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 AETHUR CONWAY 
 
 OE, 
 
 SCENES IN THE TROPICS 
 
 BY CAPTAIN MILMAN, 
 
 LATE H. M. 33rd REGIMENT. 
 AUTHOR OF "THE WAY-SIDE CROSS," &c. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. L 
 
 LONDON: 
 COLBURN AND CO., PUBLISHERS, 
 
 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 1851.
 
 LONDON: 
 
 Printed by Schuize and Co., 13, Poland Street.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The following Work is given to the world 
 
 under melancholy circumstances. The Author, 
 
 who appeared to have commenced a promising 
 
 literary career, by the production of " The Way- 
 
 ^ side Cross," in Mr. Murrav's Colonial Librarv, 
 
 ^ was taken from the world suddenly by a fatal 
 
 I accident on December 21st, 1850. 
 
 ^ In " Arthur Conway," which, at the time of 
 
 ^ his death, was in the pubhsher's hands, he had 
 
 e- embodied the recollections of scenery and cha- 
 
 "x^ racter in our tropical colonies, laid up by an 
 
 i accurate memory during a year's residence with 
 
 ^ his regiment in Dominica and other of the 
 
 ^ West Indian Islands. His companions have
 
 IV PREFACE. 
 
 vouched for the truthfulness of the descriptions 
 which he has given us, and as his former work 
 was esteemed by the best judges a faithful and 
 lively portraiture of Andalusia and Spanish life, 
 it is thought that the present Book will give an 
 equally exact and vivid picture of Life in the 
 Tropics, so much less known and so little 
 understood in Europe. 
 
 It does not become his relations to express 
 their private feelings, and the blank produced 
 in their circle by his loss. The public, however, 
 will forgive them for this brief notice, as the 
 Author had desired that the accuracy and truth- 
 fulness of his representations, might render his 
 works of fiction in some measure useful as well 
 as amusing. 
 
 MAY, 1851.
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Round a table, in a well-furnished room of 
 one of the most fashionable of the Oxford 
 Colleges, sat a party of seven or eight young 
 men, who called themselves " The Knights of 
 the Round Table." The cloth had been re- 
 moved, and the wine was circulating freely. 
 It was the fashion in those days to drink deep. 
 Merriment and hilarity seemed the order of the 
 evening ; though outside a terrible storm was 
 raging. 
 
 The wind swept in furious gusts down the 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
 ^>-''-
 
 2 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 High Street, and howled around the buildings 
 mournfully. The rain came down furiously, 
 beating against the windows as if it would 
 drive them in. Although the candles shone 
 brightly, and the fire played cheerily, the gleam 
 of the lightning-flashes flickered before the eyes 
 of the assembled guests, and every now and 
 then the cracking thunder proclaimed with its 
 awful voice the war of the elements. A v^inter 
 storm is always doubly fearful. But what cared 
 they? 
 
 At the head of the table sat the giver of the 
 feast, a handsome young man, wath blue eyes, 
 and curling, light-brown hair. He alone of all 
 the party seemed afl*ected by the storm. He 
 was dressed in mourning, and, although he did 
 the honours of the table courteously, and kept 
 the bottle circulating freely, his manner was 
 nervous and distracted. His figure was shght, 
 but not in the least boyish ; he looked, however, 
 younger than he was, for that day he had come 
 of age.
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 3 
 
 " Let us drink the health of King Arthur, 
 with three times three !" said one, rising and 
 filling a bumper. " The best rider, the best oar, 
 and the best scholar of his year at Christ- 
 church, and now the owner of }^Iorley Hall, a 
 palace in the Mall, and other lands and mes- 
 suages unknown. Hip ! hip ! huzza 1" 
 
 " King ! who would not be such a king ? No 
 Commons to depose him, — no ' off with his 
 head r " 
 
 " Talking of Commons puts me in mind that 
 Lord Fowls wants to enclose part of Ackshaw 
 Heath, but the Commons won't let him." 
 
 " That would be a levelling principle, and 
 would bring peer and peasant to an equahty." 
 
 " How so ■?" 
 
 " Don't you see ? In former days the Com- 
 mons fought for the Barons, but now the Barons 
 fight for the Commons; for the common is a 
 barren which the Baron wishes to enclose in his 
 own pale ; once within the same pale, they must 
 be equal." 
 
 B 2
 
 4 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 "Ha! ha!" 
 
 " You will keep the hounds on, I hope, 
 Arthur, and the stud at Newmarket?" said a 
 rising sportsman. 
 
 " What ails your kingly Grace ?" said one, 
 who was always quoting and misquoting 
 Shakspeare. " You looked just nov/ as if you 
 would rather ' talk of graves, of worms, and 
 epitaphs, than caper nimhly in a lady's chamber. 
 'Tis a rough night, my liege ; but Vv'hat of that ? 
 Throw sorrow to the dogs ! Care killed the 
 cat ! If you don't drink, you'll dwindle, peak 
 and pine. The bottles are all out. What ho ! 
 more wine !' " 
 
 *' * I go, and it is done, — the bell invites 
 me !' " replied Arthur, in the same vein, shaking 
 off his apathy for the mom.ent ; but it was only 
 for the moment, for as soon as the wine was 
 brought, he relapsed into his silent, abstracted 
 mood. He filled his glass mechanically, and 
 drank the contents off; but it tasted to him 
 like wormwood.
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 5 
 
 " Fill your glasses, and no heeltaps ! Here's 
 the health of the future Queen of Morley, who- 
 ever she may be, and I can only hope that she 
 will be chaster that Guiever I" 
 
 " Arthur is in love already, — only look at 
 him 1" 
 
 " Yes, with ten thousand a-year." 
 
 *' I'll bet you a guinea he is. Come, Arthur, 
 confess it." 
 
 " Bv Jove ! what a flush 1" 
 
 It was now observed by more than one that 
 their host was deadly pale. They were a merry, 
 but not dissipated set, and the wine that they 
 had drunk was just sufficient to quicken their 
 feelings and apprehensions. They whispered 
 together, and one of them, rising, said, 
 kindly : 
 
 " This is no night for revelry, Arthur. You 
 look iU, and had better go to bed. Give us a 
 cup of coffee, and we will go." 
 
 " You are very considerate, my dear fellows,"' 
 rephed Conway. *' I do indeed feel strangely
 
 6 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 ill. I think it is the thunder that affects me. 
 But it would he the height of inhospitality to 
 turn you out on such a night as this !" 
 
 " Not a hit of it. We will adjourn for the 
 nonce, and have it out another time. Sport your 
 oak, and go to hed." 
 
 They were gone. 
 
 Still the wind howled, the rain beat, and the 
 storm rattled, and Arthur Conway remained 
 seated where he was, with his head drooping 
 over the table, and resting on his hands, with 
 which he formed a shade over his eyes from the 
 sicldy glare of the candles, and the dazzle of 
 the lightning ; but close to his face, lying on the 
 table, was the miniature of a bright-eyed girl. 
 The upper part of her face was beautiful, and 
 singularly soft, but about the mouth and curling 
 upper lip there was an expression of pride, and 
 even harshness, so faithfully portrayed, that it 
 marred the otherwise lovely picture in any eyes 
 but his. 
 
 " Why art thou cast down, oh, my soul ?
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 7 
 
 and \Yhy art thou so disquieted in me ?" mur- 
 mured the young man, using the words of the 
 Psalmist, so pecuharly adapted to his frame of 
 mind at that moment. " How can I account 
 for this fearful despondency ? Is it your 
 image, sweet Edith, that causes it ? Oh ! how 
 I love thee ! But is that love returned ? Whv 
 do I doubt ? Fool that I was, not to make sure 
 of her when I was plain Arthur Conway, \\ith 
 a few thousands. Then I had no doubt of her 
 sincerity ; but now, might not men say, even if 
 she consented to become mine, that she loved 
 not Arthur Conway, but the owner of Morley. 
 Oh, these doubts ! how they unmake a man ! 
 But will this account for the miserable depression 
 I now feel ? It ought not, for I still hope. Is 
 it not, rather, some harbinger of evil dimly 
 foreshadowing itself on my mind, sent by 
 heaven, lest I should become too elated with 
 my prosperity? Whatever it is, I am very 
 miserable 1" 
 
 A tear dropped on the miniature, and he
 
 8 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 stooped to kiss it away ; but, before he could do 
 it, a flash passed between his face and Edith's. 
 He paused, then came the crash of the thunder- 
 clap, close — so close that it made the glasses 
 ring again, and the whole building seemed to 
 quiver from the shock. 
 
 " What !" cried he, starting up. " Do the 
 very elements warn me against thee ! — docs the 
 lightning interfere, and the thunder say thou 
 
 shalt not be mine ! What nonsense I am 
 
 talking !" murmured poor Arthur, as he sank 
 down again into his chair. " Surely my brain 
 must be a little disordered to-night, or has the 
 wine had an unusual effect upon me? Til go to 
 bed, and try and sleep it off. Dear Edith ! did 
 I think ill of thee ? — forgive me !" 
 
 The young man quietly extinguished the 
 candles, and retired to rest ; and, as his senses 
 became calmer, the storm gradually died away ; 
 and, when he fell asleep, the stars peeped out in 
 the deep purple sky.
 
 ARTHUR CON^'AY. y 
 
 Sir William Deverell, the late owner of 
 Morley Hall, was a very eccentric character. 
 Possessed of enormous wealth, he squandered 
 much of it away, not on himself, but on his 
 dependents, who feathered their nests comforta- 
 bly at his expense — for he never looked into his 
 accounts. He kept a pack of fox-hounds, but 
 never hunted j he had a stud of running horses 
 at Newmarket, which he never saw, and which 
 of course rarely won ; a house in London, 
 w^hich he kept up, but never used, excepting on 
 one memorable occasion, when he slept in it ; a 
 train of sleek men-servants, grooms, and 
 hangers-on, who did what they pleased, which 
 was very little, and a French cook, who did 
 still less, for, to Sir \Yilliam, a chop and a glass 
 of cider was a feast. Consistent in inconsisten- 
 cies, he was a professed Republican, but a bitter 
 aristocrat ; a philanthropist, but he contrived to 
 quarrel with most of his neighbours. He de- 
 claimed against women, but it was whispered 
 that this was because he had been rejected by
 
 10 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 more than one, and that he was very fond of 
 the fair sex. He raved against Popery, and 
 upheld Protestantism, but had never been known 
 to enter a church. He was a devoted admirer 
 of Lord George Gordon, and it was said that he 
 had assisted that eccentric nobleman with large 
 sums of money, though he would not throw a 
 sixpence to a starving wretch. 
 
 The only night he had slept in his house in 
 the Mall — perhaps to disarm suspicion — was that 
 on which Newgate was burned down. No one 
 could guess who would succeed to his enormous 
 wealth and estates, which were not entailed. 
 The immediate heir, or, rather, next of kin, was 
 Sir Walter Conway, the head of that family, 
 and uncle to the young Oxonian whom we have 
 already introduced to our readers; but it was 
 supposed that he had on several occasions 
 offended Sir William by his votes in Parliament. 
 
 Sir William Deverell died suddenly, whilst 
 enjoying his favourite pursuit of fishing; but 
 his age already had exceeded that allotted to
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 11 
 
 man. Great was the excitement on opening 
 his wiU, which was found on a scrap of dirty 
 paper in his fishing-case, though duly signed, 
 sealed, and witnessed ; and great was the aston- 
 ishment of all, and the consternation of many 
 who had reckoned on being noticed in the will, 
 when it was found that he had left the whole of 
 his estates, real and personal, to his second 
 cousin, Arthur Conway, and to his heirs for 
 ever. It was dated on the 5 th of November, 
 1772 ; just twenty-two years before the opening 
 of this tale. There was but one mode of 
 accounting for this unexpected disposal of his 
 vast property, which was, that Mr. Conway had 
 once said, in conversation with Sir William 
 Deverell, *' that he thought, as long as the 
 Roman CathoHc religion should hold its ground, 
 so long would there be despotism in Europe." 
 The will was very short. 
 
 *' I leave and bequeath the whole of my 
 estates, real and personal, to my second cousin,
 
 12 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 Arthur William Conway, and to his heirs, 
 male, for ever, provided he does not marry a 
 Roman Catholic woman. 
 
 " Signed, 
 
 *' William Deverell, 
 " Witnessed by 
 " John Anguish, apothecary, 
 " Tom Ellam, gamekeeper." 
 
 Mr. Conway had now been dead several 
 years, but the will had never been revoked or 
 altered, and young Arthur de la Motte Conway 
 was astonished and delighted one day at re- 
 ceiving from his attorney, a letter enclosing a 
 copy of the will, and requesting his presence at 
 Morley Hall to attend the funeral. Arthur 
 hated funerals and would not go, but left every- 
 thing to his attorney. 
 
 * # # # # 
 
 Sir Walter Conway was the owner of a 
 family estate in the same county, and not very
 
 ARTHUR CONTTAY. 13 
 
 far from Morley Hall. He had been wild and 
 dissipated in his youth, and had raised large 
 sums at an exorbitant rate of interest from 
 those harpies who are always ready to pounce 
 upon any young man of certain property. He 
 was, in consequence, in after life, much embar- 
 rassed, and every acre of the Grange, as his 
 estate was called, was mortgaged to its full 
 extent. He had made an improvident 
 marriage. 
 
 Lady Conway was an aristocratic beauty of 
 the order insipid, genus doll, yet she had been 
 a standing toast at the clubs. A smile from 
 her rosy lips had been to more than one unso- 
 phisticated youth, as an emanation from a 
 superior being, and to catch a favouring glance 
 from her soft blue eye, was to encounter a ray 
 from Paradise too dazzling for the heart to 
 sustain without a wound. To the surprise of 
 all, the dashing, hard-drinking, hard-riding 
 Baronet wooed and won her. Her sole taste 
 was in dress and equipage, and a coach with
 
 14 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 four-in-hand was to her a sine qud non. As 
 her parents who, though nohle, were poor, 
 could not afford to keep one for her use, she 
 could not refuse an offer from one apparently- 
 rich, certainly handsome, and in her own set. 
 She soon helped him in wasting his estate, and 
 infatuated as he was with her heauty, it was not 
 long before he discovered that there was 
 nothing beneath the surface but extravagance 
 and frivoHty, and bitterly did he repent his 
 choice. Although extremely selfish. Sir Walter 
 was by no means a harsh man by nature, but 
 finding that his favourite pursuits of hunting 
 and racing would be incompatible with his 
 wife's extravagant habits, he began to accuse 
 her of them, and threatened to reduce her 
 establishment. She, in turn, recriminated, and 
 neither would give in. But before long, his 
 hounds and horses and her coach and four were 
 sold to appease some of the most pressing 
 creditors, and they lived very unhappily to- 
 gether.
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 15 
 
 Two daughters were the issue of this ill- 
 assorted marriage. The eldest, Edith, now 
 about twent}^-one years of age, strongly re- 
 sembled both her parents ui feature and 
 character. Her auburn hair and blue eyes were 
 her mother's, but the latter sparkled with 
 brighter lustre; her slightly aquiline nose and 
 determined haughty but ruby-lipped mouth 
 were her father's. Like the one, she \Yas 
 extremely fond of dress, and usually indolent ; 
 but, on the other hand, she could shake it off 
 when she chose to please and become lively and 
 agreeable. She was a bold, graceful, and 
 fearless horsewoman, and delighted to display 
 her fine figure in her well-fitting riding-habit 
 and plumed hat in the hunting-field, to the 
 intense admiration of the neighbouring squires. 
 She took long rides, and flirted with her 
 young cousin Arthur whenever he spent the 
 vacations, which he usually did, at the Grange, 
 and as Sir Walter and his brother had always 
 been on good terms — for there had as yet been
 
 16 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 no cause of rivalry or jealousy between them — 
 Mrs. Conway, who was an invalid, and required 
 warm country air, was always welcome, and was 
 generally asked to meet her son at the Grange. 
 She, poor thing, could not see the danger her 
 son was incurring from his constant, unwatched 
 intercourse with his handsome cousin. The 
 mother's warning might have interposed before 
 it was yet too late, but it was never spoken, 
 and Arthur, who had passed the last long 
 vacation basking in the smiles of the lovely 
 Edith, had returned to Oxford, hopelessly and 
 irremediably in love. 
 
 Her father either did not, or would not notice 
 this familiar intercourse, or, perhaps, he thought 
 it but natural between two cousins, and her 
 mother was too wrapt up in self, — too much 
 engaged with keeping her declining beauty alive 
 to perceive it at all ; so no one interfered. Yet 
 there were two persons at the Grange who not 
 only saw that poor Arthur was head and ears in 
 love with his dangerous cousin, but felt for him
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 17 
 
 deeply in their different ways. Louisa, who had 
 just emerged from the chrysalis state of the gii*l 
 to that of the woman, resplendent in beauty and 
 purity, was like her mother in face and figure, 
 but, oh, how different in her mind ! Exquisitely 
 soft and feminine in her person, her intellect 
 was strong and vigorous. She had been 
 neglected and put aside — eclipsed — by her m.ore 
 showy and dashing sister ; but as if she thrived 
 best in the shade, she grew from the retiring, 
 awkward child, into the fascinating, intellectual 
 woman. There was another thing, too, that 
 seemed, as it were, to separate her from the rest 
 of her family, which was, that she was deeply 
 imbued with a true feeling of rehgion. The 
 rest might profess it outwardly, but she alone 
 had that sincere and inward vearnins: of the 
 heart which, searching after the truth, finds it 
 through faith, and keeps it with holy ferv^our to 
 the end, which is eternal happiness. 
 
 Louisa had early discovered the gro\^ing 
 attachment of the poor boy to his cousin, and 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 pitied him sincerely ; for she knew, although Edith 
 had never made her a confidant, that the love 
 was not reciprocal, and that her sister regarded 
 it as a mere boyish caprice — a whim of a season, 
 which the first contact with the world would 
 remove. Once — and once only — had she ven- 
 tured to remonstrate with Edith on the subject, 
 but she had met with such a rebuff, that she felt 
 it was useless to say more. Her sister had 
 said : 
 
 " How do you know that I do not love 
 Arthur ? Neither my father nor mother object 
 to our seeing so much of each other, then why 
 should you ? Your interference would make 
 me suppose, if you were not so young, that you 
 were already jealous that his attentions are not 
 more equally divided." 
 
 Upon this, Louisa had blushed deeply, and 
 burst into tears. Edith kissed her, and seemed 
 very unhappy at having disturbed her ; but a 
 reconciliation was soon effected, and the cousins 
 took a long ride that evening together.
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 19 
 
 The second person who had watched poor 
 Arthur's love from its first budding, was Edith's 
 own maid, the daughter of a respectable tenant 
 on the Deverell estate, a black-eyed, black- 
 haired, lively Devonshire lass. Pretty Dinah 
 Derrick had her admirers too, and it was cur- 
 rently believed that she was engaged to a young 
 man, well to do in the world, who had already 
 risen from the humble post of cabin-boy, to be 
 master of a large vessel, that traded from 
 Plymouth — which was not very remote from 
 Morley — to the West Indies. She it was who 
 placed on her mistress' toilet-table the fresh 
 flowers, gathered in the morning before the dew 
 was off, by the love-sick Oxonian. Through 
 her were sent those pretty messages and in- 
 quiries which mark devoted attention, and to 
 which she received the replies. By these she 
 was able, in some degree, to judge of the feel- 
 ings on both sides. 
 
 This constant going between had its effect. 
 'S. c 2
 
 20 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 She saw plainly that poor Arthur's love was 
 hopeless, and she pitied him, and, at the same 
 time, thought that her mistress was wanting in 
 discrimination not to love such a handsome, 
 fascinating young man. To her, he appeared a 
 superior being, so unlike the rough, unpolished 
 squires, so unlike her own coarse-spoken lover. 
 His skin was so smooth, his hands so small and 
 white, and he spoke so softly ; and then he 
 was so good-looking, and sat his horse like a 
 prince. Poor Dinah ! 
 
 # * # # * 
 
 During the summer, the whole party above- 
 mentioned, with the exception of Mr. Conway, 
 who, as has already been stated, had been dead 
 some years, were assembled at the Grange. 
 Although Sir Walter Conway did not quite 
 agree in politics with the owner of Morley, nor, 
 indeed, in anything else, yet he was vcr}^ fond of 
 the place, for he was passionately addicted to 
 sporting. The hounds, the stud, the splendid
 
 ARTHUR CONVrAY. 21 
 
 covers, the leaping trout-stream, formed an 
 irresistible nucleus of attraction to the sporting 
 Baronet ; and as their proper owner never inter- 
 fered in their management, his servants, no 
 doubt regarding Sir ^Yalter as his successor, 
 were always anxious to please him ; and horses, 
 hounds, huntsmen, and keepers, were all at his 
 command, as if he had been really their master. 
 A vague hope inspu^ed him at times that he 
 should one day become so, although he felt that 
 the eccentric character of Sir William rendered 
 that hope very uncertain ; yet he was so accus- 
 tomed to Morley, that it seemed to him alm^ost 
 impossible that it should pass into other hands 
 than his. 
 
 Young Arthm*, too, was an especial favourite 
 with the keepers, particularly with old Tom 
 EUam, the head of that estahlishment, and his 
 son Tom, the younger. 
 
 He rode well, shot well, and could throw a 
 fly — then an art known to fesv, — was prodigal
 
 22 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 of his person, and liberal with his purse, and, 
 above all things, always spoke civilly and kindly 
 to them. But old Sir William took very little 
 notice of him, and always treated him as a mere 
 boy. Tom EUam shook his head knowingly at 
 this, when it was done in his presence, and would 
 wink, and chuckle, and smile, as if he knew aU 
 about it. He had initiated Arthur into the 
 mysteries of trout-fishing, and this summer he 
 was dreadfully vexed when the Mayfly was run- 
 ning, and the stream alive with fish, to find his 
 young master, as he called him, when he came 
 over to Morley, always riding or walking with 
 his cousin Edith, unconscious of the fact that 
 the old keeper was watching him anxiously, and 
 with much disapprobation. Thus briefly have 
 we endeavoured to sketch the position of the 
 Conway family, a short time previous to the 
 death of the eccentric Sir William DevereU. 
 
 That event created much heart-burning, much 
 misery, crime, sorrow, and repentance, when his
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 23 
 
 will, like Pandora's box, was opened, and spread 
 them around. 
 
 But before we enter into the career of crime, 
 it is necessary to relate the history of Arthur's 
 parents, which was singularly romantic.
 
 24 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 In the summer of the year 177 — , a great 
 sensation was created amongst certain circles 
 in Paris, by the elopement or sudden disap- 
 pearance of a young lady of noble family. 
 Many rumours of course arose, and many 
 stories were soon in circulation, some with 
 and some without foundation. Some said that 
 her body lay at the Morgue, but that her 
 family w^as ashamed to own it ; others, that 
 she had run away with a young officer of the 
 Garde Royale, who had disappeared about the
 
 ARTHUR CONTS^AY. 25 
 
 same time ; and again, that she had been 
 forcibly abducted, and then murdered^ by a 
 certain fashionable Marquis, whom her family 
 had desired for her husband, but to whom it 
 was known the young lady herself had an un- 
 conquerable aversion. It was even hinted that 
 the King himself had some hand in her sudden 
 and mysterious disappearance; but few, very 
 few, knew the real cause of her flight, or any- 
 thing of her subsequent historj^ We are, how- 
 ever, able to give nearly the whole of it, by 
 collating and arranging the events of her life, 
 which are scattered somewhat confusedly over 
 the original manuscript, as her son becam.e 
 acquainted with them. 
 
 Eugenie de la Motte, nobly born, and highly 
 connected, might have form.ed an alliance with 
 the greatest in the land, had she not been of 
 a singularly unambitious and reserved disposi- 
 tion. She mixed very little in the gaieties of the 
 gayest city in the world, and this was generally 
 attributed to shyness, to awkwardness, to any-
 
 26 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 thing but the truth. She liked them not ; she 
 saw the hoUowness, the frivolity and licentious- 
 ness of the society ia which she must have 
 moved, had she quitted her retirement. But 
 her own words will show more clearly the 
 motives of her conduct. 
 
 A letter is extant, written in a small female 
 hand, in the French language, and signed 
 Eugenie, which no doubt is a copy of one left 
 behind her for the purpose of explaining why 
 she left her parents, her home, her country, to 
 follow the fortunes of one whom she loved 
 sufficiently to forget in his arms what she had 
 lost. 
 
 That she loved him we can scarcely doubt, 
 but that she did not mourn his melancholy fate 
 long, subsequent events proved. The following 
 is an extract from the letter : 
 
 " I fly from persecution. May the great 
 God grant me mercy and forgiveness if I am 
 doing wrong; but from you I ask neither.
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 27 
 
 You gave me the alternative of wedding the 
 Marquis de Charolles — a roue' and a gamhler — 
 or entering a convent ; you cannot plead igno- 
 rance that the first ^Yas loathsome to me. Now 
 learn, if you are not already aware of it, that 
 the alternative you proposed would be even 
 more hateful ; for in one case, it would be but 
 the gradual destruction of the body ; but in the 
 other, there would be a moral, an everlasting 
 death, an infamy. I am not of your rehgion, 
 and I will not lead a living death. My mother 
 was a Huguenot, and I am one. O father, 
 father ! you know it, and yet you can sacrifice 
 your daughter before the shrine of the monster 
 riches, or force her to lead a death in life. 
 Dreamedst thou that I had eyes, and could not 
 see ? There is a Book forbidden to us by per- 
 secution, that clears the understanding. I read 
 it, but thou dost not ; this then is the secret. 
 * Saul ! Saul ! why persecutest thou me ?' Nay, 
 father, it was thy pernicious doctrines, and thy 
 evil counsellors, who wrought upon thee to
 
 28 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 persecute thy poor child. Forgive thy Eugenie ; 
 but no, no, they will not allow thee even that 
 consolation, thou wilt curse her to thy dying 
 day. I know them, I fear them, and I have 
 fled. They will seek me. but they shall not 
 find me. There is one even mightier than 
 they, and He will comfort the afflicted, not 
 between the dreary walls of the living sepul- 
 chre, but in the glorious and open face of 
 beaming nature, where the knee can bow, and 
 the heart lift up its voice in adoration, not to 
 painted images, but to Him who sits upon the 
 throne. Why didst thou press me, O my 
 father, thus cruelly? When I knelt at thy 
 feet, and told thee the workings of my heart ; 
 when I wept and prayed, and told thee that 
 I could not love the dark, fearful man, with 
 the glittering black eyes ; why, oh, why didst 
 thou spurn me from thee ? ' This man or a 
 convent 1' The words scorched me. ' Thou 
 shalt wed him or Jesus !' Oh, horrible, im.- 
 pious blasphemy ! Am I thy daughter ? My
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 29 
 
 eyes are diy, I cannot weep ! no tear will drop 
 to blot this page ; behold, I am calm. God 
 has given the weak one strength — the strength 
 of the mart}T. Yet, think not that I seek 
 death. That were a tiiumph to my persecutors. 
 No, I fly to the world. I live, because it is 
 a mortal sin to die before the hand of God is 
 stretched forth to call me from the world. I 
 may never be happy again ; but I will not die 
 a moral death. Father, farewell. I will not 
 ask you to bless me ; but oh, do not curse 
 your daughter ! 
 
 " Eugenie." 
 
 There is a great incoherence and much seem- 
 ing inconsistency in this letter; and it may 
 be observed, that there is not a hint of any 
 earthly love beyond that of breathing freely in 
 the world, untrammelled by the miseries of 
 a conventual life, or the stronger and more 
 hateful existence of a bright being bound for 
 life to one hated, scorned, and loathed. Never-
 
 30 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 theless, the following scene, which occurred 
 about four years after the mysterious dis- 
 appearance of the fair Eugenie from Paris, will 
 show that love had something to do with it. 
 
 Mr. Conway was travelling on horseback, 
 with one armed attendant, through Piedmont 
 and the south of France. One lovely summer 
 afternoon he had quitted Nice, on his way to 
 Marseilles, riding leisurely, and wandering about 
 through by-ways and bridle-roads, in search of 
 the picturesque. 
 
 As he was emerging from a thick grove of 
 chestnut-trees, he heard a cry and a woman's 
 scream. Setting spurs to his horse, he rode 
 rapidly to the place from whence the sound 
 seemed to proceed. In an open glade of the 
 forest, lying prostrate on the smooth turf, was 
 the body of a young man, with raven-black 
 hair, the dark blood welling from a wound in 
 his side. A fair girl, with bright golden tresses, 
 was leaning over him, striving frantically to 
 stop the gushing life-blood ; and then springing
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 31 
 
 wildly up, and screaming, with outstretched 
 hands, " My child ! my child !" 
 
 About a hundred yards off, a cavalier on 
 horseback, with a bright glittering eye and 
 scowling brow, held up a child, crying fearfully, 
 towards the frantic mother, as if for her to 
 come and fetch it, in triumph and malicious 
 mockery ; but when he saw the two horsemen 
 approaching, he tui'ned his horse round, and 
 rode off at full speed, and in a moment was 
 lost to view in the depths of the forest. 
 
 Mr. Conway threw himself off his horse to 
 assist the lady in her fearful task; but she, 
 pointing in the direction of the retreating horse- 
 man, cried, in heart-rending accents : " My boy, 
 my darhng boy — oh, save him from the cruel 
 Marquis 1" 
 
 The Englishman quickly remounted, and, 
 followed by his attendant, pursued the fugitive, 
 but in vain ; the soft turf betrayed not the 
 sound of the horse's hoofs, and the dense forest 
 hid him from their view. !Mr. Conway soon
 
 32 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 saw the utter hopelessness of attempting the 
 capture of the fugitive, and retraced his steps 
 towards the bereaved mother. 
 
 Even in that one short moment he had been 
 struck with the singular loveliness of that fair 
 young girl. 
 
 As he returned, she ran towards him, eagerly 
 crying : " My boy ! where is my boy ?" 
 
 " Alas ! I have not been able to trace them ; 
 I lost them in the depths of the forest. But, 
 my dear lady, let m.e seek for some assistance." 
 
 And Mr. Conway dismounted, and raised the 
 prostrate figure from the ground. There was 
 no life in it. He laid it gently down again on 
 the turf. 
 
 The lady stood by, wringing her hands in 
 anguish. 
 
 " Allow me, at least, Madame, to send my 
 follower to your house for help," said the Eng- 
 lishman. 
 
 " Oh, no, no," she said, sobbing, as if her 
 heart would break : " I shall be discovered.
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 33 
 
 Oh, mon Dieu ! I am discovered. The Marquis, 
 the Marquis ! he with the glittering eyes. They 
 will seek me out ; and he, my husband, my pro- 
 tector, is dead, dead ; and my child, my child, 
 the Marquis has him ; he will kill him as he 
 killed his father ; and my father will come, and 
 the Marquis. Oh, save me, save me ! Who 
 are you ?" she continued, grasping Mr. Conway 
 by the arm, and looking wistfully into his face ; 
 " are you not an Englishman ? They would 
 shut me up for life in a convent, and I am 
 a Huguenot. I read the Bible, like you. Will 
 you not help a poor persecuted Huguenot? 
 Yes, yes, I know you will — I read it in your 
 eyes. Let us fly." 
 
 " Whither ?" 
 
 " To Rome — to my uncle, the Cardinal ; he 
 
 can protect me." 
 
 =j^ # # # 
 
 The palace of the Cardinal Pietra at Rome ! 
 A dark w^ainscotted room, hung with crimson 
 drapery; a few quaint carved oak chairs, and 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 an ebony table, inlaid with gold and ivory ; the 
 floor of polished walnut, and in one corner a 
 prie Dieu. In this chamber are two figures, 
 forming a strange contrast. One is a tall, dark 
 man, in a Cardinal's dress, with peculiarly 
 marked eyebrows, and a bright expressive eye, 
 not dimmed with age, though he is nearly 
 seventy ; the other a beautiful girl, with bright, 
 golden hair, and soft blue eyes. 
 
 *' Daughter, I have sent for thee to tell thee 
 unpleasant tidings. The Marquis is in Rome ; 
 he seeks thee, my poor child." 
 
 Eugenie threw herself on her knees before 
 him, and, clasping her hands together, besought 
 him, in heart-rending accents, to save her — to 
 protect her from what she feared worse than 
 death. The dark-browed Cardinal raised his 
 weeping niece, and folding her to his breast, 
 kissed her on the forehead, whilst a tear 
 trickled unbidden down his manly cheek. 
 
 " Your mother, Eugenie, was dear to me, 
 and you — her image — have twined yourself
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 35 
 
 round my heart. How can I part with thee, 
 my child ? Yet they will discover thee — they 
 will tear thee from me, and I have now no 
 power, for his Holiness, the Pope, is in the 
 hands of the Cardinal Espinoza, my bitterest 
 enemy." 
 
 " O, father, will it not be very dreadful ?" 
 she said, with great simplicity, in a voice half 
 sad, half tender, " for I love." 
 
 The Cardinal looked at her with surprise. 
 
 " And whom do you love, m.y daughter ?" 
 
 Eugenie cast down her eyes, and blushed 
 deeply, but replied, calmly, that it was the 
 noble young Englishman w^ho had saved her 
 and conducted her so honourably to Rome, 
 whom she now loved with her whole heart. 
 
