Volume 3 Chapter 45 - The Maroon by Mayne Reid
An Involuntary Suicide
On seeing the dead body of her father, Kate Vaughan sank to the earth beside it; not unconsciously, but on her knees, and in an agony of grief. Bending over it, she kissed the cold, speechless lips—her sobs and wilder ejaculations following each other in rapid succession.
Only the face of the corpse was uncovered. The camlet cloak still shrouded the body, and its gaping but bloodless wounds. She saw not these; and made no inquiry as to the cause of her father’s death. The wasted features, now livid, recalled the disease under which he had been suffering previous to his departure. It was to that he had succumbed; so reasoned she.
Herbert made no attempt to undeceive her. It was not the time to enter into details of the sad incident that had transpired. The most mournful chapter of the story was now known—the rest need scarce be told: Kate Vaughan was fatherless.
Without uttering a word—not even those phrases of consolation so customary on such occasions, and withal so idle—the young man wound his arms round the waist of his cousin, gently raised her to an erect attitude, and supported her away from the spot.
He passed slowly towards the rear of the ruined dwelling.
There was still enough light emitted from the calcined embers to make plain the path—enough to show that the little summer-house in the garden still stood there in its shining entirety. Its distance from the dwelling-house had saved it from the conflagration.
Into this Herbert conducted his protégée, and, after placing her on a settee of bamboos, which the kiosk contained, seated himself in a chair beside her.
Yola, who had once more appeared upon the scene, followed them, and flinging herself on the floor, at her young mistress’s feet, remained gazing upon her with sympathetic looks, that evinced the affectionate devotion of the Foolah maiden.
Cubina had gone in search of the overseer, and such of the domestics as might still have concealed themselves within a reasonable distance.
The Maroon might have acted with more caution, seeing that the second attack of the robbers had unexpectedly been made. But he had no fear of their coming again. The escape of the prisoners explained their second appearance—the sole object of which had been to rescue the caçadores.
For a while the three individuals in the kiosk appeared to be the only living forms that remained by the desolated mansion of Mount Welcome. The return of the robbers had produced even a more vivid feeling of affright than their first appearance; and the people of the plantation—white as well as black—had betaken themselves to places of concealment more permanent than before. The whites—overseer, book-keepers, and all—believing it to be an insurrection of the slaves, had forsaken the plantation altogether, and fled towards Montego Bay.
Among these panic-struck fugitives, or rather at the head of them, was the late distinguished guest of Mount Welcome—Mr Montagu Smythje.
On being left alone, after the departure of the pursuing party, he had made a rapid retreat towards the stables; and there, by the assistance of Quashie, had succeeded in providing himself with a saddled horse.
Not even staying to divest himself of his sacchariferous envelope, he had mounted and ridden at top speed for the port, announcing his fixed determination to take the first ship that should sail for his “deaw metwopolis.”
Smythje had seen enough of Jamaica, and its “queeole queetyaws,” and more than enough of “its howid niggaws.”
Cubina, returning with Quashie—who again, imp-like, had started up in his path—the only living being the Maroon could discover, announced the fact that Mr Smythje was no longer on the ground.
From those who occupied the kiosk, the intelligence elicited no response. Notwithstanding the many jealous pangs he had cost Herbert Vaughan, and the important part he had played in the history of the young Creole’s life, the great lord of Montagu Castle was no longer regarded even as a unit in the situation. Neither spoke of him—neither gave a thought to him. With perfect indifference, both Herbert and his cousin listened to the report that he was no longer on the ground.
But there was at that very moment one upon the ground who might have been better spared—one whose proximity was a thousand times more perilous than that of the harmless Smythje.
As we have said, Cubina had no apprehensions about the return of the robbers; but there was a danger near, and equally to be dreaded—a danger of which neither he nor any of the others could have had even the slightest suspicion.
