The Maroon

“No, it will not do that: since I cannot agree to take it.”

“Not take two hunder poundsh?”

“No – nor twice that sum.”

“Gott help ush, Mishter Vochan; you ish shurely shokin? Why will you not take two hunder? I hash the monish in my pocket.”

“I am sorry to disappoint you, neighbour; but the fact is, I could not sell the girl Yola at any price, without the consent of my daughter – to whom I have given her.”

“Mish Vochan?”

“Yes – she is her maid; and I know that my daughter is very fond of her. It is not likely she would consent to the girl’s being sold.”

“But, Mishter Vochan! you shurely don’t let your daughter shtand between you and a good bargain? Two hunder poundsh is big monish – big monish, Cushtos. The wench ish not worth half ash much, and, for myshelf, I wouldn’t give half; but I don’t want to dishappoint a good cushtomer, who’sh not so particular ash to prishe.”

“Your customer fancies the girl, eh?” said Mr Vaughan, glancing significantly at his guest. “She is very good-looking – no wonder. But, if that be the reason for his wanting to buy her, I may as well tell you, I should myself not be inclined to part with her; and, as for my daughter, if she suspected such a purpose, all the money you have got, Mr Jessuron, wouldn’t reach the price of Yola.”

“S’help me gott, Mishter Vochan, you’re mishtaken! The cushtomer I speak of never shet hish eyes on the wench. Itsh only a waiting-maid he wants for hish table; and I thought of her, ash she’sh joost what he deshcribes. How do you know that Mish Vochan might not conshent to let her go? I promish to get her another young girl ash goot or better ash Yola.”

“Well,” replied the planter, after a moment’s reflection, and apparently tempted by the handsome offer, “since you seem so determined upon buying the wench, I’ll consult my daughter about it. But I can hold out very little hope of success. I know that she likes this young Foolah. I have heard that the girl was some king’s daughter in her own country; and I am as good as certain Kate won’t consent to her being sold.”

“Not if you wished it, Mishter Vochan?”

“Oh, if I insisted upon it, of course; but I gave my daughter a promise not to part with the girl against her wish, and I never break my word, Mr Jessuron – not to my own child.”

With this rather affected profession, the planter walked out of the room, leaving the slave-merchant to his reflections.

“May the diffel strike me dead if that man ishn’t mad!” soliloquised the Jew, when left to himself; “shtark shtarin mad! refuse two hunder poundsh for a she wench ash brown ash a cocoa-nut! Blesh my shtars!”

“As I told you, Mr Jessuron,” said the planter, re-entering the hall, “my daughter is inexorable. Yola cannot be sold.”

“Good morning, Mishter Vochan,” said the slave-merchant, taking up his hat and umbrella, and making for the door. “Good morning, shir: I hash no other bishness to-day.”

Then, putting on his hat and grasping his umbrella, with an air of spitefulness he was unable to conceal, he hurried down the stone steps, scrambled upon the back of his mule, and rode away in sullen silence.

“Unusually free with, his money this morning,” said the planter, looking after him. “Some shabby scheme, I have no doubt. Well, I suppose I have thwarted it; besides, I am glad of an opportunity of disobliging the old curmudgeon: many’s the time he has done as much for me!”

Volume One – Chapter Nine

Judith Jessuron

In the most unamiable of tempers did the slave-speculator ride back down the avenue. So out of sorts was he at the result of his interview, that he did not think of unfolding his blue umbrella to protect himself from the hot rays of the sun, now striking vertically downward. On the contrary, he used the parapluie for a very different purpose – every now and then belabouring the ribs of his mule with it: as if to rid himself of his spleen by venting it on the innocent mongrel.

Nor did he go in silence, although he was alone. In a kind of involuntary soliloquy he kept muttering, as he rode on, long strings of phrases denunciatory of the host whose roof he had just quitted.

