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 passage. The door
opened; and Herbert perceived it was his uncle, who had at length found
time to honour him with an interview.
Though so joyous but the moment before, all traces of mirth had
disappeared from the countenance of Loftus Vaughan, when he presented
himself before the eyes of his nephew. His face, habitually red, was
fired with the wine he had been drinking to the hue of scarlet.
Nevertheless, an ominous mottling of a darker colour upon his broad
massive brow foretold the ungracious reception his relative was likely
to have at his hands.