Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.An Encounter of Eyes.While Herbert Vaughan was making these reflections, the light began to re-dawn—gradually, as it were, raising the veil from the face of his cousin. He could not resist turning to gaze upon it. During the interval of the obscurity, a change had passed over the countenance of the young girl, both in its hue and expression. Herbert noticed the change. It even startled him. Before, and during the unhappy dialogue, he had looked upon a flushed cheek, a fiery eye, an air proud and haughty, with all the indices of defiant indifference.All were gone: Kate’s eye still sparkled, but with a milder light; a uniform pallor overspread her cheeks, as if the eclipse had robbed them of their roses; and the proud expression had entirely disappeared, replaced by one of sadness, or rather of pain.Withal, the face was lovely as ever—lovelier, thought Herbert.Why that sudden transformation? What had caused it? Whence sprang that painful thought, that was betraying itself in the pale cheek and lips compressed and quivering? Was it the happiness of another that was making that misery? Smythje seemed happy—very happy, to judge from his oft-repeated “Haw! haw!”Was this the cause of that expression of extreme sadness that displayed itself on the countenance of his cousin?So did Herbert interpret it.Making a fresh effort to subdue within himself the same spirit which he believed to be actuating her, he remained silent—though unable to withdraw his glance from that lorn but lovely face.While still gazing upon it, a sigh escaped him. It could scarce have been heard by her who stood nearest; nor hers by him: for she had also sighed, and at the same instant of time! Perhaps both were moved by some secret sympathetic instinct?Herbert had succeeded in obtaining another momentary triumph over his emotions: and was once more on the eve of uttering words of friendship, when the young girl looked up and reciprocated his gaze. It was the first time during the interview their eyes had met: for up to that moment Kate had only regarded her cousin with furtive glances.For some seconds they stood face to face—each gazing into the eyes of the other, as if both were the victims of some irresistible fascination.Not a word passed between them—their very breathing was stilled. Both seemed to consider the time too important for speech: for they were seeking in one another’s eyes—those faithful mirrors of the soul—those truest interpreters of the heart—the solution of that, the most interesting enigma of their existence.This silent interrogation was instinctive as mutual—uncorrupted by a shadow of coquetry. It was bold and reckless as innocence itself—unregarding outward observation. What cared they for the eclipse? What for the sun or the moon, or the waning stars? What for the universe itself? Less—far less for those human forms that chanced to be so near them!Drew they gratification from that mutual gaze? They must—else why did they continue it?Not for long: not for long were they allowed. An eye was upon them—the eye of that beautiful demon.Ah! fair Judith, thy flirtation has proved a failure! Therusehas recoiled upon thyself!The golden sunlight once more fell upon the Jumbé Rock, revealing the forms of four individuals—all youthful—all in love, though two only were beloved!The returning light brought no joy to Judith Jessuron.It revealed to her that glance of mutual fascination, which, with a quick, sharp cry, she had interrupted.A bitter embarrassment seemed all at once to have seized upon her proud spirit, and dragged it into the dust.Skilled in the silent language of the eyes, she had read in those of Herbert Vaughan, as he bent them upon his cousin, an expression that stung her, even to the utterance of a scream!From that moment the flirtation with Smythje ceased; and the Cockney exquisite was forsaken in the most unceremonious manner left to continue his telescopic observations alone.The conversation was no longerdos y dos, but at once changed to atrio; and finally restored to its originalquartetteform—soon, however, to be broken up by an abrupt separation of the parties.The Jewess was the first to propose departure—the first to make it. She descended from the Jumbé Rock in a less lively mood than that in which she had climbed up to it; inwardly anathematising the eclipse, and the fortune that had guided her to the choice of such an ill-starred observatory.Perhaps, had the interview been prolonged, the cousins might have separated with a better understanding of each other than was expressed in that cold, ceremonious adieu with which they parted.Smythje and Kate Vaughan were once more alone upon the summit of the rock; and the supercilious lover was now free to continue the declaration.One might suppose that he would have instantly dropped back upon his knees, and finished the performance so vexatiously interrupted.Not so, however. The spirit of Smythje’s dream seemed equally to have undergone a change; as if he, too,had seen something.His air of high confidence had departed, as also the climax on which he had counted: for the sun’s disc was now quite clear of the eclipse, and the pretty speeches, intended for an anterior time, would now have been pointless and inappropriate.Whether it was this that influenced him, or a presentiment that the offer of his heart and hand might just then stand some chance of a rejection, can never be known: since Smythje, who alone could divulge it, has left no record of the reason.Certain it is, however, that the proposal did not take place on the Jumbé Rock on the day of the eclipse; but was postponed,sine die, to some future occasion.
While Herbert Vaughan was making these reflections, the light began to re-dawn—gradually, as it were, raising the veil from the face of his cousin. He could not resist turning to gaze upon it. During the interval of the obscurity, a change had passed over the countenance of the young girl, both in its hue and expression. Herbert noticed the change. It even startled him. Before, and during the unhappy dialogue, he had looked upon a flushed cheek, a fiery eye, an air proud and haughty, with all the indices of defiant indifference.
All were gone: Kate’s eye still sparkled, but with a milder light; a uniform pallor overspread her cheeks, as if the eclipse had robbed them of their roses; and the proud expression had entirely disappeared, replaced by one of sadness, or rather of pain.
Withal, the face was lovely as ever—lovelier, thought Herbert.
Why that sudden transformation? What had caused it? Whence sprang that painful thought, that was betraying itself in the pale cheek and lips compressed and quivering? Was it the happiness of another that was making that misery? Smythje seemed happy—very happy, to judge from his oft-repeated “Haw! haw!”
Was this the cause of that expression of extreme sadness that displayed itself on the countenance of his cousin?
So did Herbert interpret it.
Making a fresh effort to subdue within himself the same spirit which he believed to be actuating her, he remained silent—though unable to withdraw his glance from that lorn but lovely face.
While still gazing upon it, a sigh escaped him. It could scarce have been heard by her who stood nearest; nor hers by him: for she had also sighed, and at the same instant of time! Perhaps both were moved by some secret sympathetic instinct?
Herbert had succeeded in obtaining another momentary triumph over his emotions: and was once more on the eve of uttering words of friendship, when the young girl looked up and reciprocated his gaze. It was the first time during the interview their eyes had met: for up to that moment Kate had only regarded her cousin with furtive glances.
For some seconds they stood face to face—each gazing into the eyes of the other, as if both were the victims of some irresistible fascination.
Not a word passed between them—their very breathing was stilled. Both seemed to consider the time too important for speech: for they were seeking in one another’s eyes—those faithful mirrors of the soul—those truest interpreters of the heart—the solution of that, the most interesting enigma of their existence.
This silent interrogation was instinctive as mutual—uncorrupted by a shadow of coquetry. It was bold and reckless as innocence itself—unregarding outward observation. What cared they for the eclipse? What for the sun or the moon, or the waning stars? What for the universe itself? Less—far less for those human forms that chanced to be so near them!
Drew they gratification from that mutual gaze? They must—else why did they continue it?
Not for long: not for long were they allowed. An eye was upon them—the eye of that beautiful demon.
Ah! fair Judith, thy flirtation has proved a failure! Therusehas recoiled upon thyself!
The golden sunlight once more fell upon the Jumbé Rock, revealing the forms of four individuals—all youthful—all in love, though two only were beloved!
The returning light brought no joy to Judith Jessuron.
It revealed to her that glance of mutual fascination, which, with a quick, sharp cry, she had interrupted.
A bitter embarrassment seemed all at once to have seized upon her proud spirit, and dragged it into the dust.
Skilled in the silent language of the eyes, she had read in those of Herbert Vaughan, as he bent them upon his cousin, an expression that stung her, even to the utterance of a scream!
From that moment the flirtation with Smythje ceased; and the Cockney exquisite was forsaken in the most unceremonious manner left to continue his telescopic observations alone.
The conversation was no longerdos y dos, but at once changed to atrio; and finally restored to its originalquartetteform—soon, however, to be broken up by an abrupt separation of the parties.
The Jewess was the first to propose departure—the first to make it. She descended from the Jumbé Rock in a less lively mood than that in which she had climbed up to it; inwardly anathematising the eclipse, and the fortune that had guided her to the choice of such an ill-starred observatory.
Perhaps, had the interview been prolonged, the cousins might have separated with a better understanding of each other than was expressed in that cold, ceremonious adieu with which they parted.
Smythje and Kate Vaughan were once more alone upon the summit of the rock; and the supercilious lover was now free to continue the declaration.
One might suppose that he would have instantly dropped back upon his knees, and finished the performance so vexatiously interrupted.
Not so, however. The spirit of Smythje’s dream seemed equally to have undergone a change; as if he, too,had seen something.
His air of high confidence had departed, as also the climax on which he had counted: for the sun’s disc was now quite clear of the eclipse, and the pretty speeches, intended for an anterior time, would now have been pointless and inappropriate.
Whether it was this that influenced him, or a presentiment that the offer of his heart and hand might just then stand some chance of a rejection, can never be known: since Smythje, who alone could divulge it, has left no record of the reason.
Certain it is, however, that the proposal did not take place on the Jumbé Rock on the day of the eclipse; but was postponed,sine die, to some future occasion.
