Captain Mayne Reid (continued 5)

Smythje, however, too well contented at escaping with his life, thought no more of his game-bag, nor of anything else, but getting back to Mount Welcome by the shortest route possible.

His boots being restored to him, he lost no time in drawing them on, leaving the bottoms of his trousers in the companionship of the worthless “turkey,” which Quaco, better acquainted with the ornithology of Jamaica, on coming out of the hollow tree, assured him, was, after all, no turkey, but only a turkey-buzzard—a John Crow—in short, a stinking vulture!

Volume Two—Chapter Seven.

Quashie in a Quandary.

During all this time, where was Quashie?

Mr Smythje did not know, and no longer did he care. Too glad to get away from the scene of his unpleasant adventure, he made no inquiry about his negligent squire; nor did he even think of going back to the place where he had left him. His deliverer had offered himself as a guide; and the road by which he conducted the sportsman from the dead-wood led in quite another direction. As to the empty game-bag left with Quashie, it made no difference what became of that; and, for the hunting-knife and brandy-flask, no doubt the darkey would see to them.

In this conjecture Mr Smythje hit the nail upon the head—at least so far as regarded the brandy-flask. It was by seeing too well to it, that Quashie had lost all sight of everything else—not only of the duties he had been appointed to perform, but of the whole earth and everything upon it. The buckra had not been twenty minutes out of his presence, when Quashie, by repeated application of the brandy-flask to his lips, brought his optical organs into such a condition, that he could not have told the difference between a turkey and a turkey-buzzard any more than Mr Smythje himself.

The drinking of the eau de vie had an effect upon the negro the very reverse of what it would have had upon an Irishman. Instead of making him noisy and quarrelsome, it produced a tendency towards tranquillity—so much so, that Quashie, in less than five minutes after his last suck at the flask, coggled over upon the grass, and fell fast asleep.

So soundly slept he, that not only did he fail to hear the report of Smythje’s gun, but the discharge of a whole battery of field-pieces close to his ear would not, at that moment, have awakened him.

It is scarce possible to say how long Quashie would have continued in this state of half-sleep, half-inebriety, had he been left undisturbed; nor was he restored to consciousness by human agency or living creature of any kind. That which brought him to himself—waking and, at the same time, partially sobering him—was the rain; which, descending like a cold shower-bath on his semi-naked skin, caused him to start to his feet.

Quashie, however, had enjoyed more than an hour’s sleep, before the rain began to fall; and this may account for the eau de vie having in some measure lost its influence when he awoke.

He was sensible that he had done wrong in drinking the buckra’s brandy; and as the temporary courage with which it had inspired him was now quite gone, he dreaded an encounter with the white “gemman.” He would have shunned it, had he known how; but he knew very well that to slink home by himself would bring down upon him the wrath of massa at Mount Welcome—pretty sure to be accompanied by a couple of dozen from the cart-whip.

After a while’s reflection, he concluded that his most prudent plan would be to wait for the young buckra’s return and tell him the best tale he could.

To say he had been searching for him, and that was how he had spent the time—was the story that suggested itself to the troubled imagination of Quashie.

To account for the disappearance of the cognac—for he had drunk every drop of it—the darkey had bethought him of another little bit of fabrication—suggested, no doubt, by the mischance that had befallen the bottle of claret. He intended to tell the grand buckra—and “thrape” it down his throat if need be—that he, the buckra, had left out the stopper of the flask, and that the brandy had followed the example set by the “heel-tap” of wine.

Thus fortified with a plausible story, Quashie awaited the return of the sportsman.

The sky cleared after a time, but no buckra came; nor yet, after a considerable spell of fine weather had transpired, did he make his appearance.

Quashie became impatient, and slightly anxious. Perhaps the English “gemman” had lost himself in the woods; and if so, what would be done to him, the guide? Massa Vaughan would be sure to punish him. In fancy he could hear the crack of the cart-whip resounding afar off over the hills.

After waiting a while longer, he determined to put an end to his anxiety, by going in search of the sportsman; and taking up the empty bag, along with the equally empty flask, and hunting-knife, he set forth.

He had seen Mr Smythje go towards the glade, and so far he could follow his trail; but once arrived at the open ground, he was completely at fault.

He had not the slightest idea of what direction to take.

After pausing to reflect, he took the right—that which would conduct him to the dead-wood, which was visible from the point where he had entered the glade.

It was not altogether accident that conducted him thither; but rather that, in that direction, he heard, or fancied he heard, voices.

As he drew near to the decapitated tree, a glittering object on the ground caught his eye. He halted, thinking it might be a snake—a creature of which most plantation negroes have a wholesome dread.

On scrutinising the object more closely, Quashie was surprised to perceive that the glittering object was a gun; and, on a still nearer acquaintance with it, he saw that it was the gun of the buckra sportsman!

It was lying upon the grass near the bottom of the dead-wood. What was it doing there?

Where was the buckra himself? Had some accident happened to him? Why had he abandoned his gun? Had he shot himself? Or had somebody else shot him?

Just at that moment the most lugubrious of sounds fell upon Quashie’s ear. It was a groan, long-drawn and hollow—as if some tortured spirit was about taking its departure from the earth! It resembled the voice of a man, as of some one speaking from the interior of a tomb!

The darkey stood horrified—his black epidermis turning to an ashy-grey colour, quick as the change of a chameleon.

He would have taken to his heels, but a thought restrained him. It might be the buckra still alive, and in trouble? In that case he, Quashie, would be punished for deserting him.

The voice appeared to issue from behind the dead-wood. Whoever uttered it must be there. Perhaps the sportsman lay wounded upon the other side?

Quashie screwed up his courage as high as it would go, and commenced moving round to the other side of the stump. He proceeded cautiously, step by step, scrutinising the ground as he went.

He reached the other side. He looked all over the place. Nobody there—neither dead nor wounded!

There were no bushes to conceal an object so large as the body of a man—at least, not within twenty yards of the stump. The groan could not have come from a greater distance!

Nor yet could a man be hidden under the trellis of climbing plants that clung around the underwood. Quashie had still enough courage left to peep among them and see. There was nobody there!

At this moment, a second groan sounded in the darkey’s ear, increasing his terror. It was just such a one as the first—long, protracted, and sepulchral, as if issuing from the bottom of a well.

Again it came from behind the stump; but this time from the side which he had just left, and where he had seen no one!

Had the wounded man crawled round to the other side, while he, Quashie, was proceeding in the opposite direction?

This was the thought that occurred to him; and to determine the point, he passed back to the side whence he had come—this time going more rapidly, lest the mysterious moaner might again escape him.

On reaching the spot from which he had originally set out, he was more surprised than ever. Not a soul was to be seen. The gun still lay in its place as he had left it. No one appeared to have touched it—no one was there!

Again the voice—this time, however, in a shrill treble, and more resembling a shriek! It gave Quashie a fresh start; while the perspiration spurted out from his forehead, and ran down his cheeks like huge tears.

The shriek, however, was more human-like—more in the voice of a man; and this gave the darkey sufficient courage to stand his ground a little longer. He had no doubt but that the voice came from the other side of the dead-wood; and once more he essayed to get his eyes upon the utterer.

Still in the belief that the individual, whoever it was, and for whatever purpose, was dodging round the tree, Quashie now started forward with a determination not to stop till he had run the dodger to earth. For this purpose he commenced circling around the stump, going first at a trot; but hearing now and then the groans and shrieks—and always on the opposite side—he increased his pace, until he ran with all the speed in his power.

He kept up this exercise, till he had made several turns around the tree; when, at length, he became convinced that no human being could be running before him without his seeing him.

The conviction brought him to an abrupt halt, followed by a quick reflection. If not a human being, it must be a “duppy, or de debbil hisself!”

The evidence that it was one or the other had now become overpowering. Quashie could resist it no longer.

“Duppy! Jumbé! de debbil!” cried he, as with chattering teeth, and eyeballs protruding from their sockets, he shot off from the stump, and “streaked it” in the direction of Mount Welcome, as fast as a pair of trembling limbs were capable of carrying him.

Volume Two—Chapter Eight.

A Scarcity of Trousers.

Following his gigantic guide, Mr Smythje trudged unhappily homeward.

How different his craven, crestfallen look, from the swell, swaggering sportsman of the morning! while the condition of his person was not more dilapidated than that of his spirit.

It was no longer the disgrace of returning with an empty game-bag, but the chagrin which he expected to have to undergo, presenting himself at Mount Welcome in the “pickle” in which his adventure had left him.

He was now even in a more ludicrous plight than when Quaco had extracted him from the hollow tree: for the rain, that had long since ceased, had been succeeded by a blazing hot sun, and the atmosphere acting upon what remained of his wet fawn-skin trousers, caused them to shrink until the ragged edges had crept up to mid-thigh; thus leaving a large section of thin knock-kneed legs between them and the tops of his boots!

In truth, the sportsman had become the beau ideal of a “guy”; and, more than half conscious of this fact, he would at that moment have given the situation of book-keeper on his estate to any individual who should have presented him with a pair of pantaloons.

His guide could do nothing for him. In the line of inexpressibles Quaco was no better provided than himself.

Verily, the prospect was appalling!

Could he reach the house, and steal to his own chamber unseen? What chance was there of his doing so?

On reflection, not much. Mount Welcome, like all other mansions in Jamaica, was a cage—open on every side. It was almost beyond the bounds of probability that he could enter the house unobserved.

Still, he could try, and on the success of that trial rested his only hope. Oh, for that grand secret known only to the jealous Juno—the secret of rendering one’s-self invisible! What would Smythje not have given for a ten minutes’ hire of that Carthaginian cloud?

The thought was really in his mind; for Smythje, like all young Englishmen of good family, had studied the classics.

