Volume 2 Chapter 1 - The Maroon by Mayne Reid
Smythje in Shooting Costume
Several days had elapsed since that on which Mr Montagu Smythje became the guest of Mount Welcome; and during the time neither pains nor expense had been spared in his entertainment. Horses were kept for his riding—a carriage for his driving—dinners had been got up—and company invited to meet him. The best society of the Bay and the neighbouring plantations had been already introduced to the rich English exquisite—the owner of one great sugar estate, and, as society began to hear it whispered, the prospective possessor of another.
The matrimonial projects of the worthy Custos—that had been suspected from the first—soon became the subject of much discussion.
It may be mentioned—though it is scarce necessary—that in his designs upon Smythje, Mr Vaughan was not left all the field to himself. There were other parents in the planter fraternity of the neighbourhood blessed with good-looking daughters; and many of them, both fathers and mothers, had fixed their eyes on the lord of Montagu Castle as a very eligible sample for a son-in-law. Each of these aspiring couples gave a grand dinner; and, in turn, trotted out their innocent lambs in presence of the British “lion.”
The exquisite smiled amiably upon all their efforts—adopting his distinguished position as a matter of course.
Thus merrily passed the first fortnight of Smythje’s sojourn in Jamaica.
On a pleasant morning near the end of this fortnight, in one of the largest bed-chambers of Mount Welcome house—that consecrated to the reception of distinguished strangers—Mr Smythje might have been seen in front of his mirror. He was engaged in the occupation of dressing himself—or, to speak more correctly, permitting himself to be dressed by his valet de chambre.
In the extensive wardrobe of the London exquisite there were dresses for all purposes and every occasion: suits for morning, dinner, and evening; one for riding, and one for driving; a shooting dress, and one for the nobler sport of the chasse au cheval; a dress for boating, à la matelot; and a grand costume de bal.
On the occasion in question, Mr Smythje’s august person was being enveloped in his shooting dress; and, although a West India sportsman or an English squire would have smiled derisively at such a “rig,” the Cockney regarded it with complacency as being “just the thing.”
It consisted of a French tunic-shaped coatee of green silk velvet, trimmed with fur; a helmet-shaped hunting-cap to match; and a purple waistcoat underneath, embroidered with cord of gold bullion.
Instead of breeches and top-boots, Mr Smythje fancied he had improved upon the costume, by encasing his limbs in long trousers. These were of dressed fawn-skin, of a straw colour, and soft as the finest chamois leather. They fitted tightly around the legs, notwithstanding that the wearer was rather deficient in that quarter. Moreover, they were strapped at the bottoms, over a pair of brightly-shining lacquered boots—another error at which a true sportsman would have smiled.
Mr Smythje, however, was well satisfied with the style of his dress: as appeared from the conversation carried on between him and his valet Thoms, while the latter was making him ready for the field.
“’Pon honaw! a demmed becoming costume!” exclaimed he, surveying himself from head to foot in the mirror. “Dawnt yaw think so, Thoms?”
“Pe Cod! it’s all that, yer honner!” replied Thoms, with just enough of an Irish accent to show that he was a Welshman.
The object, for which Mr Smythje was thus having his person apparelled, was a shooting excursion to the hills, which he designed making, in order to vary his pleasures by committing havoc among the ramier pigeons and wild guinea-fowl which, he had been told, abounded there.
The projected expedition was not any grand affair by appointment—merely an ordinary, improvised thing. The sportsman intended going alone—as the Custos on that day had some important business at the Bay; and Mr Smythje, by a ramble through the neighbouring woods, fancied he might kill the time between breakfast and dinner pleasantly enough. This was all that was intended; and a darkey to guide him all that was needed.
“Weally!” resumed the exquisite, after some moments spent in enthusiastic admiration of his person, “weally, Thoms, these Queeole queetyaws are chawming—positively chawming! Nothing in the theataw or opwa at all to compare with them. Such lovely eyes! such divine figaws! and such easy conquests! Ba Jawve! I can count a dozen alweady! Haw, haw!” added he, with a self-gratulatory giggle, “it’s but natywal that—dawnt yaw think so, Thoms?”