Volume Two—Chapter Sixteen.The Smythje Ball.As if the eclipse had not been a sufficient climax to the round offêtesgot up for the express amusement of Mr Smythje, only a few days—or, rather, nights—after, still another was inaugurated, to do honour to this young British lion.Unlike the eclipse, it was a terrestrial phenomenon—one of the most popular of sublunary entertainments—a ball—a complimentary ball—Mr Smythje the recipient of the compliment.Montego Bay was to be the place; which, notwithstanding itsprovinciality, had long been celebrated for its brilliant assemblies—from the time that fandangoes were danced by the old Spanish pork-butchers, down to that hour when Mr Montagu Smythje had condescended to honour itssalonsby the introduction of some very fashionable steps from the world’s metropolis.The hall was to be a grand affair—one of the grandest ever given in the Bay—and all Planterdom was expected to be present.Of course, Kate Vaughan would be there; and so, too, the Custos himself.Mr Smythje would be the hero of the night; and, as such, surrounded by the fairest of the fair—hedged in by a galaxy of beautiful belles, and beset by an army of matchmaking parents, all seeking success with as much eagerness as Loftus Vaughan himself.Under these circumstances, it would be but simple prudence that Kate should be there to look after him: for the worthy Custos was not unacquainted with the adage, that “the sweetest smelling flower is that nearest the nose.”Mr Vaughan would have rejoiced at the opportunity thus offered, of letting all themondeof Jamaica know the relationship in which he stood, and was likely to stand, to the distinguished individual to whom the entertainment was dedicated. He had no doubt but that Kate would be chosen as the conspicuous partner: for well knew he the condition of Mr Smythje’s mind upon that subject. To him the latter had made no secret of his affections; and the cunning Custos, who had been all along warily watching the development of the passion, now knew to a certainty that the heart of Montagu’s lord was not only smitten with his daughter, but was irretrievably lost—so far as such a heart could suffer love’s perdition.No doubt, then, Mr Vaughan would have looked forward to the Smythje ball with pleasant anticipation—as likely to afford him a social triumph—but for a little circumstance that had lately come to his knowledge. It was the incident which had transpired on the Jumbé Rock—the meeting between his daughter and nephew on the day of the eclipse.The Custos had been the more particular in obtaining the details of that interview from his presumptive son-in-law, on account of a suspicion that had arisen in his mind as to the inclinings of his daughter’s heart. Something she had said—during the first days after Herbert’sbrusquedismissal from Mount Welcome—some sympathetic expressions she had made use of—unguarded and overheard, had given rise to this suspicion of her father.He was sufficiently annoyed about Kate having met Herbert on the Jumbé Rock; and believed it quite possible that the latter had come there in the hope of encountering his cousin.In Mount Welcome the name of Herbert Vaughan was no longer heard. Even Kate—whether it was that she had grown more sage—for she had been chided more than once for introducing it into the conversation—or whether she had ceased to think of him—even she never pronounced his name.For all that, Mr Vaughan was still vexed with some lingering suspicion that in that direction lurked danger; and this determined him to prevent, as far as possible, any further interview between his daughter and nephew.After the encounter on the Jumbé Rock, he had taken his daughter to task upon this subject; and, using the full stretch of parental authority, compelled her to a solemn promise, that she was not again to speak to her cousin, nor even acknowledge his presence!It was a hard promise for the poor girl to make. Perhaps it would have been still harder, had she known Herbert’s disposition towards her.There can be no doubt that her father, in extracting this promise, had in view the event about to take place—the grand Smythje ball. There an encounter between the cousins was not only possible, but probable; so much so as to render Mr Vaughan apprehensive. Judith Jessuron was sure to be present—perhaps the Jew himself; and Herbert, of course.The nephew was now cordially disliked. Stung by the defiant speeches which the young man had made on the day of his arrival, his uncle even detested him: for the proud planter was himself too poor in spirit to admire this quality in any one else.The Custos had heard all about the hospitality which his neighbour was extending to Herbert, and the kindnesses which the patron was lavishing upon his protégé. Though not a little mystified by what was going on, he availed himself of the ordinary explanation—that it was done to vex himself; and, if so, the stratagem of the Jew was proving perfectly successful: for vexed was Mr Vaughan to his very heart’s core.The night of the Smythje ball came round in due course. The grand ball-room of the Bay was decorated as became the occasion. Flags, festoons, and devices hung around the walls; and over the doorway a large transparency—supported by the loyal emblems of the Union Jack and banner of Saint George, and surmounted by the colonial colours—proclaimed, in letters of eighteen inches diameter:—“Welcome to Smythje!”The hour arrived; the band shortly after; close followed by strings of carriages of every kind current in the Island, containing scores—ay, hundreds of dancers. Twenty miles was nothing to go to a Jamaica ball.The grand barouche of Loftus Vaughan arrived with the rest, only fashionably behind time, bringing the Custos himself, his truly beautiful daughter, but, above all—as before all perhaps should have been mentioned—the hero of the night.“Welcome to Smythje!”How his proud heart swelled with triumph under the magnificent ruffles of his shirt, as he caught sight of the flattering transparency! How conquering his smile, as he turned towards Kate Vaughan, to note the effect which it could not fail to produce!“Welcome to Smythje!” pealed from a hundred pairs of lips, as the carriage drove up to the door; and then a loud cheer followed the words of greeting; and then the distinguished stranger was ushered into the hall-room; and, after remaining a few moments in a conspicuous position—the cynosure of at least two hundred pairs of eyes—the great man set the example by pairing off with a partner.The hand struck up, and the dancing began.It need scarce be said who was Smythje’s first partner—Kate Vaughan, of course. The Custos had taken care of that.Smythje looked superb. Thoms had been at him all the afternoon. His hay-coloured hair was in full curl—his whiskers in amplest bush—his moustache crimped spirally at the points; and his cheek pinked with just the slightest tinting of vermillion.Arrived a little late, the Jewess had not appeared in the first set. In the waltz she was conspicuous: not from her dress of rich purple velvet—not from the splendid tiara of pearls that glistened against the background of her glossy raven hair—not from the dazzling whiteness of her teeth, that gleamed between lips like curved and parted rose-leaves—not from the damask tinting of her cheeks; nor the liquid light that flashed incessantly from her black, Israelitish eyes—not from any of these was she conspicuous; but from all combined into one, and composing a grand and imperious picture.It was a picture upon which more than one eye gazed with admiration; and more than one continued to gaze.The partner of Judith was not unworthy to embrace such beauty.She was in the arms of a young man, a stranger to most in the room; but the glances bestowed upon him by bright eyes—some interrogative, some furtive, some openly admiring—promised him an easy introduction to any one he might fancy to know.Not that this stranger appeared to be conceitedly conscious of the graces which nature had so lavishly bestowed upon him; or even sensible of the good fortune that had given him such a partner.On the contrary, he was dancing with despondency in his look, and a cloud upon his brow that even the exciting whirl of the waltz was failing to dissipate!The partner of Judith Jessuron was Herbert Vaughan.A ball-room may be likened to a kaleidoscope: the personages are the same, their relative positions constantly changing. Design it or not, either during the dance or the interregnum—one time or another—you will find yourself face to face, or side by side, with every individual in the room.So in the ball-room of Montego Bay came face to face two sets of waltzers—Smythje and Kate, Herbert and Judith.The situation arose as they were resting from the dizzy whirl of a waltz.Smythje bent profoundly towards the floor—Judith, with an imperious sweep, returned the salutation—Herbert bowed to his cousin, with a half-doubting, half-appealing glance; but the nod received in return was so slight, so distant, that even the keen-eyed Custos, closely watching every movement of the quartette, failed to perceive it!Poor Kate! She knew that the paternal eye, severely set, was upon her. She remembered that painful promise.Not a word passed between the parties. Scarce a moment stood they together. Herbert, stung by Kate’s salutation—unexpectedly cold, almost insultingly distant—warped his arm around the waist of his willing partner, and spun off through the unobservant crowd.Though often again upon that same night Smythje and Kate, Herbert and the Jewess were respectively partners—so often as to lead to general observation—never again did the four standvis-à-visor side by side. Whenever chance threatened to bring them together, design, or something like it, stepped in to thwart the approximation!Almost all the night did Herbert dance with the Jewess—no longer with despondency in his look, but with the semblance of a gay and reckless joy. Never had Judith received from the young Englishman such ardent attention; and for the first time since their introduction to each other did she feel conscious of something like a correspondence to her own fierce love. For the moment her proud, cruel heart became dissolved to a true feminine tenderness; and in the spiral undulations of the waltz, as she coiled round the robust form of her partner, her cheek rested upon his shoulder, as if laid there to expire in the agony of an exquisite bliss.She stayed not to question the cause of Herbert’s devotedness. Her own heart, blinded by love, and yearning for reciprocity, threw open its portals to receive the passion without challenge or scrutiny—without knowing whether it was real or only apparent.A wild anguish would she have experienced at that moment, could she have divined what was passing in Herbert’s mind. Little did she suspect that his devotedness to her was only a demonstration intended to act upon another. Little dreamt she that real love for another was the cause and origin of that counterfeit that was deceiving herself. Happily for her heart’s peace she knew not this.Herbert alone knew it. As the kaleidoscope evolved the dazzling dancers one after another, often did the face of Kate Vaughan flit before the eyes of her cousin, and his before her eyes. On such occasions, the glance hastily exchanged was one of defiant indifference: for both were playing at piques! The cold salutation had givenhimthe cue, ignorant as he was of its cause.Shehad begun the game only a little later—on observing the attitude of extreme contentment which Herbert had assumed towards his companion. She knew not that it was studied. Her skill in coquetry, although sufficient for the pretence of indifference, was not deep enough to discern it in him; and both were now behaving as if each believed the love of the other beyond all hope.Before abandoning the ball-room, this belief—erroneous as it might be on both sides—received further confirmation. A circumstance arose that strengthened it to a full and perfect conviction.From the gossip of a crowded ball-room many a secret may be learnt. In those late hours, when the supper champagne has untied the tongue, and dancers begin to fancy each other deaf, he who silently threads his way or stands still among the crowd, may catch many a sentence not intended to be overheard, and often least of all by himself. Many an involuntary eavesdropper has fallen into this catastrophe. At least two instances occurred at the Smythje hall; and to the two individuals in whom, perhaps, we are most interested—Herbert and Kate Vaughan.Herbert for a moment was alone. Judith, not that she had tired of her partner, but perhaps only to save appearances, was dancing with another. It was not Smythje, whom all the evening she had studiously avoided. She remembered the incident on the Jumbé Rock; and feared that dancing with him might conduct to a similar disposition of partners as that which had occurred on the day of the eclipse.It was not flirtation in any way. On that night Judith had no need. Confident in her success with Herbert, she was contented; and cared not to do anything that might hazard a rupture of the blissful chain she believed she had woven around him.Herbert was standing alone in the crowd. Two young planters were near him, engaged in conversation. They had mixed their liquor, and therefore talked loud.Herbert could not help hearing what they talked of; and, having heard, could not help heeding it. He was interested in the subject, though not from its singularity; for it was the common topic of the ball-room, and had been throughout the night. The theme was Smythje; and coupled with his name was that of Kate Vaughan.On hearing these names, Herbert was no longer an involuntary listener. He strained his ears to catch every word. He had not heard the beginning of the dialogue, but the introduction was easily inferred.“When is it to come off?” inquired the least knowing of the planters, from him who was imparting the information.“No time fixed yet,” was the reply; “at least, none has been mentioned. Soon, I suppose.”“There’ll be a grand spread upon the occasion—breakfast, dinner, supper, and ball, no doubt?”“Sure to be all that. The Custos is not the man to let the ceremony pass without all theéclat.”“Honeymoon tour afterwards?”“Of course. He takes her to London. I believe they are to reside there. Mr Smythje don’t much relish our colonial life: he misses the opera. A pity: since it’ll make one beautiful woman less in the Island!”“Well, all I’ve got to say is, that Loff Vaughan has sold his nigger well.”“Oh, for shame! to use such a word in speaking of the beautiful—the accomplished Miss Vaughan. Come, Thorndyke! I’m shocked at you.”Thorndyke, by the expression, had hazarded the punching of his head—not by his companion, but by a stranger who stood near.Herbert curbed his indignation. Kate cared not for him! Perhaps she would not have accepted him even as her champion!Almost at that same moment Kate, too, was listening to a dialogue painfully analogous. Smythje could not dance all the night with her. Too many claimed the honour of his partnership; and for a set or two she had been forsaken by him—left under the guardianship of the watchful Custos.“Who can he be?” inquired one of two gentle gossips within earshot of Kate.“A young Englishman, I have heard: a relative of Vaughans of Mount Welcome; though, for some reason, not acknowledged by the Custos.”“That bold girl appears willing enough to acknowledge him. Who is she?”“A Miss Jessuron. She is the daughter of the old Jew penn-keeper, who used to deal largely in blacks.”“Faugh! she is behaving as if she belonged to a—”The last word was whispered, and Kate did not hear it.“True enough!” asserted the other; “but, as they are engaged, that, I take it, is nobody’s business but their own. He’s a stranger in the Island; and don’t know much about certain people’s position, I suppose. A pity! He seems a nice sort of a young fellow; but as he makes his bed, so let him lie. Ha! ha! If report speaks true of Miss Judith Jessuron, he’ll find no bed of roses there. Ha! ha! ha!”What causes merriment to one may make another miserable. This was true of the words last spoken. From the speaker and her companion they elicited a laugh—from Kate Vaughan they drew a sigh, deep and sad.She left the ball with a bleeding heart.“Lost! lost for ever!” murmured she, as she laid her cheek upon a sleepless pillow.“Won!” triumphantly exclaimed Judith Jessuron, flinging her majestic form on a couch. “Herbert Vaughan is mine!”“Lost! lost for ever!” soliloquised Herbert, as he closed the door of his solitary sleeping-room.“Won!” cried the victorious Smythje, entering his elegant bed-chamber, and, in the fervour of his enthusiasm, dropping his metropolitanpatois. “Kate Vaughan is mine!”
As if the eclipse had not been a sufficient climax to the round offêtesgot up for the express amusement of Mr Smythje, only a few days—or, rather, nights—after, still another was inaugurated, to do honour to this young British lion.
