"We were expecting you--as father had received your letter; but not
to-day. Papa said not before to-morrow. Permit me, cousin, to welcome
you to Jamaica." Herbert bowed profoundly. Again the young creole felt
her warm impulses painfully checked; and, blushing with embarrassment,
she stood in an attitude of indecision.
Herbert, whose heart had been melting like snow under a tropic sun, now
became sensible that he was committing a rudeness; which, so far from
being natural to him, was costing him a struggle to counterfeit.
Why should the sins of the father be visited on the child--and such a
child?
With a reflection kindred to this, the young man hastened to change his
attitude of cold reserve.
"Thanks for your kind welcome!" said he, now speaking in a tone of
affectionate frankness; "But, fair cousin, you have not told me your
name."
"Catherine--though I am usually addressed by the shorter synonym, Kate."
"Catherine! that is a family name with us. My fathers mother, and your
father's, too--our grandmamma--was a Catherine. Was it also your
mother's name?"
"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 ship? 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 assailed 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 coarse 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.