By his shabby treatment of his nephew, he was investing that young man with a romantic interest in the eyes of his daughter, that perhaps might never have been felt, or, at all events, not so readily. Misfortune—especially that which springs from persecution—is a grand suggester of sympathy—that is, when the appeal is made to noble hearts; and the heart of Kate Vaughan was of this quality.
Moreover, this surreptitious dealing with the poor relative—smuggling him into the house like a bale of contraband goods—was sufficient of itself to pique the curiosity of those whom it was meant to mystify.
So far as Kate Vaughan was concerned, that very effect it produced: for, on leaving the dining-room—from which, to say the truth, she was only too happy to escape—the young girl glided at once to that window that opened out upon the garden; and, parting the lattice with her fingers, looked eagerly through.
In the brief undertone that had passed between her father and the overseer, she had heard the command, “Show him to the summer-house.” She knew that the summer-house was within view of her chamber-window. She was curious to see what in all her life she had never beheld—a cousin. Her curiosity was not balked. On looking through the lattice, her cousin was before her eyes—pacing the little apartment as described.
With his braided frock, buttoned tightly over his breast—glittering Hessian boots on his well-turned limbs—his neat three-cornered hat set lightly over his brown curls—he was not a sight likely to terrify a young girl—least of all a cousin. Even the bold, somewhat fierce, expression upon his countenance—at that moment reflecting the angry emotions that were stirring within him—did not, in the eyes of the young Creole, detract from the beauty of the face she saw before her.
What impression did the sight produce? Certainly not terror—certainly not dislike. On the contrary, she appeared gratified by it: else, why did she continue her gaze, and gaze so earnestly? Why became her eyes filled with fire, and fixed, as by some fascination? Why did her young bosom heave and fall, as if some new, undefinable emotion was for the first time germinating within it?
For some moments she remained in the same attitude, gazing steadfastly and silent. Then, without turning, there escaped from her lips, low murmured, and as if by an involuntary effort, the interrogatory,—“Yola! is he not beautiful?”
“Beautiful, missa,” repeated the maid, who had not yet beheld the object for whom this admiration was meant; “who beautiful?”
“Who? My cousin, Yola.”
“You cousin—what cousin, young missa?”