Unlike the eclipse, it was a terrestrial phenomenon—one of the most popular of sublunary entertainments—a ball—a complimentary ball—Mr Smythje the recipient of the compliment.
Montego Bay was to be the place; which, notwithstanding itsprovinciality, had long been celebrated for its brilliant assemblies—from the time that fandangoes were danced by the old Spanish pork-butchers, down to that hour when Mr Montagu Smythje had condescended to honour itssalonsby the introduction of some very fashionable steps from the world’s metropolis.
The hall was to be a grand affair—one of the grandest ever given in the Bay—and all Planterdom was expected to be present.
Of course, Kate Vaughan would be there; and so, too, the Custos himself.
Mr Smythje would be the hero of the night; and, as such, surrounded by the fairest of the fair—hedged in by a galaxy of beautiful belles, and beset by an army of matchmaking parents, all seeking success with as much eagerness as Loftus Vaughan himself.
Under these circumstances, it would be but simple prudence that Kate should be there to look after him: for the worthy Custos was not unacquainted with the adage, that “the sweetest smelling flower is that nearest the nose.”
Mr Vaughan would have rejoiced at the opportunity thus offered, of letting all themondeof Jamaica know the relationship in which he stood, and was likely to stand, to the distinguished individual to whom the entertainment was dedicated. He had no doubt but that Kate would be chosen as the conspicuous partner: for well knew he the condition of Mr Smythje’s mind upon that subject. To him the latter had made no secret of his affections; and the cunning Custos, who had been all along warily watching the development of the passion, now knew to a certainty that the heart of Montagu’s lord was not only smitten with his daughter, but was irretrievably lost—so far as such a heart could suffer love’s perdition.
No doubt, then, Mr Vaughan would have looked forward to the Smythje ball with pleasant anticipation—as likely to afford him a social triumph—but for a little circumstance that had lately come to his knowledge. It was the incident which had transpired on the Jumbé Rock—the meeting between his daughter and nephew on the day of the eclipse.
The Custos had been the more particular in obtaining the details of that interview from his presumptive son-in-law, on account of a suspicion that had arisen in his mind as to the inclinings of his daughter’s heart. Something she had said—during the first days after Herbert’sbrusquedismissal from Mount Welcome—some sympathetic expressions she had made use of—unguarded and overheard, had given rise to this suspicion of her father.
He was sufficiently annoyed about Kate having met Herbert on the Jumbé Rock; and believed it quite possible that the latter had come there in the hope of encountering his cousin.
In Mount Welcome the name of Herbert Vaughan was no longer heard. Even Kate—whether it was that she had grown more sage—for she had been chided more than once for introducing it into the conversation—or whether she had ceased to think of him—even she never pronounced his name.
For all that, Mr Vaughan was still vexed with some lingering suspicion that in that direction lurked danger; and this determined him to prevent, as far as possible, any further interview between his daughter and nephew.
After the encounter on the Jumbé Rock, he had taken his daughter to task upon this subject; and, using the full stretch of parental authority, compelled her to a solemn promise, that she was not again to speak to her cousin, nor even acknowledge his presence!
It was a hard promise for the poor girl to make. Perhaps it would have been still harder, had she known Herbert’s disposition towards her.
There can be no doubt that her father, in extracting this promise, had in view the event about to take place—the grand Smythje ball. There an encounter between the cousins was not only possible, but probable; so much so as to render Mr Vaughan apprehensive. Judith Jessuron was sure to be present—perhaps the Jew himself; and Herbert, of course.
The nephew was now cordially disliked. Stung by the defiant speeches which the young man had made on the day of his arrival, his uncle even detested him: for the proud planter was himself too poor in spirit to admire this quality in any one else.
The Custos had heard all about the hospitality which his neighbour was extending to Herbert, and the kindnesses which the patron was lavishing upon his protégé. Though not a little mystified by what was going on, he availed himself of the ordinary explanation—that it was done to vex himself; and, if so, the stratagem of the Jew was proving perfectly successful: for vexed was Mr Vaughan to his very heart’s core.
The night of the Smythje ball came round in due course. The grand ball-room of the Bay was decorated as became the occasion. Flags, festoons, and devices hung around the walls; and over the doorway a large transparency—supported by the loyal emblems of the Union Jack and banner of Saint George, and surmounted by the colonial colours—proclaimed, in letters of eighteen inches diameter:—
“Welcome to Smythje!”
The hour arrived; the band shortly after; close followed by strings of carriages of every kind current in the Island, containing scores—ay, hundreds of dancers. Twenty miles was nothing to go to a Jamaica ball.
The grand barouche of Loftus Vaughan arrived with the rest, only fashionably behind time, bringing the Custos himself, his truly beautiful daughter, but, above all—as before all perhaps should have been mentioned—the hero of the night.
“Welcome to Smythje!”
How his proud heart swelled with triumph under the magnificent ruffles of his shirt, as he caught sight of the flattering transparency! How conquering his smile, as he turned towards Kate Vaughan, to note the effect which it could not fail to produce!
“Welcome to Smythje!” pealed from a hundred pairs of lips, as the carriage drove up to the door; and then a loud cheer followed the words of greeting; and then the distinguished stranger was ushered into the hall-room; and, after remaining a few moments in a conspicuous position—the cynosure of at least two hundred pairs of eyes—the great man set the example by pairing off with a partner.
The hand struck up, and the dancing began.
It need scarce be said who was Smythje’s first partner—Kate Vaughan, of course. The Custos had taken care of that.
Smythje looked superb. Thoms had been at him all the afternoon. His hay-coloured hair was in full curl—his whiskers in amplest bush—his moustache crimped spirally at the points; and his cheek pinked with just the slightest tinting of vermillion.
Arrived a little late, the Jewess had not appeared in the first set. In the waltz she was conspicuous: not from her dress of rich purple velvet—not from the splendid tiara of pearls that glistened against the background of her glossy raven hair—not from the dazzling whiteness of her teeth, that gleamed between lips like curved and parted rose-leaves—not from the damask tinting of her cheeks; nor the liquid light that flashed incessantly from her black, Israelitish eyes—not from any of these was she conspicuous; but from all combined into one, and composing a grand and imperious picture.
It was a picture upon which more than one eye gazed with admiration; and more than one continued to gaze.
The partner of Judith was not unworthy to embrace such beauty.
She was in the arms of a young man, a stranger to most in the room; but the glances bestowed upon him by bright eyes—some interrogative, some furtive, some openly admiring—promised him an easy introduction to any one he might fancy to know.
Not that this stranger appeared to be conceitedly conscious of the graces which nature had so lavishly bestowed upon him; or even sensible of the good fortune that had given him such a partner.
On the contrary, he was dancing with despondency in his look, and a cloud upon his brow that even the exciting whirl of the waltz was failing to dissipate!
The partner of Judith Jessuron was Herbert Vaughan.
A ball-room may be likened to a kaleidoscope: the personages are the same, their relative positions constantly changing. Design it or not, either during the dance or the interregnum—one time or another—you will find yourself face to face, or side by side, with every individual in the room.
So in the ball-room of Montego Bay came face to face two sets of waltzers—Smythje and Kate, Herbert and Judith.
The situation arose as they were resting from the dizzy whirl of a waltz.
Smythje bent profoundly towards the floor—Judith, with an imperious sweep, returned the salutation—Herbert bowed to his cousin, with a half-doubting, half-appealing glance; but the nod received in return was so slight, so distant, that even the keen-eyed Custos, closely watching every movement of the quartette, failed to perceive it!
Poor Kate! She knew that the paternal eye, severely set, was upon her. She remembered that painful promise.
Not a word passed between the parties. Scarce a moment stood they together. Herbert, stung by Kate’s salutation—unexpectedly cold, almost insultingly distant—warped his arm around the waist of his willing partner, and spun off through the unobservant crowd.
Though often again upon that same night Smythje and Kate, Herbert and the Jewess were respectively partners—so often as to lead to general observation—never again did the four standvis-à-visor side by side. Whenever chance threatened to bring them together, design, or something like it, stepped in to thwart the approximation!
Almost all the night did Herbert dance with the Jewess—no longer with despondency in his look, but with the semblance of a gay and reckless joy. Never had Judith received from the young Englishman such ardent attention; and for the first time since their introduction to each other did she feel conscious of something like a correspondence to her own fierce love. For the moment her proud, cruel heart became dissolved to a true feminine tenderness; and in the spiral undulations of the waltz, as she coiled round the robust form of her partner, her cheek rested upon his shoulder, as if laid there to expire in the agony of an exquisite bliss.
She stayed not to question the cause of Herbert’s devotedness. Her own heart, blinded by love, and yearning for reciprocity, threw open its portals to receive the passion without challenge or scrutiny—without knowing whether it was real or only apparent.
A wild anguish would she have experienced at that moment, could she have divined what was passing in Herbert’s mind. Little did she suspect that his devotedness to her was only a demonstration intended to act upon another. Little dreamt she that real love for another was the cause and origin of that counterfeit that was deceiving herself. Happily for her heart’s peace she knew not this.
Herbert alone knew it. As the kaleidoscope evolved the dazzling dancers one after another, often did the face of Kate Vaughan flit before the eyes of her cousin, and his before her eyes. On such occasions, the glance hastily exchanged was one of defiant indifference: for both were playing at piques! The cold salutation had givenhimthe cue, ignorant as he was of its cause.Shehad begun the game only a little later—on observing the attitude of extreme contentment which Herbert had assumed towards his companion. She knew not that it was studied. Her skill in coquetry, although sufficient for the pretence of indifference, was not deep enough to discern it in him; and both were now behaving as if each believed the love of the other beyond all hope.
Before abandoning the ball-room, this belief—erroneous as it might be on both sides—received further confirmation. A circumstance arose that strengthened it to a full and perfect conviction.
From the gossip of a crowded ball-room many a secret may be learnt. In those late hours, when the supper champagne has untied the tongue, and dancers begin to fancy each other deaf, he who silently threads his way or stands still among the crowd, may catch many a sentence not intended to be overheard, and often least of all by himself. Many an involuntary eavesdropper has fallen into this catastrophe. At least two instances occurred at the Smythje hall; and to the two individuals in whom, perhaps, we are most interested—Herbert and Kate Vaughan.
Herbert for a moment was alone. Judith, not that she had tired of her partner, but perhaps only to save appearances, was dancing with another. It was not Smythje, whom all the evening she had studiously avoided. She remembered the incident on the Jumbé Rock; and feared that dancing with him might conduct to a similar disposition of partners as that which had occurred on the day of the eclipse.
It was not flirtation in any way. On that night Judith had no need. Confident in her success with Herbert, she was contented; and cared not to do anything that might hazard a rupture of the blissful chain she believed she had woven around him.
Herbert was standing alone in the crowd. Two young planters were near him, engaged in conversation. They had mixed their liquor, and therefore talked loud.
Herbert could not help hearing what they talked of; and, having heard, could not help heeding it. He was interested in the subject, though not from its singularity; for it was the common topic of the ball-room, and had been throughout the night. The theme was Smythje; and coupled with his name was that of Kate Vaughan.
On hearing these names, Herbert was no longer an involuntary listener. He strained his ears to catch every word. He had not heard the beginning of the dialogue, but the introduction was easily inferred.
“When is it to come off?” inquired the least knowing of the planters, from him who was imparting the information.
“No time fixed yet,” was the reply; “at least, none has been mentioned. Soon, I suppose.”
“There’ll be a grand spread upon the occasion—breakfast, dinner, supper, and ball, no doubt?”
“Sure to be all that. The Custos is not the man to let the ceremony pass without all theéclat.”
“Honeymoon tour afterwards?”
