Captain Mayne Reid (continued 6)

She stayed not to question the cause of Herbert’s devotedness. Her own heart, blinded by love, and yearning for reciprocity, threw open its portals to receive the passion without challenge or scrutiny—without knowing whether it was real or only apparent.

A wild anguish would she have experienced at that moment, could she have divined what was passing in Herbert’s mind. Little did she suspect that his devotedness to her was only a demonstration intended to act upon another. Little dreamt she that real love for another was the cause and origin of that counterfeit that was deceiving herself. Happily for her heart’s peace she knew not this.

Herbert alone knew it. As the kaleidoscope evolved the dazzling dancers one after another, often did the face of Kate Vaughan flit before the eyes of her cousin, and his before her eyes. On such occasions, the glance hastily exchanged was one of defiant indifference: for both were playing at piques! The cold salutation had given him the cue, ignorant as he was of its cause. She had begun the game only a little later—on observing the attitude of extreme contentment which Herbert had assumed towards his companion. She knew not that it was studied. Her skill in coquetry, although sufficient for the pretence of indifference, was not deep enough to discern it in him; and both were now behaving as if each believed the love of the other beyond all hope.

Before abandoning the ball-room, this belief—erroneous as it might be on both sides—received further confirmation. A circumstance arose that strengthened it to a full and perfect conviction.

From the gossip of a crowded ball-room many a secret may be learnt. In those late hours, when the supper champagne has untied the tongue, and dancers begin to fancy each other deaf, he who silently threads his way or stands still among the crowd, may catch many a sentence not intended to be overheard, and often least of all by himself. Many an involuntary eavesdropper has fallen into this catastrophe. At least two instances occurred at the Smythje hall; and to the two individuals in whom, perhaps, we are most interested—Herbert and Kate Vaughan.

Herbert for a moment was alone. Judith, not that she had tired of her partner, but perhaps only to save appearances, was dancing with another. It was not Smythje, whom all the evening she had studiously avoided. She remembered the incident on the Jumbé Rock; and feared that dancing with him might conduct to a similar disposition of partners as that which had occurred on the day of the eclipse.

It was not flirtation in any way. On that night Judith had no need. Confident in her success with Herbert, she was contented; and cared not to do anything that might hazard a rupture of the blissful chain she believed she had woven around him.

Herbert was standing alone in the crowd. Two young planters were near him, engaged in conversation. They had mixed their liquor, and therefore talked loud.

Herbert could not help hearing what they talked of; and, having heard, could not help heeding it. He was interested in the subject, though not from its singularity; for it was the common topic of the ball-room, and had been throughout the night. The theme was Smythje; and coupled with his name was that of Kate Vaughan.

On hearing these names, Herbert was no longer an involuntary listener. He strained his ears to catch every word. He had not heard the beginning of the dialogue, but the introduction was easily inferred.

“When is it to come off?” inquired the least knowing of the planters, from him who was imparting the information.

“No time fixed yet,” was the reply; “at least, none has been mentioned. Soon, I suppose.”

“There’ll be a grand spread upon the occasion—breakfast, dinner, supper, and ball, no doubt?”

“Sure to be all that. The Custos is not the man to let the ceremony pass without all the éclat.”

“Honeymoon tour afterwards?”

“Of course. He takes her to London. I believe they are to reside there. Mr Smythje don’t much relish our colonial life: he misses the opera. A pity: since it’ll make one beautiful woman less in the Island!”

“Well, all I’ve got to say is, that Loff Vaughan has sold his nigger well.”

“Oh, for shame! to use such a word in speaking of the beautiful—the accomplished Miss Vaughan. Come, Thorndyke! I’m shocked at you.”

Thorndyke, by the expression, had hazarded the punching of his head—not by his companion, but by a stranger who stood near.

Herbert curbed his indignation. Kate cared not for him! Perhaps she would not have accepted him even as her champion!

Almost at that same moment Kate, too, was listening to a dialogue painfully analogous. Smythje could not dance all the night with her. Too many claimed the honour of his partnership; and for a set or two she had been forsaken by him—left under the guardianship of the watchful Custos.

“Who can he be?” inquired one of two gentle gossips within earshot of Kate.

“A young Englishman, I have heard: a relative of Vaughans of Mount Welcome; though, for some reason, not acknowledged by the Custos.”

“That bold girl appears willing enough to acknowledge him. Who is she?”

“A Miss Jessuron. She is the daughter of the old Jew penn-keeper, who used to deal largely in blacks.”

“Faugh! she is behaving as if she belonged to a—”

The last word was whispered, and Kate did not hear it.

“True enough!” asserted the other; “but, as they are engaged, that, I take it, is nobody’s business but their own. He’s a stranger in the Island; and don’t know much about certain people’s position, I suppose. A pity! He seems a nice sort of a young fellow; but as he makes his bed, so let him lie. Ha! ha! If report speaks true of Miss Judith Jessuron, he’ll find no bed of roses there. Ha! ha! ha!”

What causes merriment to one may make another miserable. This was true of the words last spoken. From the speaker and her companion they elicited a laugh—from Kate Vaughan they drew a sigh, deep and sad.

She left the ball with a bleeding heart.

“Lost! lost for ever!” murmured she, as she laid her cheek upon a sleepless pillow.

“Won!” triumphantly exclaimed Judith Jessuron, flinging her majestic form on a couch. “Herbert Vaughan is mine!”

“Lost! lost for ever!” soliloquised Herbert, as he closed the door of his solitary sleeping-room.

“Won!” cried the victorious Smythje, entering his elegant bed-chamber, and, in the fervour of his enthusiasm, dropping his metropolitan patois. “Kate Vaughan is mine!”

Volume Two—Chapter Seventeen.

After the Ball.

The time was rapidly drawing nigh when the ambitious scheme of the Custos Vaughan was either to be crowned with success, or end in failure.

Of the latter he had little apprehension. Though Smythje, having lost the opportunity of the eclipse, had not yet declared himself, Mr Vaughan knew it was his intention to do so on an early occasion. Indeed, the declaration was only postponed by the advice of the Custos himself, whose counsel had been sought by his intended son-in-law.

Not that Mr Vaughan had any fear of Kate’s giving a negative answer. The stern father knew that he had his daughter too well in hand for that. His wish would be her will—on that point was he determined; and it was less the fear of a refusal than some other circumstances that had hindered him from bringing the matter earlier to a crisis.

As for Smythje, he never dreamt of a rejection. Kate’s behaviour at the ball had confirmed him in the belief that she was entirely his own; and that without him her future existence would be one of misery. Her pale cheek, and sad, thoughtful air, as she appeared next morning at the breakfast-table, told him too plainly that she would never be happy under any other name than that of Mrs Smythje.

Again, upon that morning, it occurred to him that the proposal should be made. It would be an appropriate finale to the fête of the preceding night.

His brow still glowing with the laurels that had bedecked it, like a second Antony he would approach his Cleopatra, triumphantly irresistible.

After breakfast, Mr Smythje drew the Custos into a corner, and once more expressed his solicitude to become his son-in-law.

Whether, because Kate’s behaviour at the ball had also impressed Mr Vaughan with the appropriateness of the time, or for some other reason, Smythje found him agreeable. Only first, the father desired to have a few words with his daughter, in order to prepare her for the distinguished honour of which she was so soon to be the recipient.

Kate had gone out into the kiosk. There Mr Vaughan sought her, to bring about the proposed preliminary interview. Smythje also stepped into the garden; but, instead of going near the summer-house, he sauntered along the walks at a distance, occasionally plucking a flower, or chasing the butterflies, bright and gay as his own thoughts.

Kate’s countenance still preserved the air of melancholy that had clouded it all the morning; and the approach of the Custos did nothing to dissipate it. On the contrary, its shadows became deeper, as if the ponderous presence of her father, coming between her and the sun, was about to shut out the little light left shining in her heart.

From what she had heard that morning, she presumed that the time had arrived when she must either submit to the wishes of her father, and resign herself to an unhappy fate; or, by disobedience, brave his anger, and perhaps—she knew not what.

She only knew that she did not like Mr Smythje, and never could. She did not hate the man—she did not detest him. Her feeling towards him was that of indifference, slightly tinctured with contempt. Harmless she deemed him; and, no doubt, a harmless husband he would make; but that was not the sort to suit the taste of the young Creole. Far different was the hero of her heart.

Neither the lover nor his prospective father-in-law could have chosen a time more opportune for making their approaches. Although at that time Kate Vaughan felt towards Smythje more indifference—perhaps more contempt—than she had ever done, at that very hour was she wavering in the intention, hitherto cherished, of refusing him.

Though both lover and father had erroneously interpreted her air of dejection, it was nevertheless in their favour. It was not love for Smythje under which she was suffering; but despair of this passion for another; and in that despair lay the hope—the only hope—of the lord of Montagu Castle.

It was a despair not unmingled with pique—with anger; that proud rage, which painfully wringing the heart, prompts it to desperate resolves: even to the utter annihilation of all future hope—as if happiness could be obtained by destroying the happiness of the one only being who could give it!

Yes, the heart of Kate Vaughan had reached, or almost reached, that fearful phase of our moral nature, when love, convinced of its unrequital, seeks solace in revenge!

The Smythje ball, which had crowned the hopes of him to whom the compliment was given, had been fatal to those of Kate Vaughan.

Certain it was that she had conceived hopes that pointed to Herbert Vaughan. Love could scarce have been kindled without them. They were founded upon those fond words spoken at their first parting. Slight as was the foundation, up to that night had they endured: for she had treasured and cherished them in spite of absence, and calumny, and false report.

True, as time passed they had waxed fainter, with longer intervals of doubt, until the day in which had occurred the unexpected incident of their meeting upon the Jumbé Rock.

Then they had become revived, and since then they had lived with more or less intermission until that fatal night—the night of the Smythje ball—when they were doomed to utter extinction.

All night long he had come but once near her—only that once by the mere chance of changing positions. And that bow—that single salutation, friendly as it might have been deemed, she could only remember as being cold—almost cynical!