“Parfectly natyeral, your honner,” replied Thoms, “considherin’ yer honner’s good looks.”
“Aw haw! that’s it, Thoms—that’s it. They can’t wesist.”
Either the lady-killer was not content with his twelve easy conquests, and wished to have the number more complete by making it “the baker’s dozen”—either this, or he was uncertain about his victory over one of the twelve—as would appear by the dialogue that followed between him and his confidential man.
“Hark yaw, Thoms!” said he, approaching the valet in a more serious way; “yaw are an exceedingly intelligent fellaw—yaw are, ’pon honnaw.”
“Thank yer honner. It’s keepin’ yer honner’s company has made me so.”
“Nevaw mind—nevaw mind what—but I have observed yaw intelligence.”
“It’s at yer honner’s humble sendee.”
“Ve-well, Thoms; ve-well! I want you to employ it.”
“In what way, yer honner? anything yer honner may desire me to do.”
“Yaw know the niggaw girl—the bwown girl with the tawban, I mean?”
“Miss Vaghan’s waitin’-maid?”
“Exactly—ya-as. Yolaw, or something of the sawt, is the queetyaw’s name.”
“Yis—Yowla; that’s her name, yer honner.”
“Well, Thoms, I pwesume you have excellent oppwotunities of holding convawsation with haw—the niggaw, I mean?”
“Plenty of oppurtunity, yer honner. I’ve talked with her scores of times.”
“Good. Now, the next time yaw talk with haw, Thoms, I want you to pump haw.”
“Pump her! what’s that, yer honner?”
“Why, dwaw something out of haw!”
“Feth! I don’t understan’ yer honner.”
“Not undawstand! yaw are stoopid, Thoms.”
“Keeping yer honner’s company—”
“What, fellaw? keeping my company make yaw stoopid?”
“No, yer honner; ye didn’t hear me out. I was goin’ to say, that keeping yer honner’s company would soon take that out o’ me.”
“Haw—haw—that’s diffwent altogethaw. Well, listen now, and I’ll make yaw undawstand me. I want you to talk with this Yolaw, and dwaw some seek wets out of haw.”
“Oah!” answered Thoms, dwelling a long time upon the syllable, and placing his forefinger along the side of his nose. “Now I comprehend yer honner.”
“All wight—all wight.”
“I’ll manage that, don’t fear me; but what sort of saycrets does yer honner want me to draw out af her?”
“I want yaw to find out what she says about me—not the niggaw, but haw mistwess.”
“What the negur says about her mistress?”
“Thoms, yaw are intolawably stoopid this mawning. Not at all—not at all; but what haw mistress says about me—me.”
“Oh! fwhat Miss Vaghan says about yer honner?”
“Pwecisely.”
“Faith! I’ll find that out—ivery word af it.”
“If yaw do, Thoms, I shall be your debtaw faw a guinea.”
“A guinea, yer honner!”
“Ya-as; and if yaw execute yaw commission clevawly, I shall make it two—two guineas, do yaw heaw?”
“Never fear, yer honner. I’ll get it out of the negur, if I should have to pull the tongue from between thim shinin’ teeth af hers!”
“No, Thoms—no, my good fellaw! There must be no woodness. Wemember, we are guests heaw, and Mount Welcome is not an hotel. Yaw must work by stwategy, not stwength, as Shakespeaw or some other of those skwibbling fellaws has said. No doubt stwategy will win the day.”
And with this ambiguous observation—ambiguous as to whether it referred to the issue of Thoms’s embassy, or his own success in the wooing of Miss Vaughan—Mr Montagu Smythje closed the conversation.
Thoms now gave the last touch to the sportsman’s toilet, by setting the hunting-cap on his head, and hanging numerous belts over his shoulders—among which were included a shot-pouch, a copper powder-horn, a pewter drinking flask with its cup, and a hunting-knife in its leathern sheath.
Thus equipped, the sportsman strode stiffly from the apartment; and wended his way towards the great hall, evidently with the design of encountering the fair Kate, and exhibiting himself in his killing costume.