Volume 1 Chapter 17 - The Maroon by Mayne Reid
A Bold Resolve
Far better would it have been for Mr Vaughan—at least, for the success of his schemes—had he adopted an honourable course with his nephew; and at once introduced him, openly and above-board, to his table, his daughter, and his aristocratic guest.
Had he known before dinner what he was made aware of in less than five minutes after it, he would, in all likelihood, have adopted this course. It would have spared him the chagrin he was made to feel, on Mr Smythje reporting to him the encounter he had had on board ship—which the latter proceeded to do, the moment after Kate had been so unceremoniously dismissed from the hall.
Smythje had also overheard the communication of the overseer—the word “nephew,” at least—and this recalled to his mind—not without some unpleasant remembrance of the satire from which he had suffered—the steerage passenger who had treated him so brusquely on board the Sea Nymph.
The miserable bubble was burst; and the onus of a somewhat bungling explanation was put upon the shoulders of the pompous planter—into whose heart a bitter drop of gall was infused by the disclosure.
As the deception could be sustained no longer, the relationship was necessarily acknowledged; but the spark of ire thus introduced boded a still more unwelcome reception to the unlucky nephew.
The planter partially cleared himself of the scrape by a false representation. In other words, he told a lie, in saying that his nephew had not been expected. Smythje knew it was a lie, but said nothing; and the subject was allowed to drop.
Loftus Vaughan was a common man; and the course he had followed—shallow and self-defeating—was proof of an intellect as low as its morality.
By his shabby treatment of his nephew, he was investing that young man with a romantic interest in the eyes of his daughter, that perhaps might never have been felt, or, at all events, not so readily. Misfortune—especially that which springs from persecution—is a grand suggester of sympathy—that is, when the appeal is made to noble hearts; and the heart of Kate Vaughan was of this quality.
Moreover, this surreptitious dealing with the poor relative—smuggling him into the house like a bale of contraband goods—was sufficient of itself to pique the curiosity of those whom it was meant to mystify.
So far as Kate Vaughan was concerned, that very effect it produced: for, on leaving the dining-room—from which, to say the truth, she was only too happy to escape—the young girl glided at once to that window that opened out upon the garden; and, parting the lattice with her fingers, looked eagerly through.
In the brief undertone that had passed between her father and the overseer, she had heard the command, “Show him to the summer-house.” She knew that the summer-house was within view of her chamber-window. She was curious to see what in all her life she had never beheld—a cousin. Her curiosity was not balked. On looking through the lattice, her cousin was before her eyes—pacing the little apartment as described.
With his braided frock, buttoned tightly over his breast—glittering Hessian boots on his well-turned limbs—his neat three-cornered hat set lightly over his brown curls—he was not a sight likely to terrify a young girl—least of all a cousin. Even the bold, somewhat fierce, expression upon his countenance—at that moment reflecting the angry emotions that were stirring within him—did not, in the eyes of the young Creole, detract from the beauty of the face she saw before her.
What impression did the sight produce? Certainly not terror—certainly not dislike. On the contrary, she appeared gratified by it: else, why did she continue her gaze, and gaze so earnestly? Why became her eyes filled with fire, and fixed, as by some fascination? Why did her young bosom heave and fall, as if some new, undefinable emotion was for the first time germinating within it?
For some moments she remained in the same attitude, gazing steadfastly and silent. Then, without turning, there escaped from her lips, low murmured, and as if by an involuntary effort, the interrogatory,—“Yola! is he not beautiful?”
“Beautiful, missa,” repeated the maid, who had not yet beheld the object for whom this admiration was meant; “who beautiful?”
“Who? My cousin, Yola.”
“You cousin—what cousin, young missa?”
“Look yonder, and see! That’s my cousin.”
“I see a man.”
“Ah! and saw you ever such a man?”
“True, missa; never see man look so—he surely angry, missa?”
“Angry?”
“Berry angry. He go back, he go forward, like hyena in a cage.”
“He is only impatient at being kept waiting. My word! I think he looks all the better for it. Ah! see how his eye flashes. Oh! Yola, how handsome he is—how different from the young men of this island. Is he not a beautiful fellow?”
“He curled hair, like Cubina!”
“Cubina! ha! ha! ha! This Cubina must be a very Proteus, as well as an Adonis. Do you see any other resemblance, except in the hair? If so, my cousin may, perhaps, resemble me.”
“Cubina much darker in de colour ob him skin, missa.”
“Ha! ha! that is not unlikely.”
“Cubina same size—same shape—’zactly same shape.”
“Then I should say that Cubina is a good shape; for, if I know anything of what a man ought to be, that cousin of mine is the correct thing. See those arms! they look as if he could drag down that great tamarind with them! Gracious me! he appears as if he intended doing it! Surely, he must be very impatient? And, after his coming so far, for papa to keep him waiting in this fashion! I really think I should go down to him myself. What is your opinion, Yola? Would it be wrong for me to go and speak with him? He is my cousin.”
“What am cousin, missa?”
“Why, cousin is—is—something like a brother—only not exactly—that is—it’s not quite the same thing.”
“Brudder! Oh, missa! if he Yola brudder, she him speak; she care not who be angry.”
“True, Yola; and if he were my brother—alas! I have none—I should do the same without hesitation. But with a cousin—that’s different. Besides, papa don’t like this cousin of mine—for some reason or another. I wonder what he can have against him. I can’t see; and surely it can be no reason for my not liking him? And, surely, his being my cousin is just why I should go down and talk to him.
“Besides,” continued the young girl, speaking to herself rather than to the maid, “he appears very, very impatient. Papa may keep him waiting—who knows how long? since he is so taken up with this Mr Montagu What’s-his-name! Well, I may be doing wrong—perhaps papa will be angry—perhaps he won’t know anything about it! Right or wrong, I’ll go! I shall go!”
So saying, the young Creole snatched a scarf from the fauteuil; flung it over her shoulders; and, gliding from the chamber, tripped silently along the passage that conducted towards the rear of the dwelling.