She did not think how cold and distant had been her own—at least, how much so it must have appeared to him. Though her eyes had often sought him in the crowd, and often found him, she did not know that his were equally following her, and equally as often fixed upon her. Both were ignorant of this mutual espionage: for each had studiously declined responding to the glance of the other.

Never more that night had he come near—never again had he shown a desire or made an attempt to address her; though opportunities there were—many—when no paternal eye was upon her to prevent an interview.

All night long had his attentions been occupied by another—apparently engrossed—and that other, a bold, beautiful woman—just such an one as Herbert might love.

“He loves her! I am sure he loves her!” was the reflection that passed often and painfully through the thoughts of Kate Vaughan, as she swept her eye across that crowded ball-room.

And then came the climax—that half-whispered gossip that reached her ear, falling upon it like a knell of death. They were to be married: they were already betrothed!

It needed no more. In that moment the hopes of the young creole were crushed—so cruelly, so completely, that, in the dark future before her, no gleam of light arose to resuscitate them.

No wonder the morning sun shone upon a pale cheek—no wonder that an air of deep dejection sate upon the countenance of Kate Vaughan.

In this melancholy mood did the father find his daughter on entering the kiosk.

She made no attempt to conceal it—not even with a counterfeit of a smile. Rather with a frown did she receive him; and in her eyes might have been detected the slightest scintillation of anger, whether or not he was its object.

It is possible that just then the thought was passing through her mind that but for him her destiny might have been different; but for him, Herbert Vaughan, not Montagu Smythje, might have been on the eve of offering for her hand, which would then have gone with her heart. Now, in the contingency of her consenting to the proposal she expected, would she and Herbert be separated, and for ever!

Never more was she to experience that supreme happiness—the supremest known upon earth, and perhaps, equalling the joys of heaven itself—never more could she indulge in that sweet delicious dream—a virgin’s love—with the hope of its being returned. Her love might remain like a flower that had lost its perfume, only to shed it on the solitary air; no more a sweet passion, but a barren, bitter thought, without hope to cheer it till the end of time.

Ah, Custos Vaughan! proud, foolish parent! Could you have known how you were aiding to destroy the happiness of your child—how you were contributing to crush that young heart—you would have approached less cheerfully to complete the ceremony of its sacrifice!

Volume Two—Chapter Eighteen.

Paving the Way.

“Katherine!” gravely began the father, on stepping inside the kiosk.

“Father!”

The parental appellative was pronounced in a low murmur, the speaker not uplifting her eyes from the object upon which she had been gazing.

That object was a small silken purse that lay upon the table. Stringless it was, though the broken strands of a blue ribbon attached to it showed that it had not always been so.

Loftus Vaughan knew not the history of that purse, neither why it lay there, what had stripped it of its string, or why his daughter was so sadly gazing upon it. This last circumstance he noticed on entering the kiosk.

“Ah, your pretty purse!” said he, taking it up, and examining it more minutely.

“Some one has torn the string from it—a pity! who can have done it?”

Little did he care for an answer. As little did he suspect that the rape of that bit of ribbon had aught to do with his daughter’s dejection, which he had observed throughout the morning. The surprise he had expressed, and the question put, were only intended to initiate the more serious conversation he was about to introduce.

“Oh, papa! it don’t signify,” said Kate, avoiding a direct answer; “’tis but a bit of ribbon. I can easily replace it by another.”

Ah, Kate! you may easily replace the ribbon upon the purse, but not so easily that peace of mind which parted from your bosom at the same time. When that string was torn, torn, too, were the strings of your heart!

Some such reflection must have passed through her mind as she made the reply; for the shadow visibly deepened over her countenance.

Mr Vaughan pursued the subject of the purse no further, but looking through the lattice-work and perceiving Smythje in chase of the butterflies, endeavoured to draw his daughter’s attention to that sportive gentleman.

This was the more easily done as Mr Smythje was at the moment humming a tune, and could be heard as well as seen.

“‘I’d be a butterfly,’—” sang Smythje— “‘born in a bower, Where lilies, and roses, and violets meet; Sporting for ever, from flower to flower; And—’”

And then, as if to contradict this pleasant routine of insect life, he was at that instant seen seizing a splendid vanessa, and crushing the frail creature between his kid-gloved fingers!

“Isn’t he a superb fellow?” said Mr Vaughan, first gazing enthusiastically on Smythje, and then fixing his eyes upon his daughter, to note the character of the reply.

“I suppose he must be, papa—since everybody says so.”

There was no enthusiasm in Kate’s answer—nothing to encourage the Custos.

“Don’t you think so, Kate?”

This was coming more directly to the point; but the response proved equally evasive.

“You think so, papa—and that should do for both of us.”

The melodious voice of Smythje again interrupted the dialogue, and turned it into a new channel.

Smythje, singing,—

“I’d never languish for wealth nor for power, I’d never sigh to see slaves at my feet!”

“Ah, Mr Smythje!” exclaimed the Custos, in a kind of soliloquy, though meant for the ear of Kate; “you have no need to sigh for them—you have them; five hundred of them. And beauties, too! Wealth and power, indeed! You needn’t languish for either one or the other. The estate of Montagu Castle provides you with both, my boy!”

Smythje, still chantant:—

“Those who have wealth may be watchful and wary, Power, alas! nought but misery brings.”

“Do you hear that, Kate? What fine sentiments he utters!”

“Very fine, and apropos to the occasion,” replied Kate, sarcastically. “They are not his, however; but, no doubt, he feels them; and that’s just as good.”

“A splendid property!” continued Mr Vaughan, returning to what interested him more than the sentiments of the song, and not heeding the sarcasm conveyed in the speech of his daughter,—“a splendid property, I tell you; and, with mine joined to it, will make the grandest establishment in the Island. The Island, did I say? In the West Indies—ay, in the Western World! Do you hear that, my daughter?”

“I do, papa,” replied the young Creole. “But you speak as if the two estates were to be joined together? Does Mr Smythje intend to purchase Mount Welcome? or you Montagu Castle?”

These questions were asked with an air of simplicity evidently assumed. In truth, the interrogator knew well enough to what the conversation was tending; and, impatient with the ambiguity, every moment growing more painful to her, desired to bring it to its crisis.

Mr Vaughan was equally desirous of arriving at the same result, as testified by his reply.

“Ah, Kate! you little rogue!” said he, looking gratified at the opening thus made for him. “Egad! you’ve just hit the nail on the head. You’ve guessed right—only that we are both to be buyers. Mr Smythje is to purchase Mount Welcome; and what do you suppose he is to pay for it? Guess that!”

“Indeed, father, I cannot! How should I know? I am sure I do not. Only this I know, that I am sorry you should think of parting with Mount Welcome. I, for one, shall be loth to leave it. Though I do not expect now ever to be happy here, I think I should not be happier anywhere else.”

Mr Vaughan was too much wound-up in the thread of his own thoughts to notice the emphasis on the word “now,” or the double meaning of his daughter’s words.

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed he; “Mr Smythje’s purchase won’t dispossess us of Mount Welcome. Don’t be afraid of that, little Kate. But, come, try and guess the price he is to pay?”

“Father, I need not try. I am sure I could not guess it—not within thousands of pounds.”

“Not a thousand pounds! no, not one pound, unless his great big heart weighs that much, and his generous hand thrown into the scale—for that, Catherine, that is the price he is to pay.”

Mr Vaughan wound up this speech with a significant glance, and a triumphant gesture, expressive of astonishment at his own eloquence.

He looked for a response—one that would reciprocate his smiles and the joyful intelligence he fancied himself to have communicated.

He looked in vain. Notwithstanding the perspicuity of his explanation, Kate obstinately refused to comprehend it.

Her reply was provokingly a “shirking of the question.”

“His heart and his hand, you say? Neither seem very heavy. But is it not very little for an estate where there are many hands and many hearts, too? To whom does he intend to give his? You have not let me know that, papa!”

“I shall let you know now,” replied the father, his voice changing to a more serious tone, as if a little nettled by Kate’s evident design to misunderstand him. “I shall let you know, by telling you what I intend to give him for Montagu Castle. I told you we were both to be buyers in this transaction. It is a fair exchange, Kate, hand for hand, and heart for heart. Mr Smythje freely gives his, and I give yours.”

“Mine!”

“Ay, yours. Surely, Kate, I have not made a mistake? Surely you are agreeable to the exchange?”

“Father,” said the young girl, speaking in a tone of womanly gravity, “there can be no exchange of hearts between Mr Smythje and myself. He may have given his to me. I know not, nor do I care. But I will not deceive you, father. My heart he can never have. It is not in my power to give it to him.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Mr Vaughan, startled by this unexpected declaration; “you are deceiving yourself, my child, when you talk thus. I do not see how you can fail to like Mr Smythje—so generous, so accomplished, so handsome as he is! Come, you are only jesting, Kate? You do like him? You do not hate him?”

“No, no! I do not hate him! Why should I? Mr Smythje has done nothing to offend me. I believe he is very honourable.”

“Why, that is almost saying that you like him!” rejoined the father, in a tone of returning gratification.

“Liking is not love,” murmured Kate, as if speaking to herself.

“It may turn to it,” said the Custos, encouragingly. “It often does—especially when two people become man and wife. Besides, it’s not always best for young married folks to be too fond of each other at first. As my old spelling book used to say, ‘Hot love soon grows cold.’ Never fear, Kate! you’ll get to like Mr Smythje well enough, when you come to be the mistress of Montagu Castle, and take rank as the grandest lady of the Island. Won’t that be happiness, little Kate?”

“Ah!” thought the young Creole, “a cabin shared with him would be greater happiness—far, far greater!”

It is needless to say that the “him” to whom the thought pointed was not Smythje.

“As Mrs Montagu Smythje,” proceeded the Custos, with a design of painting the future prospects of his daughter in still more glowing tints, “you will have troops of friends—the highest in the land. And remember, my child, it is not so note. You know it, Catherine?”

These last words were pronounced in a tone suggestive of some secret understanding between father and daughter.

Whether the speech produced the desired effect, he who made it did not stay to perceive; but continued on in the same breath to finish the rose-coloured picture he had essayed to paint.

