the mistress seated upon one of the Chinese chairs in front of the window, while the maid was standing behind, occupied in arranging her mistress’s hair.
The girl was just entering upon her task – if we may so designate that which many might have deemed a pleasure. Already the complicated machinery of combs and hair-pins lay strewed over the table; and the long chestnut-coloured tresses hung in luxuriant confusion around those shoulders of snow, in whose velvet-like epidermis there appeared no trace of the taint.
Involuntarily the maid ceased from her task, and stood gazing upon her young mistress with a look of instinctive admiration.
“Oh, beautiful!” exclaimed she, in a low, murmured voice; “you beautiful, missa!”
“Tut, Yola: ’tis only flattery of you to say so! You are as beautiful as I; only your beauty is of a different order. No doubt, in your country you would be a great belle.”
“Ah, missa, you belle anywhere – black man – white man – all think you beautiful – all the same!”
“Thank you, Yola! but I shouldn’t particularly desire to be the object of such universal admiration. For my part, I don’t know one male biped in whose eyes I care to appear attractive.”
“Perhaps missa no so say, when come young buckra from Inglis’ country!”
“Which buckra? – there are two of them expected from the English country.”
“Yola no hear two come. Massa she hear speak of one – only one.”
“Oh, you’ve heard speak of one only! Did you hear his name mentioned?”
“Yes; he grand man – great lord – Sultan of Mongew. He have other name – Yola hear it; but she no sabbey speak it.”
“Ha! ha! ha! I don’t wonder at that. It’s as much as I ‘sabbey’ myself to pronounce that second name: which I presume to be Smythje. Is that the name you heard?”
“That it, missa – he berry fine gentl’man, he beauty man. Massa he so tell Massr’ Trusty.”
“Ah, Yola! your master is a man, and men are not always the best judges of one another’s looks. Perhaps the Sultan of Mongew, as you call him, might not be such a pattern of perfection as papa describes him. But no doubt, we shall soon have an opportunity of judging for ourselves. Did you hear your master say nothing about another ‘buckra’ that is expected?”
“No, Missa Kate. One only he speak of – dis same one of Mongew Castle.”
A low ejaculation, expressive of disappointment, escaped the lips of the young Creole, as she settled down into an attitude of silent reflection, her eyes turned upon the shining floor at her feet.
It is not easy to tell why she put the last interrogatory. Perhaps she had some suspicion of her father’s plans. At all events, she knew there was some mystery, and was desirous of penetrating it.
The maid was still gazing upon her, when all at once the dark Arab-like features of the latter assumed a changed expression – the look of admiration giving place to one of earnest inquiry, as if some strange thought had occurred to her.
“Allah!” ejaculated she, still keeping her eyes fixed upon the face of her mistress.
“Well, Yola,” said the latter, attracted by the exclamation, and looking up; “why do you call upon Allah? Has anything occurred to you?”
“Oh! beauty missa! you so like one man.”
“I like a man! I resemble a man! Is that what you mean?”
“Yes, missa. Nebber see it before – you berry, berry like!”
“Well, Yola, you are certainly not flattering me now. Who might this man be? I pray you tell me.”
“He man of the mountains – Maroon.”
“Oh! worse and worse! I resemble a Maroon? Gracious me! Surely you are jesting, Yola?”
“Oh! missa, he beauty man; roun black eyes that glance like the fire-fly in the wood – eyes like yours – berry like you eyes, missa.”
“Come, silly girl!” said the young lady, speaking in a tone of reproval, more affected than real; “do you know that it is very naughty of you, to compare me to a man – much more to a Maroon?”
“Oh! Missa Kate, he beauty man – berry beauty man.”
“That I doubt very much; but even were it so, you should not speak of his resembling me.”
“Me pardon, missa. I no more so say.”
“No, you had better not, good Yola. If you do, I shall ask papa to sell you.”
This was said in a tone of gentle raillery, which told that any intention of carrying out the threat was far from the speaker’s thoughts.
“By the bye, Yola,” continued the young lady, “I could get a good price for you. How much do you suppose I was offered for you the other day?”
“Missa Kate, I no know. Allah forbid me you ebber leave! If you no more my missa, I care no more live.”
“Thanks, Yola,” said the young Creole, evidently touched by the words of her attendant, the sincerity of which was proved by the tone in which they were spoken. “Be not afraid of my parting with you. As proof that I shall not, I refused a very large sum – how much, can you guess?”
“Ah! missa, I worth nothing to no one but you. If I you forced leave, I be no more happy in this world.”
“Well, there is one who thinks you worth two hundred pounds, and has offered that for you.”
“Who, missa?”
“Why – he who sold you to papa – Mr Jessuron.”
“Allah help poor Yola! Oh! missa Kate, he bad master; he berry wicked man. Yola die – Cubina kill her! Yola herself kill rather than she go back to Jew slave-dealer! Good missa! – beauty missa! – you no sell you poor slave?”
The girl fell upon her knees at the feet of her young mistress, with her hands clasped over her head, and for some moments remained in this attitude.
“Don’t fear my selling you,” said the young lady, motioning the suppliant to rise to her feet; “least of all to him – whom I believe to be what you have styled him, a very wicked man. Have no fear for that. But tell me, what name was that you pronounced just now? Cubina, was it not?”
“Yes, missa, Cubina.”
“And pray who is Cubina?”
The brown maid hesitated before making reply, while the crimson began to show itself on her chestnut-coloured cheeks.
“Oh, never mind!” said her young mistress, noticing her hesitation. “If there’s any secret, Yola, I shall not insist upon an answer.”
“Missa, from you Yola no have secret. Cubina, he mountain man – Maroon.”
“What! is he the Maroon I am supposed to resemble?”
