and held firmly by the assistants, while their breasts were presented to receive the brand. The red-hot iron flashed for a moment in the eyes of each; and then fell with a dull clap upon the clammy skin. Smoke ascended with a hiss, till the court became filled with a smell of roasting flesh! A struggle, some wild cries, and the operation was over. The slave was marked with those indelible initials, to be carried with him to his grave.
One by one, the poor beings received this terrible baptism, and were led away from the ground.
A batch of Pawpaws—from the Whidaw country—came next. They were brought up one by one, like the Eboes; but altogether unlike these was their behaviour. They neither gave way to extreme fear, nor yet displayed extraordinary courage. They appeared to submit with a sort of docile resignation: as though they regarded it in the light of a destiny or duty.
The operation of branding them was a short work, and afforded no mirth to the bystanders: since there was no ludicrous display of terror to laugh at. This facile disposition renders the Whidaw the most valuable of slaves.
A group of Coromantees were now to undergo the fiery ordeal. These bold and warlike indigenes of Africa evinced, by their attitudes and actions, the possession of a moral nature altogether different from that either of Pawpaw or Eboe. Instead of waiting to be led forward, each stepped boldly up, as he did so baring his breast to receive the red brand, at which he glanced with an air of lordly contempt!
One young fellow even seized the iron from the grasp of the operator; and, turning it in his hand, struck the stamp firmly against his breast, where he held it until the seething flesh told that a deep imprint had been made! Then, flinging the instrument back into the furnace, he strode away from the spot with the air of a triumphant gladiator!
At this moment there occurred a pause in the proceedings—not as if the drama was ended, but only an act. Another was yet to come.
Ravener stepped up to the verandah, in front of the place where Jessuron and his daughter stood. With the former, or indeed with both, he communicated in a voice just audible,—not as if with any design of concealing what he said—but because there was no necessity for loud talking.
The two man-hunters were the only persons there he might have had any care to be cautious about; but these were at that moment busy with their dogs, and not heeding aught that was going on. Branding a batch of negroes was no new sight to them; and they were spectators, merely from having, at the moment, nothing better to do.
“Which next?” was the question put by Ravener to the Jew; “the Mandingoes?”
“Either them or the prinshe,” replied Jessuron; “it don’t matter which ish marked first.”
“Oh, the prince first, by all means!” suggested the amiable Judith, with a smile of satisfaction. “Bring him out first, Mr Ravener; I’m curious to see how his royal highness will stand fire.”
The overseer made no reply; but, taking the wish of the young lady as a command, proceeded to obey it.
Stepping across the court he opened a door that led into a room, separate from that in which the slaves had been lodged.
The overseer entered the room; and in a few minutes came out again, bringing with him an individual who, by his dress, it might have been difficult to recognise as the young Fellatta seen on board the slaver, but whose noble mien still rendered it possible to identify him: for it was he.
Changed, indeed, was his costume. The turban was gone, the rich silken tunic, the sandals and scimitar—all his finery had been stripped off; and in its place appeared a coarse Osnaburg shirt and trousers—the dress of a plantation negro.
He looked wretched, but not crestfallen.
No doubt he had by this time learnt, or suspected, the fate that was in store for him; but, for all that, his features exhibited the proud air of a prince; and the glances which he cast upon the overseer by his side, but oftener upon Jessuron—whose instrument he knew the other to be—were those of concentrated anger and defiance.
Not a word escaped his lips, either of protest or reproach. This had all passed before—when the first rude assault had been made upon him, to deprive him of his garments and the adornments of his person. The hour of recrimination was past. He knew he had no alternative but submission, and he was submitting—though in angry and sullen silence.
He had no idea of what was now designed for him. He had been shut up in a windowless room, and saw nothing of the spectacle that had just passed. Some new outrage he anticipated; but of what nature he could not guess.
He was not allowed to remain long in ignorance. Ravener, roughly grasping him by the wrist, led him up to the furnace.
The iron by this time was ready—glowing red-hot among the coals. The operator stood watching for the signal to use it; and on its being given, he seized the instrument in his grasp, and poised it aloft.
The prince now perceived the intention, but shrank not at the sight. His eyes were not upon the iron, but, gleaming with a fire like that of the furnace itself, were directed upon the face of the old Jew—at intervals upon that of the angel-like demon at his side.
The Jew alone shrank from the glance; his daughter returned it with a mocking imperturbability!
In another instant the red brand hissed as it burnt into the flesh of the Fellattas bosom. Prince Cingües was the slave of Jacob Jessuron!
As if the terrible reality had now for the first time burst upon him, the young man sprang forward with a cry; and before anyone could oppose his progress, he had bounded up the steps and entered the verandah.
Then, gliding along the gallery, to the spot occupied by Jessuron and his daughter, he launched himself forward upon the Jew. As he clutched the latter by the throat, both came together to the ground, and rolled over and over in the writhings of a desperate struggle.
Fortunate it was for the slave-merchant that his victim had been disarmed: else that moment would have been fatal to him. As it was, he came very near being strangled; and had it not been for Ravener and the two Spaniards, who hastened to his rescue, the betrayal of the Foolah prince would have been the last treason of his life.
Overpowered by numbers, Cingües was at length secured; and the throat of the slave-merchant was extricated from his death-like clutch.
“Kill him!” cried the Jew, as soon as he found breath to speak. “No, don’t kill him yet,” added he, correcting himself, “not joosh yet, till I punish him for it! an’ if I don’t punish him—ach!”
“Flog the savage!” shouted the beautiful Judith; “make an example of him, Mr Ravener: else those others will be rising upon us in the same style.”
“Yesh, flog him! that’ll do to begin with. Flog him now, goot Ravener. Give him a hundred lashes thish minute!”
“Ay, ay!” responded the overseer, dragging the victim down the steps; “I’ll give him his full dose—never fear you!”
Ravener was as good as his word. The spectacle that followed was even more horrible to behold than that which has been described: for the punishment of the lash is among the most fearful of exhibitions.
The young Foolah was tied to a post—one that stood there for the purpose. A strongheadmanwielded the cruelquirt; and as the last stripe was administered, completing that horrid hundred, the poor victim sank fainting against the blood-stained stake.
The occupants of the verandah showed not the slightest signs of having been moved to pity by this horrid spectacle. On the contrary, both father and daughter seemed to draw delight from it; and, instead of retiring when the fearful scene was over, both, seemingly with perfect unconcern, remained to witness thefinaleof the day’s work—the marking of the Mandingoes!