“Yes, my little Kate! you will be the observed of all observers—the cynosure of every eye, as the poets say. Horses, slaves, dresses, carriages at will. You will make a grand tour to London—egad! I feel like going myself! In the great metropolis you will hob-nob with lords and ladies; visit the operas and balls, where you will be a belle, my girl—a belle, do you hear? Every one will be talking of Mrs Montagu Smythje! How do you like it now?”

“Ah, papa!” replied the young Creole, evidently unmoved by these promises of pomp and grandeur, “I should not like it at all. I am sure I should not. I never cared for such things—you know I do not. They cannot give happiness—at least, not to me. I should never be happy away from our own home. What pleasure should I have in a great city? None, I am sure; but quite the contrary. I should miss our grand mountains and woods—our beautiful trees with their gay, perfumed blossoms—our bright-winged birds with their sweet songs! Operas and balls! I dislike balls; and to be the belle of one—papa, I detest the word!”

Kate, at that moment, was thinking of the Smythje ball, and its disagreeable souvenirs—perhaps the more disagreeable that, oftener than once, during the night she had heard the phrase “belle of the ball” applied to one who had aided in the desolation of her heart.

“Oh! you will get over that dislike,” returned Mr Vaughan, “once you go into fashionable society. Most young ladies do. There is no harm in balls—after a girl gets married, and her husband goes with her, to take care of her—no harm whatever. But now, Kate,” continued the Custos, betraying a certain degree of nervous impatience, “we must come to an understanding. Mr Smythje is waiting.”

“For what is he waiting, papa?”

“Tut! tut! child,” said Mr Vaughan, slightly irritated by his daughter’s apparent incapacity to comprehend him. “Surely you know! Have I not as good as told you? Mr Smythje is going to—to offer you his heart and hand; and—and to ask yours in return. That is what he is waiting to do. You will not refuse him?—you cannot: you must not!”

Loftus Vaughan would have spoken more gracefully had he omitted the last phrase. It had the sound of a command, with an implied threat; and, jarring upon the ear of her to whom it was addressed, might have roused a spirit of rebellion. It is just possible that such would have been its effect, had it been spoken on the evening before the Smythje ball, instead of the morning after.

The incidents occurring there had extinguished all hope in the breast of the young Creole that she should ever share happiness with Herbert Vaughan—had, at the same time, destroyed any thought of resistance to the will of her father; and, with a sort of apathetic despair, she submitted herself to the sacrifice which her father had determined she should make.

“I have told you the truth,” said she, gazing fixedly in his face, as if to impress him with the idleness of the arguments he had been using. “I cannot give Mr Smythje my heart; I shall tell him the same.”

“No—no!” hastily rejoined the importunate parent; “you must do nothing of the kind. Give him your hand; and say nothing about your heart. That you can bestow afterwards—when you are safe married.”

“Never, never!” said the young girl, sighing sadly as she spoke. “I cannot practise that deception. No, father, not even for you. Mr Smythje shall know all; and, if he choose to accept my hand without my heart—”

“Then you promise to give him your hand?” interrupted the Custos, overjoyed at this hypothetical consent.

“It is you who give it; not I, father.”

“Enough!” cried Mr Vaughan, hastily turning his eyes to the garden, as if to search for the insect-hunter. “I shall give it,” continued he, “and this very minute. Mr Smythje!”

Smythje, standing close by the kiosk, on the qui vive of expectation, promptly responded to the summons; and in two seconds of time appeared in the open doorway.

“Mr Smythje—sir!” said the Custos, putting on an air of pompous solemnity befitting the occasion; “you have asked for my daughter’s hand in marriage; and, sir, I am happy to inform you that she has consented to your becoming my son-in-law. I am proud of the honour, sir.”

Here Mr Vaughan paused to get breath.

“Aw, aw!” stammered Smythje. “This is a gweat happiness—veway gweat, indeed! Quite unexpected!—aw, aw!—I am shure, Miss Vawn, I never dweamt such happiness was in store faw me.”

“Now, my children,” playfully interrupted the Custos—covering Smythje’s embarrassment by the interruption—“I have bestowed you upon one another; and, with my blessing, I leave you to yourselves.”

So saying, the gratified father stepped forth from the kiosk; and, wending his way along the walk, disappeared around an angle of the house.

We shall not intrude upon the lovers thus left alone, nor repeat a single word of what passed between them.

Suffice it to say, that when Smythje came out of that same kiosk, his air was rather tranquil than triumphant. A portion of the shadow that had been observed upon Kate’s countenance seemed to have been transmitted to his.

“Well?” anxiously inquired the intended father-in-law.

“Aw! all wight; betwothed. Yewy stwange, thaw—inexpwicably stwange!”

“How, strange?” demanded Mr Vaughan.

“Aw, vewy mild. I expected haw to go into hystewics. Ba Jawve! naw: she weceived ma declawation as cool as a cucumbaw!”

She had done more than that; she had given him a hand without a heart.

And Smythje knew it: for Kate Vaughan had kept her promise.

Volume Two—Chapter Nineteen.

The Duppy’s Hole.

On the flank of the “Mountain” that frowned towards the Happy Valley, and not far from the Jumbé Rock, a spring gushed forth. So copious was it as to merit the name of fountain. In its descent down the slope it was joined by others, and soon became a torrent—leaping from ledge to ledge, and foaming as it followed its onward course.

About half-way between the summit and base of the mountain, a deep longitudinal hollow lay in its track—into which the stream was precipitated, in a clear, curving cascade.

This singular hollow resembled the crater of an extinct volcano—in the circumstance that on all sides it was surrounded by a precipice facing inward, and rising two hundred feet sheer from the level below. It was not of circular shape, however—as craters generally are—but of the form of a ship, the stream falling in over the poop, and afterwards escaping through a narrow cleft at the bow.

Preserving the simile of a ship, it may be stated that the channel ran directly fore and aft, bisecting the bottom of the valley, an area of several acres, into two equal parts—but in consequence of an obstruction at its exit, the stream formed a lagoon, or dam, flooding the whole of the fore-deck, while the main and quarter-decks were covered with a growth of indigenous timber-trees, of appearance primeval.

The water, on leaving the lagoon, made its escape below, through a gorge black and narrow, bounded on each side by the same beetling cliffs that surrounded the valley. At the lower end of this gorge was a second waterfall, where the stream again pitched over a precipice of several hundred feet in height; and thence traversing the slope of the mountain, ended in becoming a tributary of the Montego River.

The upper cascade precipitated itself upon a bed of grim black boulders; through the midst of which the froth-crested water seethed swiftly onward to the lagoon below.

Above these boulders hung continuously a cloud of white vapour, like steam ascending out of some gigantic cauldron.

When the sun was upon that side of the mountain, an iris might be seen shining amidst the fleece-like vapour. But rare was the eye that beheld this beautiful phenomenon: for the Duppy’s Hole—in negro parlance, the appellation of the place—shared the reputation of the Jumbé Rock; and few were the negroes who would have ventured to approach, even to the edge of this cavernous abysm: fewer those who would have dared to descend into it.

Indeed, something more than superstitious terror might have hindered the execution of this last project: since a descent into the Duppy’s Hole appeared an impossibility. Down the beetling cliffs that encompassed it, there was neither path nor pass—not a ledge on which the foot might have rested with safety. Only at one point—and that where the precipice rose over the lagoon—might a descent have been made: by means of some stunted trees that, rooting in the clefts of the rock, formed a straggling screen up the face of the cliff. At this point an agile individual might possibly have scrambled down; but the dammed water—dark and deep—would have hindered him from reaching the quarter-deck of this ship-shaped ravine, unless by swimming; and this, the suck of the current towards the gorge below would have rendered a most perilous performance.

It was evident that some one had tempted this peril: for on scrutinising the straggling trees upon the cliff, a sort of stairway could be distinguished—the outstanding stems serving as steps, with the parasitical creepers connecting them together.

Moreover, at certain times, a tiny string of smoke might have been seen ascending out of the Duppy’s Hole; which, after curling diffusely over the tops of the tall trees, would dissolve itself, and become invisible. Only one standing upon the cliff above, and parting the foliage that screened it to its very brink, could have seen this smoke; and, if only superficially observed, it might easily have been mistaken for a stray waif of the fog that floated above the waterfall near which it rose. Closely scrutinised, however, its blue colour and soft filmy haze rendered it recognisable as the smoke of a wood fire, and one that must have been made by human hands.

Any day might it have been seen, and three times a-day—at morning, noon, and evening—as if the fire had been kindled for the purposes of cooking the three regular meals of breakfast, dinner, and supper.

The diurnal appearance of this smoke proved the presence of a human being within the Duppy’s Hole. One, at least, disregarding the superstitious terror attached to the place, had made it his home.

By exploring the valley, other evidences of human presence might have been found. Under the branches of a large tree, standing by the edge of the lagoon, and from which the silvery tillandsia fell in festoons to the surface of the water, a small canoe of rude construction could be seen, a foot or two of its stem protruding from the moss. A piece of twisted withe, attaching it to the tree, told that it had not drifted there by accident, but was moored by some one who meant to return to it.

From the edge of the lagoon to the upper end of the valley, the ground, as already stated, was covered with a thick growth of forest timber—where the eye of the botanical observer might distinguish, by their forms and foliage, many of those magnificent indigenous trees for which the sylva of Jamaica has long been celebrated.

There stood the gigantic cedrela, and its kindred the bastard cedar, with elm-like leaves; the mountain mahoe; the “tropic birch;” and the world-known mahogany.

Here and there, the lance-like culms of bamboos might be seen shooting up over the tops of the dicotyledons, or forming a fringe along the cliffs above, intermingled with trumpet-trees, with their singular peltate leaves, and tall tree-ferns, whose delicate lace-like fronds formed a netted tracery against the blue background of the sky. In the rich soil of the valley flourished luxuriantly the noble cabbage-palm—the prince of the Jamaica forest—while, by its side, claiming admiration for the massive grandeur of its form, stood the patriarch of West-Indian trees—the grand ceiba; the hoary Spanish moss that drooped from its spreading branches forming an appropriate beard for this venerable giant.