The Maroon had delivered his report at the kiosk, and with Quashie attending on him, had gone back to the spot where the dead body still rested. He had gone thither to ascertain which of his own men had fallen in the late struggle, and also the better to acquaint himself with the direction which the robbers might have taken.
Just as he had turned his back upon the kiosk, a human figure—gliding so softly that it might have been mistaken for a shadow—passed through the wicket-gate in the rear of the garden, and, with stealthy step, advanced in the direction of the summer-house.
Notwithstanding an ample cloak in which the figure was enveloped, its contour could be distinguished as that of a woman—one of boldly-developed form.
The blaze of the still-burning timbers was no longer constant. At intervals some piece—losing its equilibrium under the effect of the consuming fire—would fall with a crushing sound; to be followed by a fresh glare of light, which would continue for a longer or shorter period of time, according to the circumstances that created it.
Just as the silent figure, approaching along the path, had arrived within a few paces of the summer-house, one of these sudden coruscations arose, lighting up not only the interior of the summer-house, but the whole enclosure to its furthest limits.
Under that light, had anyone been looking rearwards across the garden, they would have beheld a beautiful face—beautiful, yet disfigured by an expression of mingled rage and pain, that rendered it even hideous. It was the face of Judith Jessuron.
It is not necessary to explain why she was there. The fire of jealousy was still burning in her breast—more furiously, more bitterly than ever.
In another instant she had placed herself in a position that commanded a view of the interior of the kiosk.
What she saw there was not calculated to extinguish the fearful fire that consumed her. On the contrary, like the collision of the falling timbers, it had the effect of stirring it to increased strength and fierceness.
Kate Vaughan had raised herself from her reclining position, and was sitting upright on the bamboo settee. Herbert was by her side, also seated. Their bodies were in contact—the arm of the young man softly encircling the waist of his cousin. It would have been evident to the most uninterested observer that their hearts were equally en rapport; that between them was a tie—the strongest on earth—the tie of mutual love!
It needed no reasoning on the part of Judith Jessuron to arrive at this conclusion.
The tableau was typical. It was a picture that required no explanation, nor did she who looked upon it ask for any.
She did not even stay to notice the brown-skinned damsel, who seemed to be guarding the entrance of the kiosk; but, springing past her, she stood in a defiant attitude in the presence of the lovers.
“Herbert Vaughan!” cried she, in a tone of bitter abandonment; “traitor! perjured villain! you have been false to me—”
“It is not true, Judith Jessuron!” cried the young man, interrupting her, and, as soon as he had recovered from his surprise, springing to his feet. “It is not true. I—I never intended—”
“Ha!” screamed the Jewess, her rage apparently becoming more fierce at the attempted explanation; “never intended what?”
“Never intended to marry you. I never gave you promise—”
“False!” cried Judith, once more interrupting him. “No matter now—it is all past; and since you never intended to marry me, she at least will never be your wife!”
The action that followed rendered the menace of the mad woman too easily intelligible.
As she gave utterance to it she passed her hand under the mantle in which her figure was enveloped; and, as she drew it forth again, a shining object appeared between her fingers.
It was a pistol, with silver sheen and ivory handle—small, but large enough to take life at such close quarters.
It was presented as soon as drawn, but not at Herbert Vaughan. It was towards his companion that its muzzle was pointed!
Scarce a second passed before the report was heard; and, for a time, the kiosk was filled with smoke.
When this cleared away, and the shining light once more penetrated the apartment, a woman was seen extended on the floor, her form quivering in the last throes of life. In another instant it was motionless—a corpse!
The shot had proved fatal; but the victim was not Kate Vaughan, but Judith Jessuron!
The transposition was due to the Foolah maid. Seeing the life of her mistress in such imminent peril, she had sprung up from her seat by the door; and, bounding forward with the supple quickness of a cheetah, had seized the wrist of the intended murderess, with the intention of averting her aim, and, in doing so, had directed it upon herself.
It was by accident, therefore, and not from design on the part of Yola, that Judith Jessuron thus terminated her life by an involuntary suicide.