“Of course. He takes her to London. I believe they are to reside there. Mr Smythje don’t much relish our colonial life: he misses the opera. A pity: since it’ll make one beautiful woman less in the Island!”
“Well, all I’ve got to say is, that Loff Vaughan has sold his nigger well.”
“Oh, for shame! to use such a word in speaking of the beautiful—the accomplished Miss Vaughan. Come, Thorndyke! I’m shocked at you.”
Thorndyke, by the expression, had hazarded the punching of his head—not by his companion, but by a stranger who stood near.
Herbert curbed his indignation. Kate cared not for him! Perhaps she would not have accepted him even as her champion!
Almost at that same moment Kate, too, was listening to a dialogue painfully analogous. Smythje could not dance all the night with her. Too many claimed the honour of his partnership; and for a set or two she had been forsaken by him—left under the guardianship of the watchful Custos.
“Who can he be?” inquired one of two gentle gossips within earshot of Kate.
“A young Englishman, I have heard: a relative of Vaughans of Mount Welcome; though, for some reason, not acknowledged by the Custos.”
“That bold girl appears willing enough to acknowledge him. Who is she?”
“A Miss Jessuron. She is the daughter of the old Jew penn-keeper, who used to deal largely in blacks.”
“Faugh! she is behaving as if she belonged to a—”
The last word was whispered, and Kate did not hear it.
“True enough!” asserted the other; “but, as they are engaged, that, I take it, is nobody’s business but their own. He’s a stranger in the Island; and don’t know much about certain people’s position, I suppose. A pity! He seems a nice sort of a young fellow; but as he makes his bed, so let him lie. Ha! ha! If report speaks true of Miss Judith Jessuron, he’ll find no bed of roses there. Ha! ha! ha!”
What causes merriment to one may make another miserable. This was true of the words last spoken. From the speaker and her companion they elicited a laugh—from Kate Vaughan they drew a sigh, deep and sad.
She left the ball with a bleeding heart.
“Lost! lost for ever!” murmured she, as she laid her cheek upon a sleepless pillow.
“Won!” triumphantly exclaimed Judith Jessuron, flinging her majestic form on a couch. “Herbert Vaughan is mine!”
“Lost! lost for ever!” soliloquised Herbert, as he closed the door of his solitary sleeping-room.
“Won!” cried the victorious Smythje, entering his elegant bed-chamber, and, in the fervour of his enthusiasm, dropping his metropolitanpatois. “Kate Vaughan is mine!”
Volume Two—Chapter Seventeen.After the Ball.The time was rapidly drawing nigh when the ambitious scheme of the Custos Vaughan was either to be crowned with success, or end in failure.Of the latter he had little apprehension. Though Smythje, having lost the opportunity of the eclipse, had not yet declared himself, Mr Vaughan knew it was his intention to do so on an early occasion. Indeed, the declaration was only postponed by the advice of the Custos himself, whose counsel had been sought by his intended son-in-law.Not that Mr Vaughan had any fear of Kate’s giving a negative answer. The stern father knew that he had his daughter too well in hand for that. His wish would be her will—on that point was he determined; and it was less the fear of a refusal than some other circumstances that had hindered him from bringing the matter earlier to a crisis.As for Smythje, he never dreamt of a rejection. Kate’s behaviour at the ball had confirmed him in the belief that she was entirely his own; and that without him her future existence would be one of misery. Her pale cheek, and sad, thoughtful air, as she appeared next morning at the breakfast-table, told him too plainly that she would never be happy under any other name than that of Mrs Smythje.Again, upon that morning, it occurred to him that the proposal should be made. It would be an appropriatefinaleto thefêteof the preceding night.His brow still glowing with the laurels that had bedecked it, like a second Antony he would approach his Cleopatra, triumphantly irresistible.After breakfast, Mr Smythje drew the Custos into a corner, and once more expressed his solicitude to become his son-in-law.Whether, because Kate’s behaviour at the ball had also impressed Mr Vaughan with the appropriateness of the time, or for some other reason, Smythje found him agreeable. Only first, the father desired to have a few words with his daughter, in order to prepare her for the distinguished honour of which she was so soon to be the recipient.Kate had gone out into the kiosk. There Mr Vaughan sought her, to bring about the proposed preliminary interview. Smythje also stepped into the garden; but, instead of going near the summer-house, he sauntered along the walks at a distance, occasionally plucking a flower, or chasing the butterflies, bright and gay as his own thoughts.Kate’s countenance still preserved the air of melancholy that had clouded it all the morning; and the approach of the Custos did nothing to dissipate it. On the contrary, its shadows became deeper, as if the ponderous presence of her father, coming between her and the sun, was about to shut out the little light left shining in her heart.From what she had heard that morning, she presumed that the time had arrived when she must either submit to the wishes of her father, and resign herself to an unhappy fate; or, by disobedience, brave his anger, and perhaps—she knew not what.She only knew that she did not like Mr Smythje, and never could. She did not hate the man—she did not detest him. Her feeling towards him was that of indifference, slightly tinctured with contempt. Harmless she deemed him; and, no doubt, a harmless husband he would make; but that was not the sort to suit the taste of the young Creole. Far different was the hero of her heart.Neither the lover nor his prospective father-in-law could have chosen a time more opportune for making their approaches. Although at that time Kate Vaughan felt towards Smythje more indifference—perhaps more contempt—than she had ever done, at that very hour was she wavering in the intention, hitherto cherished, of refusing him.Though both lover and father had erroneously interpreted her air of dejection, it was nevertheless in their favour. It was not love for Smythje under which she was suffering; but despair of this passion for another; and in that despair lay the hope—the only hope—of the lord of Montagu Castle.It was a despair not unmingled with pique—with anger; that proud rage, which painfully wringing the heart, prompts it to desperate resolves: even to the utter annihilation of all future hope—as if happiness could be obtained by destroying the happiness of the one only being who could give it!Yes, the heart of Kate Vaughan had reached, or almost reached, that fearful phase of our moral nature, when love, convinced of its unrequital, seeks solace in revenge!The Smythje ball, which had crowned the hopes of him to whom the compliment was given, had been fatal to those of Kate Vaughan.Certain it was that she had conceived hopes that pointed to Herbert Vaughan. Love could scarce have been kindled without them. They were founded upon those fond words spoken at their first parting. Slight as was the foundation, up to that night had they endured: for she had treasured and cherished them in spite of absence, and calumny, and false report.True, as time passed they had waxed fainter, with longer intervals of doubt, until the day in which had occurred the unexpected incident of their meeting upon the Jumbé Rock.Then they had become revived, and since then they had lived with more or less intermission until that fatal night—the night of the Smythje ball—when they were doomed to utter extinction.All night long he had come but once near her—only that once by the mere chance of changing positions. And that bow—that single salutation, friendly as it might have been deemed, she could only remember as being cold—almost cynical!She did not think how cold and distant had been her own—at least, how much so it must have appeared to him. Though her eyes had often sought him in the crowd, and often found him, she did not know that his were equally following her, and equally as often fixed upon her. Both were ignorant of this mutual espionage: for each had studiously declined responding to the glance of the other.Never more that night had he come near—never again had he shown a desire or made an attempt to address her; though opportunities there were—many—when no paternal eye was upon her to prevent an interview.All night long had his attentions been occupied by another—apparently engrossed—and that other, a bold, beautiful woman—just such an one as Herbert might love.“He loves her! I am sure he loves her!” was the reflection that passed often and painfully through the thoughts of Kate Vaughan, as she swept her eye across that crowded ball-room.And then came the climax—that half-whispered gossip that reached her ear, falling upon it like a knell of death. They were to be married: they were already betrothed!It needed no more. In that moment the hopes of the young creole were crushed—so cruelly, so completely, that, in the dark future before her, no gleam of light arose to resuscitate them.No wonder the morning sun shone upon a pale cheek—no wonder that an air of deep dejection sate upon the countenance of Kate Vaughan.In this melancholy mood did the father find his daughter on entering the kiosk.She made no attempt to conceal it—not even with a counterfeit of a smile. Rather with a frown did she receive him; and in her eyes might have been detected the slightest scintillation of anger, whether or not he was its object.It is possible that just then the thought was passing through her mind that but for him her destiny might have been different; but for him, Herbert Vaughan, not Montagu Smythje, might have been on the eve of offering for her hand, which would then have gone with her heart. Now, in the contingency of her consenting to the proposal she expected, would she and Herbert be separated, and for ever!Never more was she to experience that supreme happiness—the supremest known upon earth, and perhaps, equalling the joys of heaven itself—never more could she indulge in that sweet delicious dream—a virgin’s love—with the hope of its being returned. Her love might remain like a flower that had lost its perfume, only to shed it on the solitary air; no more a sweet passion, but a barren, bitter thought, without hope to cheer it till the end of time.Ah, Custos Vaughan! proud, foolish parent! Could you have known how you were aiding to destroy the happiness of your child—how you were contributing to crush that young heart—you would have approached less cheerfully to complete the ceremony of its sacrifice!
The time was rapidly drawing nigh when the ambitious scheme of the Custos Vaughan was either to be crowned with success, or end in failure.
Of the latter he had little apprehension. Though Smythje, having lost the opportunity of the eclipse, had not yet declared himself, Mr Vaughan knew it was his intention to do so on an early occasion. Indeed, the declaration was only postponed by the advice of the Custos himself, whose counsel had been sought by his intended son-in-law.
Not that Mr Vaughan had any fear of Kate’s giving a negative answer. The stern father knew that he had his daughter too well in hand for that. His wish would be her will—on that point was he determined; and it was less the fear of a refusal than some other circumstances that had hindered him from bringing the matter earlier to a crisis.
As for Smythje, he never dreamt of a rejection. Kate’s behaviour at the ball had confirmed him in the belief that she was entirely his own; and that without him her future existence would be one of misery. Her pale cheek, and sad, thoughtful air, as she appeared next morning at the breakfast-table, told him too plainly that she would never be happy under any other name than that of Mrs Smythje.
Again, upon that morning, it occurred to him that the proposal should be made. It would be an appropriatefinaleto thefêteof the preceding night.
His brow still glowing with the laurels that had bedecked it, like a second Antony he would approach his Cleopatra, triumphantly irresistible.
After breakfast, Mr Smythje drew the Custos into a corner, and once more expressed his solicitude to become his son-in-law.
Whether, because Kate’s behaviour at the ball had also impressed Mr Vaughan with the appropriateness of the time, or for some other reason, Smythje found him agreeable. Only first, the father desired to have a few words with his daughter, in order to prepare her for the distinguished honour of which she was so soon to be the recipient.
Kate had gone out into the kiosk. There Mr Vaughan sought her, to bring about the proposed preliminary interview. Smythje also stepped into the garden; but, instead of going near the summer-house, he sauntered along the walks at a distance, occasionally plucking a flower, or chasing the butterflies, bright and gay as his own thoughts.
Kate’s countenance still preserved the air of melancholy that had clouded it all the morning; and the approach of the Custos did nothing to dissipate it. On the contrary, its shadows became deeper, as if the ponderous presence of her father, coming between her and the sun, was about to shut out the little light left shining in her heart.
From what she had heard that morning, she presumed that the time had arrived when she must either submit to the wishes of her father, and resign herself to an unhappy fate; or, by disobedience, brave his anger, and perhaps—she knew not what.
She only knew that she did not like Mr Smythje, and never could. She did not hate the man—she did not detest him. Her feeling towards him was that of indifference, slightly tinctured with contempt. Harmless she deemed him; and, no doubt, a harmless husband he would make; but that was not the sort to suit the taste of the young Creole. Far different was the hero of her heart.
Neither the lover nor his prospective father-in-law could have chosen a time more opportune for making their approaches. Although at that time Kate Vaughan felt towards Smythje more indifference—perhaps more contempt—than she had ever done, at that very hour was she wavering in the intention, hitherto cherished, of refusing him.
