Volume 1 Chapter 12 - The Maroon by Mayne Reid
Kate and Yola
Occupying one corner of the mansion of Mount Welcome—that which was farthest removed from the din and clangour of the kitchen—was a small chamber, richly and elegantly furnished. The light was admitted into it on two sides through latticed windows, that, when open, left a free passage from the floor to a little balcony outside—with which each of the windows was provided.
One of these windows looked out to the rearward, commanding a view of the garden, and the wooded steep beyond. The other opened to the left side of the house, upon the shrubbery grounds that extended in that direction as far as the foot of the ridge.
Even had there been no one within this little chamber, the style and character of its furniture would have told, that the person to whom it appertained was of the gentler sex.
In one corner stood a bed, with carved posts of yellow lance wood; from which hung what at first sight might have been taken for white muslin curtains, but which, on closer scrutiny, could be seen to be the gauze-like netting of a “mosquito bar.”
The size of the bed told that it was intended for but one individual. Its habitual occupant was therefore unmarried.
In the bay of one of the windows stood a dressing-table of papier mâché, inlaid with mother-of-pearl; and upon this was placed a mirror of circular shape on a stand of the finest Spanish mahogany.
In front of the mirror was a variety of objects of different forms—among which might be noticed the usual implements of the toilet, with many of those eccentric little articles of luxe and vertu, that bespeak the refined presence of woman.
Other pieces of furniture in the room were three or four Chinese chairs; a small marqueterie table; a work-box of tortoise-shell veneer, on a pedestal of like material; and a little cabinet of ebony wood, richly inlaid with buhl.
There was neither mantel nor fireplace—the climate of eternal summer precluding all necessity for such “fixtures.”
The window-curtains were of a thin transparent muslin, with a pattern of pink flowering woven into the stuff, and bordered with a fringe of alternate pink and white tassels.
A breeze, laden with the perfume of a thousand flowers, blowing in through the open lattice-work of the jalousies, kept these light hangings almost continually in motion, imparting an aspect of coolness to the chamber. This was further heightened by the glossy smoothness of the hard-wood floor, which glistened under foot like a mirror.
No one could have glanced into this little apartment, without being struck with its costly yet chaste adornment. Rich and elegant, however, as was the case, it was no more than worthy of the jewel which it was accustomed to contain. It was the bedroom and boudoir of “Lilly Quasheba,” the heiress presumptive of Mount Welcome.
But few were ever favoured with a glance into that luxurious chamber. It was a sacred precinct, into which curious eyes were not permitted to penetrate. Its polished floor was not to be trodden by vulgar feet. With the exception of her father, no man had ever intruded into that virgin shrine; and he, only on rare and extraordinary occasions. Even to the domestics it was not of free access. Only one, besides its mistress, could enter it unbidden—her brown-skinned handmaid Yola.
On that same day—shortly after the ringing of the bells had announced the arrival of the English ship, and while the dusky domestics were engaged, as described, in their ante-prandial preparations—two individuals occupied the chamber in question.
One was the young lady to whom the apartment pertained—the other her maid.
They were in different attitudes: the mistress seated upon one of the Chinese chairs in front of the window, while the maid was standing behind, occupied in arranging her mistress’s hair.
The girl was just entering upon her task—if we may so designate that which many might have deemed a pleasure. Already the complicated machinery of combs and hair-pins lay strewed over the table; and the long chestnut-coloured tresses hung in luxuriant confusion around those shoulders of snow, in whose velvet-like epidermis there appeared no trace of the taint.
Involuntarily the maid ceased from her task, and stood gazing upon her young mistress with a look of instinctive admiration.
“Oh, beautiful!” exclaimed she, in a low, murmured voice; “you beautiful, missa!”
“Tut, Yola: ’tis only flattery of you to say so! You are as beautiful as I; only your beauty is of a different order. No doubt, in your country you would be a great belle.”
“Ah, missa, you belle anywhere—black man—white man—all think you beautiful—all the same!”
“Thank you, Yola! but I shouldn’t particularly desire to be the object of such universal admiration. For my part, I don’t know one male biped in whose eyes I care to appear attractive.”
“Perhaps missa no so say, when come young buckra from Inglis’ country!”
“Which buckra?—there are two of them expected from the English country.”
“Yola no hear two come. Massa she hear speak of one—only one.”
“Oh, you’ve heard speak of one only! Did you hear his name mentioned?”
“Yes; he grand man—great lord—Sultan of Mongew. He have other name—Yola hear it; but she no sabbey speak it.”
“Ha! ha! ha! I don’t wonder at that. It’s as much as I ‘sabbey’ myself to pronounce that second name: which I presume to be Smythje. Is that the name you heard?”
“That it, missa—he berry fine gentl’man, he beauty man. Massa he so tell Massr’ Trusty.”
“Ah, Yola! your master is a man, and men are not always the best judges of one another’s looks. Perhaps the Sultan of Mongew, as you call him, might not be such a pattern of perfection as papa describes him. But no doubt, we shall soon have an opportunity of judging for ourselves. Did you hear your master say nothing about another ‘buckra’ that is expected?”
