Volume 2 Chapter 32 - The Maroon by Mayne Reid
A Stormy Scene
On emerging from the Duppy’s Hole, the penn-keeper tracked it, as straight as the path would permit him, towards his own home. He walked with hurried steps, as if he had some purpose before him beyond that of going to bed. Late as was the hour—or early, it should rather be said, since it was getting on for daybreak—in the eye of the old Israelite there was no sign of sleepiness; but, on the contrary, a wide-awake expression that betokened his intention to accomplish some desired object before retiring to rest.
The mutterings which fell from his lips, as he moved onward among the trees, told that his discontent still continued. Chakra’s assurances, that had, for the moment, partially removed his ill-humour, on reflection failed to satisfy him. More than once before, the myal-man had given him promises which he had failed in keeping; and so might it be with the promise of the death-spell. With this thought was revived in full vigour the apprehension that his enemy might escape; and, consequently, his deep-conceived scheme would result in ignominious failure.
The measures which the myal-man had taken for administering the spell-medicine—that bottle of strong waters which Cynthia carried home in her basket—had been revealed to the Jew. The revelation had been made—as suited the subject—in a low tone of voice; and it was this part of the dialogue between the two conspirators which Cubina had not heard.
But the Coromantee might be mistaken in his skill? The prescription might fail in producing the desired effect? The slave might not find the opportunity to administer it?
Considering the early hour at which the traveller was to start—Jessuron knew the hour—Cynthia might not have a chance to give the medicine? Or, frayed by contemplation of the fearful consequence, which she now knew would follow almost instantaneously upon the act, she might in the end shy from the dangerous duty? The intended victim might, in the meantime, have become suspicious of the mixtures prepared by the mulatta, and decline to drink the deadly draught?
There were many chances that the Custos might escape.
“‘There ish many a shlip between the cup and the lipsh’!” muttered the wicked old man, quoting one of his favourite proverbs. “Ach! that ish true,” he added, with bitter emphasis, as the probabilities of failure passed more palpably before his mind.
“S’help me!” continued he, with an attempt at self-consolation; “I shall not be deprived of my refenge—that ish certain—whether he goesh to Spanish Town, or shtays at home. Ach!” he exclaimed, again changing his tone to one of chagrin, “what dosh that signify, beshide the other? If he could be shtopped, it wash a grand destiny for mine Shoodith, for myshelf—me, old Shacob Shessuron! Mount Welcome wash mine! It musht belong to this young fellow—he belongs to Shoodith—Shoodith belongsh to me! Ach! what a pity if my shkeme ish to fail—after all I hash done to make it succeed!
“If it fail,” he continued, the probabilities of failure presenting a new phase to him, “if it fail, I’m a ruined man!—I am! Shoodith may want to marry this young fellow. I believe she luffs him—I’m afeerd she doesh—and he hasn’t the worth of the shoosh he shstands in. Blesh my shoul! I musht try to prevent it. It musht go no further till I’m sure of the Cushtos. Not a shtep—not a shtep. She musht be seen, and thish very night. Yesh; I musht see Shoodith before I shleep.”
Urged on by the desire of the interview thus announced, the Jew hastened his steps; and soon arrived under the shadow of the dark pile that constituted his dwelling.
Admitted by the black porter at the gate—for that of the courtyard, or slave inclosure, was always kept locked—he mounted the wooden steps, and stole as silently along the verandah, as if he had been a stranger in the house instead of its owner. His object, in this stealthy movement, appeared to be to avoid disturbing some one who slept in a hammock near one end of the long gallery.
It was towards the other end, however, that he went—in the direction of a chamber through the lattice-window of which a light was streaming. It was the sleeping apartment of the Jewess.
On arriving opposite the door, he knocked, not loudly—at the same time pronouncing, in a half-whisper, the name “Shoodith!”
“That you, rabbi?” inquired a voice from within; while a footstep passing across the floor told either that the Jewess had not yet sought her couch, or had sought, and again forsaken it.
