The Maroon. Reid Mayne

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 just neat time for the valet to unpack the ample valises and portmanteaus, and dress his master for the table.

      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.

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