Every tree had its parasites—not a single species, but in hundreds, and of as many grotesque shapes; some twining around the trunks and boughs like huge snakes or cables—some seated upon the limbs or in the forking of the branches; and others hanging suspended from the topmost twigs, like streamers from the rigging of a ship. Many of these, trailing from tree to tree, were loaded with clusters of the most brilliant flowers, thus uniting the forest into one continuous arbour.

Close under the cliff, and near where the cascade came tumbling down from the rocks, stood a tree that deserves particular mention. It was a ceiba of enormous dimensions, with a buttressed trunk, that covered a surface of more than fifty feet in diameter. Its vast bole, rising nearly to the brow of the cliff, extended horizontally over an area on which five hundred men could have conveniently encamped; while the profuse growth of Spanish moss clustering upon its branches, rather than its own sparse foliage, would have shaded them from the sun, completely shutting out the view overhead.

Not from any of these circumstances was the tree distinguished from others of its kind frequently met with in the mountain forests of Jamaica. What rendered it distinct from those around was, that between two of the great spurs extending outwards from its trunk, an object appeared which indicated the presence of man.

This object was a hut constructed in the most simple fashion—having for its side walls the plate-like buttresses already mentioned, while in front a stockade of bamboo stems completed the inclosure. In the centre of the stockade a narrow space had been left open for the entrance—which could be closed, when occasion required, by a door of split bamboos that hung lightly upon its hinges of withe.

In front, the roof trended downward from the main trunk of the tree—following the slope of the spurs to a height of some six feet from the ground. Its construction was of the simplest kind—being only a few poles laid transversely, and over these a thatch of the long pinnate leaves of the cabbage-palm.

The hut inside was of triangular shape, and of no inconsiderable size—since the converging spurs forming its side walls extended full twelve feet outwards from the tree. No doubt it was large enough for whoever occupied it; and the platform of bamboo canes, intended as a bedstead, from its narrowness showed that only one person was accustomed to pass the night under the shelter of its roof.

That this person was a man could be told by the presence of some articles of male attire lying upon this rude couch—where also lay a strip of coarse rush matting, and an old, tattered blanket—evidently the sole stock of bedding which the hut contained.

The furniture was scanty as simple. The cane platform already mentioned appeared to do duty also as a table and chair; and, with the exception of an old tin kettle, some calabash bowls and platters, nothing else could be seen that might be termed an “utensil.”

There were articles, however, of a different character, and plenty of them; but these were neither simple nor their uses easily understood.

Against the walls hung a variety of singular objects—some of them of ludicrous and some of horrid aspect. Among the latter could be observed the skin of the dreaded galliwasp; the two-headed snake; the skull and tusks of a savage boar; dried specimens of the ugly gecko lizard; enormous bats, with human-like faces; and other like hideous creatures.

Little bags, suspended from the rafters, contained articles of still more mysterious import. Balls of whitish-coloured clay; the claws of the great-eared owl; parrots’ beaks and feathers; the teeth of cats, alligators, and the native agouti; pieces of rag and broken glass; with a score of like odds and ends, forming a medley as miscellaneous as unintelligible.

In one corner was a wicker basket—the cutacoo—filled with roots and plants of several different species, among which might be identified the dangerous dumb-cane; the savanna flower; and other “simples” of a suspicious character.

Entering this hut, and observing the singular collection of specimens which it contained, a stranger to the Island of Jamaica would have been puzzled to explain their presence and purpose. Not so, one acquainted with the forms of the serpent worship of Ethiopia—the creed of the Coromantees. The grotesque objects were but symbols of the African fetish. The hut was a temple of Obi: in plainer terms, the dwelling of an Obeah-man.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty.

Chakra, the Myal-Man.

The sun was just going down to his bed in the blue Caribbean, and tinting with a carmine-coloured light the glistening surface of the Jumbé Rock, when a human figure was seen ascending the mountain path that led to that noted summit.

Notwithstanding the gloom of the indigenous forest—every moment becoming more obscure under the fast-deepening twilight—it could be easily seen that the figure was that of a woman; while the buff complexion of her face and naked throat, of her gloveless hands, and shoeless and stockingless feet and ankles, proclaimed her a woman of colour—a mulatta.

Her costume was in keeping with her caste. A frock of cotton print of flaunting pattern, half-open at the breast: a toque of Madras kerchief of gaudy hues—these were all she wore, excepting the chemise of scarcely white calico, whose embroidered border showed through the opening of her dress.

She was a woman of large form, and bold, passionate physiognomy; possessing a countenance not altogether unlovely, though lacking in delicacy of feature—its beauty, such as it was, being of a purely sensual character.

Whatever errand she was on, both her step and glance bespoke courageous resolve. It argued courage—her being upon the “Mountain,” and so near the Jumbé Rock, at that unusual hour.

But there are passions stronger than fear. Even the terror of the supernatural fades from the heart that is benighted with love, or wrung by jealousy. Perhaps this lone wanderer of the forest path was the victim of one or the other?

A certain expression of nervous anxiety—at times becoming more anguished—would have argued the latter to be the passion which was uppermost in her mind. Love should have looked more gentle and hopeful.

Though it was evident that her errand was not one of ordinary business, there was nothing about her to betray its exact purpose. A basket of palm wickerwork, suspended over her wrist, appeared to be filled with provisions: the half-closed lid permitting to be seen inside a congeries of yams, plantains, tomatoes, and capsicums; while the legs of a guinea-fowl protruded from the opening.

This might have argued a certain purpose—an errand to market; but the unusual hour, the direction taken, and, above all, the air and bearing of the mulatta, as she strode up the mountain path, forbade the supposition that she was going to market. The Jumbé Rock was not a likely place to find sale for a basket of provisions.

After all, she was not bound thither. On arriving within sight of the summit, she paused upon the path; and, after looking around for a minute or two—as if making a reconnoissance—she faced to the left, and advanced diagonally across the flank of the mountain.

Her turning aside from the Jumbé Rock could not have been from fear: for the direction she was now following would carry her to a place equally dreaded by the superstitious—the Duppy’s Hole.

That she was proceeding to this place was evident. There was no distinct path leading thither, but the directness of her course, and the confidence with which she kept it, told that she must have gone over the ground before.

Forcing her way through the tangle of vines and branches, she strode courageously onward—until at length she arrived on the edge of the cliff that hemmed in the cavernous hollow.

The point where she reached it was just above the gorge—the place where the tree stairway led down to the lagoon.

From her actions, it was evident that the way was known to her; and that she meditated a descent into the bottom of the valley.

That she knew she could accomplish this feat of herself, and expected some one to come to her assistance, was also evident from her proceeding to make a signal as soon as she arrived upon the edge of the cliff.

Drawing from the bosom of her dress a small white kerchief, she spread it open upon the branch of a tree that grew conspicuously over the precipice; and then, resting her hand against the trunk, she stood gazing with a fixed and earnest look upon the water below.

In the twilight, now fast-darkening down, even the white kerchief might have remained unnoticed. The woman, however, appeared to have no apprehension upon this head. Her gaze was expectant and full of confidence: as if the signal had been a preconcerted one, and she was conscious that the individual for whom it was intended would be on the look-out.

Forewarned or not, she was not disappointed. Scarce five minutes had transpired from the hanging out of the handkerchief, when a canoe was seen shooting out from under the moss-garnished trees that fringed the upper edge of the lagoon, and making for the bottom of the cliff beneath the spot where she stood.

A single individual occupied the canoe; who, even under the sombre shadow of the twilight, appeared to be a man of dread aspect.

He was a negro of gigantic size; though that might not have appeared as he sat squatted in the canoe but for the extreme breadth of his shoulders, between which was set a huge head, almost neckless. His back was bent like a bow, presenting an enormous hunch—partly the effect of advanced age, and partly from natural malformation. His attitude in the canoe gave him a double stoop: so that, as he leant forward to the paddle, his face was turned downward, as if he was regarding some object in the bottom of the craft. His long, ape-like arms enabled him to reach over the gunwale without bending much to either side; and only with these did he appear to make any exertion—his body remaining perfectly immobile.

The dress of this individual was at the same time grotesque and savage. The only part of it which belonged to civilised fashion was a pair of wide trousers or drawers, of coarse Osnaburgh linen—such as are worn by the field hands on a sugar plantation. Their dirty yellowish hue told that they had long been strangers to the laundry: while several crimson-coloured blotches upon them proclaimed that their last wetting had been with blood, not water.

A sort of kaross, or cloak, made out of the skins of the utia, and hung over his shoulders, was the only other garment he wore. This, fastened round his thick, short neck by a piece of leathern thong, covered the whole of his body down to the hams—the Osnaburgh drawers continuing the costume thence to his ankles.

His feet were bare. Nor needed they any protection from shoes—the soles being thickly covered with a horn-like callosity, which extended from the ball of the great toe to the broad heel, far protruding backward.

The head-dress was equally bizarre. It was a sort of cap, constructed out of the skin of some wild animal; and fitting closely, exhibited, in all its phrenological fulness, the huge negro cranium which it covered. There was no brim; but, in its place, the dried and stuffed skin of the great yellow snake was wreathed around the temples—with the head of the reptile in front, and two sparkling pebbles set in the sockets of its eyes to give it the appearance of life!

The countenance of the negro did not need this terrific adornment to inspire those who beheld it with fear. The sullen glare of his deep-set eye balls; the broad, gaping nostrils; the teeth, filed to a point, and gleaming, sharklike, behind his purple lips; the red tattooing upon his cheeks and broad breast—the latter exposed by the action of his arms—all combined in making a picture that needed no reptiliform addition to render it hideous enough for the most horrid of purposes. It seemed to terrify even the wild denizens of the Duppy’s Hole. The heron, couching in the sedge, flapped up with an affrighted cry; and the flamingo, spreading her scarlet wings, rose screaming over the cliffs, and flew far away.

Even the woman who awaited him—hold as she may have been, and voluntary as her rendezvous appeared to be—could not help shuddering as the canoe drew near; and for a moment she appeared irresolute, as to whether she should trust herself in such uncanny company.