The idea, moreover, proved suggestive. If there was no probability of being provided with the nimbus of Juno, there was the possibility of shadowing himself under the nimbus of night. Darkness once on, he might enter the house, reach his chamber unperceived, and thus escape the unpleasant exposure he so much dreaded.

Smythje stopped, looked at his guide, looked at the sun, and lastly at his naked knees—now, from the enfeebled state of his limbs, oscillating towards each other.

Mount Welcome was in sight. The guide was about to leave him; and, therefore, in whatever way he might choose to act, there would be no witness.

Just then the Maroon made his adieus, and the ci-devant sportsman was left to himself.

Once more he scanned the sun, and consulted his watch. In two hours it would be twilight. The crepusculous interval would enable him to approach the house; and in the first moments of darkness—before the lamps were lit—he might enter unobserved—or, at all events, his plight might not very plainly be perceived.

The scheme was feasible, and having determined to adopt it, Smythje cowered down in the covert, and awaited the setting of the sun.

He counted the hours, the half-hours, and minutes—he listened to the voices coming up from the negro village—he watched the bright-winged birds that fluttered among the branches overhead, and envied them their complete plumage.

Notwithstanding many rare sights and sweet sounds that reached him, the two hours spent in his secret lair were not passed pleasantly—solicitude about the success of his scheme robbing him of all zest for the enjoyment of that fair scene that surrounded him.

The hour of action drew nigh. The sun went down over the opposite ridge, where lay Montagu Castle, his own domain. The twilight, like a purple curtain, was gently drawn over the valley of Mount Welcome. It was time to start.

Smythje rose to his feet; and, after making a reconnoissance of the ground before him, set off in the direction of the house.

He aimed at keeping as much as possible under cover of the woods; and this he was enabled to do—the pimento groves on that side stretching down to the shrubbery that surrounded the dwelling.

He had got past the negro village—keeping it upon his right—without being observed. To both the “quarter” and the sugar works he gave as wide a berth as the nature of the ground would permit.

He succeeded in reaching the platform on which the house stood—so far unperceived.

But the moment of peril was not yet past. The dangerous ground still lay before him, and had still to be traversed. This was the open parterre in front of the house: for it was to the front that the path had conducted him.

It was dusk; and no one appeared—at least he could see no one—either on the stair-landing or in the windows of the great hall. So far good.

A rush for the open doorway, and then on to his own chamber, where Thoms would soon clothe him in a more becoming costume.

He started to make the rush, and had succeeded in getting half-way across the parterre, when, all at once, a crowd of people, carrying large flaming torches above their heads, appeared, coming from the rear of the dwelling.

They were the domestics and some field hands of the plantation, with Trusty, the overseer, at their head.

One might have fancied that they were setting out upon some ceremonious procession; but their hurried advance, and the presence of Quashie trotting in the lead, proclaimed a different purpose.

Smythje divined their errand. They were going in search of himself!

The sight filled him with despair. The torch-bearers had anticipated him. They had already reached the front of the house, and the glare of their great flambeaux illuminated every object, as if a new sun had suddenly shot up athwart the sky!

There was no chance of successfully running the gauntlet under that bright flame: Smythje saw not the slightest.

He stopped in his tracks. He would have retreated back among the bushes, and there awaited the departure of the torch-bearers, but he feared that his retrograde movement would attract their eyes upon him; and then all would be over—his adventure terminating in the most undesirable manner.

Instead of retreating, therefore, he stood where he had stopped—fixed and immobile, as if pinned to the spot.

At that moment two figures appeared on the top of the stairway—in the brilliant light easily recognisable as the planter and his daughter. The maid Yola was behind them. Mr Vaughan had come out to give some directions about the search.

All three stood facing the crowd of torch-bearers, and, of course, fronting towards Smythje.

The planter was just opening his lips to speak, when a cry from the maid, echoed by her young mistress, interrupted him. The sharp eyes of the Foolah had fallen upon Smythje, whose wan, white face, shining under the light of the links, resembled those of the statues that were set over the parterre.

Smythje was among the shrubbery; and as the girl knew that no statue stood there, the unexpected apparition had elicited her cry of alarm.

All eyes were instantly turned upon the spot, while the torch-bearers, with Trusty at their head, hurried towards it.

There was no chance of escape. The unfortunate sportsman was discovered and brought broadly into the light, under the fierce battery of eyes—among others, the eyes of his lady-love, that, instead of expressing sympathy for his forlorn condition, appeared rather to sparkle with satirical delight!

It was a terrible catastrophe—to be contemplated in such a plight; and Smythje, hurrying through the crowd, lost no time in withdrawing from observation by betaking himself to his chamber; where, under the consolatory encouragement of the sympathising Thoms, he was soon rendered presentable.

Volume Two—Chapter Nine.

Herbert in the Happy Valley.

Inappropriate as Jacob Jessuron’s neighbours may have deemed the title of his estate—the Happy Valley—Herbert Vaughan had no reason to regard it as a misnomer. From the hour in which he entered upon his situation of book-keeper, it was a round of pleasures, rather than duties, that he found himself called upon to fulfil; and his new life, so far from being laboriously spent, was one continued scene, or series of scenes, of positive pastime.

Instead of keeping books, or looking after slaves—or, in short, doing anything that might be deemed useful—most of his time was spent in excursions, that had no other object than recreation or amusement. Drives to the Bay—in which he was accompanied by Jessuron himself, and introduced to his mercantile acquaintances; visits to neighbouring penns and plantations with the beautiful Judith—in which he was made acquainted with her circle; fishing parties upon the water, and picnics in the woods: all these were afforded him without stint.

He was furnished with a fine horse to ride; dogs and equipments for the chase; everything, in short, calculated to afford him the life of a gentleman of elegant leisure. A half-year’s salary had been advanced to him unasked—thus delicately giving him the means of replenishing his wardrobe, and enabling him to appear in proper costume for every occasion.

Certainly, the prospects of the poor steerage-passenger seemed to have undergone a change for the better. Through the generosity of his unexpected patron, he was playing a rôle at the Jew’s penn not unlike that which his fellow-voyager was, at that very time, performing at Mount Welcome; and as there was not much difference in the social rank of the respective circles in which they were each revolving, it was by no means improbable that the two might meet again, and upon a more equal footing than formerly.

To do Herbert Vaughan justice, it should be stated that he was more surprised than gratified by the luxurious life he was leading. There was something rather extraordinary in the generous patronage of the Jew—something that puzzled him not a little. How was he to account for such kind hospitality?

Thus for days after Herbert Vaughan had made the Happy Valley his home, matters moved on smoothly enough to the superficial observer. Slight incongruities that did occur from time to time, were ingeniously explained; and the young Englishman, unsuspicious of any evil design, with the exception of the unwonted hospitality that was being bestowed upon himself, saw nothing extraordinary in the circumstances that surrounded him.

Had he been less the honoured guest of his Israelitish host, perhaps his perceptions might have been more scrupulous and discriminative. But the Arabs have a proverb—“It is not in human nature to speak ill of the horse that has borne one out of danger;” and human nature in the East is but the counterpart of its homonym in the West. Noble as was the nature of the young Englishman, still was it human; and to have “spoken ill of the bridge that had carried him safely over”—and from that desolate shore on which he had late been stranded—would have argued a nature something more than human.

If he entertained any suspicion of his patron’s integrity, he zealously kept it to himself—not with any idea of surrendering either his independence or self-respect; but to await the development of the somewhat inexplicable courtesy of which he was the recipient.

This courtesy was not confined to his Hebrew host. As Herbert had long been aware, his daughter exercised it in an equal degree, and far more gracefully. Indeed, among other transformations that had been remarked as occurring in the Happy Valley, the spirit of the fair Jewess seemed also to have sustained a remarkable change. Though upon occasions the proud, imperious temper would manifest itself, more generally now was Judith in a sentimental vein—at times approaching to sadness. There were other times when the old spitefulness would show itself. Then the spiral nostrils would curl with contempt, and the dark Israelitish eyes flash with malignant fire.

Happily, these rather ungraceful exhibitions—like the tornadoes of her native land—were rare: for a certain name—the cause that called them forth—was but rarely pronounced in her hearing. Kate Vaughan was the name.

Judith’s dislike for the young Creole had originated in a mere rivalry of charms. Both enjoyed a wide-spread reputation for beauty—oft descanted upon, and often compared, by the idle gallants of the Bay. These discussions and comparisons reached the ears of the Jewess; and, to her chagrin, the decisions were not always in her favour. Hence the origin of her enmity.

Hitherto it had been only envy; and, with a toss of the head, and a slight curl of the nostril, the unpleasant theme would be dismissed. Of late, however, a stronger emotion than envy had begun to exhibit itself; and, whenever the name of Kate Vaughan was introduced into the conversation—no matter how incidentally or undesigned—the eye of the Jewess would light up with a jealous fire, her lip quiver as if muttering curses, and she, who but the moment before seemed a very angel, would become all at once transformed into the semblance of a demon!

The behaviour of the Jewess admits of easy explanation. She was in love, and with Herbert Vaughan.

At first the motive had been part vanity, part coquetry—blended, however, with some serious admiration. Mingled also with this was a desire to vex Kate Vaughan: for, from the first, she had suspected rivalry in that quarter. Even though she had been made aware of the very short interview between the cousins, she could not feel satisfied but that something had passed between them; and there was that bit of ribbon, which Herbert still cherished, and of the symbolism of which she had vainly endeavoured to obtain a solution.

Her suspicions did not die out, as it might be supposed they would, in the absence of any demonstration on Herbert’s part towards his cousin. On the contrary, they only grew stronger as her own interest in the young Englishman increased, for then she could not understand how a young girl—Kate Vaughan, or any other—could have looked upon the man who had impressed her, without being herself impressed.

And she had become impressed by him, not gradually, but rapidly and profoundly; until her love had grown into a fierce passion—such as a tigress might be suspected of conceiving for her tawny mate.