 The Cardinal listened gravely and atten- 
 tively, but shook his head reproachfully, as he 
 said : 
 
 " But he is a heretic, my daughter, and no 
 marriages can take place at Rome where both 
 are not Catholics." 
 
 D 2
 
 36 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 " I would sooner die, my father, and I will 
 die, rather than marry the Marquis, or live a 
 living death, which is the alternative," she said, 
 in a voice so calm, so still, so low, and yet so 
 resolute, that it startled the dark-browed, stern- 
 looking man. 
 
 She continued, as if speaking to herself : 
 
 " A convent ! What is it ? A living 
 sepulchre. Once I said that I would not 
 die — that it would be a triumph to my 
 enemies ; but now — ah, me ! I love as I never 
 loved— I knew not what love was. Can I 
 commit such an awful perjury ?" 
 
 But we will not — in fact, we must not — 
 dwell on these scenes, for we have a long tale 
 to tell. 
 
 About a week after this interview, there was 
 a marriage at the British Embassy at Naples. 
 The persons were the same as the two who 
 fled from Fregys, but the names were changed.
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 3/ 
 
 They lived together for some time in perfect 
 retirement, on the Chiaga. 
 
 One day, a present arrived from Rome. 
 It was a beautifully-chased crucifix, with two 
 little, but lovely pictures on panels behind the 
 figure. The likeness of each individual figure 
 in these pictures, to some who were still alive, 
 and some who were dead, was very striking 
 and remarkable : in fact, they were real por- 
 traits. A short note accompanied this beautiful 
 present. 
 
 No one knew how it had been transmitted 
 from Rome. It was left at the door by a 
 man in the dress of a peasant, somewhere 
 about daybreak. The note concluded with a 
 warning : 
 
 " They are on your track. Beware !" 
 
 That morning ]Mr. Conway narrowly escaped 
 assassination. He was dogged by bravos, and 
 would have been stabbed but for the un- 
 looked-for interference of two men dressed as 
 contadinos.
 
 38 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 Next morning, they quitted Naples for 
 ever. 
 
 Nine or ten months after this, there was a 
 terrible storm on the east coast of England. 
 A vessel coming from Hamburgh was driv^en 
 on that frightful shore near Yarmouth. Before 
 she was swallowed up in those awful sands, a 
 yawl reached her. 
 
 Two passengers — a lady and gentleman — 
 were saved, and one package, which the gen- 
 tleman appeared to value more than himself, for 
 he risked his life for it. 
 
 They were landed near Lowestoft. There the 
 lady was taken dreadfully ill, and was confined 
 prematurely. To the surprise of all, however, 
 both the child and the lady survived, but the 
 shock rendered her an invahd for the rest of 
 her life. 
 
 Lowestoft was then an obscure fishing 
 village, where a few herrings were salted.
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 39 
 
 not a watering-place as it is now; there was, 
 therefore, very little gossip, and nothing was 
 known about the lady and gentleman, but that 
 their name was Conwav.
 
 40 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The storm which had burst over Oxford 
 in its fury did not reach London; yet the 
 wind murmured and sighed mournfully amongst 
 the leafless trees in St. James's Park. There 
 were faint flashes gleaming across the dark 
 sky, and occasionally a low, rumbling sound 
 came borne on the heavy air. Large drops of 
 rain fell at intervals, and the whole atmosphere 
 seemed loaded and oppressed with a palpable 
 darkness. 
 
 A solitary individual was crossing the Park
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 41 
 
 from the Westminster side. He walked with a 
 slow, but firm step, and his whole appearance 
 indicated strength and resolution. He was 
 about forty-five years of age, and bore in 
 his mien something that denoted high birth, 
 although he was now clad in a rusty suit of 
 black, and carried a bundle under his arm. 
 
 "There will be a fearful storm to-night," 
 muttered the man, in the French lanomaore. 
 " The darkness is frightful ; but it is welcome, 
 for it hides my poverty. Curses on those 
 howling revolutionaiy dogs who hunted me 
 out of Paris — but I forget," added he, bitterly, 
 " I am a priest, and we are taught to despise 
 riches, and to mortify the flesh ; but have we 
 not our feelings and our passions like other 
 men ? only we must hide them from the 
 world as if we were better than others. What 
 can this Englishman want with the persecuted 
 French priest ? Has he some one to confess ? 
 Is he one of us ? WeU, well, I care not, for 
 he offers me money — besides, is it not for
 
 42 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 the greater glory of God? and does not the 
 end sanctify the means ? but can I attain that 
 end without money ? shall I scruple then to 
 obtain it ? — this is the reasoning, and it suits 
 me. Will that fool ChaumeUn meet me as I 
 appointed, with the cross, and the vase, and the 
 brush — those tools which we use, and which 
 such fools as he put trust in. And I — what do 
 I believe in ? — nothing." 
 
 The priest, for such he was, awful as his 
 thoughts were, crossed the Park, and stopped 
 before a large house in the Mall. Lights were 
 moving to and fro, gleaming from the windows. 
 The street-door was open, and there seemed 
 some unusual bustle. One carriage with 
 post-horses was just starting from the 
 door, and another had that moment driven 
 up. 
 
 " Is this life or death ? Has one more 
 wretch come into the world to swell the 
 vast tide that is ever hurrying on to annihi- 
 lation, or is it only one more added to the
 
 ARTHUR CO>rSVAY. 43 
 
 heap of cormption and rottenness that forms 
 the earth ? whichever it is, I ^^ill profit by it." 
 Thus muttered the Priest, as a dapper httle 
 man jumped nimbly out of the carriage, and 
 entered the house. " Does Sir Walter Conway 
 hve here ?" the priest inquired of a man-servant, 
 who was standing at the door. 
 
 "Yees, he does," answered the footmLin, in 
 that supercilious tone, which that description 
 of animal knows so well how to assume, letting 
 his gooseberry eyes wander over the priest's 
 shabby dress, " what may you please to 
 want?" 
 
 " I want your master, fellow," replied the 
 Frenchman, with a voice of peculiar command, 
 and an air that spoke authority. 
 
 " I don't think he will see you," said the 
 servant, lowering his tone ; " mistress has had 
 a fit, and is very ill ; but I'll see : what name 
 shaU I say ?" 
 
 " Say that the man he sought is comxC." 
 
 " Walk into the haE, and I'll go and tell
 
 44 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 him," said the lacquey, as he lounged lazily 
 away. 
 
 "I had nearly forgotten myself," muttered 
 the priest. " Name — have I a name ? Curse 
 on this poverty, see how the veriest cur of a 
 lacquey despises me ! But I must have a 
 name ; let it be, then, what the fool Chaumelin 
 calls me — the Abbe." 
 
 The servant soon returned, and ushered the 
 Priest into the presence of Sir Walter Conway. 
 The Baronet was sitting by a blazing fire, with 
 a table before him, on which were sev^eral 
 decanters of wine and a plate of olives — for he 
 was a true bon vivant, and repudiated the 
 delicacies of a dessert as injurious to his port 
 or burgundy. The Abbe was evidently not 
 an unexpected guest, for a plate and glasses 
 were placed opposite to the Baronet, and a 
 cosy arm-chair wheeled up near the fire, w^ithin 
 reach of them. 
 
 " Peace be unto this house," said the Priest, 
 crossing himself as he entered the room.
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 45 
 
 " The Abbe Latouche, I presume ? Will 
 you excuse my not rising ?" said the Baronet. 
 " Take a seat, Sir, I beg, and help yourself, if 
 your Order does not forbid it. The wine is old, 
 and the olives new." 
 
 The Priest smiled scornfully, as he seated 
 himself in the arm-chair, and pouring out a 
 glass of wine, he said : 
 
 "It is my poverty, and not my Order that 
 forbids it. Sir Walter ; burgundy and I have 
 met but rarely lately." 
 
 There was something in these few words, 
 and in the manner in which they were spoken, 
 which told the Baronet that this was the man 
 he wanted — bold, unscrupulous, and poor — one 
 who would gratify his senses and passions if 
 his means would allow him. He had already 
 hinted at his poverty, and showed that he was 
 partial to the good things of this life, and this 
 in one brief sentence. 
 
 Just the man for him. Yet he determined to 
 proceed cautiously at first. But, flushed with
 
 46 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 "wine and new to the practice of dissimulation, 
 the Baronet was no match for the Ahbe, if 
 the latter had been inclined to play a part. 
 
 As they sat opposite to one another before 
 the cheerful fire, helping themselves at intervals 
 liberally to the sparkling burgundy, the follow- 
 ing conversation passed between them; the 
 Baronet being the first to speak. 
 
 " You must be aware. Monsieur I'Abbe, that 
 I did not send for you on my own account. I 
 think I mentioned in my note to you that there 
 is a lady connected with me by marriage, who 
 follows the doctrines of the Roman Catholic 
 Church?'' 
 
 " You did, Sir Walter ; and I was much 
 surprised at it." 
 
 " Why so r 
 
 " Simply because I thought it strange that 
 there should be a Catholic in a family so essen- 
 tially Protestant. May I ask the lady's 
 name ?" 
 
 " There is no need now of making a mystery
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 47 
 
 of it," thought the Baronet, "I may as well 
 tell him. It is my late brother's widow ; she 
 is of your nation, and there was something 
 romantic in her history, I believe ; but as I do 
 not know the facts, I cannot tell it." 
 
 " If you did, Sir \Yalter, I should not wish 
 to hear it ; reminiscences of the past are bitter 
 things sometimes. But are you sure that she 
 is of our holy religion ? Has she seen any 
 priest ? Has she had a confessor ? Such are 
 yet to be found, for though hunted and perse- 
 cuted, we still exist." 
 
 " No, I think not," answered the Baronet, 
 venturing a terrible lie ; " my sister-in-law is 
 very timid, and has been of late years a dreadful 
 invalid; but a few days ago she expressed a 
 wish to see a minister of your creed : perhaps 
 she is anxious to confess." 
 
 " Nay, that can hardly be under the circum- 
 stances, for I heard that the lady was already in 
 extremis : if so, I have come too late ; and
 
 48 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 indeed, I ought to have convincing proof that 
 she is not a heretic before I adminster the rites 
 of the Holy Church." 
 
 *' She has not professed it openly, it is true, 
 for the sake of her son, who is at Oxford ; but 
 there can be no doubt of the fact. She has a 
 small oratory, and prays daily, kneehng before a 
 crucifix. No Protestant does that." 
 
 " Even granting that, it is now too late for 
 her to receive the extreme unction, that last 
 holy rite of our Church, provided what your 
 servants said is true ; they told me their mis- 
 tress was actually in the death agony." 
 
 " The babbhng fools," thought the Baronet. 
 " If this man is sincere there is no hope for me. 
 I must be more open with him." He filled a 
 bumper of burgundy, and drank it off. 
 
 *' I will confess to you, Monsieur TAbbe, that 
 I wish most particularly that this lady should 
 receive the last rites of your Church before she 
 dies."
 
 ARTHUR CON^VAY. 49 
 
 " It is impossible, Sir Walter, unless she 
 recovers sufficiently to be sensible of their per- 
 formance." 
 
 *'I \Yill give you five hundred reasons to 
 make it possible, and five hundred more if it 
 can be done before witnesses. Her own maid 
 is a Catholic." 
 
 There was a pause, and they looked at one 
 another steadily. 
 
 " My ^n[olet robe is there ; and the conse- 
 crated oil is round my neck : and my assistant 
 Chaumelin will be here presently," said the Abbe, 
 slowdy and distinctly. 
 
 " You consent then, my dear Abbe," ex- 
 claimed the Baronet, joyfully. 
 
 " My zeal for our Holy Church is so great," 
 said the priest, sneeringly, " that if the lady is not 
 dead already I will administer the last sacra- 
 ment. But you must give me your reasons 
 before I do it." 
 
 "I will write you them in gold. Monsieur 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 TAbbe, or wbat is wortb as much. Will you 
 accept this trifle ?" 
 
 " For the use of the poor, and the greater 
 glory of God," said the priest, rising and taking 
 a slip of paper which the Baronet handed to 
 him across the table. It was a note for five 
 hundred pounds. 
 
 " Will that remove your scruples ? if so we 
 will speak more openly, if you please." 
 
 " Your arguments are liberal, and your rea- 
 sons convincing. I am now at your service." 
 
 " Are you really what you pretend to be — a 
 priest of the Catholic rehgion ?" 
 
 " That question comes rather late, Sir Walter ; 
 but to my sorrow I am a priest, and a poor 
 priest, too, but I was not always so. Strange 
 as it may sound to you, I have sat in high 
 places, been caressed by haughty dames, and 
 kissed the hand of royalty. I was proud then, 
 but my pride was destined to be lowered. First 
 came humiHation, then poverty ; faugh ! those
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 51 
 
 yelping sans culottes, how they howled and 
 snarled till they had hunted us out of Paris." 
 
 *' Cannot you enjoy yourself in London as 
 well?" 
 
 *' It might be tolerable, had I the means to 
 make it so ; but to live in this desert without 
 money is hard to bear." 
 
 " You shall never want it, my dear Sir, if I 
 succeed through your means ; that trifle is but 
 an earnest of what I will do when my end is 
 accomplished." 
 
 At this moment a servant opened the door, 
 and announced one of the King's physicians. 
 He appeared a Httle surprised at seeing a shab- 
 bily dressed man sitting familiarly at the same 
 table with the fashionable Baronet, but he was 
 a man of courtly manners, and when Sir 
 Walter introduced the Abbe as an old friend 
 whom he had not seen for years, he returned 
 the priest's haughty bow graciously, and offered 
 his diamond-studded snuff-box. The Baronet 
 
 E 2 
 
 ":"^.;7^J?^
 
 52 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 pressed him to be seated, but he declined, and 
 remained standing by the table. 
 
 " How is your patient ?" said the Baronet. 
 
 The physician shook his head, and took a 
 pinch of snuff before he replied, " She is very 
 ill, indeed. It is a stroke of paralysis, and I 
 fear that she cannot recover from it, for her 
 constitution has been broken for years." 
 
 " So much the better," thought the Baronet. 
 " This will be a sad blow to her only son, poor 
 fellow ! I sent for him before you arrived, but 
 I fear he will come too late." 
 
 "He will," said the physician, solemnly. 
 " There is indeed no hope ; Mrs. Conway will 
 •die to-night." 
 
 *' This is sad, indeed. Has she spoken ? has 
 she recovered her senses ?" 
 
 " She was in a state of coma when I arrived, 
 but before I left there was evidence of a partial 
 return of the senses, and her lips moved. By 
 the bye," continued the physician, stooping
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 53 
 
 down and whispering in the Baronet's ear, " I 
 did not know that Mrs. Conway was a 
 Catholic." 
 
 Sir Walter looked at him with astonishment, 
 and hardly suppressed an exclamation ; but said 
 quickly, in a low voice, " I have known it for 
 some time ?" 
 
 " I was, I confess, taken by surprise," re- 
 sumed the physician, in a hurried whisper, 
 " when standing by her side, I saw her making 
 signs for me to stand back. I turned round, 
 and there was an ivory cross with a Christ 
 crucified on it. She moved her head so as to 
 get a view of it, and was evidently prajdng to 
 it, for her lips moved, and I think she tried to 
 cross herself. Excuse my rudeness in whis- 
 pering, but I did not like to say this before a 
 stranger." 
 
 The King's physician then took out his 
 watch, looked at it, shook his head, as if he 
 had said too much, bowed, and saying he would
 
 54 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 be back in an hour, left them again tete-a- 
 tete. 
 
 Whilst the whispering was going on, the 
 priest had fallen into deep thought. What 
 could be the Baronet's motive in making his 
 sister-in-law appear a Catholic ? that there was 
 some great stake at issue could not for a 
 moment be doubted ; for it was not in nature 
 that a Protestant gentleman should give five 
 hundred pounds for the performance of a Roman 
 Catholic ceremony, without some commensurate 
 advantage to accrue from it ; and had he even 
 been a sincere member of the priesthood^ it was 
 only gathering a stray sheep into their fold at 
 a small sacrifice of conscience. Altogether it 
 seemed an easy way of coining money without 
 much risk or trouble ; and as the Baronet had 
 been liberal, he determined to carry it through 
 with the best appearance that he could make 
 tinder the circumstances ; but to do this it 
 would be necessary to call in the assist-
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 55 
 
 ance of the lady's-maid, \yho \Ya9 a Catho- 
 lic. 
 
 What the physician had said startled Sir 
 Walter; it was unhoped-for and unexpected. 
 Such evidence would weigh more than anything 
 the man he had already paid could do. It was 
 an annoying thought, hut he had gone too far 
 to retreat. There was every prospect of success, 
 if his sister-in-law did not recover sufficiently 
 to speak. Her son might arrive by noon on 
 the next day. If, ho\veyer, what the physician 
 said was correct — and why not? — he would come 
 too late; but, to make assurance doubly sm-e, 
 he resolved to play the great gam.e — the priest 
 should administer the rites before witnesses. 
 Thus they both came to the same conclusion, 
 and nearly at the same momxcnt. 
 
 It was soon settled ; and the priest, unrolling 
 his bundle, clothed himself in his violet- coloured 
 robe. The maid, who was in attendance on her 
 dying mistress, was sent for hurriedly, and the
 
 56. ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 Abbe conversed with her apart for a few 
 minutes. The maid, being a Catholic, was 
 easily convinced that what was to be done was 
 for the good of her mistress's soul, particularly 
 as it never occurred to her that there could be 
 any sinister object in the performance of a holy 
 sacrament. The priest, therefore, having re- 
 quested that he might be informed when his 
 assistant arrived, ascended with her to the 
 chamber of the dying lady. 
 
 Hardened must that man be, v^ho can enter 
 the chamber of the dying, without feeling some 
 emotion, some softening of the heart, some 
 awakening of the small, still voice of con- 
 science ! 
 
 Go, watch the breath fleeting from the li\dng 
 body, gasp by gasp — the candle of life flickering 
 dimly in its socket, fainter and fainter — the 
 wandering eye fixing at last on vacancy, the 
 calm gliding into death ! 
 
 Go, watch the maniac ravings, the fierce
 
 ARTHUR CON^VAY. 57 
 
 strugglings, the clenched hands, the hea\dng 
 breast, the starting eyeballs, the fierce passion of 
 death, and think that they are the same. 
 
 " Death but shuts the life of man, 
 To open with a wider span. 
 The gates of immortahty." 
 
 It is said that the death of the righteous is 
 peacefiil, and that of the ^Yicked like a stormy 
 sea, but experience teaches otherwise — they are 
 both alike. 
 
 " I will exhort your mistress to confess, be- 
 fore she receives the last sacrament," said the 
 priest to the agitated maid, as they entered the 
 chamber ; " leave us alone, but remain vv'ithin 
 call." 
 
 A single wax candle, burning dimly, stood 
 on a small marble table, shedding a faint light 
 on the furniture of the room ; but the priest's 
 eyes did not wander. 
 
 He approached the bed, and drew back the 
 heavy curtains gently, with a tremulous hand,
 
 58 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 and gazed for a few minutes at the pallid 
 countenance of the dying wonian. 
 
 Her eyes were wide open, and upturned 
 towards heaven, but there had spread already 
 over them a glassy film, and they moved not. 
 
 Her lips were closed, and round them 
 flickered a faint, sweet smile, that spoke — 
 
 *• Of peace and rest, and innocence serene." 
 
 She did not gasp or moan, but lay there like 
 an alabaster figure, still and motionless, and as 
 spotless and pure. Nothing indicated that the 
 breath of hfe was still in that fair, emaciated 
 frame, but a scarcely perceptible movement of 
 the nostril, so slight, that the priest at first 
 thought that he had come too late, and that 
 she was already dead. 
 
 But, as he looked at that pale, seraphic 
 countenance, across which Death was fast 
 spreading his veil of apathy, over his own there 
 came a fierce and sudden change, and he stood
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 59 
 
 there like one struck by an electric shock. 
 Then he stooped down and gazed at her, as if 
 he would read ever\^ feature, and raised with 
 shaking hand a tress of the long hair which lay 
 loosely and carelessly on the pillow, as if scarcely 
 belonging to the form that had once been so 
 proud of it. 
 
 The hair had been formerly of a bright 
 golden colour, but now appeared dull, and 
 streaked with grey. 
 
 Still, the priest seemed to recognise it, and 
 for a moment his features relaxed, his eye 
 dilated, and the fierce, stern look gave way to 
 one of unutterable love. His lips parted, and 
 he murmured one word : " Eugenie !" 
 
 It was like the lull in the middle of the 
 hurricane. 
 
 Darker and darker grew the expression of his 
 face, denoting the storm within his breast. Pent 
 up for years, it seemed now about to burst forth 
 in aU its fury, to sweep away everything in its
 
 60 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 headlong course. Yet he restrained it with an 
 iron will. He could not vent it upon the 
 speechless, inanimate form of her who lay upon 
 that bed. No ; he must reserve it for some 
 living object. Woe unto him upon whom that 
 long-smothered hurricane of vengeance should 
 faU! 
 
 So occupied v/as the priest with this dark and 
 ominous thought, that he scarcely heard a knock 
 at the door. 
 
 The dying woman's maid entered, and told 
 him that the physician had returned. 
 
 " Say unto him, my daughter, that the 
 minister of the Holy Church is with her, about 
 to administer the last sacrament, that she may 
 not appear before her God unannealed. She is 
 confessing her sins, and will soon be ready to 
 depart in peace." 
 
 The woman hesitated, but the priest quickly 
 shut the door, and turned again into the room. 
 
 As he did so, he, for the first time, perceived
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 61 
 
 a singular piece of furniture that stood on the 
 small marhle table where the wax-light was 
 burning. 
 
 It was a figure of our Saviour, crucified. 
 The cross was of ivory, curiously inlaid with 
 ebony and gold ; the figure of solid silver, beau- 
 tifully chased, and nailed to the cross with 
 golden nails, headed by diamonds. The form 
 was so life-like, and the chasing so elegant, that 
 none b\it a perfect master-hand could have 
 wrought it. It was, indeed, the work of an 
 artist, for on the back was \\Titten, in silver 
 nails : 
 
 The cross stood on a small rosewood stand, 
 on a panel of which were two small, though 
 exquisitely-finished paintings, separated by scroU- 
 work. The one on the left hand represented a 
 man on horseback, with a visor over his face, 
 snatching a child from a struggling female, with
 
 62 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 a young and handsome cavalier lying bleeding 
 at her feet. In the distance was a wood, with 
 some figures on horseback emerging from it. 
 The other was more simple, containing only a 
 beautiful girl, with long, golden hair, kneeling in 
 a supplicating posture at the feet of a dark- 
 browed Cardinal, in his scarlet robes. There was 
 a scroll at the foot of each compartment. On 
 the left : 
 
 WOE TO THE OPPRESSOES. 
 
 On the right : 
 
 '* COMFORT YE THE MOURNERS. 
 
 The feet were of richly-chased scroll-work, with 
 a tree growing out of a rock, embossed on the 
 silver, and between them and the pictures there 
 was a small drawer, the key-hole of which was a 
 pierced pearl. 
 
 It was as pretty a little shrine as ever a fair 
 devotee bowed the knee to. 
 
 The priest looked at it with mingled admira-
 
 ARTHUR CONWAT. 63 
 
 tion and curiosity, but, when his first surprise 
 was over, and he examined it more minutely, 
 the same dark flash which the features of the 
 dying woman had called up, again passed over 
 his countenance. 
 
 The left-hand panel excited a sinister smile, 
 but his brow contracted with fierce passion 
 when his black, glittering eyes became fixed on 
 the other. 
 
 " It was you, then, my Lord Cardinal" 
 muttered the priest, in a deep, smothered, husky 
 voice, — " it was you, then, who stood betwixt 
 me and my love — my love and my vengeance ! 
 You — the Cardinal ! — one of the shining lights 
 of our Holy Church, who sheltered and pro- 
 tected the fugitive heretic ! Anathema ! — 
 Maranatha ! Be thou accursed ! But thou art 
 dead, and my curses are unavailing 1" added he, 
 with concentrated bitterness. 
 
 Oh, it was a terrible sight ! The priest — the 
 holy man — the messenger of peace — gnashing
 
 64 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 his teeth, and cursing the dead from the foul 
 depths of his heart, before the figure to which 
 his knee ought to have bowed in humble 
 adoration ! and this, too, in the chamber of the 
 dying ! It was terrible to hear, instead of the 
 heart-felt prayer, that fearful anathema from the 
 lips of him who should have brought tidings of 
 consolation to the departing soul ! 
 
 Now, for the first time, the priest perceived a 
 small golden key, hanging by a thread of twisted 
 hair from an arm of the cross. Was it curi- 
 osity alone, or did he expect to find in the 
 drawer some precious relic, that he opened it ? 
 
 The slight grating of the lock in the silence 
 of the chamber startled him, and he paused and 
 turned his head round, as if the thought of 
 sacrilege had passed before him. Then he went 
 and bolted the door, returned with stealthy pace, 
 drew back the curtains of the bed again, and 
 listened intently, to hear if the dying lady still 
 breathed. As he stooped over her, her lips
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 65 
 
 parted, and she murmured in a whisper, sweet 
 and plaintive as the sighing of the wind amidst 
 the aspen leaves : 
 
 *' My son ! my son !" 
 
 The voice, low as it was, seemed to him to 
 echo throuo;h tiie room. The words rano; in his 
 ears painfully ; they went hack — far, far back — 
 from the present time, into the dreamy past ; 
 they recalled to his memory something that 
 made his eyes flash tire, his limbs tremble, and 
 his breath come shorter and quicker. He wished 
 to hear more, in spite of his agitation, but the 
 invalid's eyes remained fixed, and her lips closed 
 again. He turned away, and went back to the 
 crucifix, and took from the drawer a small flat 
 purse, such as the Moors make, of crimson 
 velvet, embroidered with gold. There was a 
 folded paper enclosed in it. Was it some charm 
 against the e\dl eye, or something more holy, 
 thus carefully preserved ? 
 
 The priest opened the paper, and read its 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 contents. The effect on him was strange : at 
 first he appeared perfectly paralyzed; then a 
 mocking smile passed over his countenance, as 
 he said, " Chaumelin would call this a special 
 act of Providence, and thank God for it ; but 
 I am not such a hypocrite — I call it chance, 
 and thank myself ; but whichever it be, chance 
 or Providence, my object is attained. The 
 book is open before me, and I can read it.'* 
 As he said this, the priest returned the purse to 
 the drawer, shut and locked it, and hung the 
 small key again on the arm of the cross ; but 
 placed the paper carefully about his own person, 
 and went back again to the bedside. 
 
 Even in those few brief moments a visible 
 change had taken place in the countenance of the 
 invalid. Death was creeping on slowly, but 
 surely, foreshadowing with unmistakable signs 
 his fearful advent. The priest perceived that 
 her end was near : he went hastily to the toilette- 
 table, took up a pair of scissors, and, returning
 
 ARTHUR CON"WAY. 67 
 
 to the bed, cut off a tress of that beautiful 
 golden hair, and placed it in his bosom. Was 
 there love or hate in this simple act ? When 
 he had done this, he rang the bell sharply, and 
 desired the maid who answered it to let the 
 physician know that a sudden change had taken 
 place, and that her mistress was evidently dying; 
 and he requested^ her to send up his assistant 
 directly, if he had arrived, lest it should be too 
 late to administer the extreme unction. 
 
 This done, the priest, having deposited the 
 phial of consecrated oil on the little marble 
 table, placed himself in an attitude of humble 
 prayer, before the crucifix. The physician 
 entered, followed by the miaid and a sickly- 
 looking, middle-aged man, dressed in a black 
 soutane, and carrying a cross, a sm.all vase of 
 holy water, and a sprinkling-brush. He wore 
 a tonsure, and his look was downcast and de- 
 pressed. As they came into the room, the 
 priest rose and bowed lowly to the physician, 
 
 F 2
 
 68 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 who returned it slightly ; not recognising, in his 
 surplice and violet robes, the shabbily-dressed 
 man whom he had seen sitting by the Baronet's 
 fire. 
 
 " I fear the lady is in the death agony," 
 said the priest, addressing the physician in 
 French, as he approached the bed and looked at 
 her now agonized countenance. Her jaw had 
 fallen, her eyes were fixed on vacancy, and her 
 small white hands were clutching nervously at 
 the bed-clothes. 
 
 The physician turned av;ay sorrowfully, and 
 said : " You are a minister of the Catholic reh- 
 gion, I presume, Sir, by your dress : if so, per- 
 form your offices quickly, for in a few minutes 
 she will have ceased to breathe." 
 
 Chaumelin lighted a consecrated taper at the 
 wax-light. The Abbe, with the holy water 
 bmsh, sprinkled the pillow and face of the 
 invalid, repeating the prayer commencing " Pro- 
 ficiscere anima Christiana ; " then he took
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. -69 
 
 the silver crucifix, and held it to her hps to 
 kiss. 
 
 He bo\Yed his head down over her : in doing 
 this, with a convulsive effort, the dying lady 
 started up in her bed, and, with a low hut 
 agonizing shriek, that pierced the ears of all, 
 she cried: " ^ly son! my son!" Then her 
 head sank slowly back upon the pillow, and her 
 sad soul separated from her wasted body. 
 
 In that last moment upon earth, she had re- 
 cognised the countenance of the priest, which, in 
 truth, bore a strange resemblance to the face of 
 the man in the left-hand panel, who was carrying 
 off the child. 
 
 " Requiescat in pace,'" said the Abbe, agi- 
 tated violently, in spite of himself: he, how- 
 ever, whispered something to Chaumehn, and 
 hurried hastily from the room. 
 
 The maid closed the ghastly eyes of the 
 corpse, shedding many tears, and lamenting 
 bitterly the loss of her dear mistress. The
 
 70 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 physician, accustomed to scenes of death and 
 misery, remained a minute or two as if watch- 
 ing whether life was really extinct ; then, dash- 
 ing away a tear, he took a pinch of snuff, and 
 left the room. The assistant, Chaumelin, placed 
 a small cross on her breast, between her hands, 
 the vase of holy water and the sprinkling-brush 
 at her feet, and knelt down by the bed- 
 side.
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 71 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 There is no doubt somethino; fascinatino- in 
 crime, particularly when an ascendancy over 
 another being may be gained by its commission, 
 in conjunction with the temporar}' gratification 
 of the passions which ensues ; but when to this 
 is added satisfaction for injuries real or ima- 
 gined, when the cup of vengeance is placed 
 ready to the hand of him who thirsts for it, can 
 he, who has already tasted its contents, refrain 
 from draining it to the bottom ? 
 
 As the priest descended the stairs, such
 
 72 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 reflections as the following occun-ed to his 
 mind : " When I entered this house I was poor 
 and needy, I am now rich and can gratify my 
 passions. A few hours ago I was held in no 
 estimation hy a miserable lacquey, I have now 
 power over the master ; I, the persecuted, can 
 persecute, for have I not the means of ven- 
 geance; and shall I, the despised, the rejected 
 one, not use them ? She called upon her son — 
 which ? What matters it, do I not hate them, 
 loathe them both ? are they not the offspring of 
 her w4io treated me w^ith scorn and contumely, 
 changing my deep love into burning, everlasting 
 hate, and scathing this heart with unquenchable 
 fire ? Nothing now impedes me, I am free — free 
 to pursue my course. Eugenie, didst thou 
 think when I snatched thy lirst-born from thy 
 panting bosom that my vengeance was satis- 
 fied ?" and he laughed a bitter, scornful laugh. 
 " No ; it lives, it lives. Though thou art gone, 
 thine image survives in thy son. I will blast 
 his hopes, I will thwart him in all he under-
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 7 
 
 takes. He shall be a bastard, and thy memory 
 shall be dishonoured for ever. And what has 
 given me this power ? Chance. Through this 
 little scrap of paper, casually obtained, I v>ill 
 work my vray into a new life. I vrill be no 
 longer the poor persecuted priest, but once more 
 the fashionable, the sought-after, Marquis de 
 Charolles. Shall I give this paper up to the 
 besotted man who has employed me in this 
 business ? I scarcely know its value yet, though 
 I can guess it. I must worm the whole secret 
 from him, and then vengeance and pleasure." 
 
 As he muttered the last words to himself 
 over and over again, the priest knocked at the 
 door of the room where he had left Sir Walter 
 sitting by the fire, and was desired to come in. 
 He found the Baronet exactly in the same posi- 
 tion that he had left him in, nor indeed had he 
 stirred during the priest's absence, but had 
 remained gazing at the fire in a dull, abstracted 
 mood, stupified and fixed by the consciousness
 
 74 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 of crime, and scarcely daring to think ; but the 
 return of the priest aroused him at once. 
 
 " Well, Monsieur I'Abbe," said the Baronet, 
 impatiently ; " have you done what we agreed 
 upon r 
 
 " No, Sir Walter," replied the priest, deli- 
 berately, " I have not — it was, as I feared, too 
 late — the lady is dead." 
 
 " Dead !" almost screamed the Baronet, fall- 
 ing back in his chair ; " then I am a ruined 
 man — ruined in purse, ruined in reputation." 
 
 " Not quite, Sir Walter," said the priest, 
 after a short pause. " Do you bear much re- 
 gard for the young man you sent for — youi- 
 nephew, I believe?" 
 
 " Do you think that a man who stands on 
 the brink of a precipice, kisses the hand of the 
 one who would and will push him over ?" 
 