“No, Missa Kate. One only he speak of—dis same one of Mongew Castle.”
A low ejaculation, expressive of disappointment, escaped the lips of the young Creole, as she settled down into an attitude of silent reflection, her eyes turned upon the shining floor at her feet.
It is not easy to tell why she put the last interrogatory. Perhaps she had some suspicion of her father’s plans. At all events, she knew there was some mystery, and was desirous of penetrating it.
The maid was still gazing upon her, when all at once the dark Arab-like features of the latter assumed a changed expression—the look of admiration giving place to one of earnest inquiry, as if some strange thought had occurred to her.
“Allah!” ejaculated she, still keeping her eyes fixed upon the face of her mistress.
“Well, Yola,” said the latter, attracted by the exclamation, and looking up; “why do you call upon Allah? Has anything occurred to you?”
“Oh! beauty missa! you so like one man.”
“I like a man! I resemble a man! Is that what you mean?”
“Yes, missa. Nebber see it before—you berry, berry like!”
“Well, Yola, you are certainly not flattering me now. Who might this man be? I pray you tell me.”
“He man of the mountains—Maroon.”
“Oh! worse and worse! I resemble a Maroon? Gracious me! Surely you are jesting, Yola?”
“Oh! missa, he beauty man; roun black eyes that glance like the fire-fly in the wood—eyes like yours—berry like you eyes, missa.”
“Come, silly girl!” said the young lady, speaking in a tone of reproval, more affected than real; “do you know that it is very naughty of you, to compare me to a man—much more to a Maroon?”
“Oh! Missa Kate, he beauty man—berry beauty man.”
“That I doubt very much; but even were it so, you should not speak of his resembling me.”
“Me pardon, missa. I no more so say.”
“No, you had better not, good Yola. If you do, I shall ask papa to sell you.”
This was said in a tone of gentle raillery, which told that any intention of carrying out the threat was far from the speaker’s thoughts.
“By the bye, Yola,” continued the young lady, “I could get a good price for you. How much do you suppose I was offered for you the other day?”
“Missa Kate, I no know. Allah forbid me you ebber leave! If you no more my missa, I care no more live.”
“Thanks, Yola,” said the young Creole, evidently touched by the words of her attendant, the sincerity of which was proved by the tone in which they were spoken. “Be not afraid of my parting with you. As proof that I shall not, I refused a very large sum—how much, can you guess?”
“Ah! missa, I worth nothing to no one but you. If I you forced leave, I be no more happy in this world.”
“Well, there is one who thinks you worth two hundred pounds, and has offered that for you.”
“Who, missa?”
“Why—he who sold you to papa—Mr Jessuron.”
“Allah help poor Yola! Oh! missa Kate, he bad master; he berry wicked man. Yola die—Cubina kill her! Yola herself kill rather than she go back to Jew slave-dealer! Good missa!—beauty missa!—you no sell you poor slave?”
The girl fell upon her knees at the feet of her young mistress, with her hands clasped over her head, and for some moments remained in this attitude.
“Don’t fear my selling you,” said the young lady, motioning the suppliant to rise to her feet; “least of all to him—whom I believe to be what you have styled him, a very wicked man. Have no fear for that. But tell me, what name was that you pronounced just now? Cubina, was it not?”
“Yes, missa, Cubina.”
“And pray who is Cubina?”
The brown maid hesitated before making reply, while the crimson began to show itself on her chestnut-coloured cheeks.
“Oh, never mind!” said her young mistress, noticing her hesitation. “If there’s any secret, Yola, I shall not insist upon an answer.”
“Missa, from you Yola no have secret. Cubina, he mountain man—Maroon.”
“What! is he the Maroon I am supposed to resemble?”
“True, missa, he same.”
“Oh! I see how it is—I suppose that accounts for you thinking me beautiful? This Cubina, no doubt, is a sweetheart of yours?”
Yola lowered her eyes without making reply. The crimson appeared in deeper tint through the chestnut.
“You need not answer, good Yola,” said the young Creole, with a significant smile. “I know what your answer ought to be, if you were to speak your mind. I think I have heard of this Cubina. Have a care, my girl! These Maroons are a very different sort of men from the coloured people on the plantations. Like me, he is—ha! ha! ha!” and the young beauty glanced coyly at the mirror. “Well, Yola, I’m not angry with you, since it is your sweetheart with whom I am compared. Love, they say, is a wonderful beautifier; and no doubt Master Cubina is, in your eyes, a perfect Endymion.
“Come girl!” added she, coquettishly tossing the chestnut tresses over her shoulders of ivory, “I fear we have been wasting time. If I’m not ready to receive this grand guest, I’ll get into trouble with papa. Go on, and trick me out in a style becoming the mistress of Mount Welcome.”
With a peal of merry laughter at the air of grandeur she had thus jestingly assumed, the young lady bent down her head, submitting her magnificent chevelure to the manipulation of her maid.