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, resemble _me_."
"Cubina much darker in de colour ob him skin, missa."
"Ha! ha! that is not unlikely."
"Cubina same size--same shape--'zactly same shape."
"Then I should say that Cubina is a good shape; for, if I know anything
of what a man ought to be, that cousin of mine is the correct thing.
See those arms! they look as if he could drag down that great tamarind
with them! Gracious me! he appears as if he intended doing it! Surely,
he must be very impatient? And, after his coming so far, for papa to
keep him waiting in this fashion! I really think I should go down to
him myself. What is your opinion, Yola? Would it be wrong for me to go
and speak with him? He is my cousin."
"What am cousin, missa?"
"Why, cousin is--is--something like a brother--only not exactly--that
is--it's not quite the same thing."
"Brudder! Oh, missa! if he Yola brudder, she him speak; she care not
who be angry."
"True, Yola; and if he were my brother--alas! I have none--I should do
the same without hesitation. But with a cousin--that's different.
Besides, papa don't like this cousin of mine--for some reason or
another. I wonder what he can have against him. I can't see; and
surely it can be no reason for _my_ not liking him? And, surely, his
being my cousin is just why I should go down and talk to him.
"Besides," continued the young girl, speaking to herself rather than to
the maid, "he appears very, very impatient. Papa may keep him waiting--
who knows how long? since he is so taken up with this Mr Montagu
What's-his-name! Well, I may be doing wrong--perhaps papa will be
angry--perhaps he won't know anything about it! Right or wrong, I'll
go! I _shall_ go!"
So saying, the young Creole snatched a scarf from the fauteuil; flung it
over her shoulders; and, gliding from the chamber, tripped silently
along the passage that conducted towards the rear of the dwelling.
Volume One, Chapter XVIII.