Volume 1 Chapter 4 - The Maroon by Mayne Reid
Two Letters
Instead of standing in the middle of the floor, the breakfast table had been placed close to the front window—in order that, with the jalousies thrown open, the fresh air might be more freely felt, while at the same time a view could be obtained of the landscape outside. A splendid view it was, comprising the valley with its long palm-shaded avenue, a reach of the Montego river, the roofs and spires of the town, the shipping in the bay and roadstead, the bay itself, and the blue Caribbean beyond.
Striking as was this landscape, Mr Vaughan just then showed no inclination to look upon it. He was too busily occupied with the rich viands upon the table; and when he at length found time to glance over the window-sill, his glance extended no further than to the negro “gang” at work among the canes—to see if his drivers were doing their duty.
The eyes of Miss Vaughan were oftener directed to the outside view. It was at this hour that one of the servants usually returned from Montego Bay, bringing the letters from the post-office. There was nothing in her manner that betrayed any particular anxiety about his arrival; but simply that lively interest which young ladies in all countries feel when expecting the postman—hoping for one of those little letters of twelve sheets with closely-written and crossed lines, most difficult to decipher, and yet to them more interesting than even the pages of the newest novel.
Very soon a dark object, of rudely Centaurean form, appeared coming along the avenue; and, shortly after, an imp-like negro lad upon the back of a rough pony galloped up to the front entrance. This was Quashie—the post-boy, of Mount Welcome.
If Miss Vaughan expected a billet, she was doomed to disappointment. There were only two letters in the bag, with a newspaper; and all three were for the Custos himself.
All bore the English post-mark; and the superscription of one of the letters was by him at once recognised—a pleasant smile stealing over his features as he broke open the seal.
A few moments sufficed to make him master of its contents, when the smile increased to a look of vivid gratification; and, rising from his chair, he paced for some time back and forward, snapping his fingers, and ejaculating, “Good—good! I thought so!”
His daughter regarded this behaviour with surprise. Gravity was her father’s habit, at times amounting to austerity. Such an exhibition of gaiety was rare with Loftus Vaughan.
“Some pleasing news, papa?”
“Yes, you little rogue; very.”
“May I not hear it?”
“Yes—no—no—not yet a while.”
“Papa! It is cruel of you to keep it from me. I promise I shall share your joy.”
“Ah! you will when you hear the news—that is, if you’re not a little simpleton, Kate.”
“I a simpleton, papa? I shall not be called so.”
“Why, you’ll be a simpleton if you don’t be joyful—when you—never mind, child—I’ll tell you all about it by-and-by. Good, good!” continued he, in a state of ecstatic frenzy. “I thought so—I knew he would come.”
“Then you expect some one, papa?”
“I do. Guess who it is!”
“How could I? You know I am unacquainted with your English friends.”
“Not with their names? You have heard their names, and seen letters from some of them?”
“Oh, yes, I often hear you speak of one—Mr Smythje. A very odd name it is! I wouldn’t be called Smythje for the world.”
“Ta, ta, child! Smythje is a very pretty name, especially with Montagu before it. Montagu is magnificent. Besides, Mr Smythje is the owner of Montagu Castle.”
“Oh, papa! how can that make his name sound any better? Is it he whom you expect?”
“Yes, dear. He writes to say that he will come by the next ship—the Sea Nymph she is called. She was to sail a week after the letter was written, so that we may look out for his arrival in a few days. Gad! I must prepare for him. You know Montagu Castle is out of repair. He is to be my guest; and, hark you, Catherine!” continued the planter, once more seating himself at the table, and bending towards his daughter, so that his sotto voce might not be overheard by the domestics, “you must do your best to entertain this young stranger. He is said to be an accomplished gentleman, and I know he is a rich one. It is to my interest to be friendly with him,” added Mr Vaughan, in a still lower tone of voice, and as if in soliloquy, but loud enough for his daughter to hear what was said.
“Dear papa!” was the reply, “how could I be otherwise than polite to him? If only for your sake—”
“If only for your own,” said the father, interrupting her, and accompanying the remark with a sly look and laugh. “But, dear Catherine,” continued he, “we shall find time to talk of this again. I must read the other letter. Who on earth can it be from? Egad! I never saw the writing before.”
The announcement of the projected visit of Mr Montagu Smythje, with the trumpet-like flourish of his many accomplishments—which Kate Vaughan had not now listened to for the first time—appeared to produce in the heart of the young lady no very vivid emotions of pleasure. She received it with perfect indifference, not seeming to care much one way or the other. If there was a balance, it was rather against him: for it so chanced that much of what she had heard in relation to this gentleman was not at all calculated to prepossess her in his favour.
She had heard that he was an exquisite—a fop, in fact—perhaps of all other characters the one most repulsive to a young Creole: for, notwithstanding the natural disposition of these to become enamoured of fine personal appearance, it must be accompanied by certain qualities of mind, if not of the highest morality, or even intellectuality, yet differing altogether from the frivolous accomplishments of mere dandyism.