Though both lover and father had erroneously interpreted her air of dejection, it was nevertheless in their favour. It was not love for Smythje under which she was suffering; but despair of this passion for another; and in that despair lay the hope—the only hope—of the lord of Montagu Castle.
It was a despair not unmingled with pique—with anger; that proud rage, which painfully wringing the heart, prompts it to desperate resolves: even to the utter annihilation of all future hope—as if happiness could be obtained by destroying the happiness of the one only being who could give it!
Yes, the heart of Kate Vaughan had reached, or almost reached, that fearful phase of our moral nature, when love, convinced of its unrequital, seeks solace in revenge!
The Smythje ball, which had crowned the hopes of him to whom the compliment was given, had been fatal to those of Kate Vaughan.
Certain it was that she had conceived hopes that pointed to Herbert Vaughan. Love could scarce have been kindled without them. They were founded upon those fond words spoken at their first parting. Slight as was the foundation, up to that night had they endured: for she had treasured and cherished them in spite of absence, and calumny, and false report.
True, as time passed they had waxed fainter, with longer intervals of doubt, until the day in which had occurred the unexpected incident of their meeting upon the Jumbé Rock.
Then they had become revived, and since then they had lived with more or less intermission until that fatal night—the night of the Smythje ball—when they were doomed to utter extinction.
All night long he had come but once near her—only that once by the mere chance of changing positions. And that bow—that single salutation, friendly as it might have been deemed, she could only remember as being cold—almost cynical!
She did not think how cold and distant had been her own—at least, how much so it must have appeared to him. Though her eyes had often sought him in the crowd, and often found him, she did not know that his were equally following her, and equally as often fixed upon her. Both were ignorant of this mutual espionage: for each had studiously declined responding to the glance of the other.
Never more that night had he come near—never again had he shown a desire or made an attempt to address her; though opportunities there were—many—when no paternal eye was upon her to prevent an interview.
All night long had his attentions been occupied by another—apparently engrossed—and that other, a bold, beautiful woman—just such an one as Herbert might love.
“He loves her! I am sure he loves her!” was the reflection that passed often and painfully through the thoughts of Kate Vaughan, as she swept her eye across that crowded ball-room.
And then came the climax—that half-whispered gossip that reached her ear, falling upon it like a knell of death. They were to be married: they were already betrothed!
It needed no more. In that moment the hopes of the young creole were crushed—so cruelly, so completely, that, in the dark future before her, no gleam of light arose to resuscitate them.
No wonder the morning sun shone upon a pale cheek—no wonder that an air of deep dejection sate upon the countenance of Kate Vaughan.
In this melancholy mood did the father find his daughter on entering the kiosk.
She made no attempt to conceal it—not even with a counterfeit of a smile. Rather with a frown did she receive him; and in her eyes might have been detected the slightest scintillation of anger, whether or not he was its object.
It is possible that just then the thought was passing through her mind that but for him her destiny might have been different; but for him, Herbert Vaughan, not Montagu Smythje, might have been on the eve of offering for her hand, which would then have gone with her heart. Now, in the contingency of her consenting to the proposal she expected, would she and Herbert be separated, and for ever!
Never more was she to experience that supreme happiness—the supremest known upon earth, and perhaps, equalling the joys of heaven itself—never more could she indulge in that sweet delicious dream—a virgin’s love—with the hope of its being returned. Her love might remain like a flower that had lost its perfume, only to shed it on the solitary air; no more a sweet passion, but a barren, bitter thought, without hope to cheer it till the end of time.
Ah, Custos Vaughan! proud, foolish parent! Could you have known how you were aiding to destroy the happiness of your child—how you were contributing to crush that young heart—you would have approached less cheerfully to complete the ceremony of its sacrifice!
Volume Two—Chapter Eighteen.Paving the Way.“Katherine!” gravely began the father, on stepping inside the kiosk.“Father!”The parental appellative was pronounced in a low murmur, the speaker not uplifting her eyes from the object upon which she had been gazing.That object was a small silken purse that lay upon the table. Stringless it was, though the broken strands of a blue ribbon attached to it showed that it had not always been so.Loftus Vaughan knew not the history of that purse, neither why it lay there, what had stripped it of its string, or why his daughter was so sadly gazing upon it. This last circumstance he noticed on entering the kiosk.“Ah, your pretty purse!” said he, taking it up, and examining it more minutely.“Some one has torn the string from it—a pity! who can have done it?”Little did he care for an answer. As little did he suspect that the rape of that bit of ribbon had aught to do with his daughter’s dejection, which he had observed throughout the morning. The surprise he had expressed, and the question put, were only intended to initiate the more serious conversation he was about to introduce.“Oh, papa! it don’t signify,” said Kate, avoiding a direct answer; “’tis but a bit of ribbon. I can easily replace it by another.”Ah, Kate! you may easily replace the ribbon upon the purse, but not so easily that peace of mind which parted from your bosom at the same time. When that string was torn, torn, too, were the strings of your heart!Some such reflection must have passed through her mind as she made the reply; for the shadow visibly deepened over her countenance.Mr Vaughan pursued the subject of the purse no further, but looking through the lattice-work and perceiving Smythje in chase of the butterflies, endeavoured to draw his daughter’s attention to that sportive gentleman.This was the more easily done as Mr Smythje was at the moment humming a tune, and could be heard as well as seen.“‘I’d be a butterfly,’—”sang Smythje—“‘born in a bower,Where lilies, and roses, and violets meet;Sporting for ever, from flower to flower;And—’”And then, as if to contradict this pleasant routine of insect life, he was at that instant seen seizing a splendidvanessa, and crushing the frail creature between his kid-gloved fingers!“Isn’t he a superb fellow?” said Mr Vaughan, first gazing enthusiastically on Smythje, and then fixing his eyes upon his daughter, to note the character of the reply.“I suppose he must be, papa—since everybody says so.”There was no enthusiasm in Kate’s answer—nothing to encourage the Custos.“Don’tyou think so, Kate?”This was coming more directly to the point; but the response proved equally evasive.“Youthink so, papa—and that should do for both of us.”The melodious voice of Smythje again interrupted the dialogue, and turned it into a new channel.Smythje, singing,—“I’d never languish for wealth nor for power,I’d never sigh to see slaves at my feet!”“Ah, Mr Smythje!” exclaimed the Custos, in a kind of soliloquy, though meant for the ear of Kate; “you have no need to sigh for them—you have them; five hundred of them. And beauties, too! Wealth and power, indeed! You needn’t languish for either one or the other. The estate of Montagu Castle provides you with both, my boy!”Smythje, still chantant:—“Those who have wealth may be watchful and wary,Power, alas! nought but misery brings.”“Do you hear that, Kate? What fine sentiments he utters!”“Very fine, andaproposto the occasion,” replied Kate, sarcastically. “They are not his, however; but, no doubt, he feels them; and that’s just as good.”“A splendid property!” continued Mr Vaughan, returning to what interested him more than the sentiments of the song, and not heeding the sarcasm conveyed in the speech of his daughter,—“a splendid property, I tell you; and, with mine joined to it, will make the grandest establishment in the Island. The Island, did I say? In the West Indies—ay, in the Western World! Do you hear that, my daughter?”“I do, papa,” replied the young Creole. “But you speak as if the two estates were to be joined together? Does Mr Smythje intend to purchase Mount Welcome? or you Montagu Castle?”These questions were asked with an air of simplicity evidently assumed. In truth, the interrogator knew well enough to what the conversation was tending; and, impatient with the ambiguity, every moment growing more painful to her, desired to bring it to its crisis.Mr Vaughan was equally desirous of arriving at the same result, as testified by his reply.“Ah, Kate! you little rogue!” said he, looking gratified at the opening thus made for him. “Egad! you’ve just hit the nail on the head. You’ve guessed right—only that we are both to be buyers. Mr Smythje is to purchase Mount Welcome; and what do you suppose he is to pay for it? Guess that!”“Indeed, father, I cannot! How should I know? I am sure I do not. Only this I know, that I am sorry you should think of parting with Mount Welcome. I, for one, shall be loth to leave it. Though I do not expectnowever to be happy here, I think I should not be happier anywhere else.”Mr Vaughan was too much wound-up in the thread of his own thoughts to notice the emphasis on the word “now,” or the double meaning of his daughter’s words.“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed he; “Mr Smythje’s purchase won’t dispossess us of Mount Welcome. Don’t be afraid of that, little Kate. But, come, try and guess the price he is to pay?”“Father, I need not try. I am sure I could not guess it—not within thousands of pounds.”“Not a thousand pounds! no, not one pound, unless his great big heart weighs that much, and his generous hand thrown into the scale—for that, Catherine, that is the price he is to pay.”Mr Vaughan wound up this speech with a significant glance, and a triumphant gesture, expressive of astonishment at his own eloquence.He looked for a response—one that would reciprocate his smiles and the joyful intelligence he fancied himself to have communicated.He looked in vain. Notwithstanding the perspicuity of his explanation, Kate obstinately refused to comprehend it.Her reply was provokingly a “shirking of the question.”“His heart and his hand, you say? Neither seem very heavy. But is it not very little for an estate where there are many hands and many hearts, too? To whom does he intend to give his? You have not let me know that, papa!”“I shall let you know now,” replied the father, his voice changing to a more serious tone, as if a little nettled by Kate’s evident design to misunderstand him. “I shall let you know, by telling you what I intend to give him for Montagu Castle. I told you we were both to be buyers in this transaction. It is a fair exchange, Kate, hand for hand, and heart for heart. Mr Smythje freely gives his, and I giveyours.”“Mine!”“Ay, yours. Surely, Kate, I have not made a mistake? Surely you are agreeable to the exchange?”“Father,” said the young girl, speaking in a tone of womanly gravity, “there can be no exchange of hearts between Mr Smythje and myself. He may have given his to me. I know not, nor do I care. But I will not deceive you, father. My heart he can never have. It is not in my power to give it to him.”“Nonsense!” exclaimed Mr Vaughan, startled by this unexpected declaration; “you are deceiving yourself, my child, when you talk thus. I do not see how you can fail to like Mr Smythje—so generous, so accomplished, so handsome as he is! Come, you are only jesting, Kate? You do like him? You do not hate him?”“No, no! I do not hate him! Why should I? Mr Smythje has done nothing to offend me. I believe he is very honourable.”“Why, that is almost saying that you like him!” rejoined the father, in a tone of returning gratification.“Liking is not love,” murmured Kate, as if speaking to herself.“It may turn to it,” said the Custos, encouragingly. “It often does—especially when two people become man and wife. Besides, it’s not always best for young married folks to be too fond of each other at first. As my old spelling book used to say, ‘Hot love soon grows cold.’ Never fear, Kate! you’ll get to like Mr Smythje well enough, when you come to be the mistress of Montagu Castle, and take rank as the grandest lady of the Island. Won’t that be happiness, little Kate?”“Ah!” thought the young Creole, “a cabin shared withhimwould be greater happiness—far, far greater!”It is needless to say that the “him” to whom the thought pointed was not Smythje.“As Mrs Montagu Smythje,” proceeded the Custos, with a design of painting the future prospects of his daughter in still more glowing tints, “you will have troops of friends—the highest in the land.And remember, my child, it is not so note. You know it, Catherine?”These last words were pronounced in a tone suggestive of some secret understanding between father and daughter.Whether the speech produced the desired effect, he who made it did not stay to perceive; but continued on in the same breath to finish the rose-coloured picture he had essayed to paint.