Herbert Vaughan had passed scarce a week under the roof of the Jew’s mansion when its mistress was in love with him—to the ends of her fingers—to the very extreme of jealousy!

As for the object of this fervent passion, the young man was at this time altogether unable to analyse his own feelings.

It is true that the imperious spirit of the Jewess, aided by her endless wiles, had gained a certain ascendancy over him; but not so as to obliterate the image that had recently become impressed upon his heart.

In the short interview which he had had with his cousin Kate, Herbert Vaughan had looked, for the first time in his life, on one whom to look at was to love. The blue-eyed belle of his native village, the pretty barmaid at the inn, the sweet-faced chorister in the church—with other boyish fancies, already half obliterated by two months of absence—were swept instantaneously into the dustbin of oblivion by that lovely apparition. He was face to face with a woman worthy of his love—one who deserved every aspiration of his soul. Intuitively and at the first glance he had felt this; and still more was he impressed with it, as he pronounced those warm words on his painful parting. Hence the ardent proffer of the strong arm and the stout heart—hence the chivalric refusal of the purse, and the preference of a piece of ribbon.

Not that he had any reason to regard the latter as a love-token. He knew that the kind words that had been spoken in that short but stormy interview—as well as the offer of gold that had ended it—were but the promptings of a pitying heart; and rather a negation of love, than a sign of its existence. Glad as he might have been to have regarded the piece of ribbon as a guage d’amour, he could only prize it as a souvenir of friendship—of no higher signification than the purse to which it had belonged, or the gold treasure which that purse had contained.

Though sensible that he had no claim upon his cousin beyond that of kinship—though not a word had been spoken by her to show that she felt for him any other kind of regard, Herbert, strange enough, had conceived a hope, that some day or other, a more endearing relationship might exist between them.

Not for long was he cheered by this sweet expectancy. It was too transitory to stand the test of time. As day succeeded day, rumours reached him of the gay scenes that were transpiring at Mount Welcome. Especially was he informed of the contentedness of his cousin Kate in the society of the new companion which her father had provided for her.

The effect of this information was a gradual but grievous extinction of the slight hope which Herbert had conceived.

The circumstances with which chance had now surrounded him may have rendered these regrets less painful. Though his cousin cared not for him, he had no reason to feel forsaken or forlorn. By his side—and almost constantly by his side—was beauty of no common brilliance, showering smiles upon him of no ordinary attractiveness.

Had he been the recipient of those smiles only one day sooner—before the image of Kate Vaughan had made that slight impression upon his heart—he might the more readily have yielded to their influence. And, perhaps, on the other hand, could he have known how his image had fallen upon her heart, and made lodgment there, he might have offered a sterner resistance to the syren seductions with which he was now beset.

But lovers’ hearts are not things of glass; and though at times they resemble mirrors, mentally reflecting each other, too often, by the ruling of contrarieties, do the mirrors become reversed and with the reflecting images facing darkly inward.

In such a dilemma was the heart of Herbert Vaughan. No wonder he found a difficulty in effecting its analysis!

In a condition somewhat similar to Herbert’s was the heart of his cousin: though hers was easier to analyse. It was simply trembling under the influence of a first and virgin love. Two forms had been presented to it in the same hour, both in the blush of youthful manhood—one, a distinguished gentleman, the other, an humble adventurer.

The former had the additional advantage in priority of introduction; the latter was not even introduced. But the favourite does not always win. The earliest on the course may be the latest in the race; and though the heart of the young Creole, on its pure virgin page, had received love’s image at first sight, it was not that of him who first presented himself to make the impression.

Nor was she kept in ignorance of outward events. Her maid Yola was the medium by which she was acquainted with them. Through this medium she had heard of Herbert’s proximity—of his happiness and prosperity. The news would have given her joy, but that she had heard he was too happy. Strange that this should be a cause of bitterness!

The thoughts that succeeded—the hopes and fears—the dark doubts by day and by night—the dreams, often delusively bright—need not be detailed. There are none who have not known a first love; few who have not felt this chequered alternation of emotions.

As for the distinguished Smythje, he was not always in one mind. He, too, was troubled with an alternation of hopes and fears. The former, however, generally predominated; and, for the most part, he felt in his spirit the proud confidence of a conqueror. Often, with Thoms as his audience, might Smythje be heard exultingly repeating the despatch of Caesar:—“Veni, vidi, vici!”

Volume Two—Chapter Ten.

In Search of Justice.

The mutual spite between planter and penn-keeper was of old standing—dating, in fact, from their first acquaintance with each other. Some sharp practice between them, in the sale and purchase of slaves, had given origin to it; and circumstances were always occurring to hinder it from dying out. This was more especially the case since the Jew, by the purchase of the Happy Valley estate, had become the contiguous neighbour—and, in point of wealth, almost the rival—of the proprietor of Mount Welcome.

On the side of the Custos there had been for some time past another feeling mixed up with his antipathy to his Israelitish neighbour—a vague sense of fear. This was of modern origin—dating from a period subsequent to the execution of Chakra, the myal-man—and begotten of some remarks which, as reported to Mr Vaughan, the Jew had made in connection with that ugly incident.

If nothing had of late transpired to increase this fear on the part of the Custos, a circumstance had arisen to strengthen his hostility. The protection which had been given to his discarded nephew, and the parade which his neighbour was making of him, had proved to the Custos a scandal of the most irksome kind; and almost every day was he made aware of some unpleasant bit of gossip connected with the affair. So irritated had he become with rumours, constantly reaching him, that his hatred for the Jew had grown stronger than ever before; and he would have given a dozen hogsheads of his best muscovado to any one who would have provided him with the means of humiliating the detested penn-keeper.

Just at this crisis, chance or fortune stepped in to favour him, apparently offering the very opportunity he desired; and in a way that, instead of costing him a dozen hogsheads of sugar, was likely to put far more than that amount of property into his pocket.

It was the day before that on which Smythje had dropped into the dead-wood. The Custos was in his kiosk alone, smoking a plantation cigar, and conning over the statutes of the “black code”—a favourite study with him. Just at that moment Mr Trusty’s shadow was projected into the summer-house. “Well, Trusty, what is it?”

“There’s a man below wants to see your worship.”

“On what business, pray?”

“Don’t know,” answered the laconic overseer; “he won’t tell. Says it’s important, and can only communicate to yourself.”

“What sort of a man is he? Negro or white?”

“Neither, your worship. He’s a clear mulatto. I’ve seen him about before. He’s one of the Maroons that have their settlement over among the Trelawney Hills. He calls himself Cubina.”

“Ah!” said the Custos, showing a slight emotion as the name was pronounced; “Cubina! Cubina! I’ve heard the name. I fancy I’ve seen the man—at a distance. A young fellow, isn’t he?”

“Very young; though they say he’s the captain of the Trelawney band.”

“What on earth can the Maroon want with me?” muttered Mr Vaughan, half to himself. “He hasn’t brought in any runaways, has he?”

“No,” answered the overseer. “Thanks to your worship’s good management, we haven’t any of late—not since that old schemer Chakra was put out of the way.”

“Thanks to your good management, Mr Trusty,” said the planter, returning his overseer’s compliment, not without a show of nervous uneasiness, which the reference to Chakra had called forth. “Then it’s nothing of that kind, you think?” he hastily added, as if desirous of changing the theme.

“No, your worship. It cannot be: there’s not a runaway upon my list;” replied Trusty, with an air of triumph.

“Gad! I’m glad to hear it,” said the Custos, rubbing his hands together as an expression of his contentment. “Well; I suppose the young fellow has come to consult me in my magisterial capacity. In some scrape, no doubt? These Maroons are always getting themselves into trouble with our planters. I wonder who he’s come to complain about?”

“Well, that much I think I can tell you,” rejoined the overseer, evidently knowing more of the Maroon’s errand than he had yet admitted—for Mr Trusty was a true disciple of the secretive school. “If I should be allowed to make a guess, your worship, I should say it is something relating to our neighbour of the Happy Valley.”

“What! the Jew?”

“Jacob Jessuron, Esquire.”

“You think so, Trusty?” inquired Mr Vaughan, with an earnest and gratified look. “Has the young fellow said anything?”

“No,” answered the overseer; “it’s not anything he has said. I heard something a day or two ago about a runaway the Maroons have got among them—a slave belonging to the Jew. It appears they don’t want to give him up.”

“Whom did you hear it from?”

“Why, not exactly from any one, your worship. I should rather say I overheard it, quite by accident. One of the Trelawney Maroons—a big fellow that comes down here occasionally after Black Bet—was telling her something. I was passing Bet’s cabin, and heard him talking about this runaway.”

“Don’t want to give him up! And for what reason do they refuse?”

“Can’t tell, your worship. I could only make out part of the conversation.”

“So you think it’s about that the young fellow has come?”

“I think it likely, your worship. He’s close, however, and I couldn’t get a word out of him about his business. He says he must see you.”

“All right, then! You can show him in here. And hark ye, Mr Trusty! See Black Bet, and get what you can out of her. This is an interesting matter. A Maroon refusing to deliver up a runaway! There must be something in it. Perhaps the mulatto will tell me all about it; but whether he does or not, you may see Bet. You can promise her a new gown, or whatever you like. Show the young fellow up at once. I am ready to receive him.”

Mr Trusty bowed, and walked off in the direction of the works, where the Maroon had remained in waiting; while the Custos, composing himself into an official attitude, awaited the approach of his visitor.