Her resolution, however, stimulated by some strong passion, soon returned; and as the canoe swept in among the bushes at the bottom of the cliff, and she heard the voice of its occupant summoning her to descend, she plucked the signal from the tree, fixed the basket firmly over her arm, and commenced letting herself down through the tangle of branches.

The canoe re-appeared upon the open water, returning across the lagoon. The mulatta woman was seated in the stern, the man, as before, plying the paddle, but now exerting all his strength to prevent the light craft from being carried down by the current, that could be heard hissing and groaning through the gorge below.

On getting back under the tree from which he had started, the negro corded the canoe to one of the branches; and then, scrambling upon shore, followed by the woman, he walked on towards the temple of Obi—of which he was himself both oracle and priest.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty One.

The Resurrection.

Arrived at the cotton-tree hut, the myal-man—for such was the negro—dived at once into the open door, his broad and hunched shoulders scarce clearing the aperture.

In a tone rather of command than request he directed the woman to enter.

The mulatta appeared to hesitate. Inside, the place was dark as Erebus: though without it was not very different. The shadow of the ceiba, with its dense shrouding of moss, interrupted every ray of the moonlight now glistening among the tops of the trees.

The negro noticed her hesitation.

“Come in!” cried he, repeating his command in the same gruff voice. “You me sabbey—what fo’ you fear?”

“I’se not afraid, Chakra,” replied the woman, though the trembling of her voice contradicted the assertion; “only,” she added, still hesitating, “it’s so dark in there.”

“Well, den—you ’tay outside,” said the other, relenting; “you ’tay dar wha you is; a soon ’trike a light.”

A fumbling was heard, and then the chink of steel against flint, followed by fiery sparks.

A piece of punk was set a-blaze, and from this the flame was communicated to a sort of lamp, composed of the carapace of a turtle, filled with wild-hog’s lard, and having a wick twisted out of the down of the cotton-tree.

“Now you come in, Cynthy,” resumed the negro, placing the lamp upon the floor. “Wha! you ’till afeard! You de dauter ob Juno Vagh’n—you modder no fear ole Chakra. Whugh! she no fear de Debbil!”

Cynthia, thus addressed, might have thought that between the dread of these two personages there was not much to choose: for the Devil himself could hardly have appeared in more hideous guise than the human being who stood before her.

“O Chakra!” said she, as she stepped inside the door, and caught sight of the weird-looking garniture of the walls; “woman may well be ’fraid. Dis am a fearful place!”

“Not so fearful as de Jumbé Rock,” was the reply of the myal-man, accompanied by a significant glance, and something between a smile and a grin.

“True!” said the mulatta, gradually recovering her self-possession; “true: you hab cause say so, Chakra.”

“Das a fac’, Cynthy.”

“But tell me, good Chakra,” continued the mulatta, giving way to a woman’s feeling—curiosity, “how did you ebber ’scape from the Jumbé Rock? The folks said it was your skeleton dat was up there—chain to de palm-tree!”

“De folk ’peek da troof. My ’keleton it was, jess as dey say.”

The woman turned upon the speaker a glance in which astonishment was mingled with fear, the latter predominating.

“Your skeleton?” she muttered, interrogatively.

“Dem same old bones—de ’kull, de ribs, de jeints, drumticks, an’ all. Golly, gal Cynthy! dat ere ’pears ’stonish you. Wha fo’? Nuffin in daat. You sabbey ole Chakra? You know he myal-man? Doan care who know now—so long dey b’lieve um dead. Wha for myal-man, ef he no bring de dead to life ’gain? Be shoo Chakra no die hisseff, so long he knows how bring dead body to de life. Ole Chakra know all dat. Dey no kill him, nebber! Neider de white folk nor de brack folk. Dey may shoot ’im wid gun—dey may hang ’im by de neck—dey may cut off ’im head—he come to life ’gain, like de blue lizard and de glass snake. Dey did try kill ’im, you know. Dey ’tarve him till he die ob hunger and thuss. De John Crow pick out him eyes, and tear de flesh from de old nigga’s body—leab nuffin but de bare bones! Ha! Chakra ’lib yet—he hab new bones, new flesh! Golly! you him see? he ’trong—he fat as ebber he wa’! Ha! ha! ha!”

And as the hideous negro uttered his exulting laugh, he threw up his arms and turned his eyes towards his own person, as if appealing to it for proof of the resurrection he professed to have accomplished!

The woman looked as if petrified by the recital; every word of which she appeared implicitly to believe. She was too much terrified to speak, and remained silent, apparently cowering under the influence of a supernatural awe.

The myal-man perceived the advantage he had gained; and seeing that the curiosity of his listener was satisfied—for she had not the slightest desire to hear more about that matter—he adroitly changed the subject to one of a more natural character.

“You’ve brought de basket ob wittle, Cynthy?”

“Yes, Chakra—there.”

“Golly! um’s berry good—guinea-hen an’ plenty ob vegable fo’ de pepperpot. Anything fo’ drink, gal? Habent forgot daat, a hope? De drink am da mose partickla ob all.”

“I have not forgotten it, Chakra. There’s a bottle of rum. You’ll find it in the bottom of the basket. I had a deal trouble steal it.”

“Who you ’teal ’im from?”

“Why, master: who else? He have grown berry partickler of late—carries all de keys himself; and won’t let us coloured folk go near de storeroom, as if we were all teevin’ cats!”

“Nebba mind—nebba you mind, Cynthy—maybe Chakra watch him by’m-bye. Wa, now!” added he, drawing the bottle of rum out of the basket, and holding it up to the light. “De buckra preacher he say dat ’tolen water am sweet. A ’pose dat ’tolen rum folla de same excepshun. A see ef um do.”

So saying, the negro drew out the stopper; raised the bottle to his lips; and buried the neck up to the swell between his capacious jaws.

A series of “clucks” proclaimed the passage of the liquor over his palate; and not until he had swallowed half a pint of the fiery fluid, did he withdraw the neck of the bottle from between his teeth.

“Whugh!” he exclaimed, with an aspirate that resembled the snort of a startled hog. “Whugh!” he repeated, stroking his abdomen with his huge paw. “De buckra preacher may talk ’bout him ’tolen water, but gib me de ’tolen rum. You good gal, Cynthy—you berry good gal, fo’ fetch ole Chakra dis nice basket o’ wittle—he sometime berry hungry—he need um all.”

“I promise to bring more—whenebber I can get away from the Buff.”

“Das right, my piccaninny! An’ now, gal,” continued he, changing his tone, and regarding the mulatta with a look of interrogation, “wha fo’ you want see me dis night? You hab some puppos partickla? Dat so—eh, gal?”

The mulatta stood hesitating. There are certain secrets which woman avows with reluctance—often with repugnance. Her love is one; and of this she cares to make confession only to him who has the right to hear it. Hence Cynthia’s silent and hesitating attitude.

“Wha fo’ you no ’peak?” asked the grim confessor. “Shoo’ you no hah fear ob ole Chakra? You no need fo’ tell ’im—he know you secret a’ready—you lub Cubina, de capen ob Maroon? Dat troof, eh?”

“It is true, Chakra. I shall conceal nothing from you.”

“Better not, ’cause you can’t ’ceal nuffin from ole Chakra—he know ebbery ting—little bird tell um. Wa now, wha nex’? You tink Cubina no lub you?”

“Ah! I am sure of it,” replied the mulatta, her bold countenance relaxing into an anguished expression. “I once thought he love me. Now I no think so.”

“You tink him lub some odder gal?”

“I am sure of it—Oh, I have reason!”

“Who am dis odder?”

“Yola.”

“Yola? Dat ere name sound new to me. Whar d’s she ’long to?”

“She belongs to Mount Welcome—she Missa Kate’s maid.”

“Lilly Quasheba, I call dat young lady,” muttered the myal-man, with a knowing grin. “But dis Yola?” he added; “whar she come from? A nebber hear de name afo’.”

“Oh, true, Chakra! I did not think of tellin’ you. She was bought from the Jew, and fetched home since you—that is, after you left the plantation.”

“Arter I lef’ de plantation to die on de Jumbé Rock; ha! ha! ha! Dat’s wha you mean, Cynthy?”

“Yes—she came soon after.”

“So you tink Cubina lub her?”

“I do.”

“An’ she ’ciprocate de fekshun?”

“Ah, surely! How could she help do that?”

The interrogatory betrayed the speaker’s belief that the Maroon captain was irresistible.

“Wa, then—wha you want me do, gal? You want rebbenge on Cubina, ’cause he hab ’trayed you? You want me put de death-pell on him?”

“Oh! no—no! not that, Chakra, for the love of Heaven!—not that!”

“Den you want de lub-spell?”

“Ah! if he could be make love me ’gain—he did once. That is—I thought he did. Is it possible, good Chakra, to make him love me again?”

“All ting possble to old Chakra; an’ to prove dat,” continued he, with a determined air, “he promise put de lub-spell on Cubina.”

“Oh, thanks! thanks!” cried the woman, stretching out her hands, and speaking in a tone of fervent gratitude. “What can I do for you, Chakra? I bring you everything you ask. I steal rum—I steal wine—I come every night with something you like eat.”

“Wa, Cynthy—dat berry kind ob you; but you muss do more dan all dat.”

“Anything you ask me—what more?”

“You must yourseff help in de spell. It take bof you an’ me to bring dat ’bout.”

“Only me tell what to do; and trust me, Chakra, I shall follow your advice.”

“Wa, den—lissen—I tell you all ’bout it. But sit down on da bedsed dar. It take some time.”

The woman, thus directed, took her seat upon the bamboo couch, and remained silent and attentive—watching every movement of her hideous companion, and not without some misgivings as to the compact which was about to be entered into between them.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Two.

The Love-Spell.

The countenance of the myal-man had assumed an air of solemnity that betokened serious determination; and the mulatta felt a presentiment that, in return for his services, something was about to be demanded of her—something more than a payment in meat and drink.

His mysterious behaviour as he passed around the hut; now stopping before one of the grotesque objects that adorned the wall,—now fumbling among the little bags and baskets, as if in search of some particular charm—his movements made in solemn silence only broken by the melancholy sighing of the cataract without; all this was producing on the mind of the mulatta an unpleasant impression; and, despite her natural courage, sustained as it was by the burning passion that devoured her, she was fast giving way to an indefinable fear.