“Yes, my little Kate! you will be the observed of all observers—thecynosureof every eye, as the poets say. Horses, slaves, dresses, carriages at will. You will make a grand tour to London—egad! I feel like going myself! In the great metropolis you will hob-nob with lords and ladies; visit the operas and balls, where you will be a belle, my girl—a belle, do you hear? Every one will be talking of Mrs Montagu Smythje! How do you like it now?”“Ah, papa!” replied the young Creole, evidently unmoved by these promises of pomp and grandeur, “I should not like it at all. I am sure I should not. I never cared for such things—you know I do not. They cannot give happiness—at least, not to me. I should never be happy away from our own home. What pleasure should I have in a great city? None, I am sure; but quite the contrary. I should miss our grand mountains and woods—our beautiful trees with their gay, perfumed blossoms—our bright-winged birds with their sweet songs! Operas and balls! I dislike balls; and to be the belle of one—papa, I detest the word!”Kate, at that moment, was thinking of the Smythje ball, and its disagreeable souvenirs—perhaps the more disagreeable that, oftener than once, during the night she had heard the phrase “belle of the ball” applied to one who had aided in the desolation of her heart.“Oh! you will get over that dislike,” returned Mr Vaughan, “once you go into fashionable society. Most young ladies do. There is no harm in balls—after a girl gets married, and her husband goes with her, to take care of her—no harm whatever. But now, Kate,” continued the Custos, betraying a certain degree of nervous impatience, “we must come to an understanding. Mr Smythje is waiting.”“For what is he waiting, papa?”“Tut! tut! child,” said Mr Vaughan, slightly irritated by his daughter’s apparent incapacity to comprehend him. “Surely you know! Have I not as good as told you? Mr Smythje is going to—to offer you his heart and hand; and—and to ask yours in return. That is what he is waiting to do. You will not refuse him?—you cannot: youmustnot!”Loftus Vaughan would have spoken more gracefully had he omitted the last phrase. It had the sound of a command, with an implied threat; and, jarring upon the ear of her to whom it was addressed, might have roused a spirit of rebellion. It is just possible that such would have been its effect, had it been spoken on the evening before the Smythje ball, instead of the morning after.The incidents occurring there had extinguished all hope in the breast of the young Creole that she should ever share happiness with Herbert Vaughan—had, at the same time, destroyed any thought of resistance to the will of her father; and, with a sort of apathetic despair, she submitted herself to the sacrifice which her father had determined she should make.“I have told you the truth,” said she, gazing fixedly in his face, as if to impress him with the idleness of the arguments he had been using. “I cannot give Mr Smythje my heart; I shall tellhimthe same.”“No—no!” hastily rejoined the importunate parent; “you must do nothing of the kind. Give him your hand; and say nothing about your heart. That you can bestow afterwards—when you are safe married.”“Never, never!” said the young girl, sighing sadly as she spoke. “I cannot practise that deception. No, father, not even for you. Mr Smythje shall know all; and, if he choose to accept my hand without my heart—”“Then you promise to give him your hand?” interrupted the Custos, overjoyed at this hypothetical consent.“It isyouwho give it; notI, father.”“Enough!” cried Mr Vaughan, hastily turning his eyes to the garden, as if to search for the insect-hunter. “Ishallgive it,” continued he, “and this very minute. Mr Smythje!”Smythje, standing close by the kiosk, on thequi viveof expectation, promptly responded to the summons; and in two seconds of time appeared in the open doorway.“Mr Smythje—sir!” said the Custos, putting on an air of pompous solemnity befitting the occasion; “you have asked for my daughter’s hand in marriage; and, sir, I am happy to inform you that she has consented to your becoming my son-in-law. I am proud of the honour, sir.”Here Mr Vaughan paused to get breath.“Aw, aw!” stammered Smythje. “This is a gweat happiness—veway gweat, indeed! Quite unexpected!—aw, aw!—I am shure, Miss Vawn, I never dweamt such happiness was in store faw me.”“Now, my children,” playfully interrupted the Custos—covering Smythje’s embarrassment by the interruption—“I have bestowed you upon one another; and, with my blessing, I leave you to yourselves.”So saying, the gratified father stepped forth from the kiosk; and, wending his way along the walk, disappeared around an angle of the house.We shall not intrude upon the lovers thus left alone, nor repeat a single word of what passed between them.Suffice it to say, that when Smythje came out of that same kiosk, his air was rather tranquil than triumphant. A portion of the shadow that had been observed upon Kate’s countenance seemed to have been transmitted to his.“Well?” anxiously inquired the intended father-in-law.“Aw! all wight; betwothed. Yewy stwange, thaw—inexpwicably stwange!”“How, strange?” demanded Mr Vaughan.“Aw, vewy mild. I expected haw to go into hystewics. Ba Jawve! naw: she weceived ma declawation as cool as a cucumbaw!”She had done more than that; she had given him a hand without a heart.And Smythje knew it: for Kate Vaughan had kept her promise.
“Katherine!” gravely began the father, on stepping inside the kiosk.
“Father!”
The parental appellative was pronounced in a low murmur, the speaker not uplifting her eyes from the object upon which she had been gazing.
That object was a small silken purse that lay upon the table. Stringless it was, though the broken strands of a blue ribbon attached to it showed that it had not always been so.
Loftus Vaughan knew not the history of that purse, neither why it lay there, what had stripped it of its string, or why his daughter was so sadly gazing upon it. This last circumstance he noticed on entering the kiosk.
“Ah, your pretty purse!” said he, taking it up, and examining it more minutely.
“Some one has torn the string from it—a pity! who can have done it?”
Little did he care for an answer. As little did he suspect that the rape of that bit of ribbon had aught to do with his daughter’s dejection, which he had observed throughout the morning. The surprise he had expressed, and the question put, were only intended to initiate the more serious conversation he was about to introduce.
“Oh, papa! it don’t signify,” said Kate, avoiding a direct answer; “’tis but a bit of ribbon. I can easily replace it by another.”
Ah, Kate! you may easily replace the ribbon upon the purse, but not so easily that peace of mind which parted from your bosom at the same time. When that string was torn, torn, too, were the strings of your heart!
Some such reflection must have passed through her mind as she made the reply; for the shadow visibly deepened over her countenance.
Mr Vaughan pursued the subject of the purse no further, but looking through the lattice-work and perceiving Smythje in chase of the butterflies, endeavoured to draw his daughter’s attention to that sportive gentleman.
This was the more easily done as Mr Smythje was at the moment humming a tune, and could be heard as well as seen.
“‘I’d be a butterfly,’—”sang Smythje—“‘born in a bower,Where lilies, and roses, and violets meet;Sporting for ever, from flower to flower;And—’”
“‘I’d be a butterfly,’—”sang Smythje—“‘born in a bower,Where lilies, and roses, and violets meet;Sporting for ever, from flower to flower;And—’”
And then, as if to contradict this pleasant routine of insect life, he was at that instant seen seizing a splendidvanessa, and crushing the frail creature between his kid-gloved fingers!
“Isn’t he a superb fellow?” said Mr Vaughan, first gazing enthusiastically on Smythje, and then fixing his eyes upon his daughter, to note the character of the reply.
“I suppose he must be, papa—since everybody says so.”
There was no enthusiasm in Kate’s answer—nothing to encourage the Custos.
“Don’tyou think so, Kate?”
This was coming more directly to the point; but the response proved equally evasive.
“Youthink so, papa—and that should do for both of us.”
The melodious voice of Smythje again interrupted the dialogue, and turned it into a new channel.
Smythje, singing,—
“I’d never languish for wealth nor for power,I’d never sigh to see slaves at my feet!”
“I’d never languish for wealth nor for power,I’d never sigh to see slaves at my feet!”
“Ah, Mr Smythje!” exclaimed the Custos, in a kind of soliloquy, though meant for the ear of Kate; “you have no need to sigh for them—you have them; five hundred of them. And beauties, too! Wealth and power, indeed! You needn’t languish for either one or the other. The estate of Montagu Castle provides you with both, my boy!”
Smythje, still chantant:—
“Those who have wealth may be watchful and wary,Power, alas! nought but misery brings.”
“Those who have wealth may be watchful and wary,Power, alas! nought but misery brings.”
“Do you hear that, Kate? What fine sentiments he utters!”
“Very fine, andaproposto the occasion,” replied Kate, sarcastically. “They are not his, however; but, no doubt, he feels them; and that’s just as good.”
“A splendid property!” continued Mr Vaughan, returning to what interested him more than the sentiments of the song, and not heeding the sarcasm conveyed in the speech of his daughter,—“a splendid property, I tell you; and, with mine joined to it, will make the grandest establishment in the Island. The Island, did I say? In the West Indies—ay, in the Western World! Do you hear that, my daughter?”
“I do, papa,” replied the young Creole. “But you speak as if the two estates were to be joined together? Does Mr Smythje intend to purchase Mount Welcome? or you Montagu Castle?”
These questions were asked with an air of simplicity evidently assumed. In truth, the interrogator knew well enough to what the conversation was tending; and, impatient with the ambiguity, every moment growing more painful to her, desired to bring it to its crisis.
Mr Vaughan was equally desirous of arriving at the same result, as testified by his reply.
“Ah, Kate! you little rogue!” said he, looking gratified at the opening thus made for him. “Egad! you’ve just hit the nail on the head. You’ve guessed right—only that we are both to be buyers. Mr Smythje is to purchase Mount Welcome; and what do you suppose he is to pay for it? Guess that!”
“Indeed, father, I cannot! How should I know? I am sure I do not. Only this I know, that I am sorry you should think of parting with Mount Welcome. I, for one, shall be loth to leave it. Though I do not expectnowever to be happy here, I think I should not be happier anywhere else.”
Mr Vaughan was too much wound-up in the thread of his own thoughts to notice the emphasis on the word “now,” or the double meaning of his daughter’s words.
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed he; “Mr Smythje’s purchase won’t dispossess us of Mount Welcome. Don’t be afraid of that, little Kate. But, come, try and guess the price he is to pay?”
“Father, I need not try. I am sure I could not guess it—not within thousands of pounds.”
“Not a thousand pounds! no, not one pound, unless his great big heart weighs that much, and his generous hand thrown into the scale—for that, Catherine, that is the price he is to pay.”
Mr Vaughan wound up this speech with a significant glance, and a triumphant gesture, expressive of astonishment at his own eloquence.
He looked for a response—one that would reciprocate his smiles and the joyful intelligence he fancied himself to have communicated.
He looked in vain. Notwithstanding the perspicuity of his explanation, Kate obstinately refused to comprehend it.
Her reply was provokingly a “shirking of the question.”
“His heart and his hand, you say? Neither seem very heavy. But is it not very little for an estate where there are many hands and many hearts, too? To whom does he intend to give his? You have not let me know that, papa!”
“I shall let you know now,” replied the father, his voice changing to a more serious tone, as if a little nettled by Kate’s evident design to misunderstand him. “I shall let you know, by telling you what I intend to give him for Montagu Castle. I told you we were both to be buyers in this transaction. It is a fair exchange, Kate, hand for hand, and heart for heart. Mr Smythje freely gives his, and I giveyours.”
“Mine!”
“Ay, yours. Surely, Kate, I have not made a mistake? Surely you are agreeable to the exchange?”
“Father,” said the young girl, speaking in a tone of womanly gravity, “there can be no exchange of hearts between Mr Smythje and myself. He may have given his to me. I know not, nor do I care. But I will not deceive you, father. My heart he can never have. It is not in my power to give it to him.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Mr Vaughan, startled by this unexpected declaration; “you are deceiving yourself, my child, when you talk thus. I do not see how you can fail to like Mr Smythje—so generous, so accomplished, so handsome as he is! Come, you are only jesting, Kate? You do like him? You do not hate him?”
“No, no! I do not hate him! Why should I? Mr Smythje has done nothing to offend me. I believe he is very honourable.”
