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 p.r.o.nounce 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 a.s.sure you; though, since _you_ have been good enough to make confession, neither shall I conceal what has pa.s.sed between her to whom you refer and myself. There was no love between us--at least, none upon my side, I can a.s.sure 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!
circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sion, 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 a.s.sembly. 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.
AN ORPHAN.
These earnest utterances of love exchanged between the two cousins were suddenly interrupted. Sounds of woe broke upon the stillness of the night, and in the same place as before.
They had arrived within view of what was once the mansion of Mount Welcome.
Through the foliage that fringed the path, they could see glancing some remnants of red light, here and there flickering into a faint blaze.
Now and then, as they descended the slope, they had heard the crash of falling timbers, as they gave way under the wasting fire.
A murmur of human voices, too, had reached their ears; but only as of men engaged in an ordinary conversation; or, at all events, not exhibiting excitement beyond what might be expected at the _finale_ of such a scene as had there transpired.
All at once abruptly breaking upon this comparative tranquillity--at the same time interrupting the dialogue of the lovers--were heard utterances of a far different import: the cries of men, the screaming of women, shots, and loud shouting!
All these sounds appeared to proceed from the spot that but a few hours before had echoed to the clangour of a chorus equally diabolical in its accents.
Cubina, who had been moving some paces in advance, sprang instantly back upon the path; and, with troubled look, stopped in front of the lovers.
"What can it mean?" asked Herbert, equally showing signs of apprehension.
"The robbers! Master Vaughan! They have returned; but for what purpose I cannot guess. It must be they. I know that voice, louder than the rest. Do you hear it? "Tis the voice of the brigand Adam! _Crambo_!
I"ll silence it some day ere long--maybe, this very night. Hark!
there"s another, still louder and wilder. Ho! that, too, I can distinguish. It"s the h.e.l.lish shriek of Chakra!"
"But why should they have come again? They took everything a robber would care for. What can have brought them back? There is nothing--"
"There _is_!" cried Cubina, with a quick gesture, as though the solution had just then presented itself to his mind. "_There is Yola_!" As he said this he faced around, as if about to rush towards the fray, still strepitant--its noise rather on the increase.
For an instant he appeared to be undecided; though not from any fear of going forward.
No, it was another thought that had caused that indecision; which was soon made manifest by his words.
"Master Herbert Vaughan!" he exclaimed, in a tone of appeal; "I have helped you to rescue _your_ sweetheart. Mine is in danger!" The young Englishman stood in no need of this appeal. Already he had disengaged his arm from that of his cousin, and stood ready for action.
"Oh, Herbert!" cried the young girl, in wild accents of distress; "there is fearful danger! Oh, you must not go. Oh, do not leave me!"
Cubina looked as if regretting the challenge he had thrown out.
"Perhaps you had better not?" said he, with no sarcasm meant by the words. "There is danger, but you must not share it. Your life now belongs to another. I did not think of that, Master Vaughan."
"In the eyes of that other," replied Herbert, "my life would be worthless, as it would to myself, were I to play the poltroon. Brave Cubina! I cannot fail you now. Dear Kate! it is Yola who is in danger--Yola, to whom we are both indebted. But for her I should not have known that you loved me; and then we should both--"
"Ah! Yola in danger!" interrupted the young Creole, her affection for her maid half stifling the fear for her beloved. "Oh, Herbert! go if you will, but let me go with you. I should die if you returned not.
Yes, yes; if death comes to you, it shall be mine also. Herbert, do not leave me behind!"
"Only for a moment, Kate! I shall soon return. Fear not. With right on our side, the brave Cubina and I can conquer a score of these black robbers. We shall be back before you can count a hundred. There!