The priest of Obi, after appearing to have worshipped each fetish in turn, at length transferred his devotions to the rum-bottle—perhaps the most potent god in his whole Pantheon. Taking another long-protracted potation, followed by the customary “Whugh!” he restored the bottle to its place; and then, seating himself upon a huge turtle-shell, that formed part of the plenishing of his temple, he commenced giving his devotee her lesson of instructions.

“Fuss, den,” said he, “to put de lub-spell on anybody—eider a man or a woman—it am nessary, at de same time, to hab de obeah-spell go ’long wi’ it.”

“What!” exclaimed his listener, exhibiting a degree of alarm; “the obeah-spell?—on Cubina, do you mean?”

“No, not on him—dat’s not a nessary consarquence. But ’fore Cubina be made lub you, someb’dy else muss be made sick.”

“Who?” quickly inquired the mulatta, her mind at the moment reverting to one whom she might have wished to be the invalid.

“Who you tink fo’? who you greatest enemy you wish make sick?”

“Yola,” answered the woman, in a low muttered voice, and with only a moment of hesitation.

“Woan do—woman woan do—muss he man; an’ more dan dat, muss be free man. Nigga slave woan do. Obi god tell me so jess now. Buckra man, too, it muss be. If buckra man hab de obeah-’pell, Cubina he take de lub-spell ’trong—he lub you hard as a ole mule can kick.”

“Oh! if he would!” exclaimed the passionate mulatta, in an ecstasy of delightful expectation; “I shall do anything for that—anything!”

“Den you muss help put de obeah-spell on some ob de white folk. You hab buckra enemy?—Chakra hab de same.”

“Who?” inquired the woman, reflectingly.

“Who! No need tell who Chakra enemy—you enemy too. Who fooled you long time ’go? who ’bused you when you wa young gal? No need tell you dat, Cynthy Vagh’n?”

The mulatta turned her eyes upon the speaker with a significant expression. Some old memory seemed resuscitated by his words,—evidently anything but a pleasant one.

“Massa Loftus?” she said, in a half-whisper.

“Sartin shoo, Massa Loftus—dat ere buckra you enemy an’ mine boaf.”

“And you would—?”

“Set de obeah fo’ him,” said the negro, finishing the interrogatory, which the other had hesitated to pronounce.

The woman remained without making answer, and as if buried in reflection. The expression upon her features was not one of repentance.

“Muss be him!” continued the tempter, as if to win her more completely to his dark project; “no odder do so well. Obi god say so—muss be de planter ob Moun’ Welc’m.”

“If Cubina will but love me, I care not who,” rejoined the mulatta, with an air of reckless determination.

“’Nuff sed,” resumed the myal-man. “De obeah-spell sha’ be set on de proud buckra, Loftus Vagh’n; an’ you, Cynthy, muss ’sist in de workin’ ob de charm.”

“How can I assist?” inquired the woman, in a voice whose trembling told of a slight irresolution. “How, Chakra?”

“Dat you be tole by’m-bye—not dis night. De ’pell take time. God Obi he no act all at once, not eben fo’ ole Chakra. You come ’gain when I leab de signal fo’ yon on de trumpet-tree. Till den you keep dark ’bout all dese ting. You one ob de few dat know ole Chakra still ’live. Odders know ob de ole myal-man in de mask, but berry few ebber see um face, an’ nebba suspeck who um be. Das all right. You tell who de myal-man am, den—”

“Oh, never, Chakra,” interrupted his listener, “never!”

“No, berra not. You tell dat, Cynthy, you soon feel de obeah-spell on youseff.

“Now, gal,” continued the negro, rising from his seat, and motioning the mulatta to do the same, “time fo’ you go. I specks one odder soon: no do fo’ you to be cotch hya when dat odder come. Take you basket, an’ folla me.”

So saying, he emptied the basket of its heterogeneous contents; and, handing it to its owner, conducted her out of the hut.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Three.

Chakra Redivivus.

The scene that had thus transpired in the depths of the Duppy’s Hole requires some explanation. The dialogue which Cynthia had held with the hideous Coromantee, though couched in ambiguous phrase, clearly indicated an intention to assassinate the Custos Vaughan; and by a mode which these arch-conspirators figuratively—almost facetiously—termed the obeah-spell!

In the diabolical design, the woman appeared to be acting rather as coadjutor than conspirator; and her motive for taking part in the plot, though wicked enough, presents, in the language of French law, one or two “extenuating circumstances.”

A word or two of the mulatta’s history will make her motive understood, though her conversation may have already declared it with sufficient distinctness.

Cynthia was a slave on the plantation of Mount Welcome—one of the house-wenches, or domestics belonging to the mansion; and of which, in a large establishment like that of Custos Vaughan, there is usually a numerous troop.

The girl, in earlier life, had been gifted with good looks. Nor could it be said that they were yet gone; though hers was a beauty that no longer presented the charm of innocent girlhood, but rather the sensualistic attractions of a bold and abandoned woman.

Had Cynthia been other than a slave—that is, had she lived in other lands—her story might have been different. But in that, her native country—and under conditions of bondage that extended alike to body and soul—her fair looks had proved only a fatal gift.

With no motive to tread the paths of virtue—with a thousand temptations to stray from it—Cynthia, like, it is sad to think, too many of her race, had wandered into ways of wantonness. It might be, as Chakra had obscurely hinted, that the slave had been abused. Wherever lay the blame, she had, at all events, become abandoned.

Whether loving them or not, Cynthia had, in her time, been honoured with more than one admirer. But there was one on whom she had at length fixed her affections—or, more properly, her passions—to a degree of permanence that promised to end only with her life. This one was the young Maroon captain, Cubina; and although it was a love of comparatively recent origin, it had already reached the extreme of passion. So fierce and reckless had it grown, on the part of the wretched woman, that she was ready for anything that promised to procure her its requital—ready even for the nefarious purpose of Chakra.

To do Cubina justice, this love of the slave Cynthia was not reciprocated. To the levities and light speeches habitually indulged in by the Maroons, in their intercourse with the plantation people, Cubina was a singular exception; and Cynthia’s statement that he had once returned her love—somewhat doubtingly delivered—had no other foundation than her own groundless conjectures, in which the wish was father to the thought.

Some friendly words may have passed between the Maroon and mulatta—for they had often met upon their mutual wanderings; but the latter, in mistaking them for words of love, had, sadly for herself, misconceived their meaning.

Of late her passion had become fiercer than ever—since jealousy had arisen to stimulate it—jealousy of Cubina with Yola. The meeting and subsequent correspondence of the Maroon with the Foolah maiden were events of still more recent date; but already had Cynthia seen or heard enough to produce the conviction that in Yola she had found a rival. With the passionate sang-mêlé, jealousy pointed to revenge; and she had begun to indulge in dark projects of this nature just at that time when Chakra chanced to throw his shadow across her path.

Cynthia was one of those slaves known as night-rangers. She was in the habit of making occasional and nocturnal excursions through the woods for many purposes; but of late, principally in the hope of meeting Cubina, and satisfying herself in regard to a suspicion she had conceived of meetings occurring between him and Yola.

In one of these expeditions she had encountered a man whose appearance filled her with terror; and very naturally: since, as she at first supposed, it was not a man, but a ghost that she saw—the ghost of Chakra, the myal-man!

That it was the “duppy” of old Chakra, Cynthia on sight firmly believed; and might have continued longer in that belief, had she been permitted to make her escape from the spot—as she was fast hastening to do. But the long, ape-like arms of the myal-man, flung around her on the instant, restrained her flight until she became convinced that it was not Chakra’s ghost, but Chakra himself, who had so rudely embraced her!

It was not altogether by chance this encounter had occurred—at least, on the part of Chakra. He had been looking out for Cynthia for some time before. He wanted her for a purpose.

The mulatta made no revelation of what she had seen. With all his ugliness, the myal-man had been the friend of her mother—had often dandled her, Cynthia, upon his knees. But the tongue of Juno’s daughter was held silent by stronger ties than those of affection. Fear was one; but there was also another. If Chakra wanted Cynthia for a purpose, a quick instinct told her she might stand in need of him. He was just the instrument by which to accomplish that revenge of which she was already dreaming.

On the instant, mulatta and myal-man became allies.

This mutual confidence had been but very recently established—only a few days, or rather nights, before that on which Cynthia had given Chakra this, her first seance in the temple of Obi.

The purpose for which the myal-man wanted the mulatta—or one purpose, at least—has been sufficiently set forth in the dialogues occurring between them. He required her assistance to put the obeah-spell upon the planter, Loftus Vaughan. The character of Cynthia, which Chakra well understood—with the opportunities she had, in her capacity of housemaid—promised to provide the assassin with an agency of the most effective kind; and the pretended love-spell he was to work upon Cubina had given him a talisman, by which his agent was but too easily induced to undertake the execution of his diabolical design.

Among many other performances of a like kind, it was part of Chakra’s programme, some day or other, to put the death-spell upon the Maroon himself; to “obeah” young Cubina—as it was suspected he had the old Cubina, the father—after twenty years of temptation. It was but the want of opportunity that had hindered him from having long before accomplished his nefarious project upon the son, as upon the father—in satisfaction of a revenue so old as to be anterior to the birth of Cubina himself, though associated with that event.

Of course, this design was not revealed to Cynthia.

His motive for conspiring the death of Loftus Vaughan was without any mystery whatever; and this—perhaps more than any other of his crimes, either purposed or committed—might plead “extenuating circumstances.” His cruel condemnation, and subsequent exposure upon the Jumbé Rock, was a stimulus sufficient to have excited to revenge a gentler nature than that of Chakra, the Coromantee. It need scarce be said that it had stimulated his to the deadliest degree.

The resurrection of the myal-man may appear a mystery—as it did to the slave, Cynthia. There was one individual, however, who understood its character. Not to an African god was the priest of Obi indebted for his resuscitation, but to an Israelitish man—to Jacob Jessuron.

