The midnight hour had passed ere the lovers forsook the solitude of the
Duppy's Hole.
From mingled motives Herbert had lingered on that wild spot. He feared
the dread development which he knew must take place on their return to
Mount Welcome. What a terrible blow to that young bosom, now in the
full enjoyment of earth's supremest happiness! He knew the fatal truth
could not loner be concealed; nevertheless, he was desirous of keeping
it back as long as possible--at least until his cousin had further
recovered from the shock which her spirit had that night sustained.
In concert with Cubina, he had spent some time in reflecting how this
temporary concealment might be effected.
Only one way suggested itself--to conduct his cousin to the house of the
overseer; there to remain until, as she might suppose, her rather could
receive the news of the conflagration that had occurred, and return home
again.
The young girl knew that the mansion was burnt down. Its blaze was
before her eyes when they ceased to see--lighting her ravisher along the
forest path. The roof that had sheltered her childhood was a ruin. She
knew all that.
It was therefore but natural that a temporary home should be sought
elsewhere, and in the house of the overseer. She could have no
suspicion of any design in their taking her thither.
Neither Herbert nor Cubina knew whether the corpse of the Custos had yet
reached its destination. Quaco, on hurriedly parting with it, had given
no orders, either to the bearers or the Maroons left in charge of the
two prisoners, to move forward.
The funeral _cortege_ might still be upon the road, where it had been
left by Herbert and Cubina.
If so, it might be possible for them to pass the ruined dwelling, and
reach the house of the overseer, without any news of the assassination
being communicated to her--the only one likely to be profoundly affected
by that dread disaster.
Once under the roof of Mr Trusty, means could be taken to keep silent
the tongues of those who should be brought in contact with her.
Such was the scheme, hastily concerted between Herbert and Cubina; and
which they now proceeded to execute, by conducting the young creole out
of the Duppy's Hole and commencing their descent towards the valley of
Mount Welcome.
Only the two accompanied her. The Maroons, under their lieutenant,
Quaco, remained behind; and for an important purpose--the capturing of
Chakra.
Cubina would himself have stayed, but for a certain impatience once more
to enjoy the company of his beloved Yola, who had been left among the
other domestics of the desolated establishment.
The Maroon captain had perfect confidence--both in the skill of his
lieutenant, and the courage of his followers. He could trust them for
an affair like that; and as he parted from the Duppy's Hole he had very
little doubt that by daybreak, or perhaps before that time, Chakra would
be the captive of Quaco.
Slowly Herbert and his cousin moved down the mountain. The moon, now
shining sweetly upon the perfumed path, favoured their descent; but
there was no need--no desire for haste. Cubina kept ahead, to secure
them from surprise or danger. The young girl walked side by side with
Herbert, leaning upon his arm--that strong arm, once so freely and
affectionately promised. The time had arrived when that offer was
accepted and welcomed--a proud time for the young Englishman--a happy
time, as he walked on, thrilled by the touch of that round arm softly
pressing his own--at times more heavily leaning upon him, not from any
physical weakness on the part of his companion, but rather out of the
pure fondness of her affection.
The strength of the young Creole had become almost restored--the effects
of the narcotic having completed disappeared. She had also recovered
from the prostration of spirit which it had produced--perhaps all the
sooner from the cheering presence of him who was by her side.
The terrible sufferings she had endured were succeeded by a happiness
tranquil and profound. She now knew that Herbert loved her: more than
once within the hour had he given her that sweet assurance.
On her part there was no coyness--not a shadow of coquetry. She had
responded to his vows by a full, free surrender of her heart.
And her hand? Was it still free?
Herbert sought an answer to this question as they passed onward--only
indirectly, and with all the delicacy that circumstances would permit.
Was it true, what he had heard, that a promise had been given to
Smythje?
With downcast eyes the young girl remained for some moments without
vouchsafing any reply. Her trembling arm betrayed the painful struggle
that was agitating her bosom.
