"I believe so."
"And pray, sir, what errand has brought you out to Jamaica?"
"If you have received my letter, as I presume you have, it will have
answered that question."
"Oh, indeed!" exclaimed Mr Vaughan, with an attempt at cynicism, but
evidently taken down by the unexpected style of the reply. "And what,
may I ask, do you purpose doing here?"
"Have not the slightest idea," answered Herbert, with a provoking air of
independence. "Have you any profession?"
"Unfortunately, not any."
"Any trade?--I suppose not."
"Your suppositions are perfectly correct."
"Then, sir, how do you expect to get your bread?"
"Earn it, the best way I can."
"Beg it, more likely, as your father before you: all his life begging
it, and from me."
"In that respect I shall not resemble him. You would be the last man I
should think of begging from."
"S'death! sirrah, you are impertinent. This is fine language to me,
after the disgrace you have already brought upon me!"
"Disgrace?"
"Yes, sir, disgrace. Coming out here as a pauper, in the steerage of a
ship! And you must needs boast of your relationship--letting all the
world know that you are my nephew."
"Boast of the relationship!" repeated Herbert, with a smile of contempt.
"Ha! ha! ha! I suppose you refer to my having answered a question
asked me by this pretty jack-a-box you are playing with. Boast of it,
indeed! Had I known you then as well as I do now, I should have been
ashamed to acknowledge it!"
"After that, sir," shouted Mr Vaughan, turning purple with rage--"after
that, sir, no more words! You shall leave my house this minute."
"I had intended to have left it some minutes sooner. I only stayed to
have an opportunity of telling you what I think of you."
"What is that, sir? what is that?"
The angry youth had summoned to the top of his tongue a few of the
strongest epithets he could think of, and was about to hurl them into
his uncle's teeth, when, on glancing up, he caught sight of an object
that caused him to change his intention. It was the beautiful face of
the young creole, that appeared through the half-open lattice of the
window opposite. She was gazing down upon him and his uncle, and
listening to the dialogue with an anguished expression of countenance.
"He is _her_ father," muttered Herbert to himself; "for _her_ sake I
shall not say the words;" and, without making any reply to the last
interrogatory of his uncle, he strode out of the kiosk, and was walking
away.
"Stay, sir!" cried the planter, somewhat taken aback by the turn things
had taken. "A word before you go--if you _are_ going."
Herbert turned upon his heel and listened.
"Your letter informs me that you are without funds. It shall not be
said that a relative of Loftus Vaughan left his house penniless and
unprovided. In this purse there are twenty pounds currency of the
island. Take it; but on the condition that you say nothing of what has
occurred here; and, furthermore, that you keep to yourself that you are
the nephew of Loftus Vaughan."
Without saying a word, Herbert took the proffered purse; but, in the
next moment, the chink of the gold pieces was heard upon the gravel walk
as he dashed the bag at the feet of his uncle.
Then, turning to the astonished planter, and measuring him with a look
that scorned all patronage, he faced once more to the path, and walked
proudly away.
The angry "Begone, sir!" vociferated after him, was only addressed to
his back, and was altogether unheeded. Perhaps it was even unheard: for
the expression in the eyes of the young man told that at that moment his
attention was occupied elsewhere.
As he walked towards the house--with the design of going round it to get
upon the front avenue--his glance was directed upwards to the window
where that beautiful face had been just seen. The lattice was now
closed; and he endeavoured to pierce the sombre shadows behind it. The
face was no longer there. No eyes met his.
He glanced back towards the kiosk to see if he might linger a moment.
His uncle was in a bent attitude, gathering the scattered pieces of
gold. In this position the shrubbery concealed him.
Herbert was about to glide nearer to the window, and summon his cousin
by name, when he heard his own pronounced, in a soft whisper, and with
the endearing prefix "cousin."
Distinctly he heard "Cousin Herbert!" and as if spoken around the angle
of the building.
He hastened thither: for that was his proper path by which to arrive at
the front of the house.
On turning the wall, he looked up. He saw that another window opened
from the same chamber. Thence came the sweet summons, and there
appeared the fair face for which he was searching.
"Oh, cousin Herbert! do not go in anger! Papa has done wrong--very
wrong, I know; but he has been taking much wine--he is not--Good cousin,
you will pardon him?"