Volume 1 Chapter 16 - The Maroon by Mayne Reid
The Kiosk
A portion of the level platform, on which Mount Welcome was built, extended to the rear of the dwelling; and was occupied, as already described, by a garden filled with rare and beautiful plants. Near the midst of this garden, and about a dozen paces from the house, stood a small detached building—a summer-house—the materials of which were ornamental woods of various kinds, all natives of the island, famed for such products. The pieces composing this summer-house, or “kiosk,” as it was habitually called, had all been cut and carved with skilful care; and the whole structure had been designed as a representation of a miniature temple, with a cupola upon its top, surmounted by a gilded and glittering vane.
Inside there were neither stairs nor partitions—the whole space being taken up by a single apartment. There were no glass windows: but all around, the walls were open, or closed only with Venetian blinds, the laths of which were of the finest mahogany. A Chinese mat covered the floor, and a rustic table of bamboo cane pieces, with some half-dozen chairs of like manufacture, constituted the principal part of the furniture.
On the aforesaid table stood an inkstand of silver, elaborately chased, with plume pens pertaining to it. Some writing-paper lay beside it; and on a silver tray there were wafers, red sealing-wax, and a signet seal. An escritoire stood on one side; and two or three dozen volumes placed upon the top of this—with a like number thrown carelessly on chairs—formed the library of Mount Welcome.
Some magazines and journals lay upon the centre-table, and a box of best Havannahs—open and half used—showed that the summer-house served occasionally for a smoking-room.
It was sometimes styled the “Library,” though its purposes were many. Mr Vaughan, at times, used it for the reception of visitors—such as might have come upon errands of business—such, in short, as were not deemed worthy of being introduced to the company of the grand hall.
Just at the moment when Kate Vaughan quitted the dinner-table, a young man was shown into this detached apartment, Mr Trusty, the overseer, acting as his chaperon.
It is not necessary to say that this young man was Herbert Vaughan.
How he came to be conducted thither is easily explained. On learning from Quashie the destination designed for him—aggrieved and angry at the revelation—he had hurried in hot haste up to the house. To Mr Trusty, who was keeping guard at the bottom of the stairway, he had announced his relationship with Mr Vaughan, and demanded an interview—making his requisition in such energetic terms as to disturb the habitual sang froid of the overseer, and compel him to the instantaneous delivery of his message.
Indeed, so indignant did Herbert feel, that he would have mounted the steps and entered the house without further parley, had not Mr Trusty put forth his blandest entreaties to prevent such a terrible catastrophe.
“Patience, my good sir!” urged the overseer, interposing himself between the new comer and the stairway; “Mr Vaughan will see you, presently—not just this moment; he is engaged—company with him. The family’s at dinner.”
So far from soothing the chafed spirit of the young man, the announcement was only a new mortification. At dinner, and with company—the cabin-passenger, of course—the ward—not even a relative—while he, the nephew—no dinner for him!
In truth, Herbert recognised in this incident a fresh outrage.
With an effort, he gave up the idea of ascending the stairs. Poor though he was, he was nevertheless a gentleman; and good breeding stepped in to restrain him from this unbidden intrusion: though more than ever did he feel convinced that an insult was put upon him, and one that almost appeared premeditated.
He stood balancing in his mind whether he should turn upon his heel, and depart from his uncle’s house without entering it. A feather would have brought down the scale. The feather fell on the negative side, and decided him to remain.
On being conducted into the summer-house and left to himself, he showed no wish to be seated; but paced the little apartment backward and forward in a state of nervous agitation.
He took but slight heed of aught that was there. He was in no mood for minutely observing—though he could not help noticing the luxurious elegance that surrounded him: the grandeur of the great house itself; the splendid parterres and gardens filled with plants and flowers of exquisite beauty and fragrant perfume.
These fine sights, however, instead of soothing his chafed spirit, only made him more bitterly sensible of his own poor fortunes, and the immeasurable distance that separated him from his proud, rich uncle.
Through the open sides of the kiosk he merely glanced hastily at the grounds; and then his eyes became bent upon the great house—directed habitually towards an entrance at the back that by a flight of steps conducted into the garden. By this entrance he expected his uncle would come out; and in angry impatience did he await his coming.
Had he seen the beautiful eyes that were, at that moment, tenderly gazing upon him from behind the lattice-work of the opposite window, perhaps the sight would have gone far towards soothing his irate soul. But he saw them not. The jalousies were closed; and though from the shadowy interior of the chamber, the kiosk and its occupant were in full view, the young Englishman had no suspicion that he was at that moment the object of observation—perhaps of admiration—by a pair of the loveliest eyes in the island of Jamaica.
After turning, for the twentieth time, across the floor—at each turn scanning the stairs with fresh impatience—he somewhat spitefully laid hold of a book, and opened it—in the hope of being able to kill time over its pages.
The volume which came into his hands—by chance: he had not chosen it—was but little calculated to tranquillise his troubled spirit. It was a digest of the statutes of Jamaica relating to slavery—the famous, or rather infamous, black code of the island.
There he read: that a man might mutilate his own image in the person of a fellow-man—torture him, even to death, and escape with the punishment of a paltry fine! That a man with a black skin—or even white, if at all tainted with African blood—could hold no real estate, no office of trust; could give no evidence in a court of law—not even had he been witness of the crime of murder; that such a man must not keep or ride a horse; must not carry a gun, or other weapon of defence; must not defend himself when assaulted; must not defend wife, sister, or daughter—even when ruffian hands were tearing them from him for the most unholy of purposes! In short, that a man of colour must do nothing to make himself different from a docile and submissive brute!
To the young Englishman, fresh from a Christian land—at that period ringing with the eloquent denunciations of a Wilberforce, and the philanthropic appeals of a Clarkson—the perusal of this execrable statute-book, instead of producing tranquillity, only infused fresh bitterness into his soul; and stamping his foot fiercely on the floor, he flung the detestable volume back to its place.
At that moment—just as he had reached the maximum of reckless defiance—a noise was heard in the direction of the great house, and the door of the stair-landing was seen to turn on its hinges.
Of course, he expected to see a surly old uncle, and was resolved to be as surly as he.
On the contrary, and to his pleased surprise, he beheld in the doorway a beautiful young girl, bending her eyes upon him with an affectionate look, and as if courting recognition!
A sudden revulsion of feeling passed through his whole frame; his countenance changed its angry expression to one of admiration; and, unable to utter a word, he remained silently gazing on this lovely apparition.