"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!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Mr Vaughan, in a tone of pleased surprise; "you have, have you?"

"Yes, indeed," answered Kate, with an air of the most innocent _naivete_. "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, p.r.o.nounced 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 a.s.sumed.

But for that interruption--hindering the _eclairciss.e.m.e.nt_ which, no doubt, his daughter would on the instant have made--Mr Vaughan might have sat down to breakfast with his appet.i.te 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 repet.i.tion 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 x.x.xIV.

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 n.o.ble 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 ent.i.tled to claim a reward--the _bounty_.