“Not much! Why, you imp of darkness, I have been riding at the rate of ten miles an hour, and how you’ve kept up with me is beyond my comprehension! Well, you’re a noble runner, that I will say! I’d back you at a foot-race against all comers, whether black ones or white ones. The middle road, you say?”
“Ya, sa, dat de way to Moun’ Welc’m’; you soon see de big gate ob de plantation.”
Herbert headed his roadster in the direction indicated; and moved onward along the path—his thoughts still dwelling on the odd incident.
He had proceeded but a few lengths of his pony, when he was tempted to look back—partly to ascertain if Quashie was still following him, and partly with the intention of putting a query to this singular escort.
A fresh surprise was in store for him. The darkey was nowhere to be seen! Neither to the right, nor the left, nor yet in the rear, was he visible!
“Where the deuce can the boy have gone?” inquired Herbert, involuntarily, at the same time scanning the underwood on both sides of the road.
“Hya, sa!” answered a voice, that appeared to come out of the ground close behind—while at the same instant the brown mop of Quashie, just visible over the croup of the cob, proclaimed his whereabouts.
How the boy had been able to keep up with the pony was at length explained: he had been holding on to its tail!
There was something so ludicrous in the sight, that the young Englishman forgot for a moment the grave thoughts that had been harassing him; and once more checking his steed into a halt, gave utterance to roars of laughter. The darkey joined in his mirth with a grin that extended his mouth from ear to ear—though he was utterly unconscious of what the young buckra was laughing at. He could not see anything comic in a custom which he was almost daily in the habit of practising—for it was not the first time Quashie had travelled at the tail of a horse.
Journeying about half a mile further along the main road, the entrance-gate of Mount Welcome was reached. There was no lodge—only a pair of grand stone piers, with a wing of strong mason-work on each flank, and a massive folding gate between them.
From the directions Herbert had already received, he might have known this to be the entrance to his uncle’s plantation; but Quashie, still clinging to the pony’s tail, removed all doubt by crying out—
“Da’s da gate, buckra gemman—da’s de way fo’ Moun’ Welc’m’!”
On passing through the gateway, the mansion itself came in sight—its white walls and green jalousies shining conspicuously at the extreme end of the long avenue; which last, with its bordering rows of palms and tamarinds, gave to the approach an air of aristocratic grandeur.
Herbert had been prepared for something of this kind. He had heard at home that his father’s brother was a man of great wealth; and this was nearly all his father had himself known respecting him.
The equipage which had transported his more favoured fellow-voyager—and which had passed over the same road about an hour before him—also gave evidence of the grand style in which his uncle lived.
The mansion now before his eyes was in correspondence with what he had heard and seen. There could be no doubt that his uncle was one of the grandees of the island.
The reflection gave him less pleasure than pain. His pride had been already wounded; and as he looked up the noble avenue, he was oppressed with a presentiment that some even greater humiliation was in store for him.
“Tell me, Quashie,” said he, after a spell of painful reflection, “was it your master himself who gave you directions about conducting me to Mount Welcome? Or did you have your orders from the overseer?”
“Massr no me speak ’bout you, sa; I no hear him say nuffin.”
“The overseer, then?”
“Ya, sa, de obaseeah.”
“What did he tell you to do? Tell me as near as you can; and I may make you a present one of these days.”
“Gorry, massr buckra! I you tell all he say, ’zactly as he say um. ‘Quashie,’ say he, ‘Quashie,’ he say, ‘you go down board de big ship; you see dat ere young buckra’—dat war yourseff, sa—‘you fotch ’im up to de ox-waggon, you fotch ’im baggage, too; you mount ’im on Coco,’—da’s de pony’s name—‘and den you fetch him home to my house.’ Da’s all he say—ebbery word.”
“To his house? Mount Welcome, you mean!”
“No, young buckra gemman—to de obaseeah own house. And now we jess got to da road dat lead dar. Dis way, sa! dis way!”
The darkey pointed to a bye-road, that, forking off from the main avenue, ran in the direction of the ridge, where it entered into a tract of thick woods.
Herbert checked the pony to a halt, and sat gazing at his guide, in mute surprise.
“Dis way, sa!” repeated the boy. “Yonna’s de obaseeah’s house. You see wha da smoke rise, jess ober de big trees?”
“What do you mean, my good fellow? What have I to do with the overseer’s house?”
“We’s agwine da, sa.”
“Who? you?”
“Boff, sa; an’ Coco too.”
“Have you taken leave of your senses, you imp of darkness?”
“No, sa; Quashie only do what him bid. Da obaseeah Quashie bid fotch young buckra to him house. Dis yeer’s da way.”
“I tell you, boy, you must be mistaken. It is to Mount Welcome I am going—my uncle’s house—up yonder!”
“No, buckra gemman, me no mistake. Da obaseeah berry partikler ’bout dat same. He tell me you no fo’ da great house—da Buff. He say me fotch you to ’im own house.”
“Are you sure of that?” Herbert, as he put this interrogatory, leant forward in the saddle, and listened attentively for the reply.
“Lor, buckra gemman! I’se sure ob it as de sun am in de hebbens dar. I swa’ it, if you like.”
On hearing this positive affirmation, the young Englishman sat for a moment, as if wrapt in a profound and painful reverie. His breast rose and fell as though some terrible truth was breaking upon him, which he was endeavouring to disbelieve.
At this moment, Quashie caught the rein of the bridle, and was about to lead the pony into the bye-path.
“No!” shouted the rider, in a voice loud and angry. “Let go, boy! let go, or I’ll give you the whip. This is my way.”
And, wrenching the rein from the grasp of his sable guide, he headed the pony back into the main avenue.
Then laying on the lash with all his might, he pressed forward, at full gallop, in the direction of the “great house.”
Volume One—Chapter Fifteen.
A Slippery Floor.
The carriage conveying Mr. Montagu Smythje from Montego Bay to Mount Welcome, passed up the avenue and arrived at the great house, just one hour before Herbert Vaughan, mounted on his rough roadster, and guided by Quashie, made his appearance at the entrance-gate of the plantation.
Mr. Smythje had arrived at half-past three, p.m. Four was the regular dining hour at Mount Welcome: so that there was