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The Maroon

Volume One – Chapter Sixteen
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.

Volume One – Chapter Seventeen
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.

Volume One – Chapter Eighteen
The Encounter of the Cousins

Opening the door, and passing out, Kate Vaughan paused timidly upon the top of the stairway that led down into the garden. Her steps were stayed by a feeling of bashful reserve, that was struggling to restrain her from carrying out a resolve somewhat hastily formed.

Her hesitancy was but the matter of a moment; for on the next – her resolution having become fixed – she descended the stairs, and advanced blushingly towards the kiosk.

Herbert had not quite recovered from surprise at the unexpected apparition, when he was saluted by the endearing interrogatory, – “Are you my cousin?” The question, so naïvely put, remained for a moment unanswered: for the tone of kindness in which it was spoken had caused him a fresh surprise, and he was too much confused to make answer.

He soon found speech, however, for the hypothetical reply: —

“If you are the daughter of Mr Loftus Vaughan – ”

“I am.”

“Then I am proud of calling myself your cousin. I am Herbert Vaughan – from England.”

Still under the influence of the slight which he believed had been put upon him, Herbert made this announcement with a certain stiffness of manner, which the young girl could not fail to notice. It produced a momentary incongeniality, that was in danger of degenerating into a positive coolness; and Kate, who had come forth under the promptings of an affectionate instinct, trembled under a repulse, the cause of which she could not comprehend.

It did not, however, hinder her from courteously rejoining: —

“We were expecting you – as father had received your letter; but not to-day. Papa said not before to-morrow. Permit me, cousin, to welcome you to Jamaica.” Herbert bowed profoundly. Again the young creole felt her warm impulses painfully checked; and, blushing with embarrassment, she stood in an attitude of indecision.

Herbert, whose heart had been melting like snow under a tropic sun, now became sensible that he was committing a rudeness; which, so far from being natural to him, was costing him a struggle to counterfeit.

Why should the sins of the father be visited on the child – and such a child?

With a reflection kindred to this, the young man hastened to change his attitude of cold reserve.

“Thanks for your kind welcome!” said he, now speaking in a tone of affectionate frankness; “But, fair cousin, you have not told me your name.”

“Catherine – though I am usually addressed by the shorter synonym, Kate.”

“Catherine! that is a family name with us. My fathers mother, and your father’s, too – our grandmamma – was a Catherine. Was it also your mother’s name?”

“No; my mother was called Quasheba.”

“Quasheba! that is a very singular name.”

“Do you think so, cousin? I am sometimes called Quasheba myself – only by the old people of the plantation, who knew my mother. Lilly Quasheba they call me. Papa does not like it, and forbids them.”

“Was your mother an Englishwoman?”

“Oh, no! she was born in Jamaica, and died while I was very young – too young to remember her. Indeed, cousin, I may say I never knew what it was to have a mother!”

“Nor I much, cousin Kate. My mother also died early. But are you my only cousin? – no sisters nor brothers?”

“Not one. Ah! I wish I had sisters and brothers!”

“Why do you wish that?”

“Oh, how can you ask such a question? For companions, of course.”

“Fair cousin! I should think you would find companions enough in this beautiful island.”

“Ah! enough, perhaps; but none whom I like – at least, not as I think I should like a sister or brother. Indeed,” added the young girl, in a reflective tone, “I sometimes feel lonely enough!”

“Ah!”

“Perhaps, now that we are to have guests, it will be different. Mr Smythje is very amusing.”

“Mr Smythje! Who is he?”

“What! you do not know Mr Smythje? I thought that you and he came over in the same ship? Papa said so; and that you were not to be here until to-morrow. I think you have taken him by surprise in coming to-day. But why did you not ride out with Mr Smythje? He arrived here only one hour before you, and has just dined with us. I have left the table this moment, for papa and him to have their cigars. But, bless me, cousin! Pardon me for not asking – perhaps you have not dined yet?”

“No,” replied Herbert, in a tone that expressed chagrin, “nor am I likely to dine here, to-day.”

The storm of queries with which, in the simplicity of her heart, the young Creole thus assailed him, once more brought back that train of bitter reflections, from which her fair presence and sweet converse had for the moment rescued him. Hence the character of his reply.

“And why, cousin Herbert?” asked she, with a marked air of surprise. “If you have not dined, it is not too late. Why not here?”

“Because,” – and the young man drew himself proudly up – “I prefer going without dinner to dining where I am not welcome. In Mount Welcome, it seems, I am not welcome.”

“Oh, cousin – !”

The words, and the appealing accent, were alike interrupted. The door upon the landing turned upon its hinge, and Loftus Vaughan appeared in the doorway.

“Your father?”

“My father!”

“Kate!” cried the planter, in a tone that bespoke displeasure, “Mr Smythje would like to hear you play upon the harp. I have been looking for you in your room, and all over the house. What are you doing out there?”

The language was coarse and common – the manner that of a vulgar man flushed with wine.

“Oh, papa! cousin Herbert is here. He is waiting to see you.”

“Come you here, then! Come at once. Mr Smythje is waiting for you.” And with this imperious rejoinder Mr Vaughan reentered the house.

“Cousin! I must leave you.”

“Yes; I perceive it. One more worthy than I claims your company. Go! Mr Smythje is impatient.”

“It is papa.”

“Kate! Kate! are you coming? Haste, girl! haste, I say!”

“Go, Miss Vaughan! Farewell!”

“Miss Vaughan? Farewell?” Mystified and distressed by those strange-sounding words, the young girl stood for some seconds undecided, but the voice of her father again came ringing along the corridor – now in tones irate and commanding. Obedience could no longer be delayed; and, with a half-puzzled, half-reproachful glance at her cousin, she reluctantly parted from his presence.