“I’d give a good round sum,” soliloquised he, “to learn that the old rascal has got into some scrape with these Maroon fellows. I shouldn’t wonder,” he added, in gleeful anticipation, “I shouldn’t wonder! I know they don’t much like him—less since he’s taken the Spaniards into his pay—and I suspect he’s been engaged in some underhand transactions of late. He’s been growing grander every day, and nobody knows where all the money comes from. Maybe Master Maroon has a tale to tell; and, if it’s against Jessuron, I’ll take care he has an opportunity of telling it. Ah, here he comes! Egad, a fine-looking fellow! So, so! This is the young man that my daughter jokes Yola about! Well, I don’t wonder the Foolah should have taken a fancy to him; but I must see that he doesn’t make a fool of her. These Maroons are dangerous dogs among the women of the plantations; and Yola, whether a princess or not in her own country-princess, ha! ha! Well, at all events the wench is no common nigger; and it won’t do for Master Maroon to be humbugging her. I shall lecture him about it, now that I’ve got him here.”

By this time the Maroon captain—equipped just as we have seen him in the forest—had arrived in front of the kiosk; and, making a deferential bow, though without taking off his hat—which, being the toqued kerchief, could not conveniently be removed—stood waiting for the Custos to address him.

The planter remained for a considerable time without vouchsafing further speech than the mechanical salutation, “Good morning.”

There was something in the physiognomy of his visitor that had evidently made an unpleasant impression upon him; and the gaze, with which he regarded the latter, was one which bespoke some feeling different from that of mere curiosity or admiration.

Whatever the feeling was, he seemed desirous of suppressing it; and, making an effort to that effect, appeared to succeed: for the shadow, that for an instant had shown itself on his countenance, cleared away; and, with a magisterial but courteous smile, he commenced the conversation.

Volume Two—Chapter Eleven.

Magistrate and Maroon.

“Well, young man,” continued the Custos, in an affable tone, “you, I believe, are one of the Maroons of Trelawney?”

“Yes, worship,” bluntly rejoined Cubina. “The captain of a town, are you not?”

“Only a few families, worship. Ours is a small settlement.”

“And your name is—?”

“Cubina.”

“Ah! I’ve heard the name,” said the Custos. “I think,” added he, with a significant smile, “we have a young girl here on the plantation who knows you?”

Cubina blushed, as he stammered out an affirmative.

“Oh! that’s all right,” said the planter, encouragingly. “So long as there’s no harm meant, there’s no harm done. Mr Trusty tells me you have business with me. Is it about that?”

“About what, your worship?” inquired the Maroon, a little taken by surprise at the question so unexpectedly put to him. “About your sweetheart!”

“My sweetheart, worship?”

“Ay, Yola. Is she not your sweetheart?”

“Well, Mr Vaughan,” rejoined the Maroon, “I’m not going to deny that something has passed between me and the young girl; but it wasn’t exactly about her I’ve come to see you, though now, bein’ here, I might as well talk about that matter, too, if it so please your worship.”

“Very good, Captain Cubina. I’m ready to hear what you have to say. Go on!”

“Well, then, your worship, the truth is, I want to buy Yola.”

“What? Buy your own sweetheart?”

“Just so, worship. Of course, as soon as she would be mine, I’d set her free.”

“That is, you would change the bonds she now wears for the bonds of matrimony?—ha! ha! ha! Is that it, Captain Cubina?” and the Custos laughed at the conceit he had so neatly expressed.

“Something of that sort, your worship,” replied the Maroon, slightly participating in the worthy magistrate’s mirth.

“And do you think Yola desires to become Mrs Cubina?”

“If I didn’t think so, your worship, I wouldn’t propose to buy her. It would be nothing to me to own the girl, if she wasn’t agreeable.”

“She is agreeable, then?”

“Well, worship, I think so. Not that she don’t like the young mistress that owns her at present; but, you see, your worship—but—”

“But there’s somebody she likes better than her mistress; and that’s yourself, Master Cubina?”

“Well, you see, worship, that’s a different sort of liking, and—”

“True enough—true enough!” interrupted Mr Vaughan, as if wishing to come to the end of the conversation—at least, upon that particular topic.

“Well, Captain Cubina,” he added, “suppose I was willing to part with Yola, how much could you afford to give for her? Mind you, I don’t say I am willing: for, after all, the girl belongs to my daughter; and she would have something to say in the matter.”

“Ah, sir!” exclaimed Cubina, in a tone of tender confidence, “Miss Vaughan is good and generous. I’ve often heard say so. I am sure she would never stand in the way of Yola’s being happy.”

“Oh, you think it would make Yola happy, do you?”

“I hope so, your worship,” answered the Maroon, modestly dropping his eyelids as he made the reply.

“After all,” said the planter, “it would be a matter of business. My daughter, even if she wished it, could not afford to part with the girl for less than the market price; which in Yola’s case would be a large one. How much do you suppose I have been offered for her?”

“I’ve heard two hundred pounds, your worship.”

“Just so; and I refused that, too.”

“Maybe, Mr Vaughan, you would not have refused it from another—from me, for instance?”

“Ah, I don’t know about that! But could you raise that large sum?”

“Not just now, your worship. I am sorry to say I could not. I had scraped together as good as a hundred—thinking that would be enough—when, to my sorrow, I learnt I had only got half-way. But, if your worship will only allow me time, I think I can manage—in a month or two—to get the other hundred, and then—”

“Then, worthy captain, it will be time to talk about buying Yola. Meanwhile, I can promise you that she shan’t be sold to anybody else. Will that satisfy you?”

“Oh, thank your worship! It is very kind of you, Mr Vaughan: I’ll not fail to be grateful. So long as Yola—”

“Yola will be safe enough in my daughter’s keeping. But now, my young fellow, since you say this was not exactly the business that brought you here, you have some other, I suppose? Pray tell me what it is.”

The Custos, as he made this request, set himself to listen, in a more attentive attitude than he had yet assumed.

“Well, your worship!” proceeded Cubina, “I’ve come over to ask you for some advice about a matter I have with Mr Jessuron—he as keeps penn close by here.”

Mr Vaughan became doubly attentive.

“What matter?” asked he, in a simple phrase—lest any circumlocution might distract the speaker from his voluntary declaration.

“It’s an ugly business, your worship; and I wouldn’t bother about it, but that the poor young fellow who’s been robbed out of his rights, turns out to be neyther more nor less than the brother of Yola herself. It’s a queer story altogether; and if it wasn’t the old Jew that’s done the thing, one could hardly believe it.”

“What thing? Pray be explicit, my friend.”

“Well, your worship, if you’ll have patience to hear me, I’ll tell you the whole story from beginning to end—that is, as far as it has gone: for it ain’t ended yet.”

“Go on!” commanded the Custos. “I’ll hear it patiently. And don’t be afraid, Captain Cubina,” added he, encouragingly. “Tell me all you know—every circumstance. If it’s a case for justice, I promise you justice shall be done.”

And with this magisterial commonplace, the Custos resumed his attitude of extreme attention.

“I’ll make no secrets, your worship, whether it gets me into trouble or no. I’ll tell you all—leastwise, all that’s come to my knowledge.”

And with this proviso, the Maroon captain proceeded to detail the circumstances connected with the capture of the runaway; the singular encounter between brother and sister; and the mutual recognition that followed. Then afterwards the disclosures made by the young man: how he was an African prince; how he had been sent in search of his sister; the ransom he had brought with him; his landing from the ship, consigned by Captain Jowler to the care of Jessuron; his treatment and betrayal by the Jew; the branding of his person, and robbing him of his property; his escape from the penn; his capture by Cubina, already described; and, finally, his detention by the latter, in spite of several messages and menaces, sent by the Jew, to deliver him up.

“Good!” cried Loftus Vaughan, starting from his chair, and evidently delighted by the recital, somewhat dramatically delivered by the Maroon. “A melodrama, I declare! wanting only one act to complete it. Egad, I shall feel inclined to be one of the actors before it’s played out. Ho!” exclaimed he, as if some thought had suddenly struck him; “this may explain why the old rascal wanted to buy the wench—though I don’t clearly see his purpose in that. It’ll come clear yet, no doubt.”

Then addressing himself once more to the Maroon:—

“Twenty-four Mandingoes, you say—twenty-four belonged to the prince?”

“Yes, your worship. Twenty regular slaves, and four others that were his personal attendants. There were more of the slaves; but these were the lawful property of the captain, the price paid for bringing him over.”

“And they were all carried to the Jew’s penn?”

“All of them, with the others: the whole cargo was taken there. The Jew bought all. There were some Coromantees among them; and one of my men, Quaco, who had talk with these, heard enough to confirm the young man’s story.”

“Ha! what a pity, now, that black tongues can’t wag to any purpose! Their talk goes for nothing. But I’ll see what may be done without it.”

“Did your prince ascertain the name of the captain that brought him over?” inquired the magistrate, after considering a minute.

“Oh yes, your worship; Jowler, he was called. He trades upon the Gambia, where the prince’s father lives. The young man knows him well.”

“I think I know something of him, too—that same Jowler. I should like to lay my hands upon him, for something else than this—a precious scamp! After all, it wouldn’t help our case if we had him. No doubt, the two set their heads together in the business, and there’s only one story between them.

“Humph! what are we to do for a white witness?” continued the magistrate, speaking rather to himself than his visitor. “That, I fear, will be a fatal difficulty. Stay! Ravener, you say, Jessuron’s overseer, was at the landing of the cargo?”

“Oh, yes, your worship. That individual took an active part in the whole transaction. It was he who stripped the prince of his clothes, and took all his jewellery away from him.”

“Jewellery, too?”

“Crambo, yes! He had many valuable things. Jowler kept most of his plunder aboard ship.”

“A robbery! Egad, a wholesale robbery!”

“Well, Captain Cubina,” proceeded the Custos, changing his tone to one of more business-like import, “I promise you that this shall not be passed over. I don’t yet clearly see what course we may have to take. There are many difficulties in a prosecution of this kind. We’ll have trouble about the testimony—especially since Mr Jessuron is a magistrate himself. Never mind about that. Justice shall be done, even were he the highest in the land. But there can be no move made just yet. It will be a month before the assize court meets at Savannah; and that is where we must go with it. Meanwhile, not a word to any one—not a whisper of what you know!”

