Майн Рид
The Maroon

Volume One – Chapter Thirty Two
A Plotting Parent

Jacob Jessuron was never known to be generous without expecting some reward. Never did he fling out a sprat without the expectation of catching a salmon.

What object had he in view in thus becoming the patron and protector of the young Englishman – an outcast adventurer, apparently incapable of making him any return? Why such liberal conditions unasked, and to all appearance unmerited – for, to say the truth, Herbert Vaughan was not the stuff for a slave-driver, a term almost synonymous with that of book-keeper.

No doubt the Jew had some deep scheme; but in this, as in most other matters, he kept his counsel to himself. Even his “precious Shoodith” was but half-initiated into his designs upon this special subject: though a conversation, which occurred between father and daughter, had placed before the latter some data calculated to assist her in guessing at them.

The date of this dialogue was upon the morning after Herbert’s arrival at the penn.

“Show the young man every kindness, Shoodith dear! Don’t shpare pains to pleashe him.”

“Why particularly him, my worthy parent?”

“Hush! mine Shoodith! Shpeak low, for the luf of Gott! Don’t let him hear you talk in that shtyle. Theesh young Englishmen are not ushed to our ways. I hash a reason for being friendly to him.”

“What! because he is the nephew of Vanity Vaughan? Is that your reason, rabbi?”

“I shay, shpeak low! He’s in his shleeping room, and may hear you. A single word like that you shay might shpoil all my plans.”

“Well, father, I’ll talk in whispers, if you like. But what are your plans? You’ll let me know them, I suppose?”

“I will, Shoodith, but not shoost now. I hash an idea, mine daughter – a grand idea, it ish! And if all goes right, you, Shoodith, will be the richest woman in Shamaica.”

“Oh, I have no objection to that – to be the richest woman in Jamaica, with a prince for my footman! Who won’t envy Judith Jessuron, the daughter of the slave-merchant?”

“Shtay! a word about that, Shoodith dear. In hish presence we musht say as little ash possible upon the subject of shlaves. He musht see no shlave-whipping here – at leasht till he gets ushed to it. Ravener musht be told to behave himshelf. I knowsh of more than one young Englishmans who left his place joosh for that very thing. He needn’t go among the field handsh at all. I’ll take care of that. But, dearest Shoodith! everything depends on you; and I knowsh you can, if you will.”

“Can what, worthy father?”

“Make this young fellow satishfied to shtay with ush.”

The look which accompanied these words betokened some other meaning, than what they might have literally conveyed.

“Well,” replied Judith, affecting to understand them literally, “I fancy there will not be much difficulty about that. If he’s as poor as you say, he’ll only be too well pleased to get a good situation, and keep it, too, I should think.”

“I’sh not so sure about that. He’sh a young man of a proud spirit. That ish proved by hish leaving his uncle ash he has done – without a shilling in hish pocket – and then to defy the Cushtos faysh to faysh! Blesh my soul! what a foolish young fellow he ish! He must be managed, Shoodith, dear – he must be managed; and you’re shoost the one to do it.”

“Why, father, to hear you talk, one would think that this poor young Englishman was a rich sugar estate – to be managed for some grand profit – ”

“Aha!” exclaimed the other, interrupting her; “maybe yesh – maybe he ish a rich sugar estate. We shee – we shee.”

“Now, had it been the grand guest of Mount Welcome,” continued Judith, without heeding the interruption; “had it been this lord of Montagu Castle that you wished me to manage,” – at the word the Jewess smiled significantly – “I might have come nearer comprehending you.”

“Ah! there is no schance there – no schance whatever, Shoodith.”

“No chance of what?” abruptly inquired the Jewess.

“Why, no schance of – that ish – ”

“Come, worthy rabbi, speak out! You needn’t be afraid to tell me of what you’re thinking: I know it already.”

“Of what wash I thinking, Shoodith?” The father put this question rather with a view to escape from an explanation. The daughter instantaneously answered,

“You were thinking, and I suppose still are, that I – your daughter, the child of an old nigger-dealer as you are – would have no chance with this aristocratic stranger who has arrived – this Mr Montagu Smythje. That’s your thought, Jacob Jessuron?”

