On perceiving that the speech was meant for himself, he was at first a little nettled at its patronising tone; but the feeling of irritation soon passed away, and he fixed his eyes upon the speaker, with a good-humoured, though somewhat contemptuous expression.
“Aw—haw—it is yaw, my young fellaw,” continued the exquisite, now for the first time perceiving to whom he had made his appeal. “Aw, indeed! I’ve often observed yaw from the quawter-deck. Ba Jawve! yes—a veway stwange individwal!—incompwehensibly stwange! May I ask—pawdon the liberty—what is bwinging yaw out heaw—to Jamaica, I mean?”
“That,” replied the steerage passenger, again somewhat nettled at the rather free style of interrogation, “which is bringing yourself—the good ship Sea Nymph.”
“Aw, haw! indeed! Good—veway good! But, my deaw sir, that is not what I meant.”
“No?”
“No, I ashaw yaw. I meant what bisness bwings yaw heaw. P’waps you have some pwofession?”
“No, not any,” replied the young man, checking his inclination to retaliate the impertinent style of his interrogator.
“A twade, then?”
“I am sorry to say I have not even a trade.”
“No pwofession! no twade! what the dooce daw yaw intend dawing in Jamaica? P’waps yaw expect the situation of book-keepaw on a pwantation, or niggaw-dwivaw. Neithaw, I believe, requiaws much expewience, as I am told the book-keepaw has pwositively no books to keep—haw! haw! and shawly any fellaw, howevaw ignowant, may dwive a niggaw. Is that yaw expectation, my worthy fwend?”
“I have no expectation, one way or another,” replied the young man, in a tone of careless indifference. “As to the business I may follow out here in Jamaica, that, I suppose, will depend on the will of another.”
“Anothaw! aw!—who, pway?”
“My uncle.”
“Aw, indeed! yaw have an uncle in Jamaica, then?”
“I have—if he be still alive.”
“Aw—haw! yaw are not shaw of that intewesting fact? P’waps yaw’ve not heard from him wately?”
“Not for years,” replied the young steerage passenger, his poor prospects now having caused him to relinquish the satirical tone which he had assumed. “Not for years,” repeated he, “though I’ve written to him to say that I should come by this ship.”
“Veway stwange! And pway, may I ask what bisness yaw uncle follows?”
“He is a planter, I believe.”
“A sugaw plantaw?”
“Yes—he was so when we last heard from him.”
“Aw, then, p’waps he is wich—a pwopwietor? In that case he may find something faw yaw to daw, bettaw than niggaw-dwiving. Make yaw his ovawseeaw. May I know yaw name?”
“Quite welcome to it. Vaughan is my name.”
“Vawrn!” repeated the exquisite, in a tone that betrayed some newly-awakened interest; “Vawn, did I understand yaw to say?”
“Herbert Vaughan,” replied the young man, with firmer emphasis.
“And yaw uncle’s name?”
“He is also called Vaughan. He is my father’s brother—or rather was—my father is dead.”
“Not Woftus Vawn, Esquire, of Mount Welcome?”
“Yes, Loftus Vaughan; my uncle is so called, and Mount Welcome is, I believe, the name of his estate.”
“Veway stwange! incompwehensibly stwange! D’yaw know, my young fellaw, that yaw and I appeaw to be making faw the same pawt. Woftus Vawn, of Mount Welcome, is the twustwee of my own pwoperty—the veway person to whom I am consigned. Deaw me! how doocèd stwange if yaw and I should yet be guests undaw the same woof!”
The remark was accompanied by a supercilious glance, that did not escape the observation of the young steerage passenger. It was this glance that gave the true signification to the words, which Herbert Vaughan interpreted as an insult.
He was on the point of making an angry rejoinder, when the exquisite turned abruptly away—as he parted drawling out some words of leave-taking, with the presumptive conjecture that they might meet again.
Herbert Vaughan stood for a moment looking after him, an expression of high contempt curling upon his lip. Only for a short while, however, did this show itself; and then, his countenance resuming its habitual expression of good-nature, he descended into the steerage, to prepare his somewhat scanty baggage for the debarkation.
Volume One—Chapter Eleven.
Loftus Vaughan on the Look-Out.
Every day, after that on which he had received the two English letters—and almost every hour during daylight—might Loftus Vaughan have been seen, telescope in hand, at one of the front windows of his house, sweeping with his glass the roadstead and offing of Montego Bay.
The object of this telescopic observation was, that he might descry the Sea Nymph before she had entered the harbour: in order that his carriage should be at the port to receive the distinguished Smythje on the moment of his landing.
At this period there were no steamers trading across the Atlantic, punctual to a day, and almost to an hour. Though the letter of advice had been written several days before that on which the Sea Nymph was to sail, there could be no calculation made upon such uncertain data as winds and waves; and the ship which carried Montagu Smythje might arrive at any hour.
That some distinguished guest was expected, was a fact that had become well-known to every domestic in the establishment of Mount Welcome. Every day saw some article or articles of costly furniture brought home from the “Bay”; and the chambers of the “great house” were being freshly decorated to receive them. The house-wenches and other indoor servants were furnished with new dresses, some even with liveries—an unusual piece of finery in Jamaica—while shoes and stockings were forced upon feet that, perhaps, had never felt such impedimenta before, and whose owners would have been only too glad to have escaped the torture of wearing them.
It need scarcely be said that the planter was undergoing all this extravagant expenditure for the reception of Mr. Montagu Smythje, and him alone. Had it been only his nephew that was expected, no such continuous look-out would have been kept, and no such preparations made to do him honour on his arrival.
Neither do Mr. Vaughan’s motives require explanation: the reader will ere this have surmised them. He was the father of a daughter ready at any moment for marriage. Mr. Montagu Smythje was, in his eyes, not only an eligible, but highly desirable, specimen for a son-in-law. The young man was possessed of a splendid property, as Mr. Vaughan well knew: for the worthy planter was not only Custos Rotulorum, but for many long years had been custos of Montagu Castle, and could tell its value to a shilling “currency.” It lay contiguous to his own. He had looked with a longing eye upon its broad acres and black retainers, until he had become imbued with a desire, amounting indeed to a passion, to possess it—if not in his own right, at least in that of his daughter. The union of the two estates, Mount Welcome and Montagu Castle, would make a magnificent domain—one of the richest in the Island.
To accomplish this object had long been the wish of Loftus Vaughan. It had grown and grown upon him, till it had become the most cherished purpose of his heart.
Let us not conceal a really creditable motive that Mr. Vaughan had for