“I promise that, your worship.”

“You must keep the Foolah prince where you have him. Don’t on any account deliver him up. I’ll see that you’re protected in holding him. Considering the case, it’s not likely the Jew will go to extremities with you. He has a glass house over his head, and will ’ware to throw stones—so you’ve not much to fear.

“And now, young man!” added the Custos, changing his tone to one that showed how friendly he could be to him who had imparted such gratifying intelligence, “if all goes well, you’ll not have much difficulty in making up the hundred pounds for the purchase of your sweetheart. Remember that!”

“Thanks, worthy Custos,” said Cubina, bowing gratefully; “I shall depend upon your promise.”

“You may. And now—go quietly home, and wait till I send for you. I shall see my lawyer to-morrow. We may want you soon.”

Volume Two—Chapter Twelve.

The Smythje Eclipse.

The celebrated eclipse of Columbus, by which that shrewd navigator so advantageously deluded the simple savages of Don Christopher’s Cove, is not the only one for which the island of Jamaica should be famous. It is my duty to introduce another: which, if not worthy of being recorded upon the page of history, deserves at least a chapter in our romance.

The eclipse in question, though not so important in its results as that which favoured the great world-finder, was nevertheless of considerable interest—more especially to some of the dramatis personae of our tale, whose fortunes it influenced in no slight degree.

Occurring about two weeks after the arrival of the distinguished Smythje, it seemed as if the sun had specially extinguished himself for the occasion: as a sort of appropriate climax to the round of brilliant fêtes and entertainments, of which the lord of Montagu Castle had been the recipient. It deserves, therefore, to be designated the “Smythje eclipse.”

On the day before that on which the obscuration of the sun was expected to take place, the Cockney had conceived a brilliant design—that of viewing the eclipse from the top of the mountain—from the summit of the Jumbé Rock!

There was something daringly original in this design; and for that had Smythje adopted it. Kate Vaughan was to be his companion. He had asked, and of course obtained, Mr Vaughan’s consent, and hers also of course—for Kate had found of late, more than ever, that her father’s will was to be her law.

Smythje was not without a purpose in the proposed ascent to the natural observatory of the Jumbé Rock. In that hour when all the earth would be in chiaro-oscuro—as if shrouded under the pall of infinity—in that dark and solemn hour, Smythje had determined upon popping the question!

Why he had selected such a place and time—both pre-eminently sombre—must for ever remain a mystery. He may have been under an impression that the poetical reputation of the place, combined with the romantic solemnity of the scene and the hour, might exercise a dissolving influence over the heart of the young Creole, and incline her to an affirmative answer. Or, perhaps, au fait as he was to theatrical contrivances, he may have drawn his idea from something he had seen upon the stage, and chosen his climax accordingly.

Some two hours before the expected contact between the limbs of the two great luminaries—in time to allow of leisurely walking—Smythje started out for the Jumbé Rock, of course accompanied by Kate Vaughan.

Attendants there were none; for the exquisite, on such an occasion, preferred being alone; and had so signified—declining the sable escort which his host had provided.

The morning was one of the fairest. The sun was still shining brightly. Not a speck could be distinguished upon the azure arch of a West-Indian sky; and the scenes through which the path conducted Mr Smythje and his fair companion were among the loveliest to be found in the domain of Nature.

Around the dwelling of Mount Welcome—in its gardens and parterres—the eye delighted to dwell upon a variety of vegetable forms, both indigenous and exotic—some planted for shade; some for the beauty of their blossoms; and others for their fruit. There could be seen the genip, the tamarind of Oriental fame, palms of several species, the native pawpaw, and the curious trumpet-tree. Distinguished for their floral beauties, were the cordia, the oleander, and South-Sea rose, the grand magnolia, and the perfumed Persian lilac. Bearing luscious fruits, were the cashew, the mango, and Malay apple; the sop, the guava, with every variety of the citron tribe—as oranges, lemons, limes, and the huge shaddock.

Climbing the standard trunks, and twining around the branches, were parasites of many species—rare and beautiful flowering plants: as the wax-like hoya carnosa, the crimson quamoclit, barsavolas, ipomeas, and other magnificent orchids.

It was a scene to stir the soul of a botanist to enthusiastic admiration; resembling a vast botanical garden—some grand house of palms, having for its roof the azure canopy of heaven.

To the eyes of the young creole—all her life accustomed to look upon those fair vegetable forms—there was nothing in the sight of them to beget astonishment; and the Cockney cared but little for trees. His late adventure had cured him of all inclination for a forest life; and, in his eyes, a cabbage-palm was of no more interest than a cabbage.

Smythje, however, was not unmusical. Constant attendance at the opera had, to some extent, attuned his soul to song; and he could not help expressing some surprise at the melody of the Western songsters—so much misrepresented and maligned.

In truth, upon that morning they appeared to be giving one of their grandest concerts. In the garden groves could be heard the clear voice of the banana-bird, like the tones of a clarionet, mingled with the warbling tones of the blue quit. There, too, could be seen the tiny vervain humming-bird, seated upon the summit of a tall mango-tree, trilling out its attenuated and fairy-like lay, with as much enthusiastic energy as if its little soul was poured forth in the song.

In the dark mountain woods could be heard other songsters—the glass-eye merle singing his rich and long-continued strain; and, at intervals, the wild, plaintive cry of the solitaire, littered in sweet but solemn notes, like the cadenced chaunting of a psalm—in perfect keeping with the solitude which this singular songster affects.

Above all could be distinguished the powerful voice of the New World nightingale—the far-famed mock-bird—excelling all the other music of the groves; except when at intervals the rare May-bird condescended to fling his melody upon the breeze, when the mock-bird himself would instantly interrupt his lay, and become a listener.

Add to these sounds the humming of bees, the continuous “skirling” of grasshoppers, lizards, and cicadas—the metallic cluckling of tree-frogs, the rustling of the breeze among the lanceolate leaves of the tall bamboos, and the sighing of a cascade among the distant hills—add these, and you may have some idea of the commingling of sounds that saluted the ear of Mr Montagu Smythje, as, with his fair companion, he ascended the mountain slope.

Cheerful as were the birds and brisk the bees, Smythje appeared cheerful and brisk as they. He was gay both in spirits and costume. Thoms had equipped him in one of his favourite suits; and his spirits were elevated by the prospect of his grand love triumph.

On arriving at the bottom of the ravine which conducted to the summit of the rock, Smythje showed his courage by boldly advancing to scale the steep path. He would have offered a hand to assist his companion; but in the difficult ascent he found full occupation for both; and in this ungallant manner was he compelled to climb upward.

Kate, however—who was accustomed to the path, and could possibly have given him assistance—found no difficulty in following; and in a few seconds both had arrived on the summit of the rock, and stood under the shadow of the palm.

The skeleton form, once chained to the tree, was no longer there to fray them. It had been mysteriously removed.

Mr Smythje consulted his repeater. They had arrived just in the nick of time. In five minutes the eclipse would commence; and the discs of the two great heavenly orbs would appear in contact.

It was not this crisis, however, that Smythje had chosen for the cue to his important speech. Nor yet the moment of deepest darkness; but just when the sun should begin to re-appear, and, by his renewed brightening symbolise the state of the lover’s own feelings.

He had prepared some pretty speeches which he meant to repeat by way of ushering in the declaration: how his own heart might be compared to the sun—now burning with passion—now darkened by deep despair; then once more brightening up, with rekindled hope, at the prospect of Kate making him the happiest of mortals.

He had prepared them pit-a-pat the night before, and gone over them with Thoms in the morning. He had rehearsed them more than a dozen times—ending with a dress rehearsal just before starting out.

Unless the eclipse should in some way deprive him of the use of his tongue, there could be no danger of his breaking down.

With perfect confidence, therefore, in his speech-making, and equally confident of the issue, the romantic Smythje restored his repeater to its fob; and, with sun-glass in hand, awaited the coming on of the eclipse.

Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.

A Proposal Postponed.

Slowly, silently, and still unseen, stole the soft luminary of night towards her burning god—till a slight shadow on his lower limb betokened the contact.

“The ekwipse is commencing,” said Smythje, holding the glass to his eye. “The sun and moon are just kissing, like two lovers. How pwetty it is! Dawn’t yaw think so, fayaw Kate?”

“Rather a distant kiss for lovers, I should say—some ninety odd millions of miles between them!”

“Haw, haw! veway good, veway good indeed! And in that sawt of thing, distance dawn’t lend enchantment to the view. Much bettaw to be near, just as yaw and I are at this moment. Dawn’t yaw think so, fayaw Kate?”

“That depends upon circumstances—whether the love be reciprocal.”

“Wecipwocal!—yas, twoo enough—thaw is something in that.”

“A great deal, I should think, Mr Smythje. For instance, were I a man, and my sweetheart was frowning on me—as yonder moon seems to be upon his majesty the sun—I should keep my distance, though it were ninety millions of miles.”

Had Mr Smythje at that moment only removed the glass from his eye, and turned towards his sweetheart, he might have read in her looks that the speech just made possessed a significance, altogether different from the interpretation which it pleased him to put upon it.

“Haw, haw! veway pwetty of yaw, ’pon honaw! But yaw must wemember that yondaw moon has two faces. In that she wesembles the queetyaw called woman. Her bwight face is turned towards the sun, and no doubt she is at this moment smiling upawn the fellaw. Her frowns, yaw see, are faw us, and all the west of mankind; thawfo’ she wesembles a devoted queetyaw. Dawn’t yaw think so, fayaw Kate?”