“Well, Shoodith, dear! you know he ish to be the guesht of the Cushtos; and the Cushtos, ash I hash reason to know, hash an eye on him for his own daughter. Miss Vochan is thought a great belle, and it would be no ushe for ush to ashpire – ”

“She a belle!” exclaimed the Jewess, with a proud toss of her head, and a slight upturning of her beautiful spiral nostril; “she was not the belle of the last ball at the Bay – not she, indeed; and as for aspiring, the daughter of a slave-dealer is at least equal to the daughter of a slave – maybe a slave herself – ”

“Hush, Shoodith! not a word about that – not a whisper in the hearing of thish young man. You know he ish her cousin. Hush!”

“I don’t care if he was her brother,” rejoined the Jewess, still speaking in a tone of spiteful indignation – for Kate Vaughan’s beauty was Judith Jessuron’s especial fiend; “and if he were her brother,” continued she, “I’d treat him worse than I intend to do. Fortunately for him, he’s only her cousin; and as he has quarrelled with them all, I suppose – has he said anything of her?”

The interrogatory was put as if suggested by some sudden thought – and the questioner seemed to wait with considerable anxiety for the answer.

“Of hish cousin Kate, you mean?”

“Why, who should I mean!” demanded Judith, bluntly. “There is no other she in Mount Welcome the young fellow is likely to be talking about; nor you either – unless, indeed, you’ve still got that copper-coloured wench in your head. Of course, it’s Kate Vaughan I mean. What says he of her? He must have seen her – short as his visit seems to have been; and, if so, you must have talked about her last night – since you sat late enough to have discussed the whole scandal of the island.”

With all this freedom of verbiage, the Jewess seemed not to lose sight of the original interrogatory; and her frequent repetition of it was rather intended to conceal the interest with which she looked for the answer. If her words did not betray that interest, her looks certainly did: for, as she bent forward to listen, a skilled observer might have detected in her eyes that sort of solicitude which springs from a heart where the love-passion is just beginning to develop itself – budding, but not yet blooming.

“True, Shoodith, true,” admitted the slave-merchant, thus bantered by his own bold offspring. “The young man did shpeak of hish cousin; for I hash a wish to know what wash hish opinion of her, and ashked him. I wash in hopes he had quarrelled with her too; but, ach! no – he hashn’t – he hashn’t.”

“What might that signify to you?”

“Moch, moch, daughter Shoodith; a great deal.”

“You’re a mysterious old man, father Jacob; and, though I’ve been studying you for nearly a score of years, I don’t half understand you yet. But what did he say of Kate Vaughan? He saw her, I suppose?”

“Yesh. He had an interview with her. He saysh she behaved very kind to him. He’sh not angry with her. S’help me, no!”

This information appeared to produce no very pleasant impression upon the Jewess; who, with her eyes downcast upon the floor, remained for some moments in a thoughtful attitude.

“Father,” she said, in a tone half serious, half in simplicity, “the young fellow has got a bit of blue ribbon in his button-hole. You have noticed it, I suppose? I am curious to know what he means by wearing that. Is it an order, or what? Did he tell you?”

“No. I notished it; but, ash he shayed nothings about it, I did not ashk him. It’sh no order – nothing of the kind. His father was only a poor artisht.”

“I wonder where he procured that piece of ribbon?” said Judith, speaking in a low tone, and half in soliloquy.

“You can ashk him for yourself, Shoodith. There ish no harm in that.”

“No, not I,” answered Judith, suddenly changing countenance, as if ashamed of having shown the weakness of curiosity. “What care I for him, or his ribbon?”

“No matter for that, Shoodith, dear; no matter for that, if yoush can make him care for you.”

“Care for me! What, father! do you want him to fall in love with me?”

“Joosh that – joosh so.”

“For what reason, pray?”

“Don’t ash know. I hash a purpose. You shall know it in good time, Shoodith. You make him in luff with you – over head and earsh, if you like.”

The counsel did not appear averse to her who received it. Anything but displeasure was in her looks as she listened to it.

“But what,” asked she, after a reflective pause, and laughing as she spake, “what if, in luring him, I should myself fall into the lure? They say that the tarantula is sometimes taken in its own trap.”

“If you succeed in catching your fly, mine goot shpider Shoodith, that won’t signify. So much the better ish that. But fusht catch your fly. Don’t let go the shtrings of your heart, till you hash secured hish; and then you may do as you pleashe about falling in luff with him. Hush! I hear him coming from hish shamber. Now, Shoodith dear, show him every reshpect. Shower on him your sweetest of shmiles!”

And terminating the dialogue with this parental injunction, Jacob Jessuron walked off to conduct his guest into the great hall.

