Thus had the chapter of accidents that conducted Herbert Vaughan to the
penn of Jacob Jessuron been brought to a very unexpected termination.
But the end was not yet. There was more to come--much more.
Herbert was surprised at the turn things had taken. The only
explanation he could think of was, that it was to his uncle's name he
was indebted for the honours that were being done to him--a mere
neighbourly feeling of the penn-keeper for the great sugar-planter.
"They are friends," thought Herbert, "and this kindness to me is the
offspring of that friendship."
The reflection did not give him pleasure, but the contrary. He felt
himself in an awkward position--the recipient of a hospitality not meant
for himself, but rather for one who had injured him; and who, although
his own relative, he now regarded as his enemy.
His uncle would hear of it--no doubt, soon--and would be able to accuse
him of taking advantage of his name. The thought caused Herbert a
feeling of uneasiness.
Perhaps he would have cared less had there been no one but his uncle to
be cognisant of the false position. But there was. His short and
troubled visit to Mount Welcome had made Herbert Vaughan acquainted with
one whose remembrance was likely for a long time to exert an influence
over his thoughts--even though lips as red, and eyes, perhaps, as
brilliant as hers, were now smiling courteously upon him.
The memory of his cousin Kate was still mellow. He could fancy her
soft, sweet voice yet ringing in his ears; the warm glow of her virgin
presence seemed hanging like a halo around him: all urging him to
preserve the heroism of his character, if only for the sake of standing
well in her estimation.
Influenced by these considerations, he resolved to throw off the mask
with which circumstances had momentarily invested him, and declare the
true position in which he stood to his haughty relative.
It was not until the conclusion of the dinner--after the daughter of his
host had retired smilingly from the table--that the young Englishman
unburdened himself. Then--perhaps a little prompted by the wine--he
made a full confession of the disagreeable circumstances existing
between himself and the master of Mount Welcome.
Was it the wine--somewhat freely pressed upon him--that hindered him
from perceiving the displeasure which his communication had produced
upon his hearer? Was there any show of displeasure?
If there was, Herbert did not perceive it.
On the contrary, had the young man been closely observant, he might have
noticed an effect of altogether an opposite character. Behind the green
goggles, he might have seen those deep dark Israelitish eyes sparkling
with joy at the revelation he had made.
"I'm exsheedingly sorry, young Mashter Vochan," said the Jew, after his
surprise at Herbert's revelations had apparently subsided--"exsheedingly
sorry I ish--to hear that you and your uncle are not on good terms. Ah!
well; we mush hope for the besht; and ash I am one of Mishter Vochan's
humble friendsh, possibly I might do somethingsh to reconshile your
little quarrel. Doosh you not intend going back to Mount Welcome?"
"Never. After what has passed, never!"
"Ach! yoush musht not be too revengeful. Mishter Vochan ish a proud
man; and I musht say he hash behaved badly--very badly; but still he ish
your uncle."
"He has not acted as such."
"That ish true--very true--thish fine gentleman you shpeak of--shtill,
that ish no reason why Mishter Vochan should treat hish own nephew so
shabby. Well, well--I am sorry--exsheedingly sorry. But, Mashter
Herbert," continued the penn-keeper, interrogating his guest with
evident interest, "what _dosh_ you intend to do? I supposhe you hash
monish of your own?"
"I am sorry to say, Mr Jessuron, I have not."
"No monish at all!"
"Not a shilling," affirmed Herbert, with a careless laugh.
"That _ish_ bad. Where dosh you think of going--since you shay you will
not return to Mount Welcome?"
"Well," said Herbert, still preserving his air of jocularity, "I was
making for the port again, when your worthy overseer and his friends
intercepted me--luckily, I may say: since, but for their intervention, I
should in all likelihood have gone without dinner to-day--at all events,
I should not have dined so sumptuously."
"A wretched dinner, Mashter Vochan--a misherable dinner to what your
uncle could have given you. I'm but a poor humble man compared with the
Cushtos; but what I hash ish at your service any time."
"Thanks!" said Herbert. "I know not, Mr Jessuron, how I shall ever
repay you for your hospitality. I must not tax it any longer, however.
I see, by the sun, it is time I should be making for the Bay."
As Herbert spoke, he was rising to take his departure.
"Shtop, shtop!" cried his host, pushing him back into his chair; "not
to-night, Mashter Vochan, not thish night. I can't promish you ash fine
a bed as yoush might get at Mount Welcome, but I think I can give you a
better ash you shleep in lash night--ha, ha! You musht stay with ush
thish night; and Shoodith will make you some music. Don't shay a word;
I takesh no refushal."
The offer was a tempting one; and, after some further pressure, Herbert
acquiesced in it. He was partly influenced to stay where he was, by the
poor prospect of a lodging which the Bay afforded him; and, perhaps, a
little from a desire to hear the promised music.
The conversation was continued, by his host putting some further
interrogatories:--How did Herbert intend to employ himself in the Bay?
What prospect had he of employment; and in what line?
"I fear not much in any _line_," replied the young man, answering both
questions in one, and in a tone of sarcastic despondence.
"Hash you no profeshion?"
"Alas, no!" replied Herbert. "It was intended by my father I should
have one; but he died before my education was completed; and my
college--as is too often the case--has taught me little more than a
knowledge of dead languages."
"No ushe--no ushe whatever," rejoined the intelligent Israelite.
"I can draw a landscape," pursued the young man, modestly, "or paint a
portrait tolerably well, I believe--my father himself taught me these
accomplishments."
"Ah! Mashter Vochan, neither ish of the shlightest ushe here in
Shamaica. If you could paint a house, or a waggon, or a shopkeeper'sh
sign, it would bring you more monish than to make the likeneshes of
every face in the island. What saysh you to the situation of
book-keeper?"
"Unfortunately, I know nothing of accounts. The very useful science of
book-keeping I have not been taught."
"Ha! ha! ha!" replied Jessuron, with an encouraging chuckle, "you ish
what we, in Shamaica, call _green_, Mashter Vochan. You musht know that
a book-keeper here hash no books to keep. He doesh not even put a pen
to paper."
"How is that, Mr Jessuron? I have heard the statement before, though I
did not comprehend what was meant by it."
"Then I musht explain, Mashter Vochan. There ish a law here which makes
all proprietors of shlaves keep a white man on hish estate for every
fifty blacksh. A very shilly law it ish; but it ish a law. Theesh
white supernumeraries are called book-keepers: though, ash I've told
you, they keepsh no books. Now you understand what it meansh."
"Then, what duties do they perform?"
"Oh! that depends on circumshtances. Some look after the shlaves, and
some do thish and some that. But, egad! now I think of it, Mashter
Vochan, I am myshelf in need of a book-keeper. I have joosh bought a
new lot of blacksh, and I musht not break the law. I am ushed to give
my book-keepers fifty poundsh a-year, currenshy; but if you would be
content to accept such a berth, I would make the salary--on account of
your uncle--a hundred poundsh a-year. You would also be found in
everything elshe. What dosh you shay, Mashter Vochan?"
This unexpected proposal on the part of the penn-keeper, caused his
guest to hesitate and reflect.
Not long, however. His forlorn, homeless situation presented itself too
forcibly to his mind, to keep him long in doubt as to what answer he
should make.
Suffice it to say, that the offer--which to the young Englishman
appeared only too generous--was accepted; and from that hour the Happy
Valley became his home.
Volume One, Chapter XXXII.