Kate was compelled to smile, and for a short moment regarded Smythje with a glance which might have been mistaken for admiration. In the analogy which the exquisite had drawn there was a scintillation of intellect—the more striking that it was not expected from such a source. Withal, the glance was rather indicative of surprise than admiration, though Smythje evidently interpreted it for the latter—his self-esteem assisting him to the interpretation.

Before she could make reply, he repeated the interrogatory.

“Oh, yes!” answered she, the smile disappearing from her countenance; “I can well imagine, Mr Smythje, that your simile is just. I should think that a woman who loves devotedly, would not bestow her smiles on any other than him she loves; and though he were distant as yonder sun, in her heart she would smile on him all the same.”

The young Creole as she spoke lowered her eyes, no longer regarding the eclipse, but as if involuntarily directing her glance downward.

“Ah, yes!” continued she in thought, “and even if alike impossible for them ever to meet, still would her smiles be his! Ah, yes!”

For some seconds she remained silent and abstracted. Smythje, attracted by the altered tone of her voice, had taken the telescope from his eye, and turned towards her.

Observing this abstracted air, which he had often before remarked, he did not think of attributing it to any other cause than that which his vanity had already divined. Kate Vaughan was in love; and with whom but himself?

His sympathetic soul was ready to give way; and he was almost on the point of departing from the programme which he had so ingeniously traced out. But the remembrance of the pretty speeches he had rehearsed with Thoms—and the thought that any deviation from the original design would deprive him of the pleasure of witnessing the effects which they must undoubtedly produce—restrained him from a premature declaration, and he remained silent.

It did not hinder him from some unspoken reflections.

“Poor queetyaw! evidently suffwing! Neithaw distance nor absence can make the slightest impwession upon her love—not the slightest. Ba Jawve! I feel more than half-inclined to bweak the spell, and reweive her fwom her miseway. But no—it would nevaw do. I must wesist the temptation. A little more suffwing can do no harm, since the situation of the queetyaw wesembles the pwoverb: ‘The darkest hour is that which is neawest the day.’ Haw! haw!”

And with this fanciful similitude before his mind, the sympathetic and self-denying lover concluded his string of complacent reflections; and returning the glass to his eye, once more occupied himself in ogling the eclipse.

The young Creole, seeing him thus engaged, withdrew to one side; and placing herself on the very edge of the cliff, stood gazing outward and downward. It was evident that the grand celestial phenomenon had no attraction for her. She cared neither to look upon the sun, nor the moon, nor the stars that would soon be visible in the fast-darkening sky. Her eyes, like her thoughts, were turned upon the earth; and as the penumbra began to cast its purple shadow over the fair face of Nature, so could a cloud be seen overspreading her beautiful countenance.

There was now deep silence below and around. In a few seconds of time a complete change had taken place. The uttering of the forest was no longer heard. The birds had suddenly ceased their songs, and if their voices came up at intervals, it was in screams and cries that denoted fear. Insects and reptiles had become silent, under the influence of a like alarm. The more melancholy sounds alone continued—the sighing of the trees, and the sough of the distant waterfall. This transformation reminded Kate Vaughan of the change which had taken place in her own heart. Almost equally rapid had it been—the result of only a few days, or perhaps only hours: for the once gay girl had become, of late, habitually grave and taciturn. Well might she compare her thoughts to the forest sounds! The cheerful and musical were gone—those that were melancholy alone remained!

For this change there was a cause, not very different from that which Smythje had divined. He was right in assigning it to that passion—the most powerful that can dwell in a woman’s heart.

Only as to its object did Mr Smythje labour under a misconception. His self-conceit had guided him to a very erroneous conjecture. Could he have divined the thoughts at that moment passing in the mind of his companion, it would have completely cured him of the conceit that he was the maker of that melancholy.

The mansion of Mount Welcome was in sight, gaily glittering amidst gorgeous groves. It was not upon it that the eyes of Kate Vaughan were bent; but upon a sombre pile, shadowed by great cotton-trees, that lay in the adjoining valley. Her heart was with her eyes.

“Happy Valley!” soliloquised she, her thoughts occasionally escaping in low murmur from her lips. “Happy for him, no doubt! There has he found a welcome and a home denied him by those whose duty it was to have offered both. There has he found hospitality among strangers; and there, too—”

The young girl paused, as if unwilling to give words to the thought that had shaped itself in her mind.

“No,” continued she, unable to avoid the painful reflection; “I need not shut my eyes upon the truth. It is true what I have been told—very true, I am sure. There has he found one to whom he has given his heart!”

A sigh of deep anguish succeeded the thought.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, resuming the sad soliloquy; “he promised me a strong arm and a stout heart, if I should ever need them. Ah, me! promise now bitter to be remembered—no longer possible to be kept! And the ribbon he was to prize so highly—which gave me such joy as he said it. Only another promise broken! Poor little souvenir! no doubt, long ere this, cast aside and forgotten! ah, me!”

Again the sigh interrupted the soliloquy. After a time it proceeded:—

“‘We may never meet more!’ These were almost his last words. Alas! too prophetic! Better, now, we never should. Better this than to meet him—with her by his side—Judith Jessuron—his wife—his wife—oh!”

The last exclamation was uttered aloud, and with an undisguised accent of anguish.

Smythje heard it, and started as he did so—letting the sun-glass fall from his fingers.

Looking around, he perceived his companion standing apart—unheeding as she was unheeded—with head slightly drooping, and eyes turned downward upon the rock—her face still bearing the expression of a profound anguish which her thoughts had called forth.

The heart of Smythje melted within him. He knew her complaint—he knew its cure. The remedy was in his hands. Was it right any longer to withhold it? A word from him, and that sad face would be instantly suffused with smiles! Should that word be spoken or postponed?

Spoken! prompted humanity. Spoken! echoed Smythje’s sympathetic heart. Yes! perish the cue and the climax! Perish the fine speech and the rehearsal with Thoms—perish everything to “relieve the deaw queetyaw fwom the agony she is suffwing!”

With this noble resolve, the confident lover stepped up to the side of his beloved, leaving a distance of some three feet between them. His movements were those of a man about entering upon the performance of some ceremonial of the grandest importance; and to Mr Smythje, in reality, it was so.

The look of surprise with which the young Creole regarded him, neither deterred him from proceeding, nor in anywise interfered with the air of solemn gravity which his countenance had all at once assumed.

Bending one knee down upon the rock—where he had dropped the glass—and placing his left hand over the region of his heart, while with the right he had raised his hat some six inches above his perfumed curls, there and then he was about to unburden himself of that speech, studied for the occasion—committed to Smythje’s memory, and more than a dozen times delivered in the hearing of Thoms—there and then was he on the eve of offering to Kate Vaughan his hand—his heart—his whole love and estate—when just at this formidable crisis, the head and shoulders of a man appeared above the edge of the rock, and behind, a black-plumed beaver hat, shadowing the face of a beautiful woman!

Herbert Vaughan!—Judith Jessuron!

Volume Two—Chapter Fourteen.

The Obscuration.

“Intawupted!” exclaimed Smythje, briskly restoring his person to its erect position. “What an infawnal haw!” he continued, drawing out his handkerchief, and dusting the knee on which he had been kneeling. “I wondaw who are the intwoodaws? Aw! ah! It’s the young fellaw, yaw cousin! Shawly it is; and—a—a pwetty girl with him—a dooced pwetty girl, ba Jawve!”

A satirical titter, loud enough to be termed a laugh, was heard issuing from between the white teeth of the Jewess. It somewhat discomfited Smythje: since he knew that the satire could only be pointed at the ridiculous tableau just broken up, and of which he had himself been the conspicuous figure. His sang froid, however, did not quite forsake him, for the Cockney possessed considerable presence of mind—the offspring of an infinite superciliousness. This at the moment came to his relief, bringing with it an idea that promised to rescue him from his embarrassment. The spy-glass lying upon the rock suggested the idea.

Dropping back upon his knee—in an attitude similar to that from which he had just arisen—he took up the telescope, and, once more rising to his feet, presented it to Kate Vaughan, as she stood bent and blushing.

The ruse was well intended, and not badly executed; but Mr Smythje had to deal with one as cunning as himself. It was of no use endeavouring to throw dust in the keen, quick eyes of Judith Jessuron; and the laugh was repeated, only in a louder and more quizzical tone.

It ended in Smythje himself joining in the laughter, which, under the circumstances, was the very best course he could have pursued.

Notwithstanding the absurdity of the situation, Herbert did not seem to share in his companion’s mirth. On the contrary, a shadow was visible upon his brow—not that produced by the gradually deepening twilight of the eclipse—but one that had spread suddenly over his face at sight of the kneeling Smythje.

“Miss Vaughan!” pronounced the Jewess, springing lightly upon the rock, and, with a nod of recognition, advancing towards the young Creole and her companion; “an unexpected pleasure this! I hope we are not intruding?”

“Not at all—nothing of the sawt, I ashaw yaw,” replied Smythje, with one of his profoundest bows.

“Mr Smythje—Miss Jessuron,” interposed Kate, performing the duty of introduction with dignified but courteous politeness.

“We have climbed up to view this eclipse,” continued Judith. “The same errand as yourselves, I presume?” added she, with a glance of quizzical malignity directed towards Kate.

“Aw, yes! sawtinly!” stammered out Smythje, as if slightly confused by the innuendo of the interrogative. “That is pwecisely the pawpose which bwought us heaw—to view this cewestial phenomenon fwom the Jumbé Wock. A spwendid observatowy it is, ba Jawve!”

“You have had the advantage of us,” rejoined Judith. “I feared we should arrive too late. Perhaps, we are soon enough?”

The satirical tone and glance were reiterated.

Perhaps Kate Vaughan did not perceive the meaning of this ambiguous interrogatory, though addressed to her even more pointedly than the former; at all events, she did not reply to it. Her eyes and thoughts were elsewhere.