“Why, that is almost saying that you like him!” rejoined the father, in a tone of returning gratification.
“Liking is not love,” murmured Kate, as if speaking to herself.
“It may turn to it,” said the Custos, encouragingly. “It often does—especially when two people become man and wife. Besides, it’s not always best for young married folks to be too fond of each other at first. As my old spelling book used to say, ‘Hot love soon grows cold.’ Never fear, Kate! you’ll get to like Mr Smythje well enough, when you come to be the mistress of Montagu Castle, and take rank as the grandest lady of the Island. Won’t that be happiness, little Kate?”
“Ah!” thought the young Creole, “a cabin shared withhimwould be greater happiness—far, far greater!”
It is needless to say that the “him” to whom the thought pointed was not Smythje.
“As Mrs Montagu Smythje,” proceeded the Custos, with a design of painting the future prospects of his daughter in still more glowing tints, “you will have troops of friends—the highest in the land.And remember, my child, it is not so note. You know it, Catherine?”
These last words were pronounced in a tone suggestive of some secret understanding between father and daughter.
Whether the speech produced the desired effect, he who made it did not stay to perceive; but continued on in the same breath to finish the rose-coloured picture he had essayed to paint.
“Yes, my little Kate! you will be the observed of all observers—thecynosureof every eye, as the poets say. Horses, slaves, dresses, carriages at will. You will make a grand tour to London—egad! I feel like going myself! In the great metropolis you will hob-nob with lords and ladies; visit the operas and balls, where you will be a belle, my girl—a belle, do you hear? Every one will be talking of Mrs Montagu Smythje! How do you like it now?”
“Ah, papa!” replied the young Creole, evidently unmoved by these promises of pomp and grandeur, “I should not like it at all. I am sure I should not. I never cared for such things—you know I do not. They cannot give happiness—at least, not to me. I should never be happy away from our own home. What pleasure should I have in a great city? None, I am sure; but quite the contrary. I should miss our grand mountains and woods—our beautiful trees with their gay, perfumed blossoms—our bright-winged birds with their sweet songs! Operas and balls! I dislike balls; and to be the belle of one—papa, I detest the word!”
Kate, at that moment, was thinking of the Smythje ball, and its disagreeable souvenirs—perhaps the more disagreeable that, oftener than once, during the night she had heard the phrase “belle of the ball” applied to one who had aided in the desolation of her heart.
“Oh! you will get over that dislike,” returned Mr Vaughan, “once you go into fashionable society. Most young ladies do. There is no harm in balls—after a girl gets married, and her husband goes with her, to take care of her—no harm whatever. But now, Kate,” continued the Custos, betraying a certain degree of nervous impatience, “we must come to an understanding. Mr Smythje is waiting.”
“For what is he waiting, papa?”
“Tut! tut! child,” said Mr Vaughan, slightly irritated by his daughter’s apparent incapacity to comprehend him. “Surely you know! Have I not as good as told you? Mr Smythje is going to—to offer you his heart and hand; and—and to ask yours in return. That is what he is waiting to do. You will not refuse him?—you cannot: youmustnot!”
Loftus Vaughan would have spoken more gracefully had he omitted the last phrase. It had the sound of a command, with an implied threat; and, jarring upon the ear of her to whom it was addressed, might have roused a spirit of rebellion. It is just possible that such would have been its effect, had it been spoken on the evening before the Smythje ball, instead of the morning after.
The incidents occurring there had extinguished all hope in the breast of the young Creole that she should ever share happiness with Herbert Vaughan—had, at the same time, destroyed any thought of resistance to the will of her father; and, with a sort of apathetic despair, she submitted herself to the sacrifice which her father had determined she should make.
“I have told you the truth,” said she, gazing fixedly in his face, as if to impress him with the idleness of the arguments he had been using. “I cannot give Mr Smythje my heart; I shall tellhimthe same.”
“No—no!” hastily rejoined the importunate parent; “you must do nothing of the kind. Give him your hand; and say nothing about your heart. That you can bestow afterwards—when you are safe married.”
“Never, never!” said the young girl, sighing sadly as she spoke. “I cannot practise that deception. No, father, not even for you. Mr Smythje shall know all; and, if he choose to accept my hand without my heart—”
“Then you promise to give him your hand?” interrupted the Custos, overjoyed at this hypothetical consent.
“It isyouwho give it; notI, father.”
“Enough!” cried Mr Vaughan, hastily turning his eyes to the garden, as if to search for the insect-hunter. “Ishallgive it,” continued he, “and this very minute. Mr Smythje!”
Smythje, standing close by the kiosk, on thequi viveof expectation, promptly responded to the summons; and in two seconds of time appeared in the open doorway.
“Mr Smythje—sir!” said the Custos, putting on an air of pompous solemnity befitting the occasion; “you have asked for my daughter’s hand in marriage; and, sir, I am happy to inform you that she has consented to your becoming my son-in-law. I am proud of the honour, sir.”
Here Mr Vaughan paused to get breath.
“Aw, aw!” stammered Smythje. “This is a gweat happiness—veway gweat, indeed! Quite unexpected!—aw, aw!—I am shure, Miss Vawn, I never dweamt such happiness was in store faw me.”
“Now, my children,” playfully interrupted the Custos—covering Smythje’s embarrassment by the interruption—“I have bestowed you upon one another; and, with my blessing, I leave you to yourselves.”
So saying, the gratified father stepped forth from the kiosk; and, wending his way along the walk, disappeared around an angle of the house.
We shall not intrude upon the lovers thus left alone, nor repeat a single word of what passed between them.
Suffice it to say, that when Smythje came out of that same kiosk, his air was rather tranquil than triumphant. A portion of the shadow that had been observed upon Kate’s countenance seemed to have been transmitted to his.
“Well?” anxiously inquired the intended father-in-law.
“Aw! all wight; betwothed. Yewy stwange, thaw—inexpwicably stwange!”
“How, strange?” demanded Mr Vaughan.
“Aw, vewy mild. I expected haw to go into hystewics. Ba Jawve! naw: she weceived ma declawation as cool as a cucumbaw!”
She had done more than that; she had given him a hand without a heart.
And Smythje knew it: for Kate Vaughan had kept her promise.
Volume Two—Chapter Nineteen.The Duppy’s Hole.On the flank of the “Mountain” that frowned towards the Happy Valley, and not far from the Jumbé Rock, a spring gushed forth. So copious was it as to merit the name of fountain. In its descent down the slope it was joined by others, and soon became a torrent—leaping from ledge to ledge, and foaming as it followed its onward course.About half-way between the summit and base of the mountain, a deep longitudinal hollow lay in its track—into which the stream was precipitated, in a clear, curving cascade.This singular hollow resembled the crater of an extinct volcano—in the circumstance that on all sides it was surrounded by a precipice facing inward, and rising two hundred feet sheer from the level below. It was not of circular shape, however—as craters generally are—but of the form of a ship, the stream falling in over the poop, and afterwards escaping through a narrow cleft at the bow.Preserving the simile of a ship, it may be stated that the channel ran directly fore and aft, bisecting the bottom of the valley, an area of several acres, into two equal parts—but in consequence of an obstruction at its exit, the stream formed a lagoon, or dam, flooding the whole of the fore-deck, while the main and quarter-decks were covered with a growth of indigenous timber-trees, of appearance primeval.The water, on leaving the lagoon, made its escape below, through a gorge black and narrow, bounded on each side by the same beetling cliffs that surrounded the valley. At the lower end of this gorge was a second waterfall, where the stream again pitched over a precipice of several hundred feet in height; and thence traversing the slope of the mountain, ended in becoming a tributary of the Montego River.The upper cascade precipitated itself upon a bed of grim black boulders; through the midst of which the froth-crested water seethed swiftly onward to the lagoon below.Above these boulders hung continuously a cloud of white vapour, like steam ascending out of some gigantic cauldron.When the sun was upon that side of the mountain, an iris might be seen shining amidst the fleece-like vapour. But rare was the eye that beheld this beautiful phenomenon: for the Duppy’s Hole—in negro parlance, the appellation of the place—shared the reputation of the Jumbé Rock; and few were the negroes who would have ventured to approach, even to the edge of this cavernous abysm: fewer those who would have dared to descend into it.Indeed, something more than superstitious terror might have hindered the execution of this last project: since a descent into the Duppy’s Hole appeared an impossibility. Down the beetling cliffs that encompassed it, there was neither path nor pass—not a ledge on which the foot might have rested with safety. Only at one point—and that where the precipice rose over the lagoon—might a descent have been made: by means of some stunted trees that, rooting in the clefts of the rock, formed a straggling screen up the face of the cliff. At this point an agile individual might possibly have scrambled down; but the dammed water—dark and deep—would have hindered him from reaching the quarter-deck of this ship-shaped ravine, unless by swimming; and this, the suck of the current towards the gorge below would have rendered a most perilous performance.It was evident that some one had tempted this peril: for on scrutinising the straggling trees upon the cliff, a sort of stairway could be distinguished—the outstanding stems serving as steps, with the parasitical creepers connecting them together.Moreover, at certain times, a tiny string of smoke might have been seen ascending out of the Duppy’s Hole; which, after curling diffusely over the tops of the tall trees, would dissolve itself, and become invisible. Only one standing upon the cliff above, and parting the foliage that screened it to its very brink, could have seen this smoke; and, if only superficially observed, it might easily have been mistaken for a stray waif of the fog that floated above the waterfall near which it rose. Closely scrutinised, however, its blue colour and soft filmy haze rendered it recognisable as the smoke of a wood fire, and one that must have been made by human hands.Any day might it have been seen, and three times a-day—at morning, noon, and evening—as if the fire had been kindled for the purposes of cooking the three regular meals of breakfast, dinner, and supper.The diurnal appearance of this smoke proved the presence of a human being within the Duppy’s Hole. One, at least, disregarding the superstitious terror attached to the place, had made it his home.By exploring the valley, other evidences of human presence might have been found. Under the branches of a large tree, standing by the edge of the lagoon, and from which the silvery tillandsia fell in festoons to the surface of the water, a small canoe of rude construction could be seen, a foot or two of its stem protruding from the moss. A piece of twisted withe, attaching it to the tree, told that it had not drifted there by accident, but was moored by some one who meant to return to it.From the edge of the lagoon to the upper end of the valley, the ground, as already stated, was covered with a thick growth of forest timber—where the eye of the botanical observer might distinguish, by their forms and foliage, many of those magnificent indigenous trees for which thesylvaof Jamaica has long been celebrated.There stood the gigantic cedrela, and its kindred the bastard cedar, with elm-like leaves; the mountain mahoe; the “tropic birch;” and the world-known mahogany.Here and there, the lance-like culms of bamboos might be seen shooting up over the tops of the dicotyledons, or forming a fringe along the cliffs above, intermingled with trumpet-trees, with their singular peltate leaves, and tall tree-ferns, whose delicate lace-like fronds formed a netted tracery against the blue background of the sky. In the rich soil of the valley flourished luxuriantly the noble cabbage-palm—theprinceof the Jamaica forest—while, by its side, claiming admiration for the massive grandeur of its form, stood thepatriarchof West-Indian trees—the grandceiba; the hoary Spanish moss that drooped from its spreading branches forming an appropriate beard for this venerable giant.Every tree had its parasites—not a single species, but in hundreds, and of as many grotesque shapes; some twining around the trunks and boughs like huge snakes or cables—some seated upon the limbs or in the forking of the branches; and others hanging suspended from the topmost twigs, like streamers from the rigging of a ship. Many of these, trailing from tree to tree, were loaded with clusters of the most brilliant flowers, thus uniting the forest into one continuous arbour.Close under the cliff, and near where the cascade came tumbling down from the rocks, stood a tree that deserves particular mention. It was aceibaof enormous dimensions, with a buttressed trunk, that covered a surface of more than fifty feet in diameter. Its vast bole, rising nearly to the brow of the cliff, extended horizontally over an area on which five hundred men could have conveniently encamped; while the profuse growth of Spanish moss clustering upon its branches, rather than its own sparse foliage, would have shaded them from the sun, completely shutting out the view overhead.Not from any of these circumstances was the tree distinguished from others of its kind frequently met with in the mountain forests of Jamaica. What rendered it distinct from those around was, that between two of the great spurs extending outwards from its trunk, an object appeared which indicated the presence of man.This object was a hut constructed in the most simple fashion—having for its side walls the plate-like buttresses already mentioned, while in front a stockade of bamboo stems completed the inclosure. In the centre of the stockade a narrow space had been left open for the entrance—which could be closed, when occasion required, by a door of split bamboos that hung lightly upon its hinges of withe.In front, the roof trended downward from the main trunk of the tree—following the slope of the spurs to a height of some six feet from the ground. Its construction was of the simplest kind—being only a few poles laid transversely, and over these a thatch of the long pinnate leaves of the cabbage-palm.The hut inside was of triangular shape, and of no inconsiderable size—since the converging spurs forming its side walls extended full twelve feet outwards from the tree. No doubt it was large enough for whoever occupied it; and the platform of bamboo canes, intended as a bedstead, from its narrowness showed that only one person was accustomed to pass the night under the shelter of its roof.That this person was a man could be told by the presence of some articles of male attire lying upon this rude couch—where also lay a strip of coarse rush matting, and an old, tattered blanket—evidently the sole stock of bedding which the hut contained.The furniture was scanty as simple. The cane platform already mentioned appeared to do duty also as a table and chair; and, with the exception of an old tin kettle, some calabash bowls and platters, nothing else could be seen that might be termed an “utensil.”There were articles, however, of a different character, and plenty of them; but these were neither simple nor their uses easily understood.Against the walls hung a variety of singular objects—some of them of ludicrous and some of horrid aspect. Among the latter could be observed the skin of the dreaded galliwasp; the two-headed snake; the skull and tusks of a savage boar; dried specimens of the ugly gecko lizard; enormous bats, with human-like faces; and other like hideous creatures.Little bags, suspended from the rafters, contained articles of still more mysterious import. Balls of whitish-coloured clay; the claws of the great-eared owl; parrots’ beaks and feathers; the teeth of cats, alligators, and the native agouti; pieces of rag and broken glass; with a score of like odds and ends, forming a medley as miscellaneous as unintelligible.In one corner was a wicker basket—the cutacoo—filled with roots and plants of several different species, among which might be identified the dangerous dumb-cane; the savanna flower; and other “simples” of a suspicious character.Entering this hut, and observing the singular collection of specimens which it contained, a stranger to the Island of Jamaica would have been puzzled to explain their presence and purpose. Not so, one acquainted with the forms of the serpent worship of Ethiopia—the creed of the Coromantees. The grotesque objects were but symbols of the Africanfetish. The hut was a temple of Obi: in plainer terms, the dwelling of anObeah-man.