Nature, that inspires the creole maiden to give her whole heart away and without any reserve, has also taught her to bestow it with judgment. Instinct warns her not to lay her precious offering upon an altar unworthy of the sacrifice.
There was another circumstance calculated to beget within the heart of Kate Vaughan a certain feeling of repulsion towards the lord of Montagu Castle; and that was the conduct of her own father in regard to this matter. From time to time—when speaking of Mr Montagu Smythje—he had made use of certain expressions and innuendoes, which, though couched in ambiguous language, his daughter very easily comprehended.
The heart of woman is quick, as it is subtle, in the understanding of all that relates to the disposal of itself; and this even at the earliest age of maidenhood. It is prone to repel any effort to guide it from its natural inclinings, or rob it of its right to choose.
Mr Vaughan, in his ignorance of these rather recondite truths, was erecting a barrier to his own designs, all the while that he fancied he was successfully clearing the track of presumptive obstructions, and making the path smooth and easy.
At match-making he was likely to prove a bungler: for it was evident that match-making was in his mind.
“Never saw the handwriting before,” said he, in repetition, as he broke open the seal of the second epistle.
If the contents of the first had filled him with joy, those of the second produced an effect directly the opposite.
“’Sdeath!” exclaimed he, crushing the letter, as he finished reading it, and once more nervously springing to his feet. “Dead or living, that ill-starred brother of mine seems as if created to be a curse to me! While alive, always wanting money; and now that he is dead sending his son—a never-do-well, like himself—to trouble, and, perhaps, disgrace me.”
“Dear father!” said the young girl, startled more by his wild demeanour than what he was saying—for the words were muttered in a low voice, and rather in soliloquy—“has the other letter brought unpleasant news?”
“Ah! that it has. You may read for yourself.”
And once more seating himself, he tossed the unwelcome epistle across the table, and recommenced eating with apparent voracity—as if by that means to tranquillise his perturbed spirit.
Kate took up the rejected letter; and, smoothing out the paper, ran her eye over the contents.
The perusal did not require much time: for considering that the letter had made such a long journey, its contents were of the shortest:—
London, June 10, 18—.
“Dear Uncle,
“I have to announce to you the melancholy intelligence that your brother, my dear father, is no more. His last words were, that I should go over to you: and, acting in accordance with his wish, I have taken passage for Jamaica. The ship is the Sea Nymph, and is to sail upon the 18th instant. I do not know how long we shall be at sea, but I hope it will prove a short voyage: as poor father’s effects were all taken by the sheriffs officer, and I am compelled, for want of money, to take passage in the steerage, which I have been told is anything but a luxurious mode of travelling. But I am young and strong, and no doubt shall be able to endure it.
“Yours affectionately,
“Herbert Vaughan.”
Whatever effect the reading of the letter may have had upon Kate Vaughan, it certainly did not produce indignation. On the contrary, an expression of sympathy stole over her face as she mastered the contents or the epistle; and on finishing it, the phrase, “poor fellow!” dropped as if involuntarily, and just audibly, from her lips.
Not that she knew anything of Herbert Vaughan, more than the name, and that he was her cousin; but the word cousin has an attractive sound, especially in the ears of young people, equalling in interest—at times even surpassing—that of sister or brother.
Though uttered, as we have said, in a tone almost inaudible, the words reached the ears of her father.
“Poor fellow!” he repeated, turning sharply to his daughter, and regarding her with a glance of displeasure, “I am surprised, Kate, to hear you speak in that strain of one you know nothing about—one who has done nothing to deserve your compassion. An idle, good-for-nothing fellow—just as his father was before him. And only to think of it—coming over here a steerage passenger, in the very same ship with Mr Montagu Smythje! ’Sdeath! What a disgrace! Mr Smythje will be certain to know who he is—though he is not likely to associate with such canaille. He cannot fail to notice the fellow, however; and when he sees him here, will be sure to remember him. Ah! I must take some steps to prevent that. Poor fellow, indeed! Yes, poor enough, but not in that sense. Like his father, I suppose, who fiddled his life away among paint-brushes and palettes instead of following some profitable employment, and all for the sake of being called an artist! Poor fiddlestick! Bah! Don’t let me hear you talk in that strain again!”
And as Mr Vaughan ended his ill-natured harangue, he tore the wrapper off the newspaper, and endeavoured, among its contents, to distract his mind from dwelling longer on the unpleasant theme either of the epistle, or him who had written it.
The young girl, abashed and disconcerted by the unusual violence of the rebuke, sat with downcast eyes, and without making any reply. The red colour had deepened upon her cheeks, and mounted to her forehead; but, notwithstanding the outrage done to her feelings, it was easy to see that the sympathy she had expressed, for her poor but unknown cousin, was felt as sensibly as ever.
So far from having stifled or extinguished it, the behaviour of her father was more likely to have given it increase and strength: for the adage of the “stolen waters” is still true; and the forbidden fruit is as tempting now as upon the morning of creation. As it was in the beginning, so will it ever be.