The Maroon Part 17

"No; my mother was called Quasheba."

"Quasheba! that is a very singular name."

"Do you think so, cousin? I am sometimes called Quasheba myself--only by the old people of the plantation, who knew my mother. Lilly Quasheba they call me. Papa does not like it, and forbids them."

"Was your mother an Englishwoman?"

"Oh, no! she was born in Jamaica, and died while I was very young--too young to remember her. Indeed, cousin, I may say I never knew what it was to have a mother!"

"Nor I much, cousin Kate. My mother also died early. But are you my only cousin?--no sisters nor brothers?"

"Not one. Ah! I wish I had sisters and brothers!"

"Why do you wish that?"

"Oh, how can you ask such a question? For companions, of course."

"Fair cousin! I should think _you_ would find companions enough in this beautiful island."

"Ah! enough, perhaps; but none whom I like--at least, not as I think I should like a sister or brother. Indeed," added the young girl, in a reflective tone, "I sometimes feel lonely enough!"

"Ah!"

"Perhaps, now that we are to have guests, it will be different. Mr Smythje is very amusing."

"Mr Smythje! Who is he?"

"What! you do not know Mr Smythje? I thought that you and he came over in the same s.h.i.+p? Papa said so; and that _you_ were not to be here until to-morrow. I think you have taken him by surprise in coming to-day. But why did you not ride out with Mr Smythje? He arrived here only one hour before you, and has just dined with us. I have left the table this moment, for papa and him to have their cigars. But, bless me, cousin! Pardon me for not asking--perhaps _you_ have not dined yet?"

"No," replied Herbert, in a tone that expressed chagrin, "nor am I likely to dine here, to-day."

The storm of queries with which, in the simplicity of her heart, the young Creole thus a.s.sailed him, once more brought back that train of bitter reflections, from which her fair presence and sweet converse had for the moment rescued him. Hence the character of his reply.

"And why, cousin Herbert?" asked she, with a marked air of surprise.

"If you have not dined, it is not too late. Why not here?"

"Because,"--and the young man drew himself proudly up--"I prefer going without dinner to dining where I am not welcome. In Mount Welcome, it seems, I am _not_ welcome."

"Oh, cousin--!"

The words, and the appealing accent, were alike interrupted. The door upon the landing turned upon its hinge, and Loftus Vaughan appeared in the doorway.

"Your father?"

"My father!"

"Kate!" cried the planter, in a tone that bespoke displeasure, "Mr Smythje would like to hear you play upon the harp. I have been looking for you in your room, and all over the house. What are you doing out there?"

The language was coa.r.s.e and common--the manner that of a vulgar man flushed with wine.

"Oh, papa! cousin Herbert is here. He is waiting to see you."

"Come you here, then! Come at once. Mr Smythje is waiting for you."

And with this imperious rejoinder Mr Vaughan reentered the house.

"Cousin! I must leave you."

"Yes; I perceive it. One more worthy than I claims your company. Go!

Mr Smythje is impatient."

"It is papa."

"Kate! Kate! are you coming? Haste, girl! haste, I say!"

"Go, Miss Vaughan! Farewell!"

"Miss Vaughan? Farewell?" Mystified and distressed by those strange-sounding words, the young girl stood for some seconds undecided, but the voice of her father again came ringing along the corridor--now in tones irate and commanding. Obedience could no longer be delayed; and, with a half-puzzled, half-reproachful glance at her cousin, she reluctantly parted from his presence.

Volume One, Chapter XIX.

A SURLY RECEPTION.

After the young Creole had disappeared within the entrance, Herbert remained in a state of indecision as to how he should act.

He no longer needed an interview with his uncle, for the sake of having an explanation. This new slight had crowned his convictions that he was there an unwelcome guest; and no possible apology could now retrieve the ill-treatment he had experienced.

He would have walked off on the instant without a word; but, stung to the quick by the series of insults he had received, the instinct of retaliation had sprung up within him, and determined him to stay--at all events, until he could meet his relative face to face, and reproach him with his unnatural conduct. He was recklessly indifferent as to the result.

With this object, he continued in the kiosk--his patience being now baited with the prospect of that slight satisfaction.

He knew that his uncle might not care much for what he should say: it was not likely such a nature would be affected by reproach.

Nevertheless, the proud young man could not resist the temptation of giving words to his defiance--as the only means of mollifying the mortification he so keenly felt.

The tones of a harp, vibrating through the far interior of the dwelling, faintly reached the kiosk; but they fell on his ear without any soothing effect. Rather did they add to his irritation: for he could almost fancy the music was meant to mock him in his misery.

But no; on second thoughts, that could not be. Surely, that sweet strain was not intended to tantalise him. He caught the air. It was one equally appropriate to the instrument and to his own situation. It was the "Exile of Erin."

Presently a voice was heard accompanying the music--a woman's voice-- easily recognisable as that of Kate Vaughan.

He listened attentively. At intervals he could hear the words. How like to his own thoughts!

"'Sad is my fate,' said the heart-broken stranger; 'The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine and danger-- A home and a country remain not to me!'"

Perhaps the singer intended it as a song of sympathy for him? It certainly exerted an influence over his spirits, melting him to a degree of tenderness.

Not for long, however, did this feeling continue. As the last notes of the lay died away in the distant corridor, the rough baritones of the planter and his guest were heard joining in loud laughter--perhaps some joke at the expense of himself, the poor exile?

Shortly after, a heavy footstep echoed along the pa.s.sage. The door opened; and Herbert perceived it was his uncle, who had at length found time to honour him with an interview.