The daughter, too, of that host came in for a share of his muttered denunciations, which at times, assumed the form of a menace.

Part of what he said was spoken distinctly and with emphasis: —

“The dusht off my shoosh, Loftish Vochan – I flingsh it back to you! Gott for damsch! there wash a time when you would be glad for my two hunder poundsh. Not for any monish? Bosh! Grand lady, Mish Kate – Mish Quasheby! Ha! I knowsh a thing – I knowsh a leetle thing. Some day, may be, yourshelf sell for lesh ash two hunder poundsh. Ach! I not grudgsh twice the monish to see that day!

“The dusht off my shoosh to both of yoush!” he repeated, as he cleared the gate-entrance. “I’sh off your grounds, now; and, if I hash you here, I shay you something of my mind – something ash make you sell your wench for lesh ash two hunder poundsh! I do so, some time, pleash gott! Ach!”

Uttering this last exclamation with a prolonged aspirate, he raised himself erect in his stirrups; and, half turning his mule, shook his umbrella in a threatening manner towards Mount Welcome – his eye accompanying the action with a glance that expressed some secret but vindictive determination.

As he faced back into the road, another personage appeared upon the scene – a female equestrian, who, trotting briskly up, turned her horse, and rode along by his side.

She was a young girl, or, rather a young woman – a bright, beautiful creature – who appeared an angel by the side of that demonlike old man.

She had evidently been waiting for him at the turning of the road; and the air of easy familiarity, with the absence of any salutation as they met, told that they had not long been separated.

Who was this charming equestrian?

A stranger would have asked this question, while his eye rested upon the object of it with mingled feelings of wonder and admiration: admiration at such rare beauty – wonder at beholding it in such rude companionship!

It was a beauty that need not be painted in detail. The forehead of noble arch; the scimitar-shaped eyebrows of ebon blackness; the dark-brown flashing pupils; the piquant prominence of the nose, with its spiral curving nostrils; were all characteristics of Hebraic beauty – a shrine before which both Moslem and Christian have ofttimes bent the knee in humblest adoration.

Twenty cycles have rolled past – twenty centuries of outrage, calumny, and wrong – housed in low haunts – pillaged and persecuted – oft driven to desperation – rendered roofless and homeless – still, amid all, and in spite of all, lovely are Judah’s dark-eyed daughters – fair as when they danced to the music of cymbal and timbrel, or, to the accompaniment of the golden-stringed harp, sang the lays of a happier time.

Here, in a new world, and canopied under an occidental sky, had sprung up a very type of Jewish beauty: for never was daughter of Judah lovelier than the daughter of Jacob Jessuron – she who was now riding by his side.

A singular contrast did they present as they rode together – this fair maid and that harsh-featured, ugly old man – unlike as the rose to its parent thorn.

Sad are we to say, that the contrast was only physical morally, it was “like father like daughter.” In external form, Judith Jessuron was an angel; in spirit – and we say it with regret – she was the child of her father – devilish as he.

“A failure?” said this fair she, taking the initiative. “Pah! I needn’t have asked you: it’s clear enough from your looks – though, certes, that beautiful countenance of yours is not a very legible index to your thoughts. What says Vanity Vaughan? Will he sell the girl?”

“No.”

“As I expected.”

“S’help me, he won’t!”

“How much did you bid for her?”

“Och! I’sh ashamed to tell you, Shoodith.”

“Come, old rabbi, you needn’t be backward before me. How much?”

“Two hunder poundsh.”

“Two hundred pounds! Well, that is a high figure! If what you’ve told me be true, his own daughter isn’t worth so much. Ha! ha! ha!”

“Hush, Shoodith, dear! Don’t shpeak of that – for your life don’t shpeak of it. You may shpoil some plansh I hash about her.”

“Have no fear, good father. I never spoiled any plan of yours yet – have I?”

“No, no! You hash been a good shild, my daughter! – a good shild, s’help me gott, you hash.”