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,