“Ah! worthy father!” said Judith, looking after him with a singular expression upon her countenance, “for once, you may find me a dutiful daughter; though not for you or your purpose – whatever that may be. I have my suspicion of what it is. No: not for that either – grand destiny as it might be deemed. There is something grander still – a passion perilous to play with; and just for that peril shall I play with it. Ha – he comes! How proud his step! He looks the master, and yon old Israelite his overseer – his book-keeper – ha! ha! ha!”

“Ach!” she exclaimed, suddenly checking her laughter, and changing her smile to a frown; “the ribbon! he wears it still! What can it mean? No matter now! Ere long I shall unravel the skein of its silken mystery – even if this heart should be torn in the attempt!”

Volume One – Chapter Thirty Three
Another of the Same

On that same morning, and about the same hour, a scene of remarkable parallelism was passing at Mount Welcome. Loftus Vaughan was holding dialogue with his daughter, as Jacob Jessuron with Judith – the subject very similar – the motives of planter and penn-keeper equally mean.

“You have sent for me, papa?” said Kate, entering the great hall in obedience to a summons from her father.

“Yes, Catherine,” replied Mr Vaughan, in a tone of unwonted gravity.

The grave tone was not needed. The “Catherine” was enough to tell Kate that her father was in one of his serious moods: for it was only when in this vein, that he ever pronounced her baptismal name in full.

“Sit down there,” he proceeded, pointing to a fauteuil in front of where he was himself seated. “Sit down, my daughter, and listen: I have something of importance to say to you.”

The young lady obeyed in silence, and not without a little of that reluctant gaucherie which patients display when seating themselves in front of a physician, or a naughty child composing itself to listen to the parental lecture.

The natural gaiety of “Lilly Quasheba” was not easily restrained; and though the unusual gravity depicted in her father’s face might have checked it, the formality with which he was initiating the interview had an opposite effect. At the corners of her pretty little mouth might have been observed something that resembled a smile.

Her father did observe something that resembled it.

“Come, Catherine!” said he, reprovingly, “I have called you out to talk over a serious matter. I expect you to listen seriously, as becomes the subject.”

“Oh! papa, how can I be serious, till I know the subject? You are not ill, I hope?”

“Tut, no – no. It has nothing to do with my health – which, thank Providence, is good enough – nor yours neither. It is our wealth, not our health, that is concerned – our wealth, Catherine!”

The last phrase was uttered with emphasis, and in a confidential way, as if to enlist his daughter’s sympathies upon the subject.

“Our wealth, papa? I hope nothing has happened? You have had no losses?”

“No, child,” replied Mr Vaughan, now speaking in a fond, parental tone; “nothing of the sort, thanks to fortune, and perhaps a little to my own prudence. It is not losses I am thinking about, but gains.”

“Gains!”

“Ay, gains – gains, Catherine, which you can assist me in obtaining.”

“I, papa? How could I assist you? I know nothing of business – I am sure I know nothing.”

“Business! ha! ha! It’s not business, Kate. The part which you will have to play will be one of pleasure – I hope so, at least.”

“Pray tell me what it is, papa! I am sure I’m fond of pleasure at all times – everybody knows that.”

“Catherine!” said her father, once more adopting the grave tone, “do you know how old you are?”

“Certainly, papa! at least, what I have been told. Eighteen – just past last birthday.”

“And do you know what young girls should, and generally do, think about, when they come to be of that age?”

Kate either affected or felt profound ignorance of the answer she was expected to make.

“Come!” said Mr Vaughan, banteringly, “you know what I mean, Catherine?”

“Indeed, papa, I do not. You know I keep no secrets from you; you taught me not. If I had any, I would tell them to you.”

“I know you’re a good girl, Kate. I know you would. But that is a sort of secret I should hardly expect you to declare – even to me, your father.”

“Pray what is it, papa?”

“Why, at your age, Kate, most girls – and it is but right and natural they should – take to thinking about a young man.”

“Oh! that is what you mean! Then I can answer you, papa, that I have taken to thinking about one.”

“Ha!” ejaculated Mr Vaughan, in a tone of pleased surprise; “you have, have you?”

“Yes, indeed,” answered Kate, with an air of the most innocent naïveté. “I have been thinking of one – and so much, that he is scarce ever out of my mind.”

“Ha!” said the Custos, repeating his exclamation of surprise, and rather taken aback by a confession so unexpectedly candid. “Since how long has this been, my child?”