It was but a simple trick—that of substituting a carcase—afterwards to become a skeleton—for the presumed dead body of the myal-man. The baracoon of the slave-merchant generally had such a commodity in stock. If not, Jessuron would not have scrupled to manufacture one for the occasion.

Humanity had nothing to do in the supplying of this proxy. Had there been no other motive than that to actuate the Jew, Chakra might have rotted under the shadow of the cabbage-palm.

But Jessuron had his purpose for saving the life of the condemned criminal—more than one, perhaps—and he had saved it.

Since his resurrection, Chakra had pursued his iniquitous calling with even more energy than of old; but now in the most secret and surreptitious manner.

He had not been long in re-establishing a system of confederates—under the auspices of a new name—but only at night, and with disguised form and masked face, did he give his clients rendezvous. Never in the Duppy’s Hole; for few were sufficiently initiated into the mysteries of myalism to be introduced to its temple in that secure retreat.

Although the confederates of the obeah-man rarely reveal the secret of his whereabouts—even his victims dreading to divulge it—Chakra knew the necessity of keeping as much as possible en perdu; and no outlaw, with halter around his neck, could have been more cautious in his outgoings and incomings.

He knew that his life was forfeit on the old judgment; and, though he had once escaped execution, he might not be so fortunate upon a second occasion. If recaptured, some surer mode of death would be provided—a rope, instead of a chain; and in place of being fastened to the trunk of a tree, he would be pretty certain of being suspended by the neck to the branch of one.

Knowing all this, Chakra redivivus trod the forest paths with caution, and was especially shy of the plantation of Mount Welcome. Around the sides of the mountain he had little to fear. The reputation of the Jumbé Rock, as well as that of the Duppy’s Hole, kept the proximity of these noted places clear of all dark-skinned stragglers; and there Chakra had the heat to himself.

Upon dark nights, however, like the wolf, he could prowl at pleasure and with comparative safety—especially upon the outskirts of the more remote plantations: the little intercourse allowed between the slaves of distant estates making acquaintanceship among them a rare exception. It was chiefly upon these distant estates that Chakra held communication with his confederates and clients.

It was now more than a year since he had made his pretended resurrection; and yet so cautiously had he crawled about, that only a few individuals were aware of the fact of his being still alive. Others had seen his ghost! Several negroes of Mount Welcome plantation would have sworn to having met the “duppy” of old Chakra, while travelling through the woods at night, and the sight had cured these witnesses of their propensity for midnight wandering.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Four.

The Bargain of Obeah.

For a while after the departure of Cynthia, the temple of Obi remained untenanted, except by its dumb deities: its priest having gone to ferry his neophyte across the lagoon.

In a few minutes he returned alone—having left the mulatta to make her way up the cliff, and homeward to Mount Welcome, where she belonged.

It was evident that the visit of the mulatta had given him gratification. Even in the dim light of his lard lamp an expression of demoniac joy could be distinguished upon his ferocious visage, as he re-entered the hut.

“One dead!” cried he, in an exulting tone; “anodder upon ’im death-bed; and now de third, de las’ an’ wuss ob ’em all—ha! ha! ha!—he soon feel de vengeance ob Chakra, de myal-man!”

Thrice did the wild, maniac-like laugh peal from under the spreading limbs of the ceiba—reverberating with an unearthly echo against the cliffs that hemmed in the Duppy’s Hole. It startled the denizens of the dark lagoon; and, like echoes, came ringing up the ravine the scream of the crane, and the piercing cry of the wood-ibis.

These sounds had scarce died away, when one of a somewhat different intonation was heard from above. It resembled a shriek; or rather as if some one had whistled through his fingers. Whoever gave utterance to the sound was upon the top of the cliff—just over the hut.

Chakra was not startled. He knew it was a signal; and that it was given by the guest he was expecting.

“Das de ole Jew!” muttered he, taking the rum-bottle, and concealing it under the bedstead. “You stay dar till I wants ye ’gain,” added he, addressing himself in a confidential tone to this, the object of his greatest adoration. “Now for de nigga-dealer! I’se hab news fo’ him ’ll tickle ’im in de ribs like a ole guana lizzard. Not dat Chakra care fo’ him. No—only, on dis voyage, boaf am sailin’ in de same boat. Da he go ’gain!”

This last exclamation referred to a repetition of the signal heard further down: as if he who was sounding it was advancing along the cliff, towards the gorge at the lower end.

A third call proceeded from that point where the tree stairway scaled the precipice—indicating to Chakra that his visitor was there awaiting him.

Without further delay, the ferryman—grim as Charon himself—returned to his canoe; and once more paddled it across the lagoon.

While Chakra was thus occupied, a man could be seen descending the cliff, through the tangle of climbing plants, who, on the arrival of the canoe at the bottom, was standing, half concealed among the bushes, ready to step into it. The moon shone upon a blue body-coat, with bright buttons; upon a brown beaver hat and white skull-cap; upon tarnished top-boots, green goggles, and an enormous umbrella.

Chakra did not need to scan the sharp Israelitish features of the man to ascertain who he was.

Jacob Jessuron was there by appointment; and the myal-man knew both his presence and his purpose.

Not a word of recognition passed between the two, nor sign. Only a caution from Chakra—as the Jew, swinging by a branch, let himself down into the canoe.

“’Tep in lightly, Massr Jake, an’ doan’ push da canoe down ’tream. ’T am jess’ as much as I kin do to keep de ole craff out ob de eddy. Ef she get down da, den it ’ud be all up wifh boaf o’ us.”

“Blesh my soul! D’you shay so?” rejoined the Jew, glancing towards the gorge, and shivering as he listened to the hoarse groaning of the water among the grim rocks. “S’help me, I didn’t know it was dangerous. Don’t fear, Shakra! I shtep in ash light ash a feather.”

So saying, the Jew dropped his umbrella into the bottom of the boat; and then let himself down upon the top of it, with as much gentleness as if he was descending upon a basket of eggs.

The ferryman, seeing his freight safely aboard, paddled back to the mooring-place; and, having secured his craft as before, conducted his visitor up the valley in the direction of the hut.

On entering the temple of Obi, Jessuron—unlike the devotee who had just left it—showed no signs either of surprise or fear at its fantastic adornments. It was evident he had worshipped there before.

Nor did he evince a special veneration for the shrine; but, seating himself familiarly on the bamboo bedstead, uttered as he did so a sonorous “Ach!” which appeared as if intended to express satisfaction.

At the same time he drew from the ample pocket of his coat a shining object, which, when held before the lamp, appeared to be a bottle. The label seen upon its side, with the symbolical bunch of grapes, proved it to be a bottle of cognac.

The exclamation of the myal-man, which the sight of the label had instantaneously elicited, proved that on his side equal satisfaction existed at this mode of initiating an interview.

“Hash you a glass among your belongingsh?” inquired the Jew, looking around the hovel.

“No; dis yeer do?” asked his host, presenting a small calabash with a handle.

“Fush rate. Thish liquor drinksh goot out of anything. I had it from Capten Showler on hish lasht voyage. Jesh taste it, good Shakra, before we begins bishness.”

A grunt from the negro announced his willing assent to the proposal.

“Whugh!” he ejaculated, after swallowing the allowance poured out for him into the calabash.

“Ach! goot it ish!” said his guest, on quaffing off a like quantity; and then the bottle and gourd being set on one side, the two queer characters entered into the field of free conversation.

In this the Jew took the initiative.

“I hash news for you,” said he, “very shtrange news, if you hashn’t already heard it, Shakra? Who dosh you think ish dead?”

“Ha!” exclaimed the myal-man, his eye suddenly lighting up with a gleam of ferocious joy; “he gone dead, am he?”

“Who? I hashen’t told you,” rejoined the Jew, his features assuming an expression of mock surprise. “But true,” he continued, after a pause; “true, you knew he wash sick—you knew Justish Bailey wash sick, an’ not likely to get over it. Well—he hashen’t, poor man!—he’s dead and in hish coffin by thish time: he breathed hish lasht yesterdays.”

A loud and highly-aspirated “Whugh!” was the only answer made by the myal-man. The utterance was not meant to convey any melancholy impression. On the contrary, by its peculiar intonation, it indicated as much satisfaction as any amount of words could have expressed.

“It ish very shtrange,” continued the penn-keeper, in the same tone of affected simplicity; “so short a time shince Mishter Ridgely died. Two of the three shustices that sat on your trial, goot Shakra. It looksh ash if Providensh had a hand in it—it dosh!”

“Or de Dibbil, mo’ like, maybe?” rejoined Chakra, with a significant leer.

“Yesh—Gott or the Devil—one or t’other. Well, Shakra, you hash had your refenge, whichever hash helped you to it. Two of your enemies ish not likely to trouble you again; and ash for the third—”

“Nor he berry long, I’se speck’,” interrupted the negro, with a significant grin.

“What you shay?” exclaimed the Jew, in an earnest undertone. “Hash you heard anythings? Hash the wench been to see you?”

“All right ’bout her, Massr Jake.”

“Goot—she hash been?”

“Jess leab dis place ’bout quar’r ob an hour ’go.”

“And she saysh she will help you to set the obeah-shpell for him?”

“Hab no fear—she do all dat. Obi had spell oba her, dat make her do mose anythin—ah! any thin’ in de worl’—satin shoo. Obi all-powerful wi’ dat gal.”

“Yesh, yesh!” assented the Jew; “I knowsh all that. And if Obi wash to fail,” added he, doubtingly, “you hash a drink, goot Shakra—I know you hash a drink, ash potent as Obi or any other of your gotsh.”

A glance of mutual intelligence passed between the two.

“How long dosh it take your shpell to work?” inquired the penn-keeper, after an interval of silence, in which he seemed to be making some calculation.

“Dat,” replied the negro, “dat depend altogedder on de saccomstance ob how long de spell am wanted to work. Ef ’im wanted, Chakra make ’im in tree day fotch de ’trongest indiwiddible cla out o’ ’im boots; or in tree hour he do same—but ob coorse dat ud be too soon fo’ be safe. A spell of tree hours too ’trong. Dat not Obi work—’im look berry like pisen.”

“Poison—yesh, yesh, it would.”