 " No ; but he would be grateful to him who 
 would stretch his hand out to snatch him 
 from it."
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 75 
 
 The drowning man catches at stra\Ys. There 
 was something in the priest's w^ords and manner 
 that gave the Baronet a vague hope that all was 
 not yet lost, and he looked inquiringly at the 
 Abbe. 
 
 " Now, Sir Walter, what would you think if 
 I said that I could prove this young man illegi- 
 timate — a bastard, in fact?" then he corrected 
 himself, " I do not mean to say that I can do 
 so at the present, but I have obtained a clue 
 which may lead to that result." 
 
 *' I would call you my guardian angel," cried 
 the Baronet, eagerly. 
 
 Strangely perverted term, as if an angel 
 could be the despoiler of the orphan, the tra- 
 ducer of the innocent 1 But would not the 
 murderer call the man by the same title who 
 sheltered and concealed him and his crime from 
 the world, and gave him the means of exist- 
 ence? 
 
 " I am to understand, then," continued the
 
 76 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 priest, " that you have but little affection for 
 your brother's son and his widow's memory ?" 
 
 " Just such love as Macbeth bore to Duncan. 
 I do not know, Monsieur I'Abbe, whether you 
 read our Shakspere, but if you remember these 
 lines, you can apply them ; 
 
 *Tliat tliou would'st higlily that would'st thou holil}-. 
 Would' st not play false, and yet would'st wrongly win.* 
 
 You have no doubt perceived that there is 
 something to be won ; and I will now tell you 
 what it is, that you may thoroughly understand 
 this business." 
 
 The Baronet then narrated the sudden death 
 of Sir William Deverell, his strange will, the 
 enormous wealth that would pass into other 
 hands than his, although he was heir-at-law, by 
 the wording of it, unless the deceased lady 
 could be proved to be a Roman Catholic. The 
 embarrassment of his affairs in consequence of
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 77 
 
 relying on obtaining at least a portion of the 
 DevereE estates; in fact, that he was a ruined 
 man if they should fall to his nephew and not 
 to him. 
 
 The Abbe listened attentively, and ^Yhen Sir 
 Walter had finished, said : 
 
 " May I ask vrhat it was that the physician 
 so mysteriously communicated to you ?" 
 
 The Baronet repeated what the physician had 
 whispered to him. 
 
 " Do you not think there is sufficient evidence 
 to prove that ]Mrs. Conway was a CathoHc ?" 
 inquired the priest, hesitatingly. 
 
 " No," replied the Baronet, impatiently ; 
 " the evidence is only presumptive. Both 
 judge and jury, being Protestants, would look 
 upon it with suspicion; nothing having been 
 apparently done by her own act or free-will." 
 
 " That is unfortunate. What sort of young 
 man is her son ?" 
 
 *' He is clever, proud, and high-spirited ; but 
 he has not what is commonly called a well-
 
 78 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 regulated mind, for he has been left too much 
 to himself." 
 
 " Does he, then, not love his mother 
 much?" 
 
 " He has been away at school and college 
 a great deal, and has spent most of his vaca- 
 tions with us, in Devonshire; and although 
 his mother was generally there, she was al- 
 ways an invalid, and kept to her room; so 
 that he has not seen so much of her as sons 
 usually do ; still he always loved her, and is 
 proud of her high birth and noble family." 
 
 The thought of Arthur's attachment to his 
 own daughter occurred to him at that moment, 
 but that he reserved to himself for the present. 
 
 " Cause it to be whispered abroad," said the 
 priest, in a hoarse, unnatural voice, for the 
 struggle had commenced, " that Mr. and Mrs. 
 Conway were never married; that is, not le- 
 gally married; for rumour, with her pointed 
 tongue, will soon bring it to the first 
 point."
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 79 
 
 " What good will that do, if we cannot 
 prove it ?" 
 
 " Leave that to me, Sir Walter ; I will un- 
 dertake to prove it, if necessary. He will hear 
 this, he wiU inquire into it, he shall find that 
 there is strong evidence to that effect, which, if 
 produced, might blast his mother's fair fame. 
 Then, if I can read human nature, and this 
 young man is such as you describe him to be, 
 he will not go to law at all. The memory of his 
 mother must be sacred, and he will not like to 
 run the chance of its being defamed, openly 
 defamed in a court of law, which it must neces- 
 sarily be, if a trial takes place ; but it must 
 come upon him by degrees. If you are rash, 
 and threaten him wdth proceedings at once, he 
 will kick against it hke a young colt, harnessed 
 and put into the shafts without any previous 
 preparation." 
 
 " I cannot see my way through all this ; it is 
 too complicated for me,'* said the Baronet, im- 
 patiently.
 
 80 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 " The light will dawn upon you, Sir Walter, 
 from a quarter w4iere you least expect it," re- 
 plied the priest ; " but I must take the liberty 
 of asking you some more questions. Do you 
 know where Mr. and Mrs. Conway were mar- 
 ried r 
 
 " I have always understood that the cere- 
 mony was performed at the British Embassy, 
 at Naples, after they had fled from Rome." 
 
 " It would be as well to ascertain that fact, 
 for I have a shrewd suspicion that they w^ere not 
 so married. Does her son think you know 
 more about it ?" 
 
 " I believe not. A son does not usually 
 inquire into his mother's marriage certificate. 
 But, Monsieur, what do these questions tend 
 to?" 
 
 " Pardon me, Sir Walter ; if I am to proceed 
 any further in this affair, you must look upon 
 me as your legal adviser. Depend upon it, I 
 have my reasons for asking them." 
 
 The Baronet motioned to him to go on, for
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 81 
 
 he did not see how he could gain his point 
 without the priest's help ; and there was evidently 
 something known to him beyond what he had 
 yet said. 
 
 " You are certain they were not married in 
 England?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " What became of them after they left 
 Naples ?" 
 
 " They passed some months, I believe, in 
 Switzerland, and embarked at Hamburgh for 
 Eno-land. Mrs. Conwav was then enceinte. 
 
 O I. 
 
 They suffered shipwreck on the Norfolk coast, 
 and there this young man was born. But her 
 health never recovered the shock, and she had 
 no more children." 
 
 The priest mused for a short time, and said 
 to himself, " If they were married at Ham- 
 burgh, they must have wanted to quiet some 
 scniples of conscience. They were either not 
 married at Naples at all, or were married under 
 false nam.es." 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 In the spring of the year 1795, not long 
 after that ferocious but extraordinary character 
 Victor Hugues had carried ultra-republican 
 notions and cruelties into the Caribbean islands, 
 there lay at anchor, off the beautiful island of 
 Dominica, a huge lumbering vessel. Although 
 separated from her convoy, she had managed to 
 elude the swarms of privateers as well as of 
 men-of-war which the French commissioner 
 with wonderful activity had congregated in 
 those seas to attack the possessions and harass 
 the commerce of the " tyrant George."
 
 ARTllUR CON v.- AY. S3 
 
 Guadaloupe, retaken from the English, was 
 now the head-quarters of this worthy delegate 
 from the Convention, and from thence he 
 pubhshed the following edict, which will give 
 some idea of the tone assumed by these ultra- 
 tyrannical republicans. 
 
 PROCLAMATION OF VICTOR HUGUES. 
 
 LIBERTY LA^V EQUALITY. 
 
 "Victor Hugues, delegated Commissary of 
 the National Convention to the ^Yindward 
 Islands. Whereas, the crimes committed by 
 the British officers as well in the capture as in 
 the defence of the conquered islands, exhibited a 
 character of so consummate and odious a 
 villainy, as not to be paralleled in history ; 
 and whereas, the rights of humanity, of war, 
 and of nations, have been violated by Charles 
 Grey, General ; John Jervis, Admiral ; Thomas 
 Dundas, Major-General and Governor of Gua- 
 
 G 2
 
 84 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 daloupe ; Charles Gordon, a general officer ; and 
 other subaltern officers who imitated them; 
 and whereas, also the robberies, murders, assas- 
 sinations, and other crimes committed by them, 
 ought to be transmitted to posterity, it is 
 resolved, that the body of Thomas Dundas 
 interred in Guadaloupe, 3rd of June (slave 
 style), shall be taken up^ and given a prey to the 
 birds of the air ; that upon the same spot there 
 shall be erected, at the expense of the republic, 
 a monument, bearing on one side this decree; 
 and on the other, the following inscription : 
 * This ground, restored to liberty by the bravery 
 of republicans, was polluted by the body of 
 Thomas Dundas, Major- General, and Governor 
 of Guadaloupe for the ^ ^= =^ =^ George III. In 
 recollecting his crimes, the public indignation 
 caused him to be taken up, and has ordered 
 this monument to be erected to hand them 
 down to posterity.' 
 
 " Given at the Port of Liberty, (20th
 
 ARTHUR COXWAY. bJ 
 
 Frimaire) in the third year of the French 
 Republic, one raid indivisible. 
 
 "Victor Hugues. 
 
 " Viel-Secretary." 
 
 There was a peculiar look about this ship as 
 she lay a little to the northward of the then 
 busy little town of Roseau, or Charlotte Town, 
 heavins: iazilv to the Ions; unbroken swell. 
 She was high out of the water, wall-sided, with 
 huge bluff bows, and square stern ; her yards 
 were badly squared ; her dirty sails, half furled, 
 hung in loose and ungraceful disorder; the 
 ropes were badly coiled or towing overboard. 
 She could not be a merchant vessel for she bore 
 a pendant, and her slovenly appearance pre- 
 cluded the idea of her beins: a man-of-war. A 
 white number painted on her bow told the 
 initiated that she was v>"hat sailors commonly 
 call a lobster-box, and what soldiers curse as a 
 hell upon the waters, a transport. A few light
 
 86 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 canoes, manned by grinning negroes, were pass- 
 ing from her to the shore, laden nearly to the 
 water's edge with red-uniformed soldiers, some 
 of whom were already ranged on the white 
 beach, while others were scrambling up amongst 
 the rocks and shingle as the receding wave left 
 the canoe stranded for a moment. 
 
 At the gangway nearest the island, sedulously 
 watching the men as they stepped into these 
 frail conveyances, stood a young officer in the 
 uniform of the line of that time. He seemed 
 young, very young for his station, for he wore 
 the two epaulets denoting that he already bore 
 a Captain's commission. His features were 
 small and regular, his complexion delicately fair; 
 a profusion of light-brown hair curled over his 
 well-formed head ; his eyes were of soft, sweet 
 blue, shaded by dark eyelashes ; altogether his 
 face might have been deemed feminine, but for 
 the strong determination expressed in his small 
 but beautifully- chiselled mouth. He was rather ■ 
 over the middle height ; and his frame so beau-
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 8 7 
 
 tifully proportioned, and so well put together 
 that, although at first sight he might have 
 appeared small and delicate, yet when you 
 began to notice the wonderful symmetry of each 
 limb, and the unanimity (if we may so express 
 it) of the whole, it was no longer a matter of 
 surprise that this apparently slight young man 
 could perform extraordinary feats of strength 
 and acti\4ty. There was something very re- 
 markable in his countenance, for although his 
 complexion was youthfully fair, and his eye 
 bright and joyous, a slight shade of melancholy 
 at times pervaded the whole ; even when occu- 
 pied as he then was in landing his men with 
 safety, it passed over his features like the 
 shadow of a cloud over the sunny landscape. 
 
 The last canoe had put ofp from the ship, 
 the soldiers had all reached the shore without 
 an upset, and the sharks were defrauded of all 
 chance of a feast for that day at least; and, 
 although an occasional ducking as the soldiers 
 tumbled out of the ricketty canoes on to the
 
 88 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 slippery rocks had served to make the grinning 
 negroes show their huge white teeth, and chuckle 
 at the buckra men getting wet, no casualty of 
 any consequence had occurred : the young officer 
 turned away from the gangway with a deep- 
 drawn sigh. In the blue translucid water he 
 had seen a gaunt monster hovering about near 
 the ship, in evident expectation of a banquet. 
 Not many hundred yards from the vessel the 
 half-putrid carcass of a bullock was perceptibly 
 torn, worried and dragged about by a host of 
 smaller sharks ; but this one, as if he despised 
 so mean a feast, seemed to watch each canoe as 
 it put off from the vessel until it reached the 
 shore, and all this time he was distinctly visible 
 to the anxious eyes of our hero, but when the 
 last canoe ran high upon the shingly beach in 
 safety, the monster suddenly disappeared be- 
 neath the vessel, and could be no more seen. 
 
 As Arthur Conway turned towards the 
 quarter-deck, he felt his mind relieved of a 
 great burden; yet he shuddered as the dim
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 89 
 
 outline of the horrible shark still swam bluely 
 and mistily before his eyes, and he still felt sick 
 and dizzy. Before he had quite recovered his 
 self-possession, he heard a voice, musical, low, 
 and sweet, but in a mixture of broken French 
 and English, im.ploring to know why he was to 
 be flogged. 
 
 " rU teach you, you infernal black nigger 1" 
 said the rough voice of the master of the 
 transport, whose name was Jack Diver, but vrho 
 generally went by the soubriquet of " Gentleman 
 John," probably because he was the very reverse 
 of that often wrongly-bestowed title, " I'll teach 
 you, you thieving blackbeetle, to come on board 
 His Gracious Majesty's ship ' Sally' without my 
 leave ! You lamed your manners, no doubt, 
 from them impudent Frenchmen ; but we'll see 
 if an English cat can't change 'em. Here, 
 bostwain's mate, give this fellow a dozen, — the 
 thieves' cat mind !" 
 
 " Ay, ay, sir 1" replied that worthy, grinning 
 from ear to ear with delight at the prospect of
 
 90 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 trying his hand on something new. " No need 
 to order him to strip." 
 
 Three or four of the brawny sailors had laid 
 hold of him in the meantime, and were in the 
 act of seizing him to some of the rigging, as 
 the young officer turned from the gangway. 
 
 Arthur Conw^ay saw at a glance that this 
 man, whatever he might be, was no negro. 
 
 As he has rather a conspicuous part to play 
 in some of the scenes in this tale, we will now 
 attempt to give our readers his portrait at full 
 length. 
 
 His body, which was nearly naked, was 
 straight, and well-proportioned; his head was 
 placed evenly and gracefully on his shoulders, 
 which were broad, and yet low; his hips, ton, 
 were broad, but his limbs were slight and clean, 
 though not deficient in muscle. His skin was of 
 an olive-colour, not much darker than those of 
 Murillo's Spanish boys. His eyes were small, 
 and deeply sunk, but intensely black and piercing ; 
 his hair jet black, and perfectly straight ; his nose
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 91 
 
 flat and broad, not like that of a negro, how- 
 ever, for his nostrils were neither large nor 
 distended; his facial angle was nearly that of 
 the European, and his chin was small, though, 
 like the rest of his face, it was round ; nor were 
 the cheek-bones high and prominent, as in the 
 negro. The only feature which seemed to ally 
 him to that race was the mouth, which was very 
 vdde, and full of large, white teeth ; still, his 
 lips had none of the African blubber about 
 them. A line, or furrow^ extended from each 
 corner of the mouth to the ears, which were 
 perforated with pieces of dark tortoise-shell. 
 His face was, in other respects, perfectly 
 smooth, and free from any sign of a beard, and 
 his nose and under-lip had been evidently 
 pierced like his ears, but there were no orna- 
 ments in them. 
 
 His dress w^as very simple, consisting only of 
 a striped cotton shirt, without sleeves, reaching 
 to the knee, and bound round the waist with a 
 belt, covered with, feathers. The rest of his
 
 92 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 body, head, legs, arms, and feet, were utterly 
 unprotected from the fierce glare of the tropical 
 sun, and the lash of the brawny boatswain. 
 
 Although this man did not utter any actual 
 lamentations, his features and manner did not 
 display the stoical indifference to disgrace and 
 physical pain so conspicuous in the Red Indian 
 of the Western Continent of America. On the 
 contrary, he seemed to be perfectly aware of 
 what he was about to sutler, although pride 
 evidently struggled to subdue all other emotions 
 and exclamations tban the simple interrogation, 
 often repeated, of why he was to be flogged ? 
 He could not understand it, nor could the 
 gallant young officer, whose attention now 
 became suddenly fixed on the scene that was 
 being acted before him. 
 
 The native, or whatever he might be, was 
 now seized to the rigging ; the sailors stood on 
 each side of him, to prevent his freeing himself 
 by his struggles ; the ruffianly master of the 
 ti'ansport stood by, smoking a cigar, waiting
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 93 
 
 impatiently for the play to commence ; the 
 sturdy boatswain, stripped to his shii't-sleeves, 
 had akeady bared his brawny arms, and was 
 passing his fingers through the tails of the 
 formidable thieves' cat, and, balancing himself 
 properly, was measuring his distance at the same 
 time for the first stroke, when the captive, turn- 
 ino; his head round, cauo-ht the eve of our 
 hero. 
 
 There was something in it that gave him 
 hope. Although his lips did not move, the 
 expression of his face vras of so beseeching a 
 nature — so evidently appealing to the gentleman, 
 that, though he did not speak, Captain Conway 
 understood it. He walked forward, and, ad- 
 dressing the master of the transport in a 
 courteous tone and manner, asked him v>'hat the 
 man was to be flogged for ? 
 
 "What is that to you?" replied the polite 
 Jack Diver, with an oath. " I command this 
 ship, don't I ? so I'll thank you not to interfere
 
 94 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 •-with me when I choose to punish a black 
 scoundrel. Ha ! ha ! a pretty go truly ! Here's 
 a lobster disgusted at a little back tickling, — and 
 only a nigger's hide to be tanned !" 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Captain Diver," replied 
 the young officer ; " this man is no negro ; 
 and, even if he were, I do not see why he 
 should suffer such a punishment, without any 
 apparent cause." 
 
 " What do I know of causes ? Perhaps you 
 would like to be president of a court-martial on 
 the nigger ! Lay on Andrews ! One ! — I'll be 
 big drummer." 
 
 The boatswain's mate drew back, and flou- 
 rished his cat scientifically. 
 
 " Stay I" interrupted Conway, " only one 
 word. You would not have dared to do this, 
 if Colonel Farrer had been on board." 
 
 " It's my turn now," said Jack Diver, with 
 a sneer. " Thank the stars, I've emptied my 
 pot of all the lobsters, big and little, for this
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 9o 
 
 bout, but one, and him I don't care a snap of 
 the finger for." 
 
 " You shall repent this, if you ever put your 
 foot on shore," said Conway, a bright flush 
 passing over his face, which was actually pale 
 with suppressed excitement. 
 
 " Ha, ha 1" replied, in his turn, the Master, 
 grinning. " What ! the delicate Captain going 
 to fight for a nigger's hide ?" 
 
 The attention of the sailors, who held the 
 native, or whatever he was, was called off by 
 this colloquy. They hated Jack Diver, it is 
 true, for he was a bully ; but they did not like to 
 see him " come over,'' as they would call it, by 
 a soldier officer ; so they watched with evident 
 glee this sparring match of words. 
 
 As quick as thought, the native perceived it ; 
 and, taking advantage of their distraction, with 
 a sudden and powerful effort he broke from the 
 lashings, and from their grasp, and with a 
 nimble spring, vaulted over the bulwarks, and
 
 96 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 plunged, feet foremost, into the deep blue water. 
 Ere the wave had closed over his head, Conway 
 had rushed to the gangway, and, throwing a 
 rope overboard, was in the act of following it 
 himself, when he was rudely, though not ill- 
 naturedly, restrained by the boatswain. 
 
 " Psha ! Mister, you can't drown them nig- 
 gers — they swim like porpusses, and dive like 
 ducks," said he, shaking his cat at where he 
 supposed the man to be. 
 
 " The shark ! the shark ! O God ! the 
 man will be killed. Can nothing be done to 
 save him. This is too horrible !" exclaimed 
 the young officer, striving to break from the 
 boatswain. 
 
 Suddenly the man appeared on the surface of 
 water, full fifty yards from the ship, and striking 
 out boldly for the shore. 
 
 But at the same moment, an indistinct 
 shadowy thing glided from beneath the vessel 
 through the pellucid water, in the same direction.
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 97 
 
 " The shark ! the shark I" again shouted 
 Comyay. 
 
 The man seemed to understand him, for he 
 raised one hand out of the water, as if making 
 some signal, then dived again far below the 
 surface. 
 
 With intense anxiety the young officer 
 watched for his re-appearance ; even the Master 
 and his men had suddenly become interested in 
 his escape, for, cruel and unfeeHng as they 
 were, there was still some latent spark of com- 
 passion in their rough breasts, and ever\- sailor 
 detests the ver\' name of a shark. 
 
 For nearly a minute and a half the man 
 remained under water, and when he again re- 
 appeared, he was half-way to the beach. 
 
 How he had eluded the shark, could not be 
 seen ; but sure enough the t\Tant of the deep 
 had been disappointed in his expected banquet. 
 Perhaps, hke the lion and the tiger, when they 
 miss their spring, the fish of prey, when he is 
 foiled in his dash, returns skulking and sulky 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 to his lurking-place ; and so it seemed, for the 
 grim shark sailed slowly back, scarcely moving 
 his fins, to his stand beneath the shadow of the 
 lumbering transport. 
 
 The head of the man just showed itself for a 
 minute or two, and again he dived ; the next 
 thing that was seen of him was his dripping 
 figure scrambling up the shingly beach ; a 
 moment more, and his form was lost amongst 
 the rocks. 
 
 " You may thank your God, if you ever do 
 such a thing," said Conway, in a low, soft tone, 
 and turning to the Master, ''that this man's 
 blood is not upon your head." 
 
 In these few minutes, Arthur Conway had 
 confirmed to himself a bitter, implacable enemy, 
 and had made a firm, sincere, though humble 
 friend.
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 99 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Three days after the occurrence related in 
 the last chapter, the * Sally ' was still lying at 
 anchor in the roadstead off Roseau. This ves- 
 sel had brought out detachments of troops from 
 England for the different islands, to supply the 
 fearful gaps made in the ranks of the British 
 regiments by the bullets of the republicans, and 
 by the still more deadly weapons of nature — the 
 vomito and the dysentery. 
 
 x\fter discharging her live lading, the * Sally ' 
 was to take in a cargo of sugar, coffee, and other 
 
 2 H
 
 100 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 produce, and then return to her port in England, 
 as soon as a safe convoy could be procured. 
 The lading had not yet commenced ; every- 
 thing on board was still, and no watch was 
 kept. 
 
 An awning was stretched over the high 
 poop-deck, and beneath its shade, swinging in 
 a low hammock, with his face upturned to 
 the sky, and his head luxuriously propped up 
 with piUows, lay the Captain of the transport, 
 smoking. 
 
 A bottle of old rum, with a wet napkin round 
 it, and a porous earthenware jar, or monkey, as 
 it is called, of cool water, with some fresh- 
 gathered limes, stood within reach of his ex- 
 tended arm. 
 
 Jack Diver was apparently in that self-com- 
 placent mood, which a good glass of old liquor, 
 a real havannah, and perfect indolence, creates 
 under a tropical sky. His troubles and anxieties 
 were over for the time being, and he thought 
 that he might as well pass the time of in-
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 101 
 
 action in the luxurious manner we have de- 
 scribed. 
 
 He had not gone on shore — why, it is diffi- 
 cult to say ; perhaps the threat of the young 
 officer, perhaps the fear of infection, prevented 
 him ; for, even at that season of the year, the 
 terrible yellow fever was lurking about in the 
 purlieus of the town. Yet this could scarcely 
 be ; for, though a buUy with his men, Jack 
 Diver was no coward : he had already been dis- 
 tinguished, on several occasions, in severe en- 
 counters with the French privateers ; and, 
 under ordinary circumstances, would have 
 fought his ship until it sank. Nevertheless, he 
 had not gone on shore. 
 
 As he lay there ruminating, a few broken 
 sentences and exclamations burst at times from 
 his lips, as he removed the cigar from his mouth, 
 plainly indicating the train of thought that was 
 passing in his mind. 
 
 " The young jackanapes ! To be buUied 
 by a beardless boy, before my own men — my
 
 102 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 own crew ; and by him, too, above all others — 
 he who has done me so much injury already ! 
 Does he know who I am? Rot the young 
 aristocrat ! And he threatened me, too ? Yes, 
 by God ! 1 will be revenged on him yet. Shall 
 they always grind us under their heels, the 
 cursed tyrants?" (Captain Diver, Captain 
 Diver, you forget who are the real tyrants.) 
 " As sure as the devil is — " 
 
 " Talk of the devil, and he is sure to appear, 
 Captain," said a voice with a slightly foreign 
 accent, close beside him. 
 
 Whilst the Captain of the transport was lying 
 in his hammock, a light and elegantly-shaped 
 canoe, paddled by one man in the stem, with 
 another lying at full length in the bottom of 
 the fragile conveyance, came gliding by the 
 town from the northward. It passed the stern 
 of the ' Sally,' which was swinging with her 
 head pointed to the light air from the land; 
 then it stopped, and hovered there for a few 
 moments, as if uncertain whether it was the
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 103 
 
 right ship. Presently, with a few strokes of 
 his paddle, the man in the stem whirled the 
 canoe round, and shot her under the high 
 counter of the ' Sally.' 
 
 The man in the bottom of the canoe rose up 
 cautiously and silently, and seizing one of the 
 ropes which was hanging carelessly over the 
 sides of the slovenly vessel, swung himself up, 
 hand over hand, peeped over the bulwarks, 
 and then, with a satisfied air, crept quietly under 
 the awning, on to the poop, and stood by the 
 Captain's hammock. The man in the canoe 
 paddled away again, but only to a short dis- 
 tance from the transport, and commenced 
 fishing. 
 
 The man who now stood on the deck of the 
 transport was dressed in a linen blouse, with 
 a leather belt round the waist, and braided at 
 the edges and pockets with three diflferent co- 
 lours. He w^ore duck trowsers, and light sailors' 
 pumps, wdth silver buckles in them, and cut 
 low, show^ing a pair of neat silk stockings. His
 
 104 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 figure was slight and active. His shirt was 
 open at the throat, which was completely hidden 
 by a long, pointed, black beard ; bushy whiskers, 
 and a thick moustache, shaded his cheeks and 
 upper lip ; round his neck was carelessly knotted 
 a silk handkerchief of three colours ; and from 
 his ears hung two splendid ear-rings. His nose 
 was aquiline, and his eyes fierce and sparkling. 
 A large Panama hat completely covered and 
 shaded the upper part of his face : so that, be- 
 tween whiskers, beard, moustache, and hat, his 
 'whole countenance was in a sort of disguise. 
 
 His appearance was a strange mixture of 
 dandyism and ferocity ; a puppy of the first 
 water turned pirate. He had overheard the 
 half-muttered expressions of the Master, and 
 they seemed sufficiently to suit his purpose, for 
 he grinned significantly, and showed his fine 
 white teeth beneath the dark bushy moustache, 
 and shrugged his shoulders expressively as he 
 chimed in with " Talk of the devil, and he is 
 sure to appear."
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 105 
 
 The Master turned sulkily round in his ham- 
 mock, for he was too lazy to be much surprised, 
 and the old rum had rather deadened the keen- 
 ness of his intellect ; but when he saw the 
 extraordinary figure by his side, he could not 
 help starting as if he had in reality seen some 
 Satanic emissary, for the grin was still on the 
 stranger's countenance; but he quickly reco- 
 vered himself, and said, in his usual bullying 
 tone and manner : 
 
 " And who the devil are you? And what 
 do you want ?" 
 
 " I have come to offer you my services," 
 replied the stranger, taking off his broad-leafed 
 hat, and bowing to the Captain. 
 
 " I don't want your services : be off with 
 you." 
 
 " Come, Captain," said the stranger, ^^'ith 
 the most perfect coolness, helping himself, at 
 the same time, to a glass of rum from the 
 bottle, and holding it up as men do when they
 
 106 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 drink a toast, " Here's to you. Rot the aris- 
 tocrats ! Down with the tyrants ! Vive la 
 Republique /" 
 
 The Master of the transport rolled himself 
 out of the hammock, sat up on the deck, and 
 rubbed his eyes with astonishment ; for he was 
 by no means aware that he had spoken aloud. 
 
 " Yes," continued the stranger, " shall they 
 still grind us under their heels ? What say you. 
 Captain?" 
 
 Jack Diver muttered a fearful oath. " Who 
 are you, that you should read my thoughts ? 
 And why do you come here ?" 
 
 " To be at your service, Captain. You 
 know his infernal majesty — Bah ! what am I 
 saying? — I mean the chief commissary of the 
 lower regions is generally at hand when wanted; 
 and you were speaking of him just now, Cap- 
 tain." 
 
 " You don't mean to say — " 
 
 " Not exactly," said the stranger, with a
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 10? 
 
 shrug: " I am Citizen Jean-Marie le Blanc; 
 so called, because I'm black till I change my 
 features." 
 
 " Change his features !" murmured the half- 
 intoxicated Master ; " he must be the devil 
 himself, after all." 
 
 " Look you here, Captain," said the stranger, 
 putting his hand suddenly to his face, and 
 removing, in a second, whiskers, moustache, 
 and beard, and leaving exposed the features of 
 a very young and strikingly handsome man. 
 " You see I only tell you the tmth, though 
 that's what the devil never did: I'm mortal, 
 after aU." 
 
 " Devil or man, what do want with me ?" 
 
 " You detest the aristocrats. Captain ?" 
 
 "Who are you?" 
 
 " You would free yourself from the abomi- 
 nable tyrants ?" 
 
 " TeU me who and what you are, or I'll — " 
 
 " He threatened me too. Captain," inter- 
 rupted the stranger, with a quiet sneer.
 
 108 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 " Come, come, leave well alone, whoever you 
 are," said Jack Diver, half petrified with asto- 
 nishment ; "I don't want to threaten you, but 
 I do want to know who you are, and how you 
 got on board ?" 
 
 " One question is easily answered. You 
 leave ropes towing overboard. The other de- 
 pends on how you answer me." 
 
 " Come, you are the coolest chap I ever met 
 with. I've half a mind to call the men, and see 
 what you are made of. Why shouldn't I ?" 
 
 " Because in the first place," replied the 
 stranger, quietly drawing a small pistol from 
 his pocket, cocking it, and presenting it at the 
 master, '' I should shoot you and then jump 
 overboard — there is a canoe handy ; and in the 
 next place, because I want you, and you want 
 me. Read this, Captain," continued the 
 stranger, replacing the pistol in his breast, 
 " read this while I smoke a cigar," And Le 
 Blanc, for so we will in future call the 
 stranger, handed a paper to the Captain, and
 
 ' ARTHUR CONWAY. 109 
 
 then seating himself quietly on the deck, 
 lighted his cigar, and puffed away quite un- 
 concernedly, whilst Jack Diver read with diffi- 
 culty the document so strangely handed to 
 him. 
 
 The paper which the Master was now read- 
 ing, was one of those furious and malignant 
 proclamations, issued by order of the Conven- 
 tion, through the medium of its worthy com- 
 missary, Victor Hugues, against the " tyrant 
 George," and his satellites. It called upon the 
 inhabitants of the different islands of all colours 
 to rise, and throw off the yoke of the infamous 
 English; it proclaimed those that did so citi- 
 zens and soldiers of the Republic, and threatened 
 with the guillotine all of French origin or ex- 
 traction, who should serve in any way under 
 the British Government, or who should not 
 join the Republican army on its landing. 
 
 Le Blanc, though apparently taken up with 
 his fragrant havannah, was all the while watch-
 
 110 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 ing with great interest, the effect of this pro- 
 clamation on the Master of the transport. 
 
 It seemed, however, rather to offend than 
 please him, for with an oath Jack Diver 
 crushed the paper in his hand, as he said : 
 
 " What have I to do with Victor Hugs, or 
 whatever you call him; curse me, though I 
 hate all aristocrats, I'm a downright John Bull, 
 and look upon every Frenchman as a natural 
 born enemy." 
 
 " Very true and very proper," replied the 
 Frenchman shrugging his shoulders, and ele- 
 vating his eyebrows ; " but. Captain, are there 
 none of these aristocrats on whom you wish 
 particularly to be revenged?" 
 
 " Yes, by God !" repHed the Master, striking 
 the hen-coop with his clenched fist, " yes, 
 there is one whose life blood I would suck drop 
 by drop till he died." 
 
 " He told me the truth," muttered the 
 stranger to himself. " I have him now."
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. Ill 
 
 " What are you muttering about there, you 
 French devil ? Why don't you speak out, and 
 teU me more ? for more I am sure you know." 
 
 " Perhaps I do," said Le Blanc, with an air 
 of mystery. 
 
 " Why not tell me at once without aU this 
 palavering ?" 
 
 " I cannot explain it here, but if you \\ill 
 come on shore, Captain, I will show you, I 
 think, how you can be revenged on him." 
 
 " How the devil do you know that he is on 
 shore in this paltry island ?" 
 
 " Exactly so." 
 
 " What do you mean by exactly so ?" 
 
 " My black spirit told me." 
 
 " Well, you are the rummiest devil I ever 
 saw." 
 
 " Light brown hair, blue eyes, fair com- 
 plexion, slender, weH-made, aristocratic," con- 
 tinued the stranger, with a pause between each 
 of the descriptions. 
 
 More and more surprised, the Master gazed
 
 112 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 open-mouthed at the stranger, who, knocking 
 the ashes off the end of his cigar, quietly, yet 
 significantly, added : 
 
 " Will you come on shore now, Captain ?" 
 