“Since how long?” rejoined Kate, musingly.

“Yes. When did you first begin to think of this young man?”

“Oh! the day before yesterday, after dinner – ever since I first saw him, father.”

“At dinner you first saw him,” said Mr Vaughan, correcting his daughter. “But, no matter for that,” he continued, gleefully rubbing his hands together, and not noticing the puzzled expression upon Kate’s countenance. “It might be, that you did not think of him in the first moments of your introduction. It’s not often people do. A little bashfulness has to be got over. And so then, Kate, you like him now – you think you like him now?”

“Oh! father, you may be sure I do – better than any one I ever saw – excepting yourself, dear papa.”

“Ah! my little chit, that’s a different sort of liking – altogether different. The one’s love – the other is but filial affection – each very well in its place. Now, as you’re a good girl, Kate, I have a bit of pleasant news for you.”

“What is it, papa?”

“I don’t know whether I should tell you or not,” said the Custos, playfully patting his daughter upon the cheek; “at least, not now, I think. It might make you too happy.”

“Oh, papa! I have told you what you wished me; and I see it has made you happy. Surely you will not conceal what you say will do the same for me? What is the news?”

“Listen, then, Kate!”

Mr Vaughan bending forward, as if to make his communication more impressive, pronounced in a whisper: —

“He reciprocates your feeling —he likes you!”

“Father, I fear he does not,” said the young Creole, with a serious air.

“He does – I tell you so, girl. He’s over head and ears in love with you. I know it. In fact, I saw it from the first minute. A blind man might have perceived it; but then a blind man can see better than a young lady that’s in love. Ha! ha! ha!”

Loftus Vaughan laughed long and loudly at the jest he had so unexpectedly perpetrated: for at that moment he was in the very mood for merriment. His dearest dream was about to be realised. Montagu Smythje was in love with his daughter. That he knew before. Now his daughter had more than half admitted – in fact, quite confessed – that she liked Smythje; and what was liking but love?

“Yes, Kate,” said he, as soon as his exultation had to some extent subsided, “you are blind, you little silly – else you might have seen it before. His behaviour would show how much he cares for you.”

“Ah! father, I think that his behaviour would rather show that he cares not for either of us. He is too proud to care for any one.”

“What! too proud? Nonsense! it’s only his way. Surely he has not shown anything of that to you, Kate?”

“I cannot blame him,” continued the young girl, still speaking in a serious tone. “The fault was not his. Your treatment of him, father – you must not be angry at me for telling you of it – now that I know all, dear papa – was it not enough to make him act as he has done?”

“My treatment of him!” cried the Custos, with a self-justifying, but puzzled look. “Why, child, you rave! I could not treat him better, if I was to try ever so. I have done everything to entertain him, and make him feel at home here. As to what he has done, it’s all nonsense about his pride: at least, with us he has shown nothing of the kind. On the contrary, he is acting admirably throughout the whole matter. Certainly, no man could behave with more politeness to you than Mr Smythje is doing?”

“Mr Smythje!”

The entrance of this gentleman at the moment prevented Mr Vaughan from noticing the effect which the mention of his name had produced: an unexpected effect, as might have been seen by the expression which Kate’s features had suddenly assumed.

But for that interruption – hindering the éclaircissement which, no doubt, his daughter would on the instant have made – Mr Vaughan might have sat down to breakfast with his appetite considerably impaired.

His guest requiring all his attention, caused him to withdraw suddenly from the dialogue; and he appeared neither to have heard the exclamatory repetition of Smythje’s name, nor the words uttered by Kate in a lower tone, as she turned towards the table: —

“I thought it was Herbert!”

Volume One – Chapter Thirty Four
A Sweetheart Expected

The departure of the young Englishman, under the conduct of Quaco, was a signal for the black band to disperse.

At a word from their chief, they broke up into knots of two or three individuals each; and went off in different directions – disappearing amid the underwood as silently as they had emerged from it.

Cubina alone remained in the glade, the captured runaway cowering upon a log beside him.

For some minutes, the Maroon captain stood resting upon his gun – which one of his followers had brought up – his eyes fixed upon the captive. He appeared to be meditating what course he should pursue in relation to the unfortunate slave; and the shadow upon his countenance told that some thought was troubling him.

