Immune from the degrading punishments and privations of his fellow-convicts, he was enabled to keep his self-respect, and was treated without harshness even by the soulless planter to whom he had been sold.  He owed it all to gout and megrims.  He had won the esteem of Governor Steed, and — what is even more important - of Governor Steed’s lady, whom he shamelessly and cynically flattered and humoured.

Occasionally he saw Miss Bishop, and they seldom met but that she paused to hold him in conversation for some moments, evincing her interest in him.  Himself, he was never disposed to linger.  He was not, he told himself, to be deceived by her delicate exterior, her sapling grace, her easy, boyish ways and pleasant, boyish voice.  In all his life — and it had been very varied — he had never met a man whom he accounted more beastly than her uncle, and he could not dissociate her from the man.  She was his niece, of his own blood, and some of the vices of it, some of the remorseless cruelty of the wealthy planter must, he argued, inhabit that pleasant body of hers.  He argued this very often to himself, as if answering and convincing some instinct that pleaded otherwise, and arguing it he avoided her when it was possible, and was frigidly civil when it was not.

Justifiable as his reasoning was, plausible as it may seem, yet he would have done better to have trusted the instinct that was in conflict with it.  Though the same blood ran in her veins as in those of Colonel Bishop, yet hers was free of the vices that tainted her uncle’s, for these vices were not natural to that blood; they were, in his case, acquired.  Her father, Tom Bishop — that same Colonel Bishop’s brother — had been a kindly, chivalrous, gentle soul, who, broken-hearted by the early death of a young wife, had abandoned the Old World and sought an anodyne for his grief in the New.  He had come out to the Antilles, bringing with him his little daughter, then five years of age, and had given himself up to the life of a planter.  He had prospered from the first, as men sometimes will who care nothing for prosperity.  Prospering, he had bethought him of his younger brother, a soldier at home reputed somewhat wild.  He had advised him to come out to Barbados; and the advice, which at another season William Bishop might have scorned, reached him at a moment when his wildness was beginning to bear such fruit that a change of climate was desirable.  William came, and was admitted by his generous brother to a partnership in the prosperous plantation.  Some six years later, when Arabella was fifteen, her father died, leaving her in her uncle’s guardianship.  It was perhaps his one mistake.  But the goodness of his own nature coloured his views of other men; moreover, himself, he had conducted the education of his daughter, giving her an independence of character upon which perhaps he counted unduly.  As things were, there was little love between uncle and niece.  But she was dutiful to him, and he was circumspect in his behaviour before her.  All his life, and for all his wildness, he had gone in a certain awe of his brother, whose worth he had the wit to recognize; and now it was almost as if some of that awe was transferred to his brother’s child, who was also, in a sense, his partner, although she took no active part in the business of the plantations.