 The Master mused for a few minutes. The 
 prospect of revenge tempted him, heated as his 
 imagination was by the potency of his draughts 
 of rum, and he assented. Requesting the 
 stranger to wait for him on the poop, whilst 
 he went forward to make some arrangements 
 with his mate, in case of any unexpected calls 
 upon him during his stay on shore, he descended 
 the poop-ladder, leaving Le Blanc alone. 
 
 The stranger went to the stern, and whistled 
 shrilly. The man in the canoe drew up his 
 fishing lines, and with a few strokes of his 
 paddle, again shot the canoe under the high 
 counter of the ' Sally.' 
 
 This man was dressed in a white jacket and 
 loose linen trowsers, with a large straw hat 
 flapped over his face. He seemed full of vigour 
 and activity, and managed his canoe with beau-
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 113 
 
 tiful skill and address. When close to the 
 vessel, Le Blanc stooped over the bulwarks, and 
 asked, in a low tone, and in French : " Will it 
 hold three ?" 
 
 The man in the canoe held up three fingers, 
 nodded, and pointed to another paddle lying in 
 the bottom of the canoe, but did not speak. 
 
 In a few minutes. Jack Diver returned ; he 
 had taken the opportunity when below to plunge 
 his head into cold water, and was consequently 
 more sober than before. 
 
 " I have ordered a boat," said he, " to take 
 us on shore." 
 
 " It is not at all necessary," replied Le 
 Blanc, with a bow, " my gig is all ready here, 
 and I have to request that you will do me the 
 honour to take a seat in her." 
 
 " Where is she ?" 
 
 " Here, Captain," replied Le Blanc, leading 
 Jack Diver to the side, and showing him the 
 canoe in which the man sat perfectly still, with 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 his head drooping forwards on his knees. 
 " Take my word for it, you will find this the 
 best and quickest conveyance, for we have some 
 distance to go. My man, Henri, there, sends 
 her along like the wind, when the water is 
 smooth, as it is now ; moreover, you must 
 come with me, or not at all. If you are sus- 
 picious of me, stay ; if you wish for revenge, 
 come." 
 
 " What the devil do you want me to do ?" 
 " Come and see, Captain. Revenge is sweet, 
 as the hook says." 
 
 The Master did not say another word, but 
 lowered himself careftdly into the canoe, and 
 deposited himself, at full length, in the bottom ; 
 the stranger followed him, and, kneehng in the 
 bow, took the second paddle. The man in the 
 stern kept his head away, with his large hat 
 flapped over his eyes as much as he could; 
 but as the Master of the transport entered the 
 canoe, a gleam of fierce deUght flashed from his
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 115 
 
 black, expressive eyes, and he uttered a low 
 laugh, in which you might have read revenge, 
 and triumph, and scorn. 
 
 The canoe, impelled by skilful hands, soon 
 emerged from the shadow of the ' Sally ;' and 
 with a graceful, gliding motion, it ran rapidly 
 past the town of Roseau, the t^vo rowers keep- 
 ing measured time with their paddles. 
 
 The mouth of the beautiful emerald-green 
 river, that gives the name to the town, is soon 
 passed. 
 
 On, with the same even, graceful-ghding, 
 they shoot over the surface of that lake-like 
 sea, close to the beach, where the densely 
 foliaged tamarind-trees line the margin, in long, 
 unbroken rows, contrasting beautifully ^^^th the 
 snow-white sand. 
 
 Presently the land presented a bolder and 
 rougher appearance ; precipitous frowning cliffs, 
 frirrowed here and there with iTigged water- 
 courses, and dotted with quaintly foliaged plants 
 
 1 2
 
 116 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 and shrubs, came boldly down nearly to the 
 water's edge, just leaving a narrow, winding, 
 rocky track, sufficiently wide for a horse to pass. 
 Dark, misshapen rocks began to stud the glis- 
 tening sand, and show themselves here and 
 there with black, rough crests, peeping out from 
 the green, translucid water, into which the rays 
 of the sun seemed to penetrate far below the 
 surface. 
 
 Still the canoe shot on, without a word being 
 spoken, the splash of the paddles alone break- 
 ing the silence of the basking day, until round 
 the boulder of a dark, red cliff they suddenly 
 came, where a deep, sombre, narrow river glided 
 noiselessly into the bosom of that glowing sea. 
 With a whirl of his paddle, the man in the stern 
 shot the light canoe into the stream. 
 
 Overshadowed, on both sides, by matted and 
 tangled mangrove-trees, with branches inter- 
 laced, and drooping into the water, it seemed 
 more like a deep, silent pool than the outlet of
 
 ARTHUR CON^V^AY. 117 
 
 a lovely river. Black masses of mud, now 
 dried and baked by the scorching heat, appeared 
 between the mangroves. Every now and then 
 a huge, unearthly-looking iguana, with its scol- 
 loped back and long scaly tail, would glide, 
 spectre-like, over them. Myriads of pestiferous 
 mosquitoes and sand-flies buzzed and hummed 
 busily, joying in a spot where the fierce glare 
 never entered to disturb them in their mazy 
 dance ; but, beyond this, there was no animal 
 life ; it seemed the abode of solitude, of pes- 
 tilence, and death. 
 
 For some distance, the canoe glided and 
 twisted along the curvings of this Lethean 
 stream, till the river began to move perceptibly, 
 flowing over a harder bed; rocks began to 
 usurp the place of the black, slimy mud, and 
 daylight again penetrated through the branches 
 of the mangrove- trees. The water, instead of 
 the turbid, inky hue, assumed a shade of eme- 
 rald green ; and here and there a flake of snowy 
 foam came floating and eddying along.
 
 118 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 Presently the man in the stern motioned to 
 Le Blanc to desist, and, with a single dextrous 
 stroke of his own paddle, whirled the canoe 
 suddenly round, up a small, narrow creek; 
 bringing himself, at the same time, nearest 
 the landing-place; and as the hollow cotton- 
 tree grated lightly against the pebbles, he 
 jumped nimbly out, and steadied the canoe with 
 his hand. 
 
 " Here we are at last, Captain," said Le 
 Blanc, wiping away the beads of sweat that 
 stood on his brow. " Henri, help the Captain 
 out." 
 
 The Master rose, and stretched out his hand 
 towards Henri, to balance himself as he got 
 out of the rickety conveyance; but the man 
 seemed neither to hear his employer's words, 
 nor to see the motion ; for he kept his head 
 turned away, although he still held fast the 
 canoe. 
 
 " Is the fellow deaf or sulky?" said Jack 
 Diver, crawling out by himself.
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 119 
 
 A gleam of satisfaction crossed the man's 
 face, as he gave his hand to Le Blanc. It 
 was trembling with emotion, and he murmured 
 some words in an unknown language. 
 
 Le Blanc looked at him as if he would have 
 read what was passing in his mind, but Henri 
 assumed so stolid an expression, that the French- 
 man, quick as he was, could make nothing 
 of it. 
 
 The two ran the canoe up, and Hfting it, 
 placed it snugly under the shadow of the castor- 
 oil plants and long waving weeds, that grew in 
 wild luxuriance in the moist soil. 
 
 The Frenchman, then leading the way along 
 a track which wound amidst the rocks and 
 tangled brushwood, and whistling gaily as he 
 went, seemed in high spirits ; but some vague 
 sense of uneasiness appeared to harass the 
 Master, for he looked repeatedly round and 
 behind him with a suspicious glance at the 
 man who had paddled the canoe. In truth, 
 he had an undefinable feeling of dread of this
 
 120 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 man, and a semi-consciousness that he had in 
 some way seen him before ; but the man fol- 
 lowed him, carrying his paddle in his hand, 
 with a slouching, careless gait, and appeared 
 not to notice anything, but kept his large hat 
 flapped over his face. 
 
 Jack Diver, as he went along, tried several 
 times to question him, but he did not reply ; 
 and Le Blanc explained it by saying that Henri 
 did not speak EngUsh.
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 121 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 They had gone about half a mile, and were 
 in the middle of a thicket, when the man sud- 
 denly disappeared: his step was so noiseless, 
 that neither the Master nor the Frenchman 
 perceived it. When they had passed through 
 this thicket, the ground became clearer, and a 
 house stood before them. 
 
 It was a low, one-storied building, built of 
 wood, on a stone basement, with a verandah on 
 all four sides, and closely jalousied. There 
 were very few signs of cultivation about it ;
 
 122 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 only here and there a huge plantain or banana 
 flapped lazily its vast spreading leaves, or a 
 tall, stately cabbage-palm lifted its straight and 
 tapering stem, crowned with its waving plume, 
 drooping leaves, and singular spike, amidst a 
 dense mass of weeds of strange forms and 
 luxuriant growth. 
 
 The Frenchman knocked with a peculiar rap 
 at the door, which was shut and barred ; it was 
 slowly and cautiously opened, and a voice, in 
 French, demanded who was there. 
 
 ''Vive la Republique ! Liberie ! Egalite !" 
 said the Frenchman, with his usual volu- 
 bility. 
 
 " Is that you. Citizen Le Blanc ? Come in," 
 said a savage-looking, tall Mulatto, whose grim, 
 flat face appeared at the door, hke Satan peep- 
 ing from behind a tree. 
 
 " Who have you here, Lemantin ?" 
 
 " Jean Marinier, Pere le Bar, Petun, two or 
 three niggers, and myself. We expect the 
 Chief directly, and several others."
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 123 
 
 " What news ?" 
 
 " Good enough. The paper takes well : we 
 shall have plenty more here directly. But who 
 is that with you ?" 
 
 " A new member; one who will be most 
 useful to us." 
 
 " Has he taken the oath ?" 
 
 " Not as yet ; it will be necessary to deal 
 cautiously with him at first." 
 
 " Well, come in." 
 
 The room was quite dark, for the jalousies 
 were all drawn dowTi and closed ; and it was 
 some time before the Master, coming as he did 
 out of the glare of the day, could distinguish 
 any objects. It is, perhaps, doubtful whether 
 Jack Diver would have crossed the threshold at 
 all, could he have distinctly seen the present 
 inmates of this house, for, in truth, some of 
 them were sufficiently repulsive ; but it was now 
 too late to draw back ; for as soon as he and 
 the Frenchman had entered, the door was imme-
 
 124 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 diately pulled to, barred, and fastened by the 
 Mulatto, who acted as door-keeper. 
 
 The conclave now assembled consisted of 
 four or five of the French settlers of the island, 
 half a dozen negroes, the Mulatto, Le Blanc, 
 and the Master of the transport. Several of 
 the negroes, nearly naked, were sprawling about, 
 in a state of intoxication ; whilst a horrid smell 
 of rum and effluvium from their bodies per- 
 vaded the atmosphere. Those that were not 
 drunk, were sucking pieces of sugar-cane, and 
 jabbering together in broken French. The con- 
 versation amongst the rest was kept up in a 
 desultory manner, the regular debate not hav- 
 ing yet commenced ; for they were waiting for 
 the arrival of several other members of this 
 strange convention. 
 
 The Frenchman and the Master seated them- 
 selves side by side on a box, that served for 
 a sofa. 
 
 " It is true," said the one named Le Bar, in
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 125 
 
 French, " that these cursed islanders have not 
 more than a hundred regular troops, and that 
 they are commanded by a mere boy. I saw 
 them on parade, at Morne Bruce, myself, this 
 morning." 
 
 " In a few days, is the festival of Les Roses 
 and Les Marguerites; the niggers will be all 
 together. What an opportunity that would be 
 for a grand coup r said another. 
 
 " You are decidedly wrong there, my friend," 
 said Le Blanc, " for they would be pre- 
 pared. Believe me, surprise is ever}^thing, just 
 now." 
 
 % "Ah !" said the Mulatto licking his lips, "I 
 have my eyes on such a house — such a dear 
 little black-eyed girl in it ; sacristies what an 
 armful she would make." 
 
 " But you said. Citizen Le Bar," continued 
 Le Blanc, "that the man who commanded 
 the regulars was quite young — what was he 
 hke?" 
 
 " A handsome boy enough, fair-haired and
 
 126 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 blue-eyed, just such a face as your creole girls 
 rave about ; but, for my part, I should like to 
 see it grinning in the saw-dust ; Mamselle 
 Guillotine would kiss it nicely." 
 
 Le Blanc nudged the master with his elbow. 
 " Do you understand, Captain, what Citizen Le 
 Bar is saying ?" 
 
 ** No ; I don't understand your cursed 
 jabber." 
 
 " He was describing your young friend, the 
 aristocrat ; it seems he commands the regulars 
 at Morne Bruce — what an opportunity for re- 
 venge !" 
 
 " I don't see that at all ; when a man is 
 backed by his red coats, he is difficult to get 
 at ; besides, I tell you once for all, that I won't 
 lift a hand against my own countrymen, if that's 
 what you want." 
 
 ''No, we don't want you to do that; but 
 you can be the means of his disgrace, and 
 disgrace to an aristocrat like him is worse than 
 death."
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 127 
 
 " I see, you want to make a cat's-paw of me ; 
 why don't you do it yourself?" 
 
 " Because he would suspect me, and I can't 
 get the opportunit}^ ; but from one sailing 
 under the same flag, he would suspect no- 
 thing." 
 
 " How is it to be done ?" 
 
 " Simply by giving him false information, 
 which you can easily contrive to do ?" 
 
 " But that might endanger the safety of the 
 island ; and though I hate all aristocrats, and 
 would see all rhen equal, I tell you again, 
 I will do nothing against my own countr}- 
 men." 
 
 " As you please. Captain ; but don't you see 
 that you have already put your foot into a trap ; 
 if you really meant nothing, why come on 
 shore ^^'ith me — this company, I assure you is 
 dangerous. I have only to point at you, and 
 say ' Aristocrat,' and you would see how their 
 bristles would rise."
 
 128 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 " Devil as you are, you surely would not do 
 that r 
 
 " Why not ?" replied Le Blanc, quite coolly ; 
 " if I were to let you go quietly now — if indeed 
 I could do it at aU — what is to prevent you from 
 informing against us ? Help me to revenge, and 
 I win help you." 
 
 " But tell me why you want to destroy this 
 youngster. Is it simply because he is an Eng- 
 lishman and an aristocrat ?" 
 
 " No, my dear Captain, no — those are only 
 secondary causes," replied Le Blanc, after a 
 moment's thinking. " No, but because I hate 
 him as you do." 
 
 " How can that be ?" inquired the master, 
 with surprise. 
 
 " Because he has already robbed me of my 
 mistress ; the fairest girl in all Dominica ; 
 curses on him — perhaps he has done the like 
 to you. Captain." 
 
 This was said at random.
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 129 
 
 A deep burning flush passed over the Master's 
 countenance, and a half supprest groan burst 
 from his lips, but he did not reply. 
 
 " Shall these fair-haired aristocrats rob us of 
 our mistresses. Captain, as they do of our 
 rights ?" 
 
 " No ; by all the powers in hell, I am yours," 
 said Jack Diver, holding out his fevered hand 
 to the stranger, who grasped it with apparent 
 cordiality, 
 
 " Will you take the oath then, Captain ? it 
 may rather surprise you." 
 
 " Am-thing — everything ; give me but re- 
 venge." 
 
 " You shall have it ; you and I together." 
 
 Three or four more settlers, and several 
 coloured men, negroes, mulattoes, and qua- 
 droons had by this time dropped in, 
 
 " Where is the Chief?" inquired Le Blanc of 
 one of them. 
 
 " He wiU be here directly ; he is only w^ait- 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 ing to make a proper entree,'' replied one of 
 the new comers, with a sneer. 
 
 There came another knock at the door. The 
 Mulatto opened it, and a singular figure pre- 
 sented itself, and stalked with measured strides 
 into the centre of the room. This man, whose 
 skin was of a dark olive colour, with piercing 
 deep-sunken black eyes, and straight jetty hair, 
 was nearly naked, except that around his waist, 
 and reaching to the middle of his thighs, there 
 hung a kind of tunic covered with the orange- 
 coloured feathers of the bird called the cock of 
 the woods, and the bright scarlet ones from the 
 curry-curry. On his head was a small hat, or 
 rather coronet, composed of the brilliant plu- 
 mage of the humming-birds, the macaw, the 
 parroquet, and the toucan ; rings of gold were 
 passed through his ears, and the cartilage of his 
 nose; a large flat crescent of polished copper, 
 encased in some dark hard wood, attached to a 
 string, on which were threaded seeds of a bright
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 131 
 
 red colour, mixed with pieces of coral, depended 
 from his neck to the middle of his chest ; 
 copper bracelets encircled his arms ; and just 
 above the knee were bands covered with the 
 same red seeds as those round his neck; in 
 other respects he was completely naked. 
 
 He waved his hand gracefully as a salute to 
 all present, and sat down on a seat without 
 speaking a word. 
 
 " Who is this man ?" said Jack Diver, in a 
 whisper to Le Blanc. " I think I have seen 
 him before." 
 
 *' I should think not; Captain Baron is 
 not often seen, I assure you," replied Le Blanc ; 
 " it is only on such such rare occasions as these 
 that he shows himself." 
 
 " Still, I can't help thinking so." 
 
 " Hush !" interrupted Le Blanc, " the pro- 
 ceedings of the meeting are about to com- 
 mence." 
 
 The tall Mulatto, whose name was Lemantin, 
 acted as master of the ceremonies. 
 
 K 2
 
 132 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 By his arrangement the tables were cleared 
 away from the centre of the room, and the 
 conclave formed into a ring round it : all those 
 who were not absolutely drunk, standing up. 
 One of those magnificent white lilies, with a 
 bright golden centre, indigenous to the island, 
 was produced and laid on the floor in the 
 middle of the ring. The Mulatto then brought 
 forward a stool, covered with a silken flag of 
 three colours — blue, white, and red — and placed 
 a square, polished mahogany bow on it, with 
 great respect. 
 
 "All is now ready," said Lemantin; "let 
 those who have not taken the oath stand for- 
 ward." 
 
 Le Blanc interpreted his words to the Master, 
 and added, " Will you flinch now ? Remember 
 — revenge !" 
 
 "^ No ! I will take the oath, were it to send 
 me to hell this moment," replied the Master, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " Stand forward boldly then, and do as I
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 133 
 
 do, and say what I say. I will interpret for 
 you." 
 
 The Master walked into the middle of the 
 ring. 
 
 *' Citizen Diver is ready, " said Le Blanc ; 
 " he does not understand French, but I \\ill 
 explain everything to him." 
 
 " It is well," said all the conclave in reply ; 
 '* Citizen Le Blanc is to be trusted — proceed."^ 
 
 " You see that lily on the floor, citizen," 
 said the Mulatto, placing his hand on Jack 
 Diver's shoulder, " spit upon it." 
 
 Le Blanc interpreted his words. The Master 
 obeyed, although it must be owned with a bad 
 grace. 
 
 " Trample it under your feet." 
 
 Jack Diver did so with a better will, although 
 he was sorely puzzled to know what all this 
 could mean. 
 
 The Mulatto then approached the stool, 
 bringing the Master close to it, and touching a 
 spring, the lid of the box flew open.
 
 134 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 Jack Diver started back in astonishment and 
 dismay, for it disclosed to his sight the perfect 
 model of a guillotine with the knife upraised ; 
 the figure of a man, bare-headed, and formed in 
 wax, lay underneath it, with the head resting 
 on the block. The Mulatto touched another 
 spring, and the knife fell. The head of the 
 figure rolled into the saw-dust, which was im- 
 mediately sprinkled with a red fluid like blood, 
 which spurted from the trunk. 
 
 "What does all this mean?" asked the 
 Master, in a shuddering whisper. 
 
 " Hush ! you will know directly. Look." 
 
 The figure of a winged female, holding in 
 one hand a peculiar cap, had arisen fi-om the 
 box> and seemed to hover over the guillotine.
 
 ARTHUR COxNWAY. 135 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " Lay your hand on the box, citizen," said 
 the Mulatto in a loud voice, *' and repeat the 
 oath after me." 
 
 The Master placed his right hand on the box 
 as directed. 
 
 The Mulatto then proceeded : " I swear, by 
 the guillotine which levels aU ranks, that I will 
 be faithful to the cause of hberty, which declares 
 that all men are and should be equal. That, 
 as the only mode of accomplishing that sacred 
 end, is by annihilating and utterly destroying
 
 136 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 all tyrants and aristocrats of every race and 
 denomination, I will neither spare age nor 
 sex, I will wade even through seas of blood, 
 until the cause of liberty and equality is tri- 
 umphant. That, as I have spat upon the lily 
 and crushed it under foot, so will I trample 
 upon the whole accursed race of kings, nobles, 
 and aristocrats; in like manner, as the glo- 
 rious people have done to the base, dishonoured 
 '•ace of Bourbons, of which this hly is the 
 emblem. That I will cheerfully obey all orders 
 issued by the Chief Commissary of the Conven- 
 tion. That I will be secret, and never betray 
 the fact or purpose of this meeting, or of any 
 other to which I may be summoned, under no 
 less a penalty than death and infamy. All this 
 I swear by the figure of Liberty, and by the 
 guillotine, from whence alone she issues." 
 
 Le Blanc translated the oath word for word 
 as the Mulatto gave it, keeping his eye fixed on 
 the Master's wavering countenance. 
 
 If the truth must be told, Jack Diver, un-
 
 ARTHUR CON^VAY. 137 
 
 principled and scoundrel as he was, by no 
 means either understood thoroughly or rehshed 
 this oath. It was far too un-English and blood- 
 thirsty for his nature ; and could he have re- 
 tracted with safety, he would have readily done 
 so ; but it was now too late. His irresolution, 
 however, did not escape the Mulatto's keen 
 eyes ; for, turning towards the Master his 
 malevolent countenance, to which a fierce scowl 
 added a truly diabolical expression, he shouted 
 out in a savage tone, " Swear !" 
 
 " Swear !" whispered, like a low echo, the 
 musical voice of Le Blanc, in the Master's ear. 
 
 " Well, if I must, I must," responded the 
 entrapped Master ; " but, curse me, if I like it 
 at all." 
 
 He placed his hand, however, on the box, 
 and took the oath as required, with a mental 
 reservation to get out of this scrape by going 
 on board again as soon as he could. 
 
 " Cest Men l" said the Mulatto, holding out
 
 138 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 his hand to the Master ; " tu es^, alors mon 
 frere r 
 
 Every individual in the assembly who could 
 stand, followed his example, repeating the same 
 words, with the sole exception of the Chief, 
 who sat quite motionless and still, seemingly 
 abstracted, and regardless of everything that 
 was going on. 
 
 The Mulatto again touched the spring ; the 
 figure of Liberty disappeared ; and after care- 
 fully covering the box with the silk flag, the 
 table was removed, and placed in a corner of 
 the room. 
 
 '' And now to business," said Le Blanc, 
 waving his hand for the rest to be seated, and 
 addressing the assembly : 
 
 " Brother citizens, we are met together here 
 to discuss the means by which this beautiful 
 island is to be rescued from the fangs of the 
 tyrant George and his miscreant red-coats. 
 I, an unworthy citizen of our glorious Republic,
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 139 
 
 am delegated by the Chief Commissary, Victor 
 Hugues, now commanding the forces of the 
 Republic at Guadaloupe, to concert and arrange 
 with you, our worthy brethren, the best means 
 to be adopted to secure that object. He has 
 placed at my disposal a body of victorious troops, 
 amounting to about three hundred men; and 
 he expects that we shall be joined, on landing, 
 by all good republicans, both by those of French 
 extraction and by our coloured brethren, who 
 must all be anxious and ready to be freed from 
 the yoke of these diabolical aristocrats, as well 
 as by the gallant natives, who no doubt are 
 both willing and prepared to emulate, in deeds 
 of arms, their brethren at St. Vincent's, who 
 have already declared for the Republic ; and of 
 this we are assured by the presence of Le 
 Capitaine Baron." 
 
 At this direct appeal, the Chief's eyes twinkled 
 with a strange expression, but not a muscle of 
 his countenance moved, and he said nothing.
 
 140 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 Le Blanc continued : " Now, citizens, to 
 effect this object, it will be necessary for us to 
 be united, heart and hand ; and, above all, that 
 the blow should fall secretly and unexpectedly. 
 The Chief Commissary thinks that it will not 
 be advisable to attack Roseau or Morne Bruce, 
 for they are on their guard there, and our force 
 would be scarcely large enough for a direct 
 attack ; it would also afford you no opportunity 
 of joining us. It is, therefore, proposed that 
 we concentrate our force at Marie Galante, and 
 land at Rocroix, or some other convenient 
 spot on the windward side of the island ; that 
 we take up a position there, and, when joined 
 by all the well-disposed part of the inhabitants, 
 we shall be able to sweep the few red-coats here 
 into the sea. But, to effect this the more 
 securely, it may be as well to contrive that 
 false information, regarding our contemplated 
 attack, should be conveyed to the weak boy 
 who commands the regular troops. Once make
 
 ARTHUR CONTS'AY. 141 
 
 our landing good, then, bah ! the island is our 
 own; and justice, liberty, and equality, for 
 aU." 
 
 This speech, short and concise as it was for 
 a Frenchman to make, was delivered with great 
 fluency, and with much gesticulation; and it 
 seemed to give great satisfaction to the assembly, 
 particularly as Le Blanc was known to be a 
 trusted emissary from Victor Hugues. 
 
 " But it wiQ not be so easy," said Citizen Le 
 Bar, " to convey this false information ; and I 
 cannot see, with the force you can raise, why 
 you do not attack Roseau boldly; they have 
 not above a hundred soldiers in aU: Mome 
 Bruce once carried, the island is ours." 
 
 " I have provided for that," replied Le Blanc, 
 in a half whisper. " What do you suppose I 
 enlisted this sacre John Bull for? For love, 
 do you think ?" 
 
 " No, no," said Le Bar, laughing. " But 
 how, in the devil's name, did you get hold of 
 him? What is he ? He looks like a sailor."
 
 142 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 " Why, strangely enough, through Le Capi- 
 taine Baron. He is a sailor ; but all's fish that 
 comes to my net. I never let an opportunity 
 slip ; and when I have a trump card, I play it, 
 and don't much regard consequences : I never 
 stick at trifles. Citizen Le Bar. But as to 
 attacking Morne Bruce, it is no use running 
 our heads against stone v^alls, and we should 
 only get hard knocks; besides, their cursed 
 cruisers might catch us. By landing on the 
 windward side, if we manage it well, there 
 will be nobody to interrupt us, and you will be 
 able to join quietly. What force can you mus- 
 ter, negroes and aU ? What says Lemantin ?" 
 
 " Citizen Le Blanc," replied the Mulatto, 
 proudly, " of the coloured people, I can answer 
 for more than fifty ; but, you see, those drunken 
 beasts," pointing to the negroes, " they are not 
 to be depended on. However, at the festival 
 of Les Roses and Les Marguerites, I will see 
 what can be done with the drunken hogs." 
 
 " And of French citizens," said Le Bar,
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 143 
 
 " about one hundred and fifty. But there are 
 some of the old families, beasts and traitors 
 that they are, who will not join us — Devrien, 
 for instance." 
 
 " They must die, then," said the one called 
 Petun, in a hoarse voice, like the croak of a 
 raven chiming in ; " they must die, one and aU, 
 root and branch ; their houses burnt, and their 
 women — " 
 
 " Handed over to our tender mercies," in- 
 terrupted the Mulatto, with a grin. " I have my 
 eye already on such a charmer — " 
 
 A deep, thrilling shudder passed over Le 
 Blanc's iron frame at these words, a gleam 
 of light flashed from his eyes, and he bit his 
 lips till the blood came ; but he said not a word 
 in reply to this horrible speech. 
 
 " What's the matter, brother ?" inquired 
 Marinier, who alone had apparently noticed Le 
 Blanc's confusion. 
 
 " Nothing, nothing — I was only thinking 
 how we could communicate with one another
 
 144 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 readily. By the bye, have you arms for all? 
 No ! — well, that must be provided for. Get 
 your men together, and be in readiness, when 
 called upon. The word wiU be, ' Vive la Re- 
 publique !' Victor Hugues, it will not be 
 long before you are wanted. I will now go 
 into Roseau, and see how things are going on 
 there. Adieu, my friends, for the present." 
 
 So saying, Le Blanc, taking the Master by 
 the arm, walked coolly out of the assembly; 
 the Mulatto opening the door for them, a 
 sinister smile playing over his face as he did so. 
 He had perceived Le Blanc's emotion, and he 
 alone knew the cause. As he held the door 
 open, another man glided by him, merely look- 
 ing him in the face as he passed — it was the 
 Carib Chief. 
 
 When Le Blanc had got into the open air, 
 he seemed to gasp for breath, and muttered, as 
 if .speaking to himself: " O, my God ! my 
 God ! it is rarely that I call upon Thee ; but 
 this is terrible ! I, who in my vanity thought
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 145 
 
 that I could foresee everything, never to think of 
 this ! A band of bloodthirsty, ruthless savages ! 
 O, Rosalie ! Rosalie ! And my oath. Oh, it 
 is horrible — horrible !" 
 
 Beads of sweat stood on his brow, and he 
 writhed in agony. 
 
 Jack Diver, whose perception was never of the 
 keenest order, could not, in this instance, fail to 
 notice his companion's extreme distress; but, as 
 the whole discourse had been incomprehensible to 
 him, he could not understand the reason of it. He 
 therefore only stared at his friend, whose whole 
 frame shook with a strong convulsive shiver. 
 At last he broke out : 
 
 " What, comrade, ahoy ! Has Yellow Jack 
 boarded you? What makes you shake this 
 way ?" 
 
 Le Blanc recovered himself quickly, and said, 
 in English : 
 
 ^' The heat of that room, and the filthy smell 
 of those beasts, quite overcame me. I could not 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 stand it any longer, and was obliged to inin 
 away. But Fm all right now." 
 
 " May I never set foot on deck again, but I 
 thought you were in for it." 
 
 " So I am," thought Le Blanc, for a moment. 
 But his mercurial temperament soon got the 
 better of his depression. 
 
 " AU right now, Captain ! I've got horses 
 here, and, now that the sun is getting low, we'll 
 have a pleasant ride into Roseau together ; and 
 I'll take you to a house on the road where you 
 will get a good glass of sangaree, which I should 
 think you would like, after what you have gone 
 through. You did not seem to relish it much. 
 Eh, Captain ?" 
 
 " Oh, Lord ! I'm parched already !" replied 
 Jack Diver. *'That oath was enough to dry 
 one's liver up for many a long day. After all, I 
 don't like blood !" 
 
 " Blood I" muttered Le Blanc, with a shudder. 
 " Worse than blood. Sit down in the shade,
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY 14? 
 
 Captain, and I'll bring the horses out in a 
 minute." 
 
 The stables, or rather what was left of them — 
 for everything was in a dilapidated condition, 
 were situated a few hundred yards from the 
 house in which the assembly had met. When 
 Le Blanc entered them, he found the Carib 
 Chief there before him, with the horses ready 
 saddled. He had changed his feathery head- 
 dress for the slouching straw-hat, and had 
 donned his white frock and trowsers. 
 
 " Ha ! I am glad you are here, Le Baron," said 
 Le Blanc. " I wanted to speak to you for a 
 moment. Now you have got this man on shore, 
 what do you mean to do ^Yiih him? I am 
 puzzled, which is not often the case." 
 
 " I am going to kill him," replied the Chief, 
 in his own soft, musical language. 
 
 " But that will utterly derange my plans. I 
 cannot do without him at present." 
 
 " Le Baron will wait until his friend says the 
 
 L 2
 
 148 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 time has come — but he will watch him as the 
 lizard watches the fly upon the wall." 
 
 " I should not think he would require much 
 watching, Baron. How readily the fool jumped 
 at the bait. But you have never told me your 
 reasons for seeking this man's life." 
 
 " Would he not have lashed the Carib Chief 
 like a common negro, had it not been for 
 him r 
 
 " Whom do you mean ?" inquired the French- 
 man, eagerly. 
 
 But the Carib was silent, and Le Blanc knew 
 it was no use questioning him further on that 
 point, though he continued his interrogatories. 
 
 " And who told you that this coarse John 
 Bull, this vulgar, thick-headed feUow, hated the 
 fair-haired youngster at Morne Bruce? You 
 were right, however, and I thank you for the 
 hint." 
 
 " Friend," said the Carib, placing his hand 
 on the Frenchman's shoulder, " a Carib chief
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 149 
 
 has his eyes and ears open, and his mouth 
 shut, and he thinks. You all talk too much." 
 
 *' Well, it may be so, Baron, but it is our 
 nature — a Frenchman must and will talk. I 
 shall see you again soon, Carib ?" 
 
 " Yes," briefly responded the Baron. 
 
 The Frenchman held out his hand to the 
 Chief, who took it, and then glided out of the 
 stable; but as he passed he whispered in Le 
 Blanc's ear, so low as not to be overheard: 
 " Beware of the Mulatto, Lemantin !" 
 
 " Whom does he mean ?" asked Le Blanc of 
 himself, as he led the horses out ; " and why 
 should I beware of the Mulatto ? I wish I had 
 questioned him further ; but, peste ! it would 
 have been of no use, these Indians are as close 
 as a Parisian head of the police, ay, even as 
 Merlin of Douay himself; but now for this 
 beast of a sailor." 
 
