Following his gigantic guide, Mr Smythje trudged unhappily homeward.
How different his craven, crestfallen look, from the swell, swaggering
sportsman of the morning! while the condition of his person was not more
dilapidated than that of his spirit.
It was no longer the disgrace of returning with an empty game-bag, but
the chagrin which he expected to have to undergo, presenting himself at
Mount Welcome in the "pickle" in which his adventure had left him.
He was now even in a more ludicrous plight than when Quaco had extracted
him from the hollow tree: for the rain, that had long since ceased, had
been succeeded by a blazing hot sun, and the atmosphere acting upon what
remained of his wet fawn-skin trousers, caused them to shrink until the
ragged edges had crept up to mid-thigh; thus leaving a large section of
thin knock-kneed legs between them and the tops of his boots!
In truth, the sportsman had become the _beau ideal_ of a "guy"; and,
more than half conscious of this fact, he would at that moment have
given the situation of book-keeper on his estate to any individual who
should have presented him with a pair of pantaloons.
His guide could do nothing for him. In the line of inexpressibles Quaco
was no better provided than himself.
Verily, the prospect was appalling!
Could he reach the house, and steal to his own chamber unseen? What
chance was there of his doing so?
On reflection, not much. Mount Welcome, like all other mansions in
Jamaica, was a cage--open on every side. It was almost beyond the
bounds of probability that he could enter the house unobserved.
Still, he could try, and on the success of that trial rested his only
hope. Oh, for that grand secret known only to the jealous Juno--the
secret of rendering one's-self invisible! What would Smythje not have
given for a ten minutes' hire of that Carthaginian cloud?
The thought was really in his mind; for Smythje, like all young
Englishmen of good family, had studied the classics.
The idea, moreover, proved suggestive. If there was no probability of
being provided with the nimbus of Juno, there was the possibility of
shadowing himself under the nimbus of night. Darkness once on, he might
enter the house, reach his chamber unperceived, and thus escape the
unpleasant exposure he so much dreaded.
Smythje stopped, looked at his guide, looked at the sun, and lastly at
his naked knees--now, from the enfeebled state of his limbs, oscillating
towards each other.
Mount Welcome was in sight. The guide was about to leave him; and,
therefore, in whatever way he might choose to act, there would be no
witness.
Just then the Maroon made his adieus, and the _ci-devant_ sportsman was
left to himself.
Once more he scanned the sun, and consulted his watch. In two hours it
would be twilight. The crepusculous interval would enable him to
approach the house; and in the first moments of darkness--before the
lamps were lit--he _might_ enter unobserved--or, at all events, his
plight might not very plainly be perceived.
The scheme was feasible, and having determined to adopt it, Smythje
cowered down in the covert, and awaited the setting of the sun.
He counted the hours, the half-hours, and minutes--he listened to the
voices coming up from the negro village--he watched the bright-winged
birds that fluttered among the branches overhead, and envied them their
_complete_ plumage.
Notwithstanding many rare sights and sweet sounds that reached him, the
two hours spent in his secret lair were not passed pleasantly--
solicitude about the success of his scheme robbing him of all zest for
the enjoyment of that fair scene that surrounded him.
The hour of action drew nigh. The sun went down over the opposite
ridge, where lay Montagu Castle, his own domain. The twilight, like a
purple curtain, was gently drawn over the valley of Mount Welcome. It
was time to start.
Smythje rose to his feet; and, after making a _reconnoissance_ of the
ground before him, set off in the direction of the house.
He aimed at keeping as much as possible under cover of the woods; and
this he was enabled to do--the pimento groves on that side stretching
down to the shrubbery that surrounded the dwelling.
He had got past the negro village--keeping it upon his right--without
being observed. To both the "quarter" and the sugar works he gave as
wide a berth as the nature of the ground would permit.
He succeeded in reaching the platform on which the house stood--so far
unperceived.
But the moment of peril was not yet past. The dangerous ground still
lay before him, and had still to be traversed. This was the open
_parterre_ in front of the house: for it was to the front that the path
had conducted him.
It was dusk; and no one appeared--at least he could see no one--either
on the stair-landing or in the windows of the great hall. So far good.
A rush for the open doorway, and then on to his own chamber, where Thoms
would soon clothe him in a more becoming costume.
He started to make the rush, and had succeeded in getting half-way
across the _parterre_, when, all at once, a crowd of people, carrying
large flaming torches above their heads, appeared, coming from the rear
of the dwelling.
They were the domestics and some field hands of the plantation, with
Trusty, the overseer, at their head.
One might have fancied that they were setting out upon some ceremonious
procession; but their hurried advance, and the presence of Quashie
trotting in the lead, proclaimed a different purpose.
Smythje divined their errand. They were going in search of himself!
The sight filled him with despair. The torch-bearers had anticipated
him. They had already reached the front of the house, and the glare of
their great flambeaux illuminated every object, as if a new sun had
suddenly shot up athwart the sky!
There was no chance of successfully running the gauntlet under that
bright flame: Smythje saw not the slightest.
He stopped in his tracks. He would have retreated back among the
bushes, and there awaited the departure of the torch-bearers, but he
feared that his retrograde movement would attract their eyes upon him;
and then all would be over--his adventure terminating in the most
undesirable manner.
Instead of retreating, therefore, he stood where he had stopped--fixed
and immobile, as if pinned to the spot.
At that moment two figures appeared on the top of the stairway--in the
brilliant light easily recognisable as the planter and his daughter.
The maid Yola was behind them. Mr Vaughan had come out to give some
directions about the search.
All three stood facing the crowd of torch-bearers, and, of course,
fronting towards Smythje.
The planter was just opening his lips to speak, when a cry from the
maid, echoed by her young mistress, interrupted him. The sharp eyes of
the Foolah had fallen upon Smythje, whose wan, white face, shining under
the light of the links, resembled those of the statues that were set
over the _parterre_.
Smythje was among the shrubbery; and as the girl knew that no statue
stood there, the unexpected apparition had elicited her cry of alarm.
All eyes were instantly turned upon the spot, while the torch-bearers,
with Trusty at their head, hurried towards it.
There was no chance of escape. The unfortunate sportsman was discovered
and brought broadly into the light, under the fierce battery of eyes--
among others, the eyes of his lady-love, that, instead of expressing
sympathy for his forlorn condition, appeared rather to sparkle with
satirical delight!
It was a terrible catastrophe--to be contemplated in such a plight; and
Smythje, hurrying through the crowd, lost no time in withdrawing from
observation by betaking himself to his chamber; where, under the
consolatory encouragement of the sympathising Thoms, he was soon
rendered presentable.
Volume Two, Chapter IX.