“Quite in time, Miss Jessuwon!” answered Smythje. “The ekwipse is fawst assuming a most intewesting phase. In a few minutes the sun will be in penumbwa. If yaw will step this way, yaw may get a bettaw standing-place. Pawmit me to offaw yaw the tewescope? Aw, haw!” continued he, addressing himself to Herbert, who had just come forward, “aw, how do, ma fwiend? Happy to have the pwesyaw of meeting you again!”

As he said this, he held out his hand, with a single finger projecting beyond the others.

Herbert, though declining the proffered finger, returned the salutation with sufficient courtesy; and Smythje, turning aside to attend upon Judith, escorted her to that edge of the platform facing towards the eclipse.

By this withdrawal—perhaps little regretted by either of the cousins—they were left alone.

A bow, somewhat stiff and formal, was the only salutation that had yet passed between them; and even for some seconds after the others had gone aside, they remained without speaking to each other.

Herbert was the first to break the embarrassing silence.

“Miss Vaughan!” said he, endeavouring to conceal the emotion which, however, his trembling voice betrayed, “I fear our presence here will be considered an intrusion? I would have retired, but that my companion willed it otherwise.”

“Miss Vaughan!” mentally repeated the young creole, as the phrase fell strangely upon her ear, prompting her, perhaps, to a very different rejoinder from that she would otherwise have made.

“Since you could not follow your own inclination, perhaps it was wiser for you to remain. Your presence here, so far as I am concerned, is no intrusion, I assure you. As for my companion, he appears satisfied enough, does he not?”

The rapid exchange of words, with an occasional cachinnation, heard from the other side of the rock, told that a gay conversation was going on between Smythje and the Jewess.

“I regret that our arrival should have led even to your temporary separation. Shall I take Mr Smythje’s place and permit him to rejoin you?”

The reply was calculated to widen the breach between the two cousins.

It was indebted for its character to the interpretation which Herbert had placed upon Kate’s last interrogatory.

“Certainly, if it would be more agreeable to you to do so,” retorted Kate, in a tone of defiant bitterness.

Here a pause occurred in the conversation, which from the first had been carried on defiance against defiance. It was Herbert’s turn to speak; but the challenge conveyed in Kate’s last words placed him in a position where it was not easy to make an appropriate rejoinder, and he remained silent.

It was now the crisis of the eclipse—the moment of deepest darkness. The sun’s disc had become completely obscured by the opaque orb of the night, and the earth lay lurid under the sombre shadow. Stars appeared in the sky, to show that the universe still existed; and those voices of the forest heard only in nocturnal hours, came pealing up to the summit of the rock—a testimony that terrestrial nature was not yet extinct.

It was equally a crisis between two loving hearts. Though standing near, those wild words had outlawed them from each other, far more than if ten thousand miles extended between them. The darkness without was naught to the darkness within. In the sky there were stars to delight the eye; from the forest came sounds to solace the soul; but no star illumined the horizon of their hearts with its ray of hope—no sound of joy cheered the silent gloom that bitterly embraced them.

For some minutes not a word was exchanged between the cousins, nor spoken either to those who were their sharers in the spectacle. These, too, were silent. The solemnity of the scene had made its impression upon all; and, against the dark background of the sky, the figures of all four appeared in sombre silhouette—motionless as the rock on which they stood.

Thus for some minutes stood Herbert and Kate without exchanging word or thought. Side by side they were, so near and so silent, that each might have heard the breathing of the other.

The situation was one of painful embarrassment, and might have been still more so, but for the eclipse; which, just then complete, shrouded both in the deep obscurity of its shadow, and hindered them from observing one another.

Only for a short while did the darkness continue; the eclipse soon re-assuming the character of a penumbra.

One by one the stars disappeared from the canopy of the sky—now hastening to recover its azure hue. The creatures of darkness, wondering at the premature return of day, sank cowering into a terrified silence; and the god of the heavens, coming forth triumphantly from the cloud that had for a short while concealed him, once more poured his joyous effulgence upon the earth.

The re-dawning of the light showed the cousins still standing in the same relative position—unchanged even as to their attitudes.

During the interval of darkness Herbert had neither stirred nor spoken; and after the harsh rejoinder to which, in the bitterness of her pique, the young Creole had given words, it was not her place to continue the conversation.

Pained though Herbert was by his cousin’s reply, he nevertheless remembered his indebtedness to her—the vows he had made—the proud proffer at parting. Was he now to repudiate the debt of gratitude and prove faithless to his promise? Was he to pluck from his breast that silken souvenir, still sheltering there, though in secret and unseen?

True, it was but the memorial of an act of friendship—of mere cousinly kindness. He had never had reason to regard it in any other light; and now, more than ever, was he sure it had no higher signification.

She had never said she loved him—never said a word that could give him the right to reproach her. On her side there was no repudiation, since there had been no compromise. It was unjust to condemn her—cruel to defy her, as he had done.

That she loved another—was that a crime?

Herbert now knew that she loved another—was as sure of it as that he stood upon the Jumbé Rock. That interrupted tableau had left him no loop to hang a doubt on. The relative position of the parties proclaimed the purpose—a proposal.

The kneeling lover may not have obtained his answer; but who could doubt what that answer was to have been? The situation itself proclaimed consent.

Bitter as were these reflections, Herbert made an effort to subdue them. He resolved, if possible, to stifle his spleen; and, upon the ruin of his hopes, restore that relationship—the only one that could now exist between himself and his cousin—friendship.

With a superhuman effort he succeeded; and this triumph of virtue over spite, backed by the strongest inclinings of the heart, for a moment solaced his spirit, and rendered it calmer.

Alas! that such triumph can be only temporary. The struggle upon which he was entering was one in which no man has ever succeeded. Love undenied, may end in friendship; but love thwarted or unreciprocated, never!

“Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves its way between Heights, that appear as lovers who have parted In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted; Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, Love was the very root of the fond rage Which blighted their life’s bloom—”

Herbert Vaughan was perhaps too young—too inexperienced in the affairs of the heart—to have ever realised the sentiment so expressed; else would he have desisted from his idle attempt, and surrendered himself at once to the despair that was certain to succeed it.

Innocent—perhaps happily so—of the knowledge of these recondite truths, he yielded to the nobler resolve—ignorant of the utter impracticability of its execution.

Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.

An Encounter of Eyes.

While Herbert Vaughan was making these reflections, the light began to re-dawn—gradually, as it were, raising the veil from the face of his cousin. He could not resist turning to gaze upon it. During the interval of the obscurity, a change had passed over the countenance of the young girl, both in its hue and expression. Herbert noticed the change. It even startled him. Before, and during the unhappy dialogue, he had looked upon a flushed cheek, a fiery eye, an air proud and haughty, with all the indices of defiant indifference.

All were gone: Kate’s eye still sparkled, but with a milder light; a uniform pallor overspread her cheeks, as if the eclipse had robbed them of their roses; and the proud expression had entirely disappeared, replaced by one of sadness, or rather of pain.

Withal, the face was lovely as ever—lovelier, thought Herbert.

Why that sudden transformation? What had caused it? Whence sprang that painful thought, that was betraying itself in the pale cheek and lips compressed and quivering? Was it the happiness of another that was making that misery? Smythje seemed happy—very happy, to judge from his oft-repeated “Haw! haw!”

Was this the cause of that expression of extreme sadness that displayed itself on the countenance of his cousin?

So did Herbert interpret it.

Making a fresh effort to subdue within himself the same spirit which he believed to be actuating her, he remained silent—though unable to withdraw his glance from that lorn but lovely face.

While still gazing upon it, a sigh escaped him. It could scarce have been heard by her who stood nearest; nor hers by him: for she had also sighed, and at the same instant of time! Perhaps both were moved by some secret sympathetic instinct?

Herbert had succeeded in obtaining another momentary triumph over his emotions: and was once more on the eve of uttering words of friendship, when the young girl looked up and reciprocated his gaze. It was the first time during the interview their eyes had met: for up to that moment Kate had only regarded her cousin with furtive glances.

For some seconds they stood face to face—each gazing into the eyes of the other, as if both were the victims of some irresistible fascination.

Not a word passed between them—their very breathing was stilled. Both seemed to consider the time too important for speech: for they were seeking in one another’s eyes—those faithful mirrors of the soul—those truest interpreters of the heart—the solution of that, the most interesting enigma of their existence.

This silent interrogation was instinctive as mutual—uncorrupted by a shadow of coquetry. It was bold and reckless as innocence itself—unregarding outward observation. What cared they for the eclipse? What for the sun or the moon, or the waning stars? What for the universe itself? Less—far less for those human forms that chanced to be so near them!

Drew they gratification from that mutual gaze? They must—else why did they continue it?

Not for long: not for long were they allowed. An eye was upon them—the eye of that beautiful demon.

Ah! fair Judith, thy flirtation has proved a failure! The ruse has recoiled upon thyself!

The golden sunlight once more fell upon the Jumbé Rock, revealing the forms of four individuals—all youthful—all in love, though two only were beloved!

The returning light brought no joy to Judith Jessuron.

It revealed to her that glance of mutual fascination, which, with a quick, sharp cry, she had interrupted.

A bitter embarrassment seemed all at once to have seized upon her proud spirit, and dragged it into the dust.

Skilled in the silent language of the eyes, she had read in those of Herbert Vaughan, as he bent them upon his cousin, an expression that stung her, even to the utterance of a scream!

From that moment the flirtation with Smythje ceased; and the Cockney exquisite was forsaken in the most unceremonious manner left to continue his telescopic observations alone.

The conversation was no longer dos y dos, but at once changed to a trio; and finally restored to its original quartette form—soon, however, to be broken up by an abrupt separation of the parties.

The Jewess was the first to propose departure—the first to make it. She descended from the Jumbé Rock in a less lively mood than that in which she had climbed up to it; inwardly anathematising the eclipse, and the fortune that had guided her to the choice of such an ill-starred observatory.