 Le Blanc jumped actively on his horse, a good 
 stout, useful beast, brought from the Spanish 
 main, and led the other to Jack Diver, who
 
 150 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 climbed, or rather scrambled, into his saddle, 
 after the fashion of those unaccustomed to 
 riding. His hack, however, was a quiet, easy- 
 paced animal, and they jogged on comfortably 
 enough together. 
 
 The two did not speak much on the way, 
 for the track was so narrow that they could not 
 ride abreast, and it is doubtful whether either of 
 them noticed the loveliness of the scenery that 
 opened to their view on all sides. Not that the 
 Frenchman could not duly appreciate it, but his 
 mind was pre-occupied. He was horrified at 
 the part he was playing, and already bitterly 
 repented his folly. 
 
 We will therefore at once conduct them to 
 the lawn in front of " La Belle Etoile," for so 
 was called the house and estate belonging to 
 Auguste de la Motte Devrien, one of the oldest 
 French settlers on the island. 
 
 There was a comfortable, snug look about 
 this house, that spoke of wealth and prosperity, 
 combined with much neatness and good ma-
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 151 
 
 nagement, qualifications not always met with in 
 the West Indian islands. It was a quadrangular 
 building, low, but covering a great extent of 
 ground. There was no pretension about it, 
 being, as usual, of wood, on a stone basement, 
 hingled outside, roof and all; the whole painted 
 green, except the roof, which was white. 
 
 About half the house only was visible from 
 the front, the back part being screened from 
 the sight by a high thick fence of " Barbadoes 
 Pride," with its striped orange blossoms, 
 flanked on each side by a clump of immense 
 silk, cotton, and mangrove trees. 
 
 The front, which faced the sea, was protected 
 by a large and deep verandah, the floor of 
 which was of porous brick, kept constantly 
 damp. Along the trellis-work, of fine iron 
 wire, and fantastic pattern, crept a variety of 
 beautiful climbing plants, brought from the 
 continent of South America, and e\idently 
 trained with much care. The whole of this
 
 152 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 part of the house was closely jalousied, so as 
 to keep every ray of the declining sun from 
 penetrating into the apartments. 
 
 Coming up to the stone steps of the verandah, 
 was a lawn of short, crisp grass, in which the 
 close observer would find multitudes of that 
 strange production of nature, the sensitive plant. 
 This lawn sloped downwards for some distance, 
 with a gradual descent towards the sun-lit sea, 
 but at length ended precipitously, so that the 
 waves appeared to roll close underneath it. 
 Dotted here and there, and casting long shadows 
 on the smooth grass, stood a fragrant lime, or 
 umbrageous orange-tree, and occasionally a tall, 
 tapering cabbage-palm, beplumed and spiked, 
 would rear itself against the deep blue sky, 
 standing out in bold relief. 
 
 The lawn sloped also, but less gradually 
 towards the south, ending at last abruptly, in a 
 broken, rocky dechvity, at the bottom of which 
 foamed, and sparkled, and tossed one of those
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 153 
 
 beautiful translucid, emerald-green streams, 
 which impart such a peculiar beauty to the 
 scenery of this island : prismatic colours danced 
 and quivered along the whole bed of this lovely 
 rivulet, and at every little faU the sun-rays, 
 meeting the spray against the dark outline of 
 the rocks, formed a miniature rainbow. In the 
 deep little pools, you might see the silvery 
 mountain muUet, glancing through the clear 
 water, as they rose at the numberless flies that 
 sported near the surface. The clack of a water- 
 wheel, mingled with the murmuring of the 
 dashing waters, could be indistinctly heard by 
 the inmates of this pleasant house on a calm, 
 still day, though the intervening high ground 
 prevented the noise from being troublesome. 
 
 Along the opposite hill — which rose gradually 
 at first, but towered at length to a vast height, 
 headed by fantastic rocks, from the interstices 
 of which sprang, in endless variety, strange, un- 
 couth, yet picturesque shrubs and plants — were
 
 154 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 fields of Indian corn, maize, and sweet potatoes, 
 with a few patches of sugar-canes, now only in 
 their first green youth ; and flanking these, on 
 either side, were coffee plantations, rendered not 
 unpicturesque by the coffee plant's protector, or 
 brother, as it is sometimes called, which shields 
 it from the rough blasts that sweep down the 
 mountain gullies. 
 
 Behind the house were numerous offices and 
 cattle-sheds, and a small windmill stood near 
 the well. In rear again of these, was a savan- 
 nah of guinea grass, extending backwards for 
 nearly a mile ; and then rose the mountains, 
 range above range, until the tops were lost in 
 the whirling clouds collected there by the fresh 
 spring trade-wind. Beautiful butterflies, em- 
 perors, sphinges, and moths, hovered about the 
 hedge and the orange-trees ; and every now and 
 then a little glancing meteor of green and gold, 
 with a flame-coloured breast, would dart from 
 one to the other with the rapidity of lightning.
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 155 
 
 hovering for a moment at some chosen flower, 
 with a rustling, humming sound, then away 
 again so swiftly that the eye could scarcely 
 follow it in its rapid flight. Yet in all this 
 lovely scene one thing was wanting. No 
 song-birds thrilled the air with their sweet 
 melody. A hzard or two scuttled off the posts 
 of the verandah — where they had, no doubt, been 
 watching, with their beautiful round eyes, some 
 unsuspecting fly — as the riders approached the 
 house, their horses' hoofs scarce betraying their 
 presence on the soft elastic grass, except to the 
 keen senses of the lizards. 
 
 " Hillo — Pompey, Caesar, anybody at home 
 there ?" shouted the Frenchman, jumping off his 
 horse, and fastening him by the bridle to a ring 
 and hook set in a post, e\'idently for the pur- 
 pose. 
 
 " Here we are, Captain ; come in ; no cere- 
 mony here, they are aU old friends of mine." 
 
 Jack Diver dismounted rather more leisurely, 
 feeling a little stiff after his long ride.
 
 156 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 Half a dozen negroes had by this time 
 rushed out and seized the horse, all grinning 
 and jabbering together in French. 
 
 " Anybody at home, Pierre ?" inquired Le 
 Blanc, in English, of a grey-headed old negro 
 who seemed to be the chief amongst them. 
 
 " Ees, Massa Frank — Massa in de house and 
 Missee, too," said the voluble Pierre, laying a 
 strong stress on the last word. *' Young Eng- 
 lish buckra officer dere too, but he gone now. 
 He speakee de French as well as you, Massa 
 Frank. Ole Pierre hear his own Massa say 
 him ab French blood in de wain — bery ansome, 
 too." 
 
 " 'Tis the very man," whispered Jack Diver 
 to his companion. "He is half foreigner, and 
 has got some cursed long French name tacked 
 to his own." 
 
 " Never mind now. Captain ; come in," re- 
 plied the Frenchman, though he evidently did 
 not relish this piece of news. 
 
 Le Blanc pushed open the door, which was
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 157 
 
 not fastened, without farther ceremony (knockers 
 and bells not being in use in that country), and 
 walked into the house. 
 
 It appeared very dark, coming as they did 
 out of the glaring day, but the rustling of a 
 female dress, e\idently quitting the room hur- 
 riedly, was distinctly audible. When Jack 
 Diver could look round him he found himself 
 in a large well-proportioned apartment, with 
 very little furniture in it : the floor, however, 
 was of highly-pohshed mahogany, and the walls 
 were panelled with the same. A few old- 
 fashioned though richly-carved chairs, a rose- 
 wood table, and a buffet of the same material 
 with brass feet, comprised the whole of the 
 furniture ; but on the buffet were ranged 
 several beautifully-cut glass jugs, filled with 
 dark and amber-coloured fluids, and behind 
 them appeared richly-chased goblets of gold and 
 silver, upon antique shields of the same metals, 
 which served as travs.
 
 158 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 Close to the jalousies was slung a fine grass 
 hammock, in which lay an old man wrapped in 
 a handsome silk dressing-gown, with a cap of 
 the same material on his head. His face was 
 thin and of a yellowish tinge, but his features 
 were good and regular. An arm-chair stood 
 close by on which was laid an open book, and 
 some delicate female work was hanging over 
 one of the arms. The careless way in which it 
 was thrown there, showed that the occupant of 
 this chair had been suddenly scared away. 
 
 The old man awoke as they entered, and 
 cried out peevishly : 
 
 " Rosalie, Rosalie, why do you awake me ?" 
 but perceiving the new comers, he rolled him- 
 self out of his hammock very actively for 
 an old man — kissed Le Blanc between the 
 eyes, and shook hands with Jack Diver, as he 
 said : 
 
 " Aha, mon cher Francois, c'est bien toi 
 mon fils, I am so glad to see you and your
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 159 
 
 friend too. What will you take? Rosalie, 
 Rosalie." 
 
 The old man called for Rosalie, but we can- 
 not think of introducing her at the end of a 
 chapter.
 
 160 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Perhaps Rosalie Devrien, had she always 
 lived in a more temperate climate, would have 
 been even more beautiful than she was. The 
 intensely hot and enervating atmosphere of 
 Dominica (certainly one of the warmest of the 
 Caribbean Islands, particularly on the leeward 
 side, where scarcely a breath of air stirs the 
 leaves, except in the draught of the gullies 
 which run down from the mountains) had 
 stolen some of the richness of her beauty, but 
 had left instead a soft lano-uor on her counte-
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 161 
 
 nance and in her movements which was per- 
 fectly irresistible. Her hair was black as — 
 what shall I say ? — for a simile must be found 
 — like a tropical thunder-cloud, while stiU the 
 red sun shines brightly, was the colour of Ro- 
 salie's luxuriant locks. Her long back hair, 
 which, when loose, almost swept the ground, 
 was ingeniously plaited, and interwoven with 
 strings of small seed pearls, and roUed up on 
 the crown of her head. It was kept in its 
 place by a high golden comb, every tooth of 
 which was headed by some costly jewel : over 
 this was loosely thrown a small mantilla of 
 white lace. Her front hair was quite plain, 
 except that two Httle flat-pointed curls rested 
 on her snowy forehead, and behind each ear 
 hung a corresponding tiny ringlet. Her com- 
 plexion w^as pale, too pale, perhaps, for our 
 notion of female loveliness ; the intense heat 
 of the tropics had withdrawn from her cheeks 
 the blushing beauty of the rose, but left there 
 the simple purity of the lily. You could not 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 tell exactly the colour of her large melting eyes 
 — somtimes black, sometimes deep violet-blue, 
 as the light varied. Was it the shadow of the 
 long, fringed eyelashes, or the influence of the 
 enervating climate, that gave to those eyes 
 that soft, voluptuous expression? — her heart 
 was all purity, still they were voluptuous. Her 
 face was small, perfectly oval, and every feature 
 as regular as if sculptured by Grecian art. 
 
 If you could find any fault in this lovely 
 countenance, it might be in the want of colour 
 in her cheeks and lips, or perhaps you might 
 say that her arched eyebrows were too strongly 
 marked ; stiU this very fault might be said, from 
 its contrast, to heighten the pure beauty of her 
 alabaster skin. 
 
 Her figure corresponded with her face. She 
 was in stature perhaps a little below that which 
 we consider perfect in a woman ; but her limbs 
 were exquisitely and delicately proportioned, 
 and her bust perfection : indeed, if the truth 
 must be confessed, you could not be long in
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 163 
 
 her presence without perceiving it; for her 
 dress was scanty, and she wore none of those 
 hateful encumbrances called stays. Her arms 
 were bare, except that round them were twisted 
 bracelets and armlets of alternate gold and 
 coral-beads. Her dress was of black silk, 
 made in the Spanish fashion, fitting tight to 
 the body, without any ornaments whatever : 
 it was cut low at the bosom, and short in 
 the skirts ; but as her feet and ankles, the first 
 clothed in velvet, the second in the finest silk, 
 were unexceptionable, I have no doubt that 
 the young Frenchman thought this a consider- 
 able improvement on the dresses he had been 
 most accustomed to ; and indeed she had a right 
 to this dress, for her mother was of noble 
 Spanish extraction. A more highly bred and 
 graceful creature than this lovely girl never 
 entered a room. 
 
 Rosalie was not one of those indolent, half- 
 educated, though lovely Creoles, who make 
 such pretty playthings for the hour, but whose 
 
 u 2
 
 164 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 utter want of intellectual acquirements so soon 
 dispels the illusion of their charms. She had 
 been educated in a convent, amongst other chil- 
 dren of noble birth, until the dispersion of its 
 inmates by the decree of a despotic Republic. 
 She was then removed to London, where she 
 learnt not only those accomplishments for which 
 Englishwomen are celebrated, but also imbibed 
 a taste for literature. There also she received 
 several offers from men well worthy of her, 
 which she declined, nobody knew why. 
 
 During the fierce war that raged between 
 kingly England and republican France at this 
 period, her father sustained some severe losses 
 from the capture, by the republican privateers, 
 of the ships in which his produce was embarked, 
 and he was reluctantly obliged to recal Rosalie 
 from England; reluctantly, because, having no 
 thought but for her happiness, he feared that 
 the climate and want of society in the little 
 Island of Dominica, would affect her health and 
 ^"^rits. I Li this, however, he was mistaken —
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 165 
 
 Rosalie retained both. She quitted London 
 without regret, for she loved her father dearly ; 
 and there was another reason, which my readers 
 may guess, why she had no objection to the 
 West Indies. She arrived safely at Dominica, 
 and was immediately installed mistress of La 
 BeUe Etoile. Her father, though naturally 
 active, and a good man of business, had been 
 rendered indolent by the climate ; and he was 
 delighted to find, in his handsome and accom- 
 plished daughter, an able assistant and a capital 
 manager. It was owing to Rosalie that the 
 neatness, and even elegance, of everything about 
 the house and estate surpassed all the others in 
 the island. 
 
 The slaves, moreover, almost adored her ; 
 they regarded her as a superior being. Many 
 of them would try to kiss the hem of her gar- 
 ment, as they blessed the hour in which she had 
 come among them. Old Pierre absolutely wor- 
 shipped her. 
 
 When she entered the room, the old man
 
 166 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 bade her languidly to do the honours of the 
 house, and retired again to his hammock, 
 saying : 
 
 " I have pressed your cousin and his friend 
 to stay to-night, but they seem unwilling ; try 
 what you can do, Rosalie." 
 
 The two cousins embraced affectionately ; and 
 Rosalie, with a graceful but somewhat haughty 
 inclination, returned Jack Diver's awkward salu- 
 tation. The Master, as he himself would have 
 said, was rather taken aback at the appearance 
 of this lovely creature; and the half bashful, 
 half impudent, manner of his address, caused a 
 smile to wreathe itself round Rosahe's lips. 
 After some conventional conversation, Rosalie 
 said to her cousin : 
 
 " Francois, it is a long time since you visited 
 La Belle Etoile, would you like to see the im- 
 provements I have made ? And perhaps your 
 friend might wish to walk round the estate ?" 
 
 Le Blanc thanked her with an expressive 
 look, but Jack Diver declined, saying that he was
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 167 
 
 tired, and would like to rest himself : in fact, he 
 was so stiff that he could hardly walk. A ham- 
 mock was soon slung for him, to which he re- 
 tired, with a cigar and a glass of sangaree, and 
 the cousins went out together. What they said 
 at first, as they looked into each other's eyes, 
 beneath the shade of the old cotton trees, was 
 no doubt thriUingly interesting to themselves, 
 but it would not be to our readers. After some 
 time, Rosalie said : 
 
 *' And what mad freak, may I ask, are you 
 now upon, my volatile cousin, that you have 
 assumed this disguise? Why I declare you 
 have quite a piratical look. Stay — what is 
 this, blue, white, and red ? Francois, my dear 
 cousin, surely you have not turned Republican ?" 
 
 " Why not, sweet Rosalie ?" 
 
 " O, Francois ! had my father seen this. 
 Thank Heaven, the room was dark. The veiy 
 mention of the tricolor puts him in a fur}^ ; 
 what would it be then if he saw you wear it ?" 
 
 " But, Rosalie, I have indeed adopted it,"
 
 168 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 said Francois, earnestly ; *' the drapeau blanc 
 and the lily are no longer the colours under 
 which the man of France can raise his head. 
 The lily is faded, and the drapeau blanc was 
 soiled ; it was necessary to find new emblems 
 for La belle France." 
 
 Rosalie Devrien gazed on her lover fixedly, 
 and she soon perceived that, although the latter 
 part of his speech was spoken in a laughing 
 manner, he was really in earnest. She had 
 loved her cousin long and deeply, and she was 
 greatly shocked to learn from his own lips the 
 truth of the rumours she had already heard con- 
 cerning the line of polities adopted by him. 
 Hosalie was, moreover, rather surprised at the 
 readiness with which he confessed his adhesion 
 to the cause of liberty. Proud and coquetish 
 as she was by nature, to him she had ever been 
 soft, gentle, and affectionate. Her father, a 
 staunch adherent of the unfortunate Bourbons, 
 had imbued her mind with a vague hatred 
 towards everything connected with the Re-
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 169 
 
 public. This, then, was the first time that her 
 love had been brought in contact with her hate. 
 A struggle was obvious : love at first prevailed ; 
 and she said, in a soft tone of voice, gently 
 pressing her lover's hand : 
 
 " Discard this dress, and come and live with 
 us, dear Francois." 
 
 " I cannot, Rosalie : I have taken a fearful 
 oath," said Le Blanc, sadly. 
 
 " I understand you," replied the maiden, 
 drawing herself up proudly, " you have two 
 mistresses — your boasted Liberty and your 
 cousin Rosalie : choose between them. I brook 
 no rival." 
 
 " Nay, but, my sweet cousin, I am bound by 
 honour." 
 
 " Honour ! " exclaimed Rosalie, contemptu- 
 ously ; " honour amongst regicides — amongst 
 ruffians ! whose delight is in shedding innocent 
 blood — who overthrow without re-building ! 
 Honour, Francois ! That word belongs not to 
 such as they."
 
 170 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 " But, Rosalie, hear me. You, who love the 
 truth, would not, siu-ely, have me break a solemn 
 oath ?" 
 
 "And does not our holy religion say that 
 such oaths are not binding ? My confessor shall 
 absolve you from it, and we can again be 
 friends." 
 
 " Friends, Rosalie ! Already so cold a word !" 
 
 " Have we not always been friends ?" said 
 the maiden, blushing deeply. *' Can 1 say 
 more ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I would have you say that you still 
 love me, RosaHe. Do I not love thee passion- 
 ately — devotedly ?" 
 
 " No !" exclaimed the maiden, proudly, her 
 soft eyes suddenly lighting with a bright and 
 even fierce flash. " No ! once you said that you 
 did, and I believed you — weak fool that I was 
 — but you have forgotten that the blood 
 of the haughty Spaniard still i-uns in my 
 veins. I will have no rival — I can bear no 
 divided affection. The man whom I would
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 171 
 
 love must be mine, and mine only — choose your 
 path — it lies before you." 
 
 *' What would you have me do, dear Rosalie ?" 
 
 " O, Francois !" rephed the maiden, tenderly 
 bending her dark, voluptuous eyes on his ; 
 " come and live with us — renounce the men of 
 blood you have associated with, and I will love 
 you so fondly and so devotedly, that you will 
 soon forget the dangerous ties you have formed. 
 Come to us — my father loves you, and will 
 make you his heir ; and you and I, in happy 
 union, will cherish his declining years, and, in 
 this peaceful spot, live cheerfidly and die con- 
 tentedly. Come, Francois !" 
 
 " O, Rosalie ! why do you tempt me so ? — it 
 is cruel ! You do not know — you cannot feel 
 what it is to shake off the trammels of slavery ; 
 to rise from degradation ; from being king and 
 priest-ridden, to become free — gloriously free !" 
 
 *' Yes ; the freedom of savages, who delight 
 in blood !" said the maiden, contemptuously. 
 
 *' Say not so, Rosalie. The blood that has
 
 172 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 been shed has been but for an oblation to 
 reason and liberty. Alas ! why do I say this ? 
 — you will not understand me 1" 
 
 " It is true. You have set up your images, 
 and you worship them, and immolate thou- 
 sands of innocent victims on their altars." 
 
 " Nay, but, Rosalie, is not liberty alone worthy 
 of all our homage ?" 
 
 " Alas, Francois ! what you say convinces me 
 more and more that there is a great gulf fixed 
 between us ; for I am assured that you who 
 follow, as you say, the cause of liberty, forsake 
 our holy religion. Oh ! for the sake of her 
 who once taught you those sacred truths, deny 
 this, Fran9ois. Dear Francois, say, at least, you 
 are not one of these.*' 
 
 The young Republican dropped the hand that 
 until now he had held in his, and, with his eyes 
 cast down on the ground, while a tear trickled 
 from them, he said, in a low, mournful tone : 
 
 " T cannot, Rosalie." 
 
 " Then neither God nor man would sanction
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 173 
 
 such an unholy union !" exclaimed the maiden, 
 solemnly. 
 
 It was a strange sight to see the bold, 
 daring, reckless young adventurer subdued, 
 bowed down, in tears, dejected, humbled by the 
 words of the beautiful girl. Bitterly did he 
 lament the eager haste with which he had 
 entered into the schemes of his superior, Victor 
 Hugues ; bitterly did he regret the enterprise he 
 had undertaken, for his heart was no longer in 
 it : it was with Rosalie. Conflicting ideas 
 passed rapidly in strange confusion through his 
 bewildered mind ; his fearful oath : the Mu- 
 latto's threat ; the Carib's warning ; Rosalie's 
 last words — all rang strangely together in his 
 ears. " Neither God nor man would sanction 
 their union" — such were the words, spoken 
 solemnly. It seemed as if a decree had gone 
 forth. He knew that Rosalie would not lightly 
 alter her determination, and he loved her. Nor 
 were the maiden's ideas less confused. What 
 she had said were not words spoken without
 
 174 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 thought on the spur of the moment. True, 
 this meeting had come upon her suddenly and 
 unexpectedly ; but she had long wished for it, 
 prayed for it, although she dreaded it. She 
 knew that her cousin had lately enlisted himself 
 under the blood-stained flag of the Republic, yet 
 she hoped that her influence, her presence, 
 might recal him from what she felt to be not 
 only a dangerous but unholy path. 
 
 Her pride, and her love for her religion, had 
 carried her through the conversation, but his 
 dejection — his tears — distressed her. Had she 
 a right to reproach him as she had done? 
 And then he had borne her reproaches so hum- 
 bly, so meekly, so different from what she had 
 expected. It proved that his love for her was 
 sincere and deep, and she, too, loved him. But, 
 alas ! no human being is perfect ; with all this 
 good, this religious feeling, Rosalie was a 
 coquette. Even after the sentence she had 
 passed, and even if her cousin had been indif- 
 ferent to her, she would not have suffered him
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 175 
 
 to loose himself entirely from her chains. 
 Who can read a pretty woman's heart ? 
 
 And there, beneath the shade of the grim old 
 cotton trees, they stood, silently, neither daring 
 to look up — scarcely to breathe, for over both 
 their hearts stole the dim foreshadowings of the 
 future. 
 
 The maiden was the first to recover herself, 
 and, holding out her jewelled hand to Francois, 
 she said : 
 
 "Though we cannot be more, let us be 
 friends." 
 
 Francois remained with his eyes still bent on 
 the ground. 
 
 " Listen to me, at least, " continued the 
 maiden, pettishly. *' I expect Margaret Gordon 
 here every minute. Had I known that you 
 were coming, I would not have asked her." 
 
 "What is Margaret Gordon to me?" mur- 
 mured the miserable Francois. 
 
 " Do you not remember her father's unhappy
 
 176 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 fate ? Beware how you mention the Republic 
 before her. I tell you this to warn you." 
 
 " I shall not see her." 
 
 " Yes, yes, you will, dear Francois. I do not 
 see you often, and I cannot let you go so easily," 
 said Rosalie, softly laying her hand on her 
 lover's shoulder. " Besides," continued she, 
 with an arch smile, "I want you to help to 
 entertain the young officer who commands the 
 British troops ; he is to dine with us to-day." 
 
 '^ Peste !" muttered Le Blanc, his attention 
 now becoming keenly aroused ; " that will never 
 do. How came you to know him, Rosalie ?" 
 
 "He brought letters of introduction to my 
 father from some old friends of his, who, alas ! 
 are now in exile ; and he is, as I heard my 
 father say, in some degree connected with our 
 family through his mother; in fact, Francois, 
 he is another cousin." 
 
 " Our meeting would be an unpleasant one. 
 I cannot stay, Rosalie."
 
 ARTHUR COXTVAY. 177 
 
 " Why not ? you are my cousin ; that surely 
 would be enough to allay any suspicion, if he 
 entertained any, even if he did not know my 
 father's politics." 
 
 " But there is also some quarrel between him 
 and the Englishman ; they might enter into 
 some unpleasant dispute." 
 
 "Where is your chivalry gone, my cousin? 
 Captain Conway is too much of a gentleman to 
 quarrel before ladies." 
 
 " You have seen this Englishman, then ?" 
 
 " Yes, he was here to-day. He is very hand- 
 some and agreeable, and speaks our language 
 with a true Parisian accent." 
 
 A flush passed over the young Frenchman's 
 face, as he thought of the reason he had given to 
 Jack Diver for his assumed hatred to Conway. 
 Out of favour as he was with his mistress, here 
 was a formidable rival already in the field, and 
 this rival, the xeicY man of all others the most 
 dangerous to him. Jealousy struck him with 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 her scorpion sting. He began to fear that his 
 words might be realized — that he might, indeed, 
 be robbed of his mistress by the fair-haired aris- 
 tocrat. The thought at this juncture was 
 enough to madden him : jealousy is never rea- 
 sonable. 
 
 " I intend that he shall fall in love with Mar- 
 garet," continued Rosahe, playfully, little ima- 
 gining what was passing in her lover's mind ; 
 " and that will be a pretty little romance to get 
 up in this stupid little island." 
 
 "Take care, Rosalie: you are playing with 
 edged tools ; these things are sharp, and it is 
 better not to meddle with them." 
 
 " What do you mean, cousin ? explain, if you 
 please, your mystery ?" 
 
 " You know well enough," replied the French- 
 man, pettishly, " that I am no cousin ; why do 
 you keep up that farce ?" 
 
 " Because it is my will and pleasure that you 
 should still be considered so. Why, what is the
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 179 
 
 matter with you, Francois? your eye flashes 
 fire, and you rasp your teeth together; what 
 heroic vein are you in now ?" 
 
 " Rosalie, you will drive me mad," cried her 
 lover ; " why did you ask this cursed English- 
 man here at aU ?" 
 
 " Why did you become a Republican ? was it 
 for love of Rosalie? Question for question," 
 replied the maiden, laughing, for she perceived 
 his unreasonable jealousy, " By the bye, now I 
 think of it," continued she, determined to tease 
 him, " there is a great likeness between you two, 
 although the colour of your eyes and hair are not 
 the same." 
 
 " Peste !" exclaimed Le Blanc, bitterly : " do 
 you want to throw me off", Rosalie ? Has the 
 glove been worn long enough, that you want a 
 fresh pair? Fools that men are, to be put 
 on and off by a pretty woman's capricious 
 wiU!" 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! there speaks the tyrant man. 
 He would be absolute master ; the woman must 
 
 N 2
 
 180 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 have no will. But, dear, dear Francois," con- 
 tinued Rosalie, tenderly twining her arms round 
 his figure, and suffering him to imprint a burn- 
 ing kiss on her pouting lips, " you must not 
 leave me — say that you will not." 
 
 The young Frenchman, when their lips met, 
 forgot, in that moment of ecstatic bliss, his pur- 
 pose and his jealousy. When they awoke from 
 the delicious transport, a slight figure, dressed 
 in a hat and riding-habit, was standing by, gazing 
 affectionately on them. 
 
 Margaret, or Maggie Gordon, as she was 
 generally called, although essentially Scotch by 
 name, and in her heart fondly attached to every- 
 thing connected with the 
 
 "Land of the moimtaiu and the flood," 
 
 and more especially to the memory of the unfor- 
 tunate race of the kingly Stuarts, did not show, 
 either in her figure, face, or speech, that she 
 was derived from northern blood. Her figure, 
 displayed to perfection by her tight-fitting riding-
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 181 
 
 habit, was on a small scale, but exquisitely 
 moulded and proportioned. Nothing could be 
 more graceful than the fall of her shoulders, 
 her swelling bust, and tiny waist. Her face was 
 oval ; her features small, dehcate, and regular ; 
 her eyes were blue as the tropical sky ; and her 
 hair, w^hich clustered in a profusion of ringlets, 
 on each side of her snowy forehead, was of a 
 bright rich golden colour. Her movements 
 were all graceful and elegant, though simple and 
 unaffected. She was nature's o\mi child — na- 
 ture's, in her sunniest, warmest, gayest mood. 
 There was freshness, youth, and innocence in aU 
 she said, in all she did ; and this made her 
 bold, and fearless of danger. There was intelli- 
 gence in her smile, in the sparkle of her azure 
 eyes, in every gesture, in every movement. 
 Guileless as a dove, she was, in truth, as wise 
 as a serpent. Joyous and light-hearted as she 
 now was, Maggie's youthful history was sad and 
 eventful. 
 
 Her grandfather, a cadet of one of the noblest
 
 182 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 houses in Scotland, had espoused, at an early 
 age, the cause of the unfortunate James the 
 Second. After the fatal battle of Aughrim, he 
 had succeeded in escaping into France. Finding 
 the cause of the Stuarts hopeless, Mr. Gordon, 
 wiser than the generality of the followers of that 
 unlucky race, having still some remains of his 
 fortune left, devoted himself to mercantile pur- 
 suits in that then, as now, famous sea-port, 
 Marseilles, and married, at rather an advanced 
 age, a Frenchwoman of noble birth. By her 
 he had one son, who, following his father's 
 footsteps, acquired a considerable property, and 
 in an evil hour, removed to Paris, but not be- 
 fore he had taken to himself a wife, the daughter 
 of a wealthy merchant at Marseilles. 
 
 For many years they were childless, but, at 
 length, the fairy-like little Margaret was born, 
 and great were the rejoicings thereat. Early in 
 that terrible revolution, that shook Europe to 
 its centre, Mr. Gordon contrived to offend one 
 of the principal leaders of the Convention, by
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 183 
 
 refusing him a loan of money, for which he was 
 denounced as an aristocrat and thrown into 
 prison, from whence he only emerged to place 
 his head under the knife of the ready guillotine. 
 His wife and Margaret, then ahout thirteen 
 years old, escaped, after many perils, into 
 Scotland, with but little means of subsistence, 
 and sought an asylum amidst Mr. Gordon's 
 relatives. This, at first, was cheerfully accorded 
 to them, but Scotland had become bitterly 
 Presbyterian, and their Papistical ways soon 
 made them many enemies. Poor Mrs. Gordon, 
 whose nerv^es had never recovered the dreadful 
 shock of her husband's miserable death, could 
 not long bear up against the world. She soon 
 sank under the accumulated trials of poverty, 
 dependence, rehgious persecution, ill-health, and 
 an ungenial climate, and poor Maggie was left 
 an orphan. Her youth, her beauty, vivacit}' 
 and gentle disposition were of but little avail to 
 her for the four years she remained in the 
 canny North. Placed under the charge of an
 
 184 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 old maiden lady, a rigid, bitter Presbyterian, 
 her quick, youthful feelings were constantly hurt 
 by some biting allusion to her Papistical educa- 
 tion, and to her attachment to the exiled race of 
 kings. Now Margaret, even as a child, though 
 simple, was proud — proud of the memory of her 
 parents, sacrificed as victims on the altar of 
 liberty ; proud of her religion ; proud in the con- 
 sciousness of intellect — and her little heart beat 
 strangely at these insults. Her bright eyes 
 flashed with suppressed indignation when the 
 memory of all she held dear was spoken of 
 disrespectfully ; and in the solitude of her little 
 room, she often shed bitter tears, lamenting her 
 lonely and isolated position. Many attempts 
 were made by the ministers of the kirk to 
 convert her, though she repelled all their efforts 
 with scorn and indignation. But the more she 
 repelled them, the more she was persecuted, and 
 poor little Maggie led an unpleasant life. Still 
 her education was not neglected ; and unhappy 
 as she was, she grew in beauty, grace and
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 185 
 
 accomplishments until she had completed her 
 seventeenth year ; \Yhen an incident happened 
 which changed the whole current of her fate. 
 