Presently the storm appeared to have partially subsided. Her features
became fixed, as if she had resolved upon a confession; and in a firm,
but low, murmured voice, she made answer,--
"A promise! yes, Herbert, wrung from me in my darkest hour--then, when I
thought _you_ cared not for me--when I heard that you also had made such
promise--to another. Oh, Herbert! oh, cousin! believe me it was against
my will; it was forced from me by threats, by appeals--"
"Then it is not binding!" eagerly interrupted the lover. "There was no
oath--no betrothal between you? Even if there had been--"
"Even if there had been!" cried the young girl, repeating his words--the
hot Creole blood mounting suddenly to her cheeks, while her eyes
expressed a certain determination. "There was no oath. Even if there
had been, it could no longer bind me. No! After what has occurred this
night--in the hour of danger deserted by him--no, no! After that, I
could never consent to be the wife of Mr Smythje. Rather suffer the
charge of perjury, from which my own conscience would absolve me, than
to fulfil that promise. Rather shall I submit to the disinheritance
which my father threatens, and which upon his return he will doubtless
execute. Yes, death itself, rather than become the wife of a coward!"
"How little danger of that disinheritance!" thought Herbert. "How shall
I tell the fearful tidings? How reveal to her that she is at this
moment the mistress of Mount Welcome? Not yet--not yet!"
For a while the young man remained silent, scarce knowing how to
continue the conversation.
She noticed his air of thoughtful abstraction. It guided her to
unpleasant conjectures.
"Cousin! are you angry with me for what I have said? Do you blame me--"
"No--no!" cried Herbert, impressively; "far from it. By the conduct of
this man--woman, I should call him, were it not for disgracing the
name--by his behaviour to you, you would be released from the most
solemn of oaths--much more a mere promise given against your will. It
was not of that I was thinking."
"Of what, Herbert?"
As she put this question she leant towards him, and gazed into his eyes
with a look of troubled inquiry.
The young man was puzzled for a reply. His thoughtful silence was
evidently causing her uneasiness that each moment increased. Her
glances betokened some painful suspicion.
She did not wait for his answer; but, in a voice that trembled, put the
additional interrogative,--
"Have _you_ made a promise?"
"To whom?"
"Oh, Herbert! do not ask me to pronounce the name. You must know to
whom I allude."
Herbert was relieved by the interrogatory. It changed the current of
his thoughts, at the same time giving him a cue for something to say.
"Ha! ha!" laughed he; "I think, cousin, I comprehend you. A promise,
indeed! Nothing of the sort, I assure you; though, since _you_ have
been good enough to make confession, neither shall I conceal what has
passed between her to whom you refer and myself. There was no love
between us--at least, none upon my side, I can assure you, cousin. But,
I will confess that, stung by what I fancied was your coldness to me--
misled by a thousand reports, now happily found to be false--I had
nearly committed myself to the speaking of a word which no doubt I
should have rued throughout all the rest of my life. Thank fortune!
circumstances have saved me--saved us both, may I say?"
"Oh, happiness! Herbert--Herbert! then you will be mine--mine only?"
Yielding to the promptings of an all-absorbing passion, the young creole
gave utterance to this bold interrogatory.
"Dearest Kate!" replied the lover, half delirious with joy, "my heart is
yours--all yours. My hand--oh, cousin, I scarce dare to offer it! You
are rich--grand--and I--I poor--penniless--even without a home!"
"Alas! Herbert, you know not. Were I rich--ten times as rich as you,
believe me, you would be welcome to all. But no. Perhaps I may be poor
as yourself. Ah me! you do not know; but you shall. I shall conceal
nothing. Know, then, dearest cousin, that my mother was a quadroon, and
I am only a _mustee_. I cannot inherit my father's property, except by
will; and not even that till an act is obtained from the Assembly. That
is the errand upon which my father is gone. But whether he succeed or
not, matters not now. Too surely will he disinherit me; for never shall
I consent to become the wife of the man he has commanded me to many--
never!"
"Oh, cousin!" cried Herbert, enraptured by the emphatic tone in which
she had declared her determination, "if you consent to become mine, I
care not for your riches. Your heart is the wealth I covet--that will
be enough for me. What matters it even should we both be poor? I am
young. I can work. I can strive. We may yet find friends, or, if not,
we can do without them. Be mine!"
"Yours for any fate!--for life, Herbert! for life!"
Volume Three, Chapter XLIV.