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 _degout_; or at least of indifference.
In truth, the Londoner had made a most unfortunate _debut_. 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 unable to keep
up the conversation, an ominous silence succeeded.
The sound of the hoofs ceased to be heard. The pony, having arrived
under the windows, had been brought to a halt.
Then there were voices--earnest and rather loud. They were succeeded by
the noise of footsteps on the stone stairway. Someone was coming up the
steps.
Mr Vaughan looked aghast. All his fine plans were about to be
frustrated. There was a hitch in the programme--Quashie had failed in
the performance of _his_ part.
"Aha!" ejaculated the planter, with returning delight, as the smooth,
trim countenance of his overseer made its appearance above the landing.
"Mr Trusty wishes to speak with me. Your pardon, Mr Smythje--only for
one moment."
Mr Vaughan rose from his seat, and hastened, as if wishing to meet the
overseer, before the latter could enter the room. Trusty, however, had
already stepped inside the doorway; and, not being much of a
diplomatist, had bluntly declared his errand--in _sotto voce_, it is
true, but still not low enough to hinder a part of his communication
from being heard. Among other words, the phrase "your nephew" reached
the ears of Kate--at that moment keenly bent to catch every sound.
The reply was also partially heard, though delivered in a low and
apparently tremulous voice:--"Show him--summer-house--garden--tell him
to wait--there presently."
Mr Vaughan turned back to the table with a half-satisfied air. He was
fancying that he had escaped from his dilemma, at least, for the time;
but the expression which he perceived on the countenance of his daughter
restored his suspicions that all was not right.
Scarce a second was he left in doubt, for almost on the instant, Kate
cried out, in a tone of pleased surprise,--
"Oh, papa, what do I hear? Did not Mr Trusty say something about `your
nephew'? After all, has cousin come? Is it he who--"
"Kate, my child," quickly interrupted her father, and appearing not to
have understood her interrogatory, "you may retire to your room. Mr
Smythje and I would like to have our cigar; and the smoke of tobacco
don't agree with you. Go, child--go!"
The young girl instantly rose from her chair, and hastened to obey the
command--notwithstanding the protestations of Mr Smythje, who looked as
if he would have much preferred her company to the cigar.
But her father hurriedly repeated the "Go, child--go!" accompanying the
words with another of those severe glances which had already awed and
mystified her.
Before she had passed fairly out of the great hall, however, her
thoughts reverted to the unanswered interrogatory; and as she crossed
the threshold of her chamber, she was heard muttering to herself:
"I wonder if cousin be come!"
Volume One, Chapter XVI.