 Margaret had a vision — at least, she always 
 maintained that her mother really appeared by 
 her bedside on that night, and commanded her 
 to go up at daybreak to the ruins of an old 
 abbey, that stood in picturesque, though decayed, 
 grandeur on a knoll near the cottage in which 
 she lived. Her manner of relating it on that 
 evening was this : 
 
 " On the last night of my seventeenth year, I 
 was lying in bed, thinking upon what the next 
 year would produce, and endeavouring to recall 
 to my mind the fearful scenes I had \N4tnessed, 
 and the troubles I had undergone, and I wept. 
 Suddenly, a pleasant dreamy calm seemed to 
 steal over my troubled senses, and I heard a 
 soft voice whisper : ' Dost thou sleep, my child ?' 
 I could not answer, but, at the foot of my bed, I 
 saw my mother, standing in the same dress she 
 wore on that fearful day, when we fled from
 
 186 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 Paris, the same in everything but that her head 
 was bare, and her long golden hair fell loosely 
 over her shoulders. She looked at me with a 
 sweet and tender expression, not mournful, but 
 resigned. A ray of moonlight, that stole 
 through the half-closed shutters, shone upon 
 something that she held in her hand. It was a 
 small silver crucifix, which I recognised as one 
 that she had long lost. She raised it slowly to 
 her lips and kissed it ; then, extending it 
 towards the window, as if pointing to the hiUs, 
 she said, in a low voice : * Daughter, go at day- 
 break to the ruined abbey.' I would have 
 risen, but I looked, and the ray of moonlight 
 darted farther on. She was gone. Until the 
 grey light of dawn crept along the valleys, I 
 lay awake, thinking on the mysterious injunc- 
 tion, nor for one moment did I hesitate to obev 
 it. Before the sun had dispersed the mists on 
 the heath-clad hills, I arose, and dressing myself 
 as noiselessly as I could, I stole from the cottage 
 unperceived. The morning was calm and
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 187 
 
 beautiful, and the sky was blue overhead ; but 
 along the clear trout stream, that murmured in 
 its rocky bed through the valley below, rolled 
 masses of white vapour, which occasionally 
 spread themselves over the hill-sides, assuming, 
 to my disordered fancy, strange and fantastic 
 forms, as I ran rather than walked over the 
 little bridge that spanned the stream. The 
 startled grouse arose, scared by my approach, 
 and the frightened sheep wheeled round, and 
 gazed at me as I ascended the hill to the 
 ruined abbey ; but I felt no fear, lonely as the 
 scene appeared. An owl glided away on noise- 
 less wing, and a troop of jackdaws flew scream- 
 ing away as I entered the ruins. No one had 
 yet been there. I seated myself on a fallen 
 stone, and waited patiently and motionless for 
 the sun to rise above the hills. 
 
 * ' Near the abbey, there was a small cemetery 
 of consecrated ground, where a few shattered 
 tombstones still stood, and here and there a 
 mound of earth, some evidently of recent con-
 
 188 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 struction, showed that it was still used as a 
 burial-place by the unsophisticated inhabitants 
 of the neighbourhood. 
 
 " Suddenly, as if emerging from a grave, the 
 figure of a man, well stricken in years, appeared 
 before me. He stooped down and examined 
 the tombstones one by one, and, at that 
 moment, a ray of sun illuminated a distant hill, 
 and, stealing along the valley, fell on a small 
 silver crucifix which the man held to his lips. I 
 felt no fear — I did not hesitate — for the crucifix 
 was the same. I started out from the ruins, 
 and stood before him. My sudden apparition 
 startled the man, who sprang back, ex- 
 claiming : 
 
 " * O, God, it is herself !' 
 
 " Then, perceiving that I was real flesh and 
 blood, and no ghost (for which he no doubt 
 took me at first), he bade me good morning. 
 
 " * Perhaps,' said I, ' I can assist your search, 
 for I am well skilled in the traditions and 
 histories of those that lie here.'
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 189 
 
 " ' Thanks, my pretty maiden ; it is, perhaps, 
 hopeless. I seek the grave of Marguerite 
 Gordon. I have been looking for it for months, 
 but I have not found it,' said the man, with a 
 voice that fiUed me with strange delight. 
 
 " * It is not here,' rephed I, mournfully. 
 
 " ' Strange !' said the man, doubtingly. ' I 
 was told last night that I should here find what 
 I sought — there is everything the same ; but 
 you — ' 
 
 " ' Who told you ?' I cried, so earnestly, that 
 the stranger started back in am.azement. 
 
 " ' That voice ! ' murmured he. ' Maiden, it 
 was herself. Marguerite Gordon.' 
 
 " ' And I am Margaret Gordon !' " 
 
 The rest is soon told : it was her mother's 
 once-loved, though nearly forgotten, brother who 
 now held her to his breast. He had early emi- 
 grated to the West Indies, to seek his fortune, 
 where, in course of time, the wild, improvident, 
 young Frenchman, had settled into the calm 
 money-making merchant, or, more strictly
 
 190 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 speaking, planter. He had prospered in that 
 ungenial climate; and though apparently for- 
 getting and forgot, he had at heart never lost 
 his loyalty to his king, nor his love for his sister 
 Marguerite. The cross which had been hers, 
 had been mysteriously conveyed to him by some 
 unknown hand, some time after her death, and 
 it had awakened within him a strong yearning 
 to learn what had become of her. He travelled 
 on over the country, inquiring everywhere for 
 Margaret Gordon, for a long time unsuccess- 
 fully ; but one evening, when weary and tired 
 out, he was offered the hospitality of a bed, by 
 a small farmer, near the village where Margaret 
 used sometimes to make small purchases. In 
 the house, an old crone looked fixedly at him, 
 and said : 
 
 " Ye sould be a Gordon, by your e'e. There's 
 a bonny lassie waits for ye in the kirk-yard, on 
 the gray muir, since the gloaming. Away now 
 until her. Maggie Gordon she is bight." 
 
 He thought the old woman was mad ; but on
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 191 
 
 inquiry, he found that a Margaret Gordon was 
 said to be living near an old abbey, on the 
 moor. True, he read the old woman's words as 
 if she had meant that the body was buried in 
 the abbey, and he went to find her tomb.
 
 192 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The dinner-party at La Belle Etoile passed off 
 pleasantly enough. Arthur Conway shook hands 
 kindly with Jack Diver, who, mollified by the 
 sangaree, and conscious of his awkward position, 
 dared not reject the proffered reconciliation. As 
 if out of pique, Le Blanc attached himself to 
 the winning Marguerite, and the dark-eyed 
 Creole paid particular attention to the fair-haired 
 young officer. The old planter did the honours 
 courteously, and everything went on smoothly 
 and pleasantly. The dinner was excellent.
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 193 
 
 There was parrot-soup, turtle from the Ba- 
 hamas, mountain mullet, and crayfish from the 
 gurgling stream, small black crabs from the 
 mountains, ground doves, ramier, pepper-pot, 
 curried iguanas, and many other strano:e de- 
 licacies. By each plate was a fresh-gathered 
 lime, and the fragrant leaves of that most 
 delicate tree were floating in the finger-glasses. 
 The room was filled with the perfrime of fruits 
 and flowers. The dessert was splendid : racy 
 mangoes, guavas, sweet hmes, shaddocks, pine- 
 apples, forbidden fruit, pommes d'or, grapes, 
 figs, arbutus hemes, and many other delicacies 
 were piled on dishes of beautiful Sevres china. 
 The wine was dehciously cool ; for, although ice 
 was not imported into the islands in those days, 
 old Pompey knew well how to manage that ; 
 and the punch. Jack Diver pronounced ini- 
 mitable. 
 
 The evening passed rapidly away ; Le Blanc, 
 who had thrown off his masquerade and now 
 appeared dressed all in white, was extremely 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 fascinating and agreeable. He played on the 
 guitar, sang old French songs, never even 
 alluded to politics, flirted, apparently in great 
 spirits, with Margaret Gordon, and left his 
 Rosalie exposed to the tender glances of our 
 hero. He, flattered by the attention paid to 
 him, and charmed to find two such well- 
 educated and fascinating girls in such a paltry 
 island, seemed determined to enjoy himself 
 He could not help riveting his gaze on the 
 enchanting Creole whose dark voluptuous eyes 
 meeting his, were immediately lowered as if in 
 maidenly confusion. For shame, Rosalie ! They 
 talked poetry together, they sang duets, and 
 although the conversation, at times, became 
 general, there appeared an evident tendency to 
 pairing ofl^. Jack Diver and the old planter 
 smoked their cigars comfortably in the veran- 
 dah, leaving the younger ones to flirt, or sing, 
 or talk, as they pleased. 
 
 Treacherous as the air they breathed, trea- 
 cherous as the painted scenery they gazed upon,
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 195 
 
 treacherous as the ground beneath their feet, 
 was ever\^thing that passed on that fatal 
 evening. But we must not anticipate. The 
 moon has risen above the horizon, shedding her 
 broad pale light along the tranquil sea. 
 
 Arthur Conway rises to depart. Rosalie 
 presses him to stay with a winning smile and a 
 soft, speaking glance. He resists the tempta- 
 tion, because he dares not leave his little com- 
 mand, for strange rumours are abroad. A 
 riding party, however, for the next day, to \asit 
 the falls of the Roseau River, is arranged, and 
 Arthur Conway and the Master of the trans- 
 port take leave, the horses having been brought 
 round by the slaves. Le Blanc lingered behind, 
 to say something to Rosalie ; w^hat it was, the 
 moon alone can witness, for that uncertain lady 
 was the only one who was present at their 
 parting. As the two riders emerged from the 
 shadow of the trees, there might have been seen 
 a dusky figure, with a gliding, noiseless step, 
 following them at a short distance. 
 
 o 2
 
 196 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 " I hope all animosities are forgotten, 
 Captain Diver," said Arthur, as he reined in his 
 horse to let that worthy come alongside ; 
 "and that you and your friend will dine with 
 me at our little mess at Morne Bruce to- 
 morrow, after the riding party." 
 
 Jack Diver was startled, and, as he would 
 have said, completely taken ahack. Dark 
 thoughts, devil prompted, had been involun- 
 tarily suggesting themselves to his heated ima- 
 gination. The loneliness of the track, for road 
 it could not be called, the deep shadow of the 
 tamarind trees, the fantastic forms assumed by 
 the creeping plants, the sickly hght of the 
 moon, and, above all, the opportunity, conjured 
 up in his mind the idea of murder. He had 
 pistols about him, and his enemy was unarmed ; 
 why should he not be revenged ? The perspira- 
 tion was running off his brow in streams, for 
 the evil spirit was stirring within him, and yet 
 he had no fixed idea. Once or twice he had 
 felt for his pistols, and once he had drawn one
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 197 
 
 out, but he had replaced it hurriedly ^^ith a 
 shudder — the deed was too cold-blooded and 
 cowardly even for him. 
 
 Little did Arthur Conway dream of the risk 
 he was running, and as little did the ruffian, 
 who was meditating his death, imagine that a 
 pair of dark, clear eyes were watching every 
 motion of his with a fierce significance. 
 
 " Yes — no — Fll be cursed if I do — that 
 is — ^' stammered out the Master — " what ! dine 
 with you ?" 
 
 " Why not ?" rephed Arthui*, laughing ; 
 "surely you have forgiven me for interfering 
 about that black rascal." 
 
 " It is not that — but what the devil shall I 
 say to him ? I shall get into a precious mess if I 
 don't take care," thought Jack Diver. " I must 
 go on board to-morrow, and look after the 
 loading." 
 
 " You forget that you are engaged to the 
 ladies for the riding party ; and after that, you 
 and your friend can dine with me. Do not
 
 198 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 think that it is for a trifle that I am so 
 pressing, I want your advice and assistance, 
 Captain Diver. You can be of great service to 
 me. How many men have you on board the 
 * Sally ?' You are strong-handed, I know, and 
 we shall want every man we can muster." 
 " What do you want my men for ?" 
 " There's no use asking if they will fight ; 
 being British, of course they will. Do you not 
 know. Captain, that there are strong rumours 
 of the French attacking this island? How 
 many men can you spare me, on a pinch ? Of 
 course, if it comes to fighting, you will give me 
 a helping hand yourself" 
 
 The sound of a horse, coming rapidly behind 
 them, saved Jack Diver from answering. He 
 was, as may be supposed, dreadfully confused 
 by this appeal for assistance ; the oath he had 
 taken suggesting itself immediately in a very 
 unpleasant manner. " You need not say any- 
 thing of this to your friend," continued Arthur, 
 " as I wish to get together as strong a force as
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 199 
 
 I possibly can without spreading an alarm. 
 There are so many disaffected in this island, 
 that if our preparations reach their ears, we 
 shall be beset with spies, and our arrangements 
 made known to that cunning dog, Victor 
 Hugues. Indeed, I fear we have spies amongst 
 us already ; there has been some tampering 
 with the soldiers, but, by Heaven ! if I catch 
 any of them, I will hang them up to the next 
 tree, without the benefit or mockery of a trial. 
 Not a word to your friend. Captain Diver — here 
 he comes !" 
 
 GaU and wormwood were not more bitter 
 than the young officer's words to the Master of 
 the transport. 
 
 Le Blanc cantered up, gaily humming the 
 " Marseillaise." As he approached them, his 
 horse shied across the track, and nearly unseated 
 him ; but the moonlight was playing such fan- 
 tastic tricks with the broken rocks, the quaint 
 shrubs, and the uncouth cactus plants which 
 twined and twisted and threw their strange arms
 
 200 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 into the air against the broad moonlight, that 
 the Frenchman took no more notice of it than 
 by touching the horse with bit and spur. As 
 he rode up, Arthur Conway invited him to join 
 their party at the mess on the ensuing evening, 
 to which Le Blanc readily agreed, to the surprise 
 and dismay of the Master of the transport. 
 When they had forded the Roseau River, which 
 danced and sparkled in the pale moonshine, the 
 party separated, Arthur skirting the town, and 
 cantering along the smooth turf to the foot of 
 the Morne, and the others clattering over the ill- 
 paved, steaming, noisome streets of the town of 
 Roseau. 
 
 As Arthur Conway is our hero, we will follow 
 him to his quarters. 
 
 Morne Bruce, already so often mentioned, is 
 a spur running out from the mountains towards 
 the sea, on the leew^ard side of the island, and 
 very nearly equidistant from the north and 
 south extremities. On one side is the valley of 
 the Roseau River, to which the descent is very
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 201 
 
 abrupt, although the sides of the precipice are 
 clothed with an infinite variety of beautiful 
 shrubs. On the other side, is a deep and 
 rugged ravine, covered with brushwood, and 
 castor-oil plants. The approach to the plateau 
 from the town is by a zig-zag road, cut in the 
 face of the hill. The highest level is about six 
 hundred feet above the sea. Two or three 
 small batteries command the approaches, but it 
 is not regularly fortified. At the lower end of 
 the slope, amidst scattered mangoe and lime- 
 trees, stand a few detached buildings, which are 
 officers' mess-house and quarters. Above them, 
 near the narrow neck of land which attaches the 
 Morne to the mountain-chain, are the mens' 
 barracks, standing on a tolerably level piece of 
 ground. Immediately around is a perfect wil- 
 derness of shrubs, but the views are beautiful, 
 and the scenery rich and varied. A few sentries 
 were stationed at intervals on the Morne, their 
 bayonets glancing in the moonlight. 
 
 Arthur Conway, giving his horse to a ser-
 
 202 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 vant, threw himself on a bench in the verandah 
 of his quarters, and gazed on the loveliness of 
 the night. 
 
 Night in the tropics is very different from 
 night in green old England. There, the silence 
 may be occasionally broken by the bark of a 
 dog, the screech of an owl, or the honeysuckle 
 flapping against the casement ; but, in the 
 tropics, as soon as the sun has sunk beneath the 
 glowing horizon, the air is alive with sounds 
 from the deep boom of the huge crapaud, to the 
 shrill twee- twee of the large purple lizard. The 
 night-wind always seems to sigh mournfully. 
 Insects go humming and droning about, the 
 knocker knocks, the teasing cricket chirps 
 shrilly, mosquitoes — bores in miniature — burr in 
 your ear ; there is no rest — no peace. The 
 insect world is in a state of frantic revelry, and, 
 to accompany them, you get into a fury, and 
 perhaps a fever. 
 
 And what were Arthur Conway's thoughts as 
 he sat in the verandah, gazing on the moonlit
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 203 
 
 sea ? Were they wandering back amidst the 
 fine old oaks of Morley, with the gay, the 
 laughing Edith by his side ? Was he brooding 
 over his changed fortunes ? Was he devising 
 how, with his small force, he should meet an 
 attack from the French ? 
 
 Oh, no ! his thoughts were full of the fair- 
 haired Margaret. True, he had talked and 
 flirted with the violet-eyed maiden — how could 
 he help it ? She attached herself to him, and 
 the blushing, blue-eyed fairy had rather avoided, 
 than sought his society. Yet, strange to say, he 
 remembered all she did — all she said ; every 
 tone was recalled to his imagination. Her tiny 
 figure, her sweet blue eyes, and silky, golden 
 hair, were aU there, distinct and visible. Her 
 stange history — for she had told it on that 
 evening — had interested him deeply. He sym- 
 pathized with her, and now he felt that, had he 
 not loved Edith, Margaret Gordon would have 
 kindled in his breast the spark of love. 
 
 And Edith had spurned and rejected him,
 
 204 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 because he was no longer the owner of Morley 
 — so he thought. His heart was still full of 
 burning indignation. The wound was rankling 
 — festering — in truth, destroying him, secretly 
 — subtlely. Were all women coquettes, jilts, 
 pretty things without hearts ? Edith was one — 
 Rosalie Devrien was one. Was Margaret 
 Gordon also? He would see. Dangerous 
 resolution ! There could be no risk in making 
 the experiment. If she were but a coquette, no 
 mischief was done ; and if he found her heart 
 true and loving, he was independent, and he 
 would marry her, and forget in her arms his 
 love for Edith. 
 
 Poor Arthur ! He was very young, and he 
 knew not yet the power of first love. He was 
 not one of those who feared the ridicule of his 
 brother officers. They might laugh away — 
 what cared he for them? Then, although 
 Margaret Gordon lived in such a paltry island, 
 she had been well educated, and was of good, if 
 not of noble, extraction. And then came the
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 205 
 
 horrible, the soul-harrowing thought, that he — 
 he — Arthur Conway — was what ? a dishonoured, 
 a degraded being, an outcast from society, a 
 bastard ! Had he not acted in a cowardly 
 manner, suffering his mother's good name to be 
 tarnished so easily ? Had he fought manfully ? 
 No ; he had run away almost without a struggle, 
 simply because he had been jilted by a coquette. 
 
 The rattle of a firelock sounded through the 
 stilly night as a sentry challenged : 
 
 " Who goes there ?" 
 
 There was no answer. Again all was still. 
 Presently, Arthur heard a slight rustling amidst 
 the bushes in his little garden, and a dusky 
 figure, nearly naked, stood in the shadow of a 
 huge banana, and beckoned to him with his 
 hand. Arthur Conway started at this strange 
 apparition, and was about to call out ; but the 
 figure made a gesture of silence, throwing his 
 hands up, to show that he was unarmed; he 
 then advanced slowly towards the verandah, with 
 a noiseless step.
 
 206 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 Arthur suffered him to approach, as there was 
 evidently nothing hostile in his movements. 
 
 The man pointed to the door of Arthur's 
 quarters. Our hero mechanically arose, went in, 
 and the dusky figure followed him, looking rest- 
 lessly round to see that there was no one else 
 there. 
 
 " We are alone," said the young officer. 
 "You may say what you want, without any 
 fear of our being overheard ; but wait till I light 
 a candle," 
 
 " Me got Alguna cosa hablar, Englees 
 Capitan," replied the man, in a low, soft, 
 musical voice, but in a strange compound of 
 languages. " No want lumbre moon dat bas- 
 tante." 
 
 This preliminary address was enough to 
 puzzle our hero, who now looked with unfeigned 
 curiosity at the man's swarthy countenance, on 
 which a straggling ray of the moon darted 
 through the half-closed jalousies. 
 
 " You not sabe me ? — dat serange !"
 
 ARTHUR CON^^\Y. 207 
 
 " I think I do ; and yet — " 
 
 " Great big batteau — el Capitan go for flogge 
 — Official Inglis say no — big poisson, vat you 
 call shark fees come manger — India man swim 
 — dive. Go on de tierra. Him sauve — now 
 you sabe ?" 
 
 " Yes, I know you now. You are the man 
 the Master of the * Sally' was going to flog ?" 
 
 " Si, Sefior, dat true." Here the man drew 
 himself up proudly. " Me Capitan Baron — 
 what you call Chef des Caraibes." 
 
 We have taken the liberty to give so much 
 of the conversation in the liugua Franca, then 
 used by the Caribs, but as it would be tire- 
 some to our readers to continue it, we have 
 translated the rest into such plain or hyperboHcal 
 English as suits the conversation. 
 
 " The Carib Chief is very welcome," said the 
 young officer, impressively, after a short pause, 
 for the news of the revolt of that race against 
 the British authority at St. Vincent was known
 
 208 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 to him. " Will the Captain Baron drink King 
 George's health in some eau de vie ?" 
 
 " Le Capitan Baron will. He is grateful." 
 
 The young officer produced some brandy, and 
 the Carib tossed off a large glassful without a 
 wink, and placed the empty glass on the 
 table, with a deep sigh of satisfaction, merely 
 saying : 
 
 " That is good l" 
 
 " The Captain Baron wishes to speak some 
 words to the English Captain," said Arthur. 
 " Will he say what it is ?" 
 
 " Mayboy has told his brethren at St. Vincent 
 to fight against the English — that is bad. The 
 Caribs of Dominica will fight for King George 
 — that is good !' 
 
 " Yes, if he is to be trusted," thought the 
 young officer, " this is good news indeed !" 
 
 The Carib continued : 
 
 " The old women of his tribe scream in his 
 ears : * Kill the English !' but the Captain Baron
 
 ARTHUR CONW'AY. 209 
 
 says, ' No !' English officer saved his back from 
 the whip — he is grateful." 
 
 " The English Captain will be very glad if 
 the Carib Chief will assist him ; his men are 
 few, and his enemies many." 
 
 The Carib Chief waited until Arthur had 
 done speaking, and then said, after a short 
 pause : 
 
 " Listen. The black ants and the white ants 
 conspired together to turn out the red ants from 
 their nests, and then to kill them all. They 
 called into their council a wasp and a red ant 
 chief, who was a traitor. They met, and all 
 took an oath but the wasp. The wasp wished 
 to sting the red ant traitor to death, but the 
 chief of the white ants prevented him, saying 
 that the red ant was wanted. The wasp heard 
 all that was spoken, and flew to warn the chief 
 of the red ants, whom he loved." 
 
 " I wonder whether he is to be depended on ?" 
 muttered Arthur : "I must try him further. 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 AJITHUR CONWAY. 
 
 Can Le Baron remember what was said in the 
 palaver ?" 
 
 " Yes ; the Carib never forgets what his ears 
 drink in. The white ants of Guadaloupe are to 
 come in ships to Rocroix, from Marie Galante, 
 and the white and black ants of Dominica are 
 to rise and help them to destroy the red ants ; 
 but the wasps will assist the red ants." 
 
 " Will the white ants swarm in great num- 
 bers?" 
 
 This was rather a puzzling question to the 
 Carib, whose powers of computation were 
 limited ; but he soon brightened up, for he 
 remembered the words Le Blanc had used, so 
 he said : 
 
 " Le Blanc say about three hundred soldiers 
 come from Guadaloupe." 
 
 " And who is Le Blanc ?" 
 
 The Carib Chief was silent. 
 
 " Where is Rocroix ?" 
 
 The Carib pointed towards the north-east.
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 211 
 
 " Can Le Baron guide the English Captain 
 there?" 
 
 " When the time comes, he will." 
 
 " WiU the Carib Chief teU the English Captain 
 who the red ant traitor is ?" 
 
 There was a sudden flashing of the eye, and 
 a quivering of the muscles on the Carib's face, 
 but he did not reply. This time the young 
 officer repeated the question. 
 
 " The wasp will take care of the red ant 
 traitor, as the spider keeps the fly until he is 
 hungry : the fly is in the web, and he cannot 
 escape. It is good." 
 
 Again Arthur Conway pressed the Carib to 
 tell him who the traitor was ; but had he known 
 the native character better, he would not have 
 wasted his breath in questions which Le Baron 
 did not choose to answer. The Carib was 
 silent. 
 
 " Has the Chief anything more to tell the 
 English Captain?" said Arthur, somewhat impa- 
 
 p 2
 
 212 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 tiently, for he was rather provoked at the man's 
 silence. 
 
 " Marinier is a bad man." 
 
 " Ha I that is the man who they say has been 
 tampering with the soldiers. Does the Captain 
 Baron know who this Marinier is ?" 
 
 " Marinier is a stranger ; he does not belong 
 to Dominica. It is late ; Le Baron must go." 
 
 "Will not the Chief taste the eau de vie 
 again ?" said the young officer, pouring out a 
 glass, and offering it to the Carib, perhaps with 
 a hope that the spirit might make him more 
 communicative ; but the Chief drank it off, said 
 that it was good, and raising the young officer's 
 hand to his lips, glided out of the room, and in 
 a moment was lost amidst the wilderness of 
 shrubs. 
 
 Arthur Conway did not attempt to oppose 
 his departure, but undressed himself quietly, 
 and threw himself on his bed, drawing the mos- 
 quito curtains around him, to keep off those
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 213 
 
 horrid bores. But some hours passed before 
 sleep visited him. 
 
 There was, indeed, much to keep Arthur 
 awake. The Carib's information, although 
 rather vague and unsatisfactory, was not to be 
 doubted or despised. Conspiracy, treachery, 
 were abroad. The power of Victor Hugues w^as 
 considerable ; he had gained several advantages 
 over the English, and being a bold and enter- 
 prising man, he would not hesitate to make a 
 dash at a British island so slenderly guarded. 
 Proclamations and circulars, emanating from 
 him, had been distributed over the island : that 
 was a serious subject, too. Possibly the bat- 
 teries of Fort Charlotte and Morne Bruce 
 might protect Roseau from a direct attack, if 
 the number of assailants was small ; but they 
 might land anywhere they pleased. 
 
 The British settlers and merchants would no 
 doubt form a formidable and trustworthy mihtia, 
 and they must be called upon immediately ; but 
 what part would the negroes, the coloured
 
 214 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 people, and the foreign settlers take ? Liberty 
 and equality were the watchwords of the Repub- 
 licans ; the slaves would instantly rise to throw 
 off their yoke, and then what horrors would 
 ensue ! Who was Le Blanc ? who was the 
 English traitor ? and who was Marinier ? 
 Some vague suspicion crossed his mind that the 
 young Frenchman he had seen at La Belle Etoile 
 was concerned in this conspiracy ; but that sus- 
 picion was quickly banished, when he remem- 
 bered the society in which he had met him. 
 Rosalie, too, had called him her cousin, Fran- 
 cois Devrien ; and the old planter was a stanch 
 admirer of the Bourbons. 
 
 Marinier, however, must be watched. He 
 would send a trusty soldier down to Roseau, to 
 see if he could discover who and what this 
 Marinier was. Every precaution must be taken 
 against surprise. If he could see the Carib 
 Chief again, he might be made useful as a watch 
 upon the other party ; but Aithur well knew 
 that it was useless to look for him, if he did
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 215 
 
 not wish to be found. The vague hints which 
 the Carib Chief had thrown out about the traitor 
 being his personal enemy, coupled with Jack 
 Diver's confusion when asked to dinner, and to 
 give his assistance, might have created suspicion, 
 had not the young officer been impressed with 
 the idea that no Englishman could possibly be 
 a traitor to his country. 
 
 " The friends of the people" were scarcely 
 known to him, even by name; his mind had 
 been too much occupied with other things : yet 
 suspicion, vague and uncertain, haunted him ; 
 for young as he was, he had already learned to 
 suspect. He could not bring himself to forego 
 the anticipated pleasures of the riding party. 
 Margaret Gordon would be there ; he would 
 cultivate her acquaintance ; and thinking of her 
 sweet voice, her speaking eyes, and golden hair, 
 he feU asleep — to dream of Edith.
 
 216 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Le Blanc and the Master of the transport 
 rode boldly through the silent town until they 
 reached the market-place. When they arrived 
 at the farthest corner, they turned down a 
 narrow street leading towards the sea. Le 
 Blanc then looked round to see if any people 
 were still loitering about, and having satisfied 
 himself that not a soul was visible, dismounted, 
 and told Jack Diver to do the same. Then, 
 taking his horse by the bridle, he led him down 
 a narrow, covered passage, dark as pitch.
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 217 
 
 groping his way until he was stopped by a door, 
 which was fast. 
 
 " SacristieT muttered Le Blanc, between his 
 teeth, as he knocked at the door with a peculiar 
 rap. " I hope there is some one here to receive 
 us, I don't want to spend the night in the open 
 air. The very streets smell of the accursed 
 vomito." 
 
 Apparently, a shower of rain had fallen in the 
 town, although not a cloud had obscured the 
 sky; for there was a dank, earthy, sickening 
 steam rising as if out of the very hearts of the 
 stones, so powerful was the night dew. 
 
 A faint light, however, soon gleamed through 
 the chinks of the door, and a faltering step 
 could be heard crossing the paved yard inside. 
 
 " Who dat ?" said a small squeaking voice, 
 somewhat between the croak of a raven and the 
 scream of a parroquet. 
 
 *' It is I — Le Blanc — come, be quick, El 
 Mono — open the door and let us in."
 
 218 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 " Who dat ? You be berry imperent fallow 
 call me El Mono." 
 
 " Don't you know my voice ? It is I — Le 
 Blanc. Open the door, you old fool." 
 
 " Know you berry well — but why you call 
 me El Mono, eh ? Why you call me ole fool, 
 eh?" 
 
 " I'll call you what you please, only open the 
 door and get the horses in." 
 
 " Dat not do." 
 
 " Eh bien, then ; citoyen maitre de dance, 
 Augusta Pierrot, will you do me the favour to 
 open the door ?" 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha," screamed the parrot-like voice, 
 as a key turned in the lock, and the door was 
 puUed inwards on its rusty hinges. 
 
 Le Blanc led his horse into the court-yard, 
 and was closely followed by the Master of 
 the transport. As soon as they had passed, 
 something that stood behind the door, shut it, 
 turned the key, and, drawing back the shad
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 219 
 
 threw the focus of a dark lantern on the forms 
 of the men and horses. In the dense darkness 
 in which the thing stood, it was difficult to 
 distinguish whether it was a man or a monkey, 
 and even on a closer and clearer inspection, it 
 would have been no easy task to determine his 
 species, but for the shrill parrot-like voice that 
 issued from his lips. 
 
 This creature was not above four feet and 
 a half in height, but held himself very upright 
 for an old man (he was nearly eighty). His 
 colour was black, rusted by age ; his eyebrows 
 were perfectly w^hite, and two or three twisted 
 woollen patches of the same colour were dotted 
 on his skull ; he had no forehead ; his bleared 
 eyes were nearly lost in his head ; his nose, with 
 huge, gaping nostrils, was merged in his cheek- 
 bones, but his nearly toothless mouth, with 
 great, flabby hps, extended from ear to ear ; — and 
 such ears ! they flapped like an elephant's. 
 The most prominent feature, however, was his
 
 220 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 chin, which stuck out nearly at right angles from 
 his nasty, scraggy, hare neck. His long, bony 
 arms nearly reached his great, splay feet, in the 
 middle of which were stuck his thin, knifey 
 legs. His whole habiliment was a striped, blue 
 cotton shirt. 
 
 This thing now came forward, as if satisfied 
 with his scrutiny, and, making a very elaborate 
 bow to Le Blanc, said, with a grimace impossi- 
 ble to describe : 
 
 " How you do, citizen ? Vil you do me the 
 onor to inderduce udder citizen ?" 
 
 "Are you gone mad, Auguste? Put the 
 horses in the stable, and then show us a light 
 up stairs." 
 
 "Hi— hi!— what dat? Yousself mad ! We 
 all broders now — all equal." 
 
 This self-elected equality amused Le Blanc 
 exceedingly. There was something so irresist- 
 ably comical, and yet so degrading, in this 
 withered, ape-like, but vain thing, fraternizing,
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 221 
 
 that, \Nith the laugh which he could not altoge- 
 ther suppress, there mingled a sigh of inquiry : 
 
 " Are all men equal ?" 
 
 The wizened negro perceived the laugh, and 
 understood it. But, treasuring it up for a future 
 occasion, he said nothing then. Taking the 
 horses by their bridles, he led them into a stable 
 already nearly filled. 
 
 Le Blanc, bidding Jack Diver follow him, 
 groped his way along a boarded passage, up 
 a flight of rickety stairs, and threw^ open a 
 door. 
 
 Three men were seated at a table : two of 
 them were smoking and playing at cards ; the 
 third, shading his face with his hands, was 
 reading a letter. Before the players were some 
 bottles and glasses, and, flanking these, a pair of 
 pistols. One of these was immediately snatched 
 up, cocked, and pointed at the intruders. 
 
 " Hein ! " said one, lowering the muzzle. 
 " Is that you, Le Blanc ? Excuse my rudeness."
 
 222 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 " There is nothing to excuse, my dear Le 
 Bar. If you had pulled the trigger, it would 
 have been Men autre chose. But why have 
 you these weapons so handy ?" 
 
 " Not three minutes ago, the door was gently 
 pushed half-open, and some one looked in," 
 replied Le Bar. " We all three ran out to see 
 who it was, but, sacristie ! we found nobody ! 
 and Pierrot declares, on his honour as a French 
 citizen, that he never unlocked the outer gate. 
 So I got the tools ready to mark him, should he 
 come again." 
 
 " It must have been the wind, or the cat, or 
 El Mono himself," said Le Blanc, carelessly, 
 throwing himself on to a sofa, which creaked 
 and groaned, and threw up a cloud of dust as 
 he did so. " What's your game ?" 
 
 " Beggar my neighbour, I should think," said 
 the man who was reading the letter, in a low 
 voice, and in English. 
 