The door was opened; and the worthy father of this wakeful daughter passed inside.
“Well,” said she, as he entered, “I won’t inquire what errand you’ve been on, my good papa Jessuron: some slave speculation, I suppose? But what have I to do with it, that you should compel me to sit up for you till this time of the night? It’s now near morning; and I am precious sleepy, I can tell you!”
“Ach! Shoodith, dear,” replied the father, “everything ish goin’ wrong! s’help me, everything!”
“Well, one might think so, from that doleful phiz of yours. What’s troubling you now, my worthy parent?”
“Ach! Shoodith! Don’t dishtress me by your speeches. I hash something of importance to shay to you, before I go to shleep.”
“Say it quick, then: for I want to go to sleep myself. What is it, pray?”
“Well, Shoodith, dear, it ish this: you mushn’t trifle any more with thish young fellow.”
“What young fellow do you mean, my good man?”
“Vochan, of coursh—Mashter Vochan.”
“Ho! ho! you’ve changed your tune. What’s this about?”
“I hash reason, Shoodith; I hash reason.”
“Who said I was trifling with him? Not I, father! Anything but that, I can assure you.”
“That ish not what I mean, Shoodith.”
“Well, then, what do you mean, old gentleman? Come now! make yourself intelligible!”
“I mean thish, Shoodith: you mushn’t let things go any further with the young fellow—that ish, shoost now—till I knowsh something more about him. I thought he wash going to be lich—you know I thought that, mine daughter—but I hash found out, thish very night, that—perhaps—he may never be worth a shingle shilling; and therefore, Shoodith, you couldn’t think of marrying him—and mushn’t think of it till we knowsh more about him!”
“Father!” replied the Jewess, at once throwing aside her habitual badinage, and assuming a serious tone, “it is too late! Did I not tell you that the tarantula might get caught in its own trap? The proverb has proved true; I am that unhappy spider!”
“You don’t say so, Shoodith?” inquired the father, with a look of alarm.
“O do! Yonder sleeps the fly,”—and the speaker pointed along the gallery in the direction of the hammock—“secure from any harm I can ever do him. And were he as poor as he appears to be—as humble as the lowest slave on your estate—he is rich enough for me. Ah! it will be his fault, not mine, if he do not become my husband!”
The proud, determined tone in which the Jewess spoke, was only modified as she uttered the last words. The conjunctive form of the closing speech, with a certain duplexity of expression upon her countenance showed that she was not yet sure of the heart of Herbert Vaughan. Notwithstanding his attentions at the ball—notwithstanding much that had since occurred, there appeared to be a doubt—a trace of distrust that still lingered.
“Never, Shoodith!” cried the father, in a tone of determined authority. “You mushn’t think of it! You shall never marry a pauper—never!”
“Pauper him as much as you like, father; he won’t care for that, any more than I do.”
“I shall disinherit you, Shoodith!” said the Jew, giving way to a feeling of spiteful resentment.
“As you like about that, too. Disinherit me at your pleasure. But remember, old man, it was you who began this game—you who set me to playing it; and if you are in danger of losing your stake—whatever it may be—I tell you you’re in danger of losing me—that is, if he—”
The hypothetic thought—whatever it was—that at this crisis crossed the mind of the Jewess, was evidently one that caused her pain: as could be seen by the dark shadow that came mantling over her beautiful brow.
Whether or not she would have finished the speech is uncertain. She was not permitted to proceed. The angry father interrupted her:—
“I won’t argue with you now, Shoodith. Go to your bed, girl! go to shleep! Thish I promish you—and, s’help me, I keepsh my promish!—if thish pauper ish to be a pauper, he never marries you with my conshent; and without my conshent he never touches a shilling of my monish. You understand that, Shoodith?”
And without waiting to hear the reply—which was quite as defiant as his own declaration—the Jew hurried out of his daughter’s chamber, and shuffled off along the verandah.