'
'Is this true, this part of their vile story?' demanded Lesbia, looking
at her lover, who stood apart from them all now, his arms folded, his
face deadly pale, the lower lip quivering under the grinding of his
strong white teeth.
'There is some truth in it,' he answered, hoarsely. 'Everybody in Cuba
had a finger in the African trade, before your British philanthropy
spoiled it. Mr. Smithson made sixty thousand pounds in that line. It was
the foundation of his fortune. And yet he had his misfortunes in running
his cargo--a ship burnt, a freight roasted alive. There are some very
black stories in Cuba against poor Smithson. He will never go there
again.'
'Mr. Smithson may be a scoundrel; indeed, I believe he is a pretty bad
specimen in that line,' said Lord Hartfield. 'But I doubt if there is
any story that can be told of him quite so bad as the history of your
marriage, and the events that went before it. I have been told the story
of the beautiful Octoroon, who loved and trusted you, who shared your
good and evil fortunes for the most desperate years of your life, was
almost accepted as your wife, and whose strangled corpse was found in
the harbour while the bells were ringing for your marriage with a rich
planter's heiress--the lady who, no doubt, now patiently awaits your
return to her native island.
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