 " Ha ! Marinier, mon cher, is that you ?
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 223 
 
 Come here, and sit beside me ; I want to talk 
 to you." 
 
 This Marinier immediately did, and, crumpling 
 up the letter, put it into his pocket. 
 
 "Yes, I want to talk to you about this 
 youngster at Morne Bruce — there is more in 
 him than I imagined. But first let us get rid 
 of this sacre John Bull sailor." 
 
 " There is a hammock slung in a room 
 inside there. He can turn in, if he likes." 
 
 Jack Diver had sat do\Mi, and was sulk}' and 
 silent, for his head ached, and his eyes were heavy 
 and bloodshot; but, as he had drmik pretty 
 freely of the punch at La Belle Etoile, and had 
 been exposed to the sun during the heat of the 
 day, this was neither strange, nor anything to 
 be frightened at, so he took advantage of the 
 offer, and rolled himself up in the hammock, 
 where we wiU leave him, for the present. 
 
 Marinier, after putting him to bed, returned, 
 and, sitting down on the sofa by Le Blanc, they
 
 224 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 conversed together in a low tone, so as not to be 
 overheard by the players. 
 
 " You know more about this youngster than 
 any of us, Marinier. How came you to find 
 out that he had robbed this coarse sailor of his 
 mistress ? It is true, however, and that is how 
 I hooked my fish — not that I think he is 
 worth much, now we have caught him." 
 
 *' Psha ! is it any wonder that a girl should 
 prefer a handsome, fair-skinned youth, to a 
 coarse, weather-beaten rascal ?" 
 
 " Did he really seduce her ?" 
 
 " No, no, the girl loved him, voila tout, and 
 we took advantage of the knowledge to play a 
 little game of our own. Jealousy is a good 
 tool." 
 
 "You have a particular reason then for 
 wanting to ruin this young Englishman ?" 
 
 " Not I ; I only obey orders." 
 
 " Strange enough," said Le Blanc, musingly. 
 " Another man told me that this sailor Captain
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 225 
 
 hated tliis young officer. Could he have found 
 it out by instinct ?" 
 
 " And who is this other ?" 
 
 " The Captain Baron, the chief of the Caribs ; 
 no less. It is certainly an odd coincidence." 
 
 " But this strange savage has a motive, no 
 doubt, for bringing this man on shore ?" 
 
 " Yes, he wants to kill the sailor." 
 
 "And why?" 
 
 " Because this rough Captain wanted to flog 
 him ; had him tied up on the deck of the ship, 
 where I had sent him to look about." 
 
 "And how w^as this flogging prevented?" 
 
 " I don't know ; the Carib would not tell 
 me." 
 
 " I see it all. It is this youngster who has 
 saved the Carib's back from the lash. Take 
 care that this savage does not play us a trick : 
 I would not trust him too far." 
 
 " The Caribs have risen against the English 
 at St. Vincent, and they hate them in this island 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 as well as we do. The Caribs have never for- 
 gotten nor forgiven the English seducing a num- 
 b(.T of their people on board one of their ships 
 and carrying them off as slaves." 
 
 '' And I would do the same with this 
 savage." 
 
 " That would be both unjust and cruel." 
 
 " But it would be politic." 
 
 " What 1 enslave him ; punish him on bare 
 suspicion, of the most vague and uncertain 
 kind?" 
 
 " The end sanctifies the means." 
 
 " One would think you were a Jesuit by your 
 arguments." 
 
 " I was one." 
 
 Le Blanc started at this cool admission, and 
 frowned abruptly. 
 
 " What ! a Jesuit taking an oath, and con- 
 spiring with Republicans, to overthrow the allies 
 of the Legitimists ! Impossible !" 
 
 " Hush ! they will hear us," quietly replied
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 227 
 
 Marinier. " As I said before, the end sanctifies 
 the means. I obey my orders simply, and do 
 not judge of their merits." 
 
 *'And your orders are to iniin this young 
 officer at any cost?" 
 
 " Yes, to thwart him in everything — to in- 
 jure him in his reputation — in fact, to destroy 
 him alive ; and if that cannot be accompKshed, 
 he must die." 
 
 " And you have followed him here ?" 
 
 " Yes, I have come all the way from England, 
 to this dangerous climate, for the sole purpose 
 of effecting his ruin." 
 
 " This I cannot understand." 
 
 " No, it is beyond your comprehension yet ; 
 but you will help me ?" 
 
 " I hate treachen^," said Le Blanc, impa- 
 tiently, shrugging up his shoulders. 
 
 " What are you doing here then ?" 
 
 "All's fair against a declared enemy; be- 
 sides, you don't suppose I came only to raise 
 this vile conspiracy?" said Le Blanc, frankly. 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 " The villainous brutes ! I wish I had nothing 
 to do with it. But, like you, I only obey the 
 orders of my superior." 
 
 " And that superior is Victor Hugues ?" 
 
 " Yes, for the time being." 
 
 " Take care, Le Blanc, take care. Swim- 
 ming eyes, voluptuous kisses, warm sighs, 
 twining arms, silky tresses, are dangerous snares 
 for the young and unwary, but excellent tools 
 for the wise and cautious." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" said Le Blanc, almost 
 savagely. 
 
 " That your love for the violet-eyed daughter 
 of the old Legitimist, at La Belle Etoile, is 
 known. You have just come from thence. 
 The Repubhcan dined with the Bourbon- 
 nois." 
 
 " Who told you this ?" 
 
 " No one — I guessed it." 
 
 " This is very extraordinary !" 
 
 " Not at all. Your abrupt departure from 
 the meeting, after a little speech made by the
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 229 
 
 mulatto, Lemantin, made me think ; and, after 
 you were gone, I pumped the beast. Somehow 
 or other, he knows of your attachment. The 
 rest I guessed by yoiu* not coming 'here sooner. 
 Apropos, he is jealous of you — he too loves your 
 Rosalie 1" and Marinier watched, with his small, 
 keen, black eyes, the effect of his words. 
 
 " He ! that brutal ogre ! that monster pre- 
 sume to lift up his bleared eyes to the queenly 
 Rosalie !" cried Le Blanc, savagely. 
 
 " Hush ! What are you talking about ? 
 Siu-ely all men are equal, in your creed?" 
 
 " And the Carib, too, told me to beware of 
 the mulatto, Lemantin," continued Le Blanc, 
 without heeding the interruption. " This is 
 singular — verj^ singular l" 
 
 And suddenly a thought occurred to him — a 
 strange thought, too — on which the young 
 Frenchman founded as strange a resolution. 
 
 " He is easily roused — he is not a Republican 
 at heart — jealous, in love, ardent, young — what 
 a capital tool !" thought Mai'inier. " Did he
 
 230 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 not say that there was more in this young 
 Englishman than he imagined ? He must have 
 dined at La Belle Etoile too. If I can but 
 make him jealous, c^est une affaire jinie. 
 Now for a slight thrust to find his guard." 
 
 " This English officer is very handsome, is he 
 not?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Le Blanc, frankly. 
 
 "Young as he is, he had, in England, 
 already acquired the reputation of a lady- 
 killer." 
 
 " WeU ! what of that ?" 
 
 " Oh ! nothing ; but as he, too, dined at La 
 Belle Etoile to-day, he must have seen your 
 Rosalie." 
 
 " Sacristie ! you know everything, citoyen !" 
 
 " As I have to report to England everything 
 concerning this youngster, I am obliged to watch 
 and glean what I can concerning all he does. 
 It was from you that I ascertained the fact of 
 his having dined there." 
 
 *'Howso?"
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 231 
 
 " You admitted it. But never mind. Did 
 he pay much attention to your mistress ? — 
 don't frown, I have my reasons for asking 
 it." 
 
 Francois rapidly ran over in his mind the 
 events of the evening. The disagreement \\ith. 
 his mistress annoyed and vexed him ; he could 
 not forget her words : 
 
 " Then neither God nor man would sanction 
 such an union !" 
 
 The evident attention paid by her to the 
 English officer had not escaped his notice ; nay, 
 he had seen their eyes meet. But then he had 
 been flirting with the fair-haired Marguerite, and 
 Rosalie might have done it to pique him. 
 Besides, their parting had been a tender one. 
 How could he then be jealous ? Again, 
 although Ai'thm* Conway was his enemy, 
 opposed to him in every way, he had, even on 
 their short acquaintance, taken a strange liking 
 to him. Nothing would give him greater
 
 232 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 pleasure than to meet the English officer face to 
 face in the open field, hut to act treacherously to 
 him individually was not in accordance with his 
 daring and adventurous character. Marinier 
 had quite mistaken his man. A frank and 
 chivalrous disposition, although employed on 
 such a dangerous mission as the young French- 
 man now was, is often a match for cunning. 
 Frankness often stops on the brink of the preci- 
 pice, but cunning overreaches itself, and falls. 
 
 Marinier had made up his mind to use Le 
 Blanc as a tool against Arthur Conway, having 
 already, through his means, succeeded in en- 
 trapping Jack Diver as an auxiliary. Le Blanc 
 had jumped at this bait readily enough, because 
 being deputed by Victor Hugues to raise the 
 island against the British Government, and to 
 take it, if possible, by any means, he had no 
 scruple, on the principle that all is fair in war, in 
 seducing the Master of the transport from his 
 allegiance, that he might, through him, obtain
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 233 
 
 intelligence of the movements of the small 
 British force then on the island, and by giving 
 false information of their own premeditated 
 attack, so as to get the British regulars to march 
 to a part of the island where they ^Yould find no 
 enemy. 
 
 During the pause which ensued, before Le 
 Blanc repHed to the Jesuit's question, three 
 slight though peculiar raps were given on the 
 door. At the word '■ entrez'' the Carib glided 
 noiselessly into the room, seated himself quietly 
 in a corner, filled his pipe, and commenced 
 smoking. No one took any notice of him, for 
 he was a privileged person, and could come and 
 go as he liked. Marinier, however, looked at 
 him with a displeased countenance, but imme- 
 diately resumed his conversation with Le Blanc, 
 forgetting that the ears and eyes of a savage 
 are much keener than our own, although at the 
 time his senses may appear to be utterly ab- 
 stracted.
 
 234 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 "You do not answer, mon cher,^^ resumed 
 Marinier. " Is it possible that this Captain 
 Conway has already begun his old tricks again ? 
 He cannot cross a pretty woman's path without 
 trying his power of fascination on her and se- 
 ducing her affections, young as he is." 
 
 " In this case, Marinier, he will not succeed." 
 
 " How can you tell ? few women, they say, 
 can resist him." 
 
 " With Rosalie he will fail, I tell you." 
 
 " Why so ? 
 
 " Simply, because she already loves your 
 humble servant." 
 
 " You are not jealous, then ?" 
 
 " I jealous ! ha, ha !" and the young French- 
 man laughed loudly and merrily. " I jealous 1 
 what a joke! I, whose motto is vive V amour, vive 
 la bagatelle, although for my own amusement 
 I am engaged in a conspiracy. No, I tell you 
 no ; she loves me, and I love her." 
 
 " But vou will have to leave this island soon,
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 235 
 
 and then she will be fully exposed to his fasci- 
 nations." 
 
 " Wrong again, mon pretre, we shall soon be 
 masters here." 
 
 " But, Le Blanc, listen to me : suppose by 
 any chance you fail — you are discovered — taken, 
 what will be your fate ? and her's ? You ^^^ll 
 die, and she will lie in his arms; her warm 
 kisses will be breathed on him, those living 
 charms which where your own will be your 
 enemy's. Yes, I see them now clasped in 
 each other's arms, the happy bridegroom and 
 the blushing bride, and you a mouldering corpse, 
 forgotten and despised. Will you let these 
 things be?" 
 
 A visible emotion passed over Le Blanc's 
 face at this picture, but he said, simply : 
 
 " I do not know, Marinier, what motive you 
 have in destroying this young EngHshman, but 
 I can as yet (these words were pronounced 
 slowly and with a marked emphasis) feel no
 
 236 AETHUR CONWAY. 
 
 jealousy towards him, although he is my 
 
 enemy." 
 
 " May you not have cause to do so ! still I 
 
 warn you that he is a dangerous man with 
 
 women." 
 
 " It may be so, and I will watch him 
 
 closely." 
 
 "And if you discover anything ?" 
 
 " I will do as the Carib yonder said he would 
 
 do to his enemy — I will kill him." 
 " Nay, we do not want his death." 
 " What then do you want ?" exclaimed Le 
 
 Blanc, with surprise. 
 
 " Infamy — misery — in short, a living death." 
 "You must have some terrible motive, far 
 
 beyond my comprehension, in this. I can under- 
 stand compassing his death, but to destroy him 
 
 living I cannot." 
 
 " I have no motive — I do but obey orders." 
 "You want to persuade me, Marinier, that 
 
 you are but a blind instrument; why then
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 237 
 
 did you endeavour just now to cause my 
 jealousy ?" 
 
 " I did but try you — you are not jealous, and 
 can trust your Rosalie. Well then, as it is 
 your object and mine to get this young English- 
 man out of the way, so that he may be taken 
 unawares, let your Rosalie encourage him — let 
 him bask in the sunshine of her eyes until the 
 time comes ; he will desert his post, he vnR be 
 disgraced, he will be jilted, and perhaps be 
 taken prisoner." 
 
 "It is a dangerous and unpromising ex- 
 periment," rephed Le Blanc, musingly. " The 
 charmer may be charmed. Am I so mad as to 
 leave a warm-hearted Creole girl to the tender 
 sighs and glances of a red coat ; good-looking, 
 young, and as you say, a lady-killer, without 
 being tolerably certain of gaining some great 
 end by it?" 
 
 " You are jealous then," said Marinier, with 
 a bitter sneer, " and refuse your assistance to 
 one who has already served you ?"
 
 238 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 "I am not jealous, mon pretre, nor do I 
 refuse you, but I should like to consider it a 
 little more ; and, apropos, how have you served 
 our cause ?" 
 
 " By already having corrupted the fidelity of 
 some of the soldiers, and soon I hope to have 
 more. I do not w^ant for money, and use it 
 freely." 
 
 " Stay, Marinier, before we go any further, 
 will you tell me this young Englishman's 
 history ?" 
 
 " Not to-night, Le Blanc, not to-night ; I 
 must leave you now, it is getting veiy late. 
 What are your plans for to-morrow ?" 
 
 " I am going on a riding party to the falls of 
 the Roseau River with Mademoiselle Devrien, 
 this young Englishman, and a fair-haired girl, 
 called Marguerite Gordon." 
 
 " And after that ?" 
 
 *' I dine at Morne Bruce, with this rough 
 sailor." 
 
 " You will have a capital opportunity to-
 
 ARTHUR CONTV^iY. 239 
 
 morrow — think well on what I have said ; it is 
 easily done, and there is no risk." 
 
 " I will think of it to-night. How close and 
 sultry it is. The sailor must be nearly 
 suffocated in that little room with the door 
 shut. rU go and have a look at him — au 
 revoir, Marinier." Having said this in his 
 careless off-handed manner, Le Blanc, passing 
 the card-players, who were both nodding over 
 the table, went into the den where Jack Diver 
 was lying in his hammock. He was certainly 
 asleep, but was tossing about restlessly and 
 moaning. A dark flush was spread over his 
 forehead and face, and he breathed heavily. 
 Le Blanc looked at him for a minute attentively 
 — then felt his pulse, and put his hand on the 
 sailor's naked breast. 
 
 The young Frenchman said nothing, but 
 turned away with a shake of the head, and 
 went back into the outer room. Marinier was 
 gone. Le Bar and Pctun were fast asleep, but
 
 240 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 the Carib sat in the corner, in exactly the same 
 attitude. Le Blanc went up to him, and said 
 in a low tone : 
 
 " Le Baron, the vomlto is about to rob you 
 of your victim. Go and see." 
 
 The Carib arose slowly, took up a candle, 
 and went in. It would have made a fine study 
 for a painter. 
 
 The dark form of the savage, standing there 
 immovable as a statue, shading the light with 
 one hand, and w^atching with his bright glisten- 
 ing eyes the countenance of his enemy. 
 
 The Master started in his sleep, as if con- 
 scious of the presence of his foe, and mut- 
 tered, incoherently : 
 
 " Tie him up Andrews. Lay on — one ! Oh ! 
 that oath — that oath ! Shall I shoot him ? 
 Thirsty— thirsty !" 
 
 Then his eyes opened, red and bloodshot. 
 The Carib blew out the hght, and glided out of 
 the room.
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 241 
 
 " Some drink, some diink 1" cried the 
 Master, in a husk}^ voice. " My throat is 
 parched and my brain on fire 1" 
 
 But no one heeded him. 
 
 " He is in for the fever, is he not ?" said Le 
 Blanc, as the Carib returned. 
 
 *' Yes ; Le Baron may now go." 
 
 "Whither go you?" 
 
 " Le Baron is going to the mountains." 
 
 " WlQ you have the canoe ready at the creek 
 to-morrow as the sun sinks beneath the wave ? 
 I must return to Guadaloupe." 
 
 " The Carib will be there." 
 
 So saying, without any further pai'ley, the 
 Chief quitted the room. 
 
 Le Blanc awoke the sleepers with the pleas- 
 ing intelligence that the terrible vomito was in 
 the house. They were at first a little startled, 
 but they were both well-seasoned ; and Le Bar 
 immediately said that it would not do to send 
 for a doctor, but that old Pierre was a capital 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 nurse; and it was soon determined that the 
 sailor should be put in his charge. 
 
 The withered old negi'o was straightway 
 summoned, and the Master placed under his 
 especial care; and, to say the truth, El Mono 
 was no unskilful practitioner in this particular 
 disease, which in many cases is more success- 
 fully treated by extreme watchfulness and care, 
 after the burning fever has subsided, than by 
 medicine. 
 
 Le Bar and Petun went up stairs to bed, and 
 the young Frenchman threw himself on the 
 sofa; but he did not sleep, for there rose a 
 horrible picture before his eyes — La Belle Etoile 
 in flames — drunken negroes dancing round it, 
 screeching with delight as the inmates fell 
 scorched and bleeding one by one amidst its 
 ruins. Rosalie — his Rosalie — flying, with her 
 long hair loose and streaming in the wind, 
 from a hideous, infuriated, mob of savage 
 negroes, with the mulatto, Lemantin, at their
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 243 
 
 head. She staggers — she falls, and he not 
 there to save her. All that Marinier had in- 
 sinuated to him was but as the shadow of a shade, 
 when his imagination conjured up this picture 
 before his eyes, and the reality would come — 
 must come, if the insurrection should take 
 place ; and he, her lover, an active promoter of 
 this very thing. Oh, hideous ! The blood 
 rushed to his head — his eyes. He sprang from 
 the sofa, and paced the room impatiently. 
 
 " I will do it — I must do it !" he said, aloud. 
 '* Yet, how can I get it conveyed to him? The 
 Carib ? He goes with me to Guadaloupe, and 
 even in that short time, the negroes may rise, 
 Rosalie ? No, no : not her — not her. Mari- 
 nier? He would open the letter. Le Bar — 
 Petun? They would think I was betraying 
 them. Ha ! old Pierre shall do it. I will 
 rouse his vanity. No one can suspect him, and 
 I can say to him that it is a communication of 
 importance from the Master of the transport. 
 At all events, I will write it." 
 
 R 2
 
 244 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 There were writing materials on the table, 
 and Le Blanc sat down, and concocted the fol- 
 lowing brief, but characteristic, epistle : 
 
 " I am your enemy. I love Rosalie Devrien. 
 I have been warned that, should a rising take 
 place in this island. La Belle Etoile will be 
 attacked by negroes. A mulatto, called Leman- 
 tin, will be at their head. Protect her — guard 
 her. I, a Republican and a Frenchman, am 
 bliged to ask this from an Englishman, an 
 aristocrat, and an enemy; but love overcomes 
 all feelings of pride. It is in vain to seek for 
 me, for when you get this, I shall be far beyond 
 your reach. Should we meet in happier times, 
 I will be your friend. In the meantime, believe 
 me your enemy. 
 
 " Francois de la Motte Devrien." 
 
 When he had finished, folded, and directed it, 
 a sigh of satisfaction burst involuntarily from 
 his lips. He could find, however, nothing
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 245 
 
 wherewith to seal or fasten the letter, but th 
 did not trouble him, as he had no idea that the 
 negro could, or would read it ; so, blowing out 
 the lights, and retiring to the sofa, he put the 
 letter under his pillow, and soon fell asleep. 
 
 In about an hour, old Pierre came out of the 
 little room with a candle in his hand ; he looked 
 round, and after a short pause began, as most 
 negroes do, talking aloud to himself. 
 
 " Hi, dey all gone couchee — wonder if leetle 
 drap ob rum left — ole Pierre see," and he 
 proceeded to examine the bottles. The noise, 
 half awakening Le Blanc, he turned himself on 
 the sofa restlessly : in doing this, the pillow was 
 displaced and the letter became exposed. 
 
 The negro stood quite still, and the young 
 Frenchman soon gave evidence that he was fast 
 asleep. 
 
 The ^^^zened old negro stole to his side, and 
 looked for a minute at the handsome counte- 
 nance of the sleeper with a truly diabolical 
 expression, and muttered : " What now prevent
 
 246 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 ole Pierre puttee de knife into dat man. He 
 callee me de ole fool, de monkey ; same time 
 him say all men are broders. Hi — wurra dat — 
 a letter !" and with the curiosity of an ape he 
 stooped down and gently removed the letter and 
 held it to the light. 
 
 The sleeper slept on. 
 
 " Capt'n, Capt'n, Con-Con Con-vay — Morne 
 Bruce — Hi, him traidcr — he callee ole Pierre de 
 fool, de monkey, and him traider — Hi, hi !" 
 He tm^ned the letter round, and perceiving that 
 it was not sealed, continued his mutterings : 
 " Ole Pierre man ob honour, can't oben dis." 
 
 Still he twisted the paper round and round. 
 Curiosity so inherent in chamber-maids, mon- 
 keys, and negroes, soon overcame old Pierrot's 
 sense of honour and he opened it. 
 
 The sleeper slept on. 
 
 The old negro, holding the letter close to the 
 candle, spelt it word by word, commenting on 
 its contents as he read. When he came to the 
 pait where it said that La Belle Etoile was to
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 247 
 
 be attacked by negroes headed by the mulatto, 
 Lemantin, he chuckled, and grinned, and 
 showed his nearly toothless gmns. "By golly 
 dat o'ood — see dat dam ole astocrat burn — burn 
 — de coloured bredren dance and sing round de 
 lii'e — den Obi come fright mulatto away too — 
 black men ab all — white gals ab soft kin. Ah! 
 ah !" Then where the letter ran, " when you 
 get this I shall be far from your reach," he 
 said, " Ole Pierre take dam good care ob dat ; 
 buckra afficer not get him at all — ole Pieire get 
 him. Pose I take him now — go up de Marne, 
 see buckra afficer. No — dat not do — poil de 
 frm — no tire — no kissee white gal's lips/' 
 
 Here the sleeper turned round on the sofa. 
 
 " Pose him wake now, missee de letter, what 
 ole Pierre do — muss put him back — marrow 
 marning say go up de Morne get physic from 
 hospittle for sailor man, den Frenchman say — 
 ole Pierre, you is one faidful man, takee dis 
 letter — den he gib me one two dollars, but 
 buckra afficer no get him ; dat do berry well,"
 
 248 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 SO saying, the old negro refolded the letter and 
 replaced it where he had found it, and taking 
 away the candles, he went back into the room 
 where his patient was tossing about and 
 moaning heavily.
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 249 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Before proceeding with our tale, it may be 
 as well to give a slight sketch of the Island of 
 Dominica, for insignificant spot as it may 
 appear on the face of the earth, it is neverthe- 
 less "beautiful exceedingly." Standing as it 
 does nearly half way between the two rich and 
 lovely French Islands, Martinique and Guada- 
 loupe, it was at the time in which om^ story is 
 laid a place of some consequence. Emancipa- 
 tion and free-trade had not then cast down and 
 destroyed the fortunes and the energies of the
 
 250 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 planters. Thousands of valuable lives were 
 sacrificed and thrown away to retain what we 
 held, to regain what we had lost, and to acquire 
 new possessions. We were successful in the 
 end, as England generally is, but at what a 
 cost ? and for what, latter years have shown ? 
 Well may these islands be called " Painted 
 sepulchres," " White men's graves." Man, with 
 his murderous engines, destroyeth his fellow- 
 men ; the vomito blasts them with its fiery 
 breath ; slow creeping dysentery wastes them 
 away ; the hurricane, with its awful voice, howls 
 over them; the quivering, rattling earthquake 
 adds to the heaps ; the land-crabs, the ants, 
 and the Johnny-crows have feasted well. Yet 
 are they gorgeously painted. Lavish nature, as 
 if in bitter mockery, hath adorned the landscape 
 with grace, with beauty, and with majesty. The 
 lofty mountains rise to the clouds, clothed even 
 to the summits with brilUant-foKaged trees and 
 fantastic shrubs ; sparkling streams of emerald- 
 green j foaming waterfalls, rich with prismatic
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 251 
 
 colours; bright, grassy glades; precipitous, frown- 
 ing cliffs ; lofty palm-trees, slender, taper- 
 ing, and graceful; massive cotton, mangrove, 
 locust, and bullet-trees of prodigious growth; 
 bamboos tall as the top-gallant mast of a noble 
 ship ; spreading sandbox-trees, whose fruit 
 rattles in the ^^^nd ; the dark-green manchi- 
 neel, ^vith its lovely apple, the very emblem of 
 the soil and climate — all beautiful to the eye, but 
 at the core full of treachery and poison ; groves 
 of citron, hme, shaddock, and orange-trees; 
 rows of sweet fruit-bearing tamarinds lining 
 the mai'gin of the sea ; perpetual verdm-e — ever- 
 varying hght and shade ; gorgeous flowers ; 
 fantastic creepers ; terrific thunder-storms ; rain- 
 bows spanning the valleys all day long; -vvild 
 broken gullies ; sheer precipices ; paths winding 
 round the mountain sides, where a false step 
 would hurl the horse and rider five hundred 
 feet down into a sparkling stream. In fact, a 
 chaos of bewildering beauties, of dazzling colours,
 
 252 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 of majestic influences, impossible to the painter 
 and utterly indescribable. 
 
 Such are some of the characteristics of the 
 sky and scenery of the island in which our 
 story is laid. 
 
 Arthur Conway rose early, and dressed him- 
 self with unusual care. On looking over the 
 sea, he observed a deep purple haze hanging 
 over the horizon. The vessels in the offing 
 loomed larger than usual, and a long rolling 
 swell was breaking against the cliffs, although 
 for many miles out to sea there was not a 
 ripple on the surface of the ocean. Still the 
 trade-wind was whirling the light fleecy clouds 
 against the mountain tops, and the atmosphere 
 over the land was bright and clear. 
 
 Arthur had never before risen so early, and 
 although he remarked the peculiar colour and 
 depth of the haze, he saw nothing unusual in it,
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 2o3 
 
 but concluded that it was the mist of the morn- 
 ing, which the sun would soon disperse. 
 
 His little stable stood just behind his quarters, 
 and he went there to see if his horse was being 
 saddled. 
 
 Mention has already been made of a younger 
 Tom Ellam, the son of the gamekeeper of 
 Morley Hall. He had enlisted into Arthur's 
 regiment out of attachment to his young master, 
 as he always persisted in calling him. He was 
 a steady, weU-educated young man for his sta- 
 tion, and might have been promoted, but he 
 preferred being about the Captain's person as 
 batman; and Arthur, off duty, treated him as 
 an old familiar friend, in whom he could put 
 every confidence. 
 
 Young Tom Ellam was in the stable saddling 
 the horse, whose bright shining coat and sleek 
 appearance showed that he, too, was a fa- 
 vourite. 
 
 " Ellam," said our hero, as he stood looking
 
 254 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 at them, " I want to speak a few words to you 
 before I go out. Tie Tom's head up and listen 
 to me." 
 
 "Yes, Sir." 
 
 " Have you heard of any fresh attempt on the 
 part of the rebels to seduce the soldiers, by 
 giving them money ?" 
 
 " Yes, Sir ; Tom Connolly — fighting Tom, as 
 he is called — told me that he was in a srroo:- 
 shop a few days ago, with some more of his 
 kidney, pretty well cut, Sir. Tom, you know, 
 Sir, had been in some of those secret societies 
 in Ireland before he enlisted, and he is, saving 
 your presence, a Roman, and so were the rest of 
 the party. Raw rum, you know. Sir, soon gets 
 into a man's head, be it ever so strong, and 
 they set to discoursing, as Tom calls it, about 
 the wrongs and rights of old Ireland, and such 
 like — more fools they. Then one fellow said 
 how he had been out, and then another, till 
 they got giving signs and words, and such
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 255 
 
 Hke, and there was a great row, all speaking 
 together. All this time there w^as a man 
 sitting quietly in a dark corner." 
 
 " Did Connolly notice what this man was 
 like?" 
 
 "Yes, Sir, he was sober enough for that. 
 He was a little dark man, with black hair, and 
 sharp, cunning, small black eyes, with a hook 
 nose, and a down look, dressed in rusty 
 black." 
 
 " I don't know such a man. Go on, Ellam." 
 
 " But I do, I think, Sir," replied the soldier, 
 gravely. *' I saw just such a man as Tom 
 describes once at Morley Hall for a few minutes 
 when you were out, Sir ; but I should like to 
 see him to make sure of my man." 
 
 "At Morley!" rephed Arthur, in astonish- 
 ment : " impossible ! You must be mistaken, 
 Ellam." 
 
 " Possible, Sir ; still I should like to get one 
 peep at him. I am not easily deceived in faces.
 
 256 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 I have looked out for poachers too much for 
 that." 
 
 "What makes you connect this man with 
 Morley?" 
 
 " Why, Sir, after crossing himself, and show- 
 ing that he was one of them, he began asking 
 questions about you, in particular. Sir. How 
 you were liked ; what sort of an officer you 
 were; and such like. Tom, begging your 
 pardon. Sir, said you were too damned high ; 
 that you had punished him for no fault ; and 
 that he did not care how soon the land-crabs 
 had your body and the devil your soul. Tom 
 didn't mean it, your honour, he only said it to 
 see how the land lay. So the little fellow pulled 
 out a long purse, and ordered more drink. 
 Well, the rum came, and they all got very 
 drunk — all but Tom Connolly. By-and-by, the 
 man says to him : ' I can't think, my fine chap, 
 how you Irishmen, 'specially you who are good 
 Catholics, can fight for the bloody tyrants.'
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 257 
 
 Them's his very words, Sir. Tom said that he 
 did not know how it was — that he had 'listed 
 when very drunk — that he had tried to slip away 
 once or twice, but that he had always been 
 caught — but, curse him, he would go on the fii'st 
 opportunity. From this the man w^ent on to 
 say that a good deal of money might be made 
 if there was a* row, and the men would bite off 
 the balls from the cartridges, and more, if any 
 would come over to the French, or give good 
 information of what was going on up here. 
 Tom listened to it all, and said he would think 
 about it, and see if he could get any to join 
 him. The man then slipped an eight-doUar 
 piece into Tom's hand, and went out." 
 
 " x\nd why did not Connolly come and report 
 this to me immediately ?" 
 
 " He didn't like, Sir ; as they were all more 
 or less di-unk, and stopped out too late : and it 
 was only last night that Tom told me of it." 
 
 '* It would have been better had he done so 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 at once ; but never mind, more, perhaps, may 
 be made of it as it is." 
 
 The young officer then proceeded to give 
 Tom Ellam his instructions, which were simple 
 enough, if well executed. He and Fighting 
 Tom were to go down into Roseau that very 
 morning ; they were to call at the grog-shop, 
 and to ask if the man had been there, and to 
 make an appointment with him, if possible. 
 Ellam was then to go round to the storekeepers 
 and tradespeople employed by the military, and to 
 ascertain, if he could, who Marinier was, and 
 with whom he associated. If they could suc- 
 ceed in falling in with the stranger, they were to 
 take any bribe he might offer, and apparently 
 fall into his views. Ellam was then to return 
 to the Morne, to report his failure or success, 
 leaving Tom in the town to be on the watch. 
 
 When poor Arthur mounted, he had some 
 scruples of conscience in quitting his post after 
 what Tom Ellam had told him. It was his
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 259 
 
 duty to watch carefully and to be perpetually on 
 his guard, as treacheiT was abroad; but the 
 opportunity of so soon again seeing the winnino- 
 Mai'guerite was too tempting. No immediate 
 danger was to be apprehended, and he would 
 defer calHng upon the officers of the Militia 
 imtil the following day. 
 
 He had not yet learned to sacrifice his inch- 
 nation to his duty. 
 
 Yet it was not without some misfjivine, some 
 sinking of the heart, that he turned his horse's 
 head from the Morne and rode slowly do^Ti the 
 steep zigzag road that led to the skirts of the 
 tow^n. Once on the smooth turf, however, he 
 threw it off, and cantered gaily along to the 
 appointed rendezvous. 
 
 Dashing across the ford he had passed on 
 the previous evening, and scaring away the 
 women and children who were desportmg 
 themselves in the clear stream, he reined in his 
 horse under the shadow of a dark red cliff, and 
 looked round. No one had yet arrived. 
 
 s 2
 
 260 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 New as Arthur was to a tropic land, the scene 
 hefore him was full of novelty and enchant- 
 ment. 
 
