It had been the aim of Mr. Vaughan to make the introduction of Mr. Smythje to his daughter as effective as possible. He was sage enough to know the power of first appearances.
For this reason, he had managed to keep them apart until the moment of meeting at the dinner-table, when both should appear under the advantage of a full dress.
So far as the impression to be made on Mr. Smythje was concerned, Mr. Vaughan’s scheme was perfectly successful. His daughter really appeared superb—radiant as the crimson quamoclit that glistened amidst the plaits of her hair; graceful as nature, and elegant as art, could make her.
The heart of the cockney felt—perhaps for the first time in his life—that true sentiment of admiration which beauty, combined with virgin modesty, is almost certain to inspire.
For a moment, the remembrance of the ballet girl and the lewd recollections of the bagnio were obliterated; and a graver and nobler inspiration took their place.
Even vulgar Loftus Vaughan had skill enough to note this effect; but how long it would last—how long the plant of a pure passion would flourish in that uncongenial soil—was a question which it required an abler physiologist than Loftus Vaughan to determine.
The sugar-planter congratulated himself upon his success. Smythje was smitten, beyond the shadow of a doubt.
Had the calculating father been equally anxious to perceive a reciprocity of this fine first impression, he would have been doomed to a disappointment. As certainly as that of Mr. Smythje was a sentiment of admiration, so certainly was that of Kate Vaughan a feeling of dégout; or at least of indifference.
In truth, the Londoner had made a most unfortunate début. A contretemps had occurred in the ceremony of introduction—just at that crisis-moment when all eyes are sharply set, and all ears acutely bent in mutual reconnoissance. Mr. Vaughan had committed a grand error in causing the presentation to take place in the grand hall. Ice itself was not more slippery than its floor. The consequence was unavoidable; and the cockney, essaying one of his most graceful attitudes, fell flat upon his face at the feet of her he simply intended to have saluted!
In that fall he had lost everything—every chance of winning Kate Vaughan’s heart. A thousand acts of gracefulness, a thousand deeds of heroism, would not have set him up again, after that unfortunate fall. It was a clear paraphrase of the downfall of Humpty Dumpty—the restoration alike hopeless, alike impossible.
Mr. Montagu Smythje was too well stocked with self-complacency to suffer much embarrassment from a lapsus of so trifling a character. His valet had him upon his feet in a trice; and with a “Haw-haw!” and the remark that the floor was “demmed swippeway,” he crept cautiously to his chair, and seated himself.
Though the Londoner had been all his life accustomed to dining well, he could not help indulging in some surprise at the plentiful and luxurious repast that was placed before him.
Perhaps in no part of the world does the table groan under a greater load of rich viands than in the West Indian Islands. In the prosperous times of sugar-planting, a Jamaican dinner was deserving of the name of feast. Turtle was the common soup; and the most sumptuous dishes were arranged thickly over the board. Even the ordinary every-day dessert was a spread worthy of Apicius; and the wines—instead of those dull twin poisons, port and sherry—were south-side Madeira, champagne, claret, and sparkling hock—all quaffed in copious flagons, plenteous as small beer.
These were glorious times for the white-skinned oligarchy of the sugar islands—the days of revel and rollicky living—before the wedge of Wilberforce split the dark pedestal which propped up their pomp and prosperity.
A dinner of this good old-fashioned style had Loftus Vaughan prepared for his English guest. Behind the chairs appeared troops of coloured attendants, gliding silently over the smooth floor. A constant stream of domestics poured in and out of the hall, fetching and removing the dishes and plates, or carrying the wine decanters in silver coolers. Young girls of various shades of complexion—some nearly white—stood at intervals around the table, fanning the guests with long peacock plumes, and filling the great hall with an artificial current of delicious coolness.
Montagu Smythje was delighted. Even in his “dear metwopolis” he had never dined so luxuriously.
“Spwendid, spwendid—’pon honaw! A dinner fit for a pwince!” he exclaimed, in compliment to his entertainer.
The savoury dishes were partaken of, and removed, and the table, arranged for dessert, exhibited that gorgeous profusion which a tropic clime can alone produce—where almost every order of the botanical world supplies some fruit or berry of rarest excellence. Alone in the intertropical regions of the New-World may such variety be seen—a dessert table upon which Pomona appears to have poured forth her golden cornucopiae.
The cloth having been removed from the highly-polished table, the sparkling decanters were once more passed round. In honour of his guest, the planter had already made free with his own wines, all of which were of most excellent quality. Loftus Vaughan was at that moment at a maximum of enjoyment.
Just at that very moment, however, a cloud was making its appearance on the edge of the sky.
It was a very little cloud, and still very far off; but, for all that, a careful observer could have seen that its shadow became reflected on the brow of the planter.
Literally speaking, this cloud was an object on the earth, of shape half human, half equine, that appeared near the extreme end of the long avenue, moving towards the house.
When first seen by Loftus Vaughan, it was still distant, though not so far off but that, with the naked eye, he could distinguish a man on horseback.
From that moment he might have been observed to turn about in his chair—at short intervals casting uneasy glances upon the centaurean form that was gradually growing bigger as it advanced.
For a time, the expression on the face of Mr. Vaughan was far from being a marked one. The looks that conveyed it were furtive, and might have passed unnoticed by the superficial observer. They had, in fact, escaped the notice both of his daughter and his guest; and it was not until after the horseman had made halt at the entrance of the bye-path, and was seen coming on for the house, that the attention of either was drawn to the singular behaviour of Mr. Vaughan. Then, however, his nervous anxiety had become so undisguisedly patent, as to elicit from Miss Vaughan an ejaculation of alarm; while the cockney involuntarily exclaimed, “Bless ma soul!” adding the interrogatory—
“Anything wong, sir?”
“Oh! nothing!” stammered the planter; “only—only—a little surprise—that’s all.”
“Surprise, papa! what has caused it? Oh, see! yonder is some one on horseback—a man—a young man. I declare it is our own pony he is riding; and that is Quashie running behind him! How very amusing! Papa, what is it all about?”
“Tut! sit down, child!” commanded the father, in a tone of nervous perplexity. “Sit down, I say! Whoever it be, it will be time enough to know when he arrives. Kate! Kate! ’tis not well-bred of you to interrupt our dessert. Mr. Smythje—glass of Madeira with you, sir?”
“Plesyaw!” answered the exquisite, turning once more to the table, and occupying himself with the decanter.
Kate obeyed the command with a look that expressed both reluctance and surprise. She was slightly awed, too; not so much by the words, as the severe glance that accompanied them. She made no reply, but sat gazing with a mystified air in the face of her father—who, hob-nobbing with his guest, affected not to notice her.
The pony and his rider were no longer visible: as they were now too close to the house to be seen over the sill of the window; but the clattering hoofs could be heard, the sounds coming nearer and nearer.
Mr. Vaughan was endeavouring to appear collected, and to say something; but his sang froid was assumed and unnatural; and being