Perhaps, had the interview been prolonged, the cousins might have separated with a better understanding of each other than was expressed in that cold, ceremonious adieu with which they parted.

Smythje and Kate Vaughan were once more alone upon the summit of the rock; and the supercilious lover was now free to continue the declaration.

One might suppose that he would have instantly dropped back upon his knees, and finished the performance so vexatiously interrupted.

Not so, however. The spirit of Smythje’s dream seemed equally to have undergone a change; as if he, too, had seen something.

His air of high confidence had departed, as also the climax on which he had counted: for the sun’s disc was now quite clear of the eclipse, and the pretty speeches, intended for an anterior time, would now have been pointless and inappropriate.

Whether it was this that influenced him, or a presentiment that the offer of his heart and hand might just then stand some chance of a rejection, can never be known: since Smythje, who alone could divulge it, has left no record of the reason.

Certain it is, however, that the proposal did not take place on the Jumbé Rock on the day of the eclipse; but was postponed, sine die, to some future occasion.

Volume Two—Chapter Sixteen.

The Smythje Ball.

As if the eclipse had not been a sufficient climax to the round of fêtes got up for the express amusement of Mr Smythje, only a few days—or, rather, nights—after, still another was inaugurated, to do honour to this young British lion.

Unlike the eclipse, it was a terrestrial phenomenon—one of the most popular of sublunary entertainments—a ball—a complimentary ball—Mr Smythje the recipient of the compliment.

Montego Bay was to be the place; which, notwithstanding its provinciality, had long been celebrated for its brilliant assemblies—from the time that fandangoes were danced by the old Spanish pork-butchers, down to that hour when Mr Montagu Smythje had condescended to honour its salons by the introduction of some very fashionable steps from the world’s metropolis.

The hall was to be a grand affair—one of the grandest ever given in the Bay—and all Planterdom was expected to be present.

Of course, Kate Vaughan would be there; and so, too, the Custos himself.

Mr Smythje would be the hero of the night; and, as such, surrounded by the fairest of the fair—hedged in by a galaxy of beautiful belles, and beset by an army of matchmaking parents, all seeking success with as much eagerness as Loftus Vaughan himself.

Under these circumstances, it would be but simple prudence that Kate should be there to look after him: for the worthy Custos was not unacquainted with the adage, that “the sweetest smelling flower is that nearest the nose.”

Mr Vaughan would have rejoiced at the opportunity thus offered, of letting all the monde of Jamaica know the relationship in which he stood, and was likely to stand, to the distinguished individual to whom the entertainment was dedicated. He had no doubt but that Kate would be chosen as the conspicuous partner: for well knew he the condition of Mr Smythje’s mind upon that subject. To him the latter had made no secret of his affections; and the cunning Custos, who had been all along warily watching the development of the passion, now knew to a certainty that the heart of Montagu’s lord was not only smitten with his daughter, but was irretrievably lost—so far as such a heart could suffer love’s perdition.

No doubt, then, Mr Vaughan would have looked forward to the Smythje ball with pleasant anticipation—as likely to afford him a social triumph—but for a little circumstance that had lately come to his knowledge. It was the incident which had transpired on the Jumbé Rock—the meeting between his daughter and nephew on the day of the eclipse.

The Custos had been the more particular in obtaining the details of that interview from his presumptive son-in-law, on account of a suspicion that had arisen in his mind as to the inclinings of his daughter’s heart. Something she had said—during the first days after Herbert’s brusque dismissal from Mount Welcome—some sympathetic expressions she had made use of—unguarded and overheard, had given rise to this suspicion of her father.

He was sufficiently annoyed about Kate having met Herbert on the Jumbé Rock; and believed it quite possible that the latter had come there in the hope of encountering his cousin.

In Mount Welcome the name of Herbert Vaughan was no longer heard. Even Kate—whether it was that she had grown more sage—for she had been chided more than once for introducing it into the conversation—or whether she had ceased to think of him—even she never pronounced his name.

For all that, Mr Vaughan was still vexed with some lingering suspicion that in that direction lurked danger; and this determined him to prevent, as far as possible, any further interview between his daughter and nephew.

After the encounter on the Jumbé Rock, he had taken his daughter to task upon this subject; and, using the full stretch of parental authority, compelled her to a solemn promise, that she was not again to speak to her cousin, nor even acknowledge his presence!

It was a hard promise for the poor girl to make. Perhaps it would have been still harder, had she known Herbert’s disposition towards her.

There can be no doubt that her father, in extracting this promise, had in view the event about to take place—the grand Smythje ball. There an encounter between the cousins was not only possible, but probable; so much so as to render Mr Vaughan apprehensive. Judith Jessuron was sure to be present—perhaps the Jew himself; and Herbert, of course.

The nephew was now cordially disliked. Stung by the defiant speeches which the young man had made on the day of his arrival, his uncle even detested him: for the proud planter was himself too poor in spirit to admire this quality in any one else.

The Custos had heard all about the hospitality which his neighbour was extending to Herbert, and the kindnesses which the patron was lavishing upon his protégé. Though not a little mystified by what was going on, he availed himself of the ordinary explanation—that it was done to vex himself; and, if so, the stratagem of the Jew was proving perfectly successful: for vexed was Mr Vaughan to his very heart’s core.

The night of the Smythje ball came round in due course. The grand ball-room of the Bay was decorated as became the occasion. Flags, festoons, and devices hung around the walls; and over the doorway a large transparency—supported by the loyal emblems of the Union Jack and banner of Saint George, and surmounted by the colonial colours—proclaimed, in letters of eighteen inches diameter:—

“Welcome to Smythje!”

The hour arrived; the band shortly after; close followed by strings of carriages of every kind current in the Island, containing scores—ay, hundreds of dancers. Twenty miles was nothing to go to a Jamaica ball.

The grand barouche of Loftus Vaughan arrived with the rest, only fashionably behind time, bringing the Custos himself, his truly beautiful daughter, but, above all—as before all perhaps should have been mentioned—the hero of the night.

“Welcome to Smythje!”

How his proud heart swelled with triumph under the magnificent ruffles of his shirt, as he caught sight of the flattering transparency! How conquering his smile, as he turned towards Kate Vaughan, to note the effect which it could not fail to produce!

“Welcome to Smythje!” pealed from a hundred pairs of lips, as the carriage drove up to the door; and then a loud cheer followed the words of greeting; and then the distinguished stranger was ushered into the hall-room; and, after remaining a few moments in a conspicuous position—the cynosure of at least two hundred pairs of eyes—the great man set the example by pairing off with a partner.

The hand struck up, and the dancing began.

It need scarce be said who was Smythje’s first partner—Kate Vaughan, of course. The Custos had taken care of that.

Smythje looked superb. Thoms had been at him all the afternoon. His hay-coloured hair was in full curl—his whiskers in amplest bush—his moustache crimped spirally at the points; and his cheek pinked with just the slightest tinting of vermillion.

Arrived a little late, the Jewess had not appeared in the first set. In the waltz she was conspicuous: not from her dress of rich purple velvet—not from the splendid tiara of pearls that glistened against the background of her glossy raven hair—not from the dazzling whiteness of her teeth, that gleamed between lips like curved and parted rose-leaves—not from the damask tinting of her cheeks; nor the liquid light that flashed incessantly from her black, Israelitish eyes—not from any of these was she conspicuous; but from all combined into one, and composing a grand and imperious picture.

It was a picture upon which more than one eye gazed with admiration; and more than one continued to gaze.

The partner of Judith was not unworthy to embrace such beauty.

She was in the arms of a young man, a stranger to most in the room; but the glances bestowed upon him by bright eyes—some interrogative, some furtive, some openly admiring—promised him an easy introduction to any one he might fancy to know.

Not that this stranger appeared to be conceitedly conscious of the graces which nature had so lavishly bestowed upon him; or even sensible of the good fortune that had given him such a partner.

On the contrary, he was dancing with despondency in his look, and a cloud upon his brow that even the exciting whirl of the waltz was failing to dissipate!

The partner of Judith Jessuron was Herbert Vaughan.

A ball-room may be likened to a kaleidoscope: the personages are the same, their relative positions constantly changing. Design it or not, either during the dance or the interregnum—one time or another—you will find yourself face to face, or side by side, with every individual in the room.

So in the ball-room of Montego Bay came face to face two sets of waltzers—Smythje and Kate, Herbert and Judith.

The situation arose as they were resting from the dizzy whirl of a waltz.

Smythje bent profoundly towards the floor—Judith, with an imperious sweep, returned the salutation—Herbert bowed to his cousin, with a half-doubting, half-appealing glance; but the nod received in return was so slight, so distant, that even the keen-eyed Custos, closely watching every movement of the quartette, failed to perceive it!

Poor Kate! She knew that the paternal eye, severely set, was upon her. She remembered that painful promise.

Not a word passed between the parties. Scarce a moment stood they together. Herbert, stung by Kate’s salutation—unexpectedly cold, almost insultingly distant—warped his arm around the waist of his willing partner, and spun off through the unobservant crowd.

Though often again upon that same night Smythje and Kate, Herbert and the Jewess were respectively partners—so often as to lead to general observation—never again did the four stand vis-à-vis or side by side. Whenever chance threatened to bring them together, design, or something like it, stepped in to thwart the approximation!

Almost all the night did Herbert dance with the Jewess—no longer with despondency in his look, but with the semblance of a gay and reckless joy. Never had Judith received from the young Englishman such ardent attention; and for the first time since their introduction to each other did she feel conscious of something like a correspondence to her own fierce love. For the moment her proud, cruel heart became dissolved to a true feminine tenderness; and in the spiral undulations of the waltz, as she coiled round the robust form of her partner, her cheek rested upon his shoulder, as if laid there to expire in the agony of an exquisite bliss.