On the flank of the “Mountain” that frowned towards the Happy Valley, and not far from the Jumbé Rock, a spring gushed forth. So copious was it as to merit the name of fountain. In its descent down the slope it was joined by others, and soon became a torrent—leaping from ledge to ledge, and foaming as it followed its onward course.
About half-way between the summit and base of the mountain, a deep longitudinal hollow lay in its track—into which the stream was precipitated, in a clear, curving cascade.
This singular hollow resembled the crater of an extinct volcano—in the circumstance that on all sides it was surrounded by a precipice facing inward, and rising two hundred feet sheer from the level below. It was not of circular shape, however—as craters generally are—but of the form of a ship, the stream falling in over the poop, and afterwards escaping through a narrow cleft at the bow.
Preserving the simile of a ship, it may be stated that the channel ran directly fore and aft, bisecting the bottom of the valley, an area of several acres, into two equal parts—but in consequence of an obstruction at its exit, the stream formed a lagoon, or dam, flooding the whole of the fore-deck, while the main and quarter-decks were covered with a growth of indigenous timber-trees, of appearance primeval.
The water, on leaving the lagoon, made its escape below, through a gorge black and narrow, bounded on each side by the same beetling cliffs that surrounded the valley. At the lower end of this gorge was a second waterfall, where the stream again pitched over a precipice of several hundred feet in height; and thence traversing the slope of the mountain, ended in becoming a tributary of the Montego River.
The upper cascade precipitated itself upon a bed of grim black boulders; through the midst of which the froth-crested water seethed swiftly onward to the lagoon below.
Above these boulders hung continuously a cloud of white vapour, like steam ascending out of some gigantic cauldron.
When the sun was upon that side of the mountain, an iris might be seen shining amidst the fleece-like vapour. But rare was the eye that beheld this beautiful phenomenon: for the Duppy’s Hole—in negro parlance, the appellation of the place—shared the reputation of the Jumbé Rock; and few were the negroes who would have ventured to approach, even to the edge of this cavernous abysm: fewer those who would have dared to descend into it.
Indeed, something more than superstitious terror might have hindered the execution of this last project: since a descent into the Duppy’s Hole appeared an impossibility. Down the beetling cliffs that encompassed it, there was neither path nor pass—not a ledge on which the foot might have rested with safety. Only at one point—and that where the precipice rose over the lagoon—might a descent have been made: by means of some stunted trees that, rooting in the clefts of the rock, formed a straggling screen up the face of the cliff. At this point an agile individual might possibly have scrambled down; but the dammed water—dark and deep—would have hindered him from reaching the quarter-deck of this ship-shaped ravine, unless by swimming; and this, the suck of the current towards the gorge below would have rendered a most perilous performance.
It was evident that some one had tempted this peril: for on scrutinising the straggling trees upon the cliff, a sort of stairway could be distinguished—the outstanding stems serving as steps, with the parasitical creepers connecting them together.
Moreover, at certain times, a tiny string of smoke might have been seen ascending out of the Duppy’s Hole; which, after curling diffusely over the tops of the tall trees, would dissolve itself, and become invisible. Only one standing upon the cliff above, and parting the foliage that screened it to its very brink, could have seen this smoke; and, if only superficially observed, it might easily have been mistaken for a stray waif of the fog that floated above the waterfall near which it rose. Closely scrutinised, however, its blue colour and soft filmy haze rendered it recognisable as the smoke of a wood fire, and one that must have been made by human hands.
Any day might it have been seen, and three times a-day—at morning, noon, and evening—as if the fire had been kindled for the purposes of cooking the three regular meals of breakfast, dinner, and supper.
The diurnal appearance of this smoke proved the presence of a human being within the Duppy’s Hole. One, at least, disregarding the superstitious terror attached to the place, had made it his home.
By exploring the valley, other evidences of human presence might have been found. Under the branches of a large tree, standing by the edge of the lagoon, and from which the silvery tillandsia fell in festoons to the surface of the water, a small canoe of rude construction could be seen, a foot or two of its stem protruding from the moss. A piece of twisted withe, attaching it to the tree, told that it had not drifted there by accident, but was moored by some one who meant to return to it.
From the edge of the lagoon to the upper end of the valley, the ground, as already stated, was covered with a thick growth of forest timber—where the eye of the botanical observer might distinguish, by their forms and foliage, many of those magnificent indigenous trees for which thesylvaof Jamaica has long been celebrated.
There stood the gigantic cedrela, and its kindred the bastard cedar, with elm-like leaves; the mountain mahoe; the “tropic birch;” and the world-known mahogany.
Here and there, the lance-like culms of bamboos might be seen shooting up over the tops of the dicotyledons, or forming a fringe along the cliffs above, intermingled with trumpet-trees, with their singular peltate leaves, and tall tree-ferns, whose delicate lace-like fronds formed a netted tracery against the blue background of the sky. In the rich soil of the valley flourished luxuriantly the noble cabbage-palm—theprinceof the Jamaica forest—while, by its side, claiming admiration for the massive grandeur of its form, stood thepatriarchof West-Indian trees—the grandceiba; the hoary Spanish moss that drooped from its spreading branches forming an appropriate beard for this venerable giant.
Every tree had its parasites—not a single species, but in hundreds, and of as many grotesque shapes; some twining around the trunks and boughs like huge snakes or cables—some seated upon the limbs or in the forking of the branches; and others hanging suspended from the topmost twigs, like streamers from the rigging of a ship. Many of these, trailing from tree to tree, were loaded with clusters of the most brilliant flowers, thus uniting the forest into one continuous arbour.
Close under the cliff, and near where the cascade came tumbling down from the rocks, stood a tree that deserves particular mention. It was aceibaof enormous dimensions, with a buttressed trunk, that covered a surface of more than fifty feet in diameter. Its vast bole, rising nearly to the brow of the cliff, extended horizontally over an area on which five hundred men could have conveniently encamped; while the profuse growth of Spanish moss clustering upon its branches, rather than its own sparse foliage, would have shaded them from the sun, completely shutting out the view overhead.
Not from any of these circumstances was the tree distinguished from others of its kind frequently met with in the mountain forests of Jamaica. What rendered it distinct from those around was, that between two of the great spurs extending outwards from its trunk, an object appeared which indicated the presence of man.
This object was a hut constructed in the most simple fashion—having for its side walls the plate-like buttresses already mentioned, while in front a stockade of bamboo stems completed the inclosure. In the centre of the stockade a narrow space had been left open for the entrance—which could be closed, when occasion required, by a door of split bamboos that hung lightly upon its hinges of withe.
In front, the roof trended downward from the main trunk of the tree—following the slope of the spurs to a height of some six feet from the ground. Its construction was of the simplest kind—being only a few poles laid transversely, and over these a thatch of the long pinnate leaves of the cabbage-palm.
The hut inside was of triangular shape, and of no inconsiderable size—since the converging spurs forming its side walls extended full twelve feet outwards from the tree. No doubt it was large enough for whoever occupied it; and the platform of bamboo canes, intended as a bedstead, from its narrowness showed that only one person was accustomed to pass the night under the shelter of its roof.
That this person was a man could be told by the presence of some articles of male attire lying upon this rude couch—where also lay a strip of coarse rush matting, and an old, tattered blanket—evidently the sole stock of bedding which the hut contained.
The furniture was scanty as simple. The cane platform already mentioned appeared to do duty also as a table and chair; and, with the exception of an old tin kettle, some calabash bowls and platters, nothing else could be seen that might be termed an “utensil.”
There were articles, however, of a different character, and plenty of them; but these were neither simple nor their uses easily understood.
Against the walls hung a variety of singular objects—some of them of ludicrous and some of horrid aspect. Among the latter could be observed the skin of the dreaded galliwasp; the two-headed snake; the skull and tusks of a savage boar; dried specimens of the ugly gecko lizard; enormous bats, with human-like faces; and other like hideous creatures.
Little bags, suspended from the rafters, contained articles of still more mysterious import. Balls of whitish-coloured clay; the claws of the great-eared owl; parrots’ beaks and feathers; the teeth of cats, alligators, and the native agouti; pieces of rag and broken glass; with a score of like odds and ends, forming a medley as miscellaneous as unintelligible.
In one corner was a wicker basket—the cutacoo—filled with roots and plants of several different species, among which might be identified the dangerous dumb-cane; the savanna flower; and other “simples” of a suspicious character.
Entering this hut, and observing the singular collection of specimens which it contained, a stranger to the Island of Jamaica would have been puzzled to explain their presence and purpose. Not so, one acquainted with the forms of the serpent worship of Ethiopia—the creed of the Coromantees. The grotesque objects were but symbols of the Africanfetish. The hut was a temple of Obi: in plainer terms, the dwelling of anObeah-man.