 At his feet, jumping and tossing itself over 
 miniature falls, ran the glowing little stream. 
 Hundreds of dusky women, maids and 
 matrons, young and old, naked to the waist, 
 with nothing hut a scanty piece of gaudily- 
 striped cotton stuff round their loins and reach- 
 ing half-way down their legs, were busy wash- 
 ing in the stream and spreading clothes to dry 
 on the smooth sward by the river's banks, 
 chattering and screaming like so many parrots. 
 Here and there an upright though graceftJ 
 form, with swelling breast and tapering neck, 
 might be seen filling a water-jar of red, porous 
 earth, and then carrying it away on her head 
 with the light step of a gazelle, yet balancing 
 the jar so evenly without the assistance of a 
 hand that not one drop of water could be seen 
 to trickle over the sides. Potbellied urchins, of 
 both sexes, of all sizes, hues, and ages, were
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 261 
 
 running about entirely naked, dipping and 
 splashing in the httle pools like so naany young 
 ducks. A smooth and level piece of turf lay 
 between the river and the houses ; these, some 
 white, some red, were mingled with umbrage- 
 ous mangrove and sandbox-trees, and here 
 and there a cocoa-nut tree or stately palm stood 
 towering above them in bold relief. 
 
 The valley of the river was full of shadow. 
 Now and then a straggling ray of the early sun 
 would gild the shrubs on some lofty peak, while 
 an arch of amber-coloured hght seemed to rise 
 over the far distant mountain that stands in 
 majesty at the head of the valley, and from 
 whose bosom the bright stream leaps forth, 
 forming a silven^ arch. The sides of the 
 Morne appeared one dense mass of foliage of 
 different hues — brown, violet, green, yellow^, 
 saffron — blending one into the other, confused 
 yet lovely. 
 
 There was life and sound, freshness and 
 variety, beauty and grandeur in the scene
 
 262 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 Yet, had our hero known it better, he would 
 have shuddered, and perhaps have thought how 
 like the hours of his first, fond, hopeful, 
 passionate love — beautiful, oh, how beautiful to 
 his youthful fancy, but undermining, poisoning 
 all his after-years. Yes, in the breath of this 
 lovely valley no white man can live, a subtle, 
 sure, and deadly venom lurks beneath its 
 gorgeousness. It is the Valley of the Shadow 
 of Death. 
 
 Arthur had dismounted, and was leaning 
 against his horse, contemplating the scene 
 before him with singular feelings. A year ago, 
 he had stood amidst the stately oaks of green 
 old England, rich in everything — in youth, in 
 health, in possessions, in love, in honour. Now 
 he was an exile, his name dishonoured, in 
 comparative poverty, jilted, rejected, scorned ; 
 nought but his youth remained, and the fresh- 
 ness of that had passed ; the whirlwind of 
 passion had swept over it, and left desolation 
 and melancholy where cheerfulness and hope
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 263 
 
 had flourished. Again, in the bitterness of his 
 heart, he had said all women are jilts, coquettes, 
 things to be bought and sold. At all times, 
 and in all places, the last painful inter^-iew with 
 Edith would obtrude itself. There it was, 
 whirling about his brain, dimming his faculties, 
 stinging his heart, always present night and 
 day. During a fearful storm in the dreaded 
 bay, it had haunted him; it had crossed him 
 when watching the shark from the deck of the 
 transport ; at the mess-table, when hilarity and 
 merriment were around him, he heard her last 
 words ; even on pai'ade they would flash across 
 suddenly, quickly; and now, amidst the noisy 
 laughter, the screams of the negroes, and the 
 murmur of the waters, the voice fell on his ear 
 Hke the doom of the felon, and he drooped his 
 head as if to conceal the inefl*able melancholy 
 that rested on his handsome countenance. 
 
 "// reve de sa maitresse" said a sweet 
 female voice, and at the same time the light
 
 264 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 stroke of a whip fell gently on Conway's 
 shoulder. 
 
 Arthur started, looked up, and blushed when 
 he saw the lovely Rosalie sitting gracefully on 
 her horse close beside him, laughing with her 
 lips and with her eyes. He saluted her cau- 
 tiously, but gravely, and looked round as if 
 expecting some one else. 
 
 " Oh! she will be here directly," said Rosalie, 
 archly: " her horse cast a shoe in the deep sand ; 
 and I rode on alone, for fear you gentlemen 
 should become impatient." 
 
 " You are bold, Mademoiselle, to ride by 
 yourself in these times." 
 
 " There is nothing to be afraid of. Captain 
 Conway : I have done so for two years, and have 
 never been insulted — except, indeed, once," 
 added Rosalie, recollecting herself and laughing 
 merrily : " and that happened a few days ago, 
 when a tall mulatto, who was a little tipsy, said 
 I was a very pretty girl, and he wished he had
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 265 
 
 me for a wife. Don't tell my cousin Francois 
 of this, it might make him jealous ; — but where 
 
 is he r 
 
 " Yonder he comes, galloping like mad." 
 
 The young Frenchman appeared on horse- 
 back, stretching out at full speed along the turf, 
 and, plunging into the river at the ford, he sent 
 the water splashing, the stones flying, and the 
 women and children screaming Hke monkeys 
 to the right and left, calling him by all the 
 opprobrious names they could think of in their 
 fright (negroes, and negro women especially, 
 are dreadfully afraid of a horse in quick action), 
 and in a minute he had embraced his cousin, 
 and shaken hands cordially with our hero. 
 
 He had found means to seal his note, and 
 had given it to old Auguste Pierrot, who had 
 promised faithfrilly to leave it at the Morne. 
 His mind was therefore set at ease, and he had 
 quite forgotten his jealousy. 
 
 Presently, Marguerite — the winning Margue- 
 rite, in the bloom of freshness and beauty,
 
 266 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 cantered up, followed by a mule, whose long 
 slinging trot enabled it to keep pace with her 
 horse. This mule had panniers slung across 
 its back, and alongside it ran an active young 
 negro slave. 
 
 What Arthiu-'s feelings were when he took 
 her little hand as she held it out to him, who 
 shall say ? 
 
 Rosalie inquired of her cousin where his 
 sailor friend was? not that she wished his 
 presence at all, for that would have spoiled the 
 little partie carree, and she had made up her 
 mind that Arthur and Marguerite should fall 
 in love with one another ; but from curiosity. 
 Francois replied, that the Captain had com- 
 missioned him to make his excuses to the 
 ladies, as he was very stiff and tired from his 
 ride of yesterday, and he had business of 
 importance to attend to ; but he took an oppor- 
 tunity to whisper in Arthur's ear the real cause 
 of his absence. They were now ready to start ; 
 but, before they set their horses in motion,
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 267 
 
 Francois waved his hand in the manner of one 
 about to make a speech, and said : " Ladies 
 and gentlemen, I do not %yish to alarm you ; 
 but, before we set out, I have to inform you 
 that an Obeah man warned me this morning 
 that somethino; extraordinarv would occur to- 
 day. He took me down to the beach, and 
 pointed with his lean withered hand to a deep 
 purple haze hanging over the horizon, very 
 unusual at this time of year. The old man 
 shook like a patient in an ague-fit, and declared 
 that he could hear strange sounds in the air, 
 and that he had seen strange forms rising from 
 the Souffriere. A fisherman who stood by, also 
 declared that he had observed the shoals of 
 mullet, and other small fish, rushing about in 
 an unaccoimtable manner, as there were no 
 bonitoes or albicores chasing them. Now, what 
 think you of these strange signs and portents ?" 
 "It shall not spoil our ride," said Rosalie, 
 tossing back her veil. " Allons, en avant, mes- 
 sieurs et mesdames ; come, Francois, you shall 
 be my cavalier servente to-day. Captain Con-
 
 268 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 way shall attend on Marguerite : it is my will 
 and pleasure." 
 
 So saying, the lovely Creole gave her horse a 
 touch with the whip, and started off, leaving 
 the others to follow as best they might. 
 
 Marguerite and Arthur all this time had not 
 spoken beyond the mere good morrow, and they 
 rode on side bv side for some distance without 
 exchanging a word. 
 
 At length, Arthur mustered up courage to 
 break the ice, and said : "Do you think any- 
 thing extraordinary wiE happen to-day, Miss 
 Gordon?" 
 
 What Marguerite was thinking of at the 
 moment, we do not know; but certain it is 
 that she blushed crimson at this question, and 
 paused ere she replied; when she did speak, 
 her voice, soft, musical, and plaintive, fell on 
 Arthur's ear like the song of the siren : 
 
 " These old negroes pretend to a kind of 
 second sight, like our Scotch seers ; you will 
 laugh at me, I fear. Captain Conway, when I con- 
 fess that I do not altogether disbeheve in them."
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 269 
 
 " I never laugh, Miss Gordon, at ^Yhat I do 
 not understand, whatever I may think of it," 
 replied Arthur, gravely. 
 
 " Do not, I pray you, call me Miss Gordon ; 
 it sounds so strange and formal : my name is 
 Marguerite, and I know no other." This was. 
 said so simply, and with so much earnestness, 
 and so evidently without any spice of coquetry, 
 that Arthur, though he smiled, felt he could 
 not take it as a compliment paid to him par- 
 ticularly. 
 
 " You think, then, that some attention ought 
 to be paid to this old man's warning. Miss 
 Margaret ?" 
 
 "There again. Miss Margaret; why not 
 Marguerite — plain Marguerite." 
 
 She is a coquetish flirt, thought Arthur for 
 a moment, and the dark cloud gathered over 
 his brain; but he looked at her, and it as 
 quickly dissipated. As he did so, their eyes 
 met for the first time, and Marguerite felt that 
 a bright ray of Hght, like a spark of electricity.
 
 270 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 darted through the space between them, and 
 entering the portals of her eyes, it caused the 
 warm blood to rush wildly through her veins. 
 
 " You have not answered my question, Mar- 
 guerite," said Conway, in a softer tone. 
 
 " I do not know what to say. This is not 
 the season of the year for any of those awful 
 convulsions of nature, which rend and torment 
 these beautiful islands. No ; he probably al- 
 luded to some frightful or extraordinary occur- 
 rence among mankind. Oh ! when will these 
 cruel wars come to an end — when will men 
 cease to be savasies !" 
 
 " You forget. Marguerite, that I too am a 
 soldier — one of these savages," said Arthur, 
 laughing. 
 
 " Pardon me, Captain Conway ; young as I 
 am, I have seen many awful sights, and I 
 shudder at the thought of more bloodshed ; 
 but you fight for a just and righteous cause, 
 which must and will triumph in the end, for 
 God is with you. Woman as I am, I feel that
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 271 
 
 I could throw off all that belongs to my sex, 
 and strike a blow on your side ; yes, and even 
 die, if by my death a single advantage could 
 be gained. And yet, alas ! weak woman can 
 only weep for you — ^pray for you ; but, believe 
 me, if you suffer, so do we. Your bodies and 
 our hearts bleed alike." 
 
 Conwav looked at the fair voung: grd with 
 increasing interest. The energy with which 
 she spoke — the transition from the soft deli- 
 cate girl to the heroic woman, astonished and 
 delighted him. Her character seemed so sim- 
 ple, so natural, so devoid of all art, that he 
 resolved to study it further. He did not then 
 think of the probable, not to say inevitable, 
 consequences. His senses were attracted, and 
 how could he reflect while resting beside her, 
 with her eyes sparkling with emotion; the 
 bright fresh bloom on her hps and cheeks; 
 her golden clustering ringlets waving in the 
 breeze ; her supple and well-rounded form, dis- 
 played to advantage by the habit, bending
 
 272 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 gracefully with each movement of her horse. 
 He felt that he was gazing on her with uncon- 
 cealed admiration, and with far greater earnest- 
 ness than cold politeness warranted. But 
 Marguerite did not turn her head away, although 
 her heightened colour betrayed what was pass- 
 ing in her heart — that fluttering, palpitating 
 heart, which now for the first time had suffered 
 itself to be surprised, and only waited for an 
 opportunity of surrendering itself up to the 
 conqueror. And did Marguerite know this? 
 There are some who doubt love at first sight. 
 Alas for poor Marguerite ! She had but seen 
 him, and the snare was around her. 
 
 " Yes," said Arthur, resuming the conversa- 
 tion, which had come to a sudden pause ; " the 
 courage and devotedness of women far surpass 
 what is called bravery in man. You are very 
 courageous, are you not. Marguerite ?" 
 
 " I have often been alarmed and terrified, 
 but I do not think I was ever really frightened. 
 Last autumn we had a terrific storm, almost
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 273 
 
 amounting to a hurricane, and, although I felt 
 the deepest awe, I did not feel afraid." 
 
 ^' I have heard that feeling well described in 
 a few lines," said Ai'thur ; " but it was of a 
 strong man, not of a tender girl like you, 
 Marguerite. Shall I repeat them "?" 
 
 " Oh ! do. I love poetry above all things." 
 " They are supposed to describe the effect of 
 the approach of a fierce hurricane on the cap- 
 tain of a ship : 
 
 " The ^Master oa the leeward gangway stood. 
 Watching the heavens in their threat'niug mood. 
 Sudden I saw a qmv'ring pallor spread 
 O'er his dark face, the paleness of the dead 
 It was not fear, but that mysterious awe, 
 Which oft rebels against the senses' law, 
 When nature, clothed in her wildest robe. 
 Sends forth her ten-ors o'er the startled globe ; 
 The brave in awe and silence must await, 
 Then do their best — the rest they leave to fate." 
 
 *' They are your own ; confess it, Captain 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 Conway," said Marguerite, gaily. "Ah! you 
 need not ; that conscious look speaks for itself. 
 An officer writing poetry ! Well, the lines are 
 not bad to have been written by a red-coat." 
 
 " I must plead guilty, Marguerite ; but why 
 should not an officer write verses ? Many a 
 dismal solitary hour may be wiled away by 
 giving loose to the imagination, and reducing 
 the ideas into some tangible shape." 
 
 " Then why not give them to the world ?" 
 
 '' Ah ! Marguerite ; many a pretty stanza 
 may be written that will not suit the eye of the 
 public, or bear the critic's lash. The writer 
 may be sensitive, or conscious of inferiority and 
 imperfections. A hundred things keep him 
 back ; above all, the fear of ridicule." 
 
 " Will you think it a strange request if I 
 ask you to let me see some of your poetry? 
 I shall not be a severe critic." 
 
 " I have never shown it ; but, if you take 
 sufficient interest in me, Marguerite, to read
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 275 
 
 any crude effusions of mine, I shall only be too 
 happy to produce them." 
 
 Mai^erite looked at him earnestly, as if to 
 read what was passing in his mind when he 
 paid her this compliment. It was the nearest 
 approach he had yet made to any expression of 
 interest in" her, and it made her nervous and 
 anxious. She felt faint and sick at heart, and 
 quite unable to continue the conversation ; and 
 yet she could not have told why ; so, to veil 
 her confusion, she proposed that they should 
 quicken theii* pace, and try to overtake Rosalie 
 and her cousin. Arthur readily consented, 
 though his feelings were wavering; and they 
 rode on for some distance in silence. 
 
 They were not, however, aware that a man, 
 apparently bent with age, and mounted on a 
 mule, had been closely following them for some 
 miles. At a crossing of the river, where they 
 stopped for a few moments, to let their horses 
 drink of the cool water, this man passed them ; 
 
 T 2
 
 276 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 and, in reply to Arthur's frank good-morrow, 
 he bowed, but did not speak. The young 
 officer did not observe the bitter sneer that 
 curled his lip as he looked at Marguerite ; but 
 supposed him to be some surly overseer belong- 
 ing to a sugar-mill they had passed in the 
 valley. Shortly afterwards, they overtook him 
 in a narrow part of the path, w^here it overhung 
 the stream ; and the old man drew up his mule 
 close to the face of the cliff to suffer them to 
 go by. As Arthur passed, the man turned his 
 head away ; but looked fixedly at Marguerite, 
 as if to impress her features in his memory. 
 
 By some sudden and hidden impulse, they 
 checked again theii' horses' speed ; and, as they 
 rode on side by side at a foot's pace, the plot 
 was thickening fast. Minute by minute Arthur 
 was losing his self-possession; there wanted 
 but some little accident to hasten the catas- 
 trophe — minute by minute the mist of sim- 
 plicity and childishness that had obscured the
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 277 
 
 real feelings of Marguerite's romantic heart, was 
 dissipating before the warm rays of love ; yet 
 nothing had passed between them but the 
 simple interchange of a few sentences, in which 
 the word or idea of love had never intruded. 
 But was there nothing in that balmy sky — that 
 lovely scenery — the contiguity — the opportunity 
 — that assisted in increasing the tenderness and 
 timidity of their glances, and the softness of 
 theii- voices when they again spoke. Who can 
 teU that there and then words might not have 
 been spoken, words that can never be recalled, 
 had not Marguerite asked a question, which in 
 a moment sent the dark cloud whirling round 
 Arthur's brain ? Yet the words were spoken 
 artlessly, involuntarily ; but they had scarcely 
 issued from her lips, before Marguerite repented 
 that she had uttered them. She had eaten of 
 the fruit of the tree of knowledge suddenly, 
 irrevocably. 
 
 Marguerite's unfortunate question was simply
 
 278 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 this : " Has love never formed the subject of 
 your poetry ?" To her surprise, the young 
 officer did not reply; but, turning his head 
 away, as if he had not heard her speak, he mut- 
 tered something about being a long way behind, 
 and almost rudely started off in a canter. 
 Marguerite saw that she had offended him by 
 her question. How had she done so ? Could 
 he have already loved ? Did he still love some 
 fair young girl in England ? Alas ! her reason 
 guessed the truth, though her heart denied it 
 instantly. Should she shun him as an enemy 
 to her peace of mind — her happiness — nay — 
 her life ? Too late — it was all too late now. 
 Oh ! no ; he was only angry with her curiosity ; 
 or perhaps he had not really heard, or had 
 mistaken what she said. She was so glad 
 they were travelling quickly; the ride would 
 soon be over. The presence of others would 
 relieve her embarrassment, and she would take 
 care to be no more left alone with him. She
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 279 
 
 was confused, and could not conceal it; but 
 whether Arthur perceived it, she could not teB, 
 for he rode on moodily and in silence. At 
 length, a divereino: of the narrow track forced 
 him to recollect himself, and to speak ; and, 
 to say the truth, he appeared as if waking from 
 some terrible dream. Again he became con- 
 scious of the presence of the winning Margue- 
 rite, and of his own rudeness ; and he turned 
 to her with a sweet, melancholy smile on his 
 lips, and said, in those soft, musical tones which 
 fall so sweetly on a maiden's ear : " Forgive me, 
 dear Marguerite, for my unintentional rude- 
 ness. I was thinking of my mother and her 
 sad history. She would have loved you, 
 Marguerite." 
 
 And this was true. The dark cloud brought 
 with it not only the happy hours at Morley, 
 and their dismal result, but also his mother's 
 image ; her death ; and the blemish he had 
 allowed to rest on her good name.
 
 280 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 The track led across the river, and along a 
 difficult and nan'ow path, where only one horse 
 could travel at a time ; with a perpendicular 
 cliff above, and the now wilder stream some 
 twenty feet below, rushing through a sombre 
 and narrow gorge, full of sharp bends and 
 curious twists. This path conducted them to 
 the head of the Valley of the Shadow of 
 Death. 
 
 The spot that Rosalie had chosen for the 
 repast was singularly wild and picturesque. 
 
 Mountains, cliffs, and rocks formed an 
 irregular amphitheatre of gigantic proportions, 
 near the centre of which, was a deep pool of 
 transparent water. On its bosom, floated 
 numerous and beautiful aquatic plants, and here 
 and there a painted teal might be seen sailing 
 or diving amongst them, or settling and 
 smoothing his ruffled plumage in peifect un- 
 concern. 
 
 From the bosom of the lofty mountain, over
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 281 
 
 a ledge full one hundred and fifty feet high, 
 leapt the silver stream in one unbroken fall till, 
 meeting mth the rocks it threw up a veil of 
 spray and foam, which the sun, now shining 
 partially up the valley, tinged with rainbow- 
 tinted dies; and high above, where it issued 
 irom the mountain's breast, a slender spray bow 
 formed an arch of prismatic colours over the 
 thread of silver. Then, tumbling over the 
 broken ledges in a series of little cascades, it 
 fell, ^vith a loud, murmuring sound, into the 
 silent pool. Issuing from thence, it wound 
 through the deep precipitous shadowy gully 
 before-mentioned. 
 
 In every spot, where any soil had lodged, the 
 vegetation was wonderful. A clump of feathery, 
 graceful bamboos fringed one edge of the pool. 
 A single, aged mangrove-tree, with wild, twist- 
 ing, drooping branches, stood alone on a smaU 
 piece of soft grass carpeted with lilies of lovely 
 hues, white, bronze, and the deepest purple ; and
 
 282 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 under the grateful shade of this grim old tree, 
 the cloth was spread for their repast. 
 
 On the far side of the stream, the scathed 
 and withered tmnk of a huge bullet-tree, throw- 
 ing its broken and fantastic arms into the air, 
 gave to the scene an air of melancholy and 
 decay. Two or three dismal Johnny-crows, 
 attracted probably by the scent of the pro- 
 vender, flew screaming by, and perched on the 
 old withered tree, undismayed at the presence 
 of a noble eagle that hovered, with fanning 
 wings, high overhead in the clear atmosphere. 
 Here Rosalie and her cousin were already seated 
 with everything prepared, and a bunch of 
 fragrant fern leaves was spread ready for 
 Marguerite. 
 
 Arthur sprang eagerly off his horse to assist 
 Marguerite to alight, but she was on the 
 ground before him. Poor Marguerite, she 
 would not then for worlds have touched his 
 hand.
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 283 
 
 Rosalie, who knew what love was, with the 
 instinctive quickness of woman, perceived, by 
 her manner, that something had happened. So 
 while Arthur and the young Frenchman were 
 loosening the horses' girths and picketing them 
 near the pool, she threw her arms round the 
 fair girl's neck, and kissing her tenderly, 
 whispered kindly : " Something has distressed 
 you, dear Maggie, tell me quickly what it is." 
 
 ** Oh ! there is indeed nothing, dear Rosa- 
 lie," replied Marguerite, though her looks belied 
 her words. 
 
 " Yes, yes, darhng, your tell-tale cheeks 
 betray you ; he has been whispering strange- 
 sounding words in your ear — wicked man, to 
 frighten poor Marguerite so." 
 
 " Oh ! no, no, he is too gentle and con- 
 siderate for that; but I — " here Marguerite 
 looked wildly round, and let her head faU on 
 Rosahe's bosom. *' I — I love him — and I 
 cannot hide it. Oh ! what will he think of me, 
 Rosalie ?"
 
 284 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 " If he has one spark of feeling, dearest, he 
 will love you as you love him." 
 
 " Oh ! I fear — I fear — it is too sudden, it 
 bodes good to neither of us. I did not know 
 it, dear, dear Rosalie, or I would not have come 
 to-day." 
 
 " Foolish little thing, you could not have 
 stayed away," said the lively Creole, patting her 
 downy cheek ; " but hush, compose yourself, for 
 here he comes." 
 
 They formed a charming little party, those 
 four, in the bloom of youth and beauty, seated 
 on the lily-decked ground round the snow-white 
 cloth. Rosalie, with ready tact, entered into a 
 lively conversation with our hero, to the great 
 relief of Marguerite, though Francois began to 
 rally her a little about her lingering behind ; but 
 a look from Rosalie stopped him, and he 
 amused her with Parisian gossip and anecdotes, 
 at which Marguerite could not help laughing. 
 To a casual observer, they would have seemed 
 the gayest of the gay; but there was not a
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 285 
 
 single heart there that did not beat with some 
 strange emotion, the nature of which the kind 
 reader may well understand. 
 
 They had finished their repast, but were 
 still seated on the soft grass, as if unwilling to 
 quit so sweet a spot. 
 
 " Look," said Marguerite, suddenly ; " surely 
 yon distant hill is bending towards us." 
 
 Scarcely had she spoken, when a rattling, 
 frightful noise, like thousands of hammers 
 striking on iron forges, yet moving rapidly 
 onwards, and fast increasing in loudness and 
 intensity, deafened their ears. 
 
 Mountains bowed their heads, the liills stag- 
 gered and reeled to and fro like drunken men. 
 The earth shook and rocked beneath their feet. 
 
 For a few seconds the party sat gazing on 
 one another, pale, helpless, sick, trembling, awe- 
 struck. 
 
 " It is the end of the world. God's will be 
 done," murmured Marguerite. 
 
 " Quick !" cried the Frenchman, leaping up
 
 286 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 suddenly and catching Rosalie by the hand, 
 " we shall be safer under yon overhanging cliff 
 than here ; true, it may fall and crush us," he 
 muttered, "if the world is at an end, but the 
 detached pieces will not strike us there — quick 
 —quick !" 
 
 Arthur caught Marguerite up in his arms, 
 and rushed to the spot indicated by the French- 
 man. 
 
 The shock increased in intensity, the noise 
 became more deafening, the earth trembled so 
 convulsively that they staggered on their feet, 
 and Marguerite, instinctively, caught hold of 
 Arthur's arm to save herself from faUing; he 
 clasped her to .his bosom. Scarcely had they 
 reached the shelter of the cliff, when a huge 
 fragment of rock, of several tons' weight, de- 
 tached from the hill-top, came thundering down, 
 tearing and rending the shrubs and trees, 
 leaving a track as if blasted with fire, and 
 sending other pieces of rock flying right and 
 left in its headlong career; then, crashing
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 287 
 
 through the mangrove-tree, strewing and scat- 
 tering its branches in every direction, and 
 snapping the thick trunk like a dried reed-stalk, 
 it bounded into^the pool, dividing the waters 
 and throwing up high into the air a sheet of 
 foam that fell hke a shower of rain even where 
 they stood. 
 
 Rock after rock showered down, the thunder 
 of their fall mingling in fearful melody with 
 the ratthng hammering noise of the mighty 
 power. A cloud of dust arose in the valley, and 
 for a moment, obscured the bright blue sky. 
 
 Presently, the w^ater in the pool receded from 
 its edges as if the earth was drinking it up, 
 then back again it rushed, bubbling, foaming 
 and hissing; and, in a moment, it flooded the 
 lily-spangled grass plot, and washed up even to 
 the foot of the overhanging chff : again, for a 
 moment, it receded, and again the water came 
 back deeper than before. The vibrations 
 lessened in force, they ceased, the shock had 
 passed away.
 
 288 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 An awful stillness succeeded the fearful noise, 
 and the murmur of the water sounded loudly 
 amidst the silence of the desolate scene. Hush, 
 they could hear each other's heart palpitate, and 
 the breath as it came with a deep sigh from 
 their labouring bosoms. Those few brief 
 seconds had seemed to them ao;es. Thev 
 looked at one another like sleepers suddenly 
 awakened. Safe, safe, all safe : but where was 
 the negro boy, and where the horses? the 
 former with his mule were buried beneath the 
 wreck of the mangrove-tree, crushed, mutilated, 
 disfigured. The horses still stood where they 
 were picketed, though nearly up to their girths 
 in water trembling, sweating, snorting. 
 
 Marguerite, as soon as her confused senses 
 returned, released herself gently, with a burning 
 blush on her cheeks, from Ai'thur's arms ; but 
 not before he had whispered a few words in her 
 ear : " You are not angry with me, dear 
 Maro-uerite ? there was no time to reflect." 
 
 " It is I," murmured she in reply, " who
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 289 
 
 ought to ask forgiveness ; but oh ! it was very 
 awful." 
 
 " I shall never forget those few moments, 
 if you will allow me to remember them." 
 
 " Oh ! do not ask me anything now — it is 
 cruel : our dangers are not over yet." 
 
 The young officer looked round, and per- 
 ceived this to be true. The earthquake had 
 passed away, but not its consequences — the 
 water was still rising. 
 
 The young men assisted the two still trem- 
 bling maidens to climb on a rock, out of reach 
 of the water, whilst they determined what was 
 to be done. 
 
 " Some huge rock must have fallen into the 
 narrow gully, and dammed the water up," 
 whispered Arthiu- to the young Frenchman. 
 
 "It must be so," replied Francois; "we 
 must contrive to loose the horses, and get away 
 from this as quickly as possible. Yet, I do not 
 think there is any danger from the water, or 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 the horses would have broken away instinc- 
 tively." 
 
 " They are too terrified to move, I fear, and 
 that is all. But come; a little wet will not 
 hurt us." 
 
 The two young men waded into the water to 
 release the horses. 
 
 As they passed the wreck of the mangrove- 
 tree, they discovered the corpse of the negro 
 boy floating about, the wash of the water having 
 disengaged it from the fallen mass. It pre- 
 sented a frightful spectacle, the skull being 
 beaten into pieces, and the spine protruding 
 through the skin. 
 
 " We must not let the ladies see or know 
 this, Captain Conway," said the Frenchman ; 
 " it would shock them too much." 
 
 " I doubt whether they have even thought 
 of him as yet; their senses were too startled 
 and bewildered by the shock. I judge by 
 myself, for I must confess that I should never have
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 291 
 
 missed him. We must send some men out to 
 give the poor fellow a decent burial." 
 
 " Ay," muttered the Frenchman, " if the 
 water recedes, a pretty corpse they wiU find. 
 The sun, the ants, and the land crabs \^^ll have 
 picked him pretty clean before they come ; but, 
 never mind : he knows no better, and it will 
 set his mind at ease. Aha ! I see now why 
 the Johnny-crows were here. It is well they 
 have no other pickings. Come, Captain Con- 
 way, we must think of ourselves, and — may I 
 venture to say — of our mistresses ; and leave 
 this poor carrion to the mercies of the Johnny- 
 crows. He is past our help." 
 
 There was a certain degree of levity about 
 these words that grated rather harshly on Ar- 
 thur's senses, although he felt them to be true. 
 He did not, however, reply ; but proceeded at 
 once to release the horses. This, indeed, was 
 no easy task, as the water was more than half 
 way up their legs ; and some time elapsed 
 before they could accompHsh it.
 
 292 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 " You were right," said Arthur suddenly, as 
 they turned round towards the mangrove-tree ; 
 " there is no danger from the water : see, it 
 is subsiding rapidly. Had we waited a little 
 longer, we might have gone dry-shod." 
 
 True, the water was fast receding — almost 
 rushing from the part it had flooded ; and, by 
 the time they reached the tree, the grass was 
 bare, leaving the body of the negro lying ex- 
 posed to the rays of the scorching sun ; and 
 two or three Johnny-crows had settled just 
 above it, on the stump of the mangrove-tree. 
 
 " Something has given way below, under the 
 pressure of the water, Captain," said the French- 
 man, in a hoarse whisper ; " if it is the path by 
 the narrow gorge, we shall not be able to pass 
 it without help." 
 
 " Possibly one of us could indeed, one of us 
 must do it," replied Arthur. *'We cannot 
 leave tender women exposed to the scorching 
 sun. They have gone through enough al- 
 ready.*'
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 293 
 
 "The sooner we get away from this the 
 better, for it will not be long before they 
 become aware of the presence of a corpse ; for- 
 tunately, the wreck of the tree is between them, 
 and they cannot see it." 
 
 RosaHe had been more frightened during the 
 awful spectacle than her companion, but the 
 latter was terribly agitated and nervous — more 
 from the effect of Arthur's w^ords than in con- 
 sequence of the earthquake. 
 
 Did he love her then ? Her very soul had 
 drunk in his words. Half intoxicated with joy 
 and wild delirious hope, she could not speak ; 
 but a smile wreathed around her parted lips, 
 and a look, at once expressive, tender, and 
 conscious, beamed in her eyes, giving to her 
 countenance, just now so pale and awe-struck, 
 an expression so nearly beatific, that Rosalie, 
 although she divined the cause, and longed to 
 question her, forbore to interrupt that momen- 
 tary rapture. 
 
 The young men, leading the horses to the
 
 294 ARTHUR CONWAY. 
 
 rock on which the two fair girls stood, assisted 
 them to mount. This time Marguerite did 
 not refuse Arthur's help. She trembled so 
 much, that she could not have got on her horse 
 without it. Our hero noticed it, but thought, 
 naturally enough, that it was the effect of the 
 earthquake. 
 
 Not until they were all mounted, and ready 
 to leave the now desolated spot, did Rosalie 
 notice the absence of the young slave, and she 
 asked her cousin where he was ; to which Fran- 
 9ois replied gravely : 
 
 " Do not ask me, dear Rosalie : let us leave 
 this at once." 
 
 " Oh ! Mon Bleu ! he is killed then ; and 
 this is all my fault. I insisted upon this ride, 
 and see the end of it. Francois ; this is verv 
 dreadful." 
 
 " The end has not yet come," murmured the 
 Frenchman, turning his head away. Low as he 
 spoke, Rosalie's quick ear caught what he said, 
 and she turned upon him a look of inquiry ; but
 
 ARTHUR CONWAY. 296 
 
 he heeded her not, saying only : " Let us leave 
 this." 
 
 The cavalcade set out on their return, Arthur 
 leading the way, Marguerite next, then Rosalie, 
 and, last of all, her cousin. 
 
 What they encountered on their way back 
 to La Belle Etoile must be reserved to another 
 chapter. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
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