The Maroon Part 39

The conviction brought him to an abrupt halt, followed by a quick reflection. If not a human being, it must be a "duppy, or de debbil hisself!"

The evidence that it was one or the other had now become overpowering.

Quashie could resist it no longer.

"Duppy! Jumbe! de debbil!" cried he, as with chattering teeth, and eyeb.a.l.l.s protruding from their sockets, he shot off from the stump, and "streaked it" in the direction of Mount Welcome, as fast as a pair of trembling limbs were capable of carrying him.

Volume Two, Chapter VIII.

A SCARCITY OF TROUSERS.

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 un.o.bserved.

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 cla.s.sics.

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 un.o.bserved--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 pa.s.sed 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 antic.i.p.ated 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.

HERBERT IN THE HAPPY VALLEY.