Nor were the features at all of a negro type. On the contrary, far removed from it. The lips were thin, the face oval, and the nose of an aquiline shape—such features as may be traced on Egyptian sculptured stones, or may be seen in living forms in the lands of the Arab.
Her hair was not woolly, though it differed altogether from the hair of a European. It was straight, and jet-black, yet scarcely reaching to her shoulders. Not that it had been shortened by the scissors: for it appeared to be at its fullest growth; and, hanging, as it did, loosely over her ears, it imparted a youthful appearance to the brown-skinned damsel.
The girl was far from ill-looking; and, to an eye accustomed to her “style,” she may have appeared even handsome. Her elegant shape, exposed by the extreme scantiness of her costume—a sleeveless robe, with a Madras kerchief worn à la toque upon her head—her graceful attitudes, which seemed natural to her, either when in motion or standing poised behind the chair of her mistress; the quick glance of her fine, fiery eyes; and the pearl-like whiteness of her teeth; all contributed to make up a picture that was far from commonplace.
This young girl was a slave—the slave Yola.
Volume One—Chapter Four.
Two Letters.
Instead of standing in the middle of the floor, the breakfast table had been placed close to the front window—in order that, with the jalousies thrown open, the fresh air might be more freely felt, while at the same time a view could be obtained of the landscape outside. A splendid view it was, comprising the valley with its long palm-shaded avenue, a reach of the Montego river, the roofs and spires of the town, the shipping in the bay and roadstead, the bay itself, and the blue Caribbean beyond.
Striking as was this landscape, Mr. Vaughan just then showed no inclination to look upon it. He was too busily occupied with the rich viands upon the table; and when he at length found time to glance over the window-sill, his glance extended no further than to the negro “gang” at work among the canes—to see if his drivers were doing their duty.
The eyes of Miss Vaughan were oftener directed to the outside view. It was at this hour that one of the servants usually returned from Montego Bay, bringing the letters from the post-office. There was nothing in her manner that betrayed any particular anxiety about his arrival; but simply that lively interest which young ladies in all countries feel when expecting the postman—hoping for one of those little letters of twelve sheets with closely-written and crossed lines, most difficult to decipher, and yet to them more interesting than even the pages of the newest novel.
Very soon a dark object, of rudely Centaurean form, appeared coming along the avenue; and, shortly after, an imp-like negro lad upon the back of a rough pony galloped up to the front entrance. This was Quashie—the post-boy, of Mount Welcome.
If Miss Vaughan expected a billet, she was doomed to disappointment. There were only two letters in the bag, with a newspaper; and all three were for the Custos himself.
All bore the English post-mark; and the superscription of one of the letters was by him at once recognised—a pleasant smile stealing over his features as he broke open the seal.
A few moments sufficed to make him master of its contents, when the smile increased to a look of vivid gratification; and, rising from his chair, he paced for some time back and forward, snapping his fingers, and ejaculating, “Good—good! I thought so!”
His daughter regarded this behaviour with surprise. Gravity was her father’s habit, at times amounting to austerity. Such an exhibition of gaiety was rare with Loftus Vaughan.
“Some pleasing news, papa?”
“Yes, you little rogue; very.”
“May I not hear it?”
“Yes—no—no—not yet a while.”
“Papa! It is cruel of you to keep it from me. I promise I shall share your joy.”
“Ah! you will when you hear the news—that is, if you’re not a little simpleton, Kate.”
“I a simpleton, papa? I shall not be called so.”
“Why, you’ll be a simpleton if you don’t be joyful—when you—never mind, child—I’ll tell you all about it by-and-by. Good, good!” continued he, in a state of ecstatic frenzy. “I thought so—I knew he would come.”
“Then you expect some one, papa?”
“I do. Guess who it is!”
“How could I? You know I am unacquainted with your English friends.”
“Not with their names? You have heard their names, and seen letters from some of them?”
“Oh, yes, I often hear you speak of one—Mr. Smythje. A very odd name it is! I wouldn’t be called Smythje for the world.”
“Ta, ta, child! Smythje is a very pretty name, especially with Montagu before it. Montagu is magnificent. Besides, Mr. Smythje is the owner of Montagu Castle.”
“Oh, papa! how can that make his name sound any better? Is it he whom you expect?”
“Yes, dear. He writes to say that he will come by the next ship—the Sea Nymph she is called. She was to sail a week after the letter was written, so that we may look out for his arrival in a few days. Gad! I must prepare for him. You know Montagu Castle is out of repair. He is to be my guest; and, hark you, Catherine!” continued the planter, once more seating himself at the table, and bending towards his daughter, so that his sotto voce might not be overheard by the domestics, “you must do your best to entertain this young stranger. He is said to be an accomplished gentleman, and I know he is a rich one. It is to my interest to be friendly with him,” added Mr. Vaughan, in a still lower tone of voice, and as if in soliloquy, but loud enough for his daughter to hear what was said.
“Dear papa!” was the reply, “how could I be otherwise than polite to him? If only for your sake—”
“If only for your own,” said the father, interrupting her, and accompanying the remark with a sly look and laugh. “But, dear Catherine,” continued he, “we shall find time to talk of this again. I must read the other letter. Who on earth can it be from? Egad! I never saw the writing before.”
The announcement of the projected visit of Mr. Montagu Smythje, with the trumpet-like flourish of his many accomplishments—which Kate Vaughan had not now listened to for the first time—appeared to produce in the heart of the young lady no very vivid emotions of pleasure. She received it with perfect indifference, not seeming to care much one way or the other. If there was a balance, it was rather against him: for it so chanced that much of what she had heard in relation to this gentleman was not at all calculated to prepossess her in his favour.
She had heard that he was an exquisite—a fop, in fact—perhaps of all other characters the one most repulsive to a young Creole: for, notwithstanding the natural disposition of these to become enamoured of fine personal appearance, it must be accompanied by certain qualities of mind, if not of the highest morality, or even intellectuality, yet differing altogether from the frivolous accomplishments of mere dandyism.
Nature, that inspires the creole maiden to give her whole heart away and without any reserve, has also taught her to bestow it with