“Tree day too short—tree week am de correct time. Den de spell work ’zackly like fever ob de typos. Nobody had s’picion ’bout ’um.”

“Three weeks, you shay? And no symptoms to make schandal? You’re shure that ish sufficient? Remember, Shakra; the Cushtos ish a strong man—strong ash a bull.”

“No mar’r ’bout dat. Ef he ’trong as de bull, in dat period ob time he grow weak as de new-drop calf—I’se be boun’ he ’taggering Bob long ’fore dat. You say de word, Massr Jake. Obi no like to nigga. Nigga only brack man: he no get pay fo’ ’im work. Obi ’zemble buckra man. He no work ’less him pay.”

“Yesh—yesh! dat ish only shust and fair. Obi should be paid; but shay, goot Shakra! how much ish his prishe for a shpell of thish kind?”

“Ef he hab no interest hisseff in de workin’ ob de ’pell, he want a hunder poun’. When he hab interest, das different—den he take fifty.”

“Fifty poundsh! That ish big monish, good Shakra! In thish case Obi hash an interest—more ash anybody elshe. He hash an enemy, and wants refenge. Ish that not true, goot Shakra!”

“Das da troof. Chakra no go fo’ deny ’im. But das jess why Obi ’sent do dat leetle chore fo’ fifty poun’. Obi enemy big buckra—’trong as you hab jess say—berry diff’cult fo’ ’pell ’im. Any odder myal-man charge de full hunder poun’. Fack, no odder able do de job—no odder but ole Chakra hab dat power.”

“Shay no more about the prishe. Fifty poundsh be it. Here’sh half down.” The tempter tossed a purse containing coin into the outstretched palm of the obeah-man. “All I shtipulate for ish, that in three weeks you earn the other half; and then we shall both be shquare with the Cushtos Vochan—for I hash my refenge to shatisfy ash well as you, Shakra.”

“Nuff sed, Massr Jake. ’Fore tree day de ’pell sha’ be put on. You back come to de Duppy Hole tree night from dis, you hear how ’im work. Whugh!”

The gourd shell was again brought into requisition; and, after a parting “kiss” at the cognac, the “heel-tap” of which remained in the hut, the precious pair emerged into the open air.

The priest of Obi having conducted his fellow-conspirator across the lagoon, returned to his temple, and set himself assiduously to finish what was left of the liquor.

“Whugh!” ejaculated he, in one of the pauses that occurred between two vigorous pulls at the bottle; “ole villum Jew wuss dan Chakra—wuss dan de Debbil hisseff! Doan’ know why he want rebbenge. Das nuffin’ to me. I want rebbenge, an’, by de great Accompong! I’se a g’wine to hab it! Ef dis gal proob true, as de odder’s did—she muss proob true—in tree week de proud, fat buckra jussis dat condemn me to dat Jumbé Rock—‘Cussos rodelorum,’ as de call ’im—won’t hab no more flesh on ’im bones dan de ’keleton he tink wa’ myen. And den, when ’im die—ah! den, affer ’im die, de daughter ob dat Quasheba dat twenty year ’go ’corn de lub ob de Coromantee for dat ob de yellow Maroon—maybe her dauter, de Lilly Quasheba, sleep in de arms ob Chakra de myal-man! Whugh!”

As the minister of Obi gave utterance to this hypothetical threat, a lurid light glared un in his sunken eyes, while his white, sharklike teeth were displayed in an exulting grin—hideous as if the Demon himself were smiling over some monstrous menace!

Both cognac and rum-bottle were repeatedly tasted, until the strong frame of the Coromantee gave way to the stronger spirit of the alcohol; and, muttering fearful threats in his gumbo jargon, he at length sank unconscious on the floor.

There, under the light of the lard lamp—now flickering feebly—he lay like some hideous satyr, whom Bacchus, by an angry blow, had felled prostrate to the earth!

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Five.

The Mysterious Motive.

The original motive of the myal-man, in conspiring the death of the Custos Vaughan, would have been strong enough to urge him on without this new instigation. As we have seen, it was one of deadly revenge—simple, and easily understood.

Not so easily understood was that which actuated the Jew. On the contrary, so secretly had he conceived his purposes, that no living man—not even Chakra himself—had been made privy to them. Up to this moment they may have appeared mysterious; and the time has arrived when it becomes necessary to reveal them. The explanation will show them to be only natural—only in keeping with the character of this crooked and cruel old man.

It is scarce necessary to say that Jacob Jessuron was no type of his race; nor, indeed, of any race. A German Jew by birth, it was not necessarily this that made him either slave-dealer or slave-stealer. Christians have taken their full share in both branches of the nefarious trade; and equally with Jews and Mohammedans have they been guilty of its most hideous enormities. It was not, therefore, because Jacob Jessuron chanced to be a Jew that he was a trafficker in human flesh and blood—any more than that he was a villainous man; but because he was Jacob Jessuron—a representative of neither race nor nation, but simply a character sui generis.

Without dwelling upon his general demerits, let us return to the more particular theme of the motives which were instigating him to make a victim of his neighbour Vaughan—a death victim: for his conversation with Chakra showed that this was the very starting-point of his intentions.

In the first place, he was well acquainted with the domestic history of the planter—at least, with that portion of it that had transpired subsequent to the latter’s coming into possession of Mount Welcome. He knew something of Mr Vaughan previously—while the latter was manager of the Montagu Castle estate—but it was only after the Custos had become his nearer neighbour, by removal to his present residence, that the Jew’s knowledge of him and his private affairs had become intimate and accurate.

This knowledge he had obtained in various ways: partly by the opportunities of social intercourse, never very cordial; partly through business transactions; and, perhaps, more than all—at least, as regarded some of the more secret passages of Mr Vaughan’s history—from the myal-man, Chakra.

Notwithstanding his grotesque hideousness, the Coromantee was gifted with a rare though dangerous intelligence. He was au fait to everything that had occurred upon the plantation of Mount Welcome for a past period of nearly forty years. As already hinted, he knew too much; and it was this inconvenient omniscience that had caused him to be consigned to the Jumbé Rock.

For more than one purpose had the Jew made use of the myal-man; and if the latter was at present assisting him in his dark design, it was not the first by many, both deep and dark, in which Chakra had lent him a hand. Their secret partnership had been of long duration.

The Jew’s knowledge of the affairs of Loftus Vaughan extended to many facts unknown even to Chakra. One of these was, that his neighbour was blessed with an English brother, who had an only son.

An artist was the English brother, without fortune—almost without name. Many other circumstances relating to him had come to the knowledge of Jessuron; among the rest, that the proud Custos knew little about his poor English relatives, cared less, and scarcely kept up correspondence with them.

In what way could this knowledge interest Jacob Jessuron?—for it did.

Thus, then: it was known to him that Loftus Vaughan had never been married to the quadroon Quasheba. That circumstance, however, would have signified little, had Quasheba been a white woman, or even a “quinteroon”—in Jamaica termed a mustee, and by some fanciful plagiarists, of late, pedantically styled “octoroon”—a title which, it may here be stated, has no existence except in the romantic brains of these second-hand litterateurs.

We repeat it—had the slave Quasheba been either a white woman, or even a mustee, the fact of a marriage, or no marriage, would have signified little—so far as regarded the succession of her offspring to the estates of the father. It is true that, if not married, the daughter would, by the laws of Jamaica—as by those of other lands—still have been illegitimate; but for all that, she could have inherited her father’s property, if left to her by will: since in Jamaica no entail existed.

As things stood, however, the case was widely, and for the Lilly Quasheba—Kate Vaughan—dangerously different. Her mother was only a quadroon; and, married or unmarried, she, the daughter, could not inherit—even by will—beyond the paltry legacy of 2000 pounds currency, or 1500 pounds sterling!

Kate Vaughan was herself only a mustee—still wanting one step farther from slavery to bring her within the protecting pale of freedom and the enjoyment of its favours.

No will that Loftus Vaughan could decree, no testamentary disposition he might make, could render his daughter his devisee—his heiress.

He might will his property to anybody he pleased: so long as that anybody was a so-called white; but, failing to make such testament, his estate of Mount Welcome, with all he possessed besides, must fall to the next of his own kin—in short, to his nephew Herbert.

Was there no remedy for this unspeakable dilemma? No means by which his own daughter might be saved from disinheritance?

There was. A special act might be obtained from the Assembly of the Island.

Loftus Vaughan knew the remedy, and fully intended to adopt it. Every day was he designing to set out for Spanish Town—the capital—to obtain the special act; and every day was the journey put off.

It was the execution of this design that the Jew Jessuron of all things dreaded most; and to prevent it was the object of his visit to the temple of Obi.

Why he dreaded it scarce needs explanation.

Should Loftus Vaughan fail in his intent, Herbert Vaughan would be the heir of Mount Welcome; and Herbert’s heart was in the keeping of Judith Jessuron.

So fondly believed the Jewess; and, with her assurance of the fact, so also the Jew.

The love-spell woven by Judith had been the first step towards securing the grand inheritance. The second was to be the death-spell, administered by Chakra and his acolyte.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Six.

The Death-Spell.

On the night after that on which Chakra had given reception to Jessuron, and about the same hour, the Coromantee was at home in his hut, engaged in some operation of a nature apparently important: since it engrossed his whole attention.

A fire was burning in the middle of the floor, in a rude, extemporised furnace, constructed with four large stones, so placed as to inclose a small quadrangle.

The fuel with which this fire was fed, although giving out a great quantity of smoke, burnt also with a bright, clear flame. It was not wood, but consisted of a number of black agglutinated masses, bearing a resemblance to peat or coal.

A stranger to Jamaica might have been puzzled to make out what it was; though a denizen of the Island could have told at a glance, that the dark-coloured pieces piled upon the fire were fragments detached from the nests of the Duck-ants; which, often as large as hogsheads, may be seen adhering to the trees of a tropical forest.

As the smoke emitted by this fuel is less painful to the eyes than that of a wood fire, and yet more efficacious in clearing out the mosquitoes—that plague of a southern clime—it may be supposed that the Coromantee had chosen it on that account. Whether or not, it served his purpose well.