The Maroon captain felt himself in a dilemma. His duty was in conflict with his desires. From the first, the face of the captive had interested him; and now that he had time to scan it more narrowly, and observe its noble features, the idea of delivering him up to such a cruel master, as he whose initials he bore upon his breast, became all the more repugnant.

Duty demanded him to do so. It was the law of the land – one of the terms of the treaty by which the Maroons were bound – and disobedience to that law would be certain to meet with punishment stringent and severe.

True, there was a time when a Maroon captain would have held obedience to this law more lightly; but that was before the conquest of Trelawney town – or rather its traitorous betrayal – followed by the basest banishment recorded among men.

That betrayal had brought about a change. The Maroons who had avoided the forced exile, and still remained in the mountain fastnesses, though preserving their independence, were no longer a powerful people – only a mere remnant, whose weakness rendered them amenable, not only to the laws of the island, but to the tyranny and caprice of such planter-justices as might choose to persecute them.

Such was the position of Cubina and his little band, who had established themselves in the mountains of Trelawney.

With the Maroon captain, therefore, it was a necessity as well as a duty, to deliver up the runaway captive. Failing to do so, he would place his own liberty in peril. He knew this, without the threat which Ravener had fulminated in such positive terms.

His interest also lay in the line of his duty. This also he could understand. The captive was a prize for which he would be entitled to claim a reward – the bounty.

Not for a moment was he detained by this last consideration. The prospect of the reward would have had no weight with him whatever; it would not even have cost him a reflection, but that, just then, and for a very singular purpose, Cubina required money.

This purpose was revealed in a soliloquy that at that moment escaped from his lips.

“Crambo!” he muttered, using an exclamation of the Spanish tongue, still found in a corrupted form among the Maroons; “if it wasn’t that I have to make up the purchase-money of Yola —Por Dios! he is as like to Yola as if he was her brother! I warrant he is of the same nation – perhaps of her tribe. Two or three times he has pronounced the word Foolah. Besides, his colour, his shape, his hair – all like hers. No doubt of it, he’s a Foolah.”

The last word was uttered so loud as to reach the ear of the runaway.

“Yah! Foolah, Foolah!” he exclaimed, turning his eyes appealingly upon his captor. “No slave – no slave!” added he, striking his hand upon his breast as he repeated the words.

“Slave! no slave!” echoed the Maroon, with a start of surprise; “that’s English enough. They’ve taught him the ugly word.”

“Foolah me – no slave!” again exclaimed the youth, with a similar gesture to that he had already made.

“Something curious in this,” muttered the Maroon, musingly. “What can he mean by saying he is no slave – for that is certainly what he is trying to say? Slave he must be; else how did he get here? I’ve heard that a cargo has been just landed, and that the old Jew got most or all of them. This young fellow must be one of that lot. Very likely he’s picked up the words aboard ship. Perhaps he is speaking of what he was in his own country. Ah, poor devil! he’ll soon find the difference here!

“Santos Dios!” continued the Maroon, after a pause, in which he had been silently regarding the countenance of the newly-arrived African. “It’s a shame to make a slave of such as he – a hundred times more like a freeman than his master. Poor fellow! it’s a hard row he’ll have to hoe. I feel more than half-tempted to risk it, and save him from such a fate.”

As this half-determination passed through the mind of the Maroon, a noble and proud expression came over his features.

“If they had not seen him in my possession;” he continued to reflect; “but the overseer and those Spanish poltroons know all, and will – Well, let them! – at all events I shall not take him back till I’ve seen Yola. No doubt she can talk to him. If he’s Foolah she can. We’ll hear what he’s got to say, and what this ‘no slave’ means.”

On saying this, the speaker turned his eyes upward; and appeared for some moments to scan the sun.

“Good,” he exclaimed. “It is near the hour. I may expect her at any moment. Oh! I must have him out of sight, and these dead dogs, too, or my timid pet will be frayed. There’s been so much doing about here – blood and fire – she will scarcely know the old trysting-place. Hark you, Foolah! Come this way, and squat yourself in here till I call you out again.”

To the runaway the gestures of his captor were more intelligible than his words. He understood by them that he was required to conceal himself between the buttresses of the ceiba; and, rising from the log, he readily obeyed the requisition.

The Maroon captain seized the tail of one of the dead bloodhounds; and, after trailing the carcase for some distance across the glade, flung it into a covert of bushes.

Returning to the ceiba, in a similar manner he removed the other; and then, once more cautioning the runaway to remain silent in his